Authors: Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance
A Song for Joey
by
Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, you may share this ebook
with your friends, subject to any restrictions by the seller from whom it was purchased,
provided it remains in its complete original form, including this copyright page, and no
charge is made. This ebook must not be sold or distributed for commercial purposes by
any person or persons other than the seller or sellers authorized by the above author and
either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
(
www.publicdomainpictures.net
)
Website: www.itsliz.net
Chapter 1
August 1945
Paolo
Paolo was not a coward, but he was not a fool, either, and he had no intention of dying
for that madman, Mussolini. When the British descended on Tripoli like a swarm of angry
bees, he threw down his weapon (a rifle dating from the First World War) raised his
hands and surrendered, along with most of his unit.
And here he was, two years later - the war was over and he was a free man again, with a
pocketful of cash saved from his earnings. The British government had even given him a
suit to wear - yes, it was brown and cheap, but it fitted, and was smarter than the Prisoner
of War overalls he had been wearing for the last two years.
Liberta! Paolo smiled at the word as he closed the little gate of the farmhouse and set off
along the familiar lane, humming a tune he had heard on the radio. A tall man, and always
lean, his physique had been honed by two years of farm work and his face was brown and
healthy from the outdoor life. He walked with an easy step, his long, muscular legs taking
great strides as he loped down the bumpy path beside the hedgerow, swinging a small
cloth bundle containing all his possessions.
After a while, he stopped to gaze affectionately at the endless, flat, open fields all
around, musing wryly that this was not really so different from his life over the last two
years - after all, he had been almost free anyway. No prison camp for him; he had worked
as a farm labourer - with lodgings in the farmhouse and two bob a week in his pocket - in
exchange for his promise to not escape. As if he would want to run away from this
pleasant place and return to Italy under that strutting clown. He inhaled a deep breath of
warm, scented, summer air, a big smile erupting across his face. With long arms extended
on each side, he closed his eyes, his face uplifted to the broad blue sky, feeling the heat of
the summer sun on his cheeks and the warm breeze in his hair.
At the end of the lane, where it joined the winding country road, he sat on the grass
verge and waited for the bus that would take him to Great Yarmouth. The piece of paper
in his top pocket had the address of a guest-house where he would be able to stay until he
could be repatriated.
His war had been short. Conscripted in 1942, trained for two weeks, then sent into battle
in Tripoli, ill-prepared and badly equipped. Like many of his countrymen, he resented
being forced to fight; and besides, he had his family to think about.
He laid back in the long grass, hands behind his head, watching the crows in the big
elms beside the road, listening to the hum of bees in the wild flowers nearby and the song
of a skylark over the field of waving barley behind him, savouring every moment. This
was a good life. One day he would return to his wife and children in Italy, but not just yet
- first, a little holiday at the seaside. Mussolini may be dead now, but why rush back when
a new life was just beginning for him?
The bus dropped him at the busy market in the centre of Great Yarmouth, and for a
while he amused himself with some relaxed browsing at the stalls, even bought himself a
tie for tuppence. Then, conscious of the instruction to make his way directly to the guesthouse and report to Mrs Cartwright, he began to ask, politely, in his broken English, for
directions to Trafalgar Road.
The first man he spoke to looked at him in disgust, before muttering something under
his breath and stamping off. Puzzled, Paolo tried again, with a similar result. He began to
realise that his accent was betraying his origins, and Italians, clearly, were not popular in
England at the moment.
Fortunately, his salvation appeared before him in the form of a tall man in a blue
uniform. "Good afternoon, Sir," said the policeman, ponderously.
Paolo smiled nervously. "Good af'noon, Signore, Officer. I have not'ing wrong done, I
t'ink?"
PC Archie Randal looked him up and down, while Paolo squirmed. "That's what I'm
here to find out," he replied, non-committally. Archie had served as a sergeant in the
military police in France; it was a job he had loved. But, when he returned home after the
war ended, he found himself discharged - they had too many men, and he was close to
retirement age. Onto the scrap heap with you, Sergeant Randal! He had immediately
applied for a job with the civil police, and was snapped up thanks to his army record.
"Do you have identity papers?" he enquired, his eyes seeming to probe Paolo's brain,
seeking out everything he had ever done wrong. Civvy street hadn't changed Archie much,
he still had the bearing of a non-commissioned officer - erect, with head high and
shoulders back.
"Oh si, yes, certo." Paolo ferreted the little cardboard folder from his inside jacket
pocket and passed it to the officer, along with his letter of release. Archie scrutinised the
ID card.
"You are from Italy, I see," he said, looking up to examine Paolo, who nodded,
nervously. Archie then unfolded the off-white sheet with a Whitehall address. "Ah, you
were a prisoner of war, and now you are released." He refolded it and slipped it into the
little book, then held it out to Paolo.
"Yes, sir. I will returning Italy in some days." Paolo took the papers and pushed them
back into his pocket, waiting anxiously for the officer's response, reminding himself that
this was not the Polizia, with their pistola and their attitude, this was an English bobby.
"What are you doing here?" the policeman suddenly asked.
"Perdono?"
"Why have you come to Great Yarmouth."
"Ah, I have a residence ... " he fished in his top pocket for the address of the guest-house
and passed it to the officer.
"Do you know where this house is?" asked Archie.
Paolo shook his head.
Archie nodded. "Then I will show you. Walk with me."
The two of them set off, the policeman's shoes making a steady, rhythmic clicking
sound on the pavement. Paolo noticed that, with each step, Archie's head turned left and
right, like a clockwork robot, his eyes missing nothing, his mind constantly analysing,
assessing, archiving.
They emerged onto Temple Road, and walked south, passing a large area where bombdamaged houses were being demolished. Men swarmed and machines throbbed, raising
clouds of dust; huge lorries roared in and roared out again, laden with the debris of
wrecked lives. They reached Trafalgar Road, and PC Randal took Paolo to
The Nest
,
Gladys Cartwright's Bed-and-Breakfast.
When they reached the brightly painted front door, Archie gave a firm rap on the brass
knocker, and a plump woman of about fifty appeared.
"Hello Gladys," he said, cheerfully.
"Archie!" she responded, a broad smile on her smooth, plump face. "Who have you
brought to me this time?"
Gladys looked the stranger up and down, suspiciously. Her home was open to almost
anyone, of course - guests from all over the world had stayed there over the years - but,
according to Archie, this man had been a prisoner of war, and she was apprehensive. Still,
she had his official letter in her hand, so presumably he was trustworthy. She led him up
the stairs and showed him to one of her guest rooms.
It was a neat room - compact, but adequate. Centrally, a single bed set the theme and
purpose of his stay. On one wall, a window admitted a bright shaft of midday sunlight,
which sliced across a light oak dressing table, continued over a rag rug on the floor, to the
opposite wall, where it cast a spotlight on a matching wardrobe.
"I charge three pounds twelve and six a week, with breakfast and dinner included," she
said, brusquely, adding, "Payable in advance."
The man nodded. "I can pay you, signora, I have some money saved, and I will find
work."
He put his small bundle of possessions on the bed while he took some cash from his
pocket and carefully counted out some of the coins and notes he had hoarded. His savings,
which earlier that day had seemed such a fortune, were suddenly diminished by exposure
to the real world. He had enough for another two weeks, then it would all be gone. He
needed to get a job, soon.
Gladys accepted the handful of money, checked it, then handed him his key. "I'll give
you a receipt when you come down for dinner. It's served at six o'clock sharp."
She left him to settle in, and he wandered over to the window, which was neatly
festooned with pretty floral curtains. He considered her brusque manner; perhaps she, too,
hated Italians. He hoped he could win her over with his usual charm and bright smile.
The view from the window was pleasant. On the opposite side of the road that passed
below was a grassy strip with trees and flowers, and beyond that a row of small houses.
To his left he could see the sea, and, to his right, a stark, red-bricked church. He looked at
his watch, it was only two o'clock; time enough for a little exploring.
Abandoning his neat bundle - containing only some underpants, a couple of shirts and
his few personal items - and set off down the stairs and out of the front door.
Trafalgar Road consisted of a long row of bay-fronted houses. Several had name boards
outside, declaring that they offered 'Bed and Breakfast'. Unknown to Paolo at that time,
Great Yarmouth had been a popular holiday resort before the war. Now, many of the
guest-houses looked shabby and neglected. Only
The Nest
was clean and neatly painted.
He ambled in the warm afternoon sun down to the wide, sandy beach, then stood quietly
for a while looking out across the water. Europe was over there, reeling from the years of
killing and destruction - Germany, Belgium, France and Italy, torn apart. What lunacy
makes men wage war, he wondered, not for the first time. As usual, there was no answer,
could be no answer.
A broad promenade stretched in both directions parallel to the sea, and he strolled
slowly along the parade of cafés, hotels and amusement arcades, many of them closed and
boarded up. He also saw some of the damage caused by German bombs and naval shells.
Carcases of buildings teetered on the edges of craters, their insides exposed like dolls
houses, their wallpaper peeling, the corners of upper rooms clinging stubbornly, their
edges frayed like lace.
At five o'clock he made his way back to Trafalgar Road and climbed the stairs to his
room. There he closed the door and opened his knotted bundle of clothes, carefully
unwrapping the shirts inside, to reveal a little wooden picture frame.
It had travelled with him into war, and stayed with him throughout his captivity.
He gazed affectionately at the family group in the photograph - his wife, Caterina, their
boisterous son, Josepe and little baby Helena (she would be nearly four years old now).
He tried to imagine them as they might be, but could not - he had missed so much of their
lives.
Opening a drawer in the dressing table, he gently put the picture into it and covered it
with his few clothes. Then he went down to dinner.
When he reached the dining room, he found that there were already a few people seated.
He chose the only empty table - unwilling, for now, to deal with any more hostility - and
looked around.
There were four, square tables, with plain white cloths, laid with knives and forks at
each station, and with a little vase of white and yellow flowers in the centre. Two of the
tables had one occupant each - men in work clothes, remote, disinterested. The other held
a large man in loud, laughing conversation with a young woman.
A door opened, admitting a mouthwatering smell of cooking, and a waitress entered,
carrying three plates of food. She looked around the room, then walked past Paolo to
deliver her cargo to the three other men. On her way back to the kitchen, she stared
curiously at Paolo, before disappearing through the door, reappearing almost at once with
two more meals.
Seeming almost to be tormenting Paolo, she walked past him again and served the
young woman. Finally, she came back to him and placed his dinner carefully before him.
She had to lean towards him to do so, and he was treated to a generous glimpse of
cleavage and a waft of perfume, reminding him of pleasures lacking in his life for the past
two years. But, he noticed, her expression was challenging, the twinkle in her pretty eyes
was more curious than friendly. Hypnotised, he watched her rear as it undulated its way
back to the kitchen.