The Italians at Cleat's Corner Store (27 page)

‘And what did you tell her?' Connie would say.

‘What d'you think I told her? I said you was too busy at the shop now for books and reading and such.' And Connie understood the message she was giving Mrs Repton: that the Big House and its amusements were a childhood pastime that Connie had outgrown.

So when she passed the scullery that Saturday afternoon, on her way to the library, her aunt's disapproval was as keen as a blast of winter wind down the hallway. Aunty Bea spat again on the platter as she polished it, and Connie couldn't help but imagine the gratification she derived from knowing Mrs Repton's dinner would be sitting on a film of her own saliva.

‘Well, fetch us the pot before you go in, then,' Aunty Bea snapped. ‘You can make yourself useful and take her ladyship's tea in for me.' Connie reached for the service and waited while her aunt prepared the tray, setting down a solitary cup and saucer. ‘Tea for one, it is,' she added pointedly.

Outside, four or five rounds of gunshot sounded, making the scullery windows hum. Mr Repton and his shooters were discharging, their gaming ended for the day. Connie had seen the start of the shoot that morning on the way to work, stopping at the top of Bythorn Rise to watch Mr Repton at his peg, lined up with five other men in shooting tweeds, their twelve-bores raised to their shoulders, the spaniels' barks carrying across the fields like a dry cough. The beaters were in the spinney. She heard the tapping of the trees, the high-pitched
burrs
and
aarhhs
as they flushed out the birds
.
Some of them would be lane kids hoping for rewards of eggs or sweets, sometimes even a bird if Mr Repton's bag and his mood were particularly good. Behind the line of men she had seen the pickers: Fossett and Mr Rose, with their dogs. And there at the edge of the spinney, placed as a stopper before the dyke, was Lucio Onorati. Two birds creaked from the trees, fluttering diamonds spiralling upwards, and the opening volleys had sounded, cracking over the fields like they might bring down the sky itself. Lucio had ducked then: she'd seen it clearly. Even at that distance she could sense his whole body flinch, see his hand darting to cover his head. The rest of the party were oblivious, too busy scanning the air for the covey. But she had seen it. And afterwards, when the guns were cocked, she'd witnessed the way he'd straightened and stepped forward with the others as though nothing had happened. The wings of a rogue bird, shot wide of the spinney, fanned as he raised it by the feet from the wet grass. He corrected it, the head lolling at his hip, the plump body banging against his knee as he walked. The air was so sharp it seemed to sting her lungs as she caught her breath.

‘Shoot's over, then,' Aunty Bea said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘See his lordship's got the Eye-talians beating and bagging for him. Just as well. According to Fossett, his lordship can't make a clean kill if the game were hung in front of him. The Eye-ties'll have to finish them birds off for his bag by hand … like they did her ladyship's cat.'

Connie bit down on her lips. ‘I told you,' she said, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘I couldn't be sure it was the Italian. It was dark …' She trailed off as her aunt flashed her a smug look. ‘You've told Mrs Repton, haven't you? About the cat?'

Aunty Bea shrugged. ‘So what if I did? Not like they's anything to you, is it?' The heat rose across Connie's throat and she could not meet her gaze. Aunty Bea had found the thread and tugged.

‘'Cause if they is anything to you, my girl, you're on your own. You get your sights set on one of them bloody WOPs' — she paused, gathering her strength after the poison of the word — ‘and you'll be making your own bed.'

Her aunt lifted the tea tray and thrust it at her. Connie was surprised to see that her eyes glinted with the beginnings of tears. Aunty Bea wasn't one for crying and didn't tolerate it in others either, thinking it self-pitying and weak. Connie had only ever seen her cry on two occasions: once when the telegram about Uncle Bill had arrived; and once on VE Day, which Uncle Jack said was from too much sherry, even though the tears had continued at the kitchen sink early the next morning. Until that point, she had thought that, like Mrs Cleat, Aunty Bea might come around to the Italians, to Vittorio's charms at least. But these were tears of bitterness, stubborn and blinkered. She knew now that the further she became involved with the Onorati boys, the further she was sure to drive the wedge between herself and her aunt. She shifted the tray to her hip and tried to soften her expression, but Aunty Bea ushered her impatiently out the door.

Connie walked the corridors, the tea things chiming, unsteady in her hands. She resented her aunt's threat but was also confused by it, and the closer she came to the library, the more these emotions mingled with the memory of Mrs Repton at the harvest fair. Connie had not spoken to her since that night, and her nerves fizzed in her stomach, making her feel queasy. She was certain there would be reproaches for not coming sooner, and she felt a fraud for making the effort now, when she had such an ulterior motive. She took a deep breath at the unlatched door, tapped it with her foot by way of knocking, and nudged it open.

Mrs Repton was curled on the window seat, gazing out towards the yard. Through the pane, Connie could see Fossett, Lucio and his father pairing up the braces, laying them in lines for the hunting party to survey as they drank their whiskey. An open book had slipped from Mrs Repton's lap, and her head, leaning against the window, had fogged the glass in a small circle. She didn't turn around and Connie thought she might be asleep. But as she approached, she saw that Mrs Repton's eyes were open, lit with that feline changeability, which seemed at once focused and elsewhere. The tea things rattled on the tray as Connie set them down. Mrs Repton started. A strand of her hair, lodged loosely in the ebony comb, fanned down into her neck.

‘Connie!' She held out her pale hands and Connie took them. ‘Why haven't you been? I thought perhaps you'd finally found your wings and we'd become too dull for you.' Her disappointment seemed genuine.

‘Hardly.' Connie tried to laugh, but it came out weakly, almost a sigh. She squeezed Mrs Repton's hands and was surprised to feel their thinness in her own, to see her tired smile, her collarbone angular under a silk blouse. She slid her hands from Connie's and pulled out the comb. Her blonde hair fell stiff and awkward about her face as she set the comb between her teeth, running her palms along her neck to gather up the loose strands. Watching her, Connie felt an ache in her stomach, as if for something lost, something that could no longer be regained — like a child discovering that fairies were a fantasy, or a wonderful magic trick simply the sleight of an adult's hand.

Mrs Repton motioned for Connie to sit next to her. ‘Only one cup?' Connie ignored her, arranging the tea things. ‘I see. Your aunt. She never has liked you spending time with me, has she? Am I such a terrible influence?' There was mischief in her eyes. ‘Is it because of her you stayed away?'

‘No. Of course it wasn't.'

‘Good then.' She got up from the window seat and crossed to the drinks cabinet, returning with two whiskey tumblers and pouring tea into them from the pot. After a moment, she went back for the whiskey and splashed some of that into each glass too. She handed one to Connie and sat back down with her own. ‘Well, it's how they drink tea in the Middle East, isn't it? In glasses. We can pretend we're somewhere exotic, like Morocco or Egypt.' Laughter sounded among the shooting party in the courtyard. ‘Well, almost,' she added.

Connie sipped at her tea, the fumes hot in her throat, her fingertips burning on the glass. She could see Mr Repton outside, his chapped nose and cheeks seeming all the angrier for the dullness of his tweeds, his tan garters as he walked the mottled line of pheasants and grouse laid out on the flagstones.

‘So, why
did
you stay away?' Mrs Repton asked.

‘I've been busy … in the shop … and …'

Mrs Repton stared out the window. ‘Oh,' she said, clearly disappointed at Connie's lack of honesty. She waved a hand in the vague direction of the bookshelves. ‘Help yourself, then. Take whatever you want.'

Connie set down her glass. The strap of her satchel was still strung across her shoulder and she slipped it off. ‘I … I didn't only come for books. Not really.' She flushed as she opened the bag, as much because the battered satchel was still her one handbag as for what she was about to do. She took out the paper parcel and handed it to Mrs Repton.

‘What's this?'

‘I should have brought them back ages ago. I'm sorry.'

Mrs Repton opened the crushed paper. ‘Goodness,' she said, pulling out one of her white heels. ‘I quite forgot about those. How angry Repton was with me.' She gave a tremulous laugh as she replaced the shoe and scrunched up the paper in her fist. ‘Here. You keep them. Repton never liked them anyway and I hardly need to be reminded of that night. You're probably the same size as me now.' Mrs Repton held up the bag, her eyes on Connie's scuffed lace-ups.

Connie frowned and shook her head slowly, before realising how ungrateful it seemed. But she couldn't help feeling insulted, her pride somehow injured, and she imagined for the first time something of what the Italians might feel.

Mrs Repton let the bag fall onto the window seat between them. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘That was … tactless of me.' She stood abruptly, her hand beneath the coil of her hair, her shoulders rising and falling with her breath. ‘Of course, I should apologise for walking off and leaving you while you were trying to help me that night.' Her tone was hopeful, as if Connie might deny the need for an apology, the need to bring up again the unhappiness she'd cast before her that evening. And for a second Connie was tempted. It would be so much easier to say what Mrs Repton wanted to hear, to retreat to the shelter of the bookshelves and lose herself in the great atlas like she used to as a child. But she also saw Lucio bending in the yard to gather up the braces, the carcasses of the game swinging against his side as he walked to the stable, where Fossett was hanging them. And the light from the window showed a thin strand of grey hair, loose on Mrs Repton's shoulder, aggravating in Connie that residual sense of something magical that was now ordinary, of something innocent now lost.

‘You were very unhappy that night,' Connie braved finally.

Mrs Repton gave a hollow laugh. ‘Well, I was somewhat worse for wear, wasn't I?' She reached for a cigarette from the caddy and held it between her fingers without lighting it.

It was Connie's turn to stare out the window and show her disappointment.

Mrs Repton snapped her lighter. ‘Really. It's not as bad as it seems.' She let her head fall back on her shoulders as she exhaled, gazing up at the high ceiling of the library.

Connie concentrated on the baggers hanging the coveys, Lucio transferring them between the courtyard and the stables.

‘It was my idea, you know,' Mrs Repton said. ‘Bringing the Italians back.' A faint smile played on her lips as though she'd seen through Connie, had understood the real reason she'd come. ‘Aldo came to us from the camp in Wood Walton during the war, did you know that?' Connie shook her head. ‘I could speak some Italian, so I was asked to help settle the billets on farms in the area. He barely spoke a word when he first arrived, even to the other prisoners. He'd been taken for dead, pulled from a mass grave in North Africa and sent to the military hospital in Cairo. When he got here, it was like we'd received only the broken pieces of him. But by the end of the war, he'd thrown himself into his work like there was nothing else. When I heard how bad things had become for the Italians after peace, I encouraged Henry to ask Aldo to come back.' She glanced at Connie, something culpable in her expression. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing, you understand? Repton simply saw the economic advantage — he still does — but I honestly thought it would be a better life for them.'

She leaned over to press her cigarette into the ashtray. ‘I know why you're here. Harvey has told me about the boy.'

‘About Lucio?'

Mrs Repton nodded.

‘Do you know then? Have you seen his work at the church?'

‘Yes. He's very good. There's no doubt about it.'

‘Good enough to be at art college, don't you think?' Connie could hardly keep the hope from her voice, and hurried on before she could lose her nerve, the whiskey giving her courage. ‘That's where he should be, not wasting such a talent hacking sugar beet and mucking out pigs. That's why I came … to ask whether you could help him. He can't get a scholarship until he's a British resident and that will take years. But if he could pay his way — if he had some money …'

She stopped. Mrs Repton had lowered her head, folding her arms about her as if she was drawing all the parts of herself together. Her lips trembled, but whether she would laugh or cry, Connie couldn't tell.

‘Do you really believe I have money of my own?' Mrs Repton said.

Connie was taken aback. She hadn't thought there was even a possibility Mrs Repton didn't have money. She knew the Gilberts had never been a wealthy family. There were rumours their father, once landed gentry, had been a gambler, and Mr Gilbert seemed to prove it: teaching was a necessity, not a choice, she knew. Still, he and his sister had the privileges of the wealthy: the education, the travel, the accents, even the assumptions. Everyone knew Eve Gilbert had married Henry Repton for his money, but it hadn't occurred to Connie that she would have limited access to it. Connie considered her: the clothes, the jewellery, the furniture and books. Everything around them seemed to shrink, to become like copies, a doll's-house version in which Mrs Repton was acting out only scenes of a life.