“What do you mean? That’s his job. There’s four shillings in it for him. All right, I’ll make it five.”
“He’s serious.”
“Can the Sisters help change his mind?”
“Sister Matelda said we should go to Manchester.”
“That’s three hours by train.”
“She called the priest there. If we leave now, we’ll get there by nightfall. Don Fracassi is waiting for us.”
* * *
Don Gaetano Fracassi closed the ledger on his desk. The priest looked around the vestry of Saint Alban’s, Ancoats, with a heavy heart. No matter how hard he tried, he was in arrears on every bill owed by the poor church. The boiler was shot, the roof leaked, and the stone wall that hemmed the cemetery was crumbling from age and exposure to the elements.
The church needed funds. The bishop left it to the local priests to raise the money through tithing and events. In desperation, last fall, Fracassi thought to rent out the church hall for civic meetings. His best customer had been the local brotherhood of the Fascisti, whose membership was mostly comprised of English locals who followed Oswald Mosley, but there were also parishoners, English citizens of Italian descent, who attended, filling the church hall to capacity. Fracassi kept out of politics, but he did not keep the politicians out of his church hall if they were willing to pay.
The priest got up from his desk, accidentally kicking over the empty tin he had placed there earlier to catch the water that leaked through the hole in the roof. He grabbed the broom behind the door, tied a rag over the bristles, and swabbed the stone. He walked around the periphery of the wet floor and sat down next to the fire to wait for it to dry, reaching into the pocket of his cassock and peeling the orange he had saved from lunch. Fracassi savored the peel first, even though it was slightly bitter. He ate the sweet quarters slowly, releasing the nectar between his teeth. The fruit tasted of his native Italy, where oranges and lemons grew plentiful in the heat. The first thing he learned in England was that citrus fruit was hard to find and expensive. When he was done, he threw the seeds in the fire and rubbed his hands together. The oil on his hands from the orange peel released in the air like perfume on a beautiful woman. He sat back in his chair and placed his sore feet on the grate.
The poverty Fracassi endured in his Italian childhood influenced his decision to become a priest. He developed humility regarding his own ambitions and was determined to be useful. When he was assigned a position at the church in Manchester, he served a large Italian immigrant community. He often spoke Italian when delivering a sermon on a feast day, which comforted the Britalians. At sixty-four years old, Fracassi kept Italy alive in England for his flock as he himself longed for home.
The knock at the door startled him even though he expected the visitors. He wiped his hands on his cassock and shuffled to the door. The supplicants he had waited for had arrived. He opened it and smiled when the young woman began to speak in Italian, vehemently explaining the circumstances of their dilemma. She was followed into the room by her fiancé, an attractive, robust Scot in uniform.
Don Fracassi performed the wedding ceremony. He blessed the gold bands by the firelight. The bride knelt before his statue of the Blessed Mother for the benediction while her husband stood, his head bowed, his hand on her shoulder.
The good groom gave the priest a crown, a generous tithe for an intimate sacrament. The priest accepted the offering graciously. He wished them well. He opened the door and watched the newlyweds make a run for it in the rain.
* * *
Domenica and John were soaked from a downpour when they took their room in the inn outside of Manchester. John made a fire as Domenica hung their coats to dry on the mantel. She opened a basket filled with food. She had made tarelles to eat with the hard cheese and olives. There was a fresh loaf of bread. There was a jar of peppers with alige and two cans of sardines. There was a bottle of wine and cherries canned in syrup from the nuns’ reserves. She placed the cotton napkins she had pressed beside two small wineglasses on the table.
She shivered as John poked the fire. Soon the wood was burning, throwing orange flames up the flue. She stood and watched as her husband stoked the fire. She finally felt warm after a day of being wet and cold.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your wedding feast.”
John scooped his new wife up in his arms. “I’m not hungry. Not yet.”
John kissed Domenica as he had intended to kiss her when Don Fracassi blessed them, but somehow it had not seemed proper in the presence of the old priest. He meant to kiss her on the way to the train, but they had to run through a downpour in order to board in time. And he most resisted kissing his wife on the train. She was a modest girl, he believed, and what they were together was not something for others to see, but for the two of them to pursue with feeling in private. But now they were alone. It was simple suddenly. Any apprehension either of them had was washed away with the rain. It was just Domenica and John, the roaring fire, and a feather bed.