ANGELINA by Rose Boucheron For the past week, the Gambardella sisters had worked from morning till night, ever since they had learned from their young brother Emilio that he was bringing back his Italian bride. The little sitting-room above the shop in Soho was a joy to behold. A fresh paper fan sat in the grate; a lace cloth which had belonged to Mama and had not been used since the day she died lay over the red plush one; while on the heavily carved sideboard stood a vase of fresh red roses, whose scent was wafted about the room by the breeze from the open window. The girls sat by the window, which was only pushed up a little, for they did not want too much dust to come in. They were knitting, which they usually did when they were not working downstairs in the shop, rocking to and fro silently in their late Mama and Papa’s rocking chairs, chairs which had come all the way from their native Milan. Graziella, who was the more gentle of the two, could hardly contain her excitement as the snow white garment fell from her dextrous fingers—even though Julietta kept telling her not to be such a fool and to take a hold of herself. Opposite her, Julietta, on the other hand, was frowning, for she was filled with trepidation about the sort of bride her brother would be bringing back to them.... Her slim olive-brown fingers flew in and out of the complicated lacy pattern, while her small brown almond eyes hardly saw what she was doing, so deeply concentrating was she on her brother’s new wife. Now long past marrying age themselves, they had only one brother, born long after such a thing was thought possible. He had been the apple of his parents’ eye. When the time came for him to take over the business — a business which had expanded by leaps and bounds since the Second World War, when everything that was Italian became “in”— the girls had helped him, working from early morning until late at night, only closing when they thought there could be no more customers. Now they had hired help in order to make life easier for themselves, for the money was piling up in the bank, and they looked to Emilio to provide the family with an heir. There were many girls who would have given their right arms to have caught Emilio: daughters of nearby Italian families, pretty English girls, Spanish girls, nice girls and brazen hussies. Graziella and Julietta knew all about those, surrounded as they were on all sides. But, strangely enough, they kept to their own little world, and Emilio, thrifty son of hard-working parents, showed little inclination for the tawdry, bizarre life going on around him. Graziella finished a row and spun the needles around, glancing quickly down at herself and then across at Julietta. How smart they looked! They both wore beautiful knitted suits, hand-made, of course, and figure-hugging. It didn’t seem to matter that over the years they had put on weight, so that, wherever they bulged, the suits bulged too — somehow one got used to that. Papa’s gift to them of single strand pearl necklaces were around their necks. B oth had had their hair done. Graziella still had her long hair, strong, crinkly hair which sometimes she let down in the privacy of her room, although woe betide her if Julietta caught her. Unbecoming in a woman of Graziella’s age, she would say, and Graziella would swiftly pile it up again, but not before she had taken an admiring glance at the bottom half of it, which was still strong and black. The rest, of course, was iron grey, but here and there a curly tendril escaped the strong pins and softened the ageing lines of her face. Julietta had short-cropped hair. She made no bones about that. As her hair grew, even half an inch, off she would go to get it cut. There was no nonsense about Julietta. For Julietta was like Papa, while Graziella was kind and gentle like Mama. Julietta had a temper, too, and ruled them with a rod of iron. Julietta never minced her words, but came straight out with it, whatever it was. But she was strong, Graziella often thought, strong like a bulwark. “Will she be beautiful, do you think, Julietta?” she asked in her native Italian. “As long as she make-a good wife for Emilio, that all I care,” snapped Julietta, whose English was Italian cockney with Saxon overtones. And then below them they heard the taxi. They leaned out, and there he was—Emilio, back at last! And by his side—Angelina! “Oooh”, breathed Graziella. “Look at her, Julietta!” But Julietta refused to gape from the window, and hurried downstairs to meet them. So Angelina arrived. There was Emilio, proud and tanned, with one arm around his bride; Graziella, who couldn’t take her eyes off Angelina; Julietta, who looked from one to the other, with unconcealed adoration at her brother, dear Emilio, and swift suspicion at Angelina herself. For Angelina was almost too perfect as if she had stepped out of a fairy cake. Tall, slim and beautiful with dark eyes, lustrous hair, a proud carriage, and superb figure. No wonder Emilio looked proud. Now Angelina was no simpleton. The prettiest girl in her village at home, she had been sought after by boys ever since she could remember. So much so that she never doubted her right or ability to choose whomever she wanted. There had been many such offers, at least a dozen, and many of them good ones. A man who owned three baker’s shops, the owner of a sweater factory, a foreman in a car factory – oh, yes, all in all she could take her choice. But Angelina had long had a dream. For Angelina read books…and in these books she read that in England a girl became a lady on her marriage. A gracious lady, and that was what Angelina wanted more than anything in the world. To lie in bed in the mornings, arise for luncheon, go for a motor-car ride in the afternoon, lie down, go for a walk in the park with a hat on and a small dog (she wasn’t sure in which order) before leisurely dressing in time for one’s adoring husband’s return in the evening. This seemed to Angelina to be all that anyone could ask for.... Sophie Abruzzi, her greatest friend, said it was all different now, that since the war it had all changed. She knew, because her brother had been to London on a business trip, and he said English women were shocking, and she whispered in Angelina’s ear, but Angelina didn’t believe a word of that. So what more could she ask than Emilio? He was British-Italian, as good-looking as any of her own countrymen, yet with a ready-made business, and he was rich. Oh, truly, it had been well worth waiting for... She said goodbye to her parents and relatives and Sophie and her silly husband Carlo, who was a car mechanic, and left for England. So it was that within five minutes of her arrival she had Graziella almost kneeling at her feet, and Emilio was dotty about her anyway. There only remained Julietta, who even now was staring hard at her as though to assess her character. She would have been amazed at the thoughts going on behind that beautiful serene brow, the full sweet mouth, the doe-like eyes. .. “I shall win, you stupid old woman,” Angelina was thinking, smiling. “We shall see, we shall see,” grimly thought Julietta. Angelina wasted no time making herself quite clear. She intended to start as she meant to go on. So the first morning of Emilio’s return to work found Graziella happily on the stairs, carrying a tray of coffee and toast up to Angelina’s bedroom. Barring her way at the top of the stairs was Julietta. “Where-a you go?” she insisted. “To Angelina—” Graziella whispered. “Why you take ‘er coffee in bed? She ill?” hissed Julietta. “No—but she is feeling very strange, Julietta—in a foreign country—I thought it would be-” “You get-a downstairs…” “No.” Graziella said quietly, and insistently for the first time in her life. Her heart beating fast, she edged past Julietta, who was so astonished she could only stand there open-mouthed… And thus, a precedent was created. Every morning, as regularly as clockwork, Graziella took Angelina’s breakfast upstairs, and Julietta seemed powerless to do anything about it. “Why you want to lie in bed? You sick?” Julietta said, black brows together. “Dear Julietta,” Angelina murmured. “You are both so kind to me… It is all so strange-“ “You lazy cow,” Julietta said to herself with deadly cockney idiom. Later, she found Graziella in the kitchen absorbed in washing Angelina’s undies. The sink was full of suds, and Graxiella was enjoying every moment of rinsing through the filmy nighties, briefest camiknickers… “Look,” she whispered to Julietta, her eyes shining, holding up a pair of panties no larger than half a pocket handkerchief, with a pink heart embroidered with roses placed at a strategic spot – but the briefest of glances showed that Julietta refused to be drawn. “Stupido!” she roared. “Why you do her washing? She so weak she can’t do it? I tell Emillio. He not want you to work for her –“ she can’t do it? I tell Emilio. He not want you to work for her –“ “But I like to do it,” Graziella said. “Really, I do. She’s so pretty Julietta, so young…” “She pretty dam’ clever too,” stormed Julietta. “You stupido – like – like Mama! You do everythink for everybody. They think you crackers…” “But I don’t mind…” “She get lazier and lazier,” Juliette said. “You see. Soon she do nothing.” And of course she was right. In no time at all, Graziella was waiting on her hand and foot, taking up her coffee, doing her washing, manicuring her nails, washing her hair – while Angelina blossomed. …Sometimes they went shoping but Angelina never asked Julietta to go with her. She would spend a fortune on pretty clothes, make-up and perfume, then after a few days would give them all to Graziella. “She waste-a the money!” screamed Julietta. “Our Pap’s money going down the drain! Emilio,” she begged. “Talk-a to your wife, huh? She do nothing, nothing,” she emphasized. “Graziella wait on her like servant –“ His black eyes were troubled. “Julietta. Don’t make trouble, please. Please, for my sake,” he said. “She good girl, Angelina, and Graziella like to work for her.” “Catch me,” Julietta said. “I no servant to anyone.” That afternoon, she burst in Angelina who lay in a frilly canopied bed reading a book, her luxuriant hair tied back with a big blue ribbon. Round her shoulders was her newest buy, a frothy French lace wrap… Julietta could not hold it back: “Who you think you are – you?” she said pointing with fury at Angelina. “You come ‘ere and treat my sister like a dirt. She not servant to wait for you. You like all village Italians – who you think you are?” Angelina considered her long slender rose pink nails. “I lady now,” she said. “You – what?” shrieked Julietta. “You – what? You never be lady –” “I English Lady,” Angelina said imperturbably. “I am married English lady.” Julietta could hear it no longer. To a tirade of Italian at which Angelina did not turn a hair, she flung herself out of the room. Very soon, Angelina became pregnant. “I believe this when I see it.” Julietta said. “Truly Julietta,” said Graziella. “Already her stomach is round…” “Huh,” Julietta said. Emilio, of course was delighted; he could not do enough for her. And Graziella cosseted her, brought her little delicacies, insisted on her resting, even though the doctor said she was as strong as a horse. So the months wore on, with Graziella worshiping at Angelina’s pretty feet and Julietta betraying not the slightest interest in the affair. “What you think you do when the baby is born, eh?” She ‘ave you washing its clothes, feeding it, she do nothing! She lazy –” “Julietta!” Emilio roared, for he was always telling her that there were some English words you just did not say. Then, on the 7th day of June, a 10lb. son was born to Angelina – a healthy lusty handsome boy whom they called Luigi after Granpa Gambardella. While Graziella combed Angelina’s hair and made good, strong Italian coffee, bathed her forehead with cologne and brought her fresh lacy night-wear, Julietta came in. “I take ‘im,” she said, “to show the Tettrazzinis,” while Emilio was downstairs receiving congratulations of his customers. Instead, she took him to her room where she nursed him for a long time. “You bello bambino – you belong to Julietta, eh?” And she rocked him to and fro to the soft strains of La Traviata… After a time she took him back to his cot. That night, she went in and took the cot. “You not want him sleeping with you,” she said. “Emilio must get his sleep. I take him in my room…” So each morning she brought him back to his mother, then took him again, nursed him, bathed him, fed him and every afternoon she pushed him in his high perambulator, round the gardens of the church, where she discussed his every progress with the other mothers. She was happier than she had ever been. Angelina lay back and smiled to herself. This was exactly the way she had planned it after all. She had known all along that a bambino was what that ugly old Julietta had wanted. She sighted blissfully. Really, it had all been too easy – if that’s all there was to it. From the Florentine table she helped herself delicately to a fresh peach, then began to open the pile of new glossies that Graziella had bought for her… THE END © Rose Boucheron 1971