Women on the Home Front (149 page)

‘He was fine on Sunday…What’s gone wrong?’ Maria whispered, stopping in the doorway of the side room where her husband lay prostrate, breathing into an oxygen mask, his face the colour of ash and his eyes sunk into their sockets.

‘Marco, it’s me…what have you been up to now?’ she whispered in their mother tongue. She kissed his limp hand and sat down beside him.

‘One minute he was sitting up, his usual self, and then we found him collapsed. His heart isn’t strong. Come outside.’ Sister Jarvis pointed to the open balcony. ‘His heart is struggling after all these years with bad lungs.’ The nurse paused, looking into Maria’s eyes. ‘You may want to call his priest.’

‘Oh, no!’ she cried, her knees going weak. Surely it’d not come to that, not when she was coming back to him? This was too cruel. There’d been false alarms before but even she was shocked by the change in him in just a few days.

‘I want Rosa to be with us,’ she asked.

‘We don’t allow children, as you know. It’ll only frighten her and you don’t want her to make a fuss and disturb the other patients. Rules are rules for everyone’s good, Mrs Santini.’ The sister shook her head.

‘Please, he must see his child. It will give him hope and fight. He’s not been able to touch her for weeks.
What harm can it do either of them now? Rosa is too young to understand what’s happening.’

‘I insist. No child enters a ward for fear of infection but she can watch from the balcony for a few minutes,’ Sister Jarvis replied, not looking Maria in the eye.

Maria made for the hall and took Rosa round the outside walkway whilst trying to explain what was happening.

‘Papa is sleeping and he’s very, very tired and must rest,’ she said, clutching Rosa’s mittened hand and willing herself to stay calm. ‘We’ll play peep-o with him out here. You can wave but not go inside. He’ll hear you and know you are there,’ she added. ‘Father Michael Grady will come and sit with him.’

Rosa stood by the open window, staring at her daddy as if he was a specimen in a jar. ‘What is that?’ she asked, pointing to the mask and the tubes.

‘It helps his heart to tick tock,’ Maria replied, torn between wanting to reassure her child and hold her husband, dreading the moment when the Santinis would flood into the sickroom and take over. She would be an onlooker then, the stranger in the midst. Her heart railed at sharing precious moments with anyone else.

Doctors came and went, nurses fiddled with the tubes, but Marco was slipping away, unaware of any of them. It was like sitting in some strange play going on all around her, a slow-motion action unfolding before her.

They watched Father Michael, who now knew the secrets of her heart in confession, administer the last rites, and Marco’s brothers lined up, caps in hands,
standing silent and awkward. Nonna Valentina was on her knees, wailing as if he were already dead.

Then came the welcome news that Lily was waiting in the foyer. Trust her friend to be there. Leaving the balcony, Maria ushered Rosa towards her.

‘Say night, night to Papa, give him a kiss…’

Rosa stood back. ‘No…I can’t see him.’

Damn the rules, Maria thought, lifted Rosa up to the bed and let her kiss his forehead. Then she whisked her down the corridor, relieved to see a familiar comforting face even if it was coiffed and made up from the fashion show.

‘Thank God you come! This is no place for Rosa now. Marco is dying,’ she croaked, tears streaming down her face.

‘I’ll take her home with me…you go back. I’m so sorry. We’ll take care of her. Come on, Rosie, let’s go play with Dina and Joy.’

Nonna dozed on her knees, praying for a miracle. Maria sat wide awake, stupefied by guilt and disbelief at first, but now rigid with shock. She’d come to re-dedicate herself to her marriage, renew her vows, cleansed by confession only that morning. Now everything was turned upside down and all she wanted was for Marco to beat the odds and live.

‘Live, Marco,’ she prayed, but he slipped from them as the lemony dawn rose above the hills. His struggles were over.

She must embrace her old life, blameless, give him the honour and respect in death that she’d neglected to show him in life. She was a widow and free to make
her own decisions but bound tighter than ever before by her guilt.

It was only when they laid him out and Nonna wept, ‘My poor son, he had no life,’ that the pain surged into every sinew of her body and a weariness like a cloak of lead made her slump into the chair in despair. She watched a skein of ducks flying in arrow formation silhouetted against the sky and felt a flash of envy for her husband.

‘No more pain, Nonna, no more beds and open windows and basket chairs now.’

Soon it would be time to leave but not before she had cleared out the clutter from his locker and bedside table, all the myriad little things that still smelled of him: the green sheets of their local sports paper, sacred pictures, a crucifix, a half-eaten bag of sweets and a little snapshot of the three of them taken on a trip to the seaside. She would leave everything tidy and neat, grief or no grief. It gave her hands something to do.

Scrumpled in the drawer, half hidden among the postcards, was a letter. Curious, she opened up the page and read it.

Maria scrambled to find the envelope also typed in capital letters. It was addressed, ‘MR SANTINI, THE SANATORIUM, MOSES HEIGHTS, NR GRIMBLETON’.

She shoved the letter quickly into her handbag, out of sight but not out of mind. Never out of mind, every word etched into her heart. She felt it thumping through her ribs. Could Nonna Valentina see it throbbing with guilt?

You have killed your husband, came the words bursting through her eardrums. He had read that poisonous letter and the shock of it was too much for his frail body. You might as well have stabbed him in the heart with a knife yourself. What he must have suffered: shock, disbelief, fear and doubt, and all borne alone.

Someone hated them so much as to want to shame her and hurt her husband, but who? Who would do this to them? One of the family? Surely not. If a Santini had suspected anything, she’d have been banished from Marco’s deathbed long ago.

With his dying, for one brief moment she’d wondered if she’d escaped the wrath of God but no, she was found out and would be punished. There was now nothing she could ever do to make it right but pray for his forgiveness from across the grave, pray for his soul to be at peace, have Masses said for his release from such a torment and for the salvation of her own soul.

Only three of them knew of this dreadful exposé and one of them was now dead. She must find out who had done this and kill them, pay them back for all they’d done
to an innocent man. She wouldn’t rest until she was avenged. Marco didn’t deserve this cruel end, with only his wife’s betrayal for company in his agony.

The Santinis need never know, and Rosa must never know, but this terrible guilt must live in her heart for ever.

That this was the work of a woman, she’d no doubt. There was something peevish and cruel that smacked of jealousy and malice, but who and why would be her life’s work to find out. When she found that devil, oh, how she’d suffer for this. An eye for an eye was too good for her but revenge was a dish best eaten cold.

She kneeled by Marco’s body and prayed in silence.

Marco, I will avenge your suffering. I take it upon myself to live like a nun until you are avenged. I will sacrifice any future happiness. I will live only for Rosa’s happiness. I will make you proud of me and honour your family name, but please forgive me for my weakness. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Forgive me for being weak when you were so strong. Forgive me…

It was almost dark when they parked in Division Street. Lily held the sleeping Rosa over her shoulder.

‘Where’ve you been, Lil? I’ve been that worried. Not another waif and stray to take in for the night?’ Esme was standing in the hallway staring down at the child. ‘Walt’s in the other room and he’s not a happy man. He’s been all over Grimbleton looking for you.’

‘There’s been an emergency.’ Lily sat down, suddenly
exhausted. She told them the sorry news and then she made some cocoa for Rosa.

Su appeared and whisked the child upstairs. Ana was on shift and the house was quiet for a change. Walter was listening to the wireless and ambled in when his programme had finished.

‘I thought we were going to make a start on Well Cottage. I gather you’ve been all dolled up down the town hall. Mam said you could feed a man for a year on the price of one of the rig-outs.’

‘I’m very tired,’ Lily replied. ‘It’s been a rum do at Maria’s. They say Marco Santini’s not going to last the night so I brought Rosa back here. There was no time to get your shopping in.’

Tears were rolling down her cheeks, tears of sadness, exhaustion. If ever she needed a pair of strong arms around her it was tonight. ‘Hold me, Walter, hold me tight.’

‘What’s brought this on, old girl?’ He patted her on the arm.

‘Just hold me. I need a big hug. You won’t leave me, will you?’

‘You daft happorth! What would I be doing that for?’ he grinned. ‘I’ll get you a biscuit. You’ve had a shock. What on earth have you done to yerself…all that make-up, and who’s been chopping your hair?’

‘It’s modern. Isn’t it?’

‘It’ll soon grow out. You don’t look the same.’

‘I don’t feel the same, Walt,’ she whispered as he made for the kitchen.

*  *  *

The phone rang at seven on the Sunday morning. Marco had slipped away before dawn and Angelo was coming in his taxi to collect Rosa.

Later Maria phoned to thank them for taking her child for the night. ‘Oh, Lily, it is terrible. I have to see you. I was going to start all over again, clean slate, new start. Now it’s too late. How can I forgive myself? It should be me who is dead. I killed him!’

There was no making sense of her. Grief was controlling her senses. Maria was taking Marco’s sudden collapse hard. The Santinis would wrap themselves around her friend, make a big fuss of Rosa, buying her toys and sweets and treats as if to make up for her loss. It was not going to be easy to see her alone. Then there was the matter of Sylvio Bertorelli…

Three days later Kirkgate came to a standstill as the cortège left the café, pulled by black horses with plumes. It was a beautiful morning and all the shops and businesses were shut in respect for Marco’s passing. Mourners followed in a dignified procession to the Catholic chapel. Everyone was dressed in black, and the women wore lace mantillas over their heads.

The Italian community turned out in force: the Gambas, Morellis, even their ice-cream rivals, the Falconis, paid their respects and Gianni Lavaroni turned up with his wife in a fur coat. Snow was still covering the moor tops in the distance.

Maria looked so thin and haggard, and little Rosa, in a coat a size too big for her, held on to her hand.

All the Olive Oils turned up to give their support and
sat at the back out of sight: Diana, Queenie, Su and Ana, watching the ceremony with tears in their eyes. It was Lily’s first visit to the ornate chapel, its walls lined with statues, alcoves with candles burning, the great crucifix hanging from the ceiling. How different from Zion and Freddie’s memorial service.

How different the Santinis and Winstanleys dealt with death, she mused. Here was passion and suffering, sacrifice painted on every wall, reminding everyone of their mortality. These age-old rituals were comforting in their familiarity but strange to her ears. Each to his own, she thought, praying that Maria would find consolation in the ceremony.

Lily called into Santini’s most days to see how she was coping but she was never alone in the kitchen or upstairs.

‘You’re worn out. Take a break. Marco wouldn’t want you to be so sad,’ Lily said the day after Marco’s funeral, offering her a brew of herbal concoctions to strengthen her blood.

Susan brought posies of flowers to cheer her table.

Ana looked her over with concern. ‘It is time you see a doctor. You can’t go on like this. You do your best. It was always going to end this way, surely?’ she added.

Now that Ana was training as a nurse she had strong opinions about everybody’s health. Out of her bag came her special icon of the Blessed Virgin to comfort Maria, and Lily noticed the soft walnut eyes of the Virgin filled with kindness. ‘Dina and me, we light a candle for his soul at our church.’

When Enzo and Nonna had gone, Maria broke down
with relief. ‘It is me that should be dead. I killed him…I killed him!’ she sobbed, her head banging on the cushions of the sofa.

‘Stop this! It is grief talking.’ Lily hugged her. ‘You kept him alive much longer than his condition would predict. You were a good wife to him. You visited him. On Ana’s wards no one visits the old and sick. You did all what was expected.’

‘I betray him. I kill him.’ Maria continued crying. ‘I was too busy loving Sylvio…only
you
know we were more than friends. I betray Marco’s trust and the shock of it killed him. I am a bad woman. How can you say good things to me now?’

They sat on either side of her and held her. ‘We all knew about Sylvio. Anyone could see how it was for you…He brought a shining light into your eyes. You were discreet. These things happen,’ whispered Susan, taking hold of her hand. ‘And I should know.’

‘I am not a fit mother but I had sworn never to see him again. It was over and that is my punishment, and I have to live knowing Marco knew everything…I killed him. I broke his heart.’

‘You told him the truth?’ said Ana, her eyes wide, looking up at Lily with surprise.

‘No…I couldn’t bear to lose his trust but I find a letter, nasty letter by his bed when I was clearing his things.’ She pulled a crumpled note in an envelope from her handbag and shoved it in Lily’s hand. ‘Read it!’

Lily shared it with the others, each shaking her head in disbelief.

‘He gets that letter. The shock is too much for his
heart.’ Maria bent her head. ‘Lily, it broke his will to live. Someone hate us so much they do this to a sick man.’