The Italians at Cleat's Corner Store (23 page)

‘Is that him, then?' Mrs Livesey said. ‘Didn't know you was on first names, like.'

Connie turned away and began to mop the lino half-heartedly.

‘All bloodied up he were, like he'd been in the boxing ring.' Mrs Livesey's rogue tooth glinted on her wet lip as if she was in the audience herself, shouting for blood on the other side of the ropes. ‘And Maggie Stokes says soon as it were done, up he jumps out the door and into the fields, no torch nor nothing, like a wild thing.
Well, Maggie
, I says,
they get like animals when they're worked up, these Medit-ray-nuns. All fiery and over-excited,
like
. And Maggie says,
They won't last much longer in Leyton, Janet. Sleepy little place that we are.
And I 'spect we'll be well rid of them.'

The delivery van had pulled up outside, its diesel fug drifting into the shop. ‘Hey-ho, I'll leave you to it, then,' Mrs Livesey said, picking up her packages. Mrs Cleat almost ran from behind the counter, intent on reaching the door of the van before Mrs Livesey could distract Mr Jellis with the news.

Connie steadied herself on the mop and stared at the bland high street distorting through the bull's-eye pane. Everything in her mind, by contrast, seemed suddenly clear. She wanted to see him. She wanted to see if Lucio was alright, and not only because of this news. She admitted now she'd been wanting it all along, to sit with him again on the fence, hear the scratch of his pencil on the paper, the rhythm of his breath, his reassuring quiet beside her. Despite everything with Vittorio, she hadn't stopped searching the fields at Bythorn Rise, hoping he would come. And that brittleness within her wasn't just winter, or Vittorio's departure: it was not seeing Lucio walking over the ridge, not seeing him clearing his traps by the brook or watching for her on the fence.

That afternoon, it felt like Mrs Cleat was fixing her hat and putting on her gloves and going over her list of instructions without end, until the time for the Christian Ladies' meeting came around. As she finally stepped towards the door, Mr Gilbert appeared on the other side of it. He caught sight of the back of her and hesitated on the threshold, but it was too late.

‘Mr Gilbert!' Mrs Cleat scolded. ‘There you are at last. I've made myself late for the Christian Ladies waiting for you. Now, can you tell us please what happened last Saturday night?'

Mr Gilbert held up his palms, as if at gunpoint, and slipped past her to the counter. ‘I know nothing, Mrs Cleat, I assure you.'

The shopkeeper prodded her hair irritably from behind so that her hat sat forward and made her appear even more eager for the news. She frowned at her watch, evidently torn between harvesting more information from the schoolteacher and sowing what she knew at the meeting. ‘What do you mean, you don't know anything? I heard you called in Nurse Stokes to sew up that wild boy.'

‘I did indeed, Mrs Cleat, but beyond the fact that he landed injured on my doorstep, I know nothing more. He tends to keep to himself … and I choose not to
pry
.' He greeted Connie in an attempt to end the conversation, but Mrs Cleat was undeterred.

‘It's hardly prying to ask who did it to him. I would have thought you of all people would want to protect the young.'

Mr Gilbert's face dropped at this, as though Mrs Cleat had touched a nerve. ‘He's not a minor. There's nothing I can do and he doesn't want my help.'

‘Well, perhaps Mr or Mrs Repton —'

‘Mrs Cleat, I've been meaning to ask you,' the schoolteacher interrupted, his voice now gracious as he walked to the hat stand by the door and handed her an umbrella. ‘How do you like the murals so far? Is the committee happy with their progress?'

Mrs Cleat hovered for a second, suspicious, before taking the bait. ‘As a matter of fact,' she said, putting her umbrella back in the stand, ‘we were all quite amazed at the first viewing. The reverend, as you know, was none too happy about changing services to the memorial hall for so long, but he says he's quite encouraged at how fast Mr Swann is working. And the detail, the richness! Those cartoons didn't do it justice at all. Oh yes, we're all enamoured with Mr Swann — his work, I should say.' Mrs Cleat tittered.

‘Yes, his work,' Mr Gilbert mused, giving her the umbrella again. ‘I must admit there's a telling detail to some of it, a loving realism in the depiction of certain human figures, the natural backgrounds, rustic touches and so forth that is … well, luminous.' He glanced at Connie, who had to bite her lip. ‘Frankly, I hadn't thought Swann's work quite so transcendent.'

‘Oh,' Mrs Cleat said, opening her mouth and then closing it again, blinking slowly as if trying to memorise something. ‘Well, yes. Exactly so. I couldn't agree more. Well put.'

And Mr Gilbert tapped the umbrella, pulled the door and put his palm in the small of her back, guiding her down the steps. ‘Give my regards to the Christian Ladies, Mrs Cleat,' he said, raising his hat to her.

‘Yes,' she said, nodding vaguely to the umbrella in her hand. ‘Yes, you're right. Best be on the safe side. Looks like rain.'

Mr Gilbert shut the door behind her and came back to the counter.

‘
Transcendent
?' Connie said, raising an eyebrow at him. ‘Really?'

‘Well, how else was I supposed to get the old girl off the subject? I thought she'd never leave.' Mr Gilbert fell silent. His face became flat, tired.

‘How is he?' she asked, unable to hold off any longer.

‘He'll survive, I suppose.'

‘But what happened?'

Mr Gilbert looked towards the window.

‘Tell me,' she said.

‘His father took to him with a belt. Lucio wouldn't say why.'

‘Was it about Vittorio leaving? Is he taking it out on him?'

He rested his hands on the counter and rubbed at a knuckle with his thumb. ‘I don't think it's as simple as that.'

Connie fidgeted on her feet, impatient for more.

‘If it's any consolation, he broke his father's nose. Eve told me.'

She didn't know whether to feel shocked or satisfied.

‘The little I learn about the boy,' Mr Gilbert said, ‘the more I think … well, the more I feel he goes searching for it, in a way.'

‘Searching for what?'

‘For arguments with his father … for Aldo to hit him.'

‘Why?' she breathed, incredulous. ‘Why on earth would he want that?'

‘A distraction, maybe.' He lifted a finger to his temple. ‘From whatever's in there.'

They were quiet, both wrapped in their own thoughts. The shop creaked about them.

‘Can't you help him, Mr Gilbert?' she said finally. ‘He's … there's something special about him. You should see what he draws —'

‘What he
draws
?' Mr Gilbert paused. ‘Connie, you should see what he
paints
.'

‘So you know? He's shown you things?' He nodded. ‘Then you need to get him into a school, an art college or something,' she hurried on. ‘Don't you see? He can't stay in Leyton.'

Mr Gilbert shook his head. ‘That, coming from you?' She ignored his question, and he sighed. ‘Look, he doesn't want me to help him. I've already tried. Besides, he's … well, he's involved in something now. Something I think will be good for him for a time, until he's more certain of himself.'

‘What do you mean? What's he involved in?'

He considered her for a moment. She became aware she was leaning across the Formica, squeezing the counter cloth in her fist. She straightened and let go of it, but Mr Gilbert's face had softened. ‘Perhaps you'd like to see for yourself?' he asked. ‘Can you meet me tonight at the gate across the commons? It'll have to be late, I'm afraid. Say, ten?' She nodded, pushing the logistics of getting past Aunty Bea to the back of her mind. ‘I know you'll keep it to yourself, Connie, won't you? It'd be better if no one else found out.'

‘Found out what?' a voice called archly from the door. Neither of them had registered the ting of the bell. Agnes Armer glided up to the counter, bringing with her the smell of Yardley and damp wool. ‘Ugh, it's started to pour.' She brushed off the sleeves of her coat. ‘Well, how about you two with your heads together? Be careful. People might talk, you know.' Her laugh was flippant, but her pale, hard gaze crept over them, steady as a hoarfrost at dusk.

‘Might they, Agnes?' Connie said, but Agnes only pulled a scarf from her neck with dramatic panache and dabbed at her chin with it. Connie suspected she was copying a move from a Bette Davis or Veronica Lake film, and was embarrassed that Agnes would attempt such a gesture in front of a man who used to tell her to blow her nose and go outside to play.

Mr Gilbert tipped his trilby in farewell and made to leave.

‘Don't forget these,' Connie called after him.

He sighed as he reached back for his groceries. ‘What would I do without you?'

Agnes pursed her lips.

‘Very pretty scarf, Agnes, by the way,' Mr Gilbert said. ‘What colour is that? Puce?' Connie saw the twist of his mouth and had to cover her own with her hand.

But Agnes had caught it and, holding Connie in a steady gaze, she sang out, ‘Before I forget, Mr Gilbert, Vic sends you his regards.' She tugged at the cuff of a glove, smiling at Connie, who could practically feel the chill of it in her bones. ‘I get my hair set in Huntingdon on my day off — it's the one decent salon this side of London,' Agnes explained. ‘Vic kept nagging me before he left,
You stop in and see me Agnessa, you make sure
. You know what he's like when he gets his mind set on something.' She gave that airy laugh again and laid her coupon book before Connie with a precise flick.

Connie busied herself looking for the scissors.
Agnessa
. It was a nice touch. Really, Agnes should be an actress: Connie could see Vittorio's manner in her words, hear his voice, imagine his grin playing about that name. She tried to chase it away with an effort at brightness.

‘What can I get for you, Aggie?' she said, but her voice piped reedily, the sound of Leyton trapped in the words, and she reached for her serving coat, buttoning herself up and wondering who she was trying to fool.

She slipped out of the house as soon as Aunty Bea and Uncle Jack had gone to bed. It was well after ten, but she trusted Mr Gilbert would wait for her. She carried her bike past the red glow of embers edging the drawn curtains, and set it down in the lane, switching on her lamp and letting the wheels make their
tick, tick, tick
. The afternoon showers had passed and the moon hung above Bythorn Rise, floating full in a glassy night, so bright she could see her own shadow whirring past the silver hedgerow. As she approached Leyton, she was relieved to see another bike lamp flickering near the start of the commons. She heard her name. ‘This way,' Mr Gilbert said, holding open the gate to the path that bisected the open grassland. His breath hung white in the air. ‘We're crossing to St Margaret's.'

She looked towards the dark mass of the church. The cypresses were inky black against the night, and the sunken tombstones were cast like flotsam adrift on the pearly shimmer of the commons. Mr Gilbert set off over the incline and she pedalled after him, noticing the harlequin glow of the leaded windows ahead of them, as though the church had been turned inside out.

They dismounted at the lychgate, and Mr Gilbert propped their bikes against the stone seat. She stared at the church, beginning to suspect what he was about to show her.

‘Swann caught him in a back pew when he was working late one night. He showed up again the next evening … and the next.' Mr Gilbert cupped his hands and blew into them. ‘When he came back from London, Swann opened the church up one morning and found the stage lights still on. Lucio was asleep on the scaffold. He'd taken up Swann's brushes and palette and completed the background to the first view.'

Connie pressed her fingers to her mouth, felt the woollen prickle of her gloves on her lips. ‘What did Mr Swann do? Was he angry?'

Mr Gilbert exhaled. The trees behind the cemetery seemed to stir with his breath. She heard the soft questioning of an owl. ‘Connie, when you see these paintings, you'll understand. There was nothing Swann
could
do.' He lowered his voice. ‘He's no fool. The quicker he completes the project, the sooner he gets his fee, and quite frankly that's convincing enough for someone like Swann.' He paused, chafing his hands together. ‘I did suggest he take the boy on as an apprentice but he hasn't the funds. Anyway, Lucio won't leave the farm. He doesn't want anyone to know, apparently, especially his father.'

Mr Gilbert took her elbow and they walked down the path towards the western door. She felt like she was breaking the law, visiting the church at night, even more so because Reverend Stanton and Mrs Cleat's committee had been allowed to see the murals only once and by special arrangement. As they approached, Mr Gilbert squeezed her arm. ‘Not a word, Connie, alright? You can imagine how they would all react — the Christian Ladies, Reverend Stanton, the diocese — to think their church was being painted by …' He opened his eyes wide. ‘…
the other side
,' he said melodramatically.