Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Summer’s End Chapter 1
About the Author
Geraldine O’Neill was born in Lanarkshire, Scotland.
She has lived with her husband, Michael Brosnahan, in CountyOffaly in Ireland since 1991.
She has two adult children, Christopher and Clare.
Music From Home is her tenth book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,
characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the
author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook Published 2013
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
E-mail: [email protected]
www.poolbeg.com
© Geraldine O’Neill 2013
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781781991114
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.poolbeg.com
Also by Geraldine O’Neill
Summer's End
Sarah Love
Leaving Clare
A Different Kind of Dream
Aisling Gayle
Tara Flynn
Tara's Fortune
Tara's Destiny
The Grace Girls
Published by Poolbeg
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Paula Campbell, and all at Poolbeg – especially my editor Gaye Shortland – for their work on this book.
Thanks also to Mandy, Sallyanne and the staff at Watson Little.
I am grateful to two lovely men who helped with my research about the Italian communities in Manchester and Stockport –Michael Lowry and Tony Rea. Michael kindly gave me information about his Italian background and gave me access to books etc. He also introduced me to Tony Rea, author of Manchester’s Little Italy. Tony patiently and diligently guided me around Italian culture and customs during the 1960s in Manchester.
A sad farewell to my great-uncle Kevin O’Reilly from Daingean, who was very handy with the pen himself. Kevin not only read all my books but delivered the post in several of them.
My deep gratitude to my parents, family and friends, and all the people who support my writing in so many ways.
Thanks to Chris and Clare for their love, support and valued advice.
And my loving thanks to Mike. In all the years since we were students, I couldn’t have asked for more care, encouragement and love. I am grateful for all the small and the bigger things you do which make it easier for me to write.
Music From Home
is dedicatedto my dear friend,
Helen Fahy
Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort, of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.
– Dinah Craik (1826–1887)
In family life,
love is the oil that eases friction,
the cement that binds closer together,
and the music that brings harmony.
Eva Burrows
Chapter 1
Manchester
February 1968
The evening light was fading as the green Volkswagen Beetle turned the corner and rattled down the cobblestones into Chapel Street. It came to a halt in front of Leonardo’s Restaurant.
Maria Conti climbed out of the back seat, still dressed in her navy school uniform, knee-length socks and dark winter coat. Her friend, blonde-headed Stella, was seated in the front alongside her mother.
“Thanks for the lift, Mrs Maxwell. My father said he will drive us on Friday.”
“It’s a pleasure, dear,” Jane Maxwell told her. “Give Leo my regards.”
Maria leaned back into the car for the bag with her ballet shoes and clothes. “I’ll ring you when I get back home later tonight,” she told her friend.
Stella looked over her shoulder. “Enjoy your lovely Italian meal. You’re lucky having a dad who can cook. Ours can’t even boil an egg without burning the pan.”
Mrs Maxwell raised her eyebrows and smiled. “But Leo is not a typical man, dear.”
Maria laughed. “I’d better not go mad and eat too much or James Granger will complain he can’t lift me!”
“James Granger will always find something to complain about,” said Stella. “He’s the biggest moan on two legs and looks a total twerp in ballet tights!”
Mrs Maxwell tutted loudly. “Don’t talk about poor James like that. His father is one of the top consultants at Manchester Infirmary.”
Stella rolled her eyes in Maria’s direction. “Who cares what his dad does? That doesn’t make James a good ballet dancer or stop him being an idiot.”
“There are times,” her mother said, “when I wonder about you, Stella.”
Maria waved the car off then turned to face the brightly lit restaurant. As she walked towards it, her heart lifted as always when she heard the low strains of violin music and breathed in the scent of tomatoes and thyme and strong Italian coffee. She opened the door and went into the empty, rosy-lit restaurant.
She loved it at this time of the evening, when the place was lulled into quietness with the sound of taped classical music and the vague hum of activity coming from the kitchen.
The music always warmed her as some of the violin recordings were those played by her mother, Anna, who had died when Maria was nine. When she was younger, Anna had learned to play the piano and basic traditional tunes on the fiddle at her home in CountyOffaly in the Irish Midlands. When she came to Manchester a
nd met Leo she had given up music entirely, but he encouraged her to take up violin lessons and Anna discovered a very different kind of music which she came to love. Within a short time she had studied and listened to the famous violinists and composers and she then set about learning to play their works.
It was a comfort to Leo that she had in fact been practising her violin when she had the final asthma attack which robbed him of the love of his life. It was after that, when he needed something to fill the huge void in his life, that he set himself the goal of opening his own restaurant which would have traditional English dishes alongside a small menu of carefully chosen Italian food. To achieve his dream he took every extra shift he could get in the hotel to earn money to add to his savings, most of which had come from the unexpectedly good insurance payment he received when Anna died.
Maria went straight to the table she liked by the window. She dropped her bag on the floor, shifting it under the table with her foot. Then she went across to the small cloakroom and took her school coat off and placed it on one of the hangers. She smoothed her long dark hair down then made her way towards the kitchen, wondering which staff would be on for the night. There were usually three in by now, not counting her father who always worked front of house, but helped in the kitchen when they were busy. Two or three of the waiting staff would be due in soon.
“Ah, Marietta!” Franco, the restaurant chef and her godfather, greeted her warmly, calling her by her pet name. He put his meat cleaver down on the worktop and came towards her, arms outstretched, as though he hadn’t seen her for an age. “And how is the little ballerina?”
“Hungry and tired after going straight to ballet from school,” Maria said, making a face. “But I suppose I’ll survive.”
Franco hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks, as he had done since she was a little girl. Although Franco came from Florence and Leo from a small village near Lake Garda, they were like brothers. They had first met when they were both lodging in the same house in Ancoats – the area of Manchester known as ‘Little Italy’ due to the number of Italians living there. Leo went straight into hotel work, while Franco started off working in a local shop owned by Italians. The landlady was an old widow called Mrs Nardini, who loved having the boys to look after since her family were all grown up and married. She made them Italian dishes which reminded them of the mothers they had left back home, and hot chocolate, and on special occasions gave them small glasses of Italian liqueurs. When Franco was in the house during the long winter evenings, he asked Mrs Nardini to show him how to do some of her basic pasta and pizza recipes. He progressed to cooking several evenings a week, until, encouraged by Leo, he started going to nightclasses to learn English cooking skills as well, and gain certificates which would help him find work in a restaurant.
A year or so later after arriving, Franco was working in the busy restaurant in the city centre while the ambitious Leo had moved to become restaurant manager in the Palace Hotel. They often sat up late at night drinking coffee and helping each other with their command of the English language, although Leo always had a better grasp of it than his friend and was more confident in conversation with the customers at work. On those nights they also shared their hopes for the future, and it became understood that when Leo was in the position to open his own restaurant, Franco would be in charge of the kitchen.
The two men had spent many nights discussing how the restaurant would be run, when it was only a dream. It was decided that the main part of the menu would be English to suit the local customers they expected to frequent it, but they hoped that requests for Italian food would gradually increase as their customers became braver in trying out their pasta and meat dishes.
Years later when Leonardo’swas opened, their careful approach had worked and, as the diners got used to the smell of the Italian herbs and sauces, a number of them were known to order only from the Italian section. The restaurant had also become a favourite place with the Italian community, who booked it for weddings, funerals and christenings.
Maria wandered around the kitchen now to have a quick word with Vincent, the quiet sous-chef, and Johnny, the local boy, who was the new commis chef. Although Johnny’s family were Manchester born and bred, he had grown up in Ancoats and something of the culture had rubbed off on him. His open appreciation of the Italian music and food had won Leo over, and he had chosen him from several other candidates when interviewing for the vacancy of apprentice chef.
From what she already knew about males, Maria could tell that the confident Johnny had an eye for the girls. He was always laughing and teasing the waitresses, young and old, and she knew he would have been more forward with her if her father hadn’t been the boss.
“Where’s Dad?” Maria asked now.
“Leo had to go out.” Franco’s voice was low. “But he said he will be back very soon . . .”
Maria’s eyes narrowed as she wondered where he had gone. There were several places she hoped he hadn’t gone.
“He said you should start eating without him.” Franco indicated the stack of menus. “What do you fancy? You must be hungry after all that dancing.”
She lifted one, then without opening it asked, “Have you any lasagne on tonight?”
“But of course. Whether it is on the evening’s menu or not, I always have a dish made especially for you.”
Maria smiled. “Ah, Franco, you’re always so good to me!”
He winked at her. “The staff fight to take it home when you are not here.”
Johnny came to stand at her elbow, holding up a jug. “Orange juice?” He looked her directly in the eye and then winked.
“Yes, thanks,” she told him, deliberately moving her gaze away from him.
“I’ll go and get on with a bit of studying,” she told Franco. “I have a History test in the morning.”
“Good girl. You are sensible using all those brains you have. You want to get a big important job when you grow up, and not slave in a hot kitchen.”
“When I grow up?” Maria laughed, heading back into the restaurant. “I’ll be sixteen in a few months.”
“Almost sixteen? Sixteen?” He shook his head. “That’s impossible.”
She went back over towards the table at the window and lifted her bag, searching inside for her book on the Tudors and her pen and notepad. It could be worse – at least it was an interesting period with all Henry’s wives and the scandal surrounding them. The only pity was that the exam questions would focus on the more boring aspects like Cardinal Wolsey and the Dissolution of the Monasteries, and her interest and knowledge of these was sketchier.
She sat for a while, jotting down the main points and dates, and then covering the pad and trying to memorise them. The class exam was the first big one since entering fourth year – the O-level year – and would give an indication of her chances when sitting the main exams at the end of the year. Maria still wasn’t sure what she wanted to do, but her father was encouraging her to study hard in case she needed the results for teaching or some of the other professions. A good and steady option her father often suggested was working in a bank. One of their neighbours was a manager in the local Barclays Bank, and he had told Leo that if Maria got decent A-level results he would put a good word in for her. Maria wasn’t sure about this, as it seemed to her a rather boring, colourless job, but she couldn’t come up with any suggestions that her father felt really happy about.
When she told him she might like to work in the restaurant, he had raised his eyebrows. “Young people think working in a restaurant is all about meeting people and having a good time, but the real work is in the kitchen and after all the customers go home. I tell you, there are much better things for you than this life, Maria, if you have a good education.”
“But you’ve been happy working in the restaurant, and I love it here too. It’s a beautiful place and it feels like my second home.”
“I am happy you feel like that,” he said, “and I love the restaurant and I love
my work – but it is all I have ever known. If you work hard at school, you’ll have opportunities I could never have dreamt of when I came to England as a nineteen-year-old boy. You don’t have to work these long hours. I had no choice – for Italians it was restaurant work, play music or sell ice cream.” He squeezed her hand. “I have worked over the years, happy to know that you will have much more choice than I did. And it was your mother’s wish that you would go to college . . .”
As always, that had ended the conversation. She didn’t want to let either of them down. She decided she would just have to concentrate harder on her studies.
She was engrossed in Tudor London when Franco appeared at the table with her lasagne, and a small dish with crispy fried potatoes and vegetables. He gave his usual little bow. “Just as madam ordered.”
Maria thanked him as she put her school books on the windowsill and he arranged the dishes in front of her. She unwrapped her knife and fork from her red linen napkin and then she looked up at him and asked if he knew exactly where her father had gone.
Franco’s eyes slid from hers towards the window. “I’m sure he did say, but as usual I do not remember. Some people he had to meet.” He threw his hands up and smiled. “Ah, Leo is a busy, busy man!”
She knew of course that he was covering up for her father. Franco wouldn’t want to cause trouble between his boss and his daughter. Maria understood exactly how things were. Like most people, Franco had a great affection for her father. The chef might not always approve of his boss’s behaviour, but he gave his loyalty nonetheless.
There was something about Leo Conti that drew people in. His dark hair and handsome looks made him stand out from the other men and made his slightly under-average height pass unnoticed. But it was his bright, intelligent eyes and warm, caring manner that won everyone over and made Leonardo’s Restaurantthe great success it was. He had a great sense of humour which men of all backgrounds warmed to, whilst women of all ages were charmed by his good manners and the genuine compliments he gave without seeming in any way forward.
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