by Mary Contini
‘But ours tastes better.’ Emidio was indignant.
The Neapolitan shook his hand at them, three fingers joined together, an age-old gesture that accused them of not knowing what they were talking about. He walked off.
Alfonso felt ill at ease. It was better to keep quiet and act dumb. How could they survive in a city like this? These people had a different agenda. There was talk of Socialism and Liberalism; he had no idea what they were talking about. He could sense an aggression in the air, a mood of discontent.
In the inns at night the men heard talk of politicians, moderate well-off Socialists in whom the workers were losing confidence. They saw men reading free copies of a newspaper entitled Avanti, whose editor was a man called Mussolini. He called for the workers to take the initiative and stand up for themselves. Alfonso thought he might have a point. He frowned.
‘Emidio, we’d better get away from here. There’s trouble brewing by the sounds of it. Something in Torino disturbs me. The mood is unsettled. There’s work, but even more workers. There’s food aplenty, but it is so expensive you could hardly afford to live. There are trouble-makers around, Emidio. Somebody wants power, or even revolution.’
Alfonso was missing Maria and Domenico very badly but he could not allow himself to think about them. Instead, he planned how to send more money so that they could follow as soon as possible.
After two weeks they collected their wages. Almost as if the Devil himself was on their tails they pushed on over the border and set off towards Paris. They didn’t stop. They didn’t care. Something changed in their mood after they left Italy. Their bravado disappeared and they travelled as fast as they could towards Dover.
7
May 1913
They reached Calais within four days. Exhausted, they headed for the port. Two large ferries were moored at the quayside. They saw a huddle of families, and men milling around the ticket office on the pier. The official in the booth marked for ‘emigranti Italiani’ was making a big deal about whom he was allowing a passage. The next ship to Dover was at seven the following morning. Alfonso did not want to spend a day longer on French soil.
He joined the crowd: ‘Stay right behind me, Emidio.’
Every time a space opened out in front of him Alfonso pushed forward, his brother slipping in behind him. It was just like moving the sheep into the pen, he thought with a wry smile.
‘Documenti!’ the official was harassed.
Alfonso handed over the single sheets of parchment, passports issued to them when they had been called up to the army. In his letter from Edinburgh, Giovanni had prepared Alfonso. The ships would not carry passengers who could not prove that they had a place to go to at the other end, a secure job or a benefactor.
British immigration officers applied what they called the ‘£5 test’. Any immigrant entering the country had to possess five pounds sterling, ‘a failsafe’ to prove they would be self-sufficient and would not end up as dependants on the state. If the immigrant could not pass the test, the ship’s owners were fined and had to bring the poor soul back again. The fool who issued the ticket would most likely get the sack.
Alfonso had the five-pound note, but only one. He was eager not to let any of these ruffians in the queue behind him see his money. Emidio and he might get ambushed during the night and be left with nothing. The crowd was pushing him from behind.
‘Aih!’
He turned from the official and yelled at the crowd with his hand cupped at his mouth so that his voice carried over their heads. ‘Aaaiiihh!’
Even the ticket master looked taken aback. The crowd fell back. Instinctively Emidio turned his back to his brother and stood with his shoulders pushed back and his arms folded in front of his chest giving the impression he was a hard man or a bodyguard. The crowd took another step back.
These days the official never knew who was a big shot and who was a chancer, but he had learned to keep out of trouble. Alfonso put his hand on the counter and, looking the official straight in the eye, lifted the edge of his hand a little. There was the folded five-pound note. With pieces of crumpled paper between the folds, it looked more like a bundle of notes. The official saw it and, as he registered with a nod, Alfonso whisked it away, back down the front of his shirt.
‘Lavoriamo in proprio in Edimburgo.’ Alfonso flourished the picture of the shop with the words ‘Crolla Newhaven’ across the door and pointed out his name again on his papers. It looked as if he had his own business in Edinburgh. The official nodded. The deal was done.
The official looked Alfonso and Emidio up and down. He’d seen this type before. Dressed in filthy rags with the bravado of a magician in Turkey!
‘Second or third class?’
Alfonso put his head to one side, lifted his eyebrows and gave the official a look that made him nervous. The man rubbed the back of his neck; it was warm in the office.
‘First class, my friend, first class, if you don’t mind.’ Alfonso Crolla was not going to arrive in Britain on a third-class ticket. He pulled out the money that they had worked so hard for and gave half to the official. He watched as his brother’s and his own name were added to the passenger list, took his tickets, touched his hat in salute and turned and walked away.
Emidio had been watching a rather pretty, well-dressed Italian girl in the queue, standing with an older woman, probably her aunt, so he didn’t notice that Alfonso had gone. When the next man in the queue nudged him he looked around in a panic before he caught sight of his older brother walking away through the crowd. He bent down to pick up their packs and, overloaded with the bags, tried to push his way through the crowd.
The people in the queue laughed, relieved that there had not been an incident. He’s not as smart as his big-shot brother! They started pushing forward again behind him.
Emidio’s pride was hurt. ‘Alfonso, why did you have to buy first-class tickets? For God’s sake, that’s nearly half our money.’
‘Non ti preoccupare! Don’t worry, Emidio. You’ll see at the other end. We want to make sure we arrive in Britain with our best foot forward. La bella figura. Hai capito? Trust me. We need to pass the immigration officer in Dover with no questions asked. You don’t want to be sent back, do you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘We need to start as we mean to go on. We’ll travel first class because we, my dear brother, are heading for the top.’
‘Will we have to walk to Scotland now? It’ll take another week. My boots are worn through.’
‘We’ll see. I’ll think of something.’
They slept rough that night. Waking at first light, they set off clutching their first-class tickets and boarded the ship before the rest of the rabble. They headed straight to the washrooms where both men had a good wash and shave, changed their clothes and, by the time the rest of the passengers came on board, they had made a pretty good attempt at looking like genuine first-class ticket holders.
As the ship’s horn blew, Emidio gave a low whistle as he saw the pretty Italian girl come onto the fore deck. She was a first-class passenger as well! He slapped his brother on the back for creating such a good opportunity!
‘Bravo, Alfonso. Ci Vediamo! See ya!’ He removed his hat, smoothed his hair down, straightened his back and strolled across the wooden deck to pay his respects to the girl’s aunt and offer his services.
Alfonso went to the front of the top deck and watched the rest of the passengers filing on board. He waited as the ship’s anchor was pulled up: a loud, clanking clatter. His mood was sombre. He prayed to the Madonna.
‘Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi, peccatori, adesso e nell’ora della nostra morte, Amen.’
It was a fine, bright morning. The dazzling sunlight created intermittent flashes of light on the sea below. The ship moved steadily away from land. A rabble of people stood on the quay shouting and waving at their loved ones. Passengers were hanging over the edges of the barriers on the ship, almost as if they would jump overboard and
swim back to land. Seagulls circled expectantly in the air above, shrieking to each other. The funnel puffed dark smoke and the horn hooted two long whoops, confirming the ship’s departure.
An unexpected fear gripped Alfonso. He struck his chest. His stomach lurched with the ship as it dipped into the waves. A single seagull gave a shattering, piercing scream. It sounded as if Maria was calling, as if she was crying to him all the way from Fontitune. It was as if she didn’t want him to go. For the first time, leaving the shores of France, the enormity of what they were doing dawned on him. He struck his chest again and, as the tears spilled, he prayed again to the Madonna to protect them all.
Once the ship was under way he walked around the deck looking for his brother. He spotted him talking to the girl. He smiled, his spirits lifting. That boy would get into trouble with a woman one day.
He looked around at the passengers sharing the journey. They were mostly families, couples with one or two children, well dressed with plenty of luggage. These were the lucky ones who could afford to travel all together; perhaps they had already made their fortunes or perhaps they were just going to Britain for a holiday.
Some men were alone and looked as if they were travelling on business. They were dressed in a particular manner with tidy, well-made suits, white shirts with small wing collars, covered by tailored waistcoats and a short black tie at their necks. On their heads they wore felt hats, the rim pulled jauntily over their foreheads. Many of them had a gold chain with a watch or fob dangling between two pockets. They ran their fingers over the watch as they walked around the deck, opening it now and then to check the time, as if to emphasise their wealth and importance.
Alfonso noted all the details. This was the uniform of a businessman. He had left his shepherd’s garb at home for Pietro. When Maria saw him next he would be dressed as a businessman.
A tall, distinguished-looking man with greying hair caught his attention. He had taken a small bottle of cologne from his inside pocket, whisked out the handkerchief that decorated his top left-hand pocket and dabbed it with cologne. He patted the sweet-smelling handkerchief to his brow, signifying that he was slightly distressed. He put the handkerchief back into his pocket with a flourish, straightened the rose in his button-hole and took a turn round the deck. As he passed Alfonso, there was a lingering perfume.
‘I fancy that,’ Alfonso laughed to himself, ‘smelling of roses instead of sheep!’
It was Alfonso’s bravado and ingenuity that would be the making of him.
When Alfonso and Emidio walked off the ship they almost looked the part. They had given their de-mob army boots a good spit-and-polish and, although neither of them looked as if they had a penny to rub together, with their creased jackets and a kerchief tied at the necks of their slightly grubby shirts, there was something about them that made them stand out among the other passengers. They were taller than most. Their hats were placed jauntily on their heads, the rims turned down over one eye. Emidio had the pretty Italian girl on his arm as he offered to help her down the gangplank and Alfonso had given twenty cents to a porter to carry their packs, giving the impression that they must have some money.
With heads held high, the Crolla brothers from Fontitune stepped onto British soil.
The immigration officer in the hall was impressed with Alfonso’s papers. Not only was Alfonso coming to work in his well-established eponymous business, he had the means to support his brother as well. These were the kind of immigrants that Britain needed. He stamped their passports and wished them ‘good luck, boys!’ before turning with a scowl to the rabble behind.
The men walked out of the customs hall, and as soon as they were round the corner out of sight they hugged each other, slapped each other on the back and laughed. They’d done it! They’d arrived in Great Britain. What a relief! That was the first hurdle out of the way.
It was a dull day on this side of the Channel, a little chilly, with a breeze coming off the ocean. They walked away from the port and up what looked like the main street into the town centre. They wondered what they would do next. The signs were all in English. They understood only a smattering of words between them. They looked around. Nothing was familiar.
All of a sudden they felt foreign. They definitely looked foreign. Their skin was darker, they were rough looking and, to be frank, they probably stank. Their exuberance at landing on British soil was starting to wane. They were hungry and had no British money except for the precious five-pound note.
Just as they were starting to lose confidence, Emidio nudged his brother and started to laugh. On their left at the bend in the road was an ice cream shop, an Italian ice cream shop!
‘Dio mio, Alfonso! Siamo ancora in Italia!’
They roared with laughter, so much so that the owner came out to see what the commotion was. A rotund, ruddy-faced man with an extraordinarily wide moustache and a spotless white apron that covered his ample belly from his armpits down to the ground, he didn’t look surprised to see them.
Every day brought more Italian hopefuls off the boat. He had seen them all: Neapolitans, Sicilians, Toscani from Barga, Emiliani from Parma, Piemontesi from Borgotaro, Abruzzesi, Romans … It was as if half the population of Italy had passed this way over the last ten years. He and his brother had been here over twelve years, among the first immigrants to arrive. They had established a good business, converting a butcher’s shop into a French and Italian café. What he didn’t want was any more of his compatriots setting up stall on his patch. He had made it his business to watch who was coming in off the boats and make sure they weren’t tempted to stay. Sometimes he gave the poor blighters a cup of tea and, if he felt sorry for them, some help towards their fare to London. It was an investment to get them out of the way.
When he heard their accent he knew these two were from south of Rome. He called them over. They looked like a personable pair and, anyway, he liked to know what was going on.
‘Ciao, ragazzi! Dove andate?’
‘Edimburgo, amico.’
As soon as he realised they had no intention of staying in Dover he asked them if they would like to take a table in his café. He gave them a plate of soup and some bread, the first food they had eaten in Britain. The cup of tea he gave them was very strange, quite bitter and not as powerful as the coffee they were used to, but fairly pleasing all the same. He accepted their francs in payment and once they had finished he talked to them. His family name was Mangilli.
His brother came out from the kitchen and shook their hands.
‘We’ve seen lots of people from your part of Italy passing through Dover. They’re mostly in London and Manchester now. And Glasgow as well, but usually those poeple come in at Liverpool on the west coast. Go to King’s Cross rail station in London, take the train for Aberdeen and get off at Edinburgh Waverley Station. You’ll be in Scotland by the morning if you’re lucky. Buona fortuna!’
‘I’m sending for my wife in a couple of months,’ Alfonso said. ‘I’ll tell her to come to see you. Will you watch out for her? Maria Crolla. She’ll be travelling with a friend and my baby son.’
‘Sure. Sure. It will be my pleasure to look after her.’ These lads thought they were pioneers. There had been thousands before them, the same story. How could he recognise this lad’s wife from yesterday’s or tomorrow’s?
Anyway, they hugged each other and parted company as good friends. No doubt Alfonso and Emidio would see the Mangilli brothers again when they went back to Italy after they had made their fortunes.
‘They’ve got it made,’ said Emidio, full of admiration. ‘They’ve found a great place to live. I’ll bet they keep an eye out for all the Italians moving in and out of Britain. And they’re closer to the boat home! Lucky so-and-sos!’
‘Good luck to them!’ Alfonso said. ‘That’s a good idea for us, Emidio. We should find a way of helping the Italians that come behind us. Once we understand English we can help them. Look at those chaps; they have the whole town sewn up!’
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br /> The men left in good spirits, with a full stomach and two new friends. They waited at the side of the road and hitched a lift on the back of a horse and cart that was on its way to London.
King’s Cross was a hive of activity, thronging with people and thoroughly confusing. The passengers, mainly men with bowler hats and severe pin-striped suits, had umbrellas swinging at their arms, much to the amusement of the two men; it had warmed up to be a dry sunny day.
Everyone was intent on getting to their train before everyone else. Well-dressed women, with maids looking after their well-dressed children, stood with boxes and parcels, more possessions than Emidio and Alfonso had ever owned in their whole lives. The noise was incredible. There were women sitting at stalls selling fruit, calling out with a comical accent, and newspaper boys screaming at the tops of their voices. Tall serious policemen with high navy hats and black rubber sticks walked around in pairs, eyeing everyone up and down and not missing a trick, chasing beggars away and politely greeting pretty girls who wanted to know where their train platform was.
Alfonso stood against the gate of what looked like the post office and waited. He had an idea that if they could find someone who could speak Italian they might be lucky. After an hour or so he saw an Italian-looking porter who was sorting out heavy sacks. Before long, Alfonso had managed to persuade the Neapolitan that he and Emidio would do all the work if he would help them stow away on the train. They worked for four hours loading mail sacks onto wagon after wagon and then, when they were beginning to think they had been conned, the porter came up to them and, thrusting some pieces of bread and jam into their hands, shoved the two men behind a pile of sacks inside a wagon, told them the train didn’t stop until Edinburgh and slammed the wagon door shut.