Kezzie at War

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘No,’ said Lucy at once.

  Bella laughed out loud.

  ‘Well, that’s a straight answer anyway,’ she said to Kezzie. She turned back to Lucy. ‘Aw, c’mon,’ she wheedled. ‘Just for a wee while, eh?’

  ‘No,’ repeated Lucy. She went and stood beside Kezzie. ‘We stay together.’ She looked directly at Kezzie. ‘You said, didn’t you, Kezzie?’ she asked her sister. ‘You told the teacher at school, I was staying at home.’

  ‘So I did,’ said Kezzie, ‘so I did.’ She drew the child to her and wrapped her arms around her. Through her tears she looked at Bella over the top of Lucy’s head.

  Bella smiled at her.

  ‘What has to be, has to be,’ she said.

  As she was about to leave, Kezzie suddenly remembered something else she had wanted to ask.

  ‘Do you ever get any news of Peg?’ she asked.

  ‘Which Peg?’ said Bella.

  ‘Peg McKinnon,’ said Kezzie. ‘Her dad and one of her brothers were killed at the same time as …’ Kezzie hesitated. She glanced to where Lucy was playing a few yards away ‘… as Daddy,’ she finished softly. How great the pain had been at the time, she thought. The whole small community crushed by that blow. And yet Grandad and Bella, who had counselled her wisely, had been proved right in the end. Remember the good things and resist bitterness, they’d said, and then all your memories will be happy ones. Kezzie heaved a great sigh. It was difficult, and especially difficult now, in the shadow of the pit, right beside their former home.

  Bella reached over and gripped her hand tightly.

  ‘We were friends at school,’ Kezzie went on. ‘I often wonder what happened to her. The family left the village right after the accident. I think they moved to either Glasgow or Clydebank. She said she would write to me but she never did. I’d love to see her again.’

  Bella looked away. ‘I heard …’ She stopped.

  ‘What?’ said Kezzie. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘That … that they were in a bit o’ bother. The mother died. An’ the brother …’ Bella’s voice tailed off again.

  ‘Aunt Bella,’ said Kezzie in exasperation, ‘please tell me. I’m not a child any more that you have to keep bad news from me.’

  ‘No, I suppose ye’re not,’ said Bella slowly. ‘Ye had to grow up gey fast, hadn’t ye, hen? Well, the brother’s married and has a wean. Or maybe has a wean and is no’ married. Who kens? Anyway, he’s taken to drink. The woman … is …’ Bella spread her hands out in front of her and examined them for a moment or two. ‘They say she goes with men, all sorts of men, even brings them tae the hoose.’

  ‘And Peg still lives there?’ asked Kezzie in horror.

  ‘I think she’s nae option but tae,’ said Bella. ‘There’s naebody else cares aboot the bairn.’

  There were geese settling beside the small loch as the bus taking Lucy and Kezzie back to Glasgow turned on to the main road. Breaking formation as they approached the water, the birds flapped and squawked as they made their ungainly landing. They reminded Kezzie of Canada and the great long lines of migrating birds which had filled the skies in spring and autumn. Kezzie smiled as she recalled the sight, a happy relaxed smile. She was more at peace now with herself. She felt altered in some way by her visit to her home village. She knew that, since her travels, her perspective had changed. Like the pit ponies returning to the surface and having their blinkers gradually taken off, she was now looking at everything in a new way. But her unease was wearing off. Instead of being upset and withdrawing into herself, like some nervous tortoise, she decided she would now look forward and welcome new experiences. Perhaps if more people could travel and meet each other, as she had done, then there would be less prejudice, fewer wars. Folk would appreciate what they had, as Ricardo had said, they would see the similarities which united them.

  In Glasgow Kezzie and Lucy got off the country bus and boarded a tram. They were going to go directly to the Casellas’ café. It was too late now to go and look up Peg’s address, which Aunt Bella had given her, and she’d promised that she would spend some time clearing up in the shop this evening, and preparing food for tomorrow, in exchange for her time off today. Dusk was quietly closing in as Kezzie and Lucy dismounted at the tram stop in Glasgow Road. They hurried along quickly. With the new blackout regulations there was little light, apart from that which came from the sun, slowly setting beyond the Mull of Kintyre. As they turned down the street where the café was located, there was the sound of running feet, heavy shoes and boots clattering on the cobbles. And voices calling, rudely yelling and shouting, with screaming and crying in the distance. Kezzie pulled Lucy into the nearest close mouth as a crowd of people rushed past her.

  ‘Wait here,’ she instructed Lucy.

  The shop was no more than a hundred yards or so away, and it was with a terrible sense of dread that Kezzie ran towards it.

  There were staves of wood and pieces of fencing lying in the roadway. A half brick, some stones and pieces of rubble were scattered on the pavement. And everywhere broken glass. Great pieces of the ornate glass door, on which the name Casella had been proudly etched in fine script, lay in the gutter. The large front window was splattered in mud. Beyond that, in the shop itself, the tables and chairs were smashed or overturned. Kezzie came to a halt, her whole being struck with shock. The lace curtain, now in tatters, flapped at her helplessly. She could now see clearly what had happened.

  The café was completely wrecked.

  CHAPTER 8

  The café is wrecked

  KEZZIE PICKED LUCY up and carried her over the shattered glass and in through the café door. Signora Casella was sobbing noisily in a corner, her face buried in her apron. She was being comforted by her sister. Signor Biagi had a small cut on the side of his face which his son was cleaning with his handkerchief.

  ‘What has happened?’ Kezzie asked.

  Ricardo’s face was pale under his tan.

  ‘We were attacked by a mob,’ he said. ‘Kezzie, I am glad you were not here. We have been insulted, dirt smeared on the windows, people calling us filthy names. My mother,’ his voice broke, ‘my mother was spat on as she walked to church this morning.’

  Kezzie gasped.

  ‘Did you not inform the police?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘What can they do? It is happening all over Britain. Since the Aliens Order came into force, requiring all Italian nationals to register with the authorities, we have been a focus of hatred and fear. We are seen as the enemy.’

  ‘The enemy!’ Kezzie repeated. ‘The enemy! You are almost American.’ She pointed to the framed photograph on the wall behind the counter. ‘Your uncle won medals in the last war fighting for the British!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Ricardo picked up a chair which had been kicked over and sat down wearily. ‘But I couldn’t reason with them. It was terrible. They were gathered outside when I came to open at lunchtime. Some had been drinking. It was very ugly.’

  ‘Did you recognise anyone?’ asked Kezzie. ‘Were there people that you knew?’

  Ricardo looked away.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said evasively.

  ‘You must tell the police,’ said Kezzie.

  ‘No,’ said Signor Biagi.

  Ricardo also shook his head.

  ‘No, Kezzie,’ he said. ‘That would only make it worse, much worse.’

  Signor Biagi went to the back shop and returned with a broom. He began sweeping the broken glass.

  Lucy crossed over to where Signora Casella sat. She stood, uncertain and afraid, at the sight of adults crying so loudly.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked after a moment.

  Signora Biagi looked up. ‘What a wonderful idea, Lucy. I’ll come and help you.’

  ‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘I can manage.’ And she went through to the kitchen.

  Kezzie looked at the destruction about her. At the once beautiful glass jars, now lying in pieces on the counter and the floor. Stone
s and bricks had been hurled at them. The toffees and fudge and all the cakes were ruined and would have to be thrown away. One of the pretty little tables was broken beyond repair.

  A feeling of panic was growing inside her. If the newspaper reports were true then this was what was happening to the Jews in Germany. The hounding and persecution of people because they were of a particular race. And ordinary folk were being manipulated to do this. Their fears and worries exploited, their raw emotions stirred up and whipped into a frenzy of violence against their fellow humans, and all because they were of different origins. It was obvious to Kezzie by the expression on Ricardo’s face that he had known some of the mob. Perhaps there even were customers among them.

  She recalled something which had occurred in her early days of working in the café. Two girls of around Ricardo’s age had come in, and they had obviously been very taken with his dark good looks and his charming manners. Very soon they were flirting with him and ordered another ice-cream each. When he brought it to their table, with much whispering and giggling they had demanded to know his name.

  Kezzie watched as he smiled his wonderful smile. She could not help smiling herself at their teasing, or indeed overhearing the conversation.

  ‘My name is Ricardo Biagi,’ he said.

  They made him repeat it until they themselves could say it properly, imitating his pronunciation, his way of making the words sound so lilting and musical. Then they protested that it was too tricky, too difficult for them to remember.

  ‘Why don’t you change it?’ suggested one girl. ‘The way it is just now, it sounds too Italian.’

  ‘But I am Italian.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘we know you are. But you could easily alter your first name. Why don’t you just make it Richard, instead of Ricardo?’

  Kezzie stopped what she was doing and lifted her head to watch Ricardo’s face. He took a step back from the café table.

  ‘I am Ricardo,’ he had replied proudly, ‘Ricardo Biagi. Not Richard. My parents chose this name especially for me, and I do not intend to change it.’

  He smiled at them to show that there was no bad feeling on his part. ‘How can I be something I am not?’ he asked. ‘I am an Italian. An Italian who is called Ricardo.’

  Kezzie looked at him now, slumped dejectedly in the chair, and at the two women almost hysterical with fear. It was possible that they would not be able to keep the café going any more.

  A sudden anger filled her mind. How dare people do this to them? Ricardo and his family worked so hard. They cooked and prepared food each day, and kept their little café spotlessly clean. Kezzie looked again at the mess and confusion, and her eye fastened on the photograph of Signor Casella, resplendent in his British Army uniform. Kezzie stared at it for a long moment.

  Lucy had cleared a table and was very carefully setting out teacups. Signor Biagi was sweeping the glass into a pile.

  Kezzie went over and took the broom from him. ‘Leave it,’ she said.

  ‘Such a mess,’ he replied. ‘We have to tidy up.’

  ‘No,’ said Kezzie firmly. She raised her voice and spoke to all of them. ‘I want you to leave everything exactly as it is.’ She turned to Ricardo. ‘Ask your aunt if she still has your uncle’s medal and ribbon which he won when he was in the army and, if she has, may I borrow it? And see if she has a photograph of your cousin in his uniform.’

  Without waiting for a reply Kezzie dragged one of the café tables over to the counter and climbed on top. She lifted down the picture of Signor Casella from its place of honour.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘we will board up the door so that the place is safe from thieves tonight, and tomorrow we will open for business as usual.’

  Signora Biagi opened her mouth to speak. Kezzie raised her hand.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘We are going to humiliate these people. They will expect you to be cowed and frightened, or angry and vengeful. We will be neither.’

  She took the ribbon and medal from Signora Casella and draped it over her husband’s picture. Then she placed it on a table with the photograph of his son in uniform beside him. She tore the remaining piece of lace curtain from the window and set the table in the centre, facing out into the street.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘Now let them all look at that as they go about their business tomorrow, and as they do so let them also see the brave thank you that the family of those who fight for Britain receive.’

  The next morning Kezzie asked Mary Price to take Lucy to school and she herself went to the café very early. She worked with Ricardo and his family to clear up only what was required in order to make the sandwiches and the snacks for the usual orders. They left the overturned chairs and tables and the pile of broken glass in the corner. The stones and bricks which had been thrown lay where they had fallen.

  And they didn’t complain about the situation to anyone. Ricardo and Kezzie kept smiling as they served their customers, and Kezzie found as the morning progressed that more and more people found it difficult to meet her gaze. She knew that anyone who entered the café had to pass by the two photographs on display.

  Just before lunch-time a policeman came into the shop. He walked to the front of the line of people waiting to be served. Then he took out his notebook and nodded to the mess by the window.

  ‘Who did this?’ he asked Ricardo.

  ‘I saw no one,’ said Ricardo in an even tone of voice.

  ‘Ye must have seen somebody, son,’ said the policeman reasonably. He turned to Kezzie. ‘Explain it to him, Kezzie,’ he said. ‘If he can give us a name, we can mebbe do somebody for it.’

  Kezzie laughed. ‘Ricardo understands perfectly,’ she said. ‘What he is trying to tell you …’ Kezzie looked at the queue of customers still waiting to be served. She raised her voice. ‘What Ricardo is saying is that he truly believes that no person he knows, or has ever met, or who buys food in his café would ever do something so horrible to his family.’

  The policeman closed his book. ‘Suit yerself,’ he said.

  There was a silence in the shop as Kezzie and Ricardo dealt with the remaining apprentice boys and the factory orders. Kezzie determinedly kept up a stream of conversation, making jokes, teasing and calling after them as they left. Around half past two, when the shop had gone quiet, Ricardo leaned wearily on the counter.

  ‘I don’t know how you managed to keep chatting all the time,’ he said.

  Kezzie handed him a tiny cup of the black espresso coffee which he so loved.

  ‘I was rather enjoying myself,’ she said mischievously. ‘Did you notice that there were very few customers who could look me straight in the face? Those who weren’t involved probably have a good idea of who was, and most folk will be ashamed and embarrassed at what has happened here.’

  As she spoke the café door was suddenly thrown back. Two young men in their working clothes stood just inside. One of them spoke. ‘My boss says he wants this door.’

  ‘What for?’ said Kezzie.

  ‘Needs fixin’, don’t it?’ said the other. He took a large screwdriver from his pocket and began to unscrew the hinges.

  Ricardo made to come out from behind the counter. Kezzie pulled his sleeve.

  ‘Leave them,’ she whispered.

  Half an hour later, the door was brought back reglazed. In the meantime a few more lads had drifted in. They began to pick up the broken pieces of glass and crockery, and straighten the chairs and tables. A young woman who lived opposite the café brought over a long piece of white netting. She attached it to the window curtain-pole and hung it back in place. All afternoon this went on, neighbours bringing little gifts and staying to help. By early closing time Signora Casella was in tears. She flung her arms around Kezzie.

  ‘Grazie, grazie.’ She kissed her effusively.

  Ricardo put his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘You are so very clever, Kezzie,’ he said. ‘What you did has not only resulted in many of our broken things being re
placed. It has also given us a place in the community.’

  ‘Remember, Kezzie,’ said Signor Biagi, ‘if we can ever do anything to repay you, we shall do it.’

  Kezzie went home that evening with a comforting warm feeling inside her. Her trust in others and human goodness had won through today. She didn’t realise how soon it would be that she herself would be asking the Biagi family for help.

  CHAPTER 9

  Peg McKinnon

  THE STREETS WHERE Kezzie now found herself were mean and dirty. She had walked north on Kilbowie Road, away from the river for nearly twenty minutes, and then turned off to the right. She took the slip of paper on which Bella had written Peg McKinnon’s address. There was no mistake. Slessor Street, past Drumry.

  It was the correct road that she had turned down a few minutes ago. Kezzie looked around her and sighed. She remembered the neat little houses of the village where they had both been raised. The scrubbed and whitewashed steps, the lines of washing strung out to catch the wind. Peg’s mother had struggled to keep their two rooms clean. With three working miners in their family it was a constant round of washing and drying clothes, a labour of love, particularly troublesome in the winter time.

  There was something more depressing about the poorer parts of cities, thought Kezzie. When Grandad, Lucy and herself were near starvation in the little bothy at least there was clean air about them.

  The atmosphere around these particular tenements was grey and damp. There was rubbish lying in the gutters, empty beer bottles and horse dung. The grimy window panes were broken and the curtains grubby. The appearance of these houses suggested that no one cared.

  Or perhaps deep, unrelenting poverty did this, thought Kezzie. Constant unemployment, where hope had long since left the hearts of the people caught in this situation, and they found that they turned in circles until their energy was gone.

  Kezzie stopped at the entrance where the number she was seeking was written in faded copperplate on the wall. She mounted the inside stairs warily, peering at the doors in the dim light. She smiled to herself. Mrs Sweeney would have a fit if she saw the state of this particular close.