From what I can remember, I hid my mother’s violence towards me, even from Auntie. I don’t know what made me do it. An instinct that came from God knows where. When my mother tied me up and belted me, I tried not to scream too much, Auntie was only next door, though we didn’t share common walls. The dread of people finding out was excruciating. I so wanted to be normal, from a normal family. If I had sought help, I think she would have inflicted even more violence on me. I was terrified into submission. It was our secret. A secret my mother shared only with me. And I with her and my broken dolls, who were my only consolation.
I had heard of Barnardo’s homes for children. But I had parents. Would they take me? I had daydreams about turning up at their gates, telling them what I was going through. They’d offer me milk and say “You poor girl. You’ve been so brave. Why didn’t you tell us before?” They’d let me in, and I’d be safe from my mother’s clutches for good. I wished that I could live among other children who, had also been unlucky, then we could at least offer each other comfort, share our pain.
But, what if they turned me away?
SEVENTEEN
Monday 28th August
I am still shaken by the recent thoughts about my childhood when I arrive at Zia’s clutching the ice-box. Angelina and Provvi are there. They look as sad as can be. Zia has laid out some cannoli Siciliani cakes filled with ricotta, and decorated with candied lemons. They look delicious. “Cuppa tea?”
“Yes, please, Zia. I’d love one.”
Provvi now has a dark yellowish stain on her neck. Did the brute clutch her by the throat? Zia’s right. That Giulio definitely needs some education. Provvi is looking down at her feet and is in the middle of telling Zia how her husband, Giulio, purposely ran into her with a shopping trolley, bruising the back of one of her ankles badly, on Saturday when they were doing the family shopping at Tesco’s. Provvi keeps going through intervals of sobbing, blowing her nose, and sitting quietly gripping her hankie, when anyone else speaks.
Angelina has come up with an idea to get Giulio to The Village in Sicily. It would be her 60th birthday at the end of September, on Wednesday 27th to be precise. She says how a joint birthday party with her twin, Beatrice, seems plausible given that it is a special birthday. Beatrice and her family certainly can’t afford flights to England. Also, the twins have a large extended family in Sicily who will all be invited making for a lively party. And anyway, in The Village, anyone can go to any party, invited or not.
Angelina says that it will be easy to persuade Giulio to go. “He likes showing off to the people he grew up with in The Village,” Angelina says, “especially to his old schoolmates. He makes out he’s been so successful in England and is well-off. What do they know?”
“You need tell Giulio he go to Sicily. We arrange rest,” Zia says. “But you no need know detail. We think about.”
She made it clear it was really up to Zia’s contacts in The Village to decide. Maybe they would frighten him, give him a good talking to, maybe hit him, or worse. I don’t know what was said before I arrived. And I don’t ask. The fewer people know about what’s going to happen, the less risk there is. People were careless and let out information, even unintentionally.
“What you have to say? You can no go on that way,” Zia says to Provvi.
“I’ve come to the decision it’s either me or him,” Provvi says.
“It’ll also be good for the children,” Angelina says. “They’re suffering, as well. Giulio doesn’t worry whether the boys are there or not, he just lashes out.”
“At the end of the last school year, their form teachers told me the boys are aggressive,” Provvi says. “They hit other children, grab their toys, crayons or whatever, from them. They break toys by stamping on them, before giving them back. Or they throw toys at other children aiming for their heads.”
“You know the boys would be better off as well, don’t you?” Angelina says.
“Yes, I know,” Provvi says.
“You come back, tell me when you book flight,” Zia says.
They leave.
Zia picks up her knitting, and pulls at the ball of wool. She’s nearly finished Humps’s second bed sock. “I finish rib, then I make cord with crochet hook.” For a few seconds the only sound in the room is the click-clacking of the needles. “When I finish you bed sock, I crochet blanket put on my leg when watch television.”
“Do you think this will work, Zia?”
“I crochet squares, then I sew together.”
“No, Zia, I was talking about taking Giulio to Sicily to get an education.”
“Oh, you no worry. Not first time we give men education. Peppina find help. She know what to do. No problem.”
“Zia, so you’ve done this before?”
“I tell you. You my sister daughter. Yes, done before. Why you think many Sicilian women no husband? Some Siciliani men too maliducati.”
“When my father remarried and sent me away from our house, I was so angry I would certainly have wanted to give him some education.”
“Ah, you father another minghiuni. But you no come to tell Zia. We rough him up a bit for you,” Zia says.
“Yes, well I got that wrong, didn’t I? Anyway, he’s dead now.”
“He no rest in peace,” Zia says. “I tell cemetery people in The Village put him long way from you mother. He on cemetery edge in cassuni. You mother have nice marble tomb for herself in middle of cemetery. Megliu suli chi mal accompagnati” meaning: better on your own than with bad company.
In all honesty, I’d never been to the cemetery to see where my father’s buried. I didn’t go to his funeral when a cousin phoned me to say he’d died. I was quite gutted, but not enough to make the journey to Sicily to accompany him to his last resting place. I knew where my mother was buried because I went to Sicily with Zia and Susi to accompany my mother’s body from England to Sicily. We had another funeral in The Village before she was buried, after the one in London for the Sicilian community.
“Neither Angelina nor her twin, Beatrice, have husbands,” I say. “They died in an accident. That can happen to anyone, surely.” This is a little tongue in cheek to find out what Zia knows. I’m quite sure they were killed.
“You innocent Englishwoman. You no know a thing. In England accident happen, in Sicily accident organised.”
“You mean to say that their husbands were killed?”
“No. I mean say no thing. You say that. Anyway, Angelina husband and Beatrice husband, one more bastardo than the other one.”
Zia doesn’t want to say it outright. But it is clear that the two men had been done away with. She has made it as plain as she can without actually saying they were killed. I try to push the boundary a little further.
“What about your husband, Zia? What about Uncle Tony?”
“Ah, you want know much. You curious look in you eye. Curious no good.”
She won’t say.
“How did he die?”
“You want know much. I tell you. Heart stop, he die. My husband rest in peace.”
“Sorry, Zia. It’s just that I don’t know what happened to Uncle Tony, given that he died years ago.”
“He rest in peace, I tell you,” she grits her teeth and knits faster.
I am making her nervous, but I have to ask, “You’re not going to have Giulio killed, are you?”
“No, no. We give him education he deserve. If he behave good, we give him only little education,” then she looks up from her knitting and says: “You want know too much. I tell you.” Now wagging her finger at me: “Curious no good.”
Maybe it’s time to change the subject. Zia’s getting quite worked up. So I tell Zia about my visit to Alberto’s and Giusy’s. Given that he’s having an affair with the manageress, it means that he’s not in love with Giusy. He’s messing her around, too. It’s not as if he found the love of his life in Giusy after he married Olga. He’s simply sleeping around, using these women. He has no respect for any of them.
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br /> “He put in every woman say yes. All men try.”
“But if you marry, you’re not supposed to even try putting it into other women, Zia.”
“You tell me name of man who put it only in wife all the life.”
“Humphrey.”
“Ah, you silly girl. Not possible. You believe love song.”
“Of course, it’s possible, Zia. People who marry for love stay together and don’t go looking elsewhere.”
Zia has calmed down now. She continues to give me nuggets of truth.
“You silly girl. When you marry man because he have nice house, you stay because house last long time. When you marry man you love, love change and he put it in other women. Love change, house no change.”
God, she is so cynical. Though there is a germ of truth in Zia’s philosophy.
“I married Humphrey because I loved him, still do, and want to be with him.”
“Why did you marry Uncle Tony, Zia?”
“In old day, girl marry young. I no pretty like you mother. I find no man. Uncle Tony thirty, he want girl. No girl want him. He short. He no house. He no job, he want go England. We marry, and we go England. In old day, woman servant for husband. Hard life for wife. We smile. We suffer.”
Uncle Tony was as much a Prince Charming as he was a tycoon. I remember my mother saying that Zia had come over to England with one pair of shoes, and they were already quite worn. When she finally threw them out, she took to wearing Uncle Tony’s, filling them out by wearing two pairs of socks. They had one pair of shoes between them which meant they couldn’t go out together. That’s how well off they were. In that moment, I look at her and think Zia must have suffered a lot. Now she is totally void of romanticism. Not one crumb of it in her whole body. Was she born so rational? Or did she grow into it as a cause of life’s hardships?
“You go speak with Alberto.” Zia says abruptly. “I no go. I too old.”
“Maybe, I don’t know,” I say.
As I go out, Zia accompanies me to the door. We see two women walking on the pavement towards us. I saw them at Zia’s the week before: the sisters Rosa and Bella, Zia’s nieces, on her husband’s side. I don’t know what their case is about. And I don’t want to know. Before they are within earshot, Zia turns to me, gives me a wicked look, and says: “Blackmail.”
“Zia, look, I really am not interested in their problems. I think I’ve already heard enough. I’ll go and speak to Alberto on Giusy’s behalf, see if I can get him to disclose what his position is and help her out.”
“You do good job,” Zia says. “Next time I give you bed sock for you husband.”
EIGHTEEN
Monday 28th August
When it is raining, like today, I sometimes get morose although I adore rain when walking along the riverside: the pitter-patter on my umbrella, the luxurious green of trees and grass, the clean crisp air. But, as I walk back home on the glistening path, I can’t help thinking about Uncle Tony and Zia. She was very young when they married. Being quite a bit older meant he took control over her, I suppose.
I remember Uncle Tony being vicious with Susi, when we were children. Strangely enough, I don’t have any recollection at all about him hitting either Silvio or Stefano. Not only was Susi his only daughter, she was also the youngest out of the three siblings. She was two years younger than me; chubby, very pretty face, sparky. In short, she was the sister I never had. And, like sisters, we’d argue over silly things, most of the time because she took up too much of the single bed we had to share. Of course, I used to go to theirs, too. But never to sleep. My mother wouldn’t let me, she eventually became irritated by Susi and stopped her staying with us.
Once when I went to their house, Susi was having lunch with her father. She refused to eat her vegetables. Uncle Tony took off his belt and slashed it hard across Susi’s face. I distinctly remember the satisfaction in his face as he did this. Tears came running down her cheeks. She didn’t squeal, like I tried not to when my mother belted me, she sobbed quietly, ate her food, while tears dropped down into her plate. Seeing her being mistreated was more traumatic for me than being beaten myself. This poor powerless child had to take what was being inflicted on her.
Even now we are around sixty years old, she’ll say something about his violence, she doesn’t show anger. I do. I have taken my anger around with me all my life – held its hand and nurtured it. But Susi did say she didn’t feel much sorrow when her father died. Relief. If my mother had lived longer, I would have wanted some kind of revenge. Maybe that would have appeased my anger. Even though she’d tortured me, instead of loving me, I couldn’t inflict anything bad on her. She suffered enough. Instead I looked after her. Catered to her every whim. Accompanied her to doctors, and ran round getting anything she needed, including medication at the chemist. My father did none of this. And when she died, I was sad.
Going back to Uncle Tony, I admit he could be nice, if he wanted. He had a great sense of humour and made us laugh. We cousins had great fun treading grapes in their bath to make his home-made wine. I used to take my wellies to their house and take part in the crushing. Silvio and Stefano, the show-offs, would stamp grapes in their bare feet. Susi and I wore rubber boots. Once Susi lost her balance, grabbed me to break her fall, we toppled over and ended up sitting on the grapes. Uncle Tony laughed and said that was the ideal way to press grapes and, that while we were sitting there, we may as well start throwing the stalks out of the bath. Silvio and Stefano would carry the squashed grapes out to the garden shed, in buckets, where fermentation would take place in a couple of wooden barrels.
On the other hand, I remember another two occasions which showed his vile side. Uncle Tony used to do odd jobs, for us and for Auntie Marge. Both my mother and Auntie Marge thought he was considerate, a hard-worker, a good man. My mother used to compare him to my father saying the latter was a good-for-nothing lazy lout, while Uncle Tony was enterprising and easy to get on with. Beyond our gardens, there were fields and a disused railway line. Sometimes, Auntie Marge and I went for walks there, by climbing through a hole in her fence at the bottom of her garden. We had a similar hole in our fence, too.
One afternoon, when I was tending to my pet tortoise, giving it grass and talking to it, Uncle Tony came to look at it in its box. He said they were filthy animals. I defended my tortoise and carried on talking to it. He said talking to a tortoise was ridiculous, grabbed hold of it, took it to the bottom of the garden, leaned on the fence and flung my tortoise into the air, across the railway line, as hard and fast as he could. The poor creature landed in the field beyond, amongst the undergrowth. I yelled out. I tried to get through the fence to see what had happened to it. Its shell must have cracked to bits when it landed. But he grabbed hold of me, while I was still kicking and screaming, he wouldn’t let me go. My mother came out to see what the noise was about. Uncle Tony told her I was having some kind of screaming fit. My mother slapped my face, then kicked me while I was trying to run away, shouting after me: “That’ll give her something to cry about.”
The next day, after school, when my mother was still at work, I went to look for my tortoise. I never found it. To this day I don’t know whether it lived or died.
Yet another time, when Uncle Tony showed his ugly side, was when I went to play with Susi at her house. We were throwing and chasing a ball on the cemented passageway that led from their front gate to their garage. It was my ball. Auntie Marge had bought it for me. I still remember it vividly. It was half green and half yellow. The green side had yellow stars on it, and vice versa. He came out of the house saying the noise was getting on his nerves. He tried to catch the ball while Susi and I were trying to stop him. We thought he’d joined in our game. But he was getting angry. Susi and I were laughing. After running backwards and forwards a few times, he finally caught it. Taking out a penknife from his pocket, he laughed and watched our reaction as he flicked the knife open, plunged it straight into my ball and cut it in half. He threw the two pieces
on the ground and went back inside. And that was the end of my ball.
I never told Auntie Marge about Uncle Tony belting Susi, nor did I tell her about the ball, nor about the tortoise. In fact, I didn’t tell anyone at all. What would they have thought about my family?
NINETEEN
Tuesday 29th August
Coming back to the present, I am going to the amusement arcade to see if I can find Alberto. It has occurred to me that in just over a week, I am still acting like a teacher. Dispensing justice, or trying to. Putting order into the disorder among people. Dealing with conflict between kids was an important part of my profession. I had just stepped it up somewhat, dealing with misbehaving adults instead of youngsters.
Jack and Belle are there again. Jack waves to me and Belle shouts over: “You’re back again, are ya? Can’t keep away.” They laugh, so do I.
“Yeah,” I shout back, “I wanna get another one of them teddies for me grand-kid,” as I head over to the big glass-case with that grabbing claw hovering above the pile of teddy-bears. The lovely old couple follow me over. I am glad they have. Going back to my cockney accent feels good. I still have it in me.
“Did ya win anything on the old slots?” I ask.
“Nah, ain’t me lucky day today,” says Jack. “You got change for a tenner?”
“Nah,” I say. I could give them ten quid, but not if they are going to waste it on the one-armed bandits. “Why don’t ya just keep ya money instead of wasting it here?”
“Yeah, ya come back yourself, didn’t ya?” Belle says.
“Yeah, but I want one of these here bears.”
All the time we are talking, I am trying to haul one out. But, of course, the claw has a loose grip. It goes on for a while until, finally, I manage to get one by its head. This time it’s purple and white. That’s two teddies for little Benjamin.
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