Authors: Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance
I found myself shaking with anger. "You have not been any kind of father," I snapped.
"Why wait until I am famous before wanting to make it up to me? Do you want a share of
my wealth?"
Oliver, sitting in the other chair, on the opposite side of my bed, laid his hand gently on
my forehead. "Try not to get upset, my love. I have already given Paolo the third degree."
"If it is distressing for you," Paolo added, "I will leave, and only return if you want me
to."
"Yes, I think it will be best. I need time to get used to the idea."
Wearily, he pushed himself up from the chair. He seemed worn out, too old for his
years. "I understand," he said sadly. "I will wait until I hear from you. Oliver has the
address where I am staying." As he turned to leave, he gently brushed my arm with his
fingers before opening the door. The expression on his face was of dejection, of a life
wasted. Despite my anger and confusion, I felt a tinge of sympathy for him.
"Paolo," I called.
He looked back.
"Come tomorrow," I said.
A wan smile illuminated his face, and he nodded before departing.
I heard a few quiet words pass between Paolo and Connor in the hallway, then the sound
of the front door being gently closed. A long silence settled over the flat.
"Wop!" A chorus of children's voices suddenly chanted, in my head; "Wop, wop, wop!"
The twisted face of Uncle Ernie reared up before me; "Damned foreigner's spawn!" he
spat.
"My mother is dead!" my own voice shouted, echoing like a cracked record, trapped in
an endless loop.
Did I say that out loud? A moan pushed itself from my heart, vibrating in my chest.
A movement beside me brought my attention back from the past, and I realised that I
had been staring at the bedroom door, biting my bottom lip, trying to stop the tears that
were running down my face. Oliver's hand cupped my head, his fingers combed in my
hair, his thumb caressing my cheek, while his eyes probed mine, tenderly.
"All this time I have survived without a father," I croaked. "I thought I didn't need one.
But I did! When I was growing up, when things went wrong. Gran did her best for me, but
a father would have made it different. He should have been there! If he hadn't left,
perhaps my mummy wouldn't have died." The last words shot out in a flood of tears as
more memories exploded over me.
Oliver wordlessly slipped onto the bed and laid beside me, his arms wrapped
reassuringly around me, so that my head was buried in his chest. For five minutes we lay
like that as I sobbed into his shirt, until I drifted off again into restless sleep.
In my head, a list of questions jostled to be asked, but Oliver and I talked into the night,
and I knew that I wanted to give my father a chance. Now that he had entered my life, I
didn't intend to lose him again; at least, not by my own actions.
We sent Leroy to pick him up, and I sat in my chair fretting until he arrived. If I had
been allowed to walk, I would have paced the room; instead, my eyes swept the walls, the
pictures, the window, as I rehearsed what to say.
He arrived, nervously entering the room like a deer venturing into a clearing, expecting
to hear a shot from a hunter's gun. To show he was welcome, I stood and opened my
arms. An expression of relief swept his face of its concerns, and a big smile filled it with
teeth as he quickly crossed the short distance between us and embraced me. When he
stepped back to study me, his hands lightly gripping my upper arms, the smile was still
there, but tears were flowing unrestrained down his cheeks.
"You are so like your mother," he said, emotionally.
"My Gran showed me some pictures of her," I replied, returning to my place on the sofa,
and patting the space beside me, inviting him to join me. "I could never see the
similarity."
Before sitting, Paolo - I could not yet think of him as father - looked first to Oliver for
approval. Only after it was granted by a small nod did he take the offered seat.
Oliver came around behind me and kissed me lightly on the forehead from above. "I
have some work to do in the kitchen," he announced, leaving Paolo and me to talk freely.
"Ah yes, your Gran was signora Gladys?" Paolo nodded. "A fine woman. Formidable,
but a woman of much love."
"She brought me up; took my mother's place," I said, simply, then fixed him with an
enquiring gaze; "And my father's."
His eyes broke from mine, and he looked down at his hands for a minute. After some
thought, he raised his head again. "You deserve a full telling ... explaining?"
"Explanation," I offered.
"Yes, a full ex-plan-a-tion." He smiled, shyly. "I am sorry that my speaking English is
bad. It has been many years. When I first was captured, I could not one word."
With some help from me, and a few misunderstandings, he went on to tell me how he
met my mother, and fell in love with her.
"But there was something I did not tell signora Gladys, or my Rita. They never knew. I
am ashamed to say I was already married, in Italy, with two children." His voice trailed
away, and his eyes dropped to his lap again.
I took a deep breath. I felt angry for Gran and my mother, but it was too late for
recriminations, not the time for letting out anger. "That was rather a big thing to keep
secret from them," I said, tightly.
He nodded. "I know. When I realised how I had fallen in love with Rita, I wanted to tell
her. But then she became with child ...?"
"Pregnant."
"Yes, she became preg-nant, and signora Gladys said most strongly that we must be
married. It was too late to tell, and somehow, Italy seemed so far away, another world."
Again his voice trailed off as he relived those days, and the dilemma in which he had
landed himself.
My anger drifted away. I could not help feeling sorry for him. I sensed a man with
values, who had fallen short of his own standards, and deeply regretted what he had done.
Despite everything, I could see that he and I were going to get along.
Over the next few days we became a family. I came to understand and love the man who
had given me life, then abandoned me. He told me about the constant ribbing he had
received from his colleagues at work and drinking companions, over Rita's reputation. He
was emphatic in his defence of her, but also honest in acknowledging the stories told to
him, including some by people who claimed to have slept with her. I was shocked to hear
such things about my mother, yet, somehow, not completely surprised. After all, there had
been the mocking I received from kids at school, and the names they had called her.
He explained that, when his repatriation papers arrived, he had a hasty decision to make.
He would not be allowed to remain in England unless he was able to show that he had a
good reason to stay. Torn between two homes, with nagging doubts about Rita, and
missing his children, he accepted the free passage back to the land of his birth.
But, when he arrived, nothing was the same. Italy's economy had been damaged by its
involvement in the war; not just because of the cost of maintaining its armed forces, but
also in terms of lost trade with the countries allied to England. Jobs were few, with
thousands of ex-servicemen looking for work. He was unemployed for two years
following his return.
And his relationship with his family had changed, too. His wife, Caterina, had learned to
be independent, raising two children on her own for the five years he had been absent, and
the bambinos themselves did not know their father. He found that he had become
unneeded, unwanted, unwelcome.
In deep financial difficulties, trying to survive on only Caterina's wages, they argued
constantly, and, when their home was repossessed, she left, taking the children. He never
saw any of them again.
To celebrate our 'reunion' (is it possible to be reunited with someone who is a complete
stranger, an essential part of your life, but with whom you were never, actually, united?)
we booked a table at a busy Italian restaurant, a short trundle in a wheelchair from the
hotel. Once inside, we left the wheelchair in a corner and I walked to our table, where we
found Paolo already waiting.
Before sitting, I decided that a visit to the ladies would be wise.
"Just going for a wee," I told them. "I'll only be a minute."
For some reason, the words started an echo in my head: "Going for a wee - going for a
wee - a wee - a wee - only be a minute - minute - minute." A picture of the packed bar of
The Lion In Winter flashed across my mind. I clutched at the back of a chair, suddenly
feeling dizzy. Oliver, a concerned expression on his face, was at my side in an instant,
lowering me into the seat.
"No!" I cried, clutching at his arm. "I can't sit down."
"Why?" he asked, confused.
"Because ..... because I just wet myself!" I bleated, feeling the warm liquid running
Paolo jumped to his feet and ran to grab a waiter, returning a moment later with a large
towel. He folded it into a thick cushion and, after he had placed it on my chair, Oliver
lowered me gently onto it.
At the close of 1965, the process of rebuilding began. Not my old flat, that was beyond
repair - the whole block was condemned and had to be demolished. And, anyway, this
time my home would not be rented; I wanted a sense of permanence, somewhere for
Oliver and me to settle down. So, we scouted around and, after a few disappointments,
acquired a new home.
"
Situated in quiet Caterham Square, with access to private gardens
," said the blurb
from the Estate Agents, "
this extensive complex consists of two luxury, self-contained
apartments; ideal for owner-occupation or for letting
."
We signed the contracts in December, and moved in on the first of January. It seemed to
be symbolic of a new start. We brought in builders to divide one of the apartments into
two. They erected partition walls and installed another kitchen and bathroom. For a while,
the place was filled with noise and dust, which was inconvenient, and sweaty, half-naked,
muscular bodies, which I didn't mind at all.
While they were busy preparing the building, we went shopping for furnishings. My
three men patiently wheeled me from furniture store to auction room, junk shop to
haberdashery.
Bill called to see me, with some new songs he had composed. I handed him my
notebook, open at the page in which I been writing. It was the latest of twenty or more
attempts at some words I was struggling to put together. Already I had scribbled out some
lines and replaced them with others.
"It's an idea that started in hospital. I want to write a song for Joey, but you know me, I
get too emotional. I've got some the words buzzing around, but when I try to write them
down they get confused in my mind. Will you read it for me?"
A Song For Joey
I was beaten by the world,
And in my darkest night,
You picked me up, and led me
Out of fear into the morning light,
From the wreckage of my life, you rescued me
Set my feet down on the road again, and step by step you guided me
But I looked away and you were gone,
The world still turns and life goes on,
Though now I face the world alone
I love you still, much more than words can say
And I will miss you, Joey, from now until my dying day ....
"The last two lines are naff, pet," he said, candidly - I expected nothing less from him on
a professional level - "But the rest is mostly ok. Do you have a tune in mind?"
"No, and the words change every day, to be honest."
"A melody will probably help. It gives you a framework around which you can arrange
the song, and sometimes words will come to you naturally. I'll bring my guitar tomorrow
and we can see how it goes."
With Bill's help, the song came to life, and I contacted Hughie White to book some
studio time. At first, I worked with Daylight Robbery, and we produced a track that was
good, but not what I was trying to achieve.
It was then that I discovered something amazing about my father. Paolo revealed to me
that he had been an established concert pianist, before the madness of war engulfed his
country. He helped me with an arrangement of the song that would incorporate a full
orchestra.
We took the idea to Hughie, who fixed up a recording session with The Amadeus
Studio Orchestra. I found myself singing with sixty top class musicians, drawn from some
of the best orchestras in the land. It was a little bit like my time with Barry Spence, but on
a bigger scale. I found it daunting and challenging, but it was ultimately an incredibly
rewarding experience.
The song was only part of my plan. When the record was released, I announced to my
family what I wanted to do next. Generally, they were receptive, and understood my
motives, but it was still an ambitious idea and they wondered if it wasn't just too big.
Oliver leant forward and rested his elbows on the table. "How do you think the church
will react?"
"I really don't know; that's why I have to go up there and find someone to talk to. If it
comes off, St John's Church won't be big enough, that's for sure. I just have to hope there's
a church in Yarmouth that can hold ... well, I reckon it could be two- or three-hundred
people."
Their eyebrows all raised in unison, as though operated by the same puppeteer; I had to
smile. Leroy let out a whistle, and Oliver's hands flipped open, as though in supplication.
He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, shaking his head.
"Don't look at me like that!" I said to all of them. "I know it's not going to be easy to
organise. But it's worth it; I made a promise to Joey, and I intend to keep it."