The Last Pier Part 40

Besides, no one knew what to think of Selwyn, Carlo told his daughter, speaking as gently as he could.

An empty box was what some said of the man.

Others thought there was plenty in the box but that it was hidden from view.

Maybe.

There wasn't any hard or fast opinion. The truth was Selwyn was neither liked nor disliked. He was the unknown.

A man uncertain of his patriotism, perhaps?

Made bitter against his own people because of the death of a brother?

Unstable, was possibly the best word for him. Or even an idealist who took the wrong fork in the road.

No one had known about his inner life.

So the town felt hit by a stun gun of unexplained events and the newspapers, seeing their chance, had a bit of a flutter on the subject. Speculation became a distraction for a time.

The town continued to black its nights out. The ARP's whistle was still heard, shrill as a quarrelsome bird, and the general opinion was that the war had to be endured if not cured. And although everyone knew about the way in which Rose had died and also who had killed her there wasn't anything anyone could do about it.

'It was years,' Carlo told Cecily, 'before any of us knew the UN-official story.'

'The one that still hasn't been written in any history book?'

'Yes. The one still talked about in secret.'

It had been separate from the main events, a story of a panic in high places.

A ship designed by fools, that involved a man with many names.

'Some of them forbidden by Agnes Maudsley,' said Cecily.

A clumsy judgment, a mistaken ident.i.ty. A woman betrayed and an unlikely love, so strong it would last forever.

A carelessness that cost twenty thousand lives.

NOW THE NIGHTMARE was back in force and Cecily was in the centre of it. Reliving it moment by moment.

'Why didn't we see Robert Wilson leaving Palmyra House?' she cried. 'Why? Why?'

Carlo shook his head.

'You didn't know what I did,' he said. 'You didn't know that Robert Wilson was working on War Office orders.'

On that fateful night, earlier on, after he had seen Agnes and before he was due to meet Rose, Robert Wilson parked his car near the Friends Meeting House. He needed to reach the towpath by eight. Darkness surrounded him, no headlights, no lamps, nothing. An earlier accident caused by the blackout made him drive with extra care. As a result everything took much longer.

He pa.s.sed no one. In front of him the darkened sea moved with only a glint of foam. The tide was almost out. He stood for a moment longer waiting, thinking. Wanting badly to see her. When Rose had heard he was visiting the Italians she had wanted to go with him.

'I know them quite well,' she had said.

He had shaken his head and laughed, his mind filled with horror.

'Not a chance, it's business my darling. But I'll bring you some silk stockings tonight, I promise.'

Instantly she had been suspicious.

'Are you involved in the black market?' she asked, looking at him, consideringly.

He thought then how much she had grown since the beginning of this enchanted summer. And he had smiled because she looked very sweet in her blue dress.

'Robert?' she hesitated. 'It's... all right, isn't it?'

His heart was breaking.

'And why wouldn't it be?'

'You're only worried because I'm younger than you. That's it, isn't it?'

'I love you,' he said, kissing her briefly.

'You're not married, are you?'

He laughed.

'No, my darling thing, I'm not married. Believe me there is no one in the world I love except you. Let's wait until this war is over and I'll prove it to you.'

And he had left her.

'Oh you b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' he said to himself. 'You dirty, filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Wilson. What the f.u.c.k are you doing?'

Within a few days her entire world was going to be turned upside down. That was absolutely inevitable and there was nothing he could do about it except leave her, as he must, to bear the hurt of it alone.

Until this summer he had been a clear-headed man, someone whose duty came before every other emotion. Now his mind was bludgeoned and confused. Did he not have a duty to her? Turning, he couldn't bear the thought of being late, of her waiting alone, he drove towards the town. There was still an hour left before he needed to be at the Martello tower.

Mario Molinello was at the back of the ice-cream parlour cleaning out the freezers. Lucio was unloading boxes from the car. A faint, sugary smell hung in the air. A wedding cake looking like a stranded iceberg waited on the counter for collection. There were letter-stencils kept neatly in an open drawer. One sectioned-out slot for each letter. Entering quietly, Robert Wilson peered at them. He noticed there was no 'K', no 'J' and no 'W'. He knew that they didn't exist in the Italian alphabet but surely these cakes were iced for English customers, too? He wondered what they used for the absent letters. Then he noticed the numbers. The number seven was moulded with an extra bar across it. He picked up one and stared at it, frowning.

Mario Molinello came in. He wasn't expecting any visitors. The element of surprise was what Robert Wilson had hoped for.

'Is it your lucky number?' Mario asked, his face breaking into a smile.

'No. I was just wondering about the different way we write the number seven.'

'Oh, yes!'

Mario put down the box of cutlery he had been carrying. He felt Robert Wilson was waiting for something else.

'They come from Italy, that's why,' he said.

'I noticed you have a few letters missing in the alphabet.'

'No, why?' Mario asked, not understanding.

'K, J, W.'.

Had he come here to talk about the letters in the alphabet?

'No, no we have them, here. See? They are a different shape. They come from another alphabet! An English one!'

'Yes! I see.'

Robert Wilson looked around for somewhere to sit.

'I came here to ask you a few questions,' he said.

Mario led him further into the shop and drew up two chairs.

'Vino?'

'No thank you.'

'A coffee?'

Robert shook his head.

'Do you mind if I smoke?'

Mario went to fetch an ashtray. He hoped Anna and Franca were out of earshot.

'Now that we have declared war,' Robert began, tapping his cigarette on his case. There was a small silence.

'Like you, I was a listener in those days,' Carlo told Cecily.

The light in the room had seemed too bright.

'What does the Italian community feel about it?' Robert had asked.

Was this going to be another conversation about Fascism, Carlo wondered? His father was smiling timidly.

'That is exactly what Selwyn Maudsley asked me yesterday,' he said.

A war had intervened since yesterday.

Lucio, coming in with parts of the freezer, nodded at Robert and went through to the kitchen. Mario waited until he was out of earshot.

'There are some misunderstandings circulating,' he said, heavily.

He looked over nervously in the direction of the kitchen.

'These social clubs we belong to are really only a kind of worker's club. I don't think this is fully understood by some people. We aren't members of any Fascist party.'

Robert Wilson waited.

'For example I joined the club in order to facilitate many procedures.'

'What sort of procedures?'

Mario took a deep breath. He was beginning to get a pain in his chest.

'For example to renew our pa.s.sports. Anna and I, and Lucio too, we still have Italian pa.s.sports.'

'The children?'

'They were all born here. They are British!'

'I see. What other procedures does this... social club facilitate?'

Carlo sensed a slight change of tone in the conversation. This man had visited his family so often, was a friend of the Maudsleys, why was he asking these questions?

'The rimess,' Mario said, finally. 'The money transfers we send to our relatives. We all send money home to our elderly relatives. Anna still has a mother alive. I have both parents still living.'

Carlo heard his father's voice sounding agitated, guilty even. But he had nothing to be guilty of, Carlo thought. Why is he so timid? Lucio, hovering in the doorway, must have thought this too. Ignoring Robert Wilson, he stepped forward and spoke directly to his brother. Mario frowned.

'Tell him to get lost,' Lucio said in Italian, holding his anger like a gun in front of him. 'We pay our taxes. We aren't Fascists.'

Mario laughed, nervously. He made a gesture for Lucio to leave.

'My brother says the Italians in this country do not understand this business of Fascism. We have been out of Italy for so long that Mussolini and what the Fascists are up to is no concern of ours.'

'Really?'

'Yes. We are all anti-Fascists.'

There was a pause. Lucio continued to stand in the doorway, his hands parting the beaded curtain.

'Tell him to get lost,' he said in Italian. 'We've work to do.'

Robert Wilson turned slowly in his chair so he could look directly at Lucio.

'You know there is talk that the ice-cream parlours will be closed down because of the war,' he said.