‘They will not be angry, to have to give money to us?’
‘They will not have to give. They will give freely. They will want to give.’
‘I have not known such soldiers before,’ she said. ‘They will be blessed.’
‘That will be useful,’ said Craddock with a touch of mockery. ‘They will need your blessings one fine day.’
He did not know what impulse of cruelty had made him answer thus, and he waited for her reply. She did not speak. He lay back on the pillow, unable to face her sombre, steadfast gaze. There were points of light in her shadowed eyes that might have been pain or pity. ‘Sleep now,’ she said gently. ‘Sleep.’
§§§§
Wally Fooks was in a bar on the waterfront when the Messerschmitts flew over the town. He heard the thin, uneven engine beat, drained his glass of vermouth and said to two sappers who were sitting at another table, ‘I’ll lay yer a quid that’s Jerry, tosh.’
‘Ah,’ said one of the sappers thoughtfully, ‘it’s ’im all right.’
‘He wants to get shagged,’ said the other soldier, ‘muckin’ up a nice quiet gaff like this. Here!’ He waved to the barman. ‘Another vermutty, capeesh?’
Anti-aircraft shells coughed in the sky and the civilians in the bar realized for the first time what was happening. A couple vanished into the street; the rest crowded in the doorway in a state of agitation. There was an increasing clatter of footsteps in the street.
The ripping, thudding sound of gunfire was continuous. The din of footsteps on the pavements grew. Shouts echoed between the tall buildings. One of the men in the doorway shouted, ‘Al ricovero!’ and bolted. The barman rushed to the door, looked apprehensively at the soldiers, took a few hesitant paces back towards the counter and halted in indecision.
A battery on the docks opened fire with an ear-splitting series of detonations. The whole room rocked. There was another scream of ‘Al ricovero!’ and everyone but the barman and the soldiers poured out into the street and joined in the stampede.
‘They say them shells cost fifty quid each,’ mused one of the sappers.
‘What’s this ricovero lark they’re shoutin’ about?’ asked Fooks.
‘Al ricovero – to the shelter,’ the sapper explained. ‘Listen to ’em!’ The frantic voices of men and women could be heard amid the uproar in the street, ‘Al ricovero!’ ‘Al ricovero!’
‘F— a duck!’ exclaimed Wally Fooks. ‘What we waiting for?’
He jumped to his feet and shouted, ‘Al ricovero! Al ricovero!’
‘Ol’ bleed’n’ windy all of a sudden,’ said one of the sappers in disgust.
‘Oo’s windy?’ shouted Fooks. ‘Al ricovero! Al ricovero!’ He seized the bewildered barman by the arm and hustled him towards the door. The barman, more out of confusion than courage, resisted. ‘Al ricovero!’ Fooks put his mouth to the barman’s car and bellowed, ‘Bang! Bang!’ He forced the trembling Italian out through the doorway, ‘Come on mate, quick! Bang! Bang! Al ricovero!’
Fooks and the barman rushed away along the street. Fooks stopped, and watched his companion, caught up in the panic, borne away in the streaming, heaving, human surge. He pushed his way back to the bar. ‘Al ricovero!’ he roared from the doorway. ‘Ol’ rags and lumber! Apples a pahnd pears! Star, News an’ Standard!’ He urged the mob on with heroic gestures. ‘Come on, the Spurs! Chamberlain Must Go! Al ricovero!’
He crossed to the bar counter, selected a bottle of vermouth, and filled three glasses. ‘The ol’ ’elpin’ ’and,’ he explained. ‘One good deed every day. They learn you that in the Boy Scouts.’ He leaned over the cash register and pressed keys. A bell rang and the drawer flew open. ‘Jus’ like the ol’ pin table, eh?’ He held up a handful of lire notes. ‘The ol’ ’elpin’ ’and. See what I mean? The Lord Will Reward.’ He counted the notes. ‘Three thousand, one ’undred, two ’undred – four ’undred an’ sixty. Talk about a one-’orse joint! Never mind!’ He found a bottle of brandy and presented it ceremoniously to the sappers. ‘Compliments of Littlewoods Pools. You don’t deserve it, you dozy sods. Proper bloody sappers, no initiative. I’m orf now. Ta-ta.’ He paused on his way out. ‘If I was you blokes, I’d skedaddle before the ol’ geezer comes back. God looks after the righteous, but ’e’s got no time for mugs.’
There was a crowd of soldiers in the courtyard when Wally Fooks arrived back at the billet. Sergeant Craddock was talking.
‘What’s up?’ Fooks asked a man on the fringe of the group.
‘Bloody collection for that Eyetie kid that died,’ the man explained. ‘We’ve got about twenty-six hundred lire. The sergeant’s trying to get it up to a round three thousand.’
The sergeant, who had noticed him, called, ‘How about it, Fooksy? You haven’t given anything yet.’
Fooks fumbled with the notes in his pocket. His vainglory took hold of him, and he passed up four five-hundred lire notes. ‘Joe ’unt,’ he mourned, ‘that’s me. Softest ’eart in Shadwell. Always good for a touch.’
‘Two thousand!’ the sergeant exclaimed. ‘You been gambling again?’
‘Garn!’ said Fooks. ‘Chickenfeed. Don’t you know me? You wanna look me up in “Oo’s Oo”. Baron Fooks of Mile End, the millionaire docker. Made ’is fortune out o’ Navigation Wharf an’ the Stepney Labour Exchange. Noted philamfrerpist. Family motta, “Spit in yer beer an’ no one’ll drink it.” ’Obbies, polo, solo an’ crumpet. Anyway,’ he added, as much to console himself as to impress his comrades, ‘there’s plenty more where that come from. It’s all done by mirrors.’
Chapter Thirteen
THERE were many funerals to be seen in the town in these days, little groups of red-eyed men and women straggling through the streets carrying coffins that were as crude as packing-cases; few of the processions were as long as that which formed up in the Via dei Martiri to accompany Rico, the dead boy, to his grave. Some of the soldiers were there, and all of the civilians except for Francesca and her man, who held themselves unaccountably aloof and who watched from their doorstep without heeding the hostile glances and comments that were flung in their direction.
The mumbling of the crowd had the tone and rhythm of a chanted chorus. From out of it there rose a cry from the mother, a cat’s wail that faded away into breathless little screams. An old man took up the shafts of the hearse – a little handbarrow with a canopy supported by spiral columns, painted and ornate as a hokey-pokey cart – and began to trudge along in the roadway like a tired horse. In front of the hearse a nun led a troop of little children. Some of them were proud, some looked mischievous, some self-conscious, some unnaturally solemn, but although they told their beads and chanted ave marias like multiplication tables, it was clear that all of them had given up trying to understand what connection their vanished friend Rico had with the little box on the hearse. Behind the hearse two women supported the mother, who panted noisily as she dragged her feet over the cobblestones. The neighbours shuffled behind, a bobbing procession of black in the sunlight. Their heads were bowed and they frowned fiercely as if each was pondering on the problem of mortality, but the reverent murmuring and the funereal pace could not conceal the pride, even the shameful pleasure that the occasion gave them. With sorrow there are no half measures. Real grief cannot be put on like a garment. Those who are not felled by it are passed by. The people wore the clothes appropriate to the event, they composed their faces into the expressions proper to the event, and they commanded themselves inwardly to feel as they ought; but all three actions made them equally uncomfortable. To them this was a day apart from the lifelong succession of dreary, ordinary days. It was a day of ceremony; and they loved, they needed ceremony; throughout their lives they looked forward to it; it was a fire to light their darkness. It was a day of importance when they, the humble, the disregarded, trod the streets in solemn procession while the well-dressed people on the pavements looked at them with dread and respect. It was a day when they walked, without anxiety, in the sun. Their hearts w
ere heavy for the mother; she still bore the burden of life which they all knew, and for her the burden had become even heavier; but, when they had overcome the first impulse of terror for themselves with which the death had struck them, they forgot the child. Among these people, death was the least of misfortunes.
§§§§
Paloma and Tina di Spirito were walking together. They talked in sidelong whispers.
‘I do not know how you can walk so far in those high heels,’ said Tina.
‘It is easy when one carries the body gracefully.’
‘I have never worn such shoes. I would fall over if I tried to wear them. Perhaps one day you will let me try them on, just for a little while?’
‘You would not be able to wear these shoes.’
‘Why not? I am not fat like you.’
‘I know you are not fat, shrivelled one. Nor am I fat, but strong-bodied. You are smaller than me, but your feet are bigger. My legs are not thin, to disgust men, but my feet are small and beautiful. Many people have seen them, and can tell you.’
‘Many men!’
‘I am not ashamed that men admire me.’
It is not because of your feet that they give you shoes!’
‘Your eyes are too big, Tina, and also your tongue!’
‘I would not wear, at the funeral of an innocent child, shoes and a dress that I had bought with my body!’
‘Ha! You have nothing to sell!’
‘No? Let me tell you that many soldiers have come to my door, but I have never opened it to them. I have my virtue, and I do not sell it.’
‘I sell nothing. I ask nothing of men but pleasure. I cannot help it if they bring me gifts to show their love. I live as you others fear to live!’
‘You ought to live in a house!’
‘Do not call me a whore!’
‘The truth hurts?’
‘Malignant one!’
‘Stinking one!’
There were indignant whispers from behind them. They lowered their heads and held handkerchiefs to their eyes, two mourners walking in silence and sorrow.
§§§§
The mother’s head hung as if her neck had been broken, and although her feet, beneath her long black skirts, crept in agony over the cobbles, her body was a dead weight on the arms of her companions.
‘He was so good,’ she moaned, ‘so gentle, so young. His smile was as fresh as the dawn over the sea and his laugh was as sweet and as delicate as the little goat-bells. His heart was full of love for his mother. Always he wanted to help. He was without sin, a saint, an angel.’
Her head lolled back and she raised her swollen eyelids like a blind woman whom the sun’s glare could not hurt. ‘For whose sins was he taken? For whose sins do I suffer? For whose sins did the storm arise and drown my husband in the sea? What have I done that all my children should die? Lord, why did you strike them down with fever, with hunger and with war?
‘He was my last born, my last hope. Who will care for me when I am sick? To whose house shall I creep when I am old and helpless? Why has God left me alone in this evil world?
‘Who sins, and who is punished? All my life I have been a pious woman, and my children were good children. I see the wicked flourish, I see them gather riches, I see them drive the poor from their path, I see them take the good food from the mouths of our children, but I see them flourish, I see them laugh, I see their children dance and sing. The innocent are punished for their innocence. The suffering are punished for their suffering. From we who have little, all is taken away.’
She uttered a long, trembling cry, and raised herself on the arms of her companions. ‘The Lord is good! The Lord has taken them from this dolorous life! May the Lord in His mercy take me, too!’
Her body sagged again, and her neighbours dragged her along, behind the hearse, as if to her own grave.
§§§§
Nella whispered, ‘That Francesca! Did you see her?’
‘Be quiet!’ muttered Graziella.
‘But did you see her?’
‘Do not look so sprightly. Walk more slowly. This is a funeral, not a wedding.’
‘You walk like a bride yourself. All the time you walk like a bride, not only today. You are happy, aren’t you?’
‘This is not the time to talk of such things. Be quiet!’
‘She did not even come across the road. She is afraid even to stir out of the house with that man of hers. That man, I am sure he is a thief, or a murderer. He is afraid of people. Honest men are not afraid of people.’
‘She has good reason.’
‘Why?’
‘I tell you, she has good reason. I have spoken with her. Now be quiet!’
But why? What has she told you?’
‘Walk with respect. Everyone is looking at you.’
‘Tell me!’
Graziella frowned and walked on in silence.
‘Now you have secrets. Before, we did not keep secrets from each other. All right, you are not the only one who can have secrets.’ She said, self-consciously, in English, ‘Mum’s the word, gel.’
‘What is that?’
‘That is English. You are not the only one who learns English words.’
‘Where are you learning these words?’
‘That is my business. I know more words.’
‘I have told you to keep away from the soldiers. If I find that you are going with the soldiers…’ the anxiety faded from Graziella’s voice, and she smiled. ‘It is that boy, isn’t it, that Tiger?’
‘That one!’ Nella laughed, a harsh, woman’s laugh. ‘He is enamoured of me, I know that. He trots about after me, and he looks at me like a sick dog. But that one is not for a woman. He put his hand on my breast once, and he ran away as if I had burned him.’
‘Listen to the woman talking! Well, play with your Tiger. With him you will come to no harm. Pippo watches him.’
‘Pippo had better watch well, then.’
‘Watch yourself, child. For the love of God, be careful, and think of the future.’
‘What future?’
‘Your future. How will you ever find a husband if you are not a good girl?’
‘Why do you not think of your own future?’
‘Of that I dare not think. I do not know what will become of me. What is already done is done. God will deal with me, and I am content to leave it to Him, without thinking any more. It is not kind of you to remind me. But with a girl who has not yet begun to suffer, it is different. I see girls every day who have been foolish with soldiers, and there are many others, many, many, who have to lead that life for bread. Poor things, it is not their fault, they are driven to live thus by the hunger of their families. While the English are here it is not so bad for them, but what will happen to them when our men come back? No man will take one of them for a wife. They will have to lead bad lives till they die.’
‘Their lives will be no worse than those of other women. I do not intend to live like them, and I do not intend to marry here and be a slave for the rest of my life. I shall go to England.’
‘Ha! Shall I laugh or weep for you?’
‘You can laugh if it pleases you. What you do not know, you do not know! I am young and beautiful, and I shall marry an Englishman and go away from here, and live a free and wonderful life, with a big house, and money, and a motor car, and dancing.’
‘Dear child, how you dream! In your house, when your mother talks to you, you dream. In bed, you dream. Every night you sit on a bench at the cinema and dream. You walk in the streets dreaming. Well, if that is your dream, enjoy it. Every woman has her dreams to sustain her. I would not rob you of yours. But keep your dreams in their place or they will break your heart.’
Nella walked on in silence, letting her dreams take possession of her. She knew them for fantasies. He had offered her no promises or encouragement. He used her briefly and cruelly, and sent her away from him each time as if he were dismissing one of his own soldiers. Each time she would get out of the
truck; he would grin at her, say curtly, ‘Same time, same place, tomorrow,’ and would drive off without any farewell gesture; and she would stand looking after him, her hands clasped behind her back, her feet crossed childishly, her head inclined and her eyes alight with secret thoughts. She forbade herself to recognize the truth. He was so big and handsome, he had chosen her out of all the women in this city, she did so much to please him, he was a man from those magic lands which a hundred films had revealed to her. She saw the future as if on a flickering screen in the smoke-filled darkness of a cinema; he was struggling with himself, that was why he was so brusque – it was an old story – and on the eve of parting he would surrender to his love, he would come to her and confess, he would carry her away.
Triumph uplifted her. She acted inwardly the scene when she received his homage. She could no longer see the hearse behind which she walked, nor feel the cobbles beneath her feet.
§§§§
Rosario nudged Craddock. ‘You believe in this nonsense?’
‘No. I have buried too many friends without all this.’
‘Then why did you encourage it? It was you and your soldiers who paid for the funeral, it was your men who paid to have candles burned in every church in the town, even in the cathedral, and to have masses sung everywhere. Such a funeral is for a prince, not for a brat from the docks. It was very good of your men. But why did you trouble yourselves?’
‘One does these things for the living. There is the mother. And there are the two children in hospital. Most of the money we collected we are using to send them toys and food, to help them get well. We even bought Aldo a puppy and persuaded the people at the hospital to let it stay there with him. He will make friends with it, and it will not be so bad for him when he realizes that Vittorio is dead.’
‘I admire you. Yet I think it is a waste of time. Everything you do, including your war, is a waste of time.’
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