At Home by the Sea

by Pam Weaver

  At eight o’clock, tired out, they trudged back to the coach to journey home. Mr Semadini had Liliana on his shoulders and Mr Umberto carried the little one in his arms. She was fast asleep. Back in the coach someone struck up ‘We’ll Meet Again’ and they spent the journey back to Worthing singing silly songs.

  As they drew up outside the Café Bellissimo, the rest of the coach happened to be singing, ‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World’. Mr Semadini was there to help all of his staff down the coach steps. Izzie smiled shyly. She was at a loss to know what to say.

  ‘Thank you for a wonderful day,’ she managed.

  Thirty-One

  One of the useful tips they’d given Izzie at the writing school was to forget what you’d just sent out in the post and get on with the next assignment. That being the case, after all the excitement of her graduation, Izzie grabbed every moment she could to write more articles and life settled back to normal. She returned to the same old juggling of her time between her shifts in the Café Bellissimo, housework, writing and keeping in touch with her mother and grandmother.

  Doris had been desperately disappointed that Linda had walked away from her but as soon as she saw the article about Izzie in the Brighton Evening Argus, she sent her a lovely card. If her father saw the article, or the card sitting on the mantelpiece for that matter, he made no comment, but then he’d never said anything about Linda’s picture in the paper all that time ago which convinced Izzie that she was right to think he hardly ever looked at newspapers.

  Linda was more envious than anything.

  ‘The front page!’ she’d squeaked. ‘How cool is that.’

  With autumn well under way, the menu in the Café Bellissimo was changing. From now on there was to be less emphasis on ice cream and cool desserts because Mr Umberto had turned his hand to putting steak and kidney pudding and other heart-warming dishes on the menu.

  Izzie sensed that Mr Semadini was getting restless for change as well. There were a few awkward moments when he and Izzie were alone in the restaurant but apart from giving each other a shy or embarrassed smile, nothing of a romantic nature passed between them. She wished it would but he didn’t seem to want it. He did, however, talk to her about his plans for the future.

  ‘The whole country is changing, Isobelle,’ he said as they tidied up the counter during a slack time. ‘Italian coffee bars are becoming more popular.’

  Izzie couldn’t help chuckling at his enthusiasm. ‘So what makes them so different from English coffee bars, Sir?’

  ‘Italians specialise in serving “frothy coffee” from imported Gaggia coffee machines.’

  Izzie raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never seen one of those before.’

  ‘It’s a system which extracts coffee oils from the bean,’ Mr Semadini explained, his face lit up with excitement, ‘and it’s served with a layer of crema naturale on the top.’

  He went on to say that these new coffee bars attracted young people who liked to listen to jazz and skiffle music on the premises. ‘But I don’t honestly think they will work here.’

  Izzie must have looked puzzled because he added, shaking his head sadly, ‘Worthing has too many old people. Opening a coffee bar wouldn’t be good business sense.’

  Izzie decided he was probably right.

  A couple of days later, she overheard him saying that his relatives in London had told him that Italian bistros were also becoming popular in the capital. Apparently, they were characterised by their red and white checked table cloths and a candle in a Chianti bottle on the table. It soon became an open secret that Mr Semadini wanted to launch his own bistro but finding the capital to start was a problem.

  The Italian community in Worthing, however, saw a fairly young, attractive man with ambition and drive to be successful; a man who had a good track record having given a start to several members of his own family in the restaurant business. He was all these things and unmarried. They, of course, had unmarried daughters, good Catholics and Italian by blood, so it wasn’t long before Mr Semadini became the most popular bachelor in town. By the end of September, the Café Bellissimo bulged at the seams with pretty young Latin women who dined with their mothers, and waited with excited anticipation for Mr Semadini to make his rounds. The more embarrassed and awkward he became the more overbearing the mamas seemed to be. Izzie couldn’t fail to be amused by it all but she dreaded the outcome.

  ‘I need a guinea-pig,’ he said to her one day. ‘Would you do me the honour of sampling a menu for my new bistro one evening?’

  Surprised, Izzie laughed. ‘You mean serve in the evening?’

  ‘No,’ he said more carefully, ‘I mean, will you be my guest, while I serve you?’ She must have looked confused because he quickly added, ‘Purely to see what it’s like from the customer’s point of view.’

  He looked so earnest that Izzie couldn’t help saying, ‘Yes.’

  *

  Esther wrote to say that she was coming home. She had been thrilled to hear of Izzie’s success and begged her to let her know when her articles would be published. In truth, Izzie didn’t know. So far she had sent out eight unsolicited manuscripts but hadn’t heard from any of the editors. She had been warned that it took several weeks before she could expect a response so she moved on to other topics. She had written a piece about the forthcoming bonfire celebrations, but that winged its way back to her fairly quickly. Apparently, she had sent it to the magazine far too late for publication, breaking one of the writing school’s golden rules. Izzie filed the article to send out next year, probably to a different magazine. There was every possibility that next year being coronation year, Worthing would have another bonfire celebration. She would send it out around August, leaving plenty of time for acceptance in a November issue. The article was timeless, but she would add something up-to-date, and she was sure that in 1953, coronation year, there would be plenty of things to draw from. That left seven articles still out there. Izzie was already planning another idea but first she was to meet up with her mother’s gentleman friend, Mr Frobisher.

  Izzie could hardly contain her excitement as she got closer to Brighton. The weather was terrible; squally rain and cold. It was hard to see out of the windows of the bus. They remained grimy even with the rain lashing down outside. She had an umbrella but she doubted if she could keep it up.

  Her mother was waiting at Pool Valley, as arranged. They kissed and then Doris said, ‘Arthur’s brought his car.’

  She led Izzie to a bend in the road where a black four door Ford Prefect was parked. She opened the back door and Izzie climbed in. Her mother sat in the front passenger seat. Arthur turned to greet Izzie with a smile. ‘Nice to see you again, lass.’

  ‘Ooh Arthur,’ said her mother, shivering, ‘it’s freezing out there.’

  ‘Let’s get you home in the warm, my lovely,’ he said, starting the engine.

  They drove along St James’s Street and into Upper Rock Gardens.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Mr Frobisher called out cheerfully over his shoulder. ‘Are you very wet?’

  ‘Not too bad,’ said Izzie, though the hem of her coat did feel rather soggy.

  They pulled up outside a small corner pub called the Earl of Egremont. Mr Frobisher had got as close to the door as he could so Izzie and her mother were able to dash inside without getting much wetter. At first glance, it was a homely place, very small and rather dark inside, probably because the walls were panelled. Taking her head scarf off, Izzie’s mother glanced up at the clock and bent to light the fire in the grate.

  ‘The first of the regulars will be in soon,’ she said. ‘Arthur likes to get the place warm for them.’

  She took Izzie through a door and upstairs into a cosy sitting room and a few minutes later Mr Frobisher himself came in. As he took his coat off, Izzie could see the bulging muscles beneath his shirt. His fingers were as thick as sausages and he had a misshapen nose which looked as if it could have been broken at one time. Her mother made some tea.
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  He asked Izzie about herself and listened enraptured as she told him about her love of writing and her work in the Café Bellissimo.

  ‘You should ask him about his time in children’s homes,’ her mother said, coming back with a tray. ‘That would make a story and a half. Honestly, the way they treated those poor kids …’

  Arthur leapt to his feet to take the tray from her and he put it on the table. ‘I doubt anybody would be interested in that, my lovely,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Izzie felt a little awkward. She didn’t know what to say.

  They sat drinking tea and enjoying each other’s company until it was twelve o’clock.

  ‘I’d better get going,’ said Arthur. ‘They’ll be hammering down the door before long.’

  As he hurried down the stairs, her mother said, ‘Well, what do you think of our little home?’

  ‘It’s very cosy, Mum.’ As she looked round, Izzie saw the photo the street photographer had taken of her and her mum had pride of place on the mantelpiece. Izzie felt quite moved.

  ‘And my Arthur?’

  ‘He’s a lovely man,’ said Izzie.

  Her mother relaxed into her chair with a warm smile. ‘Yes, he is.’

  When the pub shut again at two, they had some dinner. Doris had baked a pie. It was delicious and Izzie said so.

  ‘It’s an old family recipe,’ she said.

  ‘It’s got a secret ingredient,’ said Arthur, ‘but she won’t say what it is.’

  Doris chuckled. ‘But I’ll share it with you, my darling girl,’ she told Izzie confidentially. ‘If you keep it in the family.’

  It was a wonderfully intimate moment and Izzie felt so happy.

  Arthur insisted that he run Izzie all the way back to Worthing. He had to be back to open up again at six so they set off just after four o’clock. Izzie hugged her mother tight. ‘Thanks for a lovely afternoon,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘I love you, Mum.’

  She heard a small sob in Doris’ throat. ‘And I love you too, darlin’.’

  Arthur was quite chatty on the way back home and he dropped her in Chandos Road. ‘Try and persuade that sister of yours to come next time,’ Arthur called out as Izzie got out of the car. ‘Your mother is broken-hearted without you both.’

  ‘I know,’ said Izzie. ‘I’ll do my best, I promise.’

  *

  The following Monday, Izzie finished work as usual but at seven o’clock she was back at the Café Bellissimo. Izzie had taken a lot of trouble with her appearance and as she knocked on the shop door, Mr Semadini opened it.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said. ‘Isobelle, you look lovely.’

  She stepped inside and gasped. Most of the restaurant looked much the same as when she had left that evening, but in the far corner he had set a table with a red check table cloth and dimmed the lights. In the middle of the table stood an attractive Mateus Rosé bottle with a lighted candle pushed into the neck. Behind the table was a large picture poster of an Italian gondolier on the water. She could hear Italian music playing in the background and realised it came from a gramophone tucked away in the small alcove where they usually kept extra cups and saucers in case they had a rush and no time to do the washing up. Izzie turned to him with a smile. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘Where is that place?’

  ‘Venezia,’ he said, using the Italian way of pronouncing the word. ‘The English call it Venice. It’s in the north east of Italy and part of a group of one hundred and eighteen islands all linked together by bridges and canals.’

  They turned their heads at the same time and their eyes met. Izzie trembled.

  ‘They say it’s very romantic to ride on a gondola with the person you love.’

  Izzie smiled shyly. ‘Have you ever been there?’

  He shook his head. ‘Never been beyond these shores.’

  He took her coat, then motioned her to sit down. Mr Semadini looked amazing in a smart suit, a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie. Izzie was wearing her new pale blue poodle skirt with a white blouse. At her neck she had a black and red neckerchief tied in a jaunty knot and her black belt matched her black shoes with an ankle strap. Her hair was brushed back.

  ‘You look very beautiful Isobelle,’ he said softly, sending her heart into a wild beat and her face scarlet.

  He lowered himself into the chair opposite and clicked his fingers. A second later, Mr Umberto, all smiles, came in with a basket of bread. ‘Tonight,’ he announced, ‘we have spaghetti Bolognese or hand cut tagliatelle with meat sauce.’

  Izzie smiled, and taking a bread roll from the basket, she ordered spaghetti Bolognese even though she hadn’t a clue what it was.

  Mr Semadini went for the tagliatelle.

  The meal was wonderful although she struggled a little with the length of the pasta until Mr Semadini showed her how to roll it in a spoon. It was a lot easier then. He offered her a taste of his dish and that was delicious too.

  ‘It’s a special family recipe,’ Mr Semadini said confidentially, ‘handed down from my grandmother.’

  ‘Oh we’ve got one of those,’ cried Izzie.

  ‘For tagliatelle?’ Mr Semadini gasped.

  Izzie chuckled. ‘No, for Polly’s pies. Apparently my great-great-grandmother started baking them in Victorian times.’

  Mr Semadini looked impressed. ‘I must try one.’

  Izzie swallowed hard. She’d have to persuade her mother to teach her how to make one first!

  They talked and talked. It began as small talk, the price of their cups of tea now that tea itself was off ration and the petition circulating the town to get meat off ration.

  ‘What made you start writing?’ he asked, so she told him about Mrs Shilling and her memoirs.

  ‘Sounds like a lot of hard work,’ he said.

  ‘It was,’ Izzie agreed, ‘but when we’d finished, she took me to Bournemouth with her to have a little holiday.’

  ‘Bournemouth,’ he said. ‘What’s it like?’

  Izzie couldn’t help enthusing about it; the hotel, the gardens, the pavilion, the shops and of course the aqua show. When she finally drew breath Mr Semadini laughed.

  ‘I take it that you liked Bournemouth,’ he teased.

  Over coffee, they talked of the forthcoming bonfire celebrations and where Mr Semadini would be spending Christmas.

  ‘You must miss your wife and child,’ Izzie said sadly.

  ‘It is always hard at times like Christmas and birthdays,’ he said. Izzie could hear just a hint of sorrow in his voice. ‘But my cousin is right. I must move on with my life.’

  Izzie nodded sagely. ‘Tell me about your wife.’

  He spoke of Maria and Gianni with tenderness and as she listened she could tell that his loss was still painful. ‘You must have loved her very much.’

  ‘I did … I still do, but I cannot change the past,’ he said. ‘She will always have a special place in my heart but now my heart is big enough to love again.’

  Izzie cast her eyes down to the table cloth.

  They sipped their wine. ‘Your turn,’ he said with a smile. ‘Tell me about your family.’

  When she started, Izzie had planned to be frugal in what she said. The continuing feud between her parents and how it had affected her and Linda wasn’t a pretty story, she knew that, but somehow he had made her feel so comfortable that she told him far more than she meant to. ‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out when she was done. ‘I didn’t mean to tell you all that.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said kindly. ‘I’m glad you did.’

  Izzie ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass, making it sing. ‘You must think me pretty awful to say such things about my dad.’

  Mr Semadini smiled. ‘You say these things because you are hurt and angry.’

  Izzie frowned, puzzled. ‘Am I?’

  There was a moment of silence then Mr Semadini said, ‘Sometimes it is simply better to leave all that pain behind; to turn the page and start again.’

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bsp; Izzie felt the tears spring to her eyes.

  ‘He is your father,’ Mr Semadini went on. He had his head down and was fiddling with his napkin on the table. ‘You cannot change what has happened between him and your mother, Isobelle. And it’s not your quarrel.’ He looked up and caught her dabbing her eyes. ‘Oh I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ He put his hand over hers. It felt warm and comforting but the moment was lost when Mr Umberto bustled back into the room to take away the empty plates and Mr Semadini snatched his hand away.

  After coffee, they parted and he kissed her on both cheeks, Italian style, sending her into ecstasies of delight. As she walked home, it crossed Izzie’s mind that she hadn’t actually said much about the meal, which was the whole purpose of her being there. But one thing was for sure. She would remember this magical evening for a very long time.

  Thirty-Two

  ‘How about Bonfire Night?’ said Paul.

  It was Friday evening and the three lads were sitting in Paul’s kitchen this time. His mum and dad had gone to the pub for the evening, leaving Paul to babysit his kid brother. Brian was six and in bed asleep, or if he wasn’t, he was too scared to come downstairs after all the threats his big brother had made. John had managed to buy beer even though, strictly speaking, he was still under age. Paul took the caps off with a bottle opener and filled three glasses.

  Ray frowned. ‘What about Bonfire Night?’

  ‘Why don’t we do the job that night,’ said Paul. ‘It’d be perfect.’

  ‘You mean break into that Italian place?’ said John.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ray. ‘Kill two birds with one stone.’

  John frowned. ‘How do you work that one out?’

  ‘I told you I hate Italians,’ said Ray. ‘And that tart who upset my auntie works there.’