The Last Pier (18 page)

‘Rose!’ Agnes cried aghast. ‘You’ve no brassiere on! What in the world are you thinking of?’

But Rose, morose for days, interested only in the tennis dance, laughed with sudden delight.

A discordant laugh that later, only two weeks later, Cecily would remember.

‘You’ll get a name as a floozy, Rose, if you go on this way. What will your father say?’

There was the smallest of pauses, barely discernable, but enough for Cecily to see the look of hatred in her sister’s eyes at the mention of Selwyn. A look that even then was frightening to behold in so lovely a face. Agnes must have thought so too because she hurried over to Rose with her clothes.

‘Put your dress back on, there’s a good girl,’ she said with unexpected gentleness, adding, ‘and there’s no need for such language, Kitty.’

By such straws as these was Cecily able to gauge the tide of Rose’s feelings flowing towards their Aunt Kitty.

Remembering that moment on a darker day, Cecily had wondered what Rose actually wore in her coffin. Did she have her brassiere on? She remembered her Aunt Kitty’s sniff of disapproval. The slight sneer in her eyes. She remembered staring at Rose’s blonde muff.

By August the 31st the harvest was over and the two large fields facing south were cleared. The farmhands built a massive stack
that rose dishevelled and radiant above the glare of the field. In this last magnificent burst of heat came the voice on the wireless.

A little further back was another finished stack where the haymakers moved slowly; white dots amongst the stubble.

Cecily and Tom climbed it until they were high above the hedge-tops. There was absolutely nothing in the world up there, except the shallow ramparts of the stack, the blazing sky and the hot, sweet-scented hay, suffocating in the heat.

And then at last, the dance dress was ready. Agnes cut the last loose thread and ironed the hem so it looked shop bought.

‘You look lovely, darling,’ she said in the sweet voice she sometimes reserved for Rose alone.

Cecily noted Agnes’ smile and in that fleeting moment, when her mother’s features lost their habitual severity of cast, saw how they revealed one of the chief sources from which Rose got her great beauty.

Upstream and several miles away from the farm, as evening began to fall, silence swooped like a night-bird in the gloaming. A thread of wind ruffled the river. Lucio lay on its banks and watched Agnes. Tomorrow was the party and they would be in full view of everyone. These snatched moments were the only privacy they would have for days. Blackberries smothered the hedges, and the empty wheat field was filled with dark birds.

‘Your brother is bound to guess!’ Agnes said.

Lucio looked at her gravely. There were flecks of light reflected in his eyes.

‘My nephew already does,’ he said solemnly.

Agnes blushed.

‘No! Which one?’

‘Carlo,’ Lucio said.

‘Oh God! Has he been playing with Cecily? Have they been spying on us?’

She was laughing.

‘I am very close to Carlo,’ he said finally. ‘The boy is like me. He believes in social justice.’

She didn’t speak and when he had waited a moment longer he turned and ran a finger across her lips. In the sparkle of light he thought she looked alert and assured, not nervous as he had first thought. The reflected ripple of the water made a bright mark on her throat. The Irish are wonderful, he decided, amazed. The image of her strengthened the resolve growing in him. The last of the sun’s rays poured across it as his tenderness for her grew.

‘Well?’ she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice. ‘So you told him?’

He shook his head bemused and began to touch her wide clear forehead under the thick black hair and then the smooth sun-sallow skin of her face and arms. He felt his heart rise at the sight of her and he felt, also, a sudden sick despair at the complications in their lives.

‘There’s probably a war coming,’ he murmured, burying his face in her hair. ‘I wanted… I wanted Carlo to know about us because…’ he shrugged.

He wanted to tell her that he was an Italian and that his country might call him back at any moment, that things could change in a day, that the war might go on for years. But he said none of these things, continuing instead to stroke her face, thinking how like a young girl she still was. Did she know? She could have been Rose’s sister.

‘Even if there is a war we will find a way.’

She lifted her face towards his and he turned to put his lips against her throat. When he kissed her he felt the summer turn slowly, mocking him. Wood pigeons were cooing huskily above
their heads. And he was certain, more certain than ever, that he wanted to marry her.

Afterwards they swam in the river and he watched the rise and fall of her bare arms and listened to the calm confidence of her voice as the light played on her wet hair. Thinking of the ways in which, starved of affection for so long, believing herself to be unlovable, she now loved him so wholeheartedly. How, confident as an acrobat on a high wire, she had launched herself on him, again and again. It stunned him, this trust. He would never betray it.

She pulled her dress on and towelled her hair. The sunburn on her face was very warm, first against his face and then his hands. She let her face remain lightly against him and he put his hand on her neck and the whole day spun on its axis when he kissed her, again. Staring at the furthest reaches of the clean blue river, Lucio made his decision. Tonight he would talk to Mauro. Once made, the decision overwhelmed him. Agnes continued to rest her head against his.

‘I can’t believe it will actually happen,’ she said.

He closed his eyes and the sun beat down on his lids. It burnt his face for a few moments longer.

‘I fear so,’ he said, at last.

He did not tell her he would almost certainly be called back to Italy. They had promised each other only honesty but how could he tell her this?

‘We could… all move to Italy,’ she said. ‘I mean the girls and I.’

A heron, grave as an abbot, attended to his fishing amongst the drooping branches of the willow. Lucio stared at it without moving, marvelling at its quiet elegance. Lately they had discovered they could read each other’s thoughts. Did love do that? Or war? All the dustiness of the afternoon was suspended in the air with the fineness of powdered sulphur. He shook his head and at last Agnes understood what he was trying so hard to hide from her.

‘If there
is
a war,’ he said, ‘none of this will matter.’

He reached up and wordlessly gathered her to him before she could start crying. Theirs was a marriage already, he thought. In some sense he had known her all her life.

‘But what if you get killed?’ she asked suddenly, voicing what, he suspected, she had kept to herself for many weeks.

‘I won’t,’ he promised.

Death, on this glittering, white-hot afternoon seemed impossible. They heard the kingfisher’s bullet-like whistle as it came upstream. It repeated the same fluid, fine-drawn sound that faded instantly. Lying with his arms around her, Lucio thought the sound was like this moment itself. Gone in an instant. When he opened his eyes again he was struck by the brutal sharpness of black leaves against blue sky. His eyes felt shocked into fresh alertness. And as he began to brush his hand against her naked shoulder, carefully beginning to make love to her again, he was aware of the unbearably sweet scent of late summer in the limes.

Much later they heard children’s voices and he pulled her gently to her feet and began removing the leaves from her crumpled dress. She looked at him with sleepy, trusting eyes, making the blood beat up into his throat.

‘I don’t want you to go,’ he mumbled at last.

‘I must,’ she said. ‘The children will be out looking for me and there is so much to do before tomorrow.’

He loved all three of her children, he told her. She pulled a face.

‘They would spy on me, given a chance!’

They had been meeting when they could, remaining patient when it wasn’t possible. But did Rose suspect?

‘No,’ Agnes said. She hesitated. ‘But she isn’t happy.’

He wondered how much Rose really knew but didn’t like to ask.

‘We are made for each other,’ he said instead.

What was on the surface a quiet thing was deep and certain, now.

They went together along the footpath and parted at the stile and he watched as she hurried away from him, back towards the house, her blue dress swinging as she walked. Then, turning towards the town and the ice-cream parlour he met up with Robert Wilson who was on his way there too and they walked the half a mile back together.

Carlo watched his mother as she broke the last of the egg yolks into a mountain of white flour.

‘Cecci was here earlier asking about the cakes I’m making for the tennis party,’ she said.

‘I’ll take them over later if you like,’ Carlo offered. ‘Then that’s one job done.’

Carlo put the bag of flour away for his mother. Then he washed his hands. Of all the children, he was the closest to Anna.

‘There’s no hurry, she said, shaking her head. Lucio can take the van because I’ve got lots of other things for you to take too.’

She looked at her youngest son and hesitated. He had a loving heart but sometimes he missed certain things.

‘Cecci was really looking for you,’ she said.

She kneaded the eggs into the flour to make a soft dough and shook off the excess from her elbow. Then she rolled the dough into a long, straight finger. Carlo got out the kitchen knife for her. She could tell by the way he was hovering around her that he was hungry.

‘It won’t be long,’ she smiled. ‘Put the water on to boil, will you,
caro
.’

She began cutting up the finger of dough into small sections. Carlo started stirring the tomato
sugo
on the stove and instantly the scent of basil and garlic filled the kitchen.

‘Oi,’ his mother said. ‘No tasting yet! Now then, at the dance I want you to be very nice to Cecci.’

‘I always am,’ Carlo said.

He dipped his finger quickly into the
sugo
and licked it.

‘I can see what you’re doing,’ Anna warned. ‘And I mean be really nice to her.’

‘
Perché
?’ Carlo said. ‘I’m very nice to Cecci, as you know. This
sugo
needs a little salt, by the way.’

‘Well make sure you notice her,’ Anna said.

She handed him the tub of salt.

‘That little one is in the shadow of Rosa. You should dance with her on Saturday. Rosa has plenty of admirers and Cecci loves you.’

‘I love her too, Mama,’ Carlo said.

And he helped himself to a spoonful of grated Parmesan behind his mother’s back.

Anna sighed.

‘If this war really were to happen,’ she said, ‘we can offer to supply the troops with ice cream I suppose. But I hope there will be no war!’

Carlo wanted to disagree but he could not shatter her illusions. He could not tell her what he knew, what his Uncle had told him. That if war came
all
the men in the Molinello family would be forced to return to Italy. Nobody in his family, none of his brothers or his father was prepared to face reality. The rubbish they believed in, the foolish certainty that peace would prevail, frightened Carlo. Mario still joked with his customers even though he had just bought blackout blinds. Their lives were being ruined by this shadow and no one cared. Rose, he knew, thought this way too but with her, perhaps because she was English, it was less complicated.

‘Ah, lunch,’ Mario cried, coming in.

Then he saw Carlo.

‘So, where is your uncle?’

Anna turned away to check her oven and Mario glanced uneasily in her direction.

‘I need to talk to Lucio,’ he muttered and went out.

Later on, before the dance, he wanted to take a photograph with his Brownie, of his family, all together.

‘Lunch is at one,’ Anna called. ‘Tell them, Carlo.’

Lucio returned at twelve. Behind him were Giorgio, Beppe, Mario.

Robert Wilson, arriving at the parlour, found himself invited to stay for lunch, too. He was a friend of the Maudsleys and that was good enough for Anna. Lucio went over to the sink to wash his hands. He looked hot and a little dazed as though he had been staring at the sun for too long. Wiping her hands, Anna gave Robert Wilson a kiss on both cheeks, Italian style, and invited him to sit down.

‘Come, have a little gnocchi.’

She placed a small carafe of red wine on the table, brought back by Lucio on the last trip home. Lucio was looking rather solemn. Mario gave his wife a warning look.

Don’t say anything, his look said. I will tell you everything later.

It better be a good story, Anna looked back. Your brother is very sulky today!

Beppe had forgotten to wash his hands because he was too busy watching his parents communicate through their eyes.

‘Wash your hands,
caro
,’ his mother told him. ‘
Before
you help yourself to the antipasti!’

The bell to the ice-cream parlour clanged again and the door into their private quarters was opened. Franca came in looking flushed.
Madonna
! thought Anna.

‘
Cara, vieni, vieni,
come. Hello Joe, come in, just in time.’

‘Wash your hands, children.’

Beppe fetched the water glasses. Giorgio poured the wine. Franca got an extra chair for Joe, who smiled shyly. Robert Wilson sat down at Mario’s request. Anna put a platter of ham on the table with some salted olives. Everyone smiled. Even Lucio, who knew his sister-in-law’s eagle eyes were on him.

And they held up their glasses. The moment froze.

‘
Salute,
Mama!’

‘
Salute!
’ Mario said, loudly.

‘Cheers,’ said Robert Wilson. ‘Down the hatch!’

‘
Salute
,’ said Joe, who was secretly learning Italian.