Emma and Her Daughter

by Linda Mitchelmore

  But as she pushed open the door to the breakfast room her heart dropped like a stone when Signor Cascarini, his forehead furrowed and his eyes narrowed, came rushing towards her.

  ‘Your daughter bad girl,’ he said. ‘She—’

  ‘Don’t you speak ill of my daughter to me, signor! And seeing as she’s not here to defend herself I only have your version of events, whatever they might be. And until Fleur—’

  ‘Your daughter in her room.’

  ‘Suite,’ Emma corrected him. ‘We have a suite. With a sea view.’

  There, best let him know just who he was dealing with – a woman who could afford a hotel suite, rather than single rooms at the back with only the outlook over the railway line to look at.

  ‘Sweet?’ Signor Cascarini said. ‘Zucchero?’ He looked genuinely puzzled and it was all Emma could do not to laugh. Something had got lost in translation there and she didn’t think she’d be able to sort out the confusion. So she wasn’t going to bother.

  ‘I know Fleur and your son have been seeing one another, Signor Cascarini. And I’ve told Fleur I’m happy for her to have made a friend so soon after arriving from Canada. I know they’ve met and walked along the seafront a time or two, and in the grounds of Torre Abbey, because Fleur has told me as much. A friendship between two young people isn’t a bad thing.’

  Yes, she knew she was on the defensive, and she’d been caught on the back foot as well. It seemed as though Ruby’s instincts had been correct and that Fleur hadn’t been at the lending library as she’d said she would be while Emma was out.

  ‘Is not only friendship. It is, how you say? … Intercourse.’

  Emma gulped. She only had this man’s word for whatever it was Fleur had been up to. Her brain seemed to take on a life of its own and all she could see was Fleur with her head hung low, saying she was ‘so sorry, Ma’ and that she was pregnant. And how was Emma going to cope with all that? But how could she moralise? She and Seth had lived as man and wife long before they’d married. No babies had come along for them though …

  ‘Were they in bed?’ Emma asked. ‘Did you disturb them there?’

  ‘No!’ Signor Cascarini looked genuinely shocked at her question. ‘In kitchen. I just in time—’

  ‘Well.’ Emma smiled. ‘Well.’ Nothing had happened, had it? Certainly not what Signor Cascarini was implying.

  ‘Is not well. My wife, she want big, big matrimonio for Paolo. Good Italian ragazza. Many bambini. Una Cattolica. If only my wife …’

  Signor Cascarini slumped down into a chair. He put his head in his hands and, to Emma’s horror, he sobbed. Loud and wracking sobs shook his shoulders. He twisted his hands over and over in his lap. Emma had seen Seth cry a few times but there had always been a very deep and moving reason for it. And she’d seen tears in Matthew Caunter’s eyes when she and he had said their last goodbyes, but he’d held them back. She’d never seen a man cry like this and so suddenly and over what, to Emma, seemed such a trivial matter – his son and her daughter doing what the young do, walking out together, holding hands in all probability. Stealing a kiss or two perhaps? It must be the Italian in him! Didn’t the world know they wore their emotions on their sleeves?

  Emma sighed. First Ruby needing her emotional support – as well as financial it seemed – and now Signor Cascarini. He couldn’t have the first idea whether Fleur was a Catholic or not, unless she’d been asked – which Emma doubted. He was making assumptions, just as Ruby had assumed Emma would think of something to help her. Whatever was in the air today?

  Emma sat down on the chair beside Signor Cascarini’s. She patted his shoulder a couple of times, then his arm.

  ‘Has something happened to your wife? Is she ill perhaps?’

  ‘She dead,’ Signor Cascarini said between sobs. ‘Big bomb. In London. Half the road dead. I wish I dead, too.’ He looked up and brushed an arm across his face to rid it of tears.

  ‘Dead? Oh, I’m so sorry. My husband is also dead. Being a parent on your own isn’t easy, is it?’

  A waiter came in then and Emma ordered tea. And a whisky. She had no idea if Italians drank whisky but Seth had always had a glass if he was upset about something.

  ‘Not easy,’ Signor Cascarini said. ‘And now kissing.’ He practically spat the word out.

  ‘Only kissing?’

  Signor Cascarini shrugged, took a deep breath and let it out in a long, sad sigh.

  Only kissing as far as Signor Cascarini knew? Was that what the shrug meant? She would have a word with Fleur later. Not that she expected Fleur to tell her the whole truth if she had done more than kiss Paolo.

  ‘And where is Paolo?’ Emma didn’t think for a moment he was up in her suite or in Fleur’s bedroom, but … well, weren’t there at least two couples in this hotel who weren’t married, Emma was sure of it, even if the management pretended not to notice? She’d seen the names on the register when she’d signed her and Fleur in. Mr and Mrs Smith indeed! ‘He’s not up in my suite with Fleur, is he?’

  Signor Cascarini’s eyebrows shot up in alarm at her question. ‘He not! He at work. Paolo good boy. He must serve peoples. My suocerà no good in inglese.’

  And she’s not the only one whose English isn’t very good, Emma thought. She made a wild guess that the woman she’d seen in the ice cream parlour wasn’t this man’s mother and that suocerà more than likely meant motherin-law. The poor man had taken on the responsibility of looking after his motherin-law now his wife was dead, hadn’t he? Well, didn’t she know all about responsibility?

  ‘I wonder, Signor Cascarini,’ Emma said on impulse, ‘if you and Paolo would like to join Fleur and me for dinner this evening?’

  She had a feeling this man was lonely since his wife’s tragic death. And possibly it was the Italian hot-bloodedness in him that had made him react to a bit of kissing the way he had. It was her daughter who had added to this man’s distress and Emma wanted to ease the situation a little for him if she could. And if the four of them were to sit around a table and share food, talk, laugh – it would be the semblance of a family for all of them once again, wouldn’t it?

  ‘Dinner? You mean cena?’ Signor Cascarini mimed using a knife and fork to cut up something. ‘Mangare? This night?’

  ‘Seven-thirty?’ Emma said.

  ‘No here,’ Signor Cascarini said, standing up. ‘I no like big place. I cook for you. In my ristorante. Good Italian food.’

  And he beamed at Emma, all his tears over the loss of his wife gone. How handsome he was when he smiled – an only slightly older version of the very good-looking Paolo with his black hair and his ebony eyes. Olive skin. Taller than Paolo was, too, when he pulled himself up to his full height. There were more crinkles at the sides of Signor Cascarini’s eyes, but yes – he was still a very handsome man.

  He seemed to be pulling himself together in front of Emma. Stomach in, chest out. He ran a hand through his silvering hair. How old? Forty? A little older? Or had his loss aged him? The war had ended in 1918 so he’d had at least nine years to get used to the idea of widowhood. Emma had had only two years as a widow, but already she was realising that life had to go on, even though Seth would be in her heart forever.

  ‘I think that’s a lovely idea,’ Emma said. ‘Thank you.’

  Goodness, there had to be something in the air today – she’d just asked a man to dine with her.

  ‘I expected better of you, Fleur,’ her ma said.

  ‘It was only a kiss or two, Ma,’ Fleur replied.

  Signor Cascarini had put a stop to anything else – which Fleur was never going to admit to her ma was probably just as well really. She had no idea how you stopped babies coming although she knew well enough how you made them. And she didn’t want a baby – not now, and probably never.

  ‘I said I believed your explanation of things. And I would have expected you to steal a kiss or two at your age. What’s upsetting me is that you lied. You said you were going to the library and that’s where I e
xpected you to be.’

  ‘I was going to go there afterwards,’ Fleur said.

  After what? After sex with Paolo if his pa hadn’t interrupted us?

  Her ma gave her a funny look – nose wrinkled up towards her furrowed brow; it made her look like a chipmunk or something, chewing nuts.

  ‘Come on now,’ her ma said. ‘Stop looking at that frock and get it on. We’re going to be late. You do like it, don’t you?’

  Fleur looked at the dress as though seeing it for the first time, even though she’d had to get in and out of it at least a dozen times while her ma stuck pins in to find where to put the darts, and take up the hem. It was a lovely frock and her ma knew it.

  Fleur risked a teensy shrug, but her ma saw it.

  ‘You don’t have to wear it.’

  ‘It might look better on me if I cut my hair. I’d look more grown-up. Louise Brooks’s hair is the same colour as mine. It looks ace on her.’

  ‘We can’t all turn into film stars, Fleur. And, trust me, when you look old, you’ll wish you looked younger,’ her ma said. ‘Your hair’s beautiful as it is. I’d really rather you didn’t cut it just yet.’

  ‘Yours is bobbed, Ma,’ Fleur said with a smile, even though she knew she was stating the obvious. ‘It looks really nice on you.’

  Even though there are a few grey hairs peeping through. Not that she was going to tell her ma that! She’d scupper her chances of being given the money to go to a hairdresser, wouldn’t she? Up until now her ma had always trimmed her hair, but even her clever, good-at-everything ma, would probably fall short at styling a bob.

  ‘Thank you. And you don’t fool me for a moment. All this talk is putting off the necessary. Now, into that frock.’

  ‘Oh, Ma! We’re not really going, are we? Tell me it’s a joke.’

  The last person she wanted to see was Signor Cascarini, although she wouldn’t mind seeing Paolo, especially as he’d been a hero and stood up for her against his pa and walked her home, and kissed her – on the lips – in the hotel garden and told her again that he loved her, in Italian, before going back to face the music with his pa. Fleur’s heart had stilled for a moment or two when she’d entered the foyer to see one of the waiters escorting Signor Cascarini to the breakfast room. She’d breathed in quickly because she’d come over a little faint, and the breath caught in her throat and made her cough. Signor Cascarini turned around then and saw her. He’d given her a withering look. But, head held high, Fleur walked past him and up the wide staircase to her room.

  ‘I can’t. Because it’s not a joke. We’re eating with Signor Cascarini and Paolo tonight. At his ristorante, as he put it, although I seem to remember the name over the door saying it was an ice cream parlour.’

  ‘But I can’t go!’ Fleur wailed. How could her mother have arranged this? Didn’t she know she didn’t want to set foot in that place? Not after what Paolo’s pa had said to her, implying she was nothing but a whore for kissing his son. And she’d told her ma what he’d said, too! How could she? ‘Not after what he called me.’

  ‘Yes, you can. We all say things in the heat of the moment and I’m sure Signor Cascarini only said what he did because he was surprised to find you in his kitchen.’

  Her ma put a little emphasis on the word ‘kitchen’. When you were supposed to be at the library and weren’t was what her ma meant, but if there was one thing she admired her ma for it was that she didn’t go on and on and on about a misdemeanour – once she’d said her piece that was it, she let it drop. Thank goodness.

  ‘Sorry, Ma,’ Fleur said. ‘About not being at the library.’

  ‘Apology accepted. Now, let’s put this all behind us. I really don’t mind you having Paolo as a friend but you must consider that his father is having a bit of a hard time of it since his wife’s death. We can understand how that is, can’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fleur said. She wondered what her pa might have said about her being found kissing Paolo – and almost doing something else – if he’d been alive. She doubted he’d have been as understanding as her ma was being about it. ‘Paolo told me about his ma. A bomb … I can’t imagine it.’

  ‘And we haven’t had to, for which we must be grateful.’

  Her ma fixed the pearl earrings she always wore for best in her ears. Then she dabbed some perfume on her wrists. She smiled at herself in the mirror and then twisted this way and that. How slim her ma was, how young she still looked even though she was well over thirty now – almost forty for goodness sake.

  And then it hit her – her ma was getting all dressed up because she fancied Paolo’s pa, wasn’t she? This was nothing about healing the bad feeling between Signor Cascarini and her and Paolo, was it?

  Eurggh. Something bitter rose in Fleur’s throat. Bile? Distaste? Her shoulders shuddered at the thought of her ma kissing Paolo’s pa. Her ma was spoiling everything, wasn’t she? Taking over. Taking charge. If only her pa were here then none of this would be happening. She was going to die of embarrassment in front of Paolo, wasn’t she, if her ma was making cods’ eyes at his pa all night?

  ‘Ma,’ Fleur said, picking up the dress from the bed. She stepped into it and wriggled it up over her hips. The dress was made of fine jersey, almost like silk to the touch. A Chanel copy, so her ma had said. She slid her arms in and fastened the asymmetrical buttons. ‘I miss Pa. I wish we weren’t here. I wouldn’t even mind not having met Paolo if I could have Pa back.’ Her voice was a whisper.

  Surely her ma wouldn’t make her go out if she was grieving so.

  ‘I know,’ her ma said. ‘I miss him, too. But this is our life now and we have to make the best of it. Besides, I’m rather hoping Signor Cascarini will be able to advise me where I can buy a car.’

  Emma had never eaten spaghetti before. Or any sort of pasta for that matter. She wasn’t sure she liked it. It felt heavy in her mouth and slippery with oil at the same time.

  But Signor Cascarini had made it for her. When she and Fleur had arrived it was to see curtains on poles had been placed a little over halfway up the windows – to stop people looking in no doubt. And most of the tables and chairs had been placed to the edges of the room and there was just one big table in the centre with five chairs placed around it. It had a red and white checked cloth on it, and a vase of tulips – brilliant purple ones – in the centre. Wine glasses sparkled under the overhead light. How bright and welcoming it all looked.

  But dinner had been far from ready. Signor Cascarini had insisted Emma and Fleur join him in the kitchen. And there, Emma had been surprised to see him tip flour – almost yellow in appearance – from a small bag with Italian writing on it into a bowl, add olive oil, and turn it into a very elastic dough, which he kneaded quickly before putting it through, what looked to her like a mini-mangle.

  A big saucepan of something that smelled heady with herbs was bubbling on a hob.

  Signor Cascarini’s motherin-law sat on a chair in the corner, arms folded across her chest, muttering under her breath. Now and again she shouted out something in her own language to which Signor Cascarini shrugged. She did it again now.

  ‘She no like I cook,’ Signor Cascarini said, with a slight jerk of his head towards his motherin-law. ‘She think only women should cook.’

  Emma didn’t know what to say to that. She’d been used to a male chef in the kitchen when she’d worked at Nase Head House even if he hadn’t been the best cook in the world.

  ‘Pah,’ the old woman said.

  And Emma was left wondering if she understood more English than she let on.

  ‘Is ready,’ Signor Cascarini said. ‘Paolo, help your nonna to the table.’

  ‘Si.’

  Emma smiled – she liked that this was a united family, if sad now Paolo’s mother was no longer alive.

  ‘You like?’ Signor Cascarini asked now that they were all, at last, sitting down. Emma knew she’d had rather too many aperitifs while they all waited for dinner to be ready. It had been hard to refuse. And
after the rather trying day she’d had, she didn’t know that she wanted to.

  Signor Cascarini tipped his head to one side and glanced at his plate of food.

  ‘The sauce is delicious,’ Emma said. ‘But I’m not going to be able to do that as long as I live.’

  She pointed to the spaghetti wound around Signor Cascarini’s fork like so many twisting, writhing worms. Fleur, she noticed, was getting on wonderfully well with Paolo’s assistance, happy to have his hand around hers as he helped her to twist the spaghetti onto her fork and then stir it into the sauce. How nice it would be to have someone hold her hand, Emma thought. Was this man who had gone to so much trouble to feed her and Fleur – and who seemed to have forgotten completely how angry he’d been at his son and Fleur found kissing in his kitchen what was mere hours ago – the man to hold it?

  ‘It need practice,’ Signor Cascarini said. ‘I show you.’

  He reached for Emma’s hand but she whisked it away before he could touch her. She wasn’t ready for that sort of personal contact just yet.

  ‘I’ll just have to try harder,’ Emma said. ‘If Fleur can do it I’m sure I’ll master it in time.’

  But possibly not before it’s all gone cold. There was no meat in the sauce, Emma realised now – at least none that she could taste.

  Everything about this was a new experience for Emma. She’d only ever dined with two men in her life. Firstly with Matthew Caunter up at Nase Head House before the war, and secondly with Seth. On each of her birthdays when they’d lived in Vancouver Seth had taken her to a hotel for dinner. While fish might have featured heavily on the menu it had all been delicious. The puddings, too. And there had been lots of wine – lots and lots of wine. But despite her being very relaxed after it, and she and Seth had made love most of the night, no babies came along.