Happy Days At The Criterion by Francesca Capaldi

If the family business were to survive, Renzo knew things would have to change!

IDON’T see why you have to move eleven thousand miles away!” Nan’s Welsh accent thickened. Gwen sat patiently. Nothing had been said on the subject when she’d arrived at Nan’s after lunch, to help her clean downstairs. Now, as they waited in the scullery for the tea to brew, it had come up. She understood why Nan was upset, but she’d have to get used to it, sooner or later.

“We came here from the mines in the Rhymney Valley to Worthing for a better life. Surely there’s enough for you here?” Nan plonked the tea cosy on to the pot, her mouth turned down at the corners.

“There are opportunities in Australia, Nan,” Gwen said. “Higher wages, with lots of space. They’re crying out for people. There will be something better for me than the clothes factory.”

She looked down at the skirt she’d made on her mam’s old Singer.

Nan placed a cup on the oilcloth in front of Gwen.

“Who’s to pay for such a long journey? And will we ever see you again?”

“Mam told you about the Assisted Passage Migration Scheme. We only have to pay ten pounds.”

As for the other question, she had no reply. If they emigrated she couldn’t see them being able to afford regular trips back.

“That’ll be forty pounds altogether, with you and your brother, your mam and that Henry.”

Mam’s fiancé had become “that Henry” when Mam first mentioned the idea of emigration. Nan had taken against him, saying he was stealing her family away to the other side of the world.

But it had been Mam’s idea. Henry had just gone along with it, besotted.

“When’s he marrying my Alice, I’d like to know.”

“I think they’re going to arrange it soon. Mam wants a bit of a do. Before we sail.” Gwen shrugged. “If we sail. We haven’t even put our names down yet.”

“Bit of a do? Grancher and I were content with a bit of tea, as was your mam first time round.”

That had been to Gwen’s dad, who’d died at the end of the war. Sipping their tea, Gwen and Nan sat opposite each other in silence.

Gwen looked round the scullery. The old lino was dull. A tin bath was in one corner, a dresser full of crockery in another.

“Why don’t you and Grancher come with us? You’d get a house with a nice new kitchen.”

“At our age? Anyway, you have to be under forty-five to be a Ten Pound Pom.”

She clearly knew more about the scheme than she was letting on.

“If you came as part of our family –” Gwen began.

“We’re going nowhere, my gal. We like it here in Worthing. Ten-minute walk to the beach, nice long garden for veg, and we’ve got our Ivor up the road.

“I see Grancher coming with a cauli. We’ll put it with the bit of bacon and potato for tea. You’ll be stopping?”

“OK. Henry and Mam are off to the pictures, and Hugh’s out with his pals.”

“Good. And no talk of Australia, else you’ll upset Grancher’s tummy.” Nan then spoke extra loudly. “What’s this about you doing an evening job?”

“It’s two nights a week at the chippy in Montague Street, to help Mam now she’s on half time.”

“You’re a good girl.” Grancher shut the door behind him and removed his cap. “My special girl.” Gwen smiled.

“I’ll be sorry to see you go to Australia,” he added.

“None of that.” Nan scowled at her husband.

“You go put your feet up and I’ll fetch you a cuppa.”

He sighed and Gwen felt the guilt deepen.

Renzo leaned on the counter, staring out of the window. He was willing the crowd of cheerful youngsters passing by to come into the café and give him something to do.

“Is even slower than last Sunday.” His mother, Maria, carried cups and saucers from the kitchen.

“It’s not a great day, weather-wise, Mamma.”

“People still come out to the beach because is Whitsun, see? Plenty people here.” She pointed up the road to the promenade.

She was right: there were plenty people here, but since the modern café had opened up the road, with its leatherette seats and trendy Formica, the Criterion customer numbers had been down. The Roma, it was called, and they weren’t even Italian!

His cousin, Gino, said it had one of the fabulous new coffee machines. Renzo looked at the simple Still, with its hot-water tap and frothing pipe.

“Mamma, I was thinking again about buying a new coffee machine.”

“Nothing wrong with the Still. People always compliment our coffee.” “Yes, but it’s not really –” “Modern? Modern goes out of fashion. Traditional never does. I am running this café since nineteen thirty-three, and –”

Renzo knew the rest by heart. If only she’d see reason! He had money put by and there was no other use for it. Not now . . .

Archie Harris, the editor of the local paper, came through the door. As usual, his camera was slung across his chest – just in case. His office was at the end of their road, and Renzo was convinced the old chap had a soft spot for his mother.

Renzo saw her neaten her short curls with one hand.

“Hello, Mrs Crolla. Hello, Renzo. My usual, please. Quiet in here!”

“Is that new café.” Maria pointed in disdain. “People will get fed up and come back to the Criterion,” she said with conviction.

“Course they will. Much more character here.” He gave Maria a grin which she pretended not to notice.

“Anything to eat today, Mr Harris?” Renzo wasn’t in the mood to talk about the lack of customers. Archie studied the menu. “Ham salad, please.” His mother was already making the coffee so Renzo headed to the kitchen to prepare the salad. He wondered if Joan was busy in Blackpool, at her bed and breakfast. It had been a year since she left and still her absence filled him with a deep ache.

Gino said he should be over it by now, but no woman had captured his heart since his fiancée had walked out.

As he took the salad to Mr Harris, he noticed two girls standing at the counter with their backs to him.

“Renzo, we have any fruitcake?” his mother called.

“In the tin in the kitchen.” “I get it. You make two cappuccini for these lovely young signorine.”

Flattery was one way to encourage customers to stay, he mused. Although they were indeed attractive. The one on the left, with short, dark, wavy hair and large blue eyes, was particularly striking.

“Let’s take that table by the window, Gwen,” the other girl said.

Gwen. A pretty name. When he’d made the coffees he carried them to the table and hurried away.

His mother was now chatting to Mr Harris. Renzo stared out of the window again. There was a long queue outside the new café, which had the advantage of being at the end of the side street that met the coast road.

He peeped at the young woman. She had on a light green dress with pink and purple butterflies.

“Pretty girls, eh?” His mother smiled at him. “Time you were dating again. You’re young, handsome – you shouldn’t be sitting indoors every evening with your mamma.”

He wasn’t. There was the amateur orchestra where he played violin once a week. Sometimes he went with Gino to see a play at the Connaught, or a concert at the Assembly Rooms. He wasn’t ready for romance. Although . . .

He looked at Gwen. No! It only ended in heartache.

“You’re better off without her, my boy.”

Maria meant Joan. She never had liked his fiancée.

“What about you, Mamma? Mr Harris is nice.”

“There will never be anyone but your father!”

The doorbell tinkled, but it was only Auntie Assunta, his mother’s younger sister. Maria and Assunta greeted each other in effusive Italian, chatting so rapidly even Renzo had trouble keeping up.

“You hear this, Renzo?” his mother said. “Assunta says there’s a rumour that an inspector came to our café and declared it unhygienic! Her Elena heard it from a friend. No wonder custom is down!” Assunta tutted.

“Isn’t it more likely down to the Roma opening?”

“That’s just it! Who do you think started the rumour? That Frank Pettit, of course!”

The owner of the Roma? Renzo considered. He’d met Pettit and he’d seemed perfectly friendly.

“Did Elena’s friend say that?”

“Not specifically,” Assunta said.

“Then it’s fourth-hand news. We shouldn’t listen.”

“I am going to sort it out!” Maria declared.

“Mamma!” Renzo cried, but she was gone. “Auntie, could you hold the fort?”

“Certo. Such a hothead, my sister.”

Renzo resisted the urge to tell his aunt it was her fault for bringing it up. His mother was already through the door of the Roma when he caught up with her. Every table was full.

“Mamma, let’s do this after closing time.”

She ignored him, accosting a waitress. “You get me Mr Pettit.” The waitress hurried off. “Mamma, everyone’s looking at us.”

“So?”

Frank Pettit appeared, dapper in neat suit and tie.

Mrs Crolla wagged a finger at him.

“We hear the nasty fibs you spread about our café.”

The chatter of the customers ceased.

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“I’m sorry,” Renzo said. “We should discuss this later.”

“I want explanation now,” his mother said, hands on hips. “You tell people our café is dirty.”

“I didn’t!” Mr Pettit’s eyes widened.

“Mamma, let’s go.” Renzo steered her towards the door.

She twisted her head around.

“Don’t think this is finish. I will get polizia!”

“If he didn’t have it in for us before, he might now,” Renzo warned when they were outside.

“You must deal with troublemakers, Renzo, not be cockerel.”

“I think you mean chicken. And I’m not.”

Or was he? Since Joan had left he’d shut himself

There were lots of opportunities in Australia, Gwen knew

off from anything that took effort.

“Let’s get back and relieve Auntie.”

“I wonder what that’s all about?” Gwen said, as the older lady and the young man left the café.

“No idea. I don’t speak Italian.”

“I wish I did. It’s such a romantic language.”

Pat laughed.

“You and your romance!” “That boy who served us seemed nice. And he was good-looking, like a younger Perry Como.”

“No point though, is there, if you’re emigrating?” Pat pouted.

“Oh, Pat! You, too? Nan and Grancher are upset.”

“Hardly surprising. I’ll really miss you if you go.”

“Me, too.” Gwen clutched her friend’s hand.

A record came on the jukebox: “Cherry Pink And Apple Blossom White”.

Gwen hummed along, thinking back to her first job, in Woolies, where she’d met Pat. It was soon after Gwen’s dad had died and they’d moved from Cardiff to Worthing to be near Nan and Grancher.

That had been 10 years ago. Having left her friends behind, she’d felt lost, but Pat had come to the rescue, taking her out and introducing her to people.

The older lady and boy were returning. “They don’t look happy,” Pat said.

“Is it always so eventful in here?”

“No idea. My brother said they did good coffee, that’s all. That new caff’s lovely, but it’s so busy.”

Gwen looked around. It was neat and tidy, but it seemed trapped in the 1930s. She remembered a café like this in Cardiff. Her dad had taken her there a few times when she was little.

She shook herself. “You OK?” Pat said. “Yes. Your brother’s right: the coffee is good.” She breathed in the rich scent as she raised her cup. Pat leaned in.

“That guy’s called Renzo. And he’s gazing at us again.”

Gwen moved her head only slightly to look, but he turned away rapidly.

His mother, if that was who she was, and the younger woman disappeared behind the door next to the jukebox.

“Drink up,” Gwen said. “I fancy a walk on the prom.”

“Smile, Renzo. This is meant to be a birthday celebration.”

Renzo laid down his orange juice on the counter of the restaurant’s bar.

“Sorry, Gino. I’m worried. Trade’s been even worse since Mamma confronted Frank Pettit.”

“Elena told me what she’d heard. I can’t think of anyone but Pettit who would gain by your café losing trade.”

“If only I could persuade Mamma to update the Criterion,” Renzo said, almost to himself.

“Auntie Maria can be stubborn,” Gino agreed.

“She thinks I have no idea about design because I’m a man.”

“You must assert yourself. She’s sixty now. Perhaps it’s time she retired.”

Renzo raised his eyebrows and Gino laughed. They both knew it wouldn’t happen. Maria loved keeping busy, being useful. She’d always been like that, but it had become worse once his father died. That was 20 years ago, three years after they’d come to England.

“Anyway,” Gino continued, “Uncle Marco will give you a job if you have to close the café. He wants to do less and put someone else in charge.”

Renzo shivered at the thought. He didn’t want to give up, not without a fight. But what else could he do?

“Shouldn’t he and Auntie Ivy be here by now?”

“I hope so, since they invited us,” Gino replied. “Uncle Marco rang me earlier. Said they’re bringing one of their employees with them, a young woman. Think they’re trying to pair me up!” Renzo nudged his cousin. “About time you grew up and settled down.”

“Ha! You can talk . . . sorry. Have you heard from Joan?”

“No. I don’t expect to.” Renzo’s insides lurched. Despite his words, seeing her again was a constant hope.

“Here they are.”

They heard their uncle’s booming voice before he and Ivy walked into the bar. Ivy was chatting to a young woman next to her who was wearing a yellow dress and stiletto heels.

As they came closer Renzo realised who she was.

“Gwen, these are my nephews, Renzo and Gino.” Marco emphasised the last name, gesturing towards him.

“It’s you!” Gwen said, concentrating on Renzo and ignoring Gino. “From the Criterion? Hello again.”

“Nice to meet you properly, Gwen.” They shook hands.

As if remembering her manners, she turned to Gino.

“How do you do?” “You know each other?” Uncle Marco looked between Renzo and Gwen.

“Not really.” Gwen turned pink. “I’ve seen him at the café, that’s all.”

She and Pat had gone there a few times now, though he hadn’t done more than take their order.

“Well, we’d better head to the dining-room.” Marco indicated the way.

At the table, Renzo ended up next to Gwen. He glanced at Gino on the other side of him, looking for signs of irritation. But his cousin seemed amused.

Gwen had never been anywhere as smart as the Wine Lodge to eat, with its cushioned chairs and stiff white tablecloths.

When the waiter had taken the order and relieved them of the menus, Renzo spoke quietly.

“You work at Marco’s chippy?”

“Two evenings a week. My full-time job is at Anderson’s garment factory.”

He nodded. He looked very handsome this evening in his tailored blue-grey suit with slim-cut jacket and wide lapels.

“Do you enjoy working there?”

“Oh, yes.” It was her standard reply. She leaned towards him. “Actually, it’s very repetitive and boring. Don’t tell Marco, though. He wants to persuade me to work full time!” Renzo gave a brief laugh. “What would you like to do?”

The question threw her. She assumed something would occur to her in Australia.

“I don’t know. Something more challenging than sewing the same things all day!”

He nodded.

“What about you? Is the café what you want to do?”

He looked as surprised by the question as she’d felt.

“I suppose. I don’t know. It could be – better.”

There was sadness in his deep brown eyes.

“For me it’s about being more creative,” she said. “I’m not sure what with, or for, though.”

“To feel you’ve been responsible for something successful.”

Was he talking about him or her?

Conversation became general, then Renzo turned back to her.

“Your accent, where’s it from? It doesn’t sound quite like Sussex.”

“You can still hear it? I moved from Cardiff ten years ago.”

“When the war finished?” “Less than a month after.”

She briefly relived the stress of upping sticks and moving to a place she’d visited only once.

“I heard the bombing was terrible there. I’m surprised you didn’t move sooner.”

“My dad was a lorry driver, a reserved occupation. We had to stay in the area.” She felt the familiar urge to cry. “You?”

“We left Italy when I was eleven.”

“You lost your accent.” “Yes.” He laughed. “Mostly.”

She wondered what he’d done in the war, if he’d been interned like many other Italians. Would it be rude to ask?

“We keep asking Gwen to work for us full time, don’t we, dear?” Ivy put in.

“You might need a new job if the rumours about Anderson’s relocating are true,” Marco put in. “We’ll see,” Gwen said. She hadn’t mentioned Australia to anyone outside the family except Pat.

The discussion moved on, to Gwen’s relief. She had the feeling she’d been invited there for Gino. He was nice, but not as interesting as his cousin.

Either way, it would be foolish to get attached to any man now.

Renzo felt intoxicated, though he hadn’t touched a drop of wine. It was something to do with Gwen. He hoped he’d be OK driving Gino home to West Worthing.

His mother had tutted when he’d bought the second-hand Fiat Topolino, but it had proved invaluable for buying supplies for the café. It had been used for trips up the coast, and to the South Downs with Joan . . .

When dessert was eaten, Marco lifted his glass.

“A toast to my nephews on their

thirty-fourth birthdays tomorrow . . .” he turned and looked at Renzo

“. . . and Friday.” He smiled at Gino.

“This was a birthday meal?” Gwen looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry to be a gate-crasher.”

“Nonsense. My nephews haven’t minded at all.” Marco smiled at them.

“Of course not. Have we, Renzo?”

“Not at all.” Renzo beamed at her and was rewarded with a shy grin. “Bene, bene,” Marco said. “Raise your glasses. Buon compleanno!”

“That means happy birthday,” Ivy explained. “In that case, buon compleanno,” Gwen tried. “Or, as we’d say in Wales, penblwydd hapus.”

They all tried imitating her pronunciation but ended up giggling at their dreadful efforts. Gwen laughed, too. She and Renzo caught each other’s eye and lingered.

“How are you getting home, Gwen?” Marco asked.

“Walking. I only live in Cranworth Road.”

“It’s beginning to rain. Renzo will drive you.”

Renzo jumped at the thought of more time in her company.

“Of course. I’m giving Gino a lift.”

“That’s in the opposite direction,” Ivy said. “I’ll take Gino.”

So it was that Renzo saw Gwen home, stopping outside her gate just as it began to rain.

“Thank you for the lift,” she said. “It was a lovely meal, and so good of Marco to treat you two on your birthdays.”

“He’s been like a father to us since we both lost our fathers young.”

“I’ll probably see you in the café when I’m next in with Pat.”

“Pat?” His heart sank as he imagined a boyfriend.

It was odd she hadn’t reacted to what he’d said about his father. People normally said something sympathetic like, “Sorry to hear that.”

“Patricia. The girl I always come in with.” “Ah.” Relief filled him. She got out of the car. “Wait! Do you have a telephone?”

“Only a party line. Why?” “May I have your number?”

She hesitated. Had he been too forward?

“Do you have pen and paper?” Gwen asked finally.

He leaned over to the glove box, fetching out a Biro and an old shopping list. She wrote her number on the back and tore it in half, handing the blank piece to him. He wrote his number on it for her.

“Run in before the rain gets too heavy,” he advised as drops of water plopped on to the windscreen.

He watched her disappear up the path and through the front door of a Victorian terrace.

It took Renzo over a week to ring Gwen. Mam had passed the phone over reluctantly. She’d never been impressed with any of the young men Gwen had brought home.

Luckily, Mam was out with Henry when Renzo came to pick her up and she only had to introduce him to her brother, Hugh. “Where are you going?” “Mam told you to ask, did she?”

Hugh looked shamefaced. “The café,” Renzo said. “I hope you don’t mind, Gwen – we’re having a meal there.”

“Oh! OK.” She’d only seen sandwiches and salads on the menu. Still, she reflected, it was the company that counted.

“I started cooking the meal myself,” he said as they drove away, “but my mother took over, saying she’d do a better job.”

His mother was going to be around for their date?

When they entered the café, Gwen could hear his mother in another room singing in Italian. There was a delectable aroma and a table by the window was laid, with an unlit candle in a bottle perched in the middle.

Renzo led her through a door next to the jukebox, into the living area beyond the café.

“Mamma, this is Gwen. Gwen, my mother.” “I remember you. Buon

giorno, bella Gwen.”

“Buon giorno,” Gwen tried, “Mrs, um . . .”

“Crolla. Come, you are here to eat. Renzo, get the young lady a drink and take her to the table. Here.” Maria passed him a box of matches.

They went back into the café and Renzo lit the candle, despite it still being daylight. He invited her to sit in the chair that faced the beach at the end of the road. There were still a few people about on this warm evening.

“Aren’t you normally open at this time?” Gwen asked as he brought her a strawberry milkshake.

“We used to be, but trade’s dropped off so much that we only open late on Fridays and Saturdays now. Even then the youngsters seem to be keener on the Roma. I can understand why.” He sighed. “I’ll get us some antipasti.”

“Some what?”

“A kind of starter.” He went out and returned with two plates containing meats, olives and bread.

“I recognise salami, but what are the other two?”

“Mortadella and prosciutto.”

She tucked in, always willing to try something new, enjoying the salty, peppery flavours.

“What part of Italy are you from?” she asked.

“A village in Lazio, not far from Monte Cassino, if you’ve heard of that.”

“Where the big battle was in the war! You’d already left Italy by then, though, hadn’t you?”

He nodded.

She hoped he wouldn’t mind her next question. “Were you interned?” “Yes, on the Isle of Man. But by the time of that battle I’d been released and was working on the railways, in Leeds.”

The last two words were said quietly and she had the feeling she’d hit a nerve.

“What about you? You said that your father’s a lorry driver.”

She braced herself. “He was. He died when I was sixteen in a road accident, two months before the end of the war.”

It was unfair. He hadn’t even been fighting, yet he’d still lost his life.

“I miss him.”

His fingers reached out to hers.

“I’m sorry. I lost my father in nineteen thirtyfive. It was his heart. I was fourteen.”

She remembered he’d mentioned it in passing last time.

“He couldn’t have been very old, either.”

“Forty.” Neither disengaged their hands until Mrs Crolla came through with two large bowls.

“Have you ever had spaghetti before?” Renzo said.

“Never.”

Mrs Crolla scooped up the empty plates.

“Why you not put on the jukebox for some music, eh?” She left.

“Come and choose something,” he said.

Gwen followed him to the jukebox, looking down the list before pointing to “Stranger In Paradise”. He put it on and they returned to their seats.

She picked up the fork and looked blankly at the spaghetti.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Renzo swirled some round his fork effortlessly.

She tried, but got too much on the fork and ended up giggling.

“Let me help.” He took her hand, guiding her to pick up a few strands, then twirl them on the plate. “See? Easy.”

Her hand tingled where he’d touched it. It took a few seconds to recover before she had another go.

The spaghetti was delicious and she wasn’t going to let it defeat her, so she persevered.

It took her 10 minutes longer than Renzo to finish, by which time Mrs Crolla had peeped through the door three times.

As she placed her fork down, Renzo’s mother appeared with two more plates.

“Brasato di maiale,” she announced, putting them on the table.

“I thought the spaghetti was the main course!”

“I told Mamma it would probably be too much. Eat what you can.”

She tried the braised pork, along with the sliced potatoes and green beans.

“These flavours! How does your mother do it?”

“Herbs. She grows them in the yard and on the window-sill – rosemary, oregano and basil, among others.”

His mother came back into the café, her handbag in the crook of her arm.

“I go to see my sister. Dessert is in Frigidaire.”

“This is lovely, Mrs Crolla. Why don’t you serve it in the café?”

“This is simple seaside café. I think there is no call for it here. Have a nice evening.”

As soon as the front door closed, Gwen turned to Renzo.

“I hope I didn’t offend her.”

“You didn’t. She’s right, though: simple is the word.” “What do you mean?” He waved his arm. “Look at it! It’s like a relic, a shrine. Mamma doesn’t want to change anything from when my father was alive.

“We keep on painting it the same colour, and this lino has seen better days.”

So that was why it looked so dated. Poor Renzo.

“I got my way over the jukebox, but that’s it. She won’t hear of me making the ice-cream like Papa used to. She’s convinced nobody could make it as well.”

“Can’t you insist?” “That’s what Gino says. But Uncle Marco tried and Mamma didn’t speak to him for months. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’m hanging on to it, too.”

Renzo had finished his meal. Gwen struggled with hers, determined to clear her plate.

Outside, twilight had settled over the sea.

“It’s funny,” he said. “You and I are from different parts of the world but we have much in common. Not just our fathers, but having to start a life in a new place. There are mountains in Wales, aren’t there?”

“I should say!”

“I came from the mountains, too. My family were farmers.”

“Mine were miners. Before that, they worked on farms in West Wales.”

“I hear Wales is very pretty. I’d like to visit it one day.”

This was her chance to let him know her situation.

“My family have moved twice. And, um, maybe a third time.”

“A third time?”

She found it hard to tell him. She’d thought this relationship was a bit of fun, going out a few times with a nice chap. Suddenly it felt more than that.

“My family are emigrating to Australia.”

His breath caught. “You?”

“Yes. My mum and brother, and Mum’s fiancé, Henry. We’ve just applied.”

Renzo stood and picked up the plates.

“I’ll fetch dessert. I made it earlier – panna cotta.”

“You made it? I’m impressed.”

“You’d better taste it first.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Panna cotta is something else new to me. But could we have a bit of a break, please?”

“Of course.” Somebody ran past the café, then returned, knocking furiously on the café door.

Renzo let him in. To Gwen’s shock it was Hugh!

“Whatever’s wrong?” Gwen asked her brother.

“It’s Nan – she’s fallen downstairs and is in hospital! Grancher rang from a telephone box. He’s in a state, but I don’t know where Mam is.”

Gwen grabbed her jacket. “I’m sorry, Renzo, I have to go!”

To be continued.