by Pam Weaver
‘I had no idea your sister was a model,’ said Esther.
Izzie shook her head in disbelief. ‘Neither did I.’
*
‘There’s a newspaper reporter here and he wants to take your photo.’
Linda was standing in the wings watching the audience as they made their way out of the theatre. She felt a little nervous. She hadn’t expected to see Izzie in the crowd and now she was worried that her sister would say something to their father. If that happened then all hell would be let loose because Linda hadn’t got parental permission to be on the stage in the first place. Ruth had asked her to model her outfit because she said Linda looked slim and pretty. It had never occurred to her to ask Linda how old she was. Everyone assumed that she was sixteen because she was going out with John Middleton, but that wouldn’t happen until later in the year.
‘Linda?’
She turned towards Ruth who had come to join her. ‘I said there’s a reporter …’
‘I know. I heard but I’m not sure.’
‘Oh please,’ said Ruth. ‘You don’t know what this means to me. I want to get on the dress designing course at Worthing College and if there’s a picture of my frock in the paper, who knows where it might lead.’
‘Cor,’ said John, coming up behind them both. ‘You look fab in that dress.’ He slipped his arm around Linda’s waist. Linda didn’t say so but he didn’t look so bad himself. Like a lot of boys his age, he loved the Edwardian look that was becoming so fashionable. He already had some thick soled shoes they called creepers and he’d saved for ages to buy the drape jacket with four inch lapels. Last week he’d managed to get the bootlace tie, which was worn in a long bow, so all he had to get now was the flashy silk weskit with a fob watch and chain to be a fully-fledged member. He leaned towards her. ‘All the lads are dead jealous ’cos you’re my girl.’ He kissed her cheek and a camera bulb flashed.
‘Hey!’ Linda protested as she stepped away from John. ‘If that gets in the paper my dad will go loopy.’
The photographer was unrepentant. ‘Can I have a picture of you posing by the curtains, love?’
‘No you can’t,’ said Linda, pushing her nose in the air.
‘Linda, please …’ Ruth cried but Linda was already on her way back to the dressing room.
With Ruth and photographer hurrying after her, Linda barricaded the door by putting a chair under the handle then took the hat off and flung it across the room. Someone began hammering on the door. Linda looked at herself in the mirror one last time, then undid the side zip and took the dress off. It was a pity she had to give it back. She loved it and it was made for her, quite literally. She dressed in her own things then folded the dress on the dressing table and put the shoes, bag and hat on top. Having tidied her hair and removed all traces of her make-up, Linda took the chair from under the door. By this time everybody had gone so she slipped out of the theatre without being noticed. As she put her hand into her pocket, she felt quite pleased with herself. She’d had a brilliant time and she’d acquired a pretty pair of red earrings.
*
‘Did Dad know you were going to be in the Pavilion?’
Linda glared at her sister. ‘No, and you’re not to tell him.’
Izzie was making a cup of cocoa. She poured the boiling milk over the cocoa powder then stirred it vigorously. Linda was getting ready to fill her hot water bottle.
Izzie yawned. ‘It was a very pretty dress.’
‘I know,’ said Linda with a sigh. ‘Ruth is very clever. She wants to go to the same college as Alma Cogan.’
Izzie was impressed. Alma, a local girl made good, was getting to be famous after she’d won five pounds in the Sussex Queen of Song competition and had been recommended by none other than Vera Lynn for a variety show in Brighton’s Grand Theatre. Alma designed her own clothes and everyone agreed that they were to die for.
‘Do you ever think about Mum?’ Izzie asked tentatively. Now might be a good moment to tell Linda she was seeing their mother.
‘Not anymore. Why should I?’
‘I was just thinking how much she would have liked to see you tonight.’
Linda put the kettle back on the stove. Having filled her hot water bottle she laid it down horizontally to get all the air out then put the stopper in firmly.
‘Linda?’
‘Look,’ her sister said, ‘Mum ran out on us ages ago. She didn’t give a stuff about us back then and I don’t give a stuff about her now.’
‘Linda, she was ill,’ Izzie protested.
‘So?’ Linda challenged. ‘She got better, didn’t she, but she still never bothered to come back home.’
Izzie frowned. ‘How did you know she got better?’
‘When I got upset that time, I talked to Dad. He told me she was a silly bitch who ran off with another bloke so she can go to hell for all I care.’ With that, her sister flounced out of the room leaving Izzie shocked and bewildered.
Thirteen
The bus had barely stopped before Izzie jumped from the platform. She was late, late, late. Threading her way through the crowded streets she tore up the hill towards Brighton station, dodging a small queue outside Divall’s Café, where they sold Tiddyoggies, a popular beef, onion, carrot and potato pasty. A taxi horn sounded as she dashed across the road towards the railings at the top of the hill and the big sign which promised passengers they could be in London in one hour. Thank goodness she already had her return ticket in her coat pocket. No time to buy one.
Once again she had spent a lovely afternoon with her mother. Thankfully, the weather was good although it was quite cold. They’d walked past Brighton Pavilion to stroll in Old Steine Gardens, a large open space where in times past the local fishermen used to store their boats and dry their nets. Over the past few weeks, Izzie and her mother had become close.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ said Izzie. She’d reached into her handbag and drawn out a newspaper cutting. It had been on the front page of the Worthing Herald and was of Linda wearing the polka dot dress. In it she looked slightly surprised as a good looking young lad planted a kiss on her cheek.
‘Is that my Linda?’ Doris said breathlessly.
Izzie nodded. The headline said, Local beauty in winning dress. Doris looked up sharply.
Izzie chuckled. ‘No, she didn’t make the dress, Mum. She was just the model.’
Her mother had stopped walking and stared at the picture long and hard. ‘She’s very pretty.’
Izzie nodded as her mother handed the cutting back. ‘No, you keep it.’
Doris put it in her bag. ‘Have you told her about me yet?’
Izzie thought back to her brief foray into that territory on the night of the fashion show and shook her head. They walked on arm-in-arm, pausing beside the Victoria fountain where its three large cast-iron cups towered above them. In the summer, water cascaded over the rims, shrouding the huge dolphins which supported the fountain in a water mist, but because the winter was not yet over, the water was switched off.
‘I’m thinking about getting another job,’ said Izzie.
Her mother looked surprised. ‘I thought you really loved your job.’
‘I do,’ said Izzie, ‘but Mrs Shilling is getting weaker all the time and I honestly don’t think her daughter-in-law wants me there. I want to find another job before I get pushed.’
‘What will you do?’ said her mother as they resumed their stroll.
‘I don’t know, Mum. Esther said I should find something to do with writing but I have no experience.’
‘But you do have some experience,’ said her mother. ‘That’s what you’ve been doing with Mrs Shilling, isn’t it? Could you become a secretary, perhaps?’
‘I’m nowhere near quick enough for that, Mum.’
‘What about secretarial college?’
‘I’m not sure Dad would allow it,’ said Izzie. ‘He needs my money to help run the house.’
Her mother shook her head. ‘Tha
t man.’ She sighed sadly.
They had almost done a circuit of the park. Izzie took a deep breath. ‘Mum, what did happen that night? Why did you run away?’
She felt her mother’s body tense. ‘I want to tell you, Izzie, but I’m too ashamed.’
‘But I have a right to know, Mum.’
Doris turned her head and looked at her. ‘Oh Izzie. How can I explain? It was the war. Things were very difficult and your father was – still is – an ambitious man. He did something very, very stupid and got into a lot of trouble.’
Izzie frowned. ‘What do you mean? Mum, please tell me.’
Doris sighed. ‘Bill never was a prisoner-of-war. That was just a story I told you to spare you. Please don’t ask me to tell you any more but because of what he did, your father went to prison for a long time.’
Izzie was deeply shocked. They had stopped walking. Her father in prison? A prisoner-of-war was one thing but being in prison for a crime was a different thing altogether. She could scarcely take it in. ‘Mum …?’
‘Izzie, no,’ said her mother, beginning to walk on again. ‘You can ask all you like but I won’t tell you anything else.’
‘Just one thing,’ Izzie insisted as they linked arms again. ‘Has it got something to do with Mrs Sayers?’
She felt her mother’s body stiffen again but Doris remained silent. Izzie bit her tongue. However unfair it seemed, it was obvious that the subject was closed. She’d have to let it go. The one thing she didn’t want to do was to fall out with her mother. Not after all this time. They reached the edge of the pavement and headed towards the Honey Bun café.
‘Izzie,’ Doris had said deliberately changing the subject. ‘Have you ever thought of going to night school?’
*
Charging through the big gates at the entrance of Brighton station, Izzie almost fell onto the concourse. Which way should she go? The trains didn’t always go from the same platform. She looked frantically this way and that. A quick glance up at the wooden board told her the Worthing train was leaving platform two in two minutes. Disregarding the stitch in her side that threatened to cripple her, she sped towards the barrier just as the ticket collector prepared to close the gate. Another passenger, ticket outstretched, overtook her. The collector waved him on with barely a glance while Izzie fumbled in her pocket for her ticket. Breathless, she handed it over and the collector clipped it.
‘Better hurry, Miss,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘The train’s about to leave.’
Safely on the platform, Izzie hurled herself towards the electric train, which was gathering momentum. The man who had run in front of her threw his coat carelessly over his arm and as he did so, something fell from his pocket. It was a wallet.
‘Hey,’ Izzie shouted after him. ‘Excuse me. You dropped something.’
With one hand on the door handle and his foot on the step of the train, the man turned as she thrust it at him and for a split second, their eyes met. Izzie’s heart lurched. It was Mr Semadini. His carriage was almost full, but a man inside stood up to offer her his seat when he saw Izzie on the platform. At exactly the same time, the guard blew his whistle long and hard. In an absolute panic, Izzie reached for the door of the next carriage, a Ladies Only. As she heaved herself into the compartment, slamming the door behind her, the train was already moving. Sinking into the seat, she did her best to calm herself and get her breath back. Thank goodness she’d caught the train. She had enough on her mind without having to face the wrath of her father for being late as well.
Her travelling companions looked up; one a middle-aged woman who was knitting what looked like some cotton gloves on four needles, and the other, a much older woman who was reading a book. Neither of them spoke but the younger of the two stood up and very purposely pulled down the window blinds.
A minute or two later, as her temperature cooled and her heart stopped thudding, Izzie closed her eyes. Her mother’s anxious expression as they’d said their goodbyes filled her thoughts.
They’d had their tea in the Honey Bun café rather than the usual place and they’d talked about what Izzie could do now that she’d finally made up her mind to leave the Shillings. Izzie didn’t know where she would find the time but the thought of training to type properly was attractive. She wouldn’t plump for a typing pool or being a secretary. She’d told her mother she fancied being a journalist or working in publishing, something like that. If she brushed up on her skills as her mother had suggested, she could present herself at the offices of either the Worthing Herald or the Worthing Gazette.
Having settled on that, Izzie and her mother talked about Linda and what she would do now that she had left school. Then they talked about her father and the success or otherwise of the emporium. Izzie at last admitted what a disaster it had been when she’d helped him out on her days off.
‘Bill always did cut corners,’ said Doris, ‘and he never did like to be told.’
Izzie nodded but she felt uncomfortable saying all this. She didn’t want to bad mouth her father even though her mother was the only person who seemed to understand how she felt. In the end, the two of them talked about the weather and tourists and the up and coming Festival of Britain … anything except the one thing Izzie wanted to talk about, namely her father being sent to prison. What had he done? Why was he on the wrong side of the law in the first place? Oh, he made her so angry! Should she confront him about it? By the way, Dad, I know you’ve been in prison. Izzie pursed her lips. No, she couldn’t. She could just imagine his reaction and it wouldn’t be pretty.
Another thought crossed her mind. She still didn’t know anything about her mother. Apart from discovering that she was going by the name of Mrs Frobisher (something she’d only discovered when Mr Semadini spoke to her the day they’d first met), Izzie knew nothing of her mother’s life. Who was Mr Frobisher? Where had he and her mother met? Where did they live? Izzie frowned. It was all so frustrating.
As she drew closer to home, Izzie relaxed and allowed other less traumatic thoughts to come into her mind. She smiled to herself. Fancy Mr Semadini being on the Worthing train. Just the thought of him being so near and yet so far away made her heart flutter. He seemed such a nice man. She wondered where he was going. It was just her rotten luck that there was a carriage wall between them. If only this was one of the newer trains with a corridor. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would have been like if they had struck up a conversation. After a few minutes she opened her eyes again. How ridiculous. She was far too grown-up for school girl crushes and silly day dreams.
*
On the other side of the carriage wall, the Italian sighed. For a moment he struggled to recall where he’d seen the pretty girl who had picked up his wallet but then he remembered. She was Mrs Frobisher’s long lost daughter. They had come into the shop a few times. He wondered vaguely where the girl was going. At every station along the way, Hove, Preston Park, Shoreham … he’d looked out of the window to see if she got off before him but he was disappointed.
After a few stops there was only one other man in his carriage. The stranger, solidly built, his long legs stretched out in front of him, was dozing. When he finally pushed his hat away from his eyes, he gave Mr Semadini a quizzical stare.
‘Travelling on business?’ he said as he nodded towards the small attaché case Giacomo was carrying.
‘I’m on my way to see a shop in Worthing,’ Giacomo explained.
‘A shop?’ said the man. ‘What sort of shop?’
‘At the moment it’s empty,’ he said, ‘but I plan to sell beautiful pastries and Italian ice cream.’
‘Sounds good.’ The stranger smiled affably. ‘I wish you luck although I have to say that Worthing isn’t exactly a forward looking town.’
Giacomo shrugged. ‘My shops are popular,’ he said confidently. ‘I have one in Brighton and another in Hastings. For me, Worthing is the next step.’
‘Three shops?’ said his companion, clearly impressed. ‘You�
��re an ambitious man. You must enjoy cooking.’
‘Like most Italians, I enjoy seeing people eat my food.’ Giacomo smiled.
‘Have you been in this country long?’ the man asked.
‘All my life,’ said Giacomo. ‘I am British and my family regard themselves as so. We were very happy until the whole family was interned.’
‘Ah,’ said his companion, ‘the war.’
‘Yes, the war.’
It was an awkward moment until the man moved forward and held out his hand. ‘My name is Roger Hughes, and I’m a cinema projectionist.’
‘And I am Giacomo Semadini,’ said Giacomo returning the handshake.
‘How do you spell that?’ Roger asked.
‘G-i-a-c-o-m-o, but it’s pronounced Jack-o-mo.’
‘Pleased to meet you Giacomo.’ Roger sat back and smiled. ‘And now you plan to take Worthing by storm.’
Giacomo grinned. ‘Why not? We Romans once conquered the whole of Britain. For me …? Just the south coast.’
They both laughed.
By the time the train reached Bridge Halt in East Worthing it was tipping it with rain and Giacomo was wishing he’d brought an umbrella. If that girl got off the train at Worthing Central, it would have been the perfect excuse to offer her shelter. Never mind. Perhaps he could offer to share a taxi with her instead. But as he alighted onto the platform, the door to the Ladies Only carriage remained resolutely shut and he couldn’t see inside as someone had pulled down the blinds.
*
The minute Izzie lifted the edge of the carriage blind she was thrown into a panic. She must have nodded off because although she was vaguely aware of slamming doors, it wasn’t until the guard blew his whistle that she fully woke up and saw the sign for Worthing disappearing into the darkness behind the train. She’d missed her stop. She got out at West Worthing with a plan to head for the bus stop until the ticket collector stopped her.
‘If you get out here,’ he said firmly, ‘you’ll have to pay another sixpence.’
‘But I didn’t mean to travel on,’ she protested.
‘Sixpence,’ he insisted.