Genre: Mystery/Women’s Fiction
Author: Linda Lo Scuro
Publisher: Sparkling Books
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About The Sicilian Woman’s Daughter
When the novel opens, Maria, the novel’s protagonist is living a charmed and comfortable life with her husband, banker Humphrey and children, in London. The daughter of Sicilian immigrants, Maria turned her back on her origins during her teens to fully embrace the English way of life.
Despite her troubled and humble childhood, Maria, through her intelligence, beauty and sheer determination, triumphantly works her way up to join the upper middle-class of British society. But when a minor incident awakens feelings of revenge in her, Maria is forced to confront–and examine—her past.
As she delves deeper into her mother’s family history, a murky past unravels—and Maria is swept up in a deadly and dangerous mire of vendetta. Will Maria’s carefully-constructed, seemingly-idyllic life unravel? Expect the unexpected in this outstanding new mystery….
The Sicilian Woman’s Daughter is a brilliantly-plotted, exceedingly well-told tale. Novelist Linda Lo Scuro delivers a confident and captivating tale brimming with tantalizing twists, turns, and surprise, a to-die-for plot, and realistic, multi-dimensional characters. Thoughtful and thought-provoking, rich and riveting, The Sicilian Woman’s Daughter is destined to stay with readers long after the final page is turned.
PROLOGUE
Rumour had it that Ziuzza, my
grandmother’s sister, on my mother’s side, carried a gun in her apron pocket –
both at home and when she went out. She wore her apron back-to-front, resulting
in the pocket being propped up against her belly. She kept her right hand
poised there, between her dress and apron as if she had bellyache. I had
noticed this suspicious behaviour when on holiday in Sicily with my family when
I was twelve. At that stage, never could I have imagined that she was
concealing a gun, while she stood there in my grandmother’s kitchen watching me
have breakfast. I never saw her sitting down. She brought us thick fresh milk,
containing a cow’s hair or two, in the early mornings and often stayed to chat.
She
had a dog, Rocco, white and brown, which she tied to a wooden stake in my
grandmother’s stable downstairs. It was a lively animal, snapping at whoever
passed it, jumping and yapping. The mules, the rightful inhabitants of the
stable, were out in the campagna with my grandfather from the break of dawn
each day.
A
tight silver bun stood proudly on Ziuzza’s head. Her frowning face always
deadly serious. Fierce, even. An overly tanned and wrinkled face. Skin as thick
as cows’ hide. Contrastingly, her eyes were of the sharpest blue – squinting as
she stared, as if viewing me through thick fog. I was scared of her. Truly
scared. And all the other women were frightened, too. You could tell by the way
they spoke to her, gently and smiling. Careful not to upset her, always
agreeing with her opinions. They toadied up to her well and proper. An inch
away from grovelling.
And,
I found out the rumours about the gun were true. Ziuzza would come and bake
bread and cakes at my grandmother’s house because of the enormous stone oven in
the garden. I helped carry wood to keep the flames alive. Did my bit. One day
the sisters made some Sicilian cakes called cuddureddi, meaning: ‘little
ropes.’ They rolled the dough with their bare hands, into thick round lengths
in the semblance of snakes. Using a sharp knife, they then sliced the
snake-shape in half, longways, spread the lower half of the butchered snake
with home-made fig jam. They put the snake together again, slashed it into
chunks. Then the chunks were dealt with one-by-one and manipulated into little
ropes by pinching them forcefully into shape with their nimble fingers.
As
Ziuzza bent over to wipe her mouth on the corner of her pinafore, I caught a
glimpse of her gun. I was sitting at the table sprinkling the first trayful of
cuddureddi with sugar. No doubt about it. It was there in Ziuzza’s big inside
pocket of her pinafore. While I was looking at the bulge, she caught me out. We
exchanged glances, then our eyes locked. She narrowed her hooded eyelids into
slits and crunched up her face. I blinked a few times, then looked around for
some more wood to replenish the oven, grabbed a few logs and vanished into the
garden.
After
she received a sickening threat, Rocco’s bloodied paws were posted to her in a
box, she, like her dog, came to a violent end. Ziuzza was shot in her back, in
broad daylight, by someone riding by on a Vespa. People with line of sight,
from their windows to the body, hurried to close their shutters. Nobody saw who
it was. Nobody heard the gunshots, though the road was a main artery from one
end of The Village to the other. And nobody called a doctor. It would be taking
sides. Which you certainly didn’t want to do. Added to that was the fact that
Ziuzza at that moment was on the losing side. She was left to bleed to death in
the road like an animal. It wasn’t until the dustcart came round that they
removed her body because it couldn’t get by. But nobody commented, it was as if
they were removing a big piece of rubbish. It was nothing to them. But instead
of throwing it away, they took the body to her home. Nobody was in. So they
brought it to my grandmother’s house instead.
This
was the lowest point in our family’s history. With time, though, Ziuzza managed
to triumph through her son, Old Cushi, who began the escalation. And, later,
her grandson, Young Cushi, completed it by becoming the undisputed boss of our
village, of the region, and beyond. But the transition was not easy. A bloody
feud ensued. Lives were lost on both sides. Some might know who Ziuzza’s
enemies were. I didn’t get an inkling. Most of the information I came across
was from listening to what the grown-ups in our family were saying. And they
never mentioned her rivals by name. Some faceless entity fighting for control
of the area.
This
is just one of the episodes I remember from our holidays in Sicily. There are
many more. Every three years, I went to Sicily with my parents. Those I
remember were when I was nine, twelve, fifteen and eighteen. The last time we
went my mother was ill and we travelled by plane. All the other times we
travelled by train because poverty accompanied us wherever we went. I think we
had some kind of subsidy from the Italian Consulate in the UK for the train
fare. It was a three-day-two-night expedition. I remember setting out from
Victoria Station carrying three days’ supply of food and wine with us.
Especially stuck in my mind was the food: lasagne, roast chicken, cheese,
loaves of bread. We’d have
plates, cutlery, glasses, and an
assortment of towels with us. At every transfer all this baggage had to be
carried on to the next stage. No wheels on cases in those days. Then we’d get
the ferry from Dover to Calais, and so began the first long stretch through
France, Switzerland, until we finally pulled into Milan Station. Where our
connection to Sicily was after a seven-hour wait.
We
used to sleep on the waiting-room benches, though it was daytime, until someone
complained about the space we were taking up. The Italian northerners had a
great disdain for southern Italians. They saw us as muck, rolled their eyes at
us, insulted us openly calling us “terroni”, meaning: “those who haven’t
evolved from the soil.” Even though I was young, I noticed it, and felt like a
second category being – a child of a minor god. There was the civilised world
and then there was us. My parents didn’t answer back. And it was probably the
time when I came closest to feeling sorry for them. For us.
The
journey all the way down to the tip of Italy – the toe of the boot – was
excruciating. The heat in the train unbearable. When there was water in the
stinking toilets, we gave ourselves a cursory wipe with flannels. Sometimes we
used water in bottles. Every time we stopped at a station, my father would ask
people on the platforms to fill our bottles. Then came the crossing of the
Strait of Messina. At Villa San Giovanni, the train was broken into fragments
of three coaches and loaded into the dark belly of the ferry. My mother
wouldn’t leave the train for fear of thieves taking our miserable belongings,
until the ferry left mainland Italy. While my father and I went up on the deck
to take in the view. But we had orders to go back down to the train as soon as
the ferry left. Then I’d go up again with my mother. She became emotional when
Sicily was well in sight. She would become ecstatic. Talk to any passengers
who’d listen to her.
Some
totally ignored her. She’d wave to people on passing ferries. Laughing and,
surprisingly, being nice to me.
Reassembled
together again, the train would crawl at a tortoise’s pace along the Sicilian
one-track countryside railway, under the sweltering heat. Even peasants who
were travelling within Sicily moved compartment when they got a whiff of us.
Another event that excited my mother was when the train stopped at a level
crossing. A man got out of his van, brought a crate of lemons to our train and
started selling them to the passengers hanging out of the windows. My mother
bought a big bag full and gave me one to suck saying it would quench my thirst.
Another man came along selling white straw handbags with fringes, and she
bought me one.
By the time we reached The Village our bags of food stank to high heaven
and so did we.
