Short Story
MR POSITANO’S PECCADILLO
A
Jenny Campbell, The Sherborne Scribblers
utumn brought the usual scattering of fallen apples in the orchard. Russet, pale gold and cidery, they lay in the damp grass, waiting to be collected by the two women. That September also brought Mr Positano and a wealth of speculation to the village. May Bartlett, mother of three grown sons and recently widowed, stooped to pick up an apple, rose stiffly and examined the fruit for signs of worms before popping it into one of the baskets. She rubbed her back, glad of a rest, and turned to her younger sister. ‘Well, our Jess, what do you make of this Italian that has just bought old Jacob’s cottage?’ Jess ran the local post office and was always the first to know about any newcomers to the village. It irked her, therefore, that after a week she had still not had occasion to speak to the man; even though, just the day before, he had tipped his Panama hat to her while passing on the other side of the street. ‘Hmm,’ she replied sharply, ‘a man of mystery since you’re asking me. He could be one of the Mafia or even a spy for all we know.’ This, you understand, was in the late 1950s when vivid war time memories continued to linger in the minds of many. May gave one of her knowing half-smiles. She had once been on a church excursion to Paris and liked to convey the impression of being ‘worldly’. ‘Some men do like a bit of mystery about ‘em, my dear. But our young Fred seemed to think he was a decent enough chap after he came into the Crown last evening.’ Jess shook her head and returned to picking up apples with an over-the-shoulder, ‘Early days, our Maisie, early days. There’ll be summat. Just you wait and see.’ And, indeed, it was not long before rumours of Mr Positano’s little peccadillo began to spread. By this time, the days were getting shorter and cooler; and the little Italian had exchanged his cream linen jacket for a good Harris tweed. With his neat, clipped moustache, gold signet ring and pomaded grey hair he cut a rare and dapper figure at the bar of the Rose and Crown among the burly farmers, local businessmen and passing strangers on a regular Friday night when few women chose to be there. ‘So, what really brought you to our little village, then, Mr P?’ asked one of the Bartlett boys a month or so after that gentleman’s arrival. Prompted by his mother, he was determined to find out more than the fact that Mr Positano had gone from Italy to Scotland between the two world wars to help in his uncle’s ice-cream business in Glasgow and that he was now retired. ‘A dream, mio figlio, a dream,’ said Mr Positano. ‘I was a boy, just 18, when I left my family in southern Italy. My father, grandfather and many generations before were all fishermen and very poor so it was natural for young men like me to emigrate to Britain and America where they could earn money to send home. My uncle Alfredo had been in Glasgow since the end of the nineteenth century and he had built up a good business with the help of his Scottish wife, Jeannie.’
124 | Sherborne Times | October 2021
