Well, I’ll be, said Ulysses.
I hate snow, said Ted.
It doesn’t much like you, said Col.
Peg smiled.
Down below in the square, Signora Mimmi was waiting.
It’s Signora Mimmi! said Cress. I wonder who she’s waiting for.
You! they said.
But I don’t have anything for her, he said.
You! they said.
He grabbed the nearest coat, which happened to be Peg’s fur, and was about to run out, when—
Where’s my poetry book? he said.
From the upstairs window, Ulysses and Peg side by side watched Cress enter the empty square. He and Signora Mimmi held hands and moved towards a bench. Cress brushed it free of snow and they sat down facing one another. Cress opened his poetry book and his words became mist.
Christmas 1953 was one for the visitors’ book. They all wrote a version of ‘We’ll be back!’ but they wouldn’t, not like that.
They left the next day, Peg and Ted as early as decency would allow, and the margins on that were close. Peg hugged the kid awkwardly and Ulysses had to look away. Ted went off and loaded the taxi. Remember what I said, said Claude. And Peg would remember, but she wouldn’t adhere to it. Ted and Peg would be married in June and would become Mr and Mrs Holloway. They’d honeymoon in Paris. （Nowhere like it, Ted would say.） Col was next to leave. You don’t have to go, said Ulysses. Yeah I do, said Col. He missed Ginny, truth be told. And England.
I don’t make sense anywhere other than that small corner of London, said Col. I’m one of them blokes who needs to know what’s what. Spam on Tuesday, fish on Friday.
We do that here, said Ulysses. We’re not that different.
Col offered his hand. Bye, Temps. Don’t be a stranger.
See you, Col.
Cress, old fella.
Thanks for coming.
Sure I can’t change your mind? said Col, turning to Pete.
No thanks, Col. I need to go it alone on this one.
Col climbed into the driver’s seat. As soon as the key engaged, the scream of the ambulance filled the square. Col leant out of the window. Spam’s in the cellar, by the way!
Yeah, yeah. And then he was gone.
How you getting home, Pete? said Ulysses.
I’ll hitch, Temps. I need time to think. Freedom of the open road and all that. I’ll get a song out of it if nothing else.
（‘Freedom of the Open Road’ became a hit around the clubs a year later.）
You always have a home here, Pete. We need you.
Pete collapsed in Ulysses’ arms. He said, One day, Temps. You’re like the brother I never had. I did have one, but we never really— I know what you mean, Pete.
Pete lifted his holdall onto his shoulder and stuck out his thumb. A minute later he got a lift with a wine merchant heading to Bologna.
And then they were alone: two men, a kid and a parrot.
Listen, said Cress.
They listened.
Peace, said Cress.
Nice, isn’t it? said Cress.
We do all right, don’t we? said Ulysses. Just us?
They moved across to the lights of Michele’s, which had just come on.
And so another year approaches, said Cress.
Wonder what it’ll bring, said Ulysses.
More of the same, said the kid. Who’s buying?
So, 1954? More of the same? No, not really.
Cress became the owner of a red Moto Guzzi Falcone complete with sidecar. His confidence with Betsy had waned. He needed something practical in which he could transport the heavier laundry to Manfredi, but also something nippy and eye-catching. He bought it with some of Fanny’s winnings, off a man who’d recently lost an arm. He got a good price.
A small crowd formed in the square the afternoon Cressy pulled up on his machine. Cressy’s smile shone out from under his helmet as people stopped to chat with him. He rarely had a clue what people were on about, but by the luck of the gods, he understood most of it. Bit of an oracle was Cressy.
The kid? She grew strong roots and a fury you could light a fire with. She practised guitar and she began to sing and the voice that came out was Peg’s. She made friends at school but kept to herself outside those gates. She wrote to Peg once a month but sometimes she drew a picture instead. Peg sent over a photo of Eddie. It was her only one and Peg told her to keep it safe. Kid kept it hidden from Ulysses because she didn’t want to hurt him.
And Ulysses acquired many more Italian words and still spoke with an east London lilt. He couldn’t roll his ‘r’s and would never be able to do so. To some, he was still known as soldato, something he’d have preferred not to have been called, but he stayed magnanimous.