A Song for Joey (2 page)

Rita knew the effect she had on men, and she was not oblivious to the fact that he had
noticed her cleavage - it had not been revealed by accident.
In the kitchen she asked her mother about the new guest.
"You watch out for him, my girl. He's foreign, was a prisoner of war. Don't you go
flirting with him." Gladys knew she was wasting her breath. Rita was always getting into
trouble with men.
Rita smiled to herself as she helped Gladys to prepare the jam roly-poly pudding and
custard for afters.
Foreign, was he? Good lovers, some of those European men. Shame he wasn't
American, they always had cash to spend on a girl. She remembered that airman, Hiram;
what a great time they had shared before he went back to his base.
After a little while, she peeped into the dining room, noticing that everyone except the
young chorus girl had finished their first course. She bustled in and cleared all the plates,
leaving the foreign man until last again.
When she finally reached him, she treated him to a little smile, not much more than an
upturned corner of her mouth, but he responded happily with a big, toothy grin. She felt
that surge of excitement again; she had him, now she would play with him for a while.
When dinner was done, and everyone else had left, Paolo stayed behind, hoping for a
chance to speak to the attractive waitress. But she didn't reappear, it was Gladys who
came to clear away the dishes.
"There's no more," she barked.
He shrugged and left. But, instead of returning to his room, he decided to go for another
walk. The evening was fine and warm; he loved these long English summer days, almost
like home.
Rita, meanwhile, was quizzing her mother about the stranger.
"How should I know," grumbled the older woman. "He arrived with a letter from the
government, saying he was an Italian POW, released pending his repatriation."
'Italian?' Rita was intrigued; she'd never had an Eye-tie.
'Wonder what he's like between the sheets,' she pondered. 'Well, there's only one way to
find out,' she smiled to herself.

Gladys froze, her mouth open, her cup halfway to her lips. They were sitting in the Front
Parlour, as Gladys liked to call it, enjoying tea and scones before continuing with the
cleaning and decorating. The winter months were always quiet in the guest-house: there
were no shows on at the theatres, no holidaymakers, so it was the time for repairs and
maintenance.

Rita seemed unembarrassed, belligerent. "Well, someone say something."
"What do you suggest?" Gladys snapped, "Well done?" She glared at Paolo, who looked
as though he was trying to shrink into his chair and become invisible. "I take it this young
man is responsible?"
"Of course it's him, who else could it be?" Rita countered, though some of her bravado
was gone. She knew her mother was referring to her string of lovers.
Not long ago, she had been seeing that lad from the Pleasure Beach, and before him
there was the American airman, and before that many others. Rita soon became bored
with her boyfriends, once the excitement of a fondle under the pier had gone, and another
man would soon catch her attention.
"How should I know? I can't keep up with you. All these chaps you bring home, and the
ones you think I don't know about! You're getting a reputation, young lady. Now look
what's happened, you've gone and got yourself knocked up!"
There was a long uncomfortable silence, during which Gladys put her cup down in its
saucer and folded her arms across her bosom, glowering at Rita and Paolo in turn. Paolo
seemed to be struck dumb, and though Rita kept looking at him for support, he kept
silent, his chin buried in his neck, his eyes on the table.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" Gladys demanded.
Another pause, while the two youngsters looked anxiously at each other.
"Maybe I could . . . you know . . ." stammered Rita.
"What?"
"You know . . ."
Gladys knew perfectly well what Rita was hinting at, but she had no intention of making
it easy for her. The silence dragged on.
Rita was now feeling sheepish, all her former bravado ebbing away. She couldn't have a
baby, she just couldn't, it wasn't part of her plan. She began to feel resentful of Paolo - she
hadn't fallen before, why had he gone and ruined everything by making her pregnant?
"Come on, out with it girl!" Gladys leaned back in her chair, defying Rita to say the
words.
"Well, I've heard there are women who will get rid of it, for money." Even as she said
the words, Rita cringed. She knew her mother was strongly opposed to abortion, even if
they could find someone who could do it.
"Oh no, madam, that is not an option. You created a life inside you, and every life is
precious. It's about time you accepted some responsibility."
Rita's embarrassment turned to anger, and she stood up and shouted at her mother: "You
can't tell me what to do! I'm twenty years old, I can run my own life!"
Calmly, Gladys looked her daughter in the eye. "Yes, you can, and a fine mess you have
made of it so far."
Rita stared back for a moment, then turned and stamped out of the room, her high heels
clicking on the polished floor as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Gladys turned to Paolo. "You don't seem to have much to say," she hissed.
He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. "I am sorry, Signora Cartwright."
"Sorry won't butter any parsnips," she grumbled. "Are you prepared to marry Rita?"
"Parsnips? Marry?" He paused, noticing her expression. Gladys was a small woman, but
somehow she seemed more intimidating than a lion at that moment. "Well, yes, I suppose
so."
"Suppose so?" screeched Gladys, incredulously. "You make my daughter pregnant, then
you 'suppose' you will marry her? You two seem to have everything in the wrong order.
The idea is meant to be that first you marry, then you have children, or do they do it
differently in Italy?"
"No, no, Signora, I did not mean that . . ." he struggled for the words. "Of course we will
be married, as quickly as possible. It is just a surprise, I had not expected it."
"Well, here is a lesson in biology, Paolo: a man and a woman have sex and that is the
way babies are made. Did you not know that?"
"Yes, of course," he agreed, miserably, humiliated.
"But you did not think to take precautions?" She almost whispered the words. But when
she spoke quietly, reasonably, it was somehow even more menacing. She didn't wait for
an answer. "I have a dinner to cook, one of the many responsibilities I have, which, it
seems, also now include thinking for my stupid daughter and her beau." She too departed
to the kitchen, leaving Paolo feeling that he had only just survived a mauling.
-♪-♫-♪

The wedding was hardly a romantic occasion. It took place on a cold, wet and windy
afternoon in February, 1946, at St Johns Church, only five minutes by car from the guesthouse. Rita had wanted a Registry Office wedding, but Gladys would not hear of it.

Gladys studied her youngest pensively as she finished getting ready. What would Arthur
have made of this, she wondered. Little Rita was his darling. Poor thing, she was only
thirteen when he died, and was very upset. Gladys thought that, if he had been a bit more
strict with her, Rita might have not been such a handful all her life. Now look at her,
beautiful but wayward.

She looked lovely in her wedding dress, creamy-white, long, but loose, to hide her
swelling belly. The family had pooled all their clothing coupons to get it.
The war may have been over for nearly a year, but food and clothing were still rationed.
Every household had a book of tokens for everything from meat to paraffin, in quantities
according to the size of family.
Rita's big brother, Ernie, chauffeur for the day, stuck his head around the door. "Time
we were going, girls."
"Ready, then?" Gladys asked, her head filled with mixed emotions: pride at her lovely
daughter, shame that she was marrying in haste.
"As I'll ever be," sighed Rita.
"It's the right thing to do, love, you know that. Your baby needs a proper family."
"I just don't want to throw my life away, mum. I'm only twenty, I should be having fun."
"Seems to me you already had a bit too much fun," Gladys frowned, looking down at
Rita's tummy, significantly.
"It doesn't notice, does it?" Rita was immediately anxious again.
"No dear, it doesn't show, yet, but it soon will if we don't get a move on." She smiled,
reassuringly.
Out front, Ernie was waiting in his Morris Oxford, which he had decorated with
ribbons. He jumped out as they appeared, threw away his cigarette and held open the rear
door for Rita and her mum. One or two neighbours had gathered at the sight of the
beribboned car, and stood in little groups, watching curiously.
They drove slowly up Trafalgar road, turned left into Nelson Road, and then down York
Road to the church. Saint John's was a compact cluster of buildings of traditional Norfolk
flint, but in a strange Gothic style, crammed into the junction between Lancaster Road
and York Road.
On a nicer day it could have looked much more attractive, but to Rita, seeing it through
the condensation inside the car's window, it looked cold and grey and heartless.
When the car pulled up, they were met by Rita's youngest brother, Thomas, holding a
big umbrella to shelter the bride. Rita and Thomas were always the closest when children,
and he had begged to be allowed to give her away. Rita took his proffered hand as she
stepped gracefully from the car, then they waited under the umbrella for Gladys, before
processing regally through the big, oak doors and into the vaulted church, echoing to click
of Rita's heels and the muttering voices of the tiny congregation.
Paolo stood waiting before the chancel with his best man, a friend he had made at the
bakers where he now worked. Rita took her place beside him, looking up at his face with
a nervous smile. He had bought a good suit from his earnings, and she thought he looked
very smart.
The vicar intoned the required admonitions, and the small congregation mumbled the
unfamiliar words of familiar hymns. Before long, they were all sheltering in the arched
doorway, taking photographs of each other, and when all was done to everyone's
satisfaction, they processed back to the guest-house for the wedding feast. This was little
enough; although the family had given Gladys as many food coupons as they could spare,
and she had worked hard to make the most of them, it was scarcely a banquet.
When the food and drink were all gone, the guests departed, declaring the day a success.
Gladys and the young couple sat down with a cup of tea, before the clearing up would
have to begin.

Rita struggled with pregnancy. She hated being fat - men had stopped noticing her and
none of her clothes fitted any more. And, as she grew larger, so Paolo seemed to lose
interest. He seemed to spend more and more of his time at work, and when he was at
home he preferred to sit in the little front garden, smoking and watching the girls go by in
their pretty dresses.

It was a beautiful summer; long hot days and sultry nights. But she found she was
increasingly sleeping alone. Paolo went out drinking with his pals most nights, and didn't
return until after midnight; she would sometimes find him next morning, sprawled out on
the sofa in the front parlour. Then, one night, he didn't come home at all.

Rita, huge now, began to panic. She feared that something terrible had happened to him.
Gladys phoned the police for her, but they had no knowledge of him being involved in
anything. Eventually, the two of them walked round to the bakery.

Tom Wade, the baker, did not seem pleased to see them when Rita waddled in, followed
by Gladys.
"Huh! Sending women to make his excuses now, is he?" he grunted, lifting trays of
bread from the oven into a cooling rack. "This has been happening too much, lately,
Gladys. How does he think I can cope on my own? He might at least have the decency to
get you to phone in when he's too pissed to get out of bed."
Gladys frowned. "He's not here, then?" she asked, a chill hand gripping her heart.
"I wouldn't be doing this if he were, Gladys, I should be loading up the delivery vans
with the drivers, they always get in a muddle if I leave them to do it on their own." He
noticed Gladys's concerned expression and Rita's advanced pregnancy. "Is he not at home,
either?"
Gladys and Rita shook their heads. "Who does he go drinking with?" Rita asked.
"Well he used to go with Charlie, one of the drivers, but Charlie told me they haven't
been out together for weeks."
Rita felt tears running down her cheeks. Suddenly, she had a feeling she knew what he
had been up to.
Gladys took her arm and gently led her towards the door. "Thanks, Tom," she called
over her shoulder, "I'll let you know when we find out more."
"Thanks, Gladys."
As they opened the door, he called out: " ... erm ... sorry Rita."

When they arrived back at the B & B, Paolo was there, packing his clothes into a
suitcase.
"What's going on?" Gladys demanded as Rita gave a little groan and collapsed into a
chair.
"I am leaving. I have enough of this place and enough of you," he growled.
"What about Rita, what about your baby?"
He laughed, a kind of cough. "My baby? I am not so sure. I hear about your many men,"
this directed at Rita. "Maybe the baby not belong me, maybe you trap me for become a
father."
Rita gave a howl, then found her voice. "No! The baby is yours, I promise you, Paolo.
Please don't leave me to go through this alone."
Gladys grabbed his arm. "You are not leaving, young man, you must not desert your
wife and child like this."
He shook himself free. "You cannot stop me. I am returning to my home in Italy.
England is not a nice place."
"You are a coward!" Gladys shouted. "Afraid to accept responsibility. A real man would
stay."
Paolo did not reply. Instead, with a glare at the two women, he snapped his case closed,
the sound ringing like two gunshots in the small room, and marched wordlessly out of the
door.
Rita was sobbing in her chair, her body convulsing.
Gladys was worried for her. Emotional scenes like this were not good at eight months
pregnant. She reached down and took her daughter's hand. "Come in the kitchen with me
and I'll make us a cup of tea."
Meekly, all her spirit gone, Rita stood and followed her mother. She sat on a chair at the
kitchen table while Gladys filled the kettle and lit the gas ring under it with a match.
Rita expected her mother to rant and rave about how it was her (Rita's) own fault - her
bad choice in men, her casual attitude to sex, all the years of anguish she had caused her
mother - but, instead, Gladys was sympathetic. She talked quietly, as she spooned tea into
the large, brown teapot, reassuring Rita that she was not alone, that she would always be
there for her. Then, when Rita's tears had stopped and her drink was finished, Gladys sent
her up to bed for a nap.
While Rita was resting, Gladys phoned Sergeant Morris at the Police Station and told
him what had happened.
"There's nothing much we can do, Gladys, love," he said, sympathetically. "Did he take
anything that didn't belong to him?"
"Not as far as I know, Jim."
"And there was no violence?"
Gladys snorted, "He knew better than to try anything like that!" she declared.
"Well then, Gladys, we can't touch him, even if we could find him. Sorry."
Gladys had developed a simple philosophy in life, which had seen her through two wars,
eight pregnancies and widowhood at the age of only thirty-five. She once described it to
her brother, Walter: "There's no point in using up energy worrying about what you can't
have, concentrate on what is realistic."
She thanked Sergeant Morris and put the phone down, then sat thoughtfully for a few
minutes. Paolo was gone, there was nothing they could do about that. What had to be
faced now was Rita's pregnancy, and the raising of her child without a man in the house.
"We can do it, between us," she said out loud, her mind clear. With a little smile on her
face, she stood up, straightened the cushion on the velvet armchair, and went to the
kitchen to begin preparing dinner. After all, they still had a living to earn and guests to
feed.