by Mary Contini
‘This is Stocks, which sells stationery, and then we are nearly home.’
They stopped outside a wooden door.
‘Down there is the post office and a drinking place called Pearce’s. It sells beer and a drink called whisky. Never go in there, Maria, hai capito? Only puttane go in there.’
Maria blushed at her husband using such a word to describe women. She would never have gone into the bar in Picinisco. She would never even have spoken to Alfonso if he was sitting outside the bar with his friends. She could imagine what kind of women would go into a place that sells beer.
‘Alfonso, there are so many shops! Where are the fields where you keep the goats for the milk?’
‘We won’t keep goats and sheep. We’ll buy our milk and our food. Look down there, across the road, at the corner. That’s the dairy where we’ll get milk. There are shops further down selling meat and fish and everything you’ll need.
‘But where will we get money?’
‘Non ti preoccupare. Non ti preoccupare. You’ll see, it will be all right. I have work and I help Giovanni. Remember, if things get tough,’ he winked at Emidio, ‘I can always be a gigolo and dance with the girls in the ballroom.’
‘No you won’t, Alfonso Crolla!’
He roared with laughter. ‘Now look, here we are. Your new home. Diciannove, Nineteen, Elm Row, Edimburgo!’
In front of Maria were two arched windows; faint glimmers of light could be seen inside. In the window was a display of jars of coloured boilings and sweets, and a pile of purple foiled boxes. There were tin boxes of red, silver and gold with pictures of cone-shaped biscuits with white ice cream painted on top.
‘This is Giovanni’s shop, Maria. What do you think? We’ll have our own shop like this one day.’
In truth, Maria didn’t know what to think. She had seen a castle and gardens, a cathedral and a dance hall. She had seen shops selling glamorous clothes and a man climbing a ladder to light a lamp with a flame. She had seen a shop that sells medicine and a bar that loose women go into.
She had seen trams and carriages pulled by horses, and children dressed like princes and princesses with beautiful mothers who had servants to hold their children’s hands. She’d even seen a lady walking with a dog on a lead!
Most alarming of all to Maria was the number of houses she had seen, one piled high on top of the next, again and again, higher and higher. How many families lived on top of each other? How many people lived in this city?
Emidio opened the shop door and showed her into a high-ceilinged, long, narrow room. A wooden counter ran along the right-hand side. A cabinet behind the counter was filled with blue and white packets of cigarettes. Lining the walls were endless shelves, packed with bottles of sweets and chocolates, in different vibrant colours, stretching higher than you could reach. As she looked up into the gloom it seemed as if there was no ceiling at all.
Giovanni came hurrying out from a door at the back of the shop, wiping his hands on his white apron.
‘You’ve arrived! Siete arrivati! Bravi!’
He came forward with his arms stretched out and welcomed Maria with a warm embrace and kisses on both cheeks.
‘Brava, Maria. Bellezza!’
He was about twenty-eight, older than Alfonso. His face was narrower and longer than his brother’s, his brown eyes edged with fine, smile wrinkles. He was a good-looking, strong man. His broad smile and warm welcome made Maria feel instantly comfortable with him. He looked very like his brothers with his dark curling moustache.
He hugged her and kissed her again, and in a torrent of questions and chatter asked her about the journey, about the baby and all about the family back in Fontitune.
‘Are you OK? Come ti senti? Let me see the baby. Oh, he’s lovely. Congratulations. Auguri, auguri. Come through, come through.’
They went through to the back of the shop, a small dark space with a sink, a table and a small fire. Above the fire, a pot of soup was hanging from a chain. Giovanni’s wife, Preziosa, a comely, well-built woman, came forward, her turn now to kiss and hug Maria. She took Maria’s shawl from her and sat her down.
Preziosa had four children, aged seven, six, five and four. Two were asleep; the older ones hung near their mother, looking at the stranger suspiciously.
Preziosa took Domenico from Maria and offered to wash him and change his clothes. He had hardly been washed during the whole journey. She had some fresh clothes ready for him. He didn’t object to being soothed in the warm water in the sink. There were a couple of gas lights creating a glimmer in the gloom of the room and the heat from the fire made it quite cosy, though very smoky and stuffy. The bare floor was covered in sawdust.
‘Alfonso, fetch the pacco, please. I’ve brought a gift from Tadon Michele.’
It was important to Maria to offer a gift to this family who were welcoming her. Apart from a change of clothes for the baby and the three pairs of sheets that made up her dowry, she had nothing but the clothes she stood up in.
Alfonso put the small parcel on the table and opened the cloth that bound it together. The small room filled with the strong odour of sausages and cheese. They stood over the parcel expectantly as Alfonso pulled everything out. How wonderful to have some pecorino and salsiccie from Fontitune!
Giovanni put five small glasses and a flask of wine on the table. His wife brought out a large dark loaf of bread, sliced it and shared it among them all. Alfonso took a sharp knife and cut through the pale-skinned pecorino; it was creamy and moist inside. He sliced it into pieces and handed a piece on the edge of the knife, first to Giovanni, then to Preziosa, then to Emidio, the children and finally to Maria.
Giovanni smelled it, looked at its creamy, moist texture and tasted it. He savoured the flavour, full and rich in his mouth. A flavour he hadn’t tasted for years.
‘Come è buono! It is so good!’
He poured the wine into each tumbler and lifted his own, signalling to the others to do the same.
They were silent. The moment was as powerful as the consecration during the Holy Mass. Sharing the food from Fontitune, with Alfonso’s wife and baby safely here, was a blessing. Nostalgia, longing and a deep sadness welled up within them all. It was good to be here, good to be together, to have arrived safely, but at the same time it was heartbreaking not to be with their family at home. La lontananza, the feeling of separation, overwhelmed Maria.
Giovanni lifted his glass. ‘To our families in Italy. Dio gli Benedica!’
In the years to come Maria reflected on that moment many times. It was as if a bridge had been crossed, as if, when they had shared the bread and wine, they had turned their backs on their families and their country.
Maria shivered. She had nursed Domenico and changed his napkin and he had fallen asleep on her lap.
Alfonso was the first to make a move.
‘Andiamo!’
Maria stood up. She wondered where they would sleep. She thought they might have rooms above the shop. She said goodnight to everyone and thanked them for their hospitality.
Alfonso took a candle and led her, with the baby in her arms, towards a door in the corner.
‘Be careful, Maria, it’s a bit steep.’
He took her hand and led her down a narrow wooden staircase, down, down into a stone cellar. The candle flickered in the dark. Her senses were assaulted with a smell of stale, damp air and acrid smoke. In the dark she put her hand out and felt a cold stone wall. Dry sandstone crumbled onto the ground as she leaned against it. Alfonso took her along a narrow corridor and into a small dark room. He put the candle on a wooden table. There was one gas lamp, which gave off a dim light.
She could just make out a straw mattress on the floor, and a chipped chamber pot beside it. On a wooden chest against the wall were a wash bowl and a white tin jug. Above the chest hung a printed picture of Sant’Antonio Abate, the only familiar thing in the room. She noticed a small window at the top of the wall with a scrap of net curtain across it. There was
a string hanging between two nails with some pieces of Alfonso’s clothes draped over it.
She sank down on the mattress, exhausted.
‘Maria. Mi dispiace, carissima. This is not much, but it’s the best I can do.’ Alfonso crouched down on the mattress and put his arms around his wife and son. He kissed her. She felt tears on his cheeks.
‘I’m sorry, my darling, I’m sorry.’
Maria could not bear to see him cry. What fault was it of his that they had nothing. Thank God they were together. Thank God the baby was well. She held his face in her hands. She started to kiss him, his lips and his cheeks. She kissed his eyes gently, each wet with tears. She held him to her and consoled him. At least they were together. She could cope with anything if they were together.
‘I love you. Alfonso, carissimo, ti amo. Don’t cry. Don’t blame yourself. This is only the beginning. This is only the start. It will be better, you’ll see. It will be far better. As long as we are together we can make it better.’
For the first time in her life she felt she had to be the stronger of the two. Alfonso was so full of enthusiasm and ideas, so eager to get ahead. She was shocked to see him despondent. She had never seen him like this.
They clung together and in the dark cold room in the cellar of a shop in Edinburgh they made love. She fell asleep with their baby at her breast and a rough blanket draped over them. Her first night in Edinburgh turned out to be beautiful after all.
9
The next day Maria woke to the sound of rain crashing against the window. She was chilled through from a draught whistling under the door. Alfonso had gone out at first light and now the baby needed seeing to. She nursed Domenico and then tried to tidy herself. She washed her face and hands in the cold water in the basin and pinned up her long dark hair. She tried to smooth her clothes but was ashamed of the state of them. She lifted her baby, left the room and went down a long dark passage leading to a dimly lit room at the back.
‘Permesso?’
Preziosa was waiting for her and called her through. ‘Vieni, vieni.’
They were in the stone cellar underneath the front of the shop. There was no window; two gas fittings gave out a faint light. A large fire burned in a hearth set into the farthest away wall. Maria looked around. This was the living and sleeping room for Giovanni, his wife and four children.
There was a further cellar in the far corner that was half the height of the room. A trap door in its ceiling was used to deliver cases and boxes from the street at the front of the shop directly into the cellar. In the corner of this low space was a cupboard with a toilet and a low earthenware sink.
‘Come in my dear.’
The two oldest children were upstairs in the shop doing chores for their father. The younger ones kissed their aunt and sat on the floor to play with Domenico.
Preziosa invited Maria to sit at the square wooden table in the centre of the room. She pulled a kettle from the fire and poured boiling water over some ground coffee in a pot. A glorious smell of warm coffee filled the room. She poured Maria a hot drink in a tin mug and offered her some dark bread and cheese.
‘Give Domenico a crust of bread, he will be teething soon.’ She pointed to a tin bath under the table. ‘I’m heating some water for you. After you’ve eaten I’ll let you wash. The men are away to the market and won’t be back for an hour or so. Do you have clean clothes, cara?’
‘Only the clothes I’m wearing.’
Maria was uncomfortable. She had travelled in her best outfit, which now looked bedraggled and dirty. She had left her few other clothes for her sister in Italy. She wore wool stockings and two warm shawls, worn on top of each other because she had been so cold. She had nothing else.
‘Non ti preoccupare. Don’t worry. We’re all poor here; è la vita. I have some things you can wear and we’ll wash all your clothes. When Alfonso comes back he won’t recognise you.’
Preziosa took some clothes from a chest and pulled out the tin bath, filling it with hot water. She helped Maria to wash. The clothes were plain but more like those Maria had seen the women wearing in the street: a long dark skirt and a high-necked blouse with a little pattern of roses on it.
As Maria dressed herself, Preziosa pottered around preparing some vegetables to make soup which she added to the pot hanging over the fire. She chatted away, in the dialect of the village, glad of another woman to speak to.
‘This shop used to be a bakery. We’re lucky, there’s an oven in the wall here. When I have wood I light a fire in it and make bread and pastone. Look,’ she pointed to a mound covered by a clean cloth on the table. ‘I have some dough rising, I’ll bake it later. Alfonso works for two Italian families and in the afternoons he takes his turn in the shop. He has been working really hard and has saved up some money already. You mustn’t worry too much; if you work hard you can make a good living here and get on.’
When the men returned, Maria was happy to greet Alfonso now that she was tidied and clean.
‘Belezza! You look lovely, cara, just like a Scottish girl!’
‘Hardly!’ Emidio snorted. Maria looked stunningly Italian, exotic and beautiful. She had colour on her face from the sun. The others had a pallid look; her complexion was bronzed and healthy.
‘I doubt if any Scottish man would say that.’
The shop had closed for lunch. They all sat together round the table: Giovanni, his wife and four children, Emidio, Alfonso and his wife and son; ten mouths to feed. They ate hot cabbage soup and the warm bread from the oven, its appetising aroma masking the damp, dull smell of the cellar.
Domenico sat contentedly on his father’s knee, fascinated by his black moustache.
Alfonso worked behind the counter in the afternoon. Preziosa took Maria out to buy some milk and provisions. Milk was cheaper in the afternoon, before the second delivery arrived. Preziosa always bought hers then. It was overcast outside and, although the rain had stopped, there was a biting wind that cut through Maria’s shawl. She tightened her shoulders to protect the baby.
Preziosa couldn’t speak much English. Maria was impressed by the way she managed to point her finger to show the shopkeepers the vegetables she needed or the cut of beef that she liked. Maria was fascinated by the strange coins. She noticed that Preziosa checked her money carefully, counting out the pennies and checking her change.
It started to rain again. They ran quickly back to the shop but were soaking wet by the time they reached it, and chilled to the bone. Maria’s hands were freezing and her feet were soaked through. Her skirts were all muddied and her hair was wet. She felt overwhelmed. As soon as they were back indoors she excused herself and went down to the room that she had slept in the night before.
She didn’t know how to light the gas lamp so she just sat on the mattress shivering. ‘What has Alfonso done, bringing us here? God help us.’ She lost all courage as she thought of the warmth of the sun and the beauty of the valley around Fontitune and was overwhelmed with a wave of homesickness. Completely distraught, she sat weeping.
Later on Alfonso found her asleep with the baby. She didn’t tell him how frightened she was feeling. She tried to be brave. She couldn’t let him down. She had told him last night it would get better.
And, bit by bit, it did.
In time, life settled into a bearable pattern. Mornings were spent preparing food, shopping for provisions and washing clothes. The women always seemed to be washing clothes.
Alfonso and Maria wanted to save every penny, so their meals consisted mostly of thick soups and pastas, vegetables and bread. Preparing food for them all gave Maria her greatest pleasure. This was one way she could help and make this feel like home. She learned to visit the shops at the right times of the week to get the best bargains. She couldn’t find everything she was used to, especially the herbs and spices she had dried from the hills, but she made the food she knew with the ingredients she could find.
At the back of the cellar was a door with a few steps up to a sma
ll garden. Maria persuaded Alfonso to get a few hens. At least this way they could have fresh eggs and a pot of chicken soup from time to time. She noticed some of the Scottish women also kept hens. In the spring they might get a small pig and keep it, as they had in Fontitune.
‘Now Maria, you’ll have to buy some clothes.’ Alfonso gave her one pound, and Preziosa took her down to the foot of Leith Walk. Joseph Hepworth and Sons was a large corner shop that sold most items of clothing. They bought two blouses, a pair of sturdy boots and some dark woollen material that Maria could use to make two skirts.
On the way home they passed Mrs Gibson’s Haberdashery. Preziosa stopped and showed Maria.
‘Maria, here the women wear garments under their dresses.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look, they wear tight-fitting corsets round their stomachs and garments under their skirts.’
In the window were elaborate lace corsets, nightwear and wool stockings, laid out in tidy piles.
‘Why do they do that? It looks very uncomfortable.’
‘They like to look thin at their waist so they tie themselves up.’
They laughed. At home in Fontitune, the women had never worn any underwear at all, never mind corsets.
On Wednesday afternoons the shop in Elm Row was closed; Alfonso liked to take his wife out. She particularly loved to walk down to the harbour at Newhaven; she liked the open space, away from the confines of Elm Row. The smell of the sea was invigorating. Domenico loved to watch the ferry boats, fishing boats and larger passenger ships sailing up and down the estuary and to wave to the trains crossing the Forth Railway Bridge further up the coast.
As they passed Valvona’s grocery shop at 84 Newhaven Road, Signor Valvona was standing at the door with his arms folded. His dark suit, waistcoat and fancy neck-tie gave him an air of prosperity.
‘Buon pomeriggio, Signor Valvona. Come stai?’
Alfonso had obviously met him before. Maria had noticed that Alfonso seemed to know everyone. Signor Valvona was a lot older than Alfonso. He looked established; less like an immigrant, more like a businessman.