Who's Sorry Now (2008) Read online

  Marco nodded sympathetically. ‘The Higginson sisters have been good to you, I understand, little one.’ He glanced across at Carmina’s stiff back, then tapped the girl on her shoulder. ‘It is time you take-a your turn on the ice-a-creama cart, Carmina.’

  To Patsy he said, ‘The ice-a-creama industry it see many changes. My uncle he have the horse-drawn cart, all brightly decorated with his name in curly gold lettering. I keep it because I like to see it stand proudly on Champion Street Market, a testament to the success of our family. Maria used to work in it, now it is Carmina’s turn. Come along, girl, you will be late and your momma she will want to be released so that she can do her chores before the children come home.’

  Carmina cast Patsy a vicious look before stalking off, skirts swishing, to do as she was bid.

  Now what was that all about? Patsy wondered.

  Papa Bertalone watched her go with a sad shake of his head. ‘She is wilful, this daughter. I worry for her. I worry for Gina too. Something is troubling her, I can tell, but I leave all of that feminine stuff to my wife. Daughters, pah!’

  He shook his head in despair and Patsy couldn’t help but smile, knowing he adored and worried about each of them.

  ‘Sons are more sensible, more reliable. Soon you marry Marc and make-a-him show interest in the ice-a-creama, si?’

  Proud though Marco was of his eldest son, Patsy was aware of his disappointment that Marc had chosen a different profession entirely.

  Italians had been selling ice cream in Manchester ever since the first settlers came to Ancoats in the 1830s, driven from their homeland by poverty and a desire to better themselves. The area had come to be known as Little Italy because of the life the immigrants had brought to it, the typical Italian warmth, music and laughter, the gilders, carvers and instrument makers who had brought the flavour of Italy to the region.

  ‘When did you first come to Champion Street Market?’ Patsy asked now, wanting to distract him since he looked so gloomy suddenly.

  ‘I open my first ice-a-creama stall here in 1938, just a year or so before I was interned.’

  ‘That must have been painful, to be forced to leave what you had only just begun.’

  Papa Bertalone gave a philosophical sigh as he peeled and pitted several pounds of peaches for the gelato with skilled fingers, Patsy working more slowly alongside.

  ‘There was no sugar during the war so ice-a-creama was banned. I couldn’t have carried on with the business anyway. There was some anti-Italian feeling, it is true, thanks to Mussolini, and my family they were put under the curfew, but I have no regrets.’

  He lifted his hands, dripping in peach juice, as if to appeal for her understanding. ‘Why would I blame the authorities? They had no choice but to lock me up. I was one of the enemy, though not through any fault of my own. I have no quarrel with them. The camp on the Isle of Man, it was humane and civilised. We were not too badly treated and I survived. Many who had to fight in the war did not, so what right have I to complain? I am proud to be Italian, and content to have brought up my family in this famous city.’

  Patsy knew that many of his fellow countrymen had attempted to disguise their identity by anglicising their names. Marco had never pretended to be anything other than what he was, a proud Italian. He and Carlotta had followed other family members to Manchester from a small town in southern Italy that nobody had ever heard of. Young and newly wed, they had fallen in love with this fine city, and with the warm, cheerful Mancunians who live here.

  ‘Now times have changed and as well as Uncle’s old cart, I also own two motorised ice-a-creama vans. I buy them so that I can expand the business for the sake of my sons.’ He shook his head in a gesture of despair. ‘But do they care? Allessandro and Giovanni are too young and Marc shows no interest. We waste the wages of a driver when my own son could be earning the money, for you, for the bambinos you will have together.’

  Patsy wagged a gently admonishing finger. ‘Hold on a minute, don’t expect one of those any time soon. I’m in no hurry to become a mother.’

  ‘Every woman she wants to be the momma.’

  Patsy laughingly shook her head. ‘Designing and making hats keeps me fully occupied, and creatively fulfilled, thanks very much. I’m young yet, remember. Maybe in a few years, when I’m twenty-five or twenty-six, or even thirty, I’ll start to think about kids.’

  Papa Bertalone looked shocked. ‘Thirty! But you would be too old for babies by then.’

  Patsy laughed. ‘I don’t think so. There’s plenty of time.’ Judging it wise to change the subject, she asked him what made Italian ice cream so special.

  Marco frowned, fully aware he’d been sidetracked, and said rather irritably, ‘The best ingredients, what else? We use real fruit - fresh and ripe. We use creama, butter, and with some recipes, eggs. With these we can produce the finest ice-a-creama. There is none better in all of Manchester than Bertalone ice-a-cream, so mucha flavour, so good to lick.’ He grinned and Patsy laughed again.

  ‘I agree. Bertalone ice cream is the very best ice cream in the world,’ and on an impulse hugged the old man. But it seemed that even when you did have a family, life was still full of problems.

  If asked, Carlotta would have agreed with her. As she made breakfast for her brood Momma announced in brisk Italian, ‘Gina, I am very disappointed in you. What were you thinking of? You are certainly not going to any dance. Papa and I won’t hear of it. In any case, dancing would not be good for you.’

  Gina cast a furious glare in her sister’s direction but only twin spots of colour high on Carmina’s cheekbones revealed any show of guilt over the fact she’d reneged on her promise to keep her secret.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it?’

  Gina longed to live a normal life, to be free to do as she pleased like other girls. She adored her family, loved her siblings but envied them their freedom. Maria, the eldest, was the only Bertalone girl to be married. Antonia at twelve was the clever one while Lela was the complete opposite, never quite seeming to understand what was going on around her but happy for a cuddle if there was one going. Marta liked to organise and constantly made lists. She was determined to play an important role in the family business one day, while eight year old Gabriella was as much of a Tom-boy as her twin brother Giovanni.

  They all enjoyed school or work, had friends and hobbies, played out in the street till it was quite dark, and never ailed a thing. Yet somehow Gina felt hedged in by restrictions, by doom-laden prophesies of what might happen to her if she walked too far, worked too hard, or stayed out too late.

  She’d certainly worked hard on her recovery, still went to the public swimming baths twice a week, not to swim but to go through a carefully designed programme of exercises. She’d been fortunate to find a woman doctor who was forward thinking enough to suggest it.

  Gina accepted her limitations. She had problems with lifting and carrying things. Her arms and elbows weren’t very strong, but she had learned to ‘read’ her body, to judge when to stop an activity. If she noticed the onset of twitching or pain, or a reduction in control of the muscle, then she would rest. Yet too much inactivity was equally bad for her. It was vital that she keep mobile. Her condition was considered to be stable but, particularly with the right leg, she had to watch out for excessive fatigue.

  Oh, but she felt good about herself inside, almost stronger for having come through this terrible illness. Okay, she was a little nervous, deep down, of going out into the wider world, but she was tired of being protected. Gina wanted to expand her horizons and live a little.

  ‘You know very well why,’ her mother was saying, as she had a thousand times before. ‘You are not like other girls. It worries me that you won’t see that you have special problems.’

  ‘You shouldn’t worry so much, Momma. I had poliomyelitis, we can’t change that fact. But I’m making a good recovery so why won’t you let me go out and enjoy life a little more, like other girls? I’m sixteen years old, for goodness sake!�
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  ‘I can’t let you because it would make you sick again. You know the doctor said you must not get too tired.’ Her mother made a little huffing sound as she tipped porridge into Gina’s bowl. ‘Now eat up every scrap. We need to put some flesh on those bones, to keep those muscles strong. In any case, the Fabrianis they are big rivals of Papa, they do their utmost to damage his business. You know this, so how can you even think of going with that Luciano? He is nothing but a hooligan.’

  ‘That’s not true. Luc isn’t a hooligan.’

  ‘Stop this, Gina. Don’t your momma and papa know best what is good for you?’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ Gina muttered into her porridge, but no one heard her. The Bertalones were not good at listening. Momma was weeping and wailing over disobedient daughters while her siblings were rushing to put forward their own point of view on the subject. And of course they were all saying how much they loved and cared about her, suffocating her with their concern.

  Carlotta wagged an admonishing finger in Gina’s face. ‘Let me tell you, girl, even if you are ever fit enough to consider marriage, it will not be to a man your papa and I do not like.’

  Gina sighed. She might have pointed out that it was surely more important for her to like the man concerned, rather than her parents. Instead, she said, ‘It’s just a dance. No one has said anything about marriage.’

  ‘Dios, I should hope not!’ her mother cried, clapping her hands to her breast.

  Gina escaped to her room but the subject came up yet again when papa came home for his dinner. And he was clearly ready to firmly back her mother’s stance.

  ‘Why you not tell your momma you go out with this boy, huh?’ he demanded to know in his broken English, and Gina had no answer. ‘You see him how many months? One, two … more?’

  ‘Since January.’

  ‘Since January?’ Carlotta threw up her hands in horror, letting out a string of rapid Italian in her distress. ‘All this time you lie to me and keep secrets from your own mother. My child! My baby! Momma Mia! That settles it, you will stay in on Friday and help me with the sewing. When you are well enough to do this stupid rock ‘n’ roll, never mind start the courting, I will tell you.’

  ‘Until then,’ Papa said in clear English. ‘You will do exactly as your Momma says, si?’

  Gina knew when she was beaten. She loved them both far too much to ever stand against them. Even so, she hated the look of pure victory on her sister’s lovely face.

  Chapter Six

  Gina was not allowed out of the house for the entire week. Carlotta decided that her daughter must have been over-taxing herself, as she’d become far too emotional and tearful of late. She was instructed to rest, and largely confined to her room which had come to seem like a prison to her after the long years of her illness. Sometimes, in the afternoons, Momma allowed her to come downstairs for a little while to play with the children, since it was Easter week and the school was closed.

  No life for a sixteen year old girl on the brink of womanhood.

  Gina guessed that a part of her mother’s reasoning was the fact that these restrictions would also allow her to keep a better eye on her wayward daughter. Carlotta kept on lamenting how she had never expected Gina to be the one to cause her problems, how she had always been the good girl.

  ‘Such an angel you were! So much the sweet charmer. Never a worry, not until … ’ Then her mother would wring her hands in despair over the unmentionable shame of her illness, and reach for her rosary to say thanks to the Virgin Mary that she’d been spared.

  Gina endured it all in silence, occasionally stealing glances out of the window, whenever Momma wasn’t looking, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Luc.

  She hoped that he would come knocking on her door and demand she be released from her prison. Of course, he didn’t do any such thing. How would he dare to confront Papa or Momma? This was no fairy tale and she was no Sleeping Beauty.

  But she ached to see him, longed to have the courage to stand up to her parents and demand more independence now that she was reasonably well again. But how could she defy them when they’d devoted years of their lives to nursing her?

  They wanted only what was best for her and Gina felt that she had to win them over gradually. She felt convinced they would come to trust her and cease to worry about her quite so much if she demonstrated sufficient common sense and maturity. Then she would be free, to start living as she so longed to do.

  Except that she did wonder if all this nurturing and sheltering had made her too trusting and naïve. Was Carmina right when she accused her of not understanding how the world worked, or how boys really treated girls?

  Gina had never been given the opportunity of a normal upbringing like her siblings. She knew nothing of the rough and tumble of school-life. She was an innocent, spending her days in a kind of bubble, protected by her loving family from the harsh reality of everyday life.

  Was she a fool then to trust Luc?

  Gina was haunted by the thought that what Carmina had said about him might indeed be true. Was he truly guilty of two-timing her, of kissing other girls? Gina desperately wanted to believe that her sister’s accusation was a result of malicious gossip, of which there was plenty in Champion Street. Otherwise how could she go on loving him?

  It tormented her that she couldn’t get out of the house to ask him for herself but since Momma remained adamant that she stay in her room, in the end Gina was driven to writing him a letter. There seemed no alternative.

  She chose her words with care and asked Carmina to deliver it for her, impressing upon her sister the urgency of giving it to Luc personally, without telling a soul, and to ask for a reply.

  ‘Tell him that I need to talk to him. I do want to go with him to the dance, I do like him, and it’s not my fault that I’m not allowed to go. Can I trust you to do this for me?’

  ‘Of course you can trust me!’

  Carmina had apologised for revealing Gina’s secret meetings, and begged for forgiveness. The two sisters had made up, after a fashion, and Gina didn’t feel she had any alternative but to trust her. It was vital that Luc get this letter and her younger sisters would only blab to Momma right away, even if they managed not to actually lose the darned thing.

  Besides, Carmina might be temperamental and quick-tempered but she was the sister closest to Gina in age. They’d been quite close before her illness, and Carmina was the one who’d always shared her room.

  When Gina had been frightened that she might never walk again, it was Carmina who’d cuddled beside her in bed in the middle of the night, reassuring her that she would indeed get well. She might claim that it was the only way for her to get any sleep but Gina knew her sister hated to show any sign of weakness. She would also run up and down stairs fetching hot water bottles, romance novels from the library, fascinating tit-bits of gossip, or sneaking up extra treats such as Pringle’s chocolate mints and Candy Kisses that Momma didn’t think were quite good for her. So how could she not trust her?

  For days Gina waited for Luc’s reply, but none came.

  Once, she saw him crossing the street, weaving his way between the stalls, and her heart started to race. He was coming to the house. She waited, ready to hurry down the stairs as fast as she could were he to drop a reply to her note through the letterbox.

  He stood for a moment looking up at her bedroom window. Embarrassed to be caught spying on him, Gina quickly stepped back to hide behind the curtains. After a moment, he thrust his hands in his pockets and walked away, shoulders hunched. He hadn’t posted any letter.

  In that moment, Gina knew, in her heart, that it was all over between them. He obviously could offer no defence to Carmina’s accusation. He was guilty as charged and there was no alternative but to forget Luc Fabriani. She must put him right out of her mind.

  Carmina picked up the dish of rum tortoni she’d just finished making and threw it at her brother. To her enormous irritation, he ducked and the glass dish shat
tered into a dozen pieces on the marble counter top, the ice cream splattering everywhere. Now she would have to clean it all up before Papa returned from his errands. But Carmina did so hate to be crossed.

  ‘I won’t work this afternoon, so there! I have some errands to do and I must get ready for the dance. If you won’t stand in for me, then Patsy will have to do it instead.’

  It being Friday and pay day, she was anxious to pick up the red and black cabbage rose skirt she’d reserved from Dena, perhaps buy a blouse to go with it. Carmina never could keep money in her pocket for more than five minutes, although she’d made sure to put aside a few shillings for the dance tonight.

  Patsy smiled pacifically, well used to Carmina’s tantrums, and, reaching for a fresh dish, began to fill it with rum flavoured gelato for the bemused customer.

  ‘Sorry, but I have my course this afternoon, so can’t help, love. I only popped in to ask you to remind Momma that I’ll be a bit late coming for supper tonight.’

  Two afternoons a week on Wednesdays and Fridays, following a busy morning on the Higginson sister’s hat stall, Patsy attended a milliner’s course at the local tech. The moment it was over she rushed to see Marc, her gorgeous fiancé, in the tall terraced house on Champion Street where all the Bertalones lived noisily and happily together.

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to cancel it for once,’ Carmina snapped. ‘Aren’t you even listening to me? This is important!’

  Patsy took a breath, privately congratulating herself on how well she could hold her temper these days. A skill she would need once she was married into the volatile Bertalone family. ‘I’m sorry, but we all have our duties and responsibilities to bear and my class is important too.’ Far more important, Patsy privately considered, than a dance. ‘You’ll just have to manage as best you can.’

  Carmina stamped her foot, having no intention of allowing her wishes to be so casually ignored. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what to do! You aren’t in charge here, and I have to get ready for the dance. It’s vital that I look my best tonight.’