‘You look…’ Pietro paused, searching for the right words. ‘As beautiful as the last time I saw you. More beautiful than Loren, more even that Bellucci.’
Loriana laughed and, despite her racing heart and light-headedness, was able to respond quickly.
‘The last time you saw me, Pietro, I was hurling my engagement ring in your face and screaming a thousand curses on your name.’
He nodded, the smile gone, absorbing the blow.
‘You look well also,’ she conceded. ‘Tired perhaps?’
‘It has been a stressful time, what with Chiara and I splitting up, Mauro is so confused. It’s hard…’
She nodded her understanding.
‘Shall we go inside?’
‘Of course. I was not anticipating a night of theatre when you suggested we meet. What a wonderful thought.’
‘I love this theatre. My father brought me here, once, many years ago.’
They went inside and were stunned by the interior. Realised in the late Renaissance style, the auditorium seated well over a thousand people and featured seven tiers rising dramatically around an inclined stage.
Throughout the performance they caught themselves glancing at one another on several occasions, reconfirming details which had been dormant in their minds for so long. At the interval they were courteous, civil, sipping wine and commenting on the spectacle.
Following the show Pietro suggested a light supper at the nearby piazza and Loriana allowed him to take her arm as they strolled in the warm night air. They chose a place called Dracena and took a table in the garden enclosed by an Italianate stone wall. There were two other couples here also, enjoying the romantic serenity offered by the charming venue. Pietro and Loriana ordered a selection of pasta and salad to share, along with a bottle of Sicilian vintage wine, and began to talk.
‘I never dared hope I would see you again Lori,’ Pietro began, his azure eyes betraying a nervousness his voice did not. ‘I admit over the years I have thought about you, imagined us together, but I did not allow myself to hope for fear of turning myself mad.’
‘I have thought about it too, but only with bitterness and anger. I was so hurt for such a long time that I could not bear to think about you, because I could only see you with Chiara. I grew cold, lonely and unhappy.’
‘I will never forgive myself for what I did that night, for the damage I caused.’
Loriana’s eyes flashed at him with venom, caught in the flicker of the candlelight.
‘I will never forgive you either Pietro. But, I will forget, in time.’
The food was brought to the table and they ate in silence, picking at the dishes without real enthusiasm or appetite, the ambience of the restaurant and quality of the food wasted on this couple.
This is how my life could have been, Loriana realised. I would have been seen out with a handsome man, we would have children, a nice home, money.
She shook her head and blinked away a tear. She had cried enough for what might have been. She would not waste more now.
‘I loved you,’ she said quietly, after the meal was finished and they had left the piazza. ‘With all my heart I loved you.’
‘I loved you too Lori, truly.’
‘I honestly believe you did,’ she replied with a smile, her voice tinged with regret. ‘And I know you must have felt pain too, for what you did, for what you lost.’
‘Why did you ask to see me Loriana? Why now? Because of Chiara? Because of my latest misadventure?’
Loriana shook her head.
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I needed confirmation, I suppose. I needed to know I was not making a mistake.’
‘A mistake?’
‘I was nervous about seeing you, anxious that I make a good impression. I spent hours getting ready to make myself beautiful for you. In fact I bought this dress earlier today.’
‘And you do look beautiful, breathtaking,’ he insisted.
‘I have had a wonderful evening, Pietro; the theatre, the restaurant, Palermo. It is everything I remembered and more and I am glad I came.’
‘You’re going home.’ Not a question but a disappointed statement.
Loriana had been careful to study Pietro’s eyes when he first saw her on the steps of the Tietro Massimo, when he saw her for the first time in so many years. She had seen surprise, of course, and regret, but then lust and desire and perhaps even the belief that he might have her again. Then she had known what she must do.
24 Mauro and Sharada visit the funfair
It was March and in Morecambe winter was reluctantly giving way to spring. It had been more than a week since Loriana had fled her house and effectively abandoned her life. She had turned up in Italy, predictably enough, and was currently staying with cousins from her father’s side of the family. As far as Mauro was concerned the whole situation was rather tedious. If his mother and Auntie didn’t get on then they should stay apart, simple as that, not fly from country to country just to fight and behave like infants; Mauro understood now why his Auntie had never been to stay.
He had to admit that, once his mother had calmed down, following a good twelve hour marathon sobbing session, interspersed with wails of guilt about how she’d destroyed her family all over again, living in Morecambe had worked out quite well. Since he and his mother were to all intents and purposes trapped here because, in Loriana’s absence somebody had to oversee the ice cream vans, the café, the indoor market and the tenants in the various properties, Mauro decided to make the most of it.
In Palermo he was typical. Being from a comfortable and, until very recently, stable background he had never wanted for anything. He wore the latest fashions, went to a good school and did relatively well in all subjects without excelling. Out of school he was a little rebellious; like all teenagers he kept as much as possible from his parents such as the fact that he drank regularly with friends, smoked too when his peers did and had slept with most of the girls in his social circle at least once.
Now, removed from his natural environment and deposited in a country where he struggled with the language and knew nobody, Mauro’s confidence was low, especially since Morecambe had so little to offer. The Indian girl he’d met at the stall, Sharada, was not at all like the girls he knew in Palermo. She was not naturally pretty, did not seem particularly fashionable in her dress or her thinking and this Mauro interpreted as confidence. Sharada evidently did not care what people thought of her, why else would she stand alone on a stall promoting some kind of political activism unless she really believed in the cause?
This individualism impressed him greatly and, as he lounged in the spa next to the pool at the rear of his Aunt’s house, he found himself thinking about Sharada and it pleased him. He wanted to see her again, know her better.
‘Mauro, darling, I have to go and collect rent from the stall-holders in the market today so you will be on your own. Do you have any plans?’
He opened his eyes and looked up from the spa.
‘No Madre, no plans. Sharada is taking me around town after lunch.’
‘Sharada?’
‘The Indian girl from the stall, I told you about her. Strange looking but cute, nice eyes.’
‘Approvazione, okay. I have to go. Goodness knows how Loriana coped with all this. I have already had tenants on the phone demanding that their central heating be fixed. How exactly am I supposed to do this? Am I to take up a wrench and do it myself?’
Chiara threw her hands in the air and left her son soaking contentedly.
* * * *
Sharada loitered restively next to the fountain opposite the library in the centre of town. She fidgeted constantly, biting her nails then chastising herself and folding her arms. She’d been in something of a state this morning, feeling unsure as to exactly what was going to happen today, and what was required of her. Since her only experience of men, of dating, of intimacy, was with Brandon, she didn’t have much knowledge to draw on and all the magazines advised was to be herself,
something which had rarely brought her success in the past.
Mauro was certainly attractive and, although he stood out a mile in Morecambe because of his Italian looks, his manner had been pleasantly unexpected; irresolute, inquiring, and Sharada had responded to the familiarity of this and agreed to show him around the town.
Therein lay the dilemma. Was their arrangement a date in the sense that their activities may lead to kissing, further dates, romance even? Or was this simply a case of a lonely, bored boy requiring a friendly face to help him get his bearings? Of course, Sharada had no idea, despite her constant analysis of their brief conversation, his expressions and gestures. It was certainly exhilarating though and she wished for a group of girlfriends to discuss it with.
This morning, she dressed and changed numerous times depending on what she thought the day might have in store for her. She applied make-up, removed it, applied some more and removed a little, until she didn’t know what to do for the best. Finally, on the verge of being late, she’d thrown on jeans and a hooded tracksuit top and dashed out of the house.
She looked up at the clock on top of the library building for the fifth time in as many minutes. Mauro was late, just a few minutes but enough to send fresh pangs of doubt racing around her system. It had been a joke, she’d misunderstood, he wasn’t coming.
‘Hi, nice top, cool.’
Suddenly there he was, Mauro, fashionably dressed and fashionably late. Sharada grinned then clamped her mouth shut quickly, aware of her protruding teeth.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he continued. ‘Mother was upset so I helped with some stuff.’
She nodded as if that made things clearer.
‘So, is there anything particular you’d like to do today, anything you want to see?’
Mauro shrugged.
‘That’s up to you. From what I’ve seen of the town there does not seem much to do or see.’
‘That’s true, once you’ve seen the promenade and done a lap of the town centre that’s about it. How do you feel about funfairs?’
‘Funfairs? You mean with rides, candy floss?’
‘Exactly, there’s a travelling fair, it comes every year for the season. They arrived a couple of days ago and should be set up by now. Fancy going to look?’
Mauro was enthusiastic and allowed Sharada to lead him to an extensive grassed area just off the promenade where the fair was situated.
Even in daylight the fairground was lit up like a beacon. Multi-coloured flashing bulbs hung from every ride. Refulgent signs invited people to try their luck on games of skill and chance. The Ferris wheel dominated the skyline; there was even a miniature roller coaster. Loud pop music pumped from hidden speakers, floating over the town, luring people in like rats to the Pied Piper.
They went on most of the rides, fully entering into the spirit of the fair. From the top of the big wheel Sharada pointed out what she thought was her house along with Happy Mount Park and other landmarks including the Midland Hotel and the Narracott. They held their arms aloft on the roller coaster and shared a car on the dodgems - causing Sharada much jubilation - taking it in turns to steer. On the waltzers they were thrown together by the centrifugal force as their car spun faster and faster before they failed miserably to win a prize on any of the games that required hoops to be thrown, plastic fish to be hooked or balls to be rolled. Finally, exuberant but in need of a break, Sharada suggested an unpretentious café where they could sit and have a coffee.
The café was typical of so many seafront establishments in Morecambe; modest, insignificant, sandwiched between an amusement arcade and a novelty shop, it was also in need of a lick of paint. Inside, though, the young girl on the counter was friendly enough and threw in two free doughnuts when Mauro smiled and thanked her in Italian.
They took their drinks and sat towards the rear of the café where they talked about the fair and also about Mauro, where he lived, how he came to be in Morecambe and, more importantly to Sharada, how long he might be staying. Finally, on their second mug of coffee, conversation turned to Sharada and her involvement with the activist group, CHIMP, although she was careful not to mention Brandon.
‘To be honest,’ She explained. ‘I’ve lost interest in the group because of my dad.’
‘Your father does not like you being a member?’
‘No, that’s not it at all. It’s just that he’s taken over a bit, made himself leader and half the reason I joined in the first place was to spend less time with him. It’s bad enough that we all live together and that I have to work in the restaurant too, without him bossing the meetings.’
Mauro smiled. ‘Families, mine is no better. My mother and my Auntie, all they do is fight, they seem to hate each other.’
Sharada nodded in agreement. ‘Anyway, we’ve got this big debate coming up at the university next week but after that hopefully things will quiet down and I’ll be able to leave the group without too much fuss.’
‘This is the meeting you told me about the day you were on the stall, it sounded quite interesting.’
‘Well, I’ve got to go either way so you can come with us.’
She pulled a crumpled leaflet from her pocket. She was already imagining the look on Brandon’s face when she appeared at the debate with a handsome Italian.
‘This has more info on it, times, speakers, guests and so on. Bring that with you and mention my name on the door and they’ll let you straight in.’
‘Thank you very much Sharada,’ Mauro said, pocketing the leaflet. ‘I have had a good afternoon.’
‘Yeah, me too, it was nice.’ She paused, unsure what to do or say next.
‘Would you like to come out with me again one evening, to say thanks for being my guide?’
‘Really? Right, great. Erm, where to?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, where is good?’
Sharada knew, even in her feverish state, that there was no way she dare suggest going to a bar or pub because her life would not be worth living if her father found out so instead she suggested that perhaps they go and see a film. Mauro’s eyes widened.
‘That’s a good idea; I never get to see films in English.’
They stood and left the café and ambled through the town centre towards Sharada’s house. At the gate Mauro thanked her again then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek before wandering off, leaving her enraptured, all thoughts of Brandon vanquished from her head.
25 Mrs Hird’s final curtain
Gerald Grimman was many things. Physically he was short and overweight but generally non-descript. He considered himself unlucky because, now in his fifties, he’d never had sex with a woman who was not a prostitute and had never had a girlfriend. Despite this he’d managed to avoid a life of work by inheriting two adjoining houses and letting them out as flats. Gerald was also a transvestite.
In addition to all of this he was curious, nosey even and, since he owned number 73 Westminster Road, Gerald considered himself to have every right to indulge this curiosity by sneaking around his tenants’ flats while they were out and looking at their lives. He justified this action by telling himself that he was merely confirming they were not damaging his property.
Tuesday was the preferred day for snooping. There was solid reasoning behind this decision. Sunday night was club night which meant meeting up with the other girls for a few drinks at someone’s house and trying on new outfits and make-up and gossiping. As such Gerald liked to have a lie-in on Monday to recover.
Wednesday was gym day, although Gerald only went to swim a little and use the spa. On Thursday Gerald generally went into town to the supermarket and the library while Friday was the weekly night out with the Hoover Society which meant a leisurely bath, shave, full dress and make-up and then a taxi into town. Weekends were a total no-go because the majority of Gerald’s tenants were off work and at home.
This left Tuesdays when, not only was Gerald free but the house was usually unoccupied as everyone was at work and Mrs Hird w
as picked up by minibus to be taken to the Day Centre.
This Tuesday morning Gerald picked up his mop bucket filled with cleaning utensils and a dust pan and brush – his cover story in case he was ever discovered – and wandered around the house, the keys jangling on his belt loop and tugging at his trousers.
He didn’t tend to spend very long in each flat; most of his tenants seemed to lead quite boring lives. Alfie Gorman, for example, never seemed to acquire any new possessions and, apart from an old photograph album stashed under his bed, there was very little of interest.
Mrs Hird’s flat was different. The contents fascinated Gerald and he had spent many hours sitting in the easy chair in the bay window reading through the boxes of old programmes and newspaper clippings which documented her life on the stage.
That was the wonderful thing about Mrs Hird, she was a natural hoarder of things and had literally dozens of boxes stashed around the flat, filled with the contents of her life. Much of this Gerald knew to be standard junk which people collected over years – ornaments, old birthday cards, parts of board games and clothes no longer worn. But many of the boxes contained specific items relating to her time as a showgirl – reviews, press clippings, posters, even costumes packed into a wardrobe and a trunk in her bedroom, some of which Gerald had tried on previously.
This morning Gerald opened her door and immediately called out to confirm Mrs Hird was not at home. The he flicked on the kettle, made a cup of tea and set about rummaging through a box near the fireplace which he knew from past visits contained programmes, many of which were in colour, detailing venues, times and dates, cast and songs contained in the shows. It was a fascinating insight into a world Gerald would never know, a world that no longer existed except within the walls of this flat.
All the Fun of the Fair Page 23