The Last Pier Part 25

'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.'

'Perche?' 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 Sat.u.r.day. 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. n.o.body 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. h.e.l.lo Joe, come in, just in time.'

'Wash your hands, children.'

Beppe fetched the water gla.s.ses. 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 gla.s.ses. The moment froze.

'Salute, Mama!'

'Salute!' Mario said, loudly.

'Cheers,' said Robert Wilson. 'Down the hatch!'

'Salute,' said Joe, who was secretly learning Italian.

Franca giggled. And blushed.

'Will you be there?'

'At the tennis match? Of course, of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world!'

It would be a day of Anglo-Italian celebrations. Anna was making a surprise cake for the event. No, she couldn't say what sort. Only that they made it at Peck's in Milano.

'Ah well!' Robert teased. 'If it's good enough for Milan!'

The chef who worked for il Duce had given her the secret recipe.

'You know il Duce?'

'No, no, Roberto. Only his cook! He comes from the same village as us.'

'What village is that?'

'It's called Bratto,' Mauro told him.

Then he mopped up the rest of his tomato sugo with a small piece of bread.

'Mmm,' he said, miming a corkscrew boring into his cheek with one finger.

'Buono!' repeated his sons, making the same gesture.

I wish I were like this family, thought Joe, too shy to copy them.

Funny gesture, thought Robert, nodding, amazed at how good the food was.

THE DAWN WAS what they remembered, arriving slowly, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with promise. Suffolk oaks loomed darkly through the low-lying mist where in a few hours the gauzy light would blaze into heat. There was the scent of woodsmoke everywhere, touched by the beginnings of autumn. For it was September now.

A calm, sad, gentlemanly voice on the wireless was talking about Germany invading Poland and as she stood, with her basket, picking peas, Agnes thought, I'll remember this day. She hurried through the orchard in a dress so pale it appeared white, humming to herself. Selwyn was nowhere in sight. And Partridge's voice, rea.s.suring as it came up the path, saying yes, the gipsies were moving on.

'That Wilson fellow got rid of them,' he said, accepting a mug of tea from Cook who was busy frying bacon and eggs.

'Oh, he's back, is he?' said Agnes. 'Good!'

'Were they roasting hedgehogs?' Cecily asked, creeping up.

'Good gracious, C! You're up early.'

'Up with the lark,' said Partridge. 'But unfortunately with the owl too!'

'What d'you mean?' Cecily asked, suspiciously.

But Partridge only grinned and handed her a small colander. She could help him pick raspberries.

'Rose will look very pretty, today,' Cecily told him.

Partridge disappeared into the bushes. His voice coming through the raspberry canes was m.u.f.fled.

'You'll look exactly like her one day,' he said eventually. When he emerged Partridge had drops of dew all over his s.h.i.+rt. 'You'll see,' he said.

All the tickets for the charity dance had sold. Local people would not have missed it for the world and this year, with the anxiety of what might lie ahead there would be many Italians from all over Suffolk, invited by the Molinellos.

Cook had made the lemonade the night before and the jugs were cooling in the scullery with beaded cloths covering them. There was a man from the Aga shop bending over the open oven door and Cook was lamenting the delay of the scones. Ever since electricity had come to Palmyra Farm a year ago, baking had become easier. So why, today of all days, had something gone wrong?

'Don't just stand there,' she told the children, crossly. 'Here, you can stone the cherries.'

And she handed them each a bowl.

'Does anyone know where there is a spare racquet?' Rose asked.

A shadow fell against the whitewashed farmhouse wall. Bellamy, incandescent with rage, made Cecily s.h.i.+ver. But Rose didn't give a toss.

'Oh dear,' she sighed. 'Now what d'you want?'

And off she went, humming to herself. Cook made a tck-tch sound at the back of her throat.

Joe had cleared a place in the shrubbery beside the tennis court and was building a fire to boil kettles of water for the tea. Cecily, carrying cutlery and a tablecloth, saw that b.u.t.tercups had come out in their hundreds on the uncut parts of the gra.s.s.

'Mia bella sorella!' Joe said, seeing her, speaking Italian a little self-consciously. 'Where is the queen of the day?'

He was happy for secret reasons of his own, even though his call-up papers were for Monday and Russia had ordered the mobilisation of two million men.

'I hate that gypo, Bellamy,' Tom said, staring after Rose.

Pa.s.sers-by have noticed that the parks in London are quieter than usual. Because of the evacuation there are no children playing there.

The milk had been poured into bottles and placed in the scullery.

There were sandwiches made with fresh sardines and egg-and-cress and roast beef and horseradish and turnip pickle.

Cecily helped slice the ham.

She would do so again very soon, but on that day the radio would not be playing a waltz.

And Rose would not be laughing at what Franca and Carlo were saying.

And Bellamy would have an altogether different sort of expression on his face.

The Molinello boys were getting the barn ready for the evening.

Beppe was testing the microphone.

Lucio had arranged for the piano to be brought out from the drawing room. Agnes had promised, a little reluctantly, to play it.

'Wait,' Mario bellowed. 'I need a little more practice, first.'

His family groaned.