by Pam Weaver
Even though life was hectic, Izzie was loving every minute. People were generous with their tips and she’d made quite a few friends. She was still working hard with her correspondence course and so far she’d had top marks for every assignment although her tutor was beginning to press her to get a typewriter. Izzie had tried everywhere but she just couldn’t find one. It was so frustrating.
The rest of the course was still challenging and fun. She’d learned how to do a market study of a magazine to see if she could write for it, she’d brushed up on her grammar, how to precis a piece of writing and she was exploring her own writing style. She felt as if she was being drawn towards real people and their lives and for her next assignment, she was to conduct an interview. Her problem now was, whom should she ask? If Mrs Shilling was still alive, Izzie would have had no problem, and the old lady would have been a fascinating subject.
Izzie had toyed with the idea of asking her new neighbours but it seemed a bit intrusive. Her father wouldn’t want his private life on public display, so he was a no go. The only other possibility was her grandmother, but when would she find the time to go out to Dial Post?
It was only as she held out her hands for his morning inspection that Izzie had the idea of asking Mr Semadini. Of course, he would be ideal. A relative newcomer to Worthing, he was a successful businessman and a foreigner; what could be more interesting? But did she have the courage to ask him for an interview? Her heart was already beating wildly at the thought. She finally plucked up her courage when she took his morning coffee to the office and she was pleasantly surprised that he agreed to do it straight away.
‘I think Monday at the end of the day would be good,’ he said, glancing down at his diary. ‘Monday is always quiet compared to the rest of the week. Will that suit you?’
‘Absolutely,’ cried Izzie. It would give her plenty of time to prepare her questions.
*
As he had predicted, Monday was a quiet afternoon although they had enough customers to keep them busy. Carol had already changed several table cloths in preparation for the next day when Mr Semadini called Izzie into the office. He closed the door and sat at his desk.
‘So, you are doing a correspondence course?’ he said amiably.
‘Yes, Sir. I should like to be a journalist.’
Mr Semadini nodded approvingly. ‘Good for you Isobelle. I can see that you are a very modern woman.’ He leaned back in his chair to make himself comfortable. ‘Okay, fire away.’
Izzie loved the fact that he always used her full name. He was the only person in the world who did, and the gentle lilt he used when saying it was so attractive to the ear. She opened her notebook and began. ‘Were you born in this country?’
He smiled and Izzie realised her first mistake. Of course he wasn’t. He was Italian, for goodness sake! She felt herself colour with embarrassment.
‘My father came to this country in 1924 and I was born later the same year,’ he said. ‘Well spotted that I’m only Italian by my parentage.’
Izzie shifted in her seat. ‘Can you tell me something about your childhood?’
Mr Semadini launched himself down memory lane and she heard all about his school in Dover, which didn’t have the facility for school dinners. ‘Some of my mates brought a large potato to school with their initial carved on it,’ he went on. ‘Our teacher baked it for them on the coke stove for their dinner. I was lucky. My father sent me with a meal in my lunch tin.’
Izzie tried to imagine this good looking man as an untidy school boy. ‘Did you enjoy school?’
‘I was good at the three R’s,’ he said with a shrug, ‘and I had the chance to do woodwork but they wouldn’t let me do the one thing I wanted.’
‘Which was?’ Izzie began, then realised.
‘Cookery!’
They had said it together and now they laughed. Her eyes met his and she felt her whole body tingle. Izzie hurried on with the interview. ‘So you left school at fourteen? What did you do then?’
‘I went into my father’s restaurant,’ he said. ‘I worked there until we were interned at the start of the war.’
Izzie raised an eyebrow. ‘Your family was interned?’
‘My father and brothers,’ he said, ‘along with a couple of thousand other Italian men.’ He laughed sardonically. ‘They thought we were a threat to the country; my father who hated everything to do with Mussolini, the very reason why he left Italy.’
Izzie felt the need to apologise. ‘I’m sorry.’
Mr Semadini shrugged. ‘These things happen in war time. I was sixteen. We were sent to the Isle of Man.’
She left him to describe the Victorian boarding house where he and his father and uncles spent their time playing cards, putting on concerts and plays, and competing in snooker competitions while they worried about his mother and the business back in Dover.
‘Eventually they sent me to work on one of the farms,’ he said. ‘I was surprised to find I enjoyed it. In fact, I stayed there until I joined up in 1943.’
‘After the way you were treated, you joined up?’ Izzie squeaked.
‘This is my country,’ he said fiercely and Izzie felt her face colour again.
There was a sharp knock on the office door and Mr Umberto came in.
‘I lock up,’ he said putting the shop keys onto the table.
Mr Semadini scooped them into a desk drawer. His cousin stood watching them for a minute and Mr Semadini said something in Italian. Izzie hadn’t a clue what it was but in reply, Mr Umberto nodded and gave his cousin a knowing smile before leaving the room and closing the door. Izzie’s employer put his hand out to indicate that she should begin again.
‘So, how did you become the owner of three restaurants?’ she asked, deliberately changing the subject.
‘After the war, I went to work with my father,’ he continued. ‘I married my wife in 1946 and her father wanted to retire so I took over the running of his restaurant in Hastings.’
‘You’re married?’ said Izzie. Her heart sank. No-one had ever mentioned his wife. So where was she?
‘I had a wife and a son,’ he said quietly. ‘They were killed. A hit and run. The driver was drunk.’
‘Oh I am so sorry,’ Izzie blurted out. ‘I had no idea. I wouldn’t have asked …’
‘But you should,’ he said good-naturedly. ‘A good journalist ferrets out everything.’
Izzie was flustered. ‘Um … what made you decide to come to Worthing?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘I suppose I didn’t want to stay in Hastings. After my wife … It was too painful. My brother had a small café, the place near the station in Brighton, but it wasn’t doing too well so we decided to go in together.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘It’s the place where I met your mother and saw you for the first time.’
Izzie looked away. He wasn’t flirting with her, was he?
‘How is your mother?’
‘Very well, thank you, Sir.’ Izzie regained her composure. ‘So, can you tell me your first impressions of Worthing, and why you wanted to stay here?’
They spent the next ten minutes or so talking about his dreams and ambitions now that he’d landed in the town. After that, Izzie dried up. She wasn’t sure she’d got enough for an article but she couldn’t think how to go on. Gathering her things, she rose to her feet murmuring, ‘Thank you.’ He followed her to the door and they both grasped the door knob at the same time. As their hands touched, a rush of feeling went through Izzie’s whole being like a bolt of electricity and she took in her breath.
‘Sorry,’ he said quickly as they both took a second or two to compose themselves. As soon as he took his hand away from the door, Izzie flung it open and fled.
*
The following Saturday, Roger took Izzie to see The Silver Whip, a western staring Dale Robertson at the Odeon.
‘Bit like coals to Newcastle for you isn’t it?’ she quipped as they walked in and he laughed.
Although Dale wa
s quite dishy, it was hard to concentrate on the story. She and Roger sat close together, not actually touching but Izzie hardly noticed. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mr Semadini, which made her feel a little guilty. Roger was really nice and Mr Semadini was her employer. He was much older than her and he probably never thought of her in that way. It was all so silly and yet every time she’d looked at him since the day of the interview, he’d left her feeling breathless. When she’d got home that night she’d thought of a million things she should have asked him. Had he encountered any prejudice since he’d come to town, what were his long-term plans for the future, how did he source his ingredients? What was his wife’s name? How old was his son? Do you look at me that way because you like me? Ah well, she told herself, you learn by your mistakes. The next time she did an interview she would plan her questions more carefully beforehand.
The film over, Roger offered to walk her home and asked her about her family.
‘I live with my father and my sister,’ Izzie said pleasantly.
‘Oh, I thought you said your mother lives in Brighton.’
‘She does,’ said Izzie. ‘My parents are separated.’ He stayed silent, as if waiting for more. ‘The war, you know,’ she said, and he nodded.
Twenty or thirty years ago, it might have been shocking to hear that her parents were living apart but these days it came as no great surprise. In the weeks, months and years after VE Day and VJ Day, the divorce rate had peaked. The men who had returned from the front in 1945 were not the boys who had left home in 1939. Years of staring death in the face, the horrors of POW camps and the deprivations, not to mention the temptations at home for their wives, had taken their toll. Some were sick in body, others sick in the mind. The compliant young wives they’d left behind had changed as well. Because women had been expected to go out to work or join one of the uniformed organisations, many had gained their independence and were no longer financially dependent on their husbands. Those who were not married came back home to find that their sweethearts had cut their hair, wore their skirts short and smoked in public. Their women were stronger than they had thought, capable of doing a man’s work and liberated.
‘What about you?’ Izzie asked. ‘Tell me about your family.’
‘I have a mother and two brothers,’ he said reaching for her hand. ‘My mother lives in Rye and one of my brothers lives in Rottingdean. That’s where I go on my days off.’
They had reached the end of Chandos Road.
‘I’d rather you didn’t come right to my door, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘My father is rather strict.’ It seemed better to put it that way rather than say he’d probably make a scene and more than likely send Roger off with a flea in his ear if he saw him.
‘Fair enough,’ said Roger.
‘But thank you for a lovely evening,’ she added quickly.
‘Care to do it again?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that.’
Roger bent his head and brushed her cheek with his lips as she turned to go. Although it felt pleasant enough, there was more than a tiny part of her that wished that kiss had come from Mr Semadini.
Twenty-Five
Worthing was proving to be popular with day trippers and holiday makers alike. The promenade was heaving with visitors and the shops, especially those near the beach, were doing a roaring trade. The Café Bellissimo was no exception. The girls took it in turns to work on the tables outside because it could get very hot and crowded. It also meant a lot more running around.
The morning Izzie was assigned to the outside tables there was a bit of a commotion when some young lads, who were running amok through the town, went past the café and tipped over several chairs.
‘Hooligans!’ one customer yelled after them. There was a collective gasp as one boy turned around and gave her two fingers.
People began whispering, ‘Young people of today …’
‘Disgraceful. What they need is a taste of the birch.’
‘How rude. That wouldn’t have happened when I was young.’
Izzie was surprised too. That rude boy was John Middleton.
After picking up the tipped over chairs, Izzie served two women with Mr Umberto’s Baked Alaska, a layer of sponge with jam and ice cream on the top, cleverly topped with a baked meringue shell. It was the talk of the town because no-one could work out how he managed to serve ice cream inside a hot meringue. The mood outside changed as her customers squealed with delight as she placed the dish in front of them.
As Izzie turned to go back inside with a tray of dirty crockery, she came face-to-face with Mrs Sayers. ‘Oh!’
Mrs Sayers eyed her coldly. ‘I didn’t know you worked here.’
She wasn’t sitting at one of Izzie’s designated tables but Izzie felt bound to speak to her. ‘Can I get you something?’ she said, putting the tray down and getting out her notepad.
But Mrs Sayers was already gathering her things. As she stood, Izzie put her hand up in mock surrender. ‘Look Mrs Sayers, I’m really sorry about your son, but I honestly had no idea.’
‘Who told you about Gary?’ she said accusingly. The buzz of conversation had died again as every customer eavesdropped on their conversation.
‘My mother,’ Izzie said awkwardly.
Mrs Sayers raised an eyebrow and leaned back a little. ‘Your mother!’
‘You remember the first time I saw you, in the green grocer’s, and I told you my mother was missing?’ Izzie lowered her voice almost to a whisper and ploughed on. ‘Well, I found her and she told me about you. I can’t tell you how desperately sorry she is for what happened.’
Mrs Sayers had picked up her handbag and began threading her way through the tables. ‘Mum would do anything to turn the clock back,’ Izzie went on. ‘She has suffered so much.’
Mrs Sayers froze, then turned and rounded on her. ‘She has suffered,’ she hissed. ‘She’s suffered. How do you think I’ve felt?’
Izzie shook her head desperately. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.’ She gulped. ‘Of course it’s been much worse for you, but believe me, my mother is so, so sorry.’
‘She was my friend,’ Mrs Sayers said angrily.
‘I know,’ Izzie said helplessly.
‘My best friend.’
What could Izzie say? Whatever came out of her mouth, it wouldn’t help. Mrs Sayers glared angrily at her for a second or two and then turned on her heel. As she watched her sailing down the street, Izzie could have wept.
*
Linda was absolutely boiling. She was beginning to hate this job. Standing all day long in a small kiosk dishing out ice cream was hardly her idea of fun. For two pins she felt like jacking it all in and going home but she’d had so many sackings and walked out of the job so many times that it was proving harder and harder to get past the interview for a new one. She touched her hot cheeks. She had no sun cream. Her face was going to look like a flipping lobster before the day was through. She’d been working non-stop all morning serving customers with ice cream, candy floss and sticks of Worthing rock. The kiosk was positioned in such a way that she had her back to the sea but every now and then the breeze would lift the flaps up and she could see the water glistening. It was so tempting. If only she’d brought her swim suit she could have had a dip in her lunch hour. Lunch hour, she thought bitterly. If her boss didn’t come to relieve her soon, she wouldn’t even get a lunch hour.
‘Hello.’
Linda was bending down to push an empty box to the back. She looked up to see John Middleton leaning over the counter in front of her. ‘Oh hello,’ she said uninterestedly. ‘What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?’
He laughed. ‘Maybe I should,’ he said, ‘but maybe I thought I’d have a day off and come and see you. Isn’t that right, Ray?’
He stepped to one side and Raymond Perryman came into view. Linda’s heart skipped a beat. God, he was gorgeous; even more so in daylight. He fitted every girl’s idea of a dream boat in
his white shirt, bootlace tie, and some highly fashionable drainpipe trousers – not exactly beach wear but gorgeous all the same. Linda patted the back of her hair self-consciously.
Ray gave her a lazy smile. ‘You look hot, darling.’
Linda felt herself blushing. What did he mean? Hot as in sweaty or hot as in hot? A small boy waved a stick of rock at her. Linda snatched it from him and threw it into a paper bag. ‘Two bob please,’ she said holding out her hand. The boy handed her a half crown and Linda ran up the till. By the time she’d turned back with the sixpence change, the boy had gone.
‘I’ll have a sixpenny wafer with that tanner,’ said Ray.
Linda hesitated, but then reached into the refrigerator box and cut off a slice from the Lyons Maid block. Putting it between two wafers, she handed it to him.
‘And me mates’ll have one too,’ he drawled.
Linda looked around nervously. There was nobody about so she cut two more slices and put wafers either side of them. The three lads sauntered off licking their ice creams. Linda was furious. How dare they? They obviously had no intention of paying. Didn’t they know she could get the sack for doing something like that? And no ‘thank you’ either. Cheeky pigs. But when the boys had gone about a hundred yards, Ray turned around and winked, making her go weak at the knees all over again.
‘Excuse me,’ said an irate voice.
Linda turned to face an angry looking man, aged about forty, with an open neck shirt and a knotted handkerchief on his head. The small boy stood beside him.
‘Yes?’
‘My son bought a two bob stick of rock,’ the man began. ‘I gave him half a crown but he didn’t get the change.’
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ said Linda, unflinching and looking him straight in the eye. ‘I remember the little boy but I definitely gave him the change. Sixpence wasn’t it, dear? He must have dropped it on the way back to you.’