ITALY

27-09-2002 08:56

“Ma fai attenzione! Madonna!”

Will Maguire had run slap bang into a burly young man who was letting it be known he considered the collision to be entirely Will’s fault.

In fact, the hefty Venetian had stopped abruptly, just past the crest of a narrow bridge that spanned the Rio di San Barnaba, while Will and his brother, Shamus, had been walking immediately behind him. Admittedly, Will had been admiring the sparkling canal and ancient edifices off to his right, but there was nothing he could have done to prevent himself from crashing into the Italian even if he’d been looking straight ahead.

Thrown off balance by the impact, Will staggered sideways, caught a heel on the edge of a paving stone, and fell to the ground. The guidebook he’d been holding flew into the air and landed with a loud slap an inch from one of the man’s huge feet.

“Guarda cosa hai fatto alla mia scarpa!” the man bellowed, pointing down at his shoe. A smear of dirt, clearly caused by Will’s foot as he’d stumbled, marred the pristine leather. The tall Italian appeared to be in his late twenties, with a huge head of vigorous, coal-black hair. Now he glared at Shamus accusingly, completely ignoring Will, who lay sprawled on the ground at his side.

Shamus’s immediate concern was that his brother may have broken something; at sixty-one, Will’s bones probably weren’t as strong as they had been. Shamus stepped toward Will and bent to help him to his feet.

Having received no apology, the young Italian lifted both hands in a dramatic gesture of exasperation and gazed, his substantial eyebrows raised, toward a couple of passersby as though appealing for their support. The bystanders, two girls walking arm in arm, rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Shamus was left with the distinct impression the young man was known to them, and his operatic behaviour was all too familiar.

Appearing unsurprised with any lack of sympathy from his fellow Venetians, the sturdy Italian squatted and licked one large thumb. With a single swipe, he erased the muddy mark on his shoe, then retrieved a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and scrubbed his thumb. It was only after the gleaming leather was restored to perfection and his thumb clean that the young man paid any attention to Will, who was struggling to stand with the help of Shamus’s hand under one of his elbows.

“Scusa,” declared the Italian, “spero che non ti sia fatto male.” His tantrum seemed to have dissipated as quickly as it had erupted. He frowned, but more as an expression of sympathetic regret at Will’s clumsiness than from any remorse for his outburst. Nevertheless, he stooped to take Will’s other elbow while deftly retrieving the guidebook with his free hand.

As he bent over, a metal object slid out of an inside pocket and tumbled to the ground with a clatter. The thought flitted across Shamus’s mind that it might be a gun. But it was a silver cigarette case. Shamus couldn’t recall having seen one of the rectangular, hinged cases since he and Will had been boys, in the ’50s and early ’60s. Once a small clasp was released, the case could be opened like a slim, hollow book to reveal a single layer of ten or fifteen cigarettes held in place by a narrow elastic strap.

Once Will was safely on his feet, the man released him and picked up his cigarette case. Will and Shamus watched as he polished each shiny surface with the grey woollen fabric of his jacket sleeve. He examined it for damage and then, satisfied that there were no dents, returned the cigarette case to his inside pocket. Shamus noted that the olive-skinned Italian was handsome in a brutish way.

“You are American,” said the man, studying the cover of the English-language guidebook.

“British,” said Will, brushing some dust from his trouser leg while scrutinizing the man’s face.

Shamus wouldn’t have been surprised by an angry explosion from Will. The slightness of his brother’s frame — almost half the size of the Italian’s — had never held him back from confrontation in the past. And the whole brouhaha had been the young man’s fault in the first place. But instead, while clearly unhurt by his fall, Will appeared more confused than angry. He was staring at the man and frowning, as though trying to work out how, and from where, the young Italian had materialized.

“British!” exclaimed the Italian. “From London perhaps? I lived there for two years when I was a student. Very nice.”

To Shamus’s astonishment, Will merely nodded his head and continued to stare at the man. Shamus wondered if perhaps his brother was in shock; normally quite vocal, it wasn’t Will’s style to be so tight-lipped.

“I live in London, but we’re from Liverpool originally,” Will finally blurted, shaking himself out of his trance. He smiled at the man.

“Liverpool!” exclaimed the man. “Good football. Very tough fans. Maybe you want to fight?” He beamed at Will, who grinned back in return. If Shamus hadn’t known his brother better, he’d have thought Will had taken a liking to the temperamental young Italian.

Then the man, with the illuminated expression of someone who’s been hit by a brainwave, his dark eyes flashing mischievously, thrust Will’s guidebook into Shamus’s hands and took two strides to the very crest of the hump-backed bridge that spanned the narrow canal.

“Come. Look.” He beckoned for the brothers to join him.

A greengrocer’s barge was moored to one side of the bridge, stacked high with piles of fruit and vegetables glowing in the brilliant morning sun. Shamus followed the scent of apples on the damp Venetian air toward where the Italian gestured excitedly for the two brothers to examine something on the stones at his feet. When Shamus and Will stepped closer, they saw four white marble footprints embedded in the paving stones. The two sets of prints, like fossilized insoles, were facing each other.

The man carefully placed his feet into one pair and adopted the pose of a boxer, holding up two fists. “You stand there,” he ordered Will.

Like a small child eager to play, Will stepped up to the opposing set of footprints and stood toe to toe with the young man, who indicated, by re-establishing his pose and nodding vigorously, that Will should follow suit. Shamus was amazed when Will immediately took the same pugilistic stance as the Italian. His brother could be playful, but his suspicious nature usually inhibited him from acting the fool with anyone but a proven friend and ally.

“Bravo!” cried the Italian. He furrowed his forehead into an exag­gerated frown, trying his best to appear fierce, but the corners of his lips twitched as he suppressed a smile.

The sight of his lightweight, sixty-one-year-old brother fist to fist against a lusty heavyweight in his twenties was so comical that Shamus laughed out loud. In part, Shamus’s laughter was nervous; he wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Will took it into his head to take a swing at the Italian. His abdomen tightened, as it always did when there was any danger of argument or conflict.

A passing woman wearing a bright blue headscarf and clutching a plastic carrier bag bulging with fruit appeared to know the young man — she smiled and made a comment. Judging by her tone and her expression, Shamus guessed it to be a sarcastic remark. Whatever the woman said, it put paid to the young man’s ferocity. He collapsed with laughter and slapped Will playfully on the back. Will dropped his fists, his cheeks glowing pink, and he smirked like a teacher’s pet with a new gold star. If he had a tail he’d be wagging it, thought Shamus.

“These footmarks are hundreds of years old,” said the Italian. “There were once gangs, yes?”

“Yes,” said Will, nodding his head to reassure the young man he was understood.

“One gang lived over there.” The Italian indicated one side of the canal with a sweep of his long arm. “The other lived on the other side. They met here to settle the arguments. The two capi, they would fight to settle the arguments between the gangs. Very bloody fights. Sometimes, one of them died.”

“Fantastic,” said Will, eyes shining.

His comment coincided with the sound of a bell ringing the hour.

“Madonna! I’m very late,” exclaimed the man, glancing at his watch. “When you bump me, I was returning to fetch my briefcase. I forgot it at my house, just over there.” He gestured toward the street that led to Campo Santa Margherita. Then he took Will’s hand and pumped his arm a couple of times. “Nice to meet you,” he cried as he strode away. “Arrivederci. Good holiday in Venezia.”

Will stood gazing after the young man. A bemused smile played across his lips until the Italian disappeared into a doorway. Then he shook his head as though to wake himself.

“Are you okay?” Shamus asked. Although five years younger than Will, it wasn’t unusual for Shamus to feel responsible for his elder brother’s welfare.

“Fine,” Will assured him. “No harm done. Quite the reverse, in fact.”

“Yes, you seemed to enjoy yourself immensely,” said Shamus.

Will muttered, “There’s something about that young man . . .” He stared after the Italian for a few seconds, frowning. The he shook his head again. “Sod him. Let’s find that coffee.”

The two brothers turned and crossed the bridge that led them into the open space of Campo San Barnaba. The yellow-ochre reflection of a row of handsome, sunlit façades glowed on the rippling surface of the canal, which ran along one side of the campo. The scene couldn’t have been more idyllic. The row of burnished buildings bathed in sunlight was in perfect proportion to the surrounding square. Weathered wooden shutters and doors complemented golden stucco walls. It was easy to imagine a feeling of contentment in anyone who might inhabit the spacious rooms behind such sturdy walls, their lofty ceilings measured by the height of tall, light-flooded windows. Shamus was filled with envy for the inhabitants, who emerged every day to find such humane surroundings as Venice’s pedestrian-only streets, squares, and canal-side walks. And the air was alive with the invigorating tang of a fresh maritime breeze — a far cry from Shamus’s smog-choked hometown of Toronto, where the summer had been unusually hot and oppressive.

“In fact, it looked like you and the Italian stallion were enjoying a positive love fest.” Shamus nudged Will’s arm.

“That’s more your bailiwick,” snarled Will, his good humour evaporating.

“All right, no need for unpleasantness,” said Shamus. He was taller and broader by far than his brother, but Shamus had to hurry to keep up as Will strode toward the tables of one of the outdoor cafés that lined the square.

“It’s just that when I banged into that young man, I was deep in thought about something else entirely, that’s all,” said Will, once they were sitting at one of the small round tables. 

When Shamus asked what could possibly have been so distracting, Will muttered something about having been preoccupied with a property deal, a house he was trying to buy. But as he spoke, instead of looking Shamus in the eye, Will made a point of twisting around in his chair to see if a waiter had emerged from the café behind them. “Who the hell do you have to bribe to get served around here?” he growled.

“What house? Where?” Shamus persisted.

“None of your business,” retorted Will. “It’ll probably come to nothing anyway.”

It wasn’t unusual for Will to appear annoyed with Shamus for no apparent reason. When they were children, Will had sometimes become so irritated with Shamus that he’d throw a punch in his brother’s direction. Once Shamus had outgrown him, Will didn’t dare continue with the thumpings, but the sniping continued. True, Will had mellowed a little since they’d both left home. In fact, there were a number of years, before Will was married, when they got along well, more like friends than brothers. But since their late twenties, when Shamus went to Canada, they’d seen little of each other. On the dozen or so occasions in the past three decades when they’d been together, Shamus had always supposed they’d assume the amiable relations they’d enjoyed before he left England. There was certainly deep familiarity whenever they met; how could there not be? They’d grown up together. But Will often exhibited a stiffness bordering on hostility. It never occurred to Shamus that perhaps it was he who’d changed, or that Will’s animosity might be a reaction to something he’d done. He assumed Will’s strained manner had something to do with his marital problems, and the fact that the two of them were always in the company of other people: their parents; Will’s wife, Mary; Shamus’s partner, Luke.

At the thought of Luke, Shamus experienced such acute yearning that his body shuddered, as though someone had walked over his grave, as his grandmother used to say. If only it were affable Luke and not peevish Will who was sitting across the café table. Shamus stared at the stone columns topped by bulging capitals that embellished San Barnaba church, across the square from where they were sitting. They were probably fine examples of some architectural period or other, but in Shamus’s present mood, the masonry decorations seemed grossly overwrought. He should have known better than to agree to this lunatic weekend in Venice.

A few days earlier, Shamus had returned to his hotel in Verona to find a message demanding that he phone Will urgently. Shamus immediately jumped to the conclusion that their mother, Edith, had died, even though there was no good reason for Shamus to fear her demise; she’d been sick barely a day in her life. But when Shamus saw that Will had left a number with a German dial code, indicating that his brother was obviously not at home in England, he realized his fears for his mother were probably unfounded. Would he always assume — since Luke — an unexpected phone call to bring news of illness or death, he wondered.

“What do you want?” asked Shamus when he reached Will in Germany.

“A young wife with ample breasts,” replied Will.

“Aren’t you forgetting you already have a wife somewhere?”

“Not true, kiddo,” said Will. “The divorce finally came through

— signed, sealed and delivered.” “Wonders will never cease,” said Shamus. “It’s only been fifteen years since you separated.”

“Best years of my life,” declared Will. Shamus was reminded of people who claimed the same thing about being at school — he didn’t believe them either.

“You’d better sit, if you aren’t already,” Will continued in a bossy, older-brother tone of voice that immediately irritated Shamus. “Edith has decided it’s time she did a little travelling, namely a sojourn in Venice with her darling sons.”

Shamus and Will had addressed their parents by their first names ever since they’d reached their late teens. Neither brother could remember exactly how Mum turned into Edith, nor how Dad became Joe. But at some point Edith and Joe had stopped referring to each other as Mum and Dad, and the brothers had simply followed suit. Will claimed that their parents had relinquished their parenthood.

“Let’s face it, they were never very good at it anyway,” he’d said.

“Us? In Venice? With Edith? You’re joking. She never goes anywhere!” Shamus said, incredulous.

“Well she’s going places now, honey,” said Will. “When I told her I was off to Dresden on business, she said you were working in Verona for a few days and asked if Verona was near Venice. When I said yes, she claimed she’d always wanted to go to Venice and went on at some length about what a shame it would be not to take the opportunity for all of us to be together there for a long weekend.”

“I’m not sure I have time for any sojourns in Venice, mother or no mother.”

“I’m afraid it’s a done deal,” Will’s disembodied voice reverberated slightly in Shamus’s ear. “I told Edith I was sure you’d delay your trip back to Toronto for a couple of days. She arrives in Venice on Saturday morning and is expecting us to meet her.”

“Trust her to start flying around the world post-9/11. Why didn’t she do her air travel when it was glamorous and safe? And isn’t she a little old? She just turned eighty-three, for Christ’s sake!” Shamus exclaimed.

“She’s probably chosen to start flying precisely because of 9/11; you know how contrary she can be if she gets a whiff of any chipping away at civil liberties,” said Will. “And she’s in perfect health, as you well know. Now that’s it’s a fait accompli, I’m rather looking forward to being in the bosom of my family in beautiful La Serenissima.”

Shamus, glancing through the window, was momentarily distracted by the sight of hundreds of specks swooping above the terracotta tile roofs of Verona. Swallows, preparing for migration to Africa. He’d migrate to Africa himself, he thought wryly, if it would get him out of this trip to Venice. He stared silently at a forest of ceramic chimney pots as he shifted the telephone from one ear to the other. He could only remember one other occasion when Edith had travelled any distance outside of Liverpool. He and Will had been sharing a flat in Notting Hill. They’d entered into the arrangement more out of necessity than desire. But they were both revelling in their independence from their parents and excited to be living in London. The years the two brothers had spent cohabiting was a period of pleasant amiability and peace between them. As far as Shamus could remember, it was the only period during which Will seemed to do more than merely tolerate him. Except for one occasion when Edith and Joe travelled down from Liverpool by train to visit them. It was only a matter of hours before Will and their father got into a ferocious row. Then, when Shamus attempted his usual role as peacemaker, Will had turned his ire on his brother. Edith burst into tears, and she and Joe had returned to Liverpool two days early.

“Don’t be such a wet blanket!” Will’s voice was almost a welcome interruption to Shamus’s recollections. “All you have to do is change your return flight back to Canadian Bleak House until Monday or Tuesday. I’ll motor down and meet you in Venice. We’ll have the whole day on Friday to catch up before Edith arrives on Saturday morning.”

“There’s nothing to catch up on,” said Shamus, resentful of Will’s manipulations. “Anyway, isn’t Dresden to Venice rather a long drive? And what do you mean by Canadian Bleak House, for Christ’s sake?”

“You’ve lived in Canada for too long; we don’t cross the Alps by elephant any more,” Will sneered. “Europe has tunnels and highways. Autobahn and autostrada. It’ll take me less than a day to drive down there.”

“And what did you mean by Bleak House?” repeated Shamus.

“Well let’s face it, since Luke died, you have no reason to go home, do you?” asked Will. “Don’t you get lonely in that empty pile of bricks, curled up in the fetal position with your thumb in your mouth?”

Shamus said nothing.

“Look,” said Will. The change in the timbre of his voice was a signal of a halt in his harangue. A huskiness that, despite the imperfect phone connection, Shamus recognized — remembered — as the white flag of a temporary ceasefire. “For some reason unknown to man or beast, this trip seems to matter to Edith. I’d like you and me to do this together, that’s all,” concluded Will.

“Are you sure she hasn’t gone gaga?” Shamus asked, aware that Will’s appeal had weakened his resistance.

“Not at all. In fact she seems more lucid than ever. And now that there’s no paterfamilias to fuck everything up, how bad could it be?” said Will.

A couple of days might not be so bad, thought Shamus grudgingly. Maybe Will was right; they might actually get along without Joe to put them all on edge.

After hanging up the phone, Shamus stood for a moment and stared out again at the rooftops of Verona lit by late afternoon sun, their west slopes glowing with golden light, their shadowy east sides assuming the purple tinges of evening. He watched the swallows outside his hotel window as they continued to dart and dive. Strange, he thought, how they managed never to collide.

Will had been right, of course. It was no problem for Shamus to change his flight. He’d finished work at the printing plant late on Thursday and travelled the short distance from Verona to Venice by train that evening. Despite Will’s protestations of its being an easy drive, Shamus had turned in for the night before his brother arrived around midnight. And now here they were, sitting in a Venetian piazza, twenty-four long hours stretching ahead of them until their mother arrived. Shamus wondered what in God’s name they were going to talk about.

“Prego, signore,” said the waiter, placing small white paper mats in front of them with the words “Caffé Lavazza: ricco e morbido” printed in lurid red letters.

“Not a moment too soon,” Will’s exaggeratedly cheery tone was rife with sarcasm. The waiter eyed Will suspiciously. Shamus felt a contraction in his intestines, which only relaxed a little when the waiter dismissed Will with the kind of disdainful shrug that Italian shoulders seem to perform so expressively.

“Due cappuccini, per favore,” said Shamus.

“Would a croissant be too much to ask for?” asked Will curtly, squinting in the sunlight as he looked up at the waiter. The waiter glanced at Will’s guidebook, lying on the table. He made a show of not understanding the question; he frowned, shook his head, and scowled down at Will.

Will put his hand to his forehead — ostensibly an innocent move to shield his eyes from the sun, but Shamus recognized it as a defensive gesture, which prompted another turn of the screw in Shamus’s intestines. It was as though his stomach remembered more clearly than he the unbearable tension at the family dining table, which would invariably erupt into a vicious battle between Will and Joe. Despite deep lines at his brow and the worn texture of his sixty-one-year-old skin, Will’s expression of vulnerability, a scuffed-suede quality in his blue irises, was as obvious to Shamus as it had been during family meals when they were boys, their father simmering with rage at the head of the table. Shamus’s annoyance with Will drained away, to be replaced by a sympathy so intense his eyes stung. Shamus couldn’t help becoming indignant at the waiter for so obviously dismissing his brother as nothing more than an annoying tourist.

“Dolci,” snapped Shamus. “Do you have dolci?” His rudimentary Italian abandoned him in the wake of his irritation.

“Si, we have,” replied the waiter, “Chocolate or . . .” he hesitated, “albicocca.”

“Apricot,” Shamus translated for his brother.

“Chocolate for me,” said Will.

“Vorrei albicocca, per favore,“ said Shamus.

The waiter nodded and disappeared as brusquely as he’d arrived. Shamus wondered at the force of emotion he’d felt as a result of Will’s little spat with the waiter. And why did he feel as though he were somehow responsible?

“Try not to make a fuss if it isn’t a croissant,” Shamus said.

“What?” asked Will, remnants of uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

“You asked for croissant. But they’re French. The Italian equivalent, dolci, are usually more like bread, sweet rolls kind of thing.”

“I have actually been to Italy before,” said Will with a scowl.

Shamus suddenly became aware of the irony — the hypocrisy — of his annoyance with the waiter for harbouring exactly the same low opinion of his brother that he himself had felt minutes before. Shamus wished that he, like the waiter, were unfamiliar with the formative experiences of his brother’s childhood. It’d be so much easier to simply dislike Will. He watched idly as a bookseller who had set up a folding table in the middle of the square arranged ancient volumes, some with torn jackets, in neat rows. 

“Prego,” said the waiter as he placed a cup and saucer on each paper mat, then whisked two plates onto the table, quickly followed by the tab. “Otto euro, per favore,” he demanded, one hand thrust in his apron pocket in anticipation of making change. Shamus, unfamiliar with the etiquette of tourist establishments and accustomed to paying when ready to leave, was flustered. He fished for his wallet in a back pocket, muttering “eight euros” for Will’s benefit. Will promptly produced two 5-euro notes, handed them to the waiter, and said, with a wave of his hand, “Keep the change.”

“Grazie, signore,” intoned the waiter, appearing less hostile now that negotiations had come to a satisfactory conclusion. He ambled over to a man and woman a couple of tables away who were arguing in German, fingers stabbing at a map spread out on the table in front of them.

“If I’d noticed the bastard hadn’t brought real croissants I wouldn’t have tipped him,” said Will, looking at the dolci with mock horror.

“Very funny,” said Shamus. “We’ll be lucky if he didn’t spit in our cappuccinos.”

Will ignored him. He was staring at the German couple whose argument had escalated; their strident voices could be heard quite clearly.

“God but Kraut is an ugly language,” Will said loudly.

 

ENGLAND

Friday, April 26, 1940

It wasn’t the bloodshed that sickened Edith; she’d seen worse brawls. What repulsed her was the expression of sheer hatred that had transformed Liam’s normally placid, boyish features into a grotesque agglomeration of convulsive muscle and quivering flesh.

“You’re a bunch of Nazi wops,” he’d screamed. “Why don’t you clear off back to Italy before we lock you all up.”

Liam was standing nose to nose with Domenico Baccanello, the youngest son of the Italian family who lived in the bungalow next door. He gripped the front of Domenico’s shirt so tightly his knuckles were white with tension.

“You and whose army,” Domenico had yelled. Edith saw a spray of spittle fly a few short inches from Domenico’s mouth to land on Liam’s cheek. At that, Liam butted Domenico’s nose with his head and a stream of crimson blood burst from Domenico’s nostrils. Undaunted, the Italian boy managed to land a hefty punch on Liam’s left eye. Edith was doubly shocked, as the two boys had always been such fast friends.

“Stop it,” shouted Mrs. Maguire from the open doorway behind Edith. “Liam, for God’s sake, stop fighting.” She hurried down the couple of steps from the porch to the lawn. Before she could reach the two boys, they’d dragged each other to the ground, where they flailed at each other, punching and kicking as hard as they could. Although slight, Mrs. Maguire was always energetic and full of purpose. As she hovered, bird-like, above the brawling boys her frustration at not being able to separate them was obvious.

Despite Edith’s diminutive size — she matched the description in the popular song, “five foot two, eyes of blue” — she would normally have waded in and helped pull them apart, but she wasn’t going to risk harming her unborn baby for the sake of her brother-in-law. In an attempt to assuage the guilt she felt for not helping her mother-in-law prise the scrapping boys apart, Edith tried to tell herself it would serve Liam right if he got a good thrashing. But she didn’t really believe it, and Edith was relieved when a burly figure appeared from a row of conifers that separated Mrs. Maguire’s garden from Anna and Gianni Baccanello’s property.

The strange man appeared to be older than Edith, twenty-five perhaps. He strode purposefully towards the boys, who were still scrabbling at each other on the grass, Mrs. Maguire hovering fretfully above them. Judging from his luxuriant black hair and tawny skin, the newcomer belonged to the Baccanello family. But Edith was sure she’d never seen him before — she would have remembered.

“Now you two, that’s enough,” he said, grasping each boy by an upper arm and yanking them to their feet as effortlessly as if they were pint-sized dolls instead of two lusty teenagers. The boys practically dangled from the man’s gargantuan hands, their shirts streaked with grass stains and spotted with bright circles of blood. “Domenico, apologize to Liam and to Mrs. Maguire.”

“But it was his fault,” spluttered Domenico, wiping his nose with one hand, smearing blood across his cheek in the process. “He called me a wop.”

“Basta,” barked the man.

“There’s really no need,” insisted Mrs. Maguire. “Liam was as much to blame.” As much to blame, thought Edith — her keen sense of fairness filled her with indignation. It was entirely Liam’s fault, the little bugger.

Despite Mrs. Maguire’s protestation, Domenico muttered a perfunctory apology, eyes lowered.

“Now go back to the house,” ordered the stranger. Domenico slunk across the expanse of grass, compliant as a well-trained dog, and vanished through a gap in the line of fir trees.

“And you, my lad,” Mrs. Maguire addressed Liam. “Up those steps and into your room. And stay there until I say so.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Maguire,” the man said as soon as Liam had disappeared through the front door.

Edith’s mother-in-law frowned slightly. “Carlo?” she asked.

“But of course,” the man said. “Didn’t you recognize me?”

“Good heavens,” cried Mrs. Maguire. “You look so . . .” she cast around for the right word — “mature.”

Edith could contain herself no longer. “But it was all Liam’s fault,” she spluttered. “You needn’t apologize.”

“Well, we don’t know everything that was said before we heard them out here shouting, do we?” Mrs. Maguire interjected. Then, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, she introduced Edith to Carlo. “This is my daughter-in-law, Edith.” She turned to Edith. “Carlo is Anna’s oldest son,” she explained. “But I haven’t seen him since he was married. Was it four or five years ago?” she asked.

“Six,” said Carlo, smiling. “Pleased to meet you.” He extended one of his giant mitts to Edith. Once her fingers were released from his enveloping grip, Edith unconsciously cradled her swollen abdomen in the palm of her hand.

“How far along are you?” asked Carlo. The question took Edith by surprise; she wasn’t showing much and it was unusual for a man to ask, even if he were sensitive enough to be curious.

“Five months,” she replied.

“Pregnancy obviously suits you,” said Carlo. His brown eyes held an expression of amused curiosity.

“She does look well, doesn’t she?” chimed in Mrs. Maguire.

“Yes indeed,” said Carlo, smiling. “Beautiful as the Madonna.” He pronounced the last word in an unusual way, elongating the o and lingering on the n’s.

“Nonsense. I look like a beer barrel,” Edith muttered, averting her eyes from his. She was sure Carlo must be teasing her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help feeling flattered; he was the first person ever to call her beautiful.

“Edith’s staying with us for the duration. Liverpool’s much too dangerous; the bombs could start dropping any day now,” said Mrs. Maguire. “And Joe’s off in God-knows-where fighting for King and country.”

“Yes, my mother told me he was called up,” said Carlo.

“Joe and Carlo were quite chummy when they were younger,” explained Mrs. Maguire. Edith found it hard to imagine the two together. While both were dark-featured and good-looking, her husband, with his short, wiry figure, must have looked like a lepre­chaun in comparison to Carlo’s massive frame.

“Isobel and I have moved here to escape from Liverpool too,” said Carlo. “That, and because of her illness.”

“Goodness, where will you all sleep?” asked Mrs. Maguire.

“Oh, we’ve squeezed into a lot less space before now,” said Carlo, laughing. “Well, I must be off. If Domenico misbehaves again, you let me know.” He grinned at Edith and gave a little nod of his impressive head as he turned to leave.

After he’d disappeared between the firs Edith gazed across the lawn and beyond the lane to the fields that dipped down toward the Dee estuary. A line of low dunes, their sandy flanks held in place by grey sea grass, separated farmland from a ribbon of beach. The tide was in, and Edith took in the white-flecked, bottle-green expanse of seawater stretching to the hazy coastline of Wales, which hovered on the far side of the river’s mouth. It was a commanding view, refreshing after the grime and monotony of the crowded Liverpool neighbourhood where Edith and Joe had lived since they were married.

* * *

“What on earth got into you?” asked Mrs. Maguire. She held a com­press, a wad of old cotton sheet soaked in cold water, to Liam’s swollen eye. “You and Domenico have been friends since you were babies.”

“Things have changed,” said Liam darkly. “There’s a war on now, and Dom and his brothers are sure to be fifth columnists.”

“That seems very unlikely,” said Edith, lighting a cigarette and carefully shaking the match out before placing it in a nearby ashtray. She wasn’t entirely sure what fifth columnists were, but she suspected the term implied traitorous behaviour. And it was ludicrous to think of the Baccanellos as anything but innocent, hard-working immigrants. She’d come to know the family well in the eight weeks since she’d moved from the flat over a chemist’s shop in Liverpool that she and Joe had rented after they were married. On three occasions in the last couple of months, they’d all, Liam included, had supper next door with the Baccanello family. Anna Baccanello, who was plump and motherly, liked nothing better than to feed people.

“It says so right here,” said Liam, grabbing the Daily Mirror from the sofa cushion next to him. “In black and white.”

“Sit still,” said Mrs. Maguire. “Better yet, you hold this on your eye while I soak another in cold water.” She bustled off to the kitchen.

“Let me see the paper,” said Edith. Instead of handing it to her, Liam held up the newspaper with his free hand and peered at it with his good eye. He quoted line by line in an exaggeratedly dramatic voice:

There is a stinking wind from the Mediterranean

which bodes no good,

Yet we still tolerate Mussolini’s henchmen in this

country!

The government of Italy has thousands of loyal

followers here,

Italians by birth, Fascists by breeding.

“You’re making it up,” exclaimed Edith. “They’d never print such rot in a national newspaper.”

“Here, read it for yourself,” said Liam, thrusting the crumpled copy of the Daily Mirror in her direction. Liam was absolutely right; he’d quoted the lines verbatim. Edith skimmed the rest. The phrase “‘fifth columns” was there in the sixth line. The writer, a John Boswell, estimated that there were twenty thousand Italians living in Britain, describing them as “brown-eyed Francescas and Marias, beetle-browed Ginos, Titos and Marios . . . ” He portrayed them as being “usually inoffensive, decent and likeable, BUT . . .” and claimed that they’d formed fascist clubs. Then, in an indulgent use of bold type, came the statement “every Italian colony in Great Britain and America is a seething cauldron of smoking politics, Black Fascism. Hot as hell.”

“The bungalow next door doesn’t seem like a seething cauldron of smoking politics or Black Fascism to me,” said Edith, tossing the newspaper back to Liam. “It’s sometimes warm, but nothing like as hot as hell.”

“You can joke all you want,” pronounced Liam. “But you’ll be laughing on the other side of your face when we all wake up with our throats slit.”

Edith wished Liam hadn’t brought her attention to the article. She liked the Baccanellos tremendously, and she was sure that none of them had a fascist bone in their body. After all, it wasn’t as if they’d just arrived in England; in fact, she remembered Anna saying that Domenico and Paolo had been born in Liverpool. Paolo must be around twenty years old, the same age as herself.

Edith remembered some mention of an older son, but she hadn’t paid much attention. It was typical of Joe not to have mentioned Carlo. She found herself idly wondering what might have happened if she’d met someone like Carlo before she married Joe. But then she exhaled her last drag of cigarette and stubbed it out, shredding the remaining nub of tobacco into a mess of tiny golden strands.

“It looks like they’re going to cancel the Olympics,” said Liam, who’d moved on to another page of the Daily Mirror. He’d dropped the compress from his eye; Edith could see that his upper and lower lids and part of his cheek had turned an alarming shade of purple. The white of his eye was bloodshot. “That’s a shame. Jack Beresford would have cleaned up in the rowing. Britain was guaranteed a few medals there. Damn nuisance.”

“Watch your language, young man,” said Mrs. Maguire, who appeared from the kitchen clutching another wad of wet fabric. “I’m not sure this compress is doing any good. You’ve got a real shiner and no mistake.”

“Really?” exclaimed Liam. He jumped up to inspect himself in the mirror above the fireplace.

“Black eye or not, you’re still helping me build that henhouse tomorrow,” said Mrs. Maguire. “So don’t think you can wriggle out of it.”

Saturday, April 27, 1940

From inside the wooden shed, where she was clearing shelves of seed boxes, some packed with sprouting potatoes and others bristling with vegetable seedlings, Edith could hear Mrs. Maguire and Liam bickering outside.

“Hold it straight, Liam. You’re more hindrance than help,” exclaimed Mrs. Maguire.

“I don’t know why you don’t take the stake and let me do the ham­mering,” grumbled Liam. “It’s more of a man’s job anyway.”

Edith carried a couple of boxes out of the shed in time to see Mrs. Maguire swing the mallet with gusto, bringing it down squarely on top of the wooden stake that Liam was grasping. The stake sank a good six inches into the earth.

“I heard hammering and came over to see if you needed help, but it looks like you have everything under control.” Carlo smiled at them from the shadows of the back wall of Mrs. Maguire’s bungalow. He was wearing an old tan corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows that gave him a slightly raffish air.

The garden shed where Mrs. Maguire and Liam were working stood atop an incline that rose steeply at the rear of the house. Just beyond the shed lay the unfenced boundary of Shrimpley Heath, a few hundred acres of gorse, heather, bracken, and birch trees that blanketed the hills above the houses.

“Not so much under control that we couldn’t use another pair of hands,” Mrs. Maguire called down to Carlo, giving Liam a meaningful look.

Carlo took off his corduroy jacket, laid it on a nearby window ledge, and clambered up the slope, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Since I’m to be one of your crew, perhaps you’d tell me exactly what it is you’re up to,” he smiled.

“We’re turning the shed into a henhouse, and these posts are to make a run,” explained Mrs. Maguire. Then, with a nod of her head, she indicated a large roll of chicken wire lying nearby. “We’ll be thankful for the eggs when food gets scarce. The Great War will seem like a picnic compared to this one; you mark my words.”

When World War I began, Mrs. Maguire was newly wed, and she experienced first-hand the results of war when her young husband was granted a medical discharge in 1918, two months before hostilities ceased. Mr. Maguire was sent home from the battlefields of France suffering from the effects of gas poisoning; his lungs were covered in scar tissue. Despite chronic shortness of breath, his matinee idol exterior was unblemished. He was a popular guest at New Year’s Eve parties, where he was given a lump of coal and sent outside so that he could return, clutching the coal, as soon as midnight had struck.

It was considered good luck for a dark-haired, handsome man to be the first to cross the threshold. Mrs. Maguire couldn’t remember the significance of the coal but thought it had something to do with assuring a bountiful year to come. At thirty-four, Mr. Maguire died of a heart attack, a result of his gas-damaged lungs.

Carlo picked up a stake and examined it. “When are the hens arriving?” he asked.

When Mrs. Maguire explained that the farmer down the lane was due to deliver them the following Monday, Carlo relieved Mrs. Maguire of her large hammer. “Well let’s get to it, then,” he exclaimed. He steadied the stake with one hand and used his other to wield the mallet.

“It doesn’t look like you’ll be needing me any more,” said Liam. “Oh but we do,” retorted Mrs. Maguire. “You and I can start nailing the wire to the posts.” “And what’s your contribution to the war effort?” Carlo asked Edith once he’d driven in his first stake.

“I’m off to plant these,” she said, holding up some boxes of sprout­ing potatoes and trying to appear as if he’d interrupted her in her ac­tivities, when in fact she’d been staring at him, admiring his dexterity with stake and mallet. “We need to empty the trays to make nesting boxes out of them.”

“I’m already beginning to detest the expression ‘war effort,’” complained Liam. It struck Edith as ironic that Liam, who only the day before had been viciously attacking Domenico for imaginary unpatriotic activities, would much rather be lying on his bed sneaking cigarettes and reading Picture Show magazine, hoping the war would be over before he turned eighteen and was old enough to fight.

* * *

“Well I think we all deserve a cup of tea,” declared Mrs. Maguire two hours later. She took a final admiring glance at the transformed shed with its hen run securely enclosed in gleaming chicken wire. Carlo had carved out a couple of openings at the base of the shed wall, inside the run, for the hens to go in and out. Edith had planted sprouting potatoes and vegetable seedlings — Brussels sprouts, cabbage, and lettuce — in the bed that Mrs. Maguire had prepared to one side of the front lawn. Liam had disappeared into the house the minute the last section of chicken wire had been secured. Carlo retrieved his jacket from the window ledge and swung it over one shoulder.

“You two go and sit on the front porch,” suggested Mrs. Maguire to Carlo and Edith. “I’ll bring the tea out in a minute.”

Why Mrs. Maguire called it a porch Edith couldn’t imagine, as it wasn’t enclosed in glass. It consisted of a wooden platform sheltered by a shingle roof that was supported by four sturdy wooden pillars covered in peeling, cream-colored paint. When Edith had once referred to it as the “verandah,” Mrs. Maguire laughed out loud. “Where do you think we are, Memsahib?” she asked. “This isn’t a posh bungalow in the Punjab, you know.”

Half a dozen other residences were dotted along the length of Sandy Lane, a mile-long, unpaved cul-de-sac that ended at a gate to a grassy meadow. Mrs. Maguire’s house and the Baccanello property were the only ones to sit cheek by jowl; the rest were separated from each other by fields and hedgerows. Most were identical. Their bulging bay windows and exteriors of pebbledash stucco in pastel shades, typical of seaside residences constructed in England during the early 1900s, appeared incongruous, a misguided attempt to recreate a rash of Indian-style bungalows in the lush English countryside. To Edith, who’d never undertaken a longer journey than the hour-and-a-half­long trip from Liverpool to Shrimpley, their names — Resthaven, Namaskar, Longview— were suggestive of the exotic romance of the Indian Raj. She couldn’t think why her mother-in-law was so clearly embarrassed when she had to give her address as Shambhala, the name inscribed in faded, swooping script on the sagging front gate. “Anybody would think we lived in a heathen temple,” muttered Mrs. Maguire. “Numbers would be far more sensible.” The Baccanello bungalow was called Annapurna, but nobody called it that. It was alluded to by one and all as “the Italians’ house.”

“It’s a fine view from here,” commented Carlo, settling onto one of the porch chairs. Edith sank into the chair beside him and surveyed the scene before them.

The topography provided Mrs. Maguire’s porch with an unob­structed panorama of the estuary’s tidal flats, a vast expanse of sand and water stretching inland to the east and westward toward the Irish Sea. The red roof of the Shrimpley Yacht Club could be glimpsed among the dunes below. Edith thought the term “Yacht Club” was rather grand for the barn-like building next to an unkempt boatyard that housed a motley collection of old dinghies with paint peeling and rigging in need of repair. A few sailboats in better condition were anchored in the estuary. They floundered on the sands when the water was low, but now that it was high tide, they bobbed jaun­tily among the whitecaps.

“Here we are,” sang Mrs. Maguire as she emerged from the front door carrying a tray with a blue milk jug, a teapot engulfed by a pink crocheted cosy, and a plate with four plain digestive biscuits. Carlo jumped up to take the tray from her and placed it safely on a small table between his chair and Edith’s. Edith noticed there were only two cups.

“Aren’t you joining us?” she asked, suddenly and inexplicably nervous.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll have mine inside,” said Mrs. Maguire. “ITMA will be on the wireless soon, and I’d rather not miss the beginning.”

ITMA was short for a radio program called It’s That Man Again. The star of the show was Liverpool-born comedian Tommy Handley, much loved by Mrs. Maguire for his local roots. The title came from a newspaper headline reprinted whenever Hitler made yet another outrageous territorial claim during the months leading up to the war, when more than one newspaper developed the habit of proclaiming “It’s That Man Again” on their front page.

“Sorry there aren’t more biscuits, but Liam seems to have eaten our quota for the week,” explained Mrs. Maguire. “Dreadful boy doesn’t seem to understand the concept of rationing. I suppose he’ll learn soon enough when we have nothing left to eat,” she muttered darkly before disappearing inside.

“I get so sick of all the doom and gloom,” said Edith crossly. “Can you honestly believe there’ll be no food in the shops?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she found herself launching into a tirade. “Mind you, no wonder everybody’s on edge. It was bad enough when they were handing out gas masks willy-nilly before war was even declared. A mere whiff of floor polish or bleach was enough to put the fear of God into people and send them fumbling for the darn things. It might not be so bad if they didn’t look so horrific, all these grisly black-rubber snouts roaming the streets. And now they’re forcing everyone to carry identity cards. It’s no wonder everyone’s so glum.”

“Such passion,” Carlo said, an amused expression on his face.

Edith felt her face flush. She looked away, toward the estuary.

“Sorry,” said Carlo. “I shouldn’t tease you.”

“No, it’s I who should apologise, ranting on like that,” she said. “My father always said I take things too seriously. Not that he was exactly a barrel of laughs himself.”

“He’s dead?” Carlo asked.

“God no,” exclaimed Edith. “It’s just that I haven’t seen much of my parents since I was married.”

“Oh?” said Carlo.

“A silly row between Joe and my dad about religion,” explained Edith. “The ridiculous thing is that Joe hasn’t stepped into a church

— Catholic or otherwise — since he left school. And my dad is an indifferent Protestant at best. He hasn’t marched in the Orange Day parade since my granddad died ten years ago. But that didn’t stop him and Joe from going at it. It got so heated I began to wonder if they weren’t fighting about something else entirely.”

“Joe always was high-strung,” said Carlo.

“I keep forgetting you know him.”

“I’m a couple of years older than Joe; I think I was twelve when we moved here. He must have been nine or ten. But with no other kids of our age to play with — Domenico was a baby and Paolo had only just started school — Joe and I knocked around together. I was in and out of this house; Mrs. Maguire was always so welcoming.”

“She’s been generous to me too,” said Edith.

After Edith’s parents told her never to darken their door again, following her father’s argument with Joe, Mrs. Maguire had told Edith, “Well you’re always welcome in our house.” At the time, Edith thought it sounded more like a criticism of her parents than a genuine invitation, but her mother-in-law had proved true to her word.

As soon as she heard she was to be a grandmother, Mrs. Maguire had insisted Edith come and live with her and Liam. Edith was hesitant. After Joe had gone into the army, her solitary life in their furnished flat was comfortable enough. Ironically, her days were considerably more peaceful than before the war, when she’d lived with her parents. Once Edith realized that she and her sister had been living under her father’s thumb rather than under his wing, she couldn’t help wondering if perhaps she’d married Joe just to escape. The seventeen shillings a week that Edith received from the government as the wife of a serviceman, plus the seven shillings a week that Joe was required by the army to send her — which, as he was quick to point out, only left him with a measly shilling for the whole week — supplied all her basic needs. It wasn’t as much as she’d earned as a filing clerk for the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board, but she’d rather have things a little tight than have to work in a dreary office, being leered at by accounting clerks with ink-stained fingers.

Edith had to admit that the winter, the coldest in forty-five years, had been hard on her. She was at too much of a loose end in the gloomy city, where air raid shelters and barrage balloons lent a pervasive atmosphere of impending doom. But with no tangible evidence of war — the press dubbed the first months after war was declared “The Bore War” — Edith felt like a fraud for fleeing Liverpool. A few days after she’d arrived in Shrimpley, she secretly welcomed the news that Germany had invaded Norway and Denmark. Although Edith still couldn’t imagine such a thing, the eventuality of bombers over England was deemed more likely, making her exit from the city appear less premature.

Now she looked around at the expansive lawn, its herbaceous borders colourful with early-flowering blooms. At least I chose a man whose family wasn’t stuck in dreary old Liverpool, she thought.

“How on earth did you meet Joe anyway?” asked Carlo.

“You sound surprised that he met me at all,” said Edith.

Carlo was clearly nonplussed by her accusation. “I didn’t mean to sound rude, but you have to admit you and he are . . . different.”

“I suppose we are,” Edith said. She assumed Carlo was referring to their religious backgrounds. He couldn’t know about the other disparities — her private schooling, her upbringing in a house rife with middle-class pretensions. Normally she might have tried to elucidate, but with Carlo she found she didn’t feel any need to explain herself.

“We met last year, four or five months before war was declared,” Edith said “And in November we were married — obviously,” she laughed, patting her swollen belly. “But this was May, a little less than a year ago. My sister, Agnes, and I had gone to the Grafton ballroom. You know, on West Derby Road?”

“Yes, I know the place,” said Carlo, impatient to hear more.

“It was the day that conscription was announced. My dad went on about how it was the first time in British history that compulsory military enlistment had happened during peacetime. The Grafton was full to bursting despite all the pessimism about war being inevitable. Joe and I literally stumbled across one another. We’d been standing back to back when I turned to see what was keeping my sister, who’d gone off to the Ladies. Joe turned around at the same time and we almost banged heads; I had to grab hold of him to stop myself from coming a cropper.”

Edith paused for a moment and gazed across the estuary. The Welsh hills were clearly visible on the far side. It was an unusually clear day; she could make out a patchwork pattern of fields and hedges spread out across the hillsides. The Grafton dance hall seemed worlds away. Nevertheless, she could picture herself there, being forced to hold on to a handsome stranger to prevent herself from falling, one hand on his shoulder, the other grasping his arm. Afterwards, Joe enjoyed telling people that Edith had “thrown herself at him” on the night they met, then he’d wink at Edith and give her a little nudge. Edith would try not to appear ticked off, but later, as it became more and more obvious that she would never have “thrown” herself at him, she found it hard not to scowl.

“He asked me to dance, and the rest is history,” concluded Edith, turning to look at Carlo.

“Joe’s a lucky man.”

“Do you always flirt with your friends’ pregnant wives?” asked Edith.

“I’d never do that,” Carlo retorted, straight-faced.

They both laughed.

“And anyway, Joe’s not my friend.” said Carlo. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for years, especially since I left school and started working with my father.” He leaned over and lifted the teapot. “We’d better drink this tea before it gets cold. Shall I be mother?”

Edith couldn’t help smiling — anybody less like a homely housewife was impossible to imagine.

Once he’d poured their tea, Carlo fished a cigarette case and a lighter from the pocket of his corduroy jacket. He snapped open the case and offered a cigarette to Edith. Then he flipped open the top of his lighter and lit it with a flick of one thumb. Carlo held it out for Edith, cradling the flame from the breeze with both hands.

“Maybe Joe felt I’d deserted him when I got married and moved to Liverpool to work in my father’s fish and chip shops.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Joe. He’s a bit needy sometimes,” said Edith. She took a drag of her cigarette.

“Working in a chippie must be hard work — long days and all that,” she said.

“But it’s steady — even in the Depression we did well. You wouldn’t believe how many people will readily spend their last few pennies on a helping of cod and chips. The worst part of working in the middle of Liverpool is the trek back and forth from here each day.”

Edith had always enjoyed the trip back and forth from Shrimpley to the city centre, but she could see how onerous the journey would be as a daily trek to work. After reaching Shrimpley village in the twenty-seater local bus or by foot across the heath, Carlo would have to take a larger, double-decker bus the six or seven miles across the peninsula that separated the estuaries of the River Dee and the River Mersey. The bus terminated at the Mersey ferry dock in Birkenhead, where boats regularly crossed the river to Liverpool on the opposite shore. No wonder Carlo had moved at the first opportunity.

It must be wearisome to have to resume such a tiresome daily trek now that he’d moved back to Sandy Lane. But he wasn’t alone, thousands of people in Britain had relocated even though it meant travelling longer distances to work every day. It was preferable to being in a city overnight, with the threat of German bomber attacks imminent. Everybody assumed that central Liverpool, with its docks and factories, was likely to be a prime target. But nothing had happened so far, and Edith had trouble believing that bombers would ever venture that far.

“Isobel will be wondering where I am,” pronounced Carlo. “I must get back and finish building her ramp. That’s what I was doing when I heard you lot hammering.”

“Ramp?” queried Edith.

“Isobel has multiple sclerosis and she has to use a wheelchair more and more these days. So I’m building a ramp at the back door so she can get out in the garden when the weather’s fine.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Edith. The fact of Carlo’s wife leapt into the realms of reality. Up until then, Edith had unwittingly swept Isobel to the edge of her consciousness.

“We must get you two together. I think you’d like each other,” said Carlo.

Not knowing how to react, Edith said nothing. She looked toward the estuary. The tide was retreating. Islands of wet sand had appeared, surrounded by channels of turbulent water rushing toward a ragged line of distant breakers that marked the fringes of the sea proper, a few miles to the west. She looked up to see Carlo unfolding himself from the wicker porch chair. As he passed behind Edith’s chair, he reached down and gripped one of her shoulders lightly. Surprised by his touch, Edith tilted her head back to look up at him. For a split second, Carlo’s expression was thoughtful, almost grave. But then he smiled, and before he released her shoulder, he gave it a gentle shake. He jumped down the couple of steps to the grass, calling goodbye as he crossed the lawn.

After Carlo disappeared, Edith reached for a digestive biscuit. She could smell the honeyed scent of blossom from a nearby hawthorn bush recently come into bloom. Any initial fears she may have had about being alone with Carlo had proven completely unfounded. There’d been none of that circling around, sizing each other up, trying to decide who stood where on the social ladder. She’d noticed the same thing when she first met Anna and the rest of the Baccanello family. Edith put it down to their not being English.

The tide was almost at its lowest. Edith could see that the wind had dried the peaks of sea-drenched sandbars to the colour of pale eggshells. The soporific cooing of a wood pigeon drifted down from gorse-covered slopes above the house. The exertions of the day had tired Edith; she closed her eyes and fell contentedly to sleep.