The gap in the still-open door framed Ma’s face. ‘Sure.’
‘How about a silver candlestick?’ he asked, but the door was closed.
15
A mile south of the dump the Capri burst out of the smog, the cab’s aged blue paintwork suddenly reflecting a perfect autumnal sun. A poplar beside the road cast a shadow half a mile long. Dryden shaded his eyes and ran a hand through his black, close-cropped hair, still damp from the mist. He smelt his fingers: the cloying scent of sulphur made him wince. The wide open sky lifted his mood, which had been depressed by Ma Trunch’s claustrophobic world of ancient artefacts and circling dogs.
They got to Il Giardino just before 12.30pm and waited as a convoy of taxis and cars arrived, dropped their passengers and departed. This was the social event of the month: the meeting of the ex-PoW association, and rule number one seemed to be that nobody drove home. Ten Mile Bank was set to rock. Apart from Dryden’s burgeoning interest in the Italian community he had two other good reasons for attending the event: there was nothing else happening except the AGM of the local St John Ambulance, an occasion which made watching paint dry look like a rodeo, and the association’s proposal to raise £5,000 for a memorial to the founder of both the society and Il Giardino, Marco Roma, who had died twenty years earlier in the winter of 1984. Marco Roma – one of the six gardeners of California.
Dryden left Humph exploring the wonderful world of Polish cabbage and crossed the street, pausing only to listen to the sounds of Ten Mile Bank. A whistle blew ending a shift in the beet factory, while a tractor sped by, strips of dry caked mud spraying out from its ten-foot high tyres.
Inside Il Giardino accordion music played. The musician was a human walnut, so imploded by age that he could only just be seen behind his instrument. But the music, however rickety, transformed the place. The blinds had been dropped to cut out the direct, savage sunbeams of the afternoon. Candles burnt on every table, and the sound of corks being pulled from bottles was impressive, a Bacchanalian salute. There was a buzz in the air, and Dryden guessed that this was, for most of the association’s fifty or so members, the only social event of the month. A majority of those present were in their eighties, but most were with younger family, sons and daughters, and one toddler was being handed round for approval.
Dryden entered and noticed with relief that the noise level didn’t drop. A stout, short Italian with hands like a muppet approached with a wine glass.
‘Hi,’ said Dryden. ‘The Crow. We were interested in the fund-raising proposal – for Mr Roma. I phoned.’
This news produced a freshly opened bottle of Chianti which was set before Dryden’s admiring eyes, closely followed by a plate of fresh figs, parma ham and artichoke hearts. Dryden hoped fervently that Humph, who had been planning on opening a brace of pork pies for lunch, could see through the glass.
The formalities were blessedly brief. The stout Italian, apparently the master of ceremonies, stood to introduce the item about the memorial. He outlined, for visitors and younger members, why the association felt this mark of respect was needed. Marco Roma, he told them, had been elected by his fellow prisoners in 1943 to represent them in any matters with the British authorities running California. There were no officers amongst the Italian prisoners – all were conscripts. After the war Marco founded the association, which raised funds to support the increasingly elderly membership, and those in need amongst their families. A co-operative farm workers’ association was formed to lobby, successfully, for better wages and conditions. Trips to Italy were funded on humanitarian grounds, and in 1956 fifty ex-PoWs went ‘home’ for a month, all returning – bar one – to the lives they had made for themselves in the Black Fens. The one refusenik found love in the family and stayed to marry his own niece, complete with the necessary Papal dispensation.
Marco had founded Il Giardino in 1948. He was the head of his community and represented both its success in England and its continuing links with Italy. Now the association wanted to build a memorial to him in the town’s cemetery, on a small hill which had once been the site of a windmill, overlooking the Catholic plots. The vote was unanimous, and marked by a fresh influx of wine. Dryden took a note and chatted to the ex-PoWs at one of the tables. The Italian who appeared to have taken Marco’s place was called Roman Casartelli, and he’d worked for nearly thirty-five years on the railways in the Fens.
Casartelli sipped his wine, expertly holding a toothpick between his lips at the same time.
‘You will write about us?’