A Song for Joey Read Online Free PDF Page A

but not exactly.
"That's me and your Granddad on our wedding day," she said, taking the picture and
looking at it wistfully for a moment, before putting it back into the cabinet. "How about
this one?" She produced another, larger one, this time in a silver frame.
It showed a group of people, posing formally around a settee, some seated, some
standing behind. I recognised Gran at once, sitting in the middle, surrounded by younger
people, men and women. One face stood out. "That's my mummy," I said, pointing,
smiling with the recognition.
Gran seemed to freeze, staring first at my finger, then at my face. "Yes," she whispered,
"it is your mummy, my baby girl Rita, with all her brothers and sisters."
Suddenly, a strange expression on her face, she reached up once more and, groping to
the back of the cabinet, produced another photograph. It was just a plain picture, no
frame, and showed two people, like the first she had shown me, though the clothes were
very different.
"There's my mummy again," I said.
She nodded, watching my face carefully.
I looked at the man standing beside her. They were both smiling, holding each other
close. I pointed to him. "Is he my daddy?"
"Yes, he is Paolo, your daddy.
"What happened to him? Did he die, too?"
She shook her head sadly. "No, petal, he had to leave, to go back to Italy."
"Why?"
"It was where he was born. He and your mummy had a big argument and he left."
"He shouldn't have left us," I said fiercely.
"No, petal," she replied quietly. "He shouldn't have gone."
-♪-♫-♪
    Here's another snapshot; from my private album, the one in my head. Me, aged four,
playing out front, sitting on the stone steps, with the bright blue front door open behind
me.
    As I show you this memory, I can hear the seagulls shrieking, feel the warm sun against
my skin on that summer day, smell the flowers in the colourful hanging baskets that Gran
always tended so carefully. I'm making a little home for my doll, Rosie, out of cardboard
boxes and odd things I had collected. Gran was usually busy in the mornings, so I found
things to keep me occupied, and Rosie was my play-friend.
    I didn't have any other friends. Some kids would occasionally pass, but they never
played with me. They called me 'Wop' and, even though I didn't know what it meant, it
still upset me, because of the disgust in their voices and the sneers on their faces. I told
them, angrily, to go away, but they didn't stop, they just laughed and chanted it over and
over again, until I ran indoors to get away from them.
I asked Gran what it meant. She was shocked and angry at their behaviour.
"'Wop' is a horrible word! It is used by some ignorant people as an insult to people from
    Italy. You have heard of Italy, haven't you?"
"It's where my daddy went."
"Yes, that's right. Italy is a country a long way from here; a beautiful country, warm and
    green. That's where your father was born, and somehow those kids must have found out.
For a while, England was at war with Italy, but your dad refused to fight against us, and
became a prisoner of war here in Norfolk. When he was released after the war, he met
your Mum and they fell in love."
    "What can I do then, Gran, when they shout like that?"
"Well, I could tell those children off, and you know I would do that for you, but I
suspect it would only make them worse. The best thing to do is just ignore them, so they
don't get any fun from upsetting you. Can you do that?"
"I'll try, Gran."
Actually, I quite liked the idea of being Italian - it sounded romantic and mysterious. I
went into Gran's bedroom and looked at myself in her long mirror. Did I look any
different from the other kids? I couldn't tell. My hair was black, always cut by Gran into a
simple pageboy style that I liked. Maybe it was a bit blacker than anyone else I had seen?
And my face: were my brown eyes unusual? Or my cheekbones? Was my skin lighter or
darker than anyone else? I didn't think so; but, from that day, I started to imagine