by Pam Weaver
‘But you left Worthing,’ Linda challenged.
‘Yes,’ Doris said cautiously, ‘because I was ill. I met Arthur after that.’
Linda scoffed.
Doris looked at Izzie helplessly.
‘D’you know what?’ said Linda, ‘I don’t believe it. Dad told me about your fancy man. He said he did his best to persuade you to stay but you still ran off with him. Ran off and left your own children without a backward thought.’
Doris reached her hand across the table. ‘That’s not true, darling. Your father had me sent to a mental home.’
‘Oh a mental home, now is it?’ Linda challenged. ‘Well that sounds about right.’
Izzie gasped. ‘Linda!’
Her sister stood. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m going.’
Their mother looked stricken. ‘Linda, please darling … Let me explain.’
But Linda was already on her way to the door. Everyone was staring at them. Izzie didn’t know which way to turn. Should she go after her angry sister or stay to comfort her mother who looked very close to tears?
‘You go, Izzie,’ said Doris, taking her handkerchief from her sleeve and shaking it out. ‘Your sister needs you. I’ll be fine.’
But the shattered expression on her mother’s face made Izzie’s heart constrict so she sat back down.
Twenty-Eight
The postman came just as Izzie was about to leave for work. There was a large envelope from the writing school, probably containing her last assignment with comments and corrections. She’d worked hard with this one, taking all the information she had about Mr Semadini’s life story and breaking it down into several sections. She’d figured out how to make it into at least five different articles for five completely different magazines. When aiming for the woman’s magazine market, she had emphasised the attractiveness of the café and the wonderful cakes which were on sale. For a more upmarket serious magazine, she had majored on the war-time internee made good. Any company in-house magazine such as that of a chocolate factory or a major food retailer, would welcome an article about new recipes such as Mr Umberto’s Baked Alaska, while a Worthing-based magazine might be more interested in the amount of custom the popular Café Bellissimo had brought to the town. Finally, she had written an article about the companionship and camaraderie among the customers which had resulted in a significantly generous gift going to the people of Lynmouth caught up in the terrible and disastrous flood. The common element of each article was, of course, Mr Semadini, but she had been careful not to repeat the same phrases. There was no time to look at the comments now though, and Izzie knew she would be in agony until she could open the envelope and see if she’d got it right.
There was also another letter in a long envelope bearing the same crest as the writing school. She knew her course had come to an end, so she supposed this might be a letter concerning her overall marks; pass or fail. She stared at the envelope for a second then glanced up at the clock. It was no good. She couldn’t wait.
Linda sauntered into the kitchen, yawning, as Izzie ripped open the envelope. Pulling out a piece of paper edged in gold she smiled. ‘I’ve done it,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve got my certificate from the writing school. There’s going to be a presentation although they don’t say when.’
Linda picked up the kettle and shook it. ‘Bully for you,’ she said in a totally uninterested voice. ‘You could have left some water in the kettle for me.’
Izzie was a bit hurt. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured.
‘When is Dad going to get the geyser in the bathroom fixed?’ Linda complained.
‘Next week,’ said Izzie, her mind still on her course marks.
Linda didn’t reply but carried on getting her breakfast ready.
The two of them had barely spoken to each other since their disastrous trip to Brighton to see their mother. Izzie had stayed in the café after Linda had left, doing her best to offer her mother a little comfort over a second mug of tea. Doris managed not to break down but Izzie could see that she was in bits. It was frustrating that Linda was so determined not to believe her. After about half an hour, Doris had squeezed Izzie’s hand.
‘Don’t worry about me anymore darling,’ she’d said, putting on a brave smile. ‘I’m all right now.’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
Doris had nodded. ‘Do you think Linda is waiting at the bus stop for you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Izzie had said with a chuckle. ‘Knowing her, she’s either gone shopping or to the pictures.’
Just then, they’d heard someone knocking on the window pane. When they looked up, a man was waving at them. He was solidly built but not fat, with a weather beaten face and twinkly eyes which almost disappeared as he smiled.
‘Oh that’s my Arthur,’ said Doris. ‘Would you still like to meet him?’
‘I’d love to,’ Izzie had said with a nod and Doris waved him in.
‘All right, my lovely?’ he’d said as, introductions over, he sat at the table with them. ‘Where’s the other girl?’
Doris had sniffed into her handkerchief so Izzie had told him what had happened. Arthur was very sympathetic and Izzie could see he was concerned for her mother.
‘She’ll come round,’ said Izzie, trying to sound confident but she’d had a pretty shrewd idea neither of them really believed her. It was now time for proper introductions. They sat together for another half an hour just talking. Izzie’s impression of Arthur was that he was a good and caring man. Her mother had been right. Mr ‘call me Arthur’ Frobisher was no oil painting but he obviously thought an awful lot of Doris.
‘We used to go to the same school when we were nippers,’ he’d said adding with a smile, ‘I fancied her something rotten, even back then.’
‘Arthur!’ her mother had scolded but the pair of them gave each other a loving smile.
As they stood to leave some time later, Arthur had handed Izzie a small business card.
‘If ever you need anything,’ he’d said. ‘Just phone, okay?’
Back at home, Izzie had desperately tried to get Linda to talk about it but she had gone into non-speaking mode.
‘You still here?’ Her father’s appearance made Izzie jump and brought her back to the here and now. ‘You’ll get a flea in your ear if you’re late for work.’
‘I was just looking at my letter,’ she said. ‘I’ve got my certificate from the writing school.’
He sat at the table yawning and scratching his head. ‘Hurry up in that bathroom,’ he shouted at Linda. Izzie pulled on her coat. Now she was feeling a bit teary. They could have shown a bit more of an interest. They knew how hard she had worked for this. I bet Mum and Arthur would have been more forthcoming, she thought bitterly. Leaning the large envelope next to the best tea pot on the kitchen dresser she hurried through the door and ran all the way to the Café Bellissimo.
It was mid-morning when the telegram boy came through the door. Every customer regarded him with an anxious stare and then with relief as he went straight through to the office. A couple of minutes later Mr Semadini came into the café and beckoned Izzie to come with him. Izzie frowned. Conscious that everybody was watching her, she hurried to follow him. Once inside the office, he closed the door behind her. It was only then that Izzie was aware that one of the other waitresses, Helen, was already in the room, along with the telegram boy.
‘This is Miss Baxter,’ Mr Semadini said and the telegram boy handed her the yellow envelope. ‘Isobelle, you might like to sit down.’
Izzie’s throat closed and her heart began to thump. She couldn’t imagine why on earth someone would send her a telegram unless something awful had happened. Who could it be? Granny? Mum?
She lowered herself into a chair and peeled back the seal. Helen moved closer and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Izzie struggled to make her panicking brain take in what she was reading and then she began to laugh.
‘Quick,’ said Mr Semadini, jumping up and
waving his hand towards Helen. ‘Get a doctor. She’s hysterical.’
‘Any reply?’ the telegram boy asked.
‘No,’ said Izzie, still smiling broadly. ‘And I’m not hysterical. It’s not bad news.’ She held it up and read aloud, ‘Congratulations. Stop. You are our star pupil. Stop. Highest marks ever recorded. Publicity on its way. Stop. D. Lloyd-Scott, Principal of London Writing School.’
‘You’ve done it!’ cried Helen, her eyes sparkling. ‘You’ve finished the course.’
Izzie nodded, her face lit up with excitement as Helen gave her a hug.
Mr Semadini beamed. ‘Congratulations, Isobelle!’ Reaching across the desk, he shook her hand vigorously. ‘I never doubted you for one minute. You are a very clever girl.’
Izzie felt a tear trickle down her cheek but she couldn’t stop smiling.
Back in the shop, Mr Semadini broke the news to the anxious customers who burst into spontaneous applause as Izzie reentered the room. Everywhere she looked there were smiles and handshakes and cries of ‘Well done, dear,’ and ‘Congratulations.’ Izzie couldn’t have been happier and Mr Semadini looked fit to burst with pride.
‘Such an amazing girl!’ she heard him say to one customer. And to another, ‘Such a talent.’
The day that followed was utterly astonishing. The news was passed from outgoing customers to those coming into the shop so Izzie seemed to spend the whole time thanking people for their good wishes and collecting huge tips.
Late in the afternoon, the bell jangled as two men entered the shop. One had a large press camera. When they asked for Izzie, she discovered they were from the Worthing Herald and wanted her story. Izzie was at a loss to understand how they could have known when a familiar figure came through the shop door. It was the man whose face adorned the front of the folder from the Writing School, none other than Mr Lloyd-Scott himself. She could hardly believe her eyes. The principal himself had come all the way down from London just to see her!
With apologies to Mr Semadini, he posed with Izzie as he briefed the newspaper reporter about her achievement. Then he posed with Mr Semadini and Izzie.
‘I believe you have a wonderful new dessert,’ he said. ‘Baked Aladdin, wasn’t it, Miss Baxter?’
‘Alaska,’ Izzie corrected.
‘Then I should like to try some if you don’t mind.’
Mr Semadini sat him down and Izzie could only imagine the rush in the kitchen to get it ready. Fifteen minutes later, Mr Umberto swept into the café with a plate of Baked Alaska on his finger-tips. He bowed as he delivered it to his customer and watched as Mr Lloyd-Scott took a mouthful. The photographer’s camera flashed, catching Mr Lloyd-Scott’s delight at what was on his spoon. Mr Umberto beamed, looking from one person to another as Mr Lloyd-Scott declared it was quite the most amazing thing he had ever tasted and the camera bulb flashed again. Izzie and the girls shared a mischievous grin.
When everyone had gone, the girls cleared up and Helen counted out the tips. Even though most of them were meant for Izzie, she had put them into the shared pot. Each waitress ended up with at least five bob more than she would have normally got. Izzie was quite happy to leave things as they were, but her generosity was reciprocated. The girls took some of their extra cash and pooled it for Izzie so that she had the lion’s share.
Their last customer of the day came in about half an hour before closing time. It was Roger.
‘Hello,’ said Izzie, ‘what are you doing here?’
They were interrupted as Mr Semadini came over. ‘Ah, you come for your pastry at last,’ he cried extravagantly, his Italian accent at its most pronounced. ‘Isobelle, give this man whatever he wants. It’s on the ’ouse.’
Roger protested but Mr Semadini wouldn’t hear another word. ‘When I came to this town, you welcomed me to Worthing,’ he said. ‘Now I welcome you to the Café Bellissimo.’
Izzie grinned, and following her employer’s instruction, she served Roger high tea. She knew he’d be starving anyway. He was always saying his landlady didn’t feed him enough.
‘You two know each other?’ Mr Semadini said eventually. He had obviously noticed the familiarity between them.
‘Izzie and I are going out,’ said Roger and Izzie saw something flicker in Mr Semadini’s eyes. Embarrassed, she turned away quickly. Why should he look so surprised? Roger was a nice person. He’d behaved as if he’d liked Roger, especially as he’d given him tea on the house. She paused. Could it be possible that Mr Semadini …? No of course not. He’d never given her any impression that he liked her in that way. That she liked him went without saying but the thought of her feelings being reciprocated … well, that was impossible … wasn’t it?
As Izzie placed the cake stand in front of him, Roger leaned forward and whispered. ‘I only came to ask if you would like to come to the local amdram with me. I’ve managed to get two tickets.’
‘Amdram?’ Izzie gave him a vague smile. ‘What’s that?’
‘The amateur dramatic society,’ he said. ‘They meet in the Sussex Road school hall.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
Aware that Mr Semadini was still watching her, she said quietly, ‘I’d love to.’
Roger left a few minutes before they were due to lock up. Mr Semadini had asked the staff to come back into the office before they all went home. It was a bit cramped and some had spilled into the corridor but a moment later Mr Umberto made another grand entrance, this time with a huge chocolate cake. It was a lot bigger than it might have been a year ago because at long last sugar was off ration.
‘Congratulations, Isobelle,’ cried Mr Semadini, and everybody clapped.
Izzie could hardly believe her eyes. What an amazing surprise.
As the cake was shared around, Izzie knew that for once she’d be late getting home. Her father would be annoyed that his tea wasn’t on the table, but she didn’t care. She was having a wonderful day and she wanted to savour every moment of it. The only problem was that as they all ate cake and drank a glass of sherry she could no longer look Mr Semadini in the eye.
Izzie insisted that she stay behind to help with the clearing up, so as it turned out, she was the last person to leave.
‘You are a fantastic girl, Isobelle,’ Mr Semadini said as he stood by the shop door to lock up after her. ‘One in a million. We are all very proud of you.’
‘And I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me, Sir,’ she said shyly. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time.’
‘You are very welcome,’ he said, helping her into her coat. He handed her the rest of the celebration cake to take home.
She turned and for one moment she thought he was going to kiss her on both cheeks, Italian style. Their faces were so close together she could feel his breath on her skin. She felt herself growing pink with embarrassment and her heart pounded so loudly she was positive that he could hear it. Then, to her immense disappointment, he stepped back and, looking slightly awkward, said, ‘Erm, well, good night, Isobelle.’
Lowering her gaze, Izzie murmured, ‘Good night, Sir,’ as she fled through the door.
Twenty-Nine
Izzie was dog-tired when she came into work the next morning. The day before had been the most stunning day of her life, the zenith being the impromptu party in Mr Semadini’s office. She had never been happier. Just imagine, she’d got top marks and her picture would be in the newspaper.
Roger had taken her to the amateur dramatic society play in the evening and although it was enjoyable, she couldn’t stop thinking about Mr Semadini. Standing next to him as he raised a glass of sherry and called for a toast for ‘a very special young woman’ was perhaps the most wonderful moment of her life. She recalled the warmth of his hand on her shoulder as the photographer snapped yet another picture, his smile, that chuckle of delight and his beautiful dark eyes … Of course it was impossible that there could ever be anything else between them. There was so much against it. He was much older than her; he h
ad been married before and she was ignorant about love and men; she was his employee and he was her boss. And even if it ever came to anything, they could never marry because he was Catholic and she was Church of England. Izzie didn’t care tuppence about such things but she knew plenty of people would; her father, for a start.
The play had been great fun. A thriller, the actors had them all on the edge of their seats for the final scene and they richly deserved their three curtain calls.
As she and Roger strolled home through the quiet streets of the town, he’d taken her hand in his. Izzie left it there but the thought crossed her mind that though she should feel a little excited, she didn’t. She could just as easily have been holding the hand of a small child. Roger was a nice boy but nothing more. She would have to tell him. It wasn’t fair to string him along.
As they’d reached the end of her street, she was just beginning to pluck up her courage to say something when Roger had said, ‘I’d like to take you home to meet my parents.’
For a second or two Izzie hadn’t known what to say. Meeting his parents would move everything up a gear and she couldn’t let that happen. Not with Roger. On the other hand, she didn’t want to hurt him. ‘I’m sorry, Roger, but what with my writing and all, I’m going to be a bit busy for a while.’
‘That’s all right,’ he’d said. ‘We can do it when you’re ready.’
Izzie chewed at her bottom lip. ‘The thing is, Roger, I don’t feel ready for a serious relationship right now.’
He’d nodded – she could see – bravely. ‘You can’t blame a chap for trying.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she’d said awkwardly.
He’d nodded again. ‘Bye then, Izzie.’ And with that he’d walked off.
For a split second, Izzie had felt so guilty she almost called him back but in her heart of hearts she knew, abrupt as it was, it was probably for the best.
*
Saturday saw an endless stream of customers coming in to congratulate her. There was a moment when she worried that the other girls might not like all the attention she was getting, but the truth was, nobody minded. The tips were good and the ambiance was warm and friendly. Mr Umberto made Baked Alaska all day long and Mr Semadini toured the tables as usual but with a proud look on his face.