Careless Talk by Toni Viola

A Story of Wartime London

The endless rain returned the moment he walked out of Wormwood Scrubs. As he exited the gate, he looked up at the leaden skies. Over the past week, it was either raging torrents or Luftwaffe bombs that had poured down on the city of London. As a result, overground train services were experiencing significant disruption. It was a thirty-minute walk to the nearest tube station.

On Du Cane Road, he stepped into a puddle. The water seeped in through the soles of his worn out brogues. He cursed. The expletives always came in his native tongue, but he was careful to keep them to himself. In the present climate, identifying yourself as an ‘undesirable alien’ could lead to big trouble, even if you worked for MI5.

Alberto Bianco made his way to England after fleeing Catalonia, one of the last members of the International Brigades to leave the defeated Republic. He stayed on after most of his fellow militia had escaped, including ‘Pepe’, whom he had first met during the Siege of Madrid, before the Republican fight moved to Barcelona. Two years had passed since Alberto last saw his friend.

At Shepherd’s Bush underground station, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the rank smell of damp unwashed clothes. The newspaper lining his shoes was sodden. Somebody had told him to wear two pairs of socks; sound advice, but he only owned the single pair he was wearing. Using old newspapers to reinforce the insoles didn’t work; the torn parchment strips were useless against the ingress of rainwater from the flooded city streets. But he had grown accustomed to such hardships.

A woman stood alone on the platform, staring across the tracks. A vision in blue: a felt cloche hat, held in place by two pearl pins; a navy-coloured trench coat, free from marks or stains; and suede Ferragamo pumps. However, it was not her pristine clothes, but her cold, detached demeanour, which set her apart.

He pulled up the collar of his raincoat and busied himself with reading the newspaper. According to the headline in the Daily Express, admission to tube stations for shelter would soon be by ticket only. But the woman had sparked his interest; he folded the paper and walked over. Upon his approach, she took a deep breath and puckered her lips; her eyes focussed on the poster affixed to the tunnel wall opposite.

Careless Talk.

Alberto shifted his gaze from the poster back to his newspaper. Black-out this evening was 7 o’clock. Less than one hour. He inhaled. A hint of citrus, rose, and vanilla. The unique musk of Chanel No.5.

He stole a sideways glance. Unlike most of her fellow female commuters, she wore makeup, lending her flawless alabaster skin and perfect rouged lips a porcelain lustre. There was a small mole above her top lip – a minor imperfection.

The train pulled in. When the passengers alighted, the woman lowered her head. Upon boarding, a man in a pinstripe suit offered his seat. She nodded in gratitude. Alberto grabbed the rail and held the newspaper with his free hand. He cast a surreptitious glance at the woman; she sat with a straight back, feet and knees together, while her gloved hands held her handbag. He noted the bag was the same shade of midnight blue as her shoes.

The first stop was Holland Park. A gentleman wearing a bowler hat knocked her with his umbrella as he made his way down the carriage. The gentleman apologised. She smiled and pulled her feet back. A stockinged heel slipped out of its shoe and revealed a white slip of paper. She reached down and popped the note back out of sight.

The train made its way east along the Central Line. The passengers came and went in their hundreds as it traversed the West End. Alberto caught the woman’s reflection in the window at regular intervals; when she noticed his gaze she turned her face away, patted the back of her hair, and resumed her pose.

At Holborn, an impatient mob got on. They barged past and shuffled down the carriage. Someone pushed him from behind. Alberto peered through the bodies. A man in naval uniform now occupied the seat. Alberto shoved back against the swarm of humanity that pressed against him, desperate to get off the train.

‘Oi, watch out!’ remonstrated a rugged-looking man in a flat cap.

‘Permesso.’

The man frowned.

Alberto cursed himself. Stupido.

He thrust open the door and staggered onto the platform.

A guard’s whistle blasted in his ear. ‘Away from the doors. This train is departing!’

Further along the platform, the blue felt hat bobbed amongst the crowd. The woman veered towards the exit and was gone. His heart raced. Alberto navigated his way through people settling themselves for another night down in the tube station. He couldn’t let her get away.

An air-raid siren sounded. Alberto hurried up the station steps; he flashed his ticket, and the inspector waved him through. They were not bothering to check whether passengers held a valid fare during an air raid. As he made to exit the station, the metal railings slammed shut.

Across the road, the woman stood alone; she locked eyes with him. Suddenly, she glanced over her shoulder and hurried away in the opposite direction. A powerful-looking man with reddish-orange hair tailed her. He shot a brief glance at Alberto, before disappearing behind the mangled wreckage of a double-decker bus. Alberto sensed he recognised her pursuer.

A police constable spoke to a woman standing in front. ‘Are you alright, love?’

‘No, they are crushing me … I’m six months gone.’

The constable called out. ‘Move back! We need to open these railings – there’s a pregnant lady. No jostling, please …’

The pregnant lady mumbled a prayer as panic set in. People pressed hard up against them. Alberto seized the cold, greased metal of the gates and pushed back against the crowd. The pregnant lady squeezed through. Alberto tumbled out after her.

The constable closed the railings. ‘Best get her home, sir. F-Y-I, it’s only a test. The siren went down last night, which caused a right stink I can tell you.’

Alberto took the woman’s arm and guided her to the opposite pavement.
‘

Excuse me, what are you doing?’

‘I heard you pray. You must be careful not to let anybody hear you speaking Italian, signorina.’

Her expression softened, ‘Grazie.’

Alberto doffed his trilby and broke into a run. He headed towards Little Italy. Despite the air-raid siren, a surprising number of people were about. They might have also heard it was a test. He crossed the road. Barriers blocked Southampton Row. At Red Lion Street, a policeman waved his arm to move him along.

When he got to Brownlow Street, he stopped. She could have gone down the narrow passage. No, she would stay in the open. Alberto continued his route, dodging between the pedestrians. He passed Hennekey’s Long Bar and glimpsed the man with the reddish-orange hair. As he moved closer, Alberto’s eyes fell upon the man’s black cap and charcoal corduroy jacket. He now knew who he was.

They turned onto Gray’s Inn Road and crossed over. Alberto kept to the left pavement. He could see them clearer from here. Suddenly, the woman walked down a narrow path. Alberto stepped into the road. A bicycle bell trilled. The warning came too late to prevent the collision, which knocked him down onto the wet tarmac. He stood back up, shook his head, kicked his battered trilby into the gutter, and ran down the middle of the road, ignoring the stricken cyclist, oblivious to any danger from traffic. A bus horn sounded. Alberto held up a hand to silence the driver’s admonishments as he leapt onto the pavement.

Up ahead. Nothing. Where had they gone? Alberto scanned both sides of the road. He walked on. Then, as he neared Brooke’s Court, he heard a scream. Followed by a curse, in Italian. The sounds of distress emanated from the remains of a bomb damaged house.

Inside the fractured dwelling, the woman lay on her back, holding her abdomen. Alberto’s shoes kept slipping as he clambered over the rubble to reach her. In desperation, he fell on his knees and pressed his hands to her gloves. Blood oozed through the soft leather. He felt her shiver. In the wan light, her face was deadly pale, the red lips trembled, and when she spoke the word came out in a breathless whisper. ‘Grazie.’

Alberto cast his eyes over her battered body; she had lost her shoes in the violent struggle. He spotted a piece of white paper amongst the broken bricks. A folded note. He plucked it from the rubble.

Two words, in Italian.

A Noi!

To Us!

The fascist salute.

Without warning, she came upon him with unleashed fury. Alberto felt a stinging pain. He looked down. One of her pearl hatpins stuck in his side. The woman shrieked. Her right hand went to her hat, and she grabbed the other pin. She stabbed at him twice, puncturing his torso. Alberto fell backwards. She loomed over him; her face a gruesome mask of venomous hate.

The murderous hatpin glistened in her bloodied hand.

Alberto shut his eyes and prayed.

The cracking bark of an Astra 300 broke the deadly silence. He recognised the report. The militia leaders had issued him the same gun at the Lenin Barracks in Barcelona. Alberto’s eyes flashed open. Another shot sounded. A crimson hole appeared in the centre of the woman’s forehead, before she fell on top of him.

Strong hands pulled him from beneath the lifeless body. ‘We must go, comrade. We need to get off the street.’

Alberto slumped against a wall, initial relief overcome by a cold hollow pain. ‘Pepe, my friend … I don’t understand – what are you doing in London?’

Giuseppe Meroni held a finger to Alberto’s quivering lips. ‘Now is not the time to speak, comrade.’

‘Who was that woman?’

‘A fascist spy. That’s all you need to know. If you hadn’t disturbed us, I would have finished her with the knife.’

A whistle sounded.

Pepe took off his jacket and held it tight against Alberto’s wounds.

A second blast of the whistle and the pound of footsteps.

Pepe pocketed his revolver, threw his knife amongst the house ruins, pulled up his shirt collar, and disappeared into the shadows.

¡No pasarán!

A policeman ran over. It was the constable from Holborn station. His eyes swept over Alberto’s injuries, then settled on the woman’s fallen body. ‘That doesn’t look like your pregnant missus.’

An air-raid warden came running round the corner. ‘It’s nearly black-out zero hour, what’s going on here?’

‘Could you call an ambulance, mate. This feller’s been stabbed. He needs urgent medical attention.’
A

lberto looked up at the constable. ‘Grazie.’

The constable patted Alberto’s shoulder. ‘You’re gonna be okay; but you shouldn’t speak that kind of lingo on the street, son. It could get you in trouble.’

Alberto’s body felt cold and clammy, his head light and giddy. He held onto the constable and eased himself to the ground. Laying on the damp concrete, Alberto glanced up at the stricken form. He held a perfect picture of a beautiful woman standing on a train platform. He clutched the constable by the lapels of his overcoat and uttered the militia slogan from their time in Madrid.

‘¡No pasarán!’

‘Hang in there, son. Help will be here soon. I can’t understand what you’re saying, you’ll have to speak up. I’m a bit mutton.’

Alberto coughed blood onto the pavement.

He knew he was going to die.

The words forever left unsaid.

An ironic smile settled on his waxen lips.

They shall not pass.

The defiant militia slogan from the Spanish Civil War.

At the very end, Alberto Bianco realised his last thoughts had been in English.