by Angela Petch
He shook his head. ‘Six brother, one sister.’
‘Where are you lot from, then?’
‘From Italia. I from Tuscany,’ Massimo said, ‘and my friend, he from Sardegna. Is an island.’
‘All sounds very exotic, I’m sure. My Ken is somewhere or other like that. On a ship in the middle of some ocean. Merchant seaman. God knows when I’ll see him next. ’Asn’t even met this little bugger yet.’
They were quiet for a while, lost in their own thoughts.
Massimo stood up. ‘We must go. How much?’
‘Nothing this time. You mended my roof and you’re going to dig my garden for me, ain’t you?’
They promised to return soon, and she waved them goodbye. Once they’d dropped the hay off at its destination, they had to hurry, urging the horse on, the cartwheels raising clouds of dust. They didn’t stop talking about Molly all the way back, planning how and when they could see her again.
* * *
A couple of weeks later at the beginning of September, Massimo and Salvo were sitting on the step of the stable door, drinking coffee that had arrived in somebody else’s Red Cross parcel, and which Salvo had managed to barter in exchange for a pair of sturdy second-hand boots. They were making the coffee last. The taste was strong and rich and neither of them could remember the last time they’d enjoyed the real thing. Back home it was made from ground chicory roots, barley or acorns. Real coffee was only drunk in a bar and neither of them were from families who could afford such luxuries. They decided to ration themselves to one coffee every third day, to make the precious beans last.
Arthur Spink came hurrying from the farmhouse, waving his hands.
‘Boys,’ he called, ‘there’s been an announcement on the radio.’ He stopped, out of breath.
They stood up. ‘The war? Is finished?’
‘Not yet. But your war with us is over.’
They looked puzzled.
‘Eisenhower has been speaking on the BBC. Your country has signed an armistice with the Allies. Mussolini has gone. Marshal Badoglio signed an agreement five days ago. It’s Jerry you have to fight now. Not us.’ He came over and shook their hands, clapping them both on their backs. ‘You’re on our side, boys. Mussolini is finished.’
‘Mussolini – kaput?’ Salvo said, slicing his throat with his hand.
‘Not dead, but he’s not in control any longer,’ Arthur said. ‘Come inside and drink a glass of cider with the missus.’
As they walked together to the farmhouse, their boss told them Eisenhower had warned in the broadcast that it wasn’t yet time to celebrate. ‘But I reckon we can enjoy a glass or two, don’t you?’
Once news spread round the camp, there were many who thought they would be back in Italy soon, but they were disappointed. Major Strickland called all the prisoners to assemble and explained that it would not be possible to repatriate them for a while; that they were still needed by the British government to work on the land. And this would be the way they would help in the war effort against the Germans, now their enemy.
‘You will be considered free men,’ Major Strickland explained, ‘and you will enjoy increased leisure time. Men who have been living in camp will now be allowed to go outside the perimeter, but all of you will be required to check in with the camp as per usual, even those living on farms. You will serve in units under your own officers and they will report to me. I’m sorry that you will not be returning to your country immediately, but the reports we receive from Italy tell us conditions there are far worse than here. You are better off remaining, I assure you.’
The men wandered off to discuss the turn of events, some angry, most resigned. All around the campground there were clusters of men debating what to do.
‘I will stay here,’ Massimo said, ‘rather than fight in battle. I saw enough bloodshed in Africa.’
‘It’s fine to talk to me like this, but many will think you are a coward,’ Salvo said, his voice low in case they were overheard. ‘I agree with you, but I want to see my family again.’
‘Don’t you think I do too? But we wouldn’t be with family. We’d be in a trench somewhere, killing or being killed, or on the run from the militia, fighting with the partisans. I am happy to continue with my war here. Didn’t Major Strickland say we were playing our part by working the land for our new allies?’
‘I know you’re right, Massimo, but keep those thoughts to yourself.’
Massimo saw Molly again two weeks later when Arthur Spink asked him to take more bales to The Orchards.
‘I need Salvo to help me in the top meadow, so you’re to go alone this time. And take these to them while you’re at it. A fruit cake and a dozen eggs. They’re good friends, and we heard their only son is missing. This bleeding war…’ He handed over a basket and Massimo went to fetch the cart and load up the hay.
It was awkward at The Orchards. After unloading, he walked to the back door of the imposing farmhouse and rang the bell. A middle-aged woman came to open the door. He could see she’d been crying. Wiping her hands on her apron, she almost snatched the parcel off Massimo. ‘You’re one of them Eyeties from up the camp, aren’t you? Jimmy’s missing in your country. Why aren’t you over there fighting instead of him? My mistress is up in her room bawling her eyes out. Bloody disgrace, housing and feeding you lot of skivers.’
Before he could say anything, she slammed the door in his face. He stood there a moment or two, the woman’s words ringing in his head. He felt guilty, but what could he do? Even Tenente Montini, the highest-ranked Italian officer in camp, had told them they’d probably have to stay here until the end of the war. Allied transport was needed for soldiers and guns, not for repatriation of prisoners. He wanted to knock on the door and reason with the woman. But his English wasn’t good enough, and he could almost touch the grief surrounding the place. The curtains were closed, even though the sun was high in the clean Suffolk sky and at the front door a pot of parched white petunias wilted with neglect. He turned on his heel, climbed back onto the cart and pulled on the reins to command the horse forward.
He could have done with Salvo’s company. Despite his friend’s carefree ways, he always knew what to say in moments like these. Massimo couldn’t help feeling ashamed of his status, but he truly didn’t see what purpose it would serve to return to Italy to get himself killed. He willed his mind to blank out memories of Lucia and his family.
‘Good afternoon, Massi…’ He’d been so sunk within himself that he’d not noticed he was passing Molly’s cottage. ‘Are you stopping for more cake?’
The clock on the church tower had just chimed three. If he hurried back with the empty cart, he could spare half an hour. He could do with cheering up, and merely looking at her in her buttercup-yellow dress skimming her tanned legs brought a smile to his heart. Her hair hung wet on her shoulders, the damp spreading down to the material straining at her full breasts.
‘Just washed my hair while Denis sleeps.’ She pulled a towel from the line tied between two apple trees and bent to wrap it, turban-style, around her head. He glimpsed her cleavage while she was bending and once again, he felt desire.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, straightening up. ‘Fancy a rock cake?’
He frowned and she laughed. ‘I’ll show you.’
He followed her into a tiny scullery where a pile of dirty plates waited in the sink, as well as a zinc bucket of soiled nappies. She followed his gaze. ‘I’ll do that lot later. It’s too hot to do anything much in the day when it’s like this.’
He watched her fill the brown kettle, riddle the small cooking range and add a stick of firewood to strike a blaze. ‘This old thing,’ she said, ‘bane of my life. What I’d do to have one of them new cookers, but here in the sticks, there ain’t nothing like that.’
‘In the sticks?’ he asked, frowning.
‘Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t speak English… in the country. My old man dragged me away from the city. Never got used to it
, or the funny people round here. They don’t like me one little bit…’
Not understanding the idiom, Massimo thought it was a shame she was wasted on an old man.
‘I am also from’ – he paused – ‘the sticks. La campagna.’
‘Well, I prefer the city. There’s nothing to do in this dump. No flicks, no dance hall…’ She turned to him from the kitchen drainer where she’d been slicing bread and putting rock cakes on a plate. ‘Do you like dancing?’
‘Certo. Naturalmente I like dancing.’
She took his hand and pulled him into the sitting room. Then she switched on a wireless set, fiddling with the knobs until the squeaks and hisses turned into music. ‘This is no good, it’s classic rubbish,’ she moaned. ‘I like ’Arry James and his orchestra.’
She snapped off the radio and hummed a tune. ‘This one’s a foxtrot,’ she said, pulling him into her arms and guiding him over the carpet.
She was slightly taller than him and she kicked off her shoes, so they were at eye level. As she sang, her breath was soft on his face. ‘Closer,’ she said, ‘you can’t dance proper like that. Hold me,’ she said, pulling him nearer. ‘You won’t snap me in ’alf.’
She was soft and smelled of soap and apples. How long was it since he’d been held, felt the touch of skin on skin? Her eyes were full of laughter and mischief, and something else.
‘Relax, Massi,’ she said, guiding his hand to her back. ‘Back, back, slide, slow, slow, quick…’ She repeated the instructions until they moved together. ‘Take them boots off, Massi,’ she said, ‘it’ll be easier.’
As he bent to pull off his rubber boots, his heart hammered in his chest and he wondered if she could hear it, and detect it wasn’t from dancing.
She laughed. ‘This is fun, but…’ She pushed him away and, tucking her dress into her knickers, she said, ‘What’s more fun is this… the jitterbug.’
He stood back, watching while she moved across the floor, spinning and kicking, laughing like a child, before collapsing into the armchair by the inglenook. She pulled her dress back over her knees.
‘I learned that from my GI pal. He was stationed here for a while. Now, them lot knew how to dance. But they’ve moved on. More’s the pity.’
The kettle whistled from the kitchen.
‘I’m off the idea of tea, Massi. It’s too hot. Will water do you?’
Massimo was almost relieved when her baby began to cry and she went to fetch him from upstairs. She returned, clasping him on her hip, and it was like having a tiny chaperone in the room. Not long afterwards, he said goodbye, later than he’d planned.
‘Come and see us soon,’ she said at the door. ‘Come and dance with me again. I’ll teach you some more steps.’
* * *
He visited again the following Sunday, making his excuses to Salvo and the Spinks. ‘Please, Mr Spink, I borrow your bike? I go to church,’ he lied, and when Salvo asked him why, Massimo invented a story about it being his mother’s birthday and it was something he always did. He ignored Salvo’s raised eyebrows and cocky smile, and his comment in Italian about having fun and not doing anything he wouldn’t.
Summer drizzle sharpened the colours and scents of the English countryside. The hedgerows were tangled with honeysuckle and cow parsley fringed the lanes. Massimo sped along, the bicycle tyres humming over the flat roads.
Molly was in the garden fetching nappies from the line. ‘I’ll have to light the fire to dry this blinkin’ lot now,’ was the first thing she said to Massimo, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to have him turn up again out of the blue.
He leant the bike against the side of the front porch and said, ‘I do for you.’
While he laid the fire, she draped damp nappies and tiny clothes over a wooden clothes horse. ‘Fancy a fry-up?’ she asked. ‘I got some eggs and a couple of bangers. Gawd knows what’s in ’em, but we can pretend they’re meat. Oh, and a couple of tomatoes to throw in the pan. I nicked them from Mrs Toffee Nose’s garden next door. Old cow,’ she said.
It was hot in the front room with the fire ablaze to dry the washing and they sat eating their late breakfast with the windows wide open. Denis sat in his high chair, chewing on a finger of fried bread. Massimo had brought coffee grains along in a twist of brown paper and he made a cup for Molly.
‘Yuck – too strong for me. ’Ow can you drink this muck?’ Her hand to her mouth, she went to the kitchen to spit it out in the sink and he laughed.
‘Bene, more for me.’
‘Gimme a brew any day.’
‘I dig your garden if it not too wet after.’
‘You’re a right poppet, ain’t you, Massi?’ she said, looking him up and down. ‘I tell you what, I got some of Ken’s old work clothes upstairs. Half a sec.’
She ran up the narrow wooden stairs. The creaking floorboards and drawers being opened was like the familiar sound of home. The huts in the camp were single-storey, as was the stable where he slept at the Spinks’ farm. She reappeared with a pair of patched corduroys and a checked shirt over her arm.
‘They’ll be too long for you. But you can stick his trousers inside your boots and roll up the shirtsleeves.’
As he removed his worn, chocolate-brown shirt, the circle of darker material showing where the red prisoner emblem was removed after 1943, her eyes lingered on his lean, strong body. Then she picked up the baby and went to the kitchen, saying, ‘I’ll leave you to change yer trousers.’
After the rain stopped, the sun came out, so they moved outside. Molly sat on a blanket under the apple tree playing with Denis, his gurgles and raspberry noises mingling with the sounds of Massimo’s spade as he dug over the vegetable plot. ‘I bring seeds,’ he said, showing her a twist of newspaper, ‘cabbage, cauliflowers and finocchio. Very good for winter. Fennel. My friend gave me from his parcel from Italia.’
Major Strickland had allocated an area for digging at the back of the camp early on for the men to plant whatever they wanted, understanding the Italian need for a plot of earth.
‘’Aven’t the foggiest what fennel is, Massi, but go ahead, feel free.’
She leant against the laden apple tree and unbuttoned her dress to feed her baby. He wanted to avert his eyes but the sight of her made his breath catch in his throat. The homely scene made him long to be back in Tuscany, close to his own family and old friends. Most evenings after a day’s work they’d congregate in somebody’s house to sit by the fire, or when the weather was warm, under the shade of the walnut tree in the little piazza, exchanging news or advice on how to mend a tool or utensil, how to tend to an elderly relative or sick child, which wild herbs were sprouting in which meadow, where to find the best mushrooms in the woods. And there was invariably a mother feeding her child at the breast. Families were large, there were always babies and toddlers underfoot and they all shared in the caring of them.
She caught his gaze and, misconstruing his thoughts, pulled her cardigan to cover herself. Massimo didn’t have enough words in English to explain and continued to dig over the soil, the blade of the spade slicing and turning. He bent to remove roots of weeds and, near him, a robin hopped about at the edge of the bed, waiting for him to unearth worms.
‘Time for baby’s sleep,’ she said, buttoning up her dress. ‘I’ll make us a sandwich.’
The kitchen was tidier than the other day, with a red gingham cloth on the table and poppies stuck in a milk bottle in the centre. The kettle was boiling, and she poured water into a brown teapot.
‘Tea for two?’ she laughed, and then she sang the words. He understood the lyrics; they were simple, and when she came to ‘Nobody near us, to see us or hear us’, she broke off, fiddling with the ring on her finger. ‘My Ken used to sing that to me. In fact, he sang it to me when he asked me to marry ’im… he was a soppy old date. I miss ’im.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Massimo said. ‘This war…’
‘I miss how he used to be, Massi. He came back on leave and… he was dif
ferent somehow. Cold and unloving… Not my boy any more. He didn’t want to talk and… he didn’t want to touch me, neither.’
He could understand why. Naturally he could. He’d heard grown men cry themselves to sleep; brave and blustering in daytime, at night they were on their own to confront the things they’d seen and done in this godawful war. How to explain to this girl here, cocooned in the green English countryside, about the realities of war on the front? He took her hand as she fiddled with the tablecloth and squeezed it hard.
‘Fancy a dance?’ she said, blowing her nose. ‘To cheer me up.’
The half-eaten sandwiches curled in the heat and the tea stewed in the pot while they danced. She sang at first but then their dancing slowed. They stopped, their eyes locked. He pulled her closer, loving the feel of her curves soft against his body. She found his lips and kissed him.
Massimo pulled back and she whispered, ‘It’s all right. You’re all right.’
Then she pulled him to the floor and unbuttoned his shirt, her hands moving to the belt on his trousers, running her fingers over his skin, kissing him again, long and hard, until Massi responded. Instinct took over and he drowned in the sensations, carried away by her touch, the salty, milky taste of her, her tongue like a cat’s, the sounds she made, the arching of her body, her nails clawing at his back, dancing with him in another way.
Afterwards, she pulled cushions off the sofa for their heads and fetched a cigarette. They lay on the floor together, passing the cigarette to each other. It was drizzling again, a light breeze blowing at tatty curtains through the open window. Massimo watched as a loose scrap of material snagged against the rough wood on the window ledge. His mother kept a neat house – there would be no loose scraps in her vicinity. They might be poor, but she patched, mended and cleaned in between all her other chores. The other women in the village commented that you could eat off Lorena’s floor. She wouldn’t approve of this carefree, slapdash girl down here on the floor beside him. And she would definitely not approve of what they had been doing this afternoon. How many times had he received a cuff round the ear for the slightest misdemeanour?