“No, no. I’m the school nurse.” She extended her hand. “Domenica Cabrelli.”
“Bellissima.” Instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it. “Cabrelli! I know all about you. You know my friend Captain McVicars.”
She nodded politely.
“Good man.”
Domenica forced a smile. She hoped McVicars was a good man, but she had little proof of it.
“Let me know if the Sisters need anything else from Glasgow.”
“I will.” Domenica helped the old man into his coat. “Buon Natale,” she said.
Antica went outside into the snow. Domenica watched from the window as Antica followed the narrow plowed path covered with fresh snowfall to the road. The silver fields were lit by a full moon, which hung like a milky, pale blue cabochon in the dark sky. For a moment, she thought to grab her coat and follow him. She needed to be with an Italian family even if it wasn’t her own. Instead, she wrapped two mopeens around her hands and lifted her mother’s Christmas cake from the oven. She hoped her family was doing the same, wherever they were.
CHAPTER 27
Dumbarton
SPRING 1940
Spring in Scotland exploded in color. Black-and-white cows lolled in bright green pastures. The sheep that gathered on the hillsides were pink, their eyes deepest brown, and their horns gleamed like black patent leather. Out of their heavy coats and woolens, the women of Glasgow bloomed in pastel-colored dresses and flitted through the streets like butterflies.
Domenica took the trolley into Glasgow wearing her best summer dress.
She walked through the west end of the city, stopping to browse in shops along the way, making a day of it. There were ceramics from Deruta, fabrics from the looms in Prato, and olive oil from Calabria on display in the Italian-owned shops. Domenica had promised to bring an authentic Italian tomato pie home for the nuns’ convent supper. By late afternoon, it was time to make good on her promise.
The Franzetti brothers on Byres Road made tomato pie, Toscana style, with a thin crust topped with slow-roasted tomatoes caramelized until they were sweet, with a light sprinkling of Parmigiano-Reggiano on the top. In season, a sheer layer of truffle slices was fanned over the pies and baked in the wood oven, and the scent of earthy mushrooms filled the entire west end. Slices of sweet garlic cloves were added as an extra, before the pies were drizzled with olive oil. Domenica’s mouth watered at the thought of the pizza, which in turn made her long for her mother’s kitchen in Italy. It would not be long until she could go home again.
Domenica placed her order. When the Franzetti boy laughed, a lock of his black hair fell forward, reminding her of an old friend. Domenica found a seat at a café table on the street as she waited for the pizza she ordered to bake in the wood oven. The restaurant was lively with customers; outside, the children ran up and down the street chasing a ball with a knotty stick. Their game reminded her of Viareggio, where the children also played in the streets. In her mind, it hadn’t been that long since she was a girl. She picked up the rubber ball when it landed by her chair, tempted to join in the game. Instead, she tossed it back to the boys, who shouted, “Grazie,” when they caught it in midair.
This Italian enclave was, like the afternoon she had spent in the west end, a balm to her. She hadn’t realized how much she missed her language and her people. Her life before her banishment to Marseille seemed idyllic, whether it had been or not, and she desperately missed her home. Sometimes all it took was the scent of tomatoes and garlic roasting in an oven to remind her of the time wasted, away from her family.
Franzetti brought Domenica a glass of his father’s homemade wine and a slice of pizza to eat while she waited. She closed her eyes and sipped the wine; the hardy grape burned her nose, just like her father’s homemade table wine.
The boys in the street shrieked with laughter when a tall man stole the ball they were playing with and held it high over their heads. The boys jumped in the air around him, trying to reach the ball. The man made a game out of it and spun around, as though he were a gamekeeper in a booth at a carnival, ginning up the children to compete for a shilling in prize money.
The Franzetti women called to the children to stop bothering the customer who was making his way into the pizzeria. When the man turned in her direction, Domenica gasped.
Captain John Lawrie McVicars handed the ball to one of the boys.
“Do you know him?” Signora Franzetti asked.
Before she could answer, McVicars saw Domenica. It was too late to run; their eyes had met.
McVicars was surprised. What was Domenica doing in Scotland? Should he care? She had stopped writing to him. He did not agonize about women. Clearly, her feelings had changed. McVicars accepted it. It was easy to avoid any unpleasantness. McVicars shipped out and disappeared until enough time passed for the woman to forget him. He had hoped to see Domenica again, if only to surmise that she was in good health.