by Mary Contini
‘Oh, we’ll do that. You can see from the girls we need plenty of soap down here!’ Marietta had been doing that for the past ten years but she didn’t want to hurt Alfonso’s pride any more than she already had.
Johnny cranked the car so that the engine would start and, with Olivia sitting in the front and the two younger girls already fast asleep in the back, Alfonso pumped his horn and drove up School Lane and on to the Edinburgh Road to drive home.
Marietta was a tough cookie. No new business for the Fascio or the bank. But, with luck, she would let the children put their names down for the Balilla. He felt it had been worthwhile, a good day out.
Alfonso felt a bit sleepy on the way home but Olivia kept up a constant chatter telling him excitedly all about the games they had played and what a lovely time they’d had at the beach. He looked over at her lovingly. What a gift from God she was, this precious child who had saved his broken heart.
When they got home an hour and a half later he drew up against the pavement and, slightly tipsy still from the red wine and the fresh air, pulled up the brake just a fraction too late and bumped his shiny new car with a thump into the pillar box on the corner!
Cesidio had been right. That night they were extra busy in the shop. Everyone came in to see if he really did have a new car. He had to send Alex running along to Marshall Street at the harbour to get young Nellie Knight to help out. Alfonso should come down more often.
19
1934
Addolorata was very excited. She had been up since five-thirty, cleaning out the grate for her mother, scrubbing the table and sorting the clothes for her younger siblings. As soon as the fire was lit, she put the kettle on to boil. She stirred the porridge oats with water and balanced the pot on the fire. She would just have time to run to the dairy to get some milk before they were all up.
When she got back, the house was like bedlam, youngsters crying, boys fighting, mother screaming ‘Madonna mia!’ in exasperation. Addolorata dumped the warm jug of milk on the table and, before her mother could ask her to do anything else, she ran into the bedroom.
By a quarter to seven she was scrubbed clean, her long raven black hair pleated and tied round her head, covered by a black woollen scarf. Her black cotton overall was nipped in at her slender waist, tied tightly with a belt. Her dark wool stockings and brown brogues made her look older than she was.
‘How do I look, ma?’
‘Let me see you. Ah, Dora, darling, you look a picture. Go on, you’d better hurry or you’ll be late. You don’t want Miss Garland to sack you on the first day.’
Addolorata always wished she had been called something else. Who would want to call their child after Our Lady of Sorrows! Perhaps it had been a prediction. Addolorata had suffered quite a bit of pain so far in her first fourteen years. But things were going to change. This was going to be the start of a new life.
As she came out of the stair, her eyes squinting in the morning sun, she ran quickly past Dirty Boab’s in case he opened his door. She hated the way he always tried to hug her when he saw her.
The Grassmarket always looked beautiful at this time of day, with the castle towering above and the dark tenement buildings lit up by the morning sunlight.
She turned left and ran along the Cowgate, crossing at St Patrick’s Church, shouting good morning to Father Mario.
‘Where are you off to so early in the morning, Dora?’
‘I’m off to work, Father. My first job. Wish me luck!’
She crossed to St John’s Hill and, catching the scent of the pungent smell of roasting coffee, she followed her nose. The wooden door of the warehouse was open. She thought it best just to go in. There were two flights of stairs in front of her. No one was around so she made her way up. At the top of the stair was a frosted glass door with a sign embossed in gold lettering.
B. Valvona & Sons
Italian Produce and Wine Merchants
Telegrams: Chianti Edinburgh
Telephone 31410
UFFICIO
Addolorata blessed herself and said a quick prayer. Now that her chance had come, she had lost all courage and stood stricken with fear at the door.
‘Who’s that? Who’s that at the door?’
Miss Garland’s Morningside accent ripped through Addolorata’s nerves like pencils on the slate at school.
‘It’s me, Miss Garland: Dora.’ She pushed the door open and, taking a deep breath, stepped into the office.
‘Addolorata, what time is this to start work on your first day? I expect all employees of Valvona & Sons to arrive at least fifteen minutes early.’ Miss Garland was mis-named. She was slender, austere and mean-spirited, thin-lipped and short-sighted with a pale washed-out complexion. Her dull brown hair was pulled severely back from her face in a tight bun. ‘Is that clear, young lady?’ she looked at Addolorata over the rim of her glasses. ‘Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Miss Garland. I’m sorry, Miss Garland.’
‘Sorry is not a word in my vocabulary. If you are going to keep your job you had better never be tempted to use the word again.’
Miss Garland, sly as she was, was well aware of this young Italian girl’s circumstances. The girl was the oldest of six children living with her widowed mother in a room and kitchen in one of the slums in the Grassmarket. Miss Garland knew that she needed the job. Her mother relied on a cleaning job, and clothes for the children came from the police fund. If she kept a tight rein on her, wee Addolorata would be a good worker. Now that Mr Valvona had opened this new warehouse the workload had almost doubled, but according to Miss Dennison, the accounts clerk, the takings hadn’t. Addolorata would earn ten shillings a week, a quarter of what a grown man would want for the same work.
When Addolorata went downstairs to the first floor she walked into paradise. To a young girl used to hunger and hardship this long narrow room, full from floor to ceiling, stacked with food and wine, looked like an Aladdin’s cave. The smell overpowered her and made her stomach lurch with hunger.
Innumerable cheeses were stacked on high shelves. Most she had never seen before: huge, golden round cheeses and small wrinkled grey ones – all pungent and sweaty. Soft white cheeses wrapped in greaseproof paper dripped milky water onto a tray underneath. Flat, round white cheese oozed a juicy cream from the cracks in its chalky rind. Addolorata found it almost impossible to resist putting her finger into it and greedily licking it.
Salamis hung from hooks in the ceiling, arranged like soldiers, the biggest ones at the back, the smaller crinkly ones at the front. Next were the prosciuttos, wrapped majestically in royal blue shiny paper and stamped with red and gold stars, to declare their superiority. Then rows of sausages – mottled, pink and cream, fat and juicy, thin and gnarled – tied together in links, shiny and appetising.
A huge pink pistachio-studded mortadella lay on a counter beside a red slicing machine. When the girl behind the counter sliced it, layering each slice like gold leaf between sheets of white paper, Addolorata nearly fainted with desire to taste it. Once she got to know the girls, they cut her a sly slice which she ate behind the coffee sacks, tapping her foot gently to stop the mice coming forward to join her.
A wide wooden counter stretched the length of the room. The front of the counter had tall, brass-lined glass windows displaying different shapes of macaroni like diamonds in a jeweller’s shop: long, thin, short, fat, ridged, smooth; tiny star-shaped pastina and broad sheets of pasta for lasagne and tortellini, little baubles stuffed with sweet pork and herbs.
Addolorata soon learned how to open the drawer for the customer, take the pasta out with white-gloved hands and weigh it before wrapping it in huge sheets of delicate white tissue paper.
The shelves stretched high, right up to the ceiling, packed with gold and red tins of tomatoes, tuna, beans and sardines. There was a section for smelly salt cod, and brown jute sacks full of dried beans and peas, prunes and dried fruits. She loved to slip these under her tongue when Miss Garla
nd wasn’t looking and suck on the sweet dried fruit.
At the far end of the store were flagons of olive oil and vinegar. The bags of chillies, pepper, fennel and coriander, as well as countless other spices, made Addolorata sneeze and her eyes water when she spent hour after hour weighing them into brown paper bags.
The wine was stacked downstairs. Addolorata was not allowed to touch the wine and was constantly reminded by Miss Garland, a staunch member of the temperance society, of the evils of drink. In her office upstairs, with her ledgers and pencils, Miss Garland struggled to avoid the foreign assault to her senses that took place every day.
As she got to know her way around, Addolorata became indispensable to Miss Garland. Mr Valvona and his son Ralph came in daily, usually around nine-thirty, dressed in suits with their bowler hats and walking sticks, looking nothing like a pair of grocers. Addolorata made them a coffee in the Neapolitan coffee maker on the stove in the office. As she spoke dialect Italian and English she had a good idea of what was going on.
Miss Dennison was not pleased with the sales figures. A tall slender woman with a thin face and sharp eyes, her demeanour betrayed a cautious nature, incongruous in such a colourful environment.
‘With all due respect, Mr Valvona, it’s all very well getting these wonderful products up from London, but the Italians here aren’t quite as well off. They are just buying the same stuff: Chianti, rigatoni and pecorino. Even the sausages are not selling so well. I think Mr Crolla is cutting into your sales when he goes round with his suitcase.’
‘Miss Dennison, don’t you worry. We have an idea how to handle Mr Crolla, haven’t we Ralph?’
Ralph was a delicate young man, mildly asthmatic, more interested in books and cars than sausages. Unusual among the Italians, he had been to university and really wanted to be a lawyer. Addolorata thought he was a snob. He could never remember her name and called her missy if he wanted her to do anything.
The warehouse was busiest at the end of the week. On Thursdays and Fridays all the deliverers arrived from Italy and London. Most of the vans stopped off at Manchester, supplying the grocery shops in Ancoats, then came on up to Edinburgh, then across to Glasgow.
The ‘Big Italians’ came in on those days as well, travelling in their new fancy cars from as far as Dundee and Fife, the Borders and East Lothian. They all had businesses of their own and, although they were Italian like her, Addolorata thought they were way above her and her likes that lived in the Grassmarket.
Some of their sons were very handsome and her mother told her to be especially nice to these young men.
‘Dora, if you marry one of them you’ll get a business of your own. How about Ralph Valvona? Do you not fancy him?’
‘Ma, I wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man on earth. I like Alfonso Crolla, though; he’s always nice to me.’
‘Don’t mix with the Crollas, Dora. They’re in the “Blackshirts” and they’re too big for the likes of us.’
Addolorata thought her mother was silly. Mr Crolla was always really nice to her. The next day when he came in with Vittorio and his three wee girls he gave her a handful of liquorice allsorts and asked her to watch the girls while he talked with Mr Valvona.
She was surprised when Miss Garland said it would be all right. She took the girls to the delivery chute and they spent a lovely hour sliding down from the open window on the first floor to the pavement below. They ran up the stairs again laughing and joking, waiting in line to slide down the chute again.
Miss Garland showed the two men upstairs to the office. Mr Valvona and Ralph stood up and shook hands with their guests.
‘Mr Crolla, thank you for coming. May I introduce you to Mr Pretsel, the company’s auditor?’
Mr Pretsel looked like an auditor, if an auditor has a look.
‘Cavaliere Crolla, Vittorio, how nice to meet you.’ They all shook hands and sat down. ‘Shall I begin? As you know, Mr Valvona has recently invested heavily in expanding his business, opening this new warehouse in this prime area of the city and he has increased his product lines to over three hundred.’
The two sons, Ralph and Vittorio, sat opposite each other, eyeing one another suspiciously.
Mr Pretsel continued. ‘I have here the copies of all the accounts over the last three years. It is apparent that the business is growing; it increased 6 per cent last year. It is clear that there is a real need for a good supply of continental produce for the Italian community in the city.’
Alfonso said nothing; his bank manager had approached him and told him that Valvona was desperate to get out of the business and that his expansion had backfired. His son Ralph was not a natural businessman. Alfonso thought he had been over-educated, which in his view made the young soft.
‘Now, I understand, Cavaliere, that you have already built up a substantial business yourself in this field, supplying direct from Italy to your relations.’
Vittorio tried not to snigger. His father’s substantial business consisted of packs of cheese and sausages from Zio Pietro sold from the back of his car.
Alfonso cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I am aware from talking to my clients, the likes of Benedetto Crolla, Donato Crolla and Marietta Di Ciacca in Cockenzie, that they prefer the quality of my authentic product. No offence, Signor Valvona.’
‘Well, that is exactly why we are talking, my friend.’ Mr Pretsel was relieved that Mr Crolla had spoken at last.
Valvona spoke up, ‘We, in the Company of B. Valvona & Sons, think that you have an intimate, more personal relationship with our mutual clients. We would like to put it to you that, in the interests of both families, it may be advantageous if we work together.’
Afterwards in the car, with the girls in the back, Alfonso discussed the meeting with Vittorio.
‘You see, Vittorio. They approached us for help. That puts them in the weaker position. They are showing us their accounts, but we show them nothing.’
‘But, Papà, you don’t have any accounts! You just get cash from Zio Benny for the salsiccie and put it in your pocket!’
‘They don’t know that. They’re jealous of us. That makes them think we’re better off than we really are. Let them think we have a big importing business. Let them think that, because we have two shops now, and maybe three if Zio Emidio doesn’t get his act together, we are not desperate. You’ve not to let them know the truth. Never let them know what you’re thinking.’
Vittorio had heard his father’s business mantra over and over again.
‘Papà, you haven’t saved any money. Mamma has saved up plenty. But you have nothing.’
‘You know that. I know that. But they don’t know that. Mamma is like Zio Giovanni, she likes to save. A good way to make money is not to spend it. But remember, Vittorio, to move forward, sometimes you have to take a risk.’
When they got back home to 8 Brunton Place, Maria was waiting. She ushered the girls in.
‘Come in girls. Go and wash your hands. The dinner has been ready for ages. Alfonso, Vittorio, where have you been? It’s after one-thirty.’
Alfonso waited till they had eaten, a thick plate of zuppa di lenticchie and a piece of fried lemon sole, before he had the courage to tell Maria what he was up to.
‘You’re going into business with Valvona! Alfonso, are you mad! Dio mio! Vittorio, in God’s name, what are you and your father up to?’
‘Mamma, don’t say “Dio”.’ Olivia was still at the table listening to everything, ready to defend her father.
‘Olivia, leave the table.’
‘Now, Maria. Calma! Calma! It makes sense. Valvona wants out. The son wants to take over but he doesn’t keep good health. We’ll buy up most of the shares but keep the name so that we get all their business. They’ve opened this wonderful new place but they aren’t doing any good selling. They are too intellectual. Loro non capiscono!’
‘Alfonso, we are just getting on our feet. With Margherita, Domenico and Vittorio all working now we’re turning a corner. You�
�re forty-seven now, you’re not a young man. Why do you want to take a risk again?’
Maria was devastated. She had transferred her savings to the Italian Bank to please Alfonso and his grand designs, and she had been pleasantly surprised to see that she had saved up nearly one and a half thousand pounds. Secretly she had been harbouring the dream that, once Margherita got married – she was twenty now – the two boys would run the shops, and she and Alfonso and the girls would go back to Italy. She would leave the boys behind. They would choose wives of their own one day, and she wasn’t keen on the idea of being a mother-in-law. But if Alfonso was going to take on another hair-brained business risk it might never happen.
Alfonso put his arm round her.
‘Maria, darling. We have to do this. It’s a big chance for Vittorio. Trust me.’
Maria went straight to the point.
‘How much have you borrowed?’
Alfonso made a fatal mistake. He told her the truth. He forgot his own rule not to let her know what he was thinking. ‘Two thousand pounds.’
‘Oh, God!’ Vittorio groaned. Now his dad had done it.
‘Right girls, let’s get out of here.’ Vittorio made a fast exit with the girls and took them down to the ice cream shop. He was keeping well out of his mother’s way while she was in this mood. They stayed away until late. Margherita gave them pie and peas for their tea and they waited till past eight o’clock before going home.
None of them liked to be in the house when Mamma was giving their father a piece of her mind. It was best to keep out of the way and let their father sweat it out.
‘Why’s Mamma upset? What’s Papà up to?’ Margherita was keen to know the details.
‘Margherita, you really need to trust Papà more. He’s taking risks now so that our future will be secure. You’ll see, the new company will be called Valvona & Crolla, but Papà says within a few years we’ll buy them out and it will just be Crolla’s. We’ll have a business that all the Italians will depend on, a business that will link us right back to Italy and pave our way home.’