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Maria
A short story
by Mark Lewis
Maria sat back in her chair, looked slowly around the
crowded café, placed the palm of her hand over her heart and
closed her eyes. From her corner seat by the counter she
didn’t have to look, to see what was there. This was her
seat and her table. Everybody knew where to find her, right
next to the brass and copper urn, polished to a mirror.
Gianni had always insisted on that, clean and polished. He
always thought like that, her Gianni, a good man who had
worked hard all his life for his family and friends. He
would spend hours polishing his shoes and telling the kids,
no matter how poor you are, you can keep clean and tidy. You
look down at a man’s shoes and you can tell the person he
is. If he takes care of his shoes, he will take care of
himself, his family, and he will take good care of you.
Maria often had big rows with Gianni over his
generosity.
‘You are too kind, you care too much, and they take
advantage of you.’
‘Maria, cara mia, calma, calma. God has treated us well and
we must do the same.’
‘Yes, but God hasn’t worked as hard as we have.’
Maria and Gianni bought the café in the late thirties. It
wasn’t so bad then, but it got harder later. They knew they
couldn’t blame those few frightened people, but thank God
they weren’t the majority. It had been tough through the
war. Although they were naturalised by that time, half their
families weren’t. Gianni spent days travelling around
internment and POW camps delivering food parcels to brothers
and cousins less fortunate than themselves. He even managed
to get some three-day passes for family members to visit at
home. Maria’s cousin Carlo, also naturalised, packed a
suitcase one day and gave himself up for internment at the
local police station. The Sergeant, who knew him well,
laughed and sent him home again, much to Carlo’s
frustration. All he wanted was to get away from a
domineering Mother and six fighting sisters. These were good
memories, but there was also the racism, the bloody Ities,
will it ever change? Only if we keep remembering, thought
Maria. She looked again at the café in front of her in her
mind. The formica tables and chairs are collectors items
she’d been told. What crazy people there are in the world.
These tables were very cheap, but they had been looked
after, now the kids could sell them for a fortune. And why
those film people want to come, I don’t know? The zinc and
yellow glass sunburst at the back of the counter is some
special relic apparently. The place was good when they first
moved in, but Maria wanted to go with the modern times, but
Gianni said, we just keep it clean and tidy and people will
come, and so they did. After a while, the long days and
hours and children made Maria too tired to worry about how
the place looked, and so it never changed, and now strange
young people all dressed like widows come to take photos. I
understand nothing anymore, thought Maria.
Sitting in her corner, Maria snuggled down to the noises and
smells around her, the spitting urn, the clank of cups and
cutlery, the coffee, the burnt toast, the bacon and the sugo,
her special secret recipe. Whatever fry-ups and steamed pud
and two veg they put on offer, Gianni always insisted on the
other good stuff from home, the ravioli, pastasciutta,
minestra, the real thing, not that awful commercial nonsense
most people dish out now for too much money. And he was
right, enough people did appreciate it to make it
worthwhile, but it was always more work for Maria. She knew
he was right, but she could have kicked him at five in the
morning, cold and aching, making sure everything was ready
for the day. How different it all is now, quick this, quick
that, easy buck, little care. Ah well, magari!
Maria breathes again and turns an ear to old Betty in her
usual place, nose dripping into her tea and moaning about
the weather and immigrants to anybody who’ll pay attention.
Nobody does. Those young working boys with their hard hats
and fry-ups and sports pages, taking up too much room with
their long legs and dusty shoes. Good boys really, but
she’ll have to mop up when they’ve gone. And if any bad
language comes out they will have to go sooner. Mostly they
don’t forget her rules, the lasagne is too good to miss.
Those cackling office girls are ok with their salads, but
her ears hurt sometimes with the screech of the laughter.
Stai zita, old woman, bless them.
With the kids in charge these days Maria takes her pleasure
quietly in her corner and people come to visit. The priest
occasionally, usually on the scrounge for something or
other, a donation, a trip, food for a party. Maria has made
it clear to him that her tally upstairs must be such that
she expects no queuing at the gates. She insists she will
walk straight in and get a big hug from Gianni. Father just
laughs, but doesn’t disagree. Other friends come by with an
ache or a pain, in exchange for a remedy from the past,
which somehow always works. Is it simply faith? Some come
just to sit and gossip over a macchiato with a tot, or a
deep glass of Barolo that Maria keeps on the floor by her
feet for the special ones. Those oldest, dearest friends,
the few left who really understand without talking. Too much
talking these days anyway, yak, yak, yak, with nothing to
say. Those politicians are the worst. May God forgive them
that their yak, yak, yaking kills people. Maria makes the
sign of the cross and holds her hands together on her lap.
Her eyes are still closed as she smiles. She nods to herself
and breaths out gently, quietly, and sighs to herself.
Maria is brought up short when Ninian jumps into the space
between her eyelids and the café window. These things can
happen when you just want to relax, like a punishment for
the wicked, she thought. Dear Ninian. Gianni was a good man
but Ninian was her love, too early, too young and too
different. In those days in the mining valleys families kept
to themselves, and stayed with what they knew, the pit, the
bible, the church, and the language. Two young people crash
together in innocence and ignorance and dark prejudices
rise. They do bad things for love, and run, and are returned
to shame and humiliation, and they can’t survive, and a
small piece of the heart is closed forever. And life goes
on, but in that piece of heart, time does not heal, and
hardness grows around it that sometimes can be seen in the
world, where compassion was expected and didn’t come. I’ve
not been a good mother or wife, thought Maria shutting out
the sounds of the café, and God forgive me, I’ve done some
things
It was half an hour before anybody realised she was dead. It
was quite normal for Maria to take a nap in the corner if
nothing much was happening. Her grandson Paul had come from
behind the counter to tell her Father had arrived for a
coffee. Paul shook her gently on her shoulder and Maria
slumped slightly to the side against his legs. Paul was very
shaken and was no use for the rest of the day. He was helped
upstairs and hit a bottle of whiskey, surrounded by boxes of
Kleenex, fresh pastries and hugs and shoulder rubs, while
people phoned for other people to come, and car loads of
family and worlds descended with tears and food and more
tissues. Nobody expected more of Paul, first born of his
generation, male, spoilt, some traditions hold fast even
today. He knew that wouldn’t have impressed his grandmother
in the least, and she would be saying that he was always
more like that soft grandfather of his, too sentimental for
his own good. And she would be laughing to think the Priest
could actually make himself useful for once. Some of the
older wiser customers there that day talked about Maria
timing this deliberately, as they watched Father go down on
his knees to give Maria Extreme Unction. And the few that
knew crossed themselves, and some others spoke to their own
Gods and some just ran, not able to cope with life showing
it’s real self. And Maria just sat and smiled.
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