by Pam Weaver
Izzie’s eyes pricked with tears. How could she tell him she was stone broke?
‘Look,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Take my advice and cross over to the other side of the line and catch the next train to Victoria. That’ll take you back to Worthing Central.’
Izzie nodded and walked to the end of the platform to cross over as the gates opened. She felt a bit of a fool getting upset over such a trivial thing but it had been a difficult day.
Fourteen
When the alarm went off at six-thirty on Monday morning, Izzie’s first thought was for her sister. She’d seen Linda setting off at around six-thirty with John yesterday evening and though she had expected her to be back home around nine, when she went to bed at ten, Linda still wasn’t in. Izzie had fought sleep until nearly midnight when she heard the back door closing. Thank goodness her sister was back. What on earth was Linda thinking? Didn’t she realise what sort of a reputation she would get if she was out until all hours?
As Izzie walked downstairs to the loo, a quick glance through the partially open door of Linda’s room reassured her that her sister was in her bed. Their father’s deep snores behind his bedroom door told her that he would be in bed for at least another hour. Izzie hurried downstairs. There seemed to be so little time in the mornings and she had to be at work by nine-thirty.
Izzie boiled the water in the kettle and used half to make a pot of tea, while the rest went into a bowl which she took into the bathroom to use for a strip wash. The geyser in the bathroom was unsafe so until their father could afford to pay for a new one, everyone had to put up with boiling the kettle. In the depth of winter it was perishing cold in there but it was becoming a little more pleasant this time of year. It was still cold but with the early morning sunshine streaming in through the window somehow everything seemed better. Her clothes were folded over the clothes horse so after her wash, Izzie dressed quickly. When she came back into the kitchen she found a bleary eyed Linda sat at the table, scratching her head as she waited for the kettle to boil for her own wash.
‘What time did you get in last night?’
‘Half past midnight.’
Izzie gasped. ‘Blimey. What on earth did Dad say?’
‘He was already asleep,’ said Linda, pouring herself some tea. Her hair was all over the place and she still had traces of make-up on her face.
Izzie cut herself a slice of bread and put it under the grill. How did Linda do it? If she’d stayed out until all hours, there would have been hell to pay yet her sister got away with it every time. Their grandmother always used to say Linda could fall down the toilet and come up smelling of roses and it seemed as if she was right. All the same, Izzie couldn’t help voicing her concern.
‘About that boy …’ she began.
‘Oh don’t start,’ said Linda irritably. ‘John is fine.’
‘Yes but you’ll get yourself a bad name.’
‘Just listen to yourself, Iz,’ Linda snapped. ‘You sound like an old woman. Stop trying to organise my life.’
‘I’m not,’ Izzie protested. ‘It’s just that—’
‘John is all right I tell you,’ Linda interrupted. ‘He hangs around with a few mates but that’s all, so give it a rest.’
But Izzie wasn’t about to give up; not just yet. ‘Where did you go?’
The kettle boiled so Linda stood up. ‘To church and then we had a squash in someone’s house.’
Izzie frowned. ‘You played squash?’
‘No,’ said Linda exasperated. ‘We had a squash. It’s when everybody is invited and we all squash in. If you get a seat you’re lucky, if not you sit on the floor.’
‘You couldn’t have been there until half past midnight,’ Izzie retorted.
‘I wasn’t,’ said Linda. Standing with the kettle in her hand she looked at Izzie with a wicked grin and laughed. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, John is a great kisser.’
Izzie’s mouth dropped open.
‘Oh, the look on your face!’ Linda laughed. ‘Don’t worry sis, I know what I’m doing. John won’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.’
‘But if Dad ever found out …’ Izzie insisted.
Her sister tossed her head. ‘Well, Dad isn’t going to find out, is he,’ she said coldly. ‘Honestly you’re driving me mad. You better get used to it because I want to enjoy my life and you with your prissy ways are not going to stop me.’
‘I was only looking out for you,’ Izzie said dully as her sister flounced off to have her wash.
‘I don’t need looking out for,’ Linda said through gritted teeth, ‘so leave off.’
*
Although he would never admit it, Giacomo Semadini was a slightly superstitious man. For a start, he always took the small teddy bear with him whenever he was on the move. People called it his lucky mascot. He never bothered to correct them because it saved him having to tell the story again. After he’d dressed with care, he fondled the soft fabric and put the bear in his pocket. He was certainly going to need some luck today. His Italian grandmother, a great one for reading the tea leaves, had always said the bear would help him find a new love but there was only space in his heart for one girl and that was Maria. She had been gone for some time now and it had crossed his mind that he was being foolish, but it was hard to break the habit.
Giacomo had become a restless spirit. He never really settled anywhere until he was absolutely sure that it was the right place. Seeing that lovely girl again was a good sign. How fortunate he’d been that she’d picked up his wallet, and how honest to give it back. He smiled to himself. She was so striking. Her brown hair brushed back and clipped at the nape of her neck shone and she had the most beautiful eyes; a deep blue, no, more beautiful than that … violet.
Meeting the kindly projectionist who had offered him a place in his taxi was another good sign. Funnily enough, as he looked out of the cab window, even the town itself seemed very pleasant despite Roger’s disparaging remarks. The roads were leafy and the streets were clean. Further along, in Chapel Road, he could see clear signs of the lingering scars of war. Scaffolding shrouded some of the shop fronts and high up on the sky-line Giacomo spotted pock-marked walls, a sure sign of enemy machine gun fire in times past. Now that he thought about it, France was only just across the water so places like Worthing would have been right on the front line during the war. It came as no surprise then, that the ravages of the conflict had penetrated even this sleepy town.
The taxi dropped him very close to his friend’s house and Roger wouldn’t hear of accepting Giacomo’s offer to pay half the fare.
‘When I open my shop,’ he told Roger as he grasped the young man’s hand in a warm handshake, ‘you will have free pastry.’
‘You’re on there, mate.’ Roger chuckled as he wound up the window and the taxi moved off.
The shop Giacomo had come to see the next morning was in Ann Street, just behind the Town Hall and, at a stretch, within sight of the pier. It was an ideal spot for visitors to the town to relax over a pot of tea and one of his pastries. His appointment with the letting agent was for nine but Giacomo was early. He spent several minutes walking around the area to get a feel of the place. When Mr Friend finally arrived he was full of apologies.
‘Mr Sem-merd-denny,’ he said as he extended his hand. ‘I am mortified that I’m late. So pleased to make your acquaintance.’
‘Semadini,’ Giacomo corrected as they shook hands.
While Mr Friend unlocked the door, Giacomo stepped back and looked up at the shop front. Although in a small side street, it was close to the main thoroughfare, double fronted, with a central door and a private door at the side leading to accommodation above. He nodded. Yes … he could see prospects here. The tour of the premises and the flat above didn’t take long and although he was convinced that this was exactly the sort of shop he wanted, Giacomo was a shrewd businessman. He didn’t want to appear too keen.
‘I think I’ll take a walk before I decide.’
He knew immediately that he’d love it here. Disappointingly, the beach was pebbles, but the sea air was bracing, the promenade wide and even at this time of year, visitors were plentiful. He was already forming a plan. He’d sell Italian cream water ices in the summer, hot chocolate in the winter and all year round he’d bake his delicious pastries for the ladies and make cream jellies for the children. Just as in Brighton and Hastings, all he needed was a few weeks to make Semadini’s the most popular place to be in Worthing.
*
The house where she worked was still silent as Izzie let herself in through the back door. In the distance the hall clock was chiming nine-thirty and Mrs Dore was busy rolling out some pastry for a meat pie. ‘Morning.’
‘Good morning,’ Izzie said cheerfully.
‘The missus wants you to leave the old lady to have a rest until lunch time,’ she said as Izzie hung her coat up. ‘She wants you to tidy up her study instead.’
‘Did she have another funny turn then?’ asked Izzie.
Mrs Dore shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know. The new maid took her up some breakfast this morning. The lazy mare left the dishes in the sink after.’
‘Did she eat much?’
‘A bit,’ said Mrs Dore. ‘A little porridge, that’s all.’ She glanced around with an uncomfortable expression then moved a little closer to whisper, ‘The pair of them had a big bust up last night.’
‘What, the new maid and Mrs Shilling?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Dore, exasperated. ‘Young Mrs Shilling and her mother-in-law. She doesn’t like her spending her money.’
Izzie frowned. ‘It’s so unfair. It’s her money. Why shouldn’t she enjoy her life?’
Mrs Dore nodded sagely and went back to her pastry. ‘She’s never forgiven her for that trip to Bournemouth.’
‘She’s jealous, that’s all,’ said Izzie. Grabbing a duster, she headed towards Mrs Shilling’s study.
*
At a quarter to twelve Giacomo strolled back to the estate agent’s. As he came through the door, Mr Friend looked up from his desk. He seemed agitated and Giacomo noticed beads of perspiration along the man’s top lip.
‘I’m sorry Mr Semerdenny, but you’ve had a wasted journey,’ he said. ‘The property is no longer available.’
Giacomo stared at him in disbelief. ‘But only an hour ago—’
‘The owner has found another buyer,’ Mr Friend interrupted.
Giacomo frowned.
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ Mr Friend said with an apologetic shrug. ‘I’m sorry.’
Outside the shop, Giacomo was unsure whether to be angry or despondent. Everything had looked so promising. Why had the man so suddenly changed his mind? It was certainly perplexing but Giacomo wasn’t a man who was easily put off. As he’d walked back to the estate agent’s he’d noticed a vacant property at the bottom of South Street. He paused outside and saw that it was up for sale, not for rent, and with a different agent. If anything, this property was in an even better situation than the first. It was certainly worth making enquiries. He crossed the street and headed for the offices of Mr Friend’s rival.
Half an hour later, he was looking round a shop which was in need of a refurbishment, but because it had been a café before, Mabel’s, it wouldn’t require a complete renovation. It was a sound building and suited his purpose very well. The family had already agreed that his two cousins, Umberto and Benito, could come from Hastings to join him and the tour of the living quarters convinced him that the flat was large enough to accommodate the three of them. He and the agent walked back to the office where Giacomo agreed to buy the property there and then.
By the time he was dozing on the train back to Brighton, he was already making plans for his new Italian ice cream empire on the doorstep of Worthing pier.
A voice interrupted his reverie. ‘Tickets please. Your tickets, please.’
As Giacomo reached into his wallet for his ticket, he remembered the pretty girl with the violet eyes. With a smile, he wondered what she was doing now.
*
Izzie was carrying a tray up to the old lady’s room. It was lunch time and Mrs Dore had prepared a small fish pie. As she walked through the door, the smell of urine was overwhelming. Izzie immediately regretted that she hadn’t come up sooner. She should have ignored Muriel Shilling’s edict. For the smell to be this bad, Mrs Shilling probably wet the bed ages ago so the poor old soul would be feeling very uncomfortable.
‘Good afternoon Mrs Shilling,’ Izzie said cheerfully. She put the tray on the table and drew back the heavy curtains. The light flooded in. When she turned, the figure in the bed stared back at her but made no sound. ‘I hope you’ve had a nice lie-in?’
She walked to the bed but it wasn’t until she got up close and put her hand onto the old lady’s shoulder that the penny dropped. Old Mrs Shilling was dead.
Fifteen
The first thing Izzie did was to look for a quiet place to have a cry and the best place was Mrs Shilling’s private bathroom. She sat on the lid of the toilet, her hands still trembling. It was such a shock. It was a wonder that she hadn’t cried out. She had never seen a dead person before and the expression on the old lady’s face didn’t look very peaceful. What would happen now? She wasn’t expected to do anything, was she? Muriel Shilling was always looking for ways of saving money. Surely she wouldn’t want her to lay out the body or something? Izzie shuddered. No, she told herself crossly, the undertaker would be required to do that. Oh poor Mrs Shilling. Izzie blew her nose and wiped her tear stained face. Somehow she had to pull herself together before she went downstairs.
When she came onto the landing, young Mrs Shilling was downstairs in front of the hall mirror getting ready to go out. Izzie remembered that today was the day she went to her bridge club. Hurrying down the stairs Izzie called out to her.
‘Not now, Izzie,’ said Muriel irritably.
‘I’m afraid it can’t wait, Madam,’ Izzie said. ‘It’s your mother-in-law …’
Muriel opened the door. ‘You deal with it.’
‘I can’t,’ said Izzie, her voice rising. ‘She’s … she’s dead.’
Muriel froze on the doorstep.
‘I’m sorry, Madam,’ Izzie blundered on. ‘I shouldn’t have told you like that but I went up to give her some lunch and she … It must have happened some time ago.’ Izzie burst into tears. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Muriel Shilling came back into the house and slammed the door. ‘For heaven’s sake, stop blubbering,’ she said, taking off her hat. Dumping her coat on the hall chair she pushed Izzie aside and went upstairs. ‘Why did this have to happen now? I was really looking forward to this afternoon.’ She paused by the bedroom door for a second or two before grasping the door handle and walking in. ‘Good God, it stinks in here.’
Izzie watched her as she went to the bed and peered down at her mother-in-law. After a second or two, Muriel reached out and touched the dead woman’s face. The minute she did, she snatched her hand back as quickly as if she had been scalded. She showed no emotion apart from irritation that her plans for the afternoon had been thwarted.
*
As soon as the body was gone, Izzie helped the new maid take the soiled linen to the laundry room. They wouldn’t wash it. Muriel Shilling had ordered that the gardener burn it at the bottom of the garden, along with the ruined mattress. Izzie felt numb. It played in her mind that the old lady may have felt neglected and miserable as she died all alone.
Muriel Shilling spent most of the rest of the day on the telephone. Everybody else in the house seemed genuinely upset. Mrs Dore got on with her work but every now and then she disappeared into the pantry before coming out red-eyed and blo
wing her nose in her hankie. Even the new maid wept.
Alone in the garden room cum office, Izzie typed letters for Mrs Shilling’s publisher, her editor and her printer. She didn’t sign them, of course, that was for Muriel Shilling to do, but she felt it might help if she did the donkey work. At the end of the afternoon, before she left, Izzie left them on the hall table.
The next day, Izzie and the new maid thoroughly cleaned the bedroom and put all Mrs Shilling’s clothes in a suitcase for the Red Cross. Anything of value, such as the brooches on the lapels of her jackets and her silk stockings left over from the war, had already been removed.
Mr Shilling, now home for a period of time, was obviously distressed about his mother but Muriel Shilling behaved as if her spoiled afternoon was all Izzie’s fault and a terrible inconvenience. A steady stream of visitors came to the house bringing flowers and sympathy but far from a melancholy gathering in the sitting room, the place was filled with the buzz of conversation and laughter.
Izzie had been told to pack up Mrs Shilling’s books. Apparently they were to be put upstairs in the loft and she’d been given two medium sized trunks to put them in. As she pulled them from the shelves, so many of them brought back happy memories. She’d leafed through this one when they were typing up that chapter about Quipu and Mrs Shilling needed to refresh her mind about something. Izzie had been fascinated to learn that the Incas didn’t have a written language but they kept records by tying knots on a piece of string.
‘Different coloured string had different meanings,’ Mrs Shilling had explained. ‘They still do it now. Our guide knotted one cord whenever my husband paid him and another cord if he had to spend money. The word Quipu means knot.’
Izzie smiled sadly. Her employer had opened her mind to so many wonderful things. She would miss her dreadfully.
She was working hard when Mrs Dore came to tell her Muriel wanted to see her. Izzie went at once. The funeral was to be next week so Izzie was expecting to be asked to act as a maid for the wake. She would do it of course; not for Muriel, but for the sake of her old employer.