Happy Days At The Criterion

GWEN hurried to the door of the café, following her brother out. “I’ll drive you to the hospital,” Renzo said. Gwen turned back. “Oh, I don’t –” “Thank you,” Hugh said. “That would be great.”

“Yes, we would get there quicker,” Gwen said, grateful yet still aware the news she’d given Renzo had clearly unsettled him. “Let me fetch the keys.” He went out, returning with his jacket.

Gwen stepped on to the pavement, taking in the beauty of the orange sky. Music drifted across the road from the Roma and a few people were still hanging around.

If something happened to Nan . . .

Since moving to Worthing she’d been the person from whom Gwen had got sound advice and a hug when she needed it. She was only sixty-seven; she should have loads of years left.

Tears sprang from her eyes without warning. A hand took her arm. “Come on, Gwen.” Renzo unlocked the passenger door, and guided her in.

He opened the back door for Hugh and was soon driving to the hospital.

The journey took five minutes, but it might as well have been an hour to Gwen. The possibilities of Nan’s injuries filled her mind. She closed her eyes. Please, please don’t let it be serious.

“How are you?” Renzo asked.

“Just worried.” She half turned to look at Hugh. “Does Uncle Ivor know what’s happened?”

“He’s still away with Auntie Anne, visiting her mother in Porthcawl.”

When they arrived outside the hospital, Renzo stopped near the entrance.

“I’ll come and make sure you find the ward,” he said. “Then I’ll drive you home.”

“We only live round the corner and we don’t know how long we’ll be.”

“I’m not worried.” “Thank you,” Gwen whispered.

At the main entrance she hesitated.

Oh, no. She’d forgotten about this aspect of the visit. She stepped inside, the suffocating tang of disinfectant almost sending her back out.

Hugh went to the desk to

Renzo knew things were serious, but he couldn’t think about it all tonight . . .

speak to the receptionist. Gwen tried to control her breathing and stood her ground.

“What’s wrong?” Renzo asked. “You’ve gone pale.”

She’d never told anyone outside the family about this – phobia, she supposed you’d call it – but Renzo deserved an explanation.

“As a five-year-old I spent weeks in hospital with diphtheria. I was very ill, almost died. I haven’t been able to set foot in a hospital since. It’s the smell – it always brings it back.”

Hugh returned and spotted her discomfort.

“It’s time you got over this,” he snapped. “Nan’s on the ground floor.”

He marched to the door, but Gwen couldn’t move.

“Take my hand,” Renzo said, holding it out. “You’ll be fine. What happened was a long time ago.”

“What if Nan – what if she’s seriously hurt?”

“Then you will surely want to see her.”

Gwen took his hand, gingerly following him towards the door being held open by Hugh. She stopped before entering.

“Honestly, being here will do you no harm,” Renzo persevered. “And seeing you may help your nan.”

Gwen looked into his brown eyes. They were soothing, enveloping her in a blanket of reassurance. He took her arm. “Will you come in?” She nodded, allowing him to guide her to the ward. In the corridor a sister was speaking to a staff nurse, clearly giving instructions. She spotted the party. “Can I help you?” “We’ve come to see Mary Jenkins – she fell down the stairs. Is she OK?” Gwen said all in a rush.

“You are?”

“Her grandchildren.” “Well, Mrs Jenkins hasn’t long come back from theatre so is still groggy. She sustained a broken femur and it’s been put in plaster and in traction. Other than that, the doctor believes her to have had a lucky escape.”

Gwen felt relief. She slumped and felt Renzo’s arm about her waist.

“Could we see her?” Hugh said.

The sister lifted the watch on her apron.

“Visiting finished two hours ago. It’s a little late.”

“Please,” Gwen implored. “I want to see for myself that she’s all right.”

The sister looked from one to the other, sympathy in her eyes.

“Her husband is with her, so you will have to go in one at a time and be very quiet. You have two minutes each. Mr Jenkins will have to leave with you.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said, echoed by her brother.

“I’ll be in the entrance,” Renzo said, letting go of Gwen and withdrawing. “You go first,” Hugh said. Gwen tiptoed into the ward. She spotted Grancher adjusting the blanket at the bottom of a bed. He saw Gwen and waved his hand.

“Hugh found you, then? Can’t get hold of your mum. Tried ringing Henry’s but there was no answer.”

“They’re out.” Gwen peered at Nan, seemingly asleep, her leg aloft in a kind of sling with weights.

“Always gadding about, that daughter of mine,” Nan said. She opened her eyes slowly.

“How do you feel, Nan?” Nan tried to lift herself up, grimacing.

“How do you think?” “Could have been worse,” Grancher said. “How many times have I told you . . .?”

“Can you keep it down? I’m trying to sleep,” the woman in the next bed said.

“Sorry,” Gwen whispered. “Hugh’s here, Nan. I’ll send him in.”

She crept out, telling Hugh to be very quiet when he went in. She waited for him and Grancher to return before returning to the entrance area.

Renzo noticed them immediately they came through the door. “How is your nan?” Gwen explained about the broken leg and her being in traction.

“Would you mind giving Grancher a lift home to Cottenham Road as well?”

“Of course.” He held out his hand to the old man as he caught up. “How do you do, Mr – sorry, I don’t know your surname.”

“Jenkins.” He shook Renzo’s hand. “It’s nice to meet Gwen’s young man.”

“Grancher! It was a first date,” Gwen protested.

“I’m sure I didn’t mean any harm. And thank you for the lift home.”

“You’re very welcome.” Renzo went ahead to open the outer door. Grancher leaned in. “Nice young man. I should hold on to him.”

Had he forgotten she was emigrating? Perhaps Grancher hoped a boyfriend would keep her here . . .

Renzo dropped Grancher off first, waiting as Gwen and Hugh saw him into the house.

Gwen returned alone. “We decided it would be best if Hugh stayed overnight.”

“Good idea. He’ll appreciate the company.”

He started the car, wondering if he’d have the courage to say what was on his mind.

They barely spoke on the journey home. Too much had happened tonight to make light conversation, what with Gwen’s nan and talk about Australia.

Renzo had never been good at small talk. Yet she was an easy person to talk to, even though he’d only had one date with her. She seemed to understand him, to feel some of the same things.

His stomach sank. Australia! Such a long way away . . .

They were turning down her street before he blurted out what was on his mind.

“Would you go out with me again? When your nan’s better. If you want?” “I’d like that.” Delight shot through him. “I’m sorry our evening was cut short,” Gwen said.

“It couldn’t be helped. At least your grandmother wasn’t too badly hurt. I hope she mends quickly.”

“That’s very kind of you. I could ring you once I know how things are. I might need to help with Nan, or look after the house.”

“I understand,” he said, though he queried whether this was her way of letting him down gently.

Gwen got out of the car and so did he, hoping he’d have the courage to peck her on the cheek. No, that wouldn’t be right, not yet.

“Cheerio, and thanks so much for giving us the lifts. You are such a sweet man.”

This small compliment gave him untold pleasure.

“And you are very lovely,” he ventured as a substitute for the kiss.

She went bright pink.

Gwen had never told anyone about her fear of hospitals

“I don’t know about that, but thank you.”

She ran down the dark path, turning to wave at him before going indoors.

He drove home, pondering the evening’s events.

In the café, a light from the back room told him his mother was in.

He noticed the candle and place mats had been removed from their table. He yearned to turn back the clock, to have Gwen’s company once more.

In the back room, Mamma was listening to the radio, her feet resting on the small footstool. “You didn’t have your

panna cotta. It’s still in the Frigidaire,” she greeted him. “What’s the matter?”

“Gwen’s nan fell down the stairs. I drove her and her brother to hospital.” “No! How terrible!” He explained the evening’s events. She tutted and shook her head.

“Such a shame. When are you seeing her again?”

His mother had always possessed a confidence he’d never had.

“I – I don’t know if I am. It’s up to her.”

“You didn’t ask?” “Yes, but, well, we’ll see.” He didn’t want to share his feeling of vulnerability.

“No need to get touchy.” “I’m sorry, Mamma. It’s been a long day.”

She wandered over to the sideboard, picking up a pile of papers. “Renzo, I need to talk to you.”

What was coming now? He didn’t like her anxious tone.

“We cannot pay the bills that have come in recently. With the lack of business, thanks to that Mr Petitt –” “Now, Mamma –” “No, listen, we have not made enough money.”

He took the bills from her, sifting through them to look at the amounts. She was right: they didn’t have that much money in their business bank account.

“Don’t worry, Mamma, I’ll take care of these. I’m off to bed now. See you in the morning.”

“You no want a Horlicks?”

“Not tonight, I’m bushed. Buona notte, Mamma.”

“Buona notte, Renzo. Tante riposa.”

He didn’t know if he’d get any rest at all, let alone lots, as his mother wished. But something was bound to turn up, wasn’t it? He’d ponder the problem overnight.

****

Renzo knocked on the door of Gwen’s grandparents’ home, clutching carnations.

Mrs Jenkins had only been brought home the day before, and he was afraid he might disturb her if she was tucked up in bed.

Gwen opened the door wearing that lovely dimpled smile. It eased his nerves. He had looked forward to it over the last few dates. Four, they’d had now.

“Renzo, come in.” She stepped to one side, into the open doorway of what looked like a parlour beyond, allowing him into the kitchen.

He wasn’t expecting the welcoming committee that sat there. The lady with her leg in plaster and balanced on a stool, obviously Mrs Jenkins, was sitting one side of an unlit fireplace.

Mr Jenkins sat opposite her. Another woman, a younger version of Mrs Jenkins, sat at the heavy wooden table that dominated the room.

“Renzo, you’ve met Grancher,” Gwen said. The old man stood. “Yes. Nice to see you again, lad.”

“And this is my nan and my mam.” She indicated the two women.

“How do you do?” Mrs Jenkins smiled broadly at him. Gwen’s mother, however, narrowed her eyes.

“We meet at last. I’m Mrs Hughes. So, where are you whisking my daughter away to this evening?”

Renzo felt like he was kidnapping Gwen rather than taking her on a date! “We’re going dancing.” “Are you holding on to those flowers for ever?”

He blinked. Of course! He lifted the blooms up and turned towards Gwen’s nan.

“They’re for you, Mrs Jenkins.”

“They’re lovely, bach. Thank you so much for thinking of me.” Her eyes became glassy.

Mrs Hughes sniffed. “Don’t know where we’ll put them. You haven’t any vases, Mother.”

“The big jug will do.” “I’ll deal with them.” Gwen took the flowers from Renzo, smiling at him.

His heart jolted, making Mrs Hughes’s cutting comments insignificant.

“Sit down.” Mr Jenkins indicated a chair. “Thank you again for the lift when Mary was in hospital.”

“It was no trouble at all,” Renzo said.

“It’s not like it was far,” Mrs Hughes commented.

Gwen came back in with the jug of flowers at that moment.

“Mam, it was very nice of Renzo to help us out.”

“Well, you probably haven’t got anything else to do in the evenings now.” Gwen’s mother looked at Renzo. “I hear you’ve more or less closed the café since the health inspector declared it unclean.”

Renzo was dumbstruck but Gwen leapt forward.

“Mam! I told you that wasn’t true. It’s a rumour started by that café owner across the road.”

Had Gwen been listening to his mother?

“We don’t know that for certain, Gwen.”

“Well, I heard it from Susan at work, when I said you were walking out with him,” Mrs Hughes said.

“Him? He has a name!” Gwen said crossly.

Mr Jenkins had been trying to get a word in edgeways while Mrs Jenkins looked crossly from her daughter to granddaughter.

“Enough! And here I am, barely out of hospital.”

“Sorry, Nan,” Gwen said straight away.

It was a few moments before Mrs Hughes nodded. “Sorry, Mam.”

“It’s this young man you should be apologising to,” Mrs Jenkins told her. “I think we should let them get on with their evening.”

Gwen went round her relatives, kissing each of them on the cheek.

“Good evening,” Renzo said, including them all.

“To you, too,” Mrs Jenkins replied. “Thank you again for the lovely flowers. They were much appreciated.”

“Don’t be late home,” Mrs Hughes told Gwen.

Gwen sighed as she and Renzo headed out of the door.

“I’m sorry about that. I asked you to pick me up here because I wanted you to meet Nan as well as Mam. But Mam’s never been very polite to the young men I’ve dated.”

“Your mother is only looking out for you. I’m a stranger to her.”

“She has a funny way of going about it!” Gwen retorted.

****

Renzo stopped the car outside Gwen’s house around ten thirty.

“I really enjoyed myself.” Gwen told Renzo. “You have such a good sense of rhythm.”

“I hope so, otherwise I’d have been thrown out of the orchestra by now, even if it is an amateur one.”

He’d played his violin to her one evening, on her insistence, when she’d been to his house for a meal – cooked by him this time. He’d proved a more than proficient musician.

“You’re not clumsy like some I’ve danced with.”

Remembering some past partners made her giggle. She hadn’t felt this good since before her dad passed away. Not because Renzo was a good dancer, but because he was . . . him.

“Gwen, I’m very fond of you,” he suddenly said. “I am fond of you, too.” He bent towards her, kissing her lips. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this, but it had always been brief. This time, he let this kiss linger. Her insides melted like butter in the sun.

When he released her he became serious.

“Gwen, is there any chance you’d stay in England?”

She’d asked herself this question, too, usually as she was falling asleep. In the daytime she kept the pressing question at bay.

Now, here it was, prodding her for an answer she hadn’t yet worked out. Or had she, and didn’t want to face it?

“I don’t know, Renzo.” She bit back the urge to cry. Better to get away now, to think it through on her own.

Renzo leaned forward, staring out of the windscreen.

“I know I shouldn’t put you in this position of choosing when your family is involved. I’m sorry.”

She’d heard that word once too often today.

“I’d better get in.” She pushed open the door. “Gwen –”

“I’m going to clean Nan’s house over the weekend, and you should be busier now it’s the summer holidays, so I’ll see you next week.” “Gwen!”

“We’ll talk then.”

She ran though the gate to her front door, calming herself in the small hallway before strolling into the living-room.

“You’re back, are you?” Mam glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece.

She was darning one of Hugh’s socks.

Better get it out quickly. “Mam, I’m not sure I want to go to Australia.”

Her mother thumped the sock down on the arm of the chair.

“It’s this Italian lad, is it? You’ve only known him five minutes! You’d be a fool not to go. There are wonderful opportunities in the New World you don’t have here, and –”

“I’ve heard the advertisement from you so many times, Mam. It’s just all been decided too quickly. I need to think about it.”

“What is there to think about?”

“Nan and Grancher, for a start.”

“They understand about moving for new opportunities. They did it themselves.”

“Yes – two hundred miles, not eleven thousand!” Tears pricked at her eyes once more and she felt the need to escape. “I’m going to my room.”

“If you’re going to be like that . . .” “Goodnight, Mam.” Gwen left the room swiftly, taking the stairs two at a time before running into her room and closing the door.

She leaned against it, her thumping head relieved by the cool of the wooden door. Why had Mam come up with this crazy idea of emigrating in the first place?

She pushed herself away from the door, going to the window and lifting the net curtain to look out at the lamplit street. Renzo’s car was still there.

He was likely feeling what she was: confused. She imagined his arms around her, reassuring her that everything would work out fine.

As she was about to leave the window to go down and talk to him, the car engine started and he drove away.

It would have to wait till another day.

****

Renzo took the ten £1 notes handed to him by the teller, placing them quickly into his wallet.

He thanked the man behind the glass partition and stepped out of the bank into the sunshine of Montague Street.

If he had to eat into his savings, so be it. It was Joan who had insisted he save up for a big wedding and honeymoon anyway. Now he didn’t need it for that purpose he’d tide the café over for as long as he could.

He made his way back to the Criterion, where his mother was making news reporter Archie Harris his usual mid-morning coffee. Other than him, the café was empty.

“You get the bread?” his mother asked, pushing a cup towards Archie.

Renzo hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Sorry, Mamma.” “Then why you go out, eh?”

“I’ll go back and get it in a moment.”

Renzo waited until Archie had found a seat before he removed his wallet from his pocket. He put eight pounds and ten shillings on the counter in front of his mother.

“Money to pay the bills.” “From your savings? No! You need that for the future.”

“That future’s gone. I need it for here, so we can stay open and go on making a living.”

She crossed her arms. “Not if we close.”

“It won’t come to that.” Not if he could persuade her to see sense.

“I’ve got one hundred and thirty pounds in savings. We could use some of it to do up the place, make it more modern.”

“Soon people will tire of Mr Petitt’s shiny new café. It will become old hat. They will come back to something reliable.”

“But you just said we might close!”

He could tell by his mother’s pinched lips that she was in one of her illogical moods. He groaned inwardly. He’d end up working for Uncle Gino, he was sure.

And what would Mamma do? They wouldn’t even be able to sell the place as a going concern.

“In any case, I’m going to pay the outstanding bills in town. I’ll get the bread on the way back.”

“Va bene. I’m going to have a chat with Mr Harris, since there are no customers. He always tell me the local news before it go in his paper.”

He fetched the bills from the back room and went out.

At least he had something to look forward to later. He and Gwen had arranged an evening out.

The last one pound ten shillings he’d taken from the bank was for a special meal at the Wine Lodge. He’d enjoy his time with her while he could.

A wonderful, yet utterly foolish, idea occurred to him. Was it possible? Was it sensible?

Renzo had all day to mull it over.

****

They’d finished dessert and still Renzo hadn’t put into words what he’d been rehearsing in his head all day.

Several times he’d been about to start when a small, sceptical voice dented his confidence. If they didn’t have the café, what did he have to offer?

Another voice said, but if you love her, you’ll find a way.

“I seem to have talked more than my fair share this evening,” Gwen remarked. “You’re very quiet.”

“I like listening to you talk,” Renzo said. “You have a lovely voice.”

“Get away with you!” She coloured, but seemed pleased with the compliment. “Coffee?” he offered. “Only if you want to. It’s such a lovely evening it would be a shame not to have a walk on the prom.”

He looked out of the window of the restaurant at the still-light sky hanging over the pebbles and calm sea.

“Yes, let’s do that.” Perhaps the fresh air would give him the boost he needed.

He paid the bill and they crossed the road, standing by the shelter on the prom, looking out to sea.

“You’re so lucky, having this over the road from you,” she said, linking her arms around one of his.

He caught a whiff of Evening In Paris. Joan used to wear that, too. She’d never liked the beach, only the potential it had for attracting customers. He hoped she was doing well in Blackpool; he really did.

“Let’s walk to the pier,” Gwen suggested, turning them eastwards.

They walked in companionable silence past the Lido. Reaching the pier, they walked down its length, past the arcade, till they reached the southern pavilion at the end.

They leaned on the railings, taking in the sunset and the view, all the way to Selsey Bill.

Gwen moved in closer to him and Renzo put his arm around her, pulling her in tighter still.

She told him about something funny that had happened at the factory. He joked about Archie Harris’s interest in his mother.

Renzo felt the courage to tackle the matter uppermost in his mind fade in the bliss of having her close.

As the sun sank lower, Gwen smiled.

“Shall we walk back?” “I could make you a coffee at the café.”

“I’d better get home. I need to be up early tomorrow to go over to Nan’s. She wants to get down to the beach in the wheelchair that’s been provided.”

“That will be nice for her.” Time was running out for Renzo.

****

They strolled back from the pier mostly in silence. Gwen wanted to broach the subject of Australia but had no idea how to bring it up.

“Do they have beaches like this in Australia?” Renzo asked finally.

“Yes, but sandy, I think. People spend Christmas on the beach because December’s in summer.” “That must be strange.” “Have you ever thought of emigrating?” she asked.

“I did emigrate – to England.”

“Of course. I meant to the

other side of the world.”

“No, I can’t say it’s ever occurred to me.”

Could the answer be to persuade him to come, too? But his family was here. His mother almost certainly wouldn’t want to go.

And did he even feel strongly enough about her to consider it?

“It hadn’t occurred to me, either, before Mam suggested it. New husbandto-be, new life.

“Not that I resent it. Mam spent a long time mourning my father and she was only thirty-six when he died.” He looked startled. “Only two years older than I am. It shows you should grab life while you can.”

They’d just got back to the shelter and he indicated they should cross the road. “I suppose it does.” He held her hand as they crossed, not letting go until they reached his car, parked outside the café.

He went round the road to the passenger door, about to unlock it. Instead, he swept around and took hold of her shoulders.

“Then why don’t we . . . Would you –? I know this is a totally crazy thing. You’ll probably say no.”

“To what?” Why didn’t he just spit it out?

“I was wondering if –” She dropped her handbag, bending to scoop it up. Some of the contents had spilled out so she scrabbled around retrieving them.

As she did this, another voice, a female one, called out.

“Renzo, there you are!” Gwen looked up, seeing through the car window a woman with dark hair, cut short like Audrey Hepburn’s. She was dressed casually in Capri pants and a blouse. Getting up slowly, Gwen could just spy the woman’s head above the car.

Renzo’s body had stiffened, his mouth open in shock.

Who on earth was this woman, Gwen wondered?

“Don’t look so surprised, darling,” the woman told him. Then she noticed Gwen, giving her a quick up and down look but not introducing herself.

“Your mother said you were around here somewhere.”

“Joan, what are you doing back here?”

“That’s a great way to greet me. Honestly!”

She took his arm, much as Gwen had earlier, and kissed him on the cheek. He didn’t object.

“I’m on a visit from Blackpool.”

“How long for?”

“I don’t know yet.” Renzo turned back to Gwen at last.

“This is Gwen Hughes.” “Charmed, I’m sure.” Joan smiled at her briefly, then turned quickly back to Renzo.

“I’ve missed you so much. Bet you’re glad to see me.”

Gwen felt a sharp pain in her head and her heart was thumping wildly.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll be heading off.”

“Of course,” Joan said. “Nice to meet you.”

Renzo took Gwen’s arm but she shook him off.

“I was giving you a lift,” he protested.

“I don’t need one on such a lovely night,” Gwen said, adding quietly, “Or it was.” “Wait, I’ll just –”

“Let the poor girl go.” Joan dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “You and I have got things to talk about.”

“I’ll see her home first.” “I’d rather you didn’t,” Gwen said, unable to hide her irritation. “I’ve got to get back. I told Mam I’d sign the emigration papers tonight.”

“I didn’t think you’d –” he started.

“Oh, yes. I was about to tell you. Now, I must go.”

Gwen walked away as rapidly as her heels would allow.

Whether she had to sign anything or not, she was going to tell her mother to put her name down on the papers tonight . . .

To be concluded.