The Last Pier (29 page)

Had he known what was waiting for him at home Carlo might have taken longer to get there.

WHEN HE RETURNED
home Carlo found the mayhem had already begun. Lucio had been arrested.

‘Yes, Lucio!’

‘What?’ Cecily asked aghast. ‘What had
he
done?’

The view back in 1939 was confused.

‘He was an Italian, wasn’t he?’ Carlo said, his hands making a simple gesture. ‘They took him away. I tried to get them to take me. I felt it was all my fault.’

Cecily stared. Never had she heard anyone else say such words.

Things far beneath the surface of the earth had begun to move.

Carlo waited. Giving her time to catch her breath, to speak if she wanted to. Then he told her.

‘They took him away in a car like a thief. Oh the policeman was friendly enough. We all knew him, you see. He used to come to the ice-cream parlour with his two daughters.’

Cecily covered her mouth with her hand and Carlo nodded.

‘Yes. The man told my father he was only doing his duty.’

Lucio didn’t need to pack a bag. It was just a formality, they’d been told. Lucio had taken out a packet of cigarettes and stuck an unlit one between his lips. Then he grabbed his hat and put it on his head at an angle. Carlo remembered thinking his uncle looked like a gangster.

‘In spite of ourselves, we smiled,’ Carlo told Cecily. ‘I remember him telling us
Torno presto!
, back soon. Then, two days later it was the turn of my father.’

The same policeman, but this time he’d brought along two others.

‘We, my mother, Franca and I, were the only ones left in the shop.’

The police knocked on the door, politely.

‘Again they told us it was just a routine. As if my father went to the police station every day.’

This time it was a different matter.

‘My father asked about his brother but the policeman shook his head and said he had no information. But they asked my father to pack a small overnight bag. Just in case they were delayed. I remember my mother crying out, asking what my father had done.’

‘What did the police say?’ Cecily asked in a whisper.

‘Nothing! He said my father hadn’t done anything as far as he knew. Actually the man looked really upset. And he called my mother “madam”. He’d never called her that before. He told her he was just obeying orders. And he wouldn’t look at any of us. My father asked my mother for his passport. I saw her hand shaking as she gave it to him. But she kept a brave face. It was Franca who burst into tears.’

Carlo swallowed.

‘My father turned to us all. I remember it so clearly. It was as though a piece of sky had fallen to the ground. It was like those old Italian fairy tales our mother used to tell us when we were small. I swear I heard a cock crowing. My father took my head in his hands and kissed me. Then he held my mother and my sister in his arms.

Non piangere! Non piangere!
he told us.
Andrà tutto bene!
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Everything will be all right! He told me to help my brothers to look after the shop. He would be back very soon, he told us. We never saw him again.’

‘And Lucio?’

‘We never saw him again either.’

When the older boys came home they were outraged by what had happened and went to the police station to find out what was going on.

‘My mother begged them to be careful. She sent clean shirts and a food parcel with them. She was worried they would be
missing her cooking. So she packed some spaghetti and a little cheese and a
sugo
. She packed home-made biscotti and, foolishly, a small bottle of wine. For years we wondered if the wine was what did it.’

Cecily stared at Carlo, wordlessly. He shook his head. His brothers had vanished too.

‘Non piangere! Non piangere! Andrà tutto bene!’

That night the moon was shaped like a scythe. The cock, Carlo remembered, crowed all night, delivering its tale of betrayal. Death was hiding everywhere. Behind closed doors, in the bushes, on other people’s land.

‘It was years before we found out what had actually happened,’ he told Cecily.

But by then their life had taken on the colours of a nightmare.

In the little sleepy town of Bly, not built for such matters, word went around as quickly as the fire that had cremated Rose. Soon everyone knew what had happened and there were some who tried to exorcise their fears by being supportive. For a few weeks the shop filled up. But that didn’t last long. Fear and fire are equally panic-inducing. And the War was Here and Now.

The papers had nothing much to report. The war was a balloon that had been inflated to breaking point and now was deflating slowly. The ARPs yawned. Without Selwyn to lead them, they too were slacking.

Besides, no one knew what to think of Selwyn, Carlo told his daughter, speaking as gently as he could.

An empty box was what some said of the man.

Others thought there was plenty in the box but that it was hidden from view.

Maybe.

There wasn’t any hard or fast opinion. The truth was Selwyn was neither liked nor disliked. He was the unknown.

A man uncertain of his patriotism, perhaps?

Made bitter against his own people because of the death of a brother?

Unstable, was possibly the best word for him. Or even an idealist who took the wrong fork in the road.

No one had known about his inner life.

So the town felt hit by a stun gun of unexplained events and the newspapers, seeing their chance, had a bit of a flutter on the subject. Speculation became a distraction for a time.

The town continued to black its nights out. The ARP’s whistle was still heard, shrill as a quarrelsome bird, and the general opinion was that the war had to be endured if not cured. And although everyone knew about the
way
in which Rose had died and also
who
had killed her there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.

‘It was years,’ Carlo told Cecily, ‘before any of us knew the UN-official story.’

‘The one that
still
hasn’t been written in any history book?’

‘Yes. The one still talked about in secret.’

It had been separate from the main events, a story of a panic in high places.

A ship designed by fools, that involved a man with many names.

‘Some of them forbidden by Agnes Maudsley,’ said Cecily.

A clumsy judgment, a mistaken identity. A woman betrayed and an unlikely love, so strong it would last forever.

A carelessness that cost twenty thousand lives.

NOW THE NIGHTMARE
was back in force and Cecily was in the centre of it. Reliving it moment by moment.

‘Why didn’t we see Robert Wilson leaving Palmyra House?’ she cried. ‘Why? Why?’

Carlo shook his head.

‘You didn’t know what I did,’ he said. ‘You didn’t know that Robert Wilson was working on War Office orders.’

On that fateful night, earlier on, after he had seen Agnes and before he was due to meet Rose, Robert Wilson parked his car near the Friends Meeting House. He needed to reach the towpath by eight. Darkness surrounded him, no headlights, no lamps, nothing. An earlier accident caused by the blackout made him drive with extra care. As a result everything took much longer.

He passed no one. In front of him the darkened sea moved with only a glint of foam. The tide was almost out. He stood for a moment longer waiting, thinking. Wanting badly to see her. When Rose had heard he was visiting the Italians she had wanted to go with him.

‘I know them quite well,’ she had said.

He had shaken his head and laughed, his mind filled with horror.

‘Not a chance, it’s business my darling. But I’ll bring you some silk stockings tonight, I promise.’

Instantly she had been suspicious.

‘Are you involved in the black market?’ she asked, looking at him, consideringly.

He thought then how much she had grown since the beginning of this enchanted summer. And he had smiled because she looked very sweet in her blue dress.

‘Robert?’ she hesitated. ‘It’s… all right, isn’t it?’

His heart was breaking.

‘And why wouldn’t it be?’

‘You’re only worried because I’m younger than you. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘I love you,’ he said, kissing her briefly.

‘You’re not married, are you?’

He laughed.

‘No, my darling thing, I’m not married. Believe me there is no one in the world I love except you. Let’s wait until this war is over and I’ll prove it to you.’

And he had left her.

‘Oh you bastard,’ he said to himself. ‘You dirty, filthy bastard, Wilson. What the fuck are you doing?’

Within a few days her entire world was going to be turned upside down. That was absolutely inevitable and there was nothing he could do about it except leave her, as he must, to bear the hurt of it alone.

Until this summer he had been a clear-headed man, someone whose duty came before every other emotion. Now his mind was bludgeoned and confused. Did he not have a duty to
her
? Turning, he couldn’t bear the thought of being late, of her waiting alone, he drove towards the town. There was still an hour left before he needed to be at the Martello tower.

Mario Molinello was at the back of the ice-cream parlour cleaning out the freezers. Lucio was unloading boxes from the car. A faint, sugary smell hung in the air. A wedding cake looking like a stranded iceberg waited on the counter for collection. There were letter-stencils kept neatly in an open drawer. One sectioned-out slot for each letter. Entering quietly, Robert Wilson peered at them. He noticed there was no ‘K’, no ‘J’ and no ‘W’. He knew that they didn’t exist in the Italian alphabet but surely these cakes were iced for English customers, too? He wondered what they used for the absent letters. Then he
noticed the numbers. The number seven was moulded with an extra bar across it. He picked up one and stared at it, frowning.

Mario Molinello came in. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. The element of surprise was what Robert Wilson had hoped for.

‘Is it your lucky number?’ Mario asked, his face breaking into a smile.

‘No. I was just wondering about the different way we write the number seven.’

‘Oh, yes!’

Mario put down the box of cutlery he had been carrying. He felt Robert Wilson was waiting for something else.

‘They come from Italy, that’s why,’ he said.

‘I noticed you have a few letters missing in the alphabet.’

‘No, why?’ Mario asked, not understanding.

‘K, J, W.’

Had he come here to talk about the letters in the alphabet?

‘No, no we have them, here. See? They are a different shape. They come from another alphabet! An English one!’

‘Yes! I see.’

Robert Wilson looked around for somewhere to sit.

‘I came here to ask you a few questions,’ he said.

Mario led him further into the shop and drew up two chairs.

‘
Vino?
’

‘No thank you.’

‘A coffee?’

Robert shook his head.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

Mario went to fetch an ashtray. He hoped Anna and Franca were out of earshot.

‘Now that we have declared war,’ Robert began, tapping his cigarette on his case. There was a small silence.

‘Like you, I was a listener in those days,’ Carlo told Cecily.

The light in the room had seemed too bright.

‘What does the Italian community feel about it?’ Robert had asked.

Was this going to be another conversation about Fascism, Carlo wondered? His father was smiling timidly.

‘That is exactly what Selwyn Maudsley asked me yesterday,’ he said.

A war had intervened since yesterday.

Lucio, coming in with parts of the freezer, nodded at Robert and went through to the kitchen. Mario waited until he was out of earshot.

‘There are some misunderstandings circulating,’ he said, heavily.

He looked over nervously in the direction of the kitchen.

‘These social clubs we belong to are really only a kind of worker’s club. I don’t think this is fully understood by some people. We aren’t members of any Fascist party.’

Robert Wilson waited.

‘For example I joined the club in order to facilitate many procedures.’

‘What sort of procedures?’

Mario took a deep breath. He was beginning to get a pain in his chest.

‘For example to renew our passports. Anna and I, and Lucio too, we still have Italian passports.’

‘The children?’

‘They were all born here. They are British!’

‘I see. What other procedures does this… social club facilitate?’

Carlo sensed a slight change of tone in the conversation. This man had visited his family so often, was a friend of the Maudsleys, why was he asking these questions?

‘The
rimess,
’ Mario said, finally. ‘The money transfers we send to our relatives. We all send money home to our elderly
relatives. Anna still has a mother alive. I have both parents still living.’

Carlo heard his father’s voice sounding agitated, guilty even. But he had nothing to be guilty of, Carlo thought. Why is he so timid? Lucio, hovering in the doorway, must have thought this too. Ignoring Robert Wilson, he stepped forward and spoke directly to his brother. Mario frowned.

‘Tell him to get lost,’ Lucio said in Italian, holding his anger like a gun in front of him. ‘We pay our taxes. We aren’t Fascists.’

Mario laughed, nervously. He made a gesture for Lucio to leave.

‘My brother says the Italians in this country do not understand this business of Fascism. We have been out of Italy for so long that Mussolini and what the Fascists are up to is no concern of ours.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. We are all anti-Fascists.’

There was a pause. Lucio continued to stand in the doorway, his hands parting the beaded curtain.

‘Tell him to get lost,’ he said in Italian. ‘We’ve work to do.’

Robert Wilson turned slowly in his chair so he could look directly at Lucio.

‘You know there is talk that the ice-cream parlours will be closed down because of the war,’ he said.

Because of the war, thought Carlo. Only twenty-four hours, if that, and already this man talks about it as if it has been going on for years.

‘I know,’ Lucio said, in English.

Still he didn’t move.

‘Your government must not panic,’ Lucio said. ‘We are law-abiding people. We are not Fascists.’

‘Of course!’ Robert Wilson agreed.

He stood up and took another cigarette out of his case. Then he offered one to Lucio who shook his head slightly.

‘You are good friends of the Maudsleys aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Mario said. ‘My daughter is engaged to Joe Maudsley.’

‘So I heard. Congratulations. An Anglo-Italian union. I wish them every happiness!’

‘Thank you.’

On the stairs, behind the slightly open door, Carlo continued to listen to his father’s sweet, friendly voice and his uncle’s anger.

‘Goodbye,’ Robert Wilson said, holding his hand out to Lucio who turned away at the same instant.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Mario said. ‘And don’t worry about the Italian community here. We are all loyal to Britain. Besides,’ he added, beaming, ‘we are neutral in this war.’

Another pause when a floorboard creaked.

‘When exactly did your brother come over to England?’

‘Lucio? In 1932. I invited him. We needed more help.’

Carlo felt a twinge in his chest.

As his father walked with the Wilson man to the door, Carlo was certain this was no ordinary visit. This man wasn’t interested in Mario. This visit was about something else.

‘Would you like a box of biscuits?’ Mario asked, timidly.

‘No thanks,’ Robert said.

He slipped his cigarette case back into his pocket.

‘I suppose you never thought of returning to your home?’ he asked, casually. ‘Just for the duration of the war I mean? You might find it safer in your own country.’

They had moved outside to the front entrance and Carlo crept further down the stairs. The two men stood for a moment in the doorway. The air was clean and fresh and faintly fishy. A low strain of music came drifting towards them from a blacked-out upstairs room. Richard Strauss’ Horn Concerto, written for this dark hour. Both men paused and stared up at the sky, listening to the slow sadness of the French horn. Mario felt a jolt of fear.

‘Beautiful,’ Robert Wilson said. ‘Strange how a German could produce such sublime music! You like Richard Strauss.’

It was a statement. Mario nodded. The music swelled and rushed towards its last bars and then there was silence.

‘My home is here,’ Mario said.

He sounded unutterably sad.

‘We are entwined with you,’ he said. ‘Your history is ours too. We will stand by this country and resist this madman, together.’

He spoke humbly and seemed close to tears. Papi is growing old, Carlo thought, watching Robert Wilson’s silhouette as he walked away. He remembered an odd comment Lucio had made recently. He had seen Robert Wilson several times giving Rose’s Aunt Kitty flowers.

‘He always buys that woman seven flowers,’ Lucio had said. ‘And I don’t trust her either.’

But Robert Wilson was some sort of official. It was pointless to antagonise him.

Unease curdled in Carlo’s stomach. A bell was ringing a warning in his head.

‘The hunt,’ his uncle had said, ‘will soon be on. And Kitty McNulty is in the story somehow, you’ll see!’

Mussolini was not finished with Germany yet. They were still in danger.

Looking out of the upstairs window, Carlo saw Lucio hurrying off somewhere. There was no sign of Mario. Uneasy without knowing quite why, he decided to follow his uncle, to make sure he was not in any danger. Which was why, when some time later the explosion occurred, it was Carlo who raised the alarm. Lucio, still swimming in the river, heard nothing. Both missed the two small figures, one of them holding up a jar of glow-worms, running towards Selwyn Maudsley. Moments before Scotland Yard arrived.