Durham Trilogy 02. The Darkening Skies

by Janet MacLeod Trotter

  Suddenly among the rows of older men still lined up at the railings, Arturo spotted Paolo. He was looking out on the mayhem, watching to see if his father and uncle were safe, his arm around a behatted old man.

  ‘Stop!’ Arturo choked. ‘My son, Madonna! Wait for my son, please!’

  Someone struck him on the head as he rose in panic.

  ‘You’ll have us all drowned, you bloody fool!’ the officer shouted. ‘Do that again and I’ll throw you over myself.’

  Cesare seized Arturo’s shoulders to restrain him. Arturo looked back in desperation as the ship was consumed by the greedy Atlantic.

  ‘Jump, Paolo!’ he bawled, ‘Sante Giuseppe, jump!’

  But Paolo made no attempt to follow. It was then Arturo noticed that he no longer wore a lifejacket; he must have surrendered it to someone else and, without it, he had no chance of survival in the water. They were mountain people, they could not swim. Why had no one ever taught his boy to swim? Arturo wept.

  Almost at the last moment, as silver light grew in the sky and lit up the doomed ship and the water round about, Arturo thought Paolo saw him. His son raised a hand in farewell, but whether to him or the flotsam of prisoners scattered on the sea, Arturo was uncertain.

  A minute later the Arandora Star was sucked into the deep with a sigh of capitulation, taking with her the hundreds of stranded men who had stood in dignified acceptance of their fate.

  The sea bubbled and gurgled for minutes, drowning the cries of those still attempting to reach the lifeboats. Arturo buried his face in his numb hands and wept uncontrollably, knowing that the sight of his first-born going to his death would haunt him forever…

  ‘Please can you help them?’ Sara asked Dolly Sergeant for the third time that day. ‘Give them a few things on tick - just till the travellers come round again.’

  ‘I’ve got a business to run too, lass,’ Mrs Sergeant grumbled. ‘You’d think I was made of money the way you go on.’

  ‘Mrs Dimarco’s got relations staying from Sunderland now - they can’t go home,’ Sara persisted. ‘If you could just give them a bit of flour and margarine for baking and some sugar—’

  ‘Sugar!’ Dolly Sergeant nearly exploded. ‘I can’t spare any sugar - I get my allocation and that’s that.’

  But Sara knew that somehow her employer was managing to get a larger allocation of goods than other shops and she wondered if it had anything to do with her Uncle Alfred who appeared to be favoured when sought-after commodities came in, such as cigarettes and fresh fruit. She knew her uncle had contacts everywhere and would not be above helping Mrs Sergeant in a spot of black-marketeering if he got something out of it, too.

  Sara got nowhere with her pleading and the rest of the day was spent in frosty silence, except for the occasional barked command from the ill-tempered grocer. The next morning, Dolly Sergeant was on the attack.

  ‘I’m going to offer Raymond Kirkup his old job back,’ she announced, before Sara had tied on her overall, ‘You said he’s hanging around with nothing to do - well, he can be a help to me.’

  ‘And what am I going to do?’ Sara asked, completely taken by surprise. The deliveries were now her preserve and she resented the thought of having to give them up, even to Raymond.

  ‘You can do what you did before - helping in the storeroom and stacking the shelves,’ Dolly Sergeant said, her breathing laboured as she moved around the shop.

  ‘But I like going out on the bike,’ Sara protested. ‘You can’t just take me job off me.’

  ‘I’ll run my business how I like, young lady,’ Dolly snapped, her puffy face growing red.

  Sara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has my uncle been on at you to get rid of me or something?’ she asked in suspicion.

  Dolly Sergeant sought refuge in her account books. ‘It’s my decision and I’m not getting rid of you - I just don’t want you doing the deliveries any more.’

  Suddenly the truth dawned on Sara. ‘Has this anything to do with me being friendly with the Dimarcos?’ she asked.

  Dolly Sergeant’s look was defensive. ‘Your association with them foreigners isn’t helping business,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve had complaints and I’d rather not have you out doing deliveries. Now, if you were to stop spending your time with the Italians, I might reconsider…’

  Sara was stunned by the woman’s heartlessness; she obviously cared nothing for the distress of the Dimarcos who were once her valued customers.

  ‘You selfish old woman!’ Sara accused hotly. ‘These people have had their husbands interned and don’t know how they’ll survive - and all you think about is your precious business!’

  Dolly Sergeant’s down-covered face turned purple with indignation.

  ‘How dare you talk to me like that, you wicked lass!’ she thundered. ‘Get out of my shop - I’ll not have you in it a minute longer. You’re sacked!’

  ‘And I wouldn’t stay for all the tea in China!’ Sara retaliated, tearing off her overall and throwing it on the floor. ‘I’ll not be threatened by you or any of your small-minded customers. The Dimarcos are worth ten of your kind.’

  With that, Sara stormed from the shop, grabbing her string bag and cardigan from the storeroom as she went. But by the time she reached Hawthorn Street, her fury had subsided and she wondered whether she had spoken too hastily. Not only was she out of a job, but there was now no chance of Dolly Sergeant supplying the Dimarcos with anything. She ran in to tell Louie what she had done and found the pitman’s wife straining over the tub in the wash-house. Sara felt a stab of guilt at the thought that she had just forgone her meagre wages, but Louie was more philosophical about Sara’s rash words.

  ‘It’s Dolly Sergeant who’s in the wrong, not you, pet,’ Louie said, thumping the poss stick up and down. ‘You’ll find something else. Anyways, if she’s offering Raymond some work we’ll have some wages coming in, so don’t you worry.’

  But Sara did worry about being a burden to the long-suffering Louie. If she found nothing else, she thought gloomily, she might have to return home to Weardale, but she had parted on frosty terms with her mother after her visit to Tom at The Grange and knew that her family also hated her involvement with the Italians. Above all, it was the thought of not being able to help the Dimarcos if she were miles away at Stout House that made Sara the more determined to find employment. Even if it was voluntary war work that might provide her with the odd meal away from Louie’s she would be glad to take it and she wanted to be more useful than she had been lining the pockets of Dolly Sergeant.

  That afternoon, deciding to visit Tom, an idea came to her as she made towards The Grange. Passing servicemen hosing down military ambulances and the row of tents pitched on the tennis courts, Sara entered the vast mansion by the front steps.

  ‘Yes?’ a clerk at the reception desk in the hall demanded, glancing at her over wire-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘I want to help,’ Sara said, feeling foolish.

  ‘Help?’ He gave her an impatient look.

  ‘I want to volunteer for something,’ she smiled.

  ‘Look, we’re not the Girl Guides,’ he said and waved her away. ‘And we’re expecting another lot of wounded in the next few hours. Be a good girl and hop it.’

  Sara reddened at the man’s officious attitude, all the more determined not to be dismissed as a nuisance.

  ‘Perhaps there’s something I could do in the kitchens? I’m a canny cook.’

  The clerk gave a short sigh. ‘We have our own personnel. Go back home and help your mother in her kitchen like a girl should, eh?’

  ‘Listen, I’m not just out of nappies, I’m seventeen,’ Sara raised her voice. ‘I’ve got a wounded brother lying upstairs in this hospital and the lad I’m courting is in the DLI and might be one of the next to come here - that’s if he’s lucky! They’re doing their bit for their country and I want to do mine - so don’t treat me like a bairn. I heard you were taking lasses on in the kitchens last month. Have you got something for me or not?�
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  The clerk gawped at her then rustled the paper in front of him.

  ‘Orderly!’ he called at a passing soldier. ‘Take this girl round to the tradesman’s entrance and see if there’s anything she can do.’

  The bald-headed orderly nodded and smiled and Sara fell in beside him. He led her down a warren of corridors, the strong smells of disinfectant and steaming cabbage advancing in waves to greet them.

  But to Sara’s disappointment there was no work to be had in the kitchens. She was about to give up when the orderly suggested they could do with another hand in the laundry as one of the local girls hired had suddenly left to get married.

  ‘It’s damn hard work,’ Miles, the orderly, grinned.

  ‘I’ll start tomorrow,’ Sara said, undaunted, and went to tell Tom of her new situation and her delight in securing paid work. She found him in better humour than the last strained visit when her mother had pleaded with Sara to have nothing to do with her Italian friends.

  Tom was teasing a nurse and showing a flicker of his old spirit and Sara was pleased to see him attempting to walk with crutches.

  ‘So they’re trusting you to keep my sheets clean? What’s the army coming to?’ he joked.

  ‘I’ll be able to see you more often,’ Sara smiled.

  ‘I only speak to nurses - not washerwomen,’ Tom said, winking at the nurse.

  ‘Dirty sheets for Private Pallister, then,’ Sara laughed. She left without either of them mentioning the Italians.

  That evening the Ritsons sat around the kitchen table discussing what they could do to help the Dimarcos.

  ‘They should start growing their own vegetables,’ Raymond suggested.

  Sam nodded. ‘Aye, we could help them dig up some of their back yard - it’s big enough.’

  ‘Perhaps Eb would come over and help,’ Louie said, thinking of how gifted a gardener her eldest brother had been when he had lived with them.

  ‘Ssh!’ Jacob suddenly hushed them. ‘Listen to the news.’ He turned the wireless up as loud as he could to catch the day’s events, the one gloomy occupation he still seemed to enjoy.

  Their attention was riveted by the announcement of the sinking of the Arandora Star. She was carrying prisoners-of-war … some Italian enemies… torpedoed by a German U-boat… not known how many on board … some survivors have been picked up by a Canadian destroyer.

  ‘Dear God!’ Sara gasped. ‘Joe’s father and Uncle Davide were on board.’

  ‘Oh heaven’s above!’ Louie’s hand reached to grab Sara’s. ‘Those poor women.’

  ‘I must go to them,’ Sara said, jumping up from the table. Without hesitation, Louie pulled off her apron and seized her hat from the back of the door, following Sara out of the house.

  They found Anna Dimarco, pale with shock at the news and Sylvia trying to comfort a distraught Aunt Elvira and Albina.

  ‘They may have been picked up,’ Sara tried to comfort them.

  ‘Oh, Madonna! Santa Teresa! Help us!’ Elvira sobbed.

  ‘How can we know?’ Anna asked in distress. ‘There are no names… We know nothing!’

  ‘Papa is dead!’ Albina was hysterical. ‘And Uncle Arturo.’

  ‘Shut up. Shut up!’ Rosa cried at her cousin. ‘Sara’s right - we must wait—’

  ‘Wait?’ Elvira looked on the verge of fainting. ‘How can we bear to wait? I wish I was dead, too.’

  Sara and Louie felt quite helpless, but stayed with the distraught family. Later that evening Eleanor Kirkup arrived in her car from Durham, having heard of the tragedy.

  ‘I’ll try and get news of the survivors,’ she promised. ‘I’m so sorry - it’s all I can do.’

  The next day, Sara had to start work at the hospital laundry and it was late in the afternoon before she got away. Rosa’s small, anxious face told her that they had heard nothing and it was not until nearly a week later that Eleanor returned with news that Arturo was among the survivors and was recovering in a Scottish hospital. Anna gripped the counter of the empty shop as she listened beside Rosa and Bobby.

  ‘It’s likely he’ll be sent to the Isle of Man once he’s well enough to travel,’ Eleanor told Anna.

  ‘Oh, Santa Teresa be praised!’ The woman’s drawn face relaxed in relief. ‘Your papa’s alive!’

  Rosa and Bobby embraced their mother tearfully.

  ‘But Davide?’ Anna asked, suddenly concerned. ‘Is there good news for his family, too?’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘I’m sorry - I’ve not been able to find out what happened to Davide Dimarco. There were no proper lists of passengers - it was all done in such haste…’

  Anna’s eyes flickered to the flat above where Elvira and Albina were making soup.

  ‘What am I going to tell them?’ she whispered.

  For two weeks Elvira pulled the curtains closed and did not leave the flat, already mourning her lost husband. Nothing the others could say would change her mind. Anna, rallied by the news of Arturo’s lucky escape, found a new determination to get their shattered business running once more. They no longer had enough sugar or butter to make their famous ice-cream, but with a recipe from Louie Ritson, using arrowroot flavouring and dried milk, they experimented with making a mock cream. Bobby and Rosa, who laboured in the shed stirring and scraping the concoction, thought it tasteless, but Anna was optimistic and opened the shop door for business. With Sara’s help they erected a large sign outside advertising, ‘Tasty New Cream - British made’, and before long, inquisitive and sweet-toothed children were coming in to try it.

  ‘If you covered over the family name above the shop,’ Sara suggested tentatively, ‘you might get more custom.’

  ‘Dimarco is our name!’ Anna protested. ‘I’m not ashamed of who we are. What would Arturo say?’

  ‘Perhaps we should, Mamma,’ Rosa added pressure. ‘Just for a while.’

  ‘People will forget the bad feeling soon enough,’ Sara coaxed, ‘but it doesn’t do to remind them. I’m sure Mr Dimarco will understand.’

  So Anna gave reluctant consent and Sam and Raymond came to paint over the golden letters of Dimarco and replace them with the anglicised ‘Arthur’s Cafe’ instead and that weekend, the trickle of customers grew, Anna ran out of new cream and, with the takings, she and Rosa went to the Cooperative Store to buy more ingredients.

  The next week Eb Kirkup, Eleanor’s artist husband, turned up to help Sam and Raymond create an allotment in the Dimarcos’ back yard.

  ‘He was the best gardener in Whitton before he took to painting,’ Sam told Rosa as she watched them heave up the old cobbles.

  Rosa was fascinated to see a real artist and could not take her eyes from the bald man with the gingery beard and startlingly blue eyes. He said little and Rosa wondered how this mild-mannered man had ever had the temerity to cause such a scandal in the village by eloping with the wife of the local coalowner.

  Rosa knew the story of Eb and Eleanor’s romance from Sara and wished she had had the courage to leave with Emilio at the end of that sunny summer. For what kind of life was she able to give her daughter Mary, an outcast in her own village, with no man to protect or provide for her, carrying the added shame of her illegitimacy? At times her yearning for the handsome Emilio Fella still engulfed Rosa and left her feeling resentful towards her family.

  Then Rosa chided herself for her self-pity. How could she think such disloyal thoughts at a time when her family needed her more than ever? She had never felt closer to her mother than during those last few weeks - and they could not complain when they had friends like Sara and the Ritsons and the Kirkups who were standing by them.

  She turned to see Sara coming through the back gate, waving a letter.

  ‘The postman’s just handed me this,’ Sara called to her, her fair face flushed. ‘The postmark’s the Isle of Man.’

  Rosa seized it and went rushing into the house. ‘It’s Papa’s writing, I know it is!’ Sam and Eb stopped and looked up as Sara hurried inside after her frien
d.

  The news caused consternation among the women as they gathered around Rosa in the upstairs kitchen, leaving Bobby to man the downstairs shop.

  ‘Read it, Rosa,’ Anna urged, yanking back the curtain to let light in to the darkened room where Elvira and Albina spent their days brooding.

  Rosa tore at the envelope and scanned the page of shaky script.

  ‘I can’t read Papa’s writing,’ she said in frustration.

  Anna grabbed the letter and thrust it at Sara. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘read it to me.’

  Sara looked at them all shyly; Elvira and Albina were suspicious but Rosa and her mother regarded her with eager faces. Sylvia was trying to hush an excited Peter who was demanding to know what the fuss was about.

  ‘Dearest Anna,’ Sara began, ‘I am in a camp on the Isle of Man. I was on the ship that sank but God chose to save me. Benito and Davide are in the same camp—’

  ‘Davide?’ Elvira whispered. ‘Did you say Davide?’

  Sara repeated the line and went on, ‘We are all well. If you hear from Elvira, tell her. Davide has had no reply to his letters.’

  Elvira looked at the letter as if it came from beyond the grave, unable to comprehend its message.

  ‘Papa’s alive?’ Albina shrieked and smothered her fragile mother in a hug. ‘He thinks we are still in Sunderland, that’s why we haven’t heard from him. Oh, Mamma!’

  ‘Davide didn’t drown,’ Elvira said in disbelief. ‘He didn’t drown!’ Then she burst into tears. Anna went to her and hugged her in relief and excited chattering broke out in the kitchen. It was then that Sara glanced at the rest of the letter.

  Her mouth went dry at what she read and she found herself unable to speak. It was Sylvia who noticed first. She had kept quiet as the others celebrated, for there had been no news of her Paolo.

  ‘What is it?’ Sylvia asked Sara. ‘What else does Papa say?’

  Sara began to shake.

  Anna’s face paled. ‘Tell us Sara.’

  Sara forced herself to read on, ‘I wish I could be with you to tell you this. Our beloved Paolo and my brother Gino were drowned when the ship went down. They saved my life. I saw Paolo go under. Now our good son is with the saints. I pray for Sylvia and the children.’