Short story: The Doorstep Church on Christmas Eve

Anthony Burgess

It was three o’clock on Christmas Eve afternoon, dogs had been walked, the logs were in, the fire was crackling and my chair was calling, there were wonderful cooking smells emanating from the kitchen. But then my wife had played her top trump card and told me that without a pack of puff pastry and a jar of redcurrant jelly Christmas would be ruined.  These apparently were the vital ingredients for the vegetarian option for Christmas day lunch. I consoled myself as I got into the car that at least I could listen to the Festival of Lessons and Carols from Kings on the way into town. It was clingy cold; the sky had been the colour of pewter all day and I thought as I looked up again that we might even see some snow this Christmas.

The thought of going into town on Christmas Eve made me shudder, all those last-minute present buyers scurrying about, the traffic would be head to tail in the town centre as everyone tried to park almost inside the shops. But no use complaining, I listened to the carol service and sung along gustily. First to Once in Royal St Davids city, then Good old Ding dong merrily on high, the words came flowing back, I tried to concentrate on the first lesson, from Genesis 3, all about sinful Adam and his seed in Eden, the bruising of the serpents’ head -try to explain that to a ten-year-old I thought.

Fortunately, I arrived in town which avoided me thinking anymore about sinful Adam.  I drove slowly down the main street, I hadn’t noticed before just how pretty the councils Christmas Street lights were this year, even the shop windows looked festive and enticing and the large Norway spruce in the square was decorated particularly effectively with hundreds of miniature dazzling white L.E.D. lights. I must have unintentionally slowed down even more to look and admire this scene, when I was suddenly startled by a driver behind me blaring his horn and flashing his lights, I pulled over and shrugged at him apologetically, in return, as he passed, he gave me the universally recognisable unseasonal gesture of a middle finger.

‘Ah love and peace to you too ‘, I muttered, then realising that I sounded like Ringo Starr when he appealed for autograph hunters to stop pestering him.

My Cardiganshire instincts forbade me from paying for car parking, I had used all my local knowledge over the years to find spots where I could park free, I had to admit these were getting scarcer, but I had found a place by the old Catholic Church and tennis courts that had a small patch of no man’s land that suited my needs perfectly. As such after parking, I would often walk past the now closed Catholic church. There had been a spirited, determined and well fought campaign by its large regular congregation to keep it open. However, the Bishop of the diocese   had stated in no uncertain terms, that this Church would be closed and a newer one, a few miles away which had already fallen into rack and ruin would be repaired and modernised for the congregations use. The bishop had stated with finality that ‘Rome had spoken’ and the church will close. Thus, the old familiar church of ‘Our Lady Of the Angels’ would be closed and the presbytery, surrounding land and buildings sold for development. Its fate having been sealed by Rome.

I had been in this church only a couple of times, the last occasion was recently just before it closed.   It was for a requiem mass of a friend. I had greatly admired the simplicity of the interior, far unlike the riches and decoration I had experienced on a tour of the Vatican during a weekend in Rome.

Sadly, true to his word the bishop closed the church, the rebuilding of the new church hadn’t even started so the parishioners, now churchless had to now meet to worship at a public hall in the town.

It was on one of my frequent walks back to my car, not long after ‘The Lady of The Angels’ closed, that I   noticed flowers and candles appearing on the doorstep of the locked church door. Flowers would always be fresh and sometimes even the candles would be alight. Rosaries and prayer cards started to be hung on the security fencing surrounding the church. I approved of this action, I found it moving and effective and assumed it was part of a continual demonstration against its closure, but this Christmas Eve I found the answer behind the mystery of the continually appearing religious artefacts.

It started to snow as I walked back to the car clutching my frozen puff pastry and redcurrant jelly. I stood and watched the snowflakes as they danced around the street lights, they appeared unsure where to land. I wandered how many children would be squealing with excitement as they watched this scene through their windows. Children, Christmas and Snow the perfect Trinity I thought, then I heard singing, was it carol singing? It was faint but got slightly louder as I approached the church. It sounded like a frail female voice. I peered through the security fencing and saw, illuminated by candles what appeared to be a large bundle of black cloths on the steps of the church. The singing stopped, the bundle of cloths moved slowly, then unsteadily stood up. The bundle transformed into an elderly woman dressed completely in black, she crossed herself then turned. She startled when she saw me and exclaimed “Madonna Mia,” and raised her arms to her chest as if in shock. I dashed passed the fence to approach her as I thought she might fall; I gently held her arm and apologised profusely for frightening her.

I tried to explain that her lovely singing had caught my attention and I was curious. It was then that I recognised her,

‘Mrs Tassinnari, it’s me Anthony, I was friends with your son Mario, I’m so sorry again for startling you, here let me help you in case you fall,’ she took my hand and let me guide her down the steps back onto the pavement.

‘You live just down the road don’t you, so would you let me walk with you home especially now in the snow, it could be slippery, here take my arm’

Mrs Tassinnari took my arm, and said,’Ah, yes Anthony, I recognise you now, excuse me, I had a fright when I saw you. I lose myself in my thoughts these days. I remember seeing you in Marios funeral, a mother should never experience the loss of a child, look at me why didn’t he take me instead. You must think me a mad old woman for being there and singing, especially on a day as cold as this, but this church has too many memories for me to leave it, all those christenings, first communions, weddings, funerals, and Christmases. All my family’s words and voices are melted into the stones of that church. So, I come every day to say a few prayers for them all. I speak to them as I feel my voice mixing with theirs. The church is locked but the doorstep is just as good as an altar for me. In my heart I feel so near to them here, and it makes me want to sing. ‘

Mrs Tassinnari had lived for as long as I knew in our town, she still spoke with a soft Italian accent and lilt in her voice. I briefly calculated that she must be well into her eighties or early nineties. I remembered with fondness the cafe that she and her husband ran. The theatre of watching a cup of frothy coffee made with that copper-coloured futuristic looking expresso machine which steamed and hissed, then the coffee would be served in those clear glass cups and saucers.

As we walked slowly arm in arm towards her house we chatted, I related a story to Mrs Tassinnari of how when Mario and I played rugby together for school, we were the two props in the front row of the scrum, one year our team was invincible but more often than not we would return home with a black eye or a few knocks.  Those Wednesday afternoons of rugby took us away from the textbooks of lessons which was a great relief especially for me, but despite these interruptions to our education Mario had shone in academia and gone on to university.

‘Ah yes ‘ said Mrs Tassinnari, ‘Enzo and I were very proud of Mario, the first in our family to go to university. Do you remember Enzo, my husband Anthony?

‘Yes, indeed I do ‘ I replied, ‘I remember him well, made the finest cup of coffee in Wales, and he introduced me to Mortadella and egg sandwiches, my doctor would have liked to have had a word with him.’  I laughed as did Mrs Tassinnari.

‘Tell me Mrs Tassinnari, what was that song you were singing so beautifully on the steps I caught a few words; it didn’t sound like a hymn or a carol’

‘Ah now Anthony, we’re nearly home, do you have time to join me for a coffee? If you do, I’ll tell you all about the song I was singing’ said Mrs Tassinnari, ‘and please call me Rosa.’

We entered her cold three story house, the same one I recall all those years ago being full of loud Italian voices and children’s laughter, those loud Italian voices which I mistakenly took for arguing, but as Mario explained to me was the normal conversational noise level in his extended family and in the whole of Italy as far as he was aware. Her walls and cabinets were adorned with family photos some so old they were in sepia depicting proud family members in their best clothes, there were recent ones of children. I saw one with Mario and his wife and their two children and picked it up to look at it closer.

 ”I only spoke briefly to Julia at the funeral, how is she and the children?’ I asked

‘Ah Paulo and Maria are growing fast, I see them in the holidays and speak to them on the phone every Sunday, I would love Julia and the children to come and live with me here, what do I want this large house for? This house was a family home, a happy family home, but Julia has her career and her family in London and the children their friends. It will be theirs to share before too long anyway, but come sit down in the kitchen its warmer there, I’ll put the moka pot on, and we’ll have a coffee in no time, hopefully as good as Enzos,’ she smiled   ‘and while we’re waiting, I’ll get some photos to show you.’

 I couldn’t bring myself to call Mrs Tassinnari by her Christian name so when I spoke to her, I still used her formal title, it seemed far more respectful.

‘Mrs Tassinnari, will you go to the new church when its finished?’ I enquired,

‘ Only the once, for my funeral,’ she replied.

There was an awkward pause as I didn’t know how to respond, I eventually asked

‘What about your family for Christmas are they coming down?’

‘No not this year, they wanted me to join them in London, and my other daughter Isabel is married and living in Italy you know, I went there last year for Christmas, it was beautiful, but this year I just want to be here.’

The moka pot started bubbling just as she returned with a small highly inlaid wooden box, she put the box on the table and attended to the coffee.

‘Please join me with a small piece of Panettone, come a small piece won’t do you any harm,’ said Mrs Tassinnari, ‘even better than those mortadella sandwiches of Enzos you mentioned ‘

 The Panettone was delicious and as light as a feather, a second piece soon appeared which I didn’t refuse, the coffee too certainly hit the spot. As I drained my second cup Mrs Tassinnari opened the wooden box,

‘Now’ she said, ‘you asked about that song I was singing, but before, I will briefly tell you a story about our life in Italy before we came here for it all to make sense’

‘I’m not sure if you know but Enzo and I came here to Wales just after the war. We had been married at the end of 1946; I was very young but madly in love. Our families lived in a little town in North west Italy called Bardi. My mother and father had a small farm just outside the town. Bardi in many ways is very similar to Wales with beautiful mountains, scenery and the people, but the countryside had been ravished during the war.

The Nazis had left us with nothing. The war had been horrific. There was devastation and poverty everywhere, the Nazis and the black brigades had brought us to our knees.

 Long before the armistice Italy signed with the allies in 1943, Enzo and many of his friends had joined the partisans, here look at this photo.’

 Mrs Tassinnari handed me a small black and white photo of eight men, all smiling, all wearing ordinary working clothes. A variation of hats adorned their heads, from Alpini with feathers, to cloth caps and forage caps. I recognised a youthful Enzo Tassinnari, he had probably the biggest smile of them all. However, each held what look like sten machine guns.

‘I never knew anything about this ‘ I said, ‘the conditions you suffered and your husband Enzo, he must have been incredibly brave ‘

‘We witnessed such atrocities Anthony’, she replied. ‘Such horror and fear we didn’t know if we’d live from one day to the next, anyone who was suspected of helping the allies were shot or worse, our priest was killed by the nazis, their stukas even bombed us. They would plunder and rape we had to fight back; we didn’t want to live in this fascist regime so we did what we could. All we had Anthony was our church, our hope and our minds.

Enzo and his comrades fought and hid in the mountains, but we in Bardi would do our bit too.

I remember one day my family hid two British airmen who were trying to escape over the Apennine, we fed them with what little we had and let them rest for a day or two. However, someone must have suspected something as we had two trucks of troops pull up outside our house. They ransacked the house and barn but never found them. We had heard their trucks coming up the road and just had time to get the airmen in a secret place we had dug long before, underneath the bee hives. We had used it for hiding some food and the radio.

The airmen stayed there till dark, they had a few bee stings but they were alive and so were we. They left us that night to continue their escape. We prayed they’d make it back home to fly again and bomb the nazis.’

I was lost for words, this ordinary couple and family who I had known for years, who lived in this sleepy Welsh seaside town had experienced all of this, those atrocities, fear and heroism. I could only shake my head with disbelief.

‘Now Anthony why am I telling you all this? Well, you asked me what was the song I was singing as you didn’t recognise it, the song is called ‘Bella Ciao’ it was the song of the partisans. I sing it every day on those steps, it sums up my love for my husband, my son and my church, ‘Bella Ciao’ translates as ‘Goodbye Beautiful ‘.

Mrs Tassinnari took some persuading but a glass of grappa and half an hour later I was on the phone to my wife to tell her we would be having another guest for Christmas lunch.