The Last Pier Part 36

Whose fault was it? Mine.

Would it have changed anything if we hadn't met Daddy that night?

She shook her head.

The pyrotechnics of that night, the high-wire acts of heartbreaking daring were far worse than any detonated bomb. Worse than a war brought on by an enemy.

When the news of a fire on the pier and the discovery of the charred remains of a female who could well be her daughter reached her, Agnes' first confused thought was that Cecily had gone to the seafront in the middle of the night. But then she saw, on her mad dash up to the girls' bedroom (which someone had locked from the inside) that neither of them were there. It was at this point she broke down. It was how Robert Wilson found her. Robert Wilson on his way back to Palmyra House, following a police car that carried Selwyn Maudsley. Robert Wilson grim-faced, but still not in full possession of all the terrible facts, colliding with a soaking wet and white-faced Cecily. Other feet would soon follow, traipsing over the house, turning on lights, forgetting about the blackouts in their eagerness to be distracted by something more immediate than this wretched war with its darkness and its unknown dangers.

While over by the pier the fire was lighting up the sky. It didn't seem to care about Mr Hitler, the Prime Minister or the rules of the Home Office. The fire had its own rules.

Imagine the scene.

September 3rd. At midnight (or thereabouts) Rose left. Tom, waving a jar of glow-worms, and Cecily h.e.l.l-bent on saving her sister from Captain Pinky the traitor, had followed soon after.

Children copying adult games.

Tom had caught twenty-seven glow-worms, he would tell Agnes afterwards.

Outside a star crossed the sky like a useless wish. Cecily caught its flight with the corner of her eye but failed to make one. A shock like cold electricity darted up her arm and into her heart for Selwyn was standing on the spot where the star had fallen. He had just lit a cigar.

'Well, well,' he said, but he didn't sound all that angry. 'So what are you two up to?'

In the town a little earlier, the Molinellos had eaten their evening meal in silence. All day the ice-cream parlour had filled up with worried Italians desperate to listen to talk about news bulletins so that Mario decided to close the shop. He did not wish to be seen as being frivolous and besides, his daughter Franca was inconsolable at Joe's departure.

There was also another issue on Mario's mind, one a little difficult to discuss with Anna. He ate his excellent risotto ai funghi in silent abstraction, slurping a little for the food was hot and he was hungry. Anna watched him. It was in this unusually subdued atmosphere that, in the end, Lucio raised the subject.

'Mussolini is going to cause trouble for us,' he said.

'Rubbis.h.!.+' Mario said quickly, his mouth full of food.

He wished Anna would stop staring at him.

'It's true,' Lucio said.

Mario looked hard at his brother who pushed his plate of almost untouched risotto away.

'I've already told you,' Lucio told him.

'What's wrong with the risotto?' Anna asked. 'Why is no one eating?'

No one answered.

'Just because war's been announced,' Anna said with exceptional forcefulness, 'it doesn't mean we don't need to eat.'

She was looking at Franca's bent head.

'I'm not hungry,' Lucio said. 'And I've got to go out soon.'

'I am!' Carlo said, helping himself.

'Perhaps we should leave the social club,' Giorgio suggested.

'Good idea,' Carlo said.

'Don't talk with your mouth full,' Anna told him, switching to Italian.

'That's a ridiculous idea. Why should we leave the club? It's for Italians. We are Italians.'

'It's a good idea,' Lucio said. 'I mean, because of the rumours.'

Instantly everyone jumped on him.

'What rumours?'

'Is there something you know that we don't, Lucio?'

'You'd better tell us.'

Lucio looked at his brother. Tell them, his look said.

'It's all nonsense,' Mario cried. 'It's only that old fear about the Fascists.'

'Ah!' Anna said, triumph in her eyes. 'I knew it!'

She looked like someone who had been digging for a splinter in a piece of flesh and had finally found it. Mario tried another tactic.

'It's a stupid rumour. And it doesn't affect us.'

'So why are you worried?' Anna asked.

In answer her husband reached for the carafe and poured himself more wine.

'I'm not. I'm just concerned about supplies now that the war is definite. You know our stock of wine will diminish.'

'Oh Papi, this war isn't going to last that long!' Beppe told him. 'We couldn't possibly drink our cellar dry before it finishes!'

Carlo laughed, uneasily.

'What is it, Papi?' Franca asked.

Mario drained his gla.s.s and turned to his daughter.

'Cara, you must not worry about Joe,' he told her, softly. 'He will be safe. But... Lucio is right, this rumour is a different matter.'

They heard a seagull's plaintive cry. Mario looked around the table. Everyone he loved was in this room.

'It is about the arrest of some Jewish people I know,' he said, heavily and at last.

The silence lengthened.

'In Germany?'

'No.'

'Where then?'

'In London,' Mario said, reluctantly.

'One of the tribunals that decide the fate of aliens,' Lucio told them, taking up the story, 'has interned a group of Jews. Guido Murucchi is one of them. He's one of our suppliers.'

'How d'you mean, interned? Where?'

'I don't know,' Lucio said.

Without looking at his wife, Mario lit a cigarette. Normally Anna did not allow smoking at the dinner table but now she said nothing. If they could intern Jews...

'Exactly,' Lucio told her.

'Does it mean they're prisoners, Papi?' Franca asked.

'Yes. It's a prison camp.'

'It can't be true,' Beppe said.

Disbelief spread on the tablecloth, staining it with fear. The smoke from Mario's cigarette rose above their heads like incense. Anna wouldn't look at him. She desperately wanted to go to her grotto and light a candle. The last of the sugo lay congealed in its dish.

'Oh my G.o.d,' Franca murmured.

Her eyes were magnified by unshed tears. She stared at her uncle. He had not talked to her but Anna had told her that Lucio loved Joe's mother. Their families were intertwined like trees in an orchard. Suddenly Franca was desperately afraid.

'We have to be careful,' Lucio told them. 'We must get out of the social club, immediately.'

'But Zio, we are not Jews.'

'We are Italian,' Lucio told his nephews sternly. 'We are not English. I told your father this a year ago. The social club is not a good thing.'

A chill went around the warm, homely room.

'Rubbish,' Mario bellowed, galvanised, outraged, ready for a fight.

He began speaking in dialect.

'That would amount to closing the door to our home. What about our relatives in Bratto? What about our pa.s.sports? What if we can't get our pa.s.sports renewed? What then?'

'Papi, I don't want to go back to Italy,' Franca cried.

Lucio drained his wine.

'Mussolini is Mr Hitler's friend.'

'Italy is neutral.'

Anna rose from the table. There was no use in any further speculation. She indicated to Franca to help clear the table. Her daughter needed to keep busy. Joe would be back in a fortnight. As if on cue the telephone rang and everyone looked weakly at it. It was Joe.

But later, after the rosary, after her prayers, when they were alone in bed, Anna asked Mario what was really going on.

'Nothing's going on. Britain is at war, that's all.'

'So what has the social club got to do with that?'

'We're Italian.'

'So you keep saying.'

He was in two minds, uncertain how to go on.

'But we might not always be neutral. Have you heard people talk of the fifth column, at the club?'

Of course she had heard the expression. But why would it affect them?

'Fascists. The British are worried about enemy aliens.'

Anna was puzzled. Mario was talking in a strange way as though he was repeating something he had heard.

'Who is saying this?'

Again he hesitated.

'Lucio found out. But you must not repeat a word of this. Understand?'

She nodded in the darkness. But how did Lucio know?

'Senti, Anna, listen to me. Lucio is involved in certain dangerous things, things he can't talk about. He knows that sooner or later all foreigners in England will be in danger. That includes Italians.'

Still she didn't understand.

'There is a feeling amongst some people in the British government, that the fifth column is growing. That Mussolini has Italian spies here. We are Italian. Now do you understand?'

'But how does he know all this?'

Mario hesitated.

'I don't know. Obviously he is involved in certain how shall I say certain kinds of work. And... he's been tailing that Wilson man... for some time. He's uncovered something.'

Mario paused.

'Is Selwyn Maudsley involved in this, too? Are all the English people suspicious of us?' Anna asked, alarmed.