The Painted Lady: A moving story about family loyalty, friendship and first love by Bloom Ursula

Author:Bloom, Ursula [Bloom, Ursula]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: historical romance, 1920s, first love, family life, coming of age, Italians, London, Soho, friendship
Publisher: Wyndham Books (Historical Romance)
Published: 2018-08-04T16:00:00+00:00

SEVEN

Madeline called in on Nonna three days later. She had made a round of visits. First of all Mamma, limp on an upstairs sofa in the Venezia, because she had not yet properly recovered from her confinement. Mario was doing very well, bustling about downstairs, for never had the Venezia flourished better, and he was extremely proud of it, but Mamma was melancholic and deeply depressed. Coming away, Madeline ran into Luca, who was coming up the street. He stopped dead.

‘Well, Maddy, how are things?’

‘All right. I’ve just been to see Mamma, and was now going along to Nonna’s.’

‘Nonna’s all right. Uncle Giovanni has been home and he has decided to become a monk. You’ll find her hopping mad about it.’

‘But he can’t do that?’

‘He’s made up his mind, and in lots of ways he’s as obstinate as old Nonna herself.’ Luca paused and glanced closer at her. ‘You’re looking a bit peeky? Anything the matter?’

‘No, I’m quite all right.’

‘Your husband’s good to you?’

‘Of course he’s good to me. He is the loveliest person I’ve ever met, he’s wonderful.’

‘When is the divorce being fixed?’

‘I’m afraid it may be another two months. It seems a terribly long time to me, having to wait like this, but it couldn’t be helped.’

‘You’re quite sure that you’re doing the right thing in marrying him? It seems to me that if he had cared for you, really cared for you, he wouldn’t have let you live this way. I dare say I sound queer, but I wouldn’t put the girl I loved in such a rotten position.’

‘Chester couldn’t help himself. I chose to be with him, because I think I would have died if I had had to live away from him.’

‘Oh,’ said Luca, and then, after an embarrassing silence, ‘Well, I don’t think I’ll come to Nonna’s with you. The work won’t get done if I just slouch round. I’ll be seeing you some time soon, perhaps?’

She watched him go down the street, looking more attenuated than ever, his shoulders sloping thinly down, his legs spindly inside the trousers, which flapped like sails round a mast. She hoped that he wasn’t going to be ill. She turned into Old Compton Street, with the wine shop at the corner doing its usual brisk trade, and the dark-skinned waiters from the Indian Restaurant running messages. Outside the poulterer’s the handcart stood, with live chickens crowded into wicker baskets awaiting death. They stared out at her with bright enquiring eyes; she had always hated to see them waiting there, and even as she looked, one of the men came out and took up a basket, carrying it indoors. She felt sick.

Nobody was in the shop at home, which was unusual, and in the back room Nonna was sitting in her second best dress (she had just returned from Confession). She was eating a dish of spaghetti, long curling pieces entwining her to her plate. Uncle Luigi wasn’t there, it was opening time.

‘Oh, carissima,’ said Nonna, ‘and how is my good girl?’

‘I’m very well, Nonna.

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