More from Victoria Springfield
MORE FROM VICTORIA SPRINGFIELD
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Chapter One
The camera panned across Ingrid Bergman’s face. Her soulful eyes, velvet complexion and trembling lips filled the screen. Ornella murmured the next line under her breath in Italian. Alessia reached for her coffee cup, but it was empty. She returned her attention to the television.
‘My mamma had a suit like that,’ Ornella said. ‘Fabric-covered buttons and large patch pockets. She loved Ingrid Bergman. Casablanca was her favourite film.’
Alessia nodded but she didn’t reply. Ornella mentioned her childhood on the Italian island of Ischia so infrequently that Alessia treasured every word. She perched on the edge of her nonna’s second most comfortable armchair, like the little robin that sat quietly beneath the wooden table on her patio, waiting for a few precious crumbs to fall.
Ornella pressed the ‘pause’ button. ‘I was there with Mamma when she bought the material. Funny the odd things you remember, isn’t it? Of course, it was difficult to find fabric during the war but the shopkeeper produced this ream from beneath the counter. Perhaps he was sweet on her, she was a beautiful young woman with wavy black hair like yours and such dark eyes. She used the leftover scraps of the grey cloth to make a pinafore dress for me. The straps fastened with red buttons, as bright and shiny as two ripe cherries.’
‘The dress in the photograph…’ Alessia hesitated. ‘Shall I fetch it?’
Her nonna’s brief nod was sufficient encouragement to pull out the middle drawer of the rosewood bureau. It opened much more easily since Alessia had sorted through most of her late mother’s papers and followed Ornella’s suggestion to rub a candle along the runners. The framed picture lay on top of the pile of scrapbooks, too precious to risk being damaged or faded by sunlight.
Ornella reached out an age-spotted hand and took the photograph. ‘How I loved that dress. Mamma had to prise it off me with bribes and threats or it would never have been washed.’
‘Look at your papà, how handsome he was!’ Alessia’s great-grandfather smiled shyly from the black and white photograph, his arm around the little girl sitting on his knee.
‘A moustache suits a certain type of man, rather a pity they’ve been out of fashion for so long. I was about four years old in that photograph, though I don’t remember it being taken. Maria would have been two.’
Alessia held her breath, waiting for more. A light summer breeze moved the edge of the curtain by the half-open French doors, bringing in the scent of next door’s newly cut lawn.
‘Maria looks so sweet in that picture… so innocent.’ Ornella sighed. ‘She was like Mamma in many ways. Did I tell you Maria adored Ingrid Bergman too? I remember when the Excelsior movie theatre opened in Ischia Ponte – how excited we were! And when we found out they were showing Anastasia , Maria begged me to go. She loved that film so much she kept the ticket stub, I found it in her bedside drawer along with a handful of her precious movie magazines. I wish I hadn’t had to get rid of them but Gennaro and I were able to bring so few things with us when we came to England. We left Ischia with just one small suitcase between us.’
Alessia nodded. Ornella had told her several times about the move to England when Alessia’s mamma, Silvana, was just a baby and the struggles of those early years. But she never spoke about Maria’s tragic death a few months before they left. Or why she and Gennaro had never gone back to the island.
Ornella pressed the remote, and the film restarted. Humphrey Bogart was urging Ingrid Bergman to get on the plane that would take her away from him forever.
‘They’re showing The African Queen next,’ Ornella said.
‘I’ll put more coffee on.’ Alessia stood up.
‘You don’t have to stay here with me, you know. You should be out enjoying yourself, doing whatever young people do these days.’
Alessia paused in the doorway. ‘Nonna, I’m thirty-four, not a teenager who needs to go haring around. I’m meeting the girls for a drink next Wednesday but after a week at Gladder Rags I can’t think of anything better than flopping down here for a few hours and watching old movies with you.’
‘You work too hard.’ Ornella tutted.
Alessia put the Bialetti pot back on the stove. She lifted the lid of a rose-patterned tin; a delicious scent of homemade chocolate almond cake mingled with the aroma of freshly ground coffee. She cut two slices and arranged everything on Ornella’s Golden Jubilee tray.
‘Coffee’s up!’ she called, but no reply came from the sitting room.
Frowning, she used her bottom to bump open the door. Ornella was sitting bolt upright in her chair, as if the button-backed upholstery was too hot to lean against. A black and white portrait filled the television screen.
‘What’s this? This isn’t The African Queen .’ Alessia set the tray down on the low coffee table.
‘…according to local sources, Patrizia Manfredi passed away peacefully at her villa north of Rome just days after celebrating her one hundredth birthday,’ the unseen announcer declared. ‘In honour of her passing there is a last-minute change to today’s programming. Our Humphrey Bogart double bill will continue next Sunday. Today’s Movie Magic continues with a chance to watch Patrizia in one of her greatest roles, playing Gabriella in the Oscar-nominated Castello D’Amore . Afterwards, a celebration of the little-known Italian actress’s remarkable career…’
Ornella switched off the television.
‘Don’t you want to see that?’ Alessia said. ‘I’ve never heard of Patrizia Manfredi but if the film was nominated for an Oscar it must be good.’
‘I don’t want to watch it; I was never a fan of hers and they’ll ruin it by putting those subtitles across the screen. The English never really matches what they’re saying in Italian. It gets on my nerves. Let’s have the radio instead, there’s a nice concert on Classic FM this afternoon.’
Alessia twisted the dial on her grandmother’s old leather-covered radio. A Mendelssohn concerto filled the cosy sitting room. She poured out the coffee and put a slice of cake within easy reach of Ornella’s chair. Ornella didn’t move, her eyes closed as though transported by the soaring violins.
Alessia shifted in her armchair. She wished she was the sort of person who could lean back and let the music wash over her, but she couldn’t relax unless her hands were busy pinning brown paper patterns, easing out seams, clipping notches in collars, tying off loose ends. She was itching to get started on her new project, but she wanted to get her grandmother’s advice before she started to cut into the green satin fabric; she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Ornella’s breathing became heavier; she twitched in her sleep. Alessia drained her coffee, quietly removed her nonna’s untouched cup, picked up her phone and typed Patrizia Manfredi into the search bar.
Dozens of mainly black and white photographs filled the screen; she zoomed in on the first. Felt hat on the back of her head, a beady-eyed fox draped over her shoulder, Patrizia’s cat-like eyes gazed at the camera. Alessia kept scrolling: Patrizia holding a calla lily against her smooth cleavage, her ruched velvet dress pooling on the floor. Next, laughing behind the wheel of a Bugatti, headscarf tied just so, clutching a Pekinese with a diamond collar. Every publicity picture was carefully contrived but there was no denying the one thing Patrizia had in spades: the X factor that drove millions to the cinema week in, week out during the film industry’s heyday. That rare, unmistakeable, you-could-bottle-it-and-make-a-million ingredient: star power.
Alessia chewed at the end of her nail. Here was an Italian actress who’d embodied the old movie glamour and glitz that she and her grandmother loved; why had she never heard of her? Intrigued, she typed in: Patrizia Manfredi filmography .
She skimmed down the list of film credits, arranged by date. Patrizia had worked for and alongside all the greats of Italian cinema, but she’d never crossed over to Hollywood. The 1958 release Castello D’Amore was her last major role. Co-starring heartthrob Maurilio Bellarmino, it had been filmed at the studio lot in Rome and – Alessia caught her breath – on location on the island of Ischia.
Ornella muttered in her sleep. Alessia clicked on a link. Patrizia and Maurilio had filmed key scenes in the pine forests on the slopes of Mount Epomeo, the pretty fishing village of Sant’Angelo and along the walkway at Ischia Ponte in the shadow of the Aragonese Castle: all places Nonna would have known. Ornella and her ill-fated sister Maria would have been just eighteen and sixteen when the glamorous contingent arrived to make a movie on their sleepy island. It must have been such a thrill for a movie-goer like Nonna yet she’d never once mentioned it.
Ornella stirred. Her hand groped towards the low table. ‘Cake – lovely! I thought you were making some coffee.’
‘I did but I poured it away, it got cold whilst you were sleeping.’
Ornella patted her black hair; her industrial-strength hairspray kept her short style under control, but she still liked to check every hair was in place.
‘I never fall asleep in the afternoon… Whatever happened to the Mendelssohn? They must have cut the end off. Honestly, whatever next!’
Alessia suppressed a smile. ‘As we’re not watching a film, could you take a look at something for me?’ She reached into her bag.
‘A dress pattern… Mamma mia , how battered it looks! Wherever did you find this?’
‘Someone brought a box of vintage patterns into work. He thought we might get some use out of them.’
‘He?’ Ornella pounced on the word.
‘ He is at least eighty.’
Ornella sighed. ‘They say the workplace is still the best place to meet a partner if you’re not willing to try online dating – but not when you’re stuck behind a sewing machine working with a sixty-something woman all day.’
Alessia looked her right in the eye. ‘I am not doing online dating.’
Ornella shrugged. ‘Well, if I can’t persuade you, perhaps you could find some male customers. There must be something handsewn that men would want to buy.’
‘Suits – but tailoring’s a specialist business. Sorry, Nonna, Gladder Rags is going to stick to women customers wanting alterations for weddings and Royal Ascot. We do have the odd man bringing in things for the Revive and Relieve charity rack, that’s why Albert came in. We normally only take well-known brands but his late wife sewed her own outfits so beautifully we made an exception and took the lot. He was so relieved he brought in two boxes of her old patterns as a thank you – there was everything from fifties frocks to eighties ballgowns.’
‘I hope they’re not all in this condition.’ Ornella began smoothing the flimsy pattern pieces out on her lap.
‘I met Albert at the bereavement group. He was married to his wife Marjorie for nearly sixty years. He says the group really helps him.’
Ornella stopped sifting through the pattern pieces. ‘I know what you’re doing, Alessia, however subtle you think you’re being. Talking isn’t going to bring Silvana back. I don’t want to discuss my feelings with strangers.’
Or with me , Alessia added silently.
‘No mother should ever bury her daughter, however old they are; it goes against nature. Silvana was sixty-four but she was my child .’
And she was my mother , Alessia wanted to add. But Ornella’s face was closed. An invisible barrier went up whenever she tried to talk about their shared loss. Now that a year had passed, Alessia had almost stopped trying but she still hoped her grandmother would open up to someone. It wasn’t good to bottle things up.
‘You’re not going to nag me about counselling and I’m not going to nag you about finding a husband. Is that a fair swap?’ Ornella turned her attention back to the dress pattern. ‘Now, are you planning on sewing Option A or B? B takes less material, but it looks as though the left centre back piece is missing. We’ll have to work out the shape and reconstruct it from tracing paper.’
‘B is prettier. Shall we spread the material out on the dining table?’ Alessia rooted around in the bottom of the bureau for the old Quality Street tin where the dressmaking scissors were kept.
‘I’ll cut the missing piece then we can start pinning the others; fortunately, whoever made this dress last time cut the pieces out nice and neatly, even if they are terribly crumpled.’ Ornella unfolded the sewing instructions. ‘Princess seams, and rouleau button loops on the cuffs – it’ll be a bit fiddly, but that green material is very nice and the fitted waist will suit you; I don’t know why they went out of style.’
‘People’s figures are different these days.’ Alessia’s wasn’t. She was all old-fashioned curves. ‘That’s why I can’t find what I want in the shops. I was born in the wrong era. I wish I could have lived through the fifties.’ She handed Ornella a roll of tracing paper.
‘The old days weren’t better,’ Ornella said. ‘Suffocating girdles and outside lavatories.’
‘Glamorous outfits and handsome men with beautifully polished shoes. It’s such a shame people don’t really dress up any more. Modern life just isn’t the same.’ Alessia strapped her mother’s tapestry pincushion to her wrist. She spread the fabric over the dining table.
Ornella handed her a freshly cut pattern piece for the left centre back, a perfect mirror image of its right twin.
‘Perfect, thank you,’ Alessia said. She began pinning the pieces in place, following the layout from the instructions, making sure the arrows on the translucent paper followed the grain of the satin weave.
‘It’s all my fault you haven’t found anybody since Martin,’ Ornella said. ‘I’ve been filling your head with old movies. Life’s not like that now and it wasn’t like that even back then. It must be six months since you two split up. You can’t wait around forever for a dashing man like Cary Grant to sweep you off your feet.’
‘More’s the pity.’ Alessia laughed. ‘They don’t make men – or films – like that any more.’
‘I agree, give me a good old-fashioned black and white weepie over these warts-and-all dramas any day of the week. There’s no harm in escapism as long as you don’t expect real life to be like that. Life isn’t hearts and flowers and following your feelings, Alessia.’ Ornella pursed her lips. ‘It’s hard work, making sacrifices, doing the right thing.’
‘But you loved Nonno Gennaro.’
Ornella’s hand strayed to the wedding ring she had never taken off, not even after her husband’s death. ‘He was a wonderful man. Much better than I ever deserved.’ She shook her head as if the memories could be shaken off like a pesky fly.
Alessia bit her lip. She shouldn’t have brought up her nonno’s name. She cast about for a more cheerful subject. ‘I was looking at Wikipedia, finding out more about Patrizia Manfredi.’
Ornella gasped. A drop of blood oozed onto the emerald cloth. She snatched her hand away and sucked on her finger.
‘Oh, no! Did you prick yourself?’
‘The satin!’ Ornella’s cry was anguished.
Alessia didn’t move, alarmed by the way the colour had drained from the old lady’s face. ‘It’s okay, Nonna, it’s only a tiny mark. We can wiggle the pattern pieces around and miss that bit. I’ll get a plaster from the medicine cabinet.’
‘Thank you.’ Ornella’s voice was faint.
Alessia quickly retrieved a small box from the bathroom cabinet. Carefully, she pressed the pink plaster onto her grandmother’s finger. ‘Let’s leave pinning the rest of the pieces until after supper. Why don’t we go and sit in the garden, it still looks quite sunny out there.’
Ornella rose from her chair and followed her out through the French doors. She lowered herself onto the white swing chair by the crab apple tree. Alessia handed her a light shawl.
‘I don’t need that, I’m not old.’ Ornella tutted.
Alessia folded it up and left it on the end of the padded seat cushion. Ornella’s thin legs dangled as the chair gently rocked. For once, she looked all of her eighty-three years.