The Last Pier (19 page)

Franca giggled. And blushed.

‘Will you be there?’

‘At the tennis match? Of course, of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world!’

It would be a day of Anglo-Italian celebrations. Anna was making a surprise cake for the event. No, she couldn’t say what sort. Only that they made it at
Peck’s
in Milano.

‘Ah well!’ Robert teased. ‘If it’s good enough for Milan!’

The chef who worked for il Duce had given her the secret recipe.

‘You know il Duce?’

‘No, no, Roberto. Only his cook! He comes from the same village as us.’

‘What village is that?’

‘It’s called Bratto,’ Mauro told him.

Then he mopped up the rest of his tomato
sugo
with a small piece of bread.

‘Mmm,’ he said, miming a corkscrew boring into his cheek with one finger.

‘
Buono
!
’ repeated his sons, making the same gesture.

I wish I were like this family, thought Joe, too shy to copy them.

Funny gesture, thought Robert, nodding, amazed at how good the food was.

THE DAWN WAS
what they remembered, arriving slowly, brimming with promise. Suffolk oaks loomed darkly through the low-lying mist where in a few hours the gauzy light would blaze into heat. There was the scent of woodsmoke everywhere, touched by the beginnings of autumn. For it was September now.

A calm, sad, gentlemanly voice on the wireless was talking about Germany invading Poland and as she stood, with her basket, picking peas, Agnes thought,
I’ll remember this day.
She hurried through the orchard in a dress so pale it appeared white, humming to herself. Selwyn was nowhere in sight. And Partridge’s voice, reassuring as it came up the path, saying yes, the gipsies were moving on.

‘That Wilson fellow got rid of them,’ he said, accepting a mug of tea from Cook who was busy frying bacon and eggs.

‘Oh, he’s back, is he?’ said Agnes. ‘Good!’

‘Were they roasting hedgehogs?’ Cecily asked, creeping up.

‘Good gracious, C! You’re up early.’

‘Up with the lark,’ said Partridge. ‘But unfortunately with the owl too!’

‘What d’you mean?’ Cecily asked, suspiciously.

But Partridge only grinned and handed her a small colander. She could help him pick raspberries.

‘Rose will look very pretty, today,’ Cecily told him.

Partridge disappeared into the bushes. His voice coming through the raspberry canes was muffled.

‘You’ll look exactly like her one day,’ he said eventually. When he emerged Partridge had drops of dew all over his shirt. ‘You’ll see,’ he said.

All the tickets for the charity dance had sold. Local people would not have missed it for the world and this year, with the
anxiety of what might lie ahead there would be many Italians from all over Suffolk, invited by the Molinellos.

Cook had made the lemonade the night before and the jugs were cooling in the scullery with beaded cloths covering them. There was a man from the Aga shop bending over the open oven door and Cook was lamenting the delay of the scones. Ever since electricity had come to Palmyra Farm a year ago, baking had become easier. So why, today of all days, had something gone wrong?

‘Don’t just stand there,’ she told the children, crossly. ‘Here, you can stone the cherries.’

And she handed them each a bowl.

‘Does anyone know where there is a spare racquet?’ Rose asked.

A shadow fell against the whitewashed farmhouse wall. Bellamy, incandescent with rage, made Cecily shiver. But Rose didn’t give a toss.

‘Oh dear,’ she sighed. ‘
Now
what d’you want?’

And off she went, humming to herself. Cook made a tck-tch sound at the back of her throat.

Joe had cleared a place in the shrubbery beside the tennis court and was building a fire to boil kettles of water for the tea. Cecily, carrying cutlery and a tablecloth, saw that buttercups had come out in their hundreds on the uncut parts of the grass.

‘
Mia bella sorella
!’ Joe said, seeing her, speaking Italian a little self-consciously. ‘Where is the queen of the day?’

He was happy for secret reasons of his own, even though his call-up papers were for Monday and Russia had ordered the mobilisation of two million men.

‘I hate that gypo, Bellamy,’ Tom said, staring after Rose.

The milk had been poured into bottles and placed in the scullery.

There were sandwiches made with fresh sardines and egg-and-cress and roast beef and horseradish and turnip pickle.

Cecily helped slice the ham.

She would do so again very soon, but on that day the radio would not be playing a waltz.

And Rose would not be laughing at what Franca and Carlo were saying.

And Bellamy would have an altogether different sort of expression on his face.

The Molinello boys were getting the barn ready for the evening.

Beppe was testing the microphone.

Lucio had arranged for the piano to be brought out from the drawing room. Agnes had promised, a little reluctantly, to play it.

‘Wait,’ Mario bellowed. ‘I need a little more practice, first.’

His family groaned.

‘You’ve practiced enough Papi,’ they cried all together.

But Mario was adamant.

Giorgio was tuning his sax. Snatches of old songs mixed with laughter.

‘Where are my tennis whites?’ Mario shouted.

‘
O Dio!
’ said Carlo, ‘Mama! You must stop him, please, I beg you. He thinks he’s going to beat everyone. Papi, don’t play with Rose, whatever you do.’

Lucio, rushing backwards and forwards with boxes of ice cream and equipment, grinned happily every time he bumped into Agnes. His sister-in-law’s eyes were on him.
Ah!
he thought, wanting to laugh out loud.
Our family policeman.

‘Carlo!’ Cecily cried. ‘You’re early. Are you staying for elevenses?’

Carlo grinned. He looked very handsome in a blue shirt that complemented his eyes.

‘
Carissima
Cecci
,’ he said, vaguely remembering something his mother had said.

But then Rose came up, ruining everything.

‘There you are, Carlo. I’ve decided you will be my partner in the first game.’

Carlo hesitated. He had thought Rose was starting the afternoon with Bellamy.

‘He is much better than me,’ he said. ‘I will make you lose!’

‘Don’t be silly, besides it’s only a mouldy old game,’ Rose said.

Bellamy looked as though someone had slapped him. Lucio had brought four different types of ice cream. Chocolate marshmallow sundae, chocolate and damson ice cream, strawberry-chocolate creams and a
sorbetto
called Purple Cow that no one had heard of before.

Lucio shut the refrigerator door, turned round and saw Agnes. Cecily, peering through a crack in the doorway, had never heard her mother giggle in such a way before. She watched the deep dimple in Agnes’ cheek come and go and with no warning she thought,
I Am Alone.
The words reverberated in her head and a chasm appeared to have opened up in her life. Peering down into it she wondered what she might do. For it seemed to her on this morning that all the talk of war was nothing compared to her own confused desires. Going out into the sunlight, seeing Bellamy, she thought, we are both of no consequence.

‘Shall we go and help Joe?’ she asked.

But Bellamy shook his head dumbly and turned away.

The first match was well underway by the time Robert Wilson arrived.

‘Hello, Selwyn,’ he said softly, lighting a cigarette. ‘We appear to be at the point of no return.’

His tone made Mario, who was watching the game, turn sharply. Lucio had been leaning against a tree but now he too strolled over to Selwyn. There was a round of applause,
fragmented and hollow in the sunshine. Tomorrow Chamberlain would have his answer.

‘Rose is the tennis queen of Bly,’ Beppe shouted and Pinky Wilson looked up.

Rose had won again and everyone wanted to play alongside her. But she was having none of it. Carlo was her partner for the afternoon. Bellamy, standing at the corner of the field, looked awfully hot. Kitty, holding another bunch of flowers, smiled.

‘I’ll just put them in water,’ she said.

The game stopped. They were all ravenous as rats. Especially Tom. Beppe, who had been keeping the score, vowed when they continued he would beat Rose and Carlo. But for the moment it was the food they fell on and after that they all sat round talking and smacking at the midges.

‘No one will play after this!’ predicted Kitty.

She had cut Selwyn a piece of Cook’s huge chicken pie and some cheese.

‘Lucio,’ Agnes said softly, ‘would you like to try the ham?’

‘Please,’ he said, looking at her and not the ham.

‘The waiting will soon be over,’ the vicar said, nodding like a dog without a collar.

Rose looked very cool and unruffled. Out of the corner of her eye, Cecily saw Bellamy staring at her. He looked terrible.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Why are there foreigners here, today?’ he said, disdainfully. ‘We’re almost at war and they invite these Fascists.’

‘
Bellamy
!’ Joe said, outraged. ‘Apologise at once! Or go home. The Molinellos are our friends. I won’t have you insult them.’

‘He didn’t mean it,’ Cecily said.

‘Go on,’ Joe said, grimly. ‘Apologise.’

Bellamy scowled.

He was the only blemish on the day.

There was always one, Cook would have said, had she heard.

But Franca, laughter wiped off her happy face, shivered. A goose was walking over her grave.

‘Why does your mother let that boy play with Cecily?’ she asked.

Joe shook his head, too angry to speak.

‘What d’you expect from a gipsy,’ Tom said later, without heat.

Cecily felt as if she were carrying a jelly that was melting. Any moment it would lose its shape and it would be all her fault.

‘He’s not a gipsy,’ she retorted. ‘He’s just not got any manners, that’s all. His mother is very poor and we mustn’t forget the unemployment in Britain.’

She was aware of sounding like her father. Tom laughed.

‘Well, Hitler will see to that,’ he said in a grown-up voice. ‘This war will take care of all the unemployed in this country.’

The afternoon moved on but the heat did not let up. Soon the tennis players had had enough to eat and were ready to start up again. Cook and The Help went back to the house to prepare the cream tea. They could hear Agnes’ voice calling everyone to take their seats. Selwyn, too, hurried towards the court with his racquet. He had changed into his whites. He and Aunt Kitty were playing against Mario and Agnes. Rose didn’t look as if she were going to play any more.

‘What, not playing, Rose?’ Robert Wilson asked in a friendly way.

But Rose scowled ferociously at him.

‘How about a game with me?’

Cecily didn’t hear her sister’s answer but she saw Carlo walk up to Rose and take hold of her hand. There was no doubt, she thought, he does love her. Sadness was making a hole through her heart. Carlo had hardly spoken to her. In spite of his promise, she knew he would not dance with her either.

All that long, hot afternoon the balls continued to zip to and fro across the net, pinging off the strings and throwing up dust into the Suffolk air. The news bulletins were forgotten in the score-keeping as voices called out in exasperation at the missed shots or the possibility of cheating. Laughter came and went. Would there ever be another party like this again?

The sun moved around the sky and the players wiped their foreheads with increasing frequency. Cecily and Tom collected the balls and threw them back to the servers who smiled their thanks and sometimes shouted, ‘Oh well done, C!’ Or ‘Neatly fielded, Tom!’

There was no sign of Bellamy but once or twice Carlo, running across the court, called out and waved at Cecily.

Tom discovered he was better at tennis than he had first thought so that finally he was roped in to play with Franca and another girl called Bella. No one dared suggest he played with Rose. She had beaten all the others. Only Carlo was anywhere near a match for her. Lucio watched the players while he smoked, his eyes half-closed against the glare. When Rose won he clapped loudly, the cigarette dangling from his lips. Now and then his eyes would stray in the direction of the spectators sitting under the oak. After a while he went to fetch the ice cream. It was the moment they had all been waiting for. A shutter opened and closed, preserving forever an image in Cecily’s head.

Rose, laughing, bad mood all gone.

Carlo handing her a huge strawberry and chocolate Melba.

Rose’s laughter running around the garden like wildfire, touching everyone so they turned and looked at her and began to laugh too, without quite knowing why. Spontaneously combusting.

‘Bet you can’t eat it!’ Carlo said.

‘Bet you I can!’

Rose, hair tied in a hasty knot because she was so hot, wisps escaping.

Like honeysuckle.

Carlo tucking a strand into the knot with quick fingers as Rose kept on spooning ice cream into her mouth.

‘Oh!’ giggled Rose. ‘Oh! Oh!’

And then she was kissing and kissing him right up against the lilac bush.

Oh! Oh!

Rose, made for loving, meant for dancing.

Honeysuckle Rose.

Tennis-dressed.

Laughter rambling all over her face.

Rambling not-dead-yet.

When she had finished all of the ice cream, she wiped her mouth on a handkerchief embroidered with strawberries and tied in a knot. Then she went with him to find Franca and Joe.

Forget-me-nots?

Who ever would?