The Italians at Cleat's Corner Store (22 page)

‘Did he?' his mother said, but instead of greeting Otto or shaking hands with him, she reached for her headcloth and began to twist it into a tight ring. Her eyes flickered over the soldier, more amused than suspicious.

Back on the balcony, the men in the mess had begun to call out to Otto, whistling and heckling in German. He adjusted his stance, palming the back of his neck and blocking them from his vision. There was something different about him, Lucio noticed, something uncertain: he had never seen his friend at such a loss before.

‘I saw you from the balcony and thought I should bring this back,' Otto said, handing his mother a small package wrapped in waxed paper. ‘You left it behind at the stream — when you were washing your clothes.' Lucio could smell the soap. It was his mother's turn to fidget. She looked at the package like he had handed her one of her underclothes or a loose stocking in public. Over on the balcony, someone whistled again.

‘I'm sorry,' Otto said, glancing up at the men. ‘I didn't think. They're bored, mischievous … it's the heat, you know … Perhaps I should go?'

Viviana had wandered over, wagging her tail and whining at him, and Otto bent to scratch her ears, relieved to have something to occupy his hands. ‘I'm sorry. I'm not used to doing so little.' He let out an awkward laugh. ‘It seems a lot of waiting around, this life of a soldier. I think I might go crazy if I stay up there any longer.' The words spilled out like a kind of confession.

Lucio's mother considered him briefly, before bending down to swing the basket of peaches onto her head.

‘Please,' Otto said. And he held the handles until she let him take it from her.

‘It's going to be a tough walk up the mountain carrying it like that,' she said, nodding at the way he propped the basket on his hip.

‘Well, I could use the exercise.'

‘You tell me when it gets too heavy, then.' She pressed her lips together, and Lucio caught her eyes shining, black as wet ink.

His mother walked ahead of them, surefooted and steady, her neck long, her shoulders square, as if she was still carrying the full basket on her head.

As they climbed Collelungo, Lucio listened to their cautious exchanges, simple things he had not thought to ask Otto before, things he had never heard his mother put into words either.

‘How come your Italian is so good?' she asked.

‘My mother was from Lucca,' Otto said. ‘My father brought her back to Germany after they met. But she always spoke Italian to us when we were growing up.'

His mother eyed him over her shoulder. ‘You don't look Italian.'

Otto laughed, shifting the load to his other hip. ‘And you don't look like someone who could carry the weight of this basket halfway up a mountain either. But I'm sure you can.'

‘All the mountain women can. We learn it very young.' Her voice was serious, but then she added, ‘My husband says our heads are flatter than men's. So, you see, we're pretty good beasts of burden.' As she turned back, Lucio noticed the playfulness of her mouth, her sidelong glance. So did Otto, for his face seemed to come alive with it.

‘Is that so? And where is your husband?'

She ignored the question, and Otto's expression darkened. ‘I'm sorry, signora. I didn't mean to pry.'

‘You're sorry a lot, aren't you?' It made him smile again.

When she began to leave the path and wander into the meadow, they stopped and waited for her. ‘If you're lucky, at this time of year you can find wild strawberries in this spot,' she called. ‘Tiny ones. Very sweet.' She bent before a copse of brambles, searching, and Lucio and Otto set down their loads.

‘Nothing?' Otto asked, when she returned.

She shrugged. ‘Sometimes someone else finds them first.'

‘I hope it wasn't men from my unit,' Otto said. ‘They've been told not to take anything from the local area … but sometimes they need reminding.' He picked up his basket. ‘Once again, I'm sorry.'

‘You can hardly punish them for taking a few wild strawberries, Signor Otto. Anyway, I doubt they got there before one of the villagers did. These days people are hungry enough to pick them green.'

Otto motioned at the peaches with his chin. ‘Then where are we taking all this?'

‘To Padre Ruggiero,' she answered.

‘The priest? Why?'

‘His land, his tree, his fruit,' was all she said.

At the path beside Rocca Re, his mother stopped. She asked Otto to wait for them on the outcrop. ‘In our village, Signor Otto, women do not walk with men who are not their husbands — and sometimes not even with men who are, if they can help it.' She started her climb towards the priest's house.

Lucio walked backwards along the track beside her. ‘Stay, Iana,' he said, and his dog collapsed in the shade of the brambles and began to pant in the last of the afternoon heat. He looked to Otto for confirmation that he would watch Viviana, but his friend's eyes were on the chalk track, the back of his mother's neck, brown and smooth as honey, the sway of her skirts as she turned the bend.

An army jeep was parked outside Padre Ruggiero's villa, a German soldier propped against it, smoking in the sun. He didn't bother to stand up when they approached. They'd seen the jeep and driver before when the priest was entertaining Captain Schlosser. They could smell brewed coffee — not the blend of acorn and chicory grinds that the villagers drank, but the sultry aroma of the real thing. Lucio saw his mother raise her chin, savouring the smell of it.

They walked around to the cellar door as Padre Ruggiero and his guest emerged on the balcony above them.

‘… I find it a rather barbaric ritual, myself,' the priest was saying, ‘but it's part of the summer festival and the villagers are very protective of their traditions. Your men might enjoy it. I'm sure they're in need of distraction.'

‘They are, Padre,' the captain replied. His Italian was laborious and heavily accented, but doubtless good enough for socialising with priests. ‘Thank you for the grappa. It's the best I've tasted in this area.'

‘Not at all, not at all. The least I can do in return for your generosity.' Padre Ruggiero caught sight of them. ‘Ah, Letia, my dear,' he called. ‘Wait there, would you?' His mother sighed as they set down the baskets. These days they delivered their produce to the cellar and left as quickly as they could, avoiding the priest for fear of what he might ask of them next, what he might decide against them.

The two men appeared through the kitchen door, the captain with three large bottles of Raimondi Gold in the crook of his arm. Lucio sensed his mother stiffening beside him.

‘Please, Hauptsturmführer. Take some peaches from my orchard.' Padre Ruggiero flicked a finger from Lucio to the idling jeep, where the driver had extinguished his cigarette and was standing to attention. Lucio carried his basket back and loaded it into the vehicle. ‘You won't find better peaches anywhere in the Lepini ranges, I assure you.'

Captain Schlosser reached down to take a peach, running his thumb over the downy yellow skin. ‘A messy fruit,' he mused. ‘Not so much to my taste. But the men will like them.' He tossed the peach back in the basket, where it bounced against the others and split its skin.

‘I look forward to the festival,' the German said, folding his legs into the jeep. He put on his cap and tapped the dashboard, signalling the driver to leave. As they set off, Lucio saw the captain twist around, not to farewell the priest, but to glance again at his mother, who had bent to lift her basket.

When the soldiers had rumbled out of sight down the rutted road, Padre Ruggiero took Lucio's mother by the elbow and led her to the cellar door. ‘Letia, my dear, as for the grappa. You must have noticed how my stores have become depleted.' He gestured in the direction of the jeep and the settling dust. ‘I have my reasons, you understand.'

‘What reasons would they be, Padre?' she asked, deliberately obtuse.

‘Now, Letia, don't play with me. You know very well that times are … well, strained, to say the least. We need to remain on the best of terms with the Germans — as your husband himself would stress if he were here to guide you.'

‘Well, he isn't here, Padre.' His mother took her basket into the cellar and they prepared to leave.

‘We've all heard the rumours,' the priest called, raising his voice, so there was no mistaking the change in his tone.

His mother stopped and faced him again.

‘They say there is no more Raimondi Gold — that Barilotto took his methods to the grave,' Padre Ruggiero accused, letting his attention settle on Lucio. ‘Far be it from me to cast blame, but I must consider the best future for the land at the Vigna Alba, you understand? Besides, what would a woman need with hard liquor? In times like these it's a much more powerful bartering tool in a man's hands.'

With his mother's arm around him, they began walking away. Lucio could sense her breath quickening beside him, felt her fingers pressing into his neck. He picked up his stride, making her follow him so that she didn't risk answering the priest.

Padre Ruggiero continued to call out to them. ‘Yes, I was speaking to Guido Ippoliti yesterday. He agreed you might be struggling with the Vigna Alba … but we'll discuss it some other time, perhaps, when you're not so hot and bothered from the climb? I'll come to your cellar.' They heard the satisfied shuffle of his footsteps climbing to the verandah. He had said enough.

On the chalk road, dust still hung in the air from the jeep. They rejoined the mule track and his mother hurried ahead of him, almost running, shaking out her headcloth with a snap. When she reached the bend, out of sight of the priest's house, she stopped. The brambles and shrubs on either side of the track were noisy with the tear of cicadas, the grind of crickets. Everything seemed alive with the evening's pulse, building to a kind of crescendo that seemed focused on a single movement: the tremble of the rag at his mother's side. It became an erratic jerk and he recognised the rigid set of her limbs, heard the choking in her throat before she folded in on herself. He ran as fast as he could, wanting to get there before she hit her head or broke an arm, a wrist, her teeth on the stony path, for he knew how breakable she was underneath it all. But his legs wouldn't move fast enough. In his mind he cried out, but no noise came. By the time he reached her, she was already limp on the ground, her seizure passed. Her head was lodged in Otto's arm, and he was pushing back her hair with the cloth, wiping away the spit that had foamed at her mouth.

Leyton
1950

The frail blue skies of that autumn continued into winter and brought bitter frosts. By January, the washing was brittle on the line, and Connie's bike growled at her in the mornings like something forced from hibernation. There was no prospect of Vittorio's visits anymore, and at work in the shop she felt so chilled by the ordinariness of her life that she feared someone would touch her and she might crack like the thin ice on the puddles.

‘Good-looking one's gone, then,' Mrs Livesey ventured across the counter the week after Vittorio had left. ‘Bit of a hoo-ha up at Repton's, Mrs Cartwright reckons.'

Mrs Cleat buffed the grubby smudges of Janet Livesey's fingerprints from her servery. ‘Mrs Cartwright's already been in,' she snapped, looking beyond Mrs Livesey for the delivery van. ‘
Last
week.'

‘So you heard, then? About Repton throwing him out?'

‘
Mr
Repton did not throw Victorio out.' Mrs Cleat sighed impatiently. ‘Mr Edwards offered him a place to live beside the garage. No point travelling all that way every day. Even you can see that, Janet, surely?'

There were rare occasions when Connie wanted to thank Mrs Cleat, and now was one of them. They knew very well about the fight between Vittorio and his father, how Mr Rose had stepped in to break it up. Mrs Cartwright had done her work last week, reporting the yelling match in the yard, all the while eyeing off the shiny new round of cheddar beside the last desiccated wedge, and pandering to Mrs Cleat: ‘I wished you'd heard it, Eleanor; you might have been able to translate, what with your opera Eye-talian.' Afterwards, when they were alone, Connie had told Mrs Cleat about Mr Edwards's offer to Vittorio, trying to give her more of an exclusive on the facts, to draw attention away from the fight. Mrs Livesey, however, was intent on tabloid sensation.

‘I expect you know, then? About Mr Gilbert and the other boy — that strange one who don't talk?'

Connie stopped wringing out the mop in the back store and returned to the counter. Mrs Cleat struggled with a resentful look.

‘Oho. I see you don't.' Mrs Livesey chuckled.

‘Really, Janet, you'll have to be quick. We're expecting the delivery van.' But she held the packages on the counter with firm fingers.

‘Well, Nurse Stokes says she were called out last Saturday night. Very late. To Mr Gilbert's. Says she had to stitch up that young Eye-talian's face.'

‘Whose face?' Connie burst out. ‘Lucio's? Lucio's face?'