The young clerk drained his cup of coffee, pulled his muffler more tightly round his neck and set the cup down on the counter of the kiosk.
"Till tomorrow, Carlo."
"A domani, signore a domani", said Carlo putting the big can of
coffee back on the brazier. Then he dipped the dirty cup into a pail of icy
water beneath the counter and returned it beside the others.
Carlo
shivered. It was cold today. He could not remember anything like it before in
London. It was almost as cold as the Valley. He blew on his fingers. Not much
longer now. lt was past eight o'clock and most of his customers had been and
gone. The last of the crowd hurrying to work across Blackfriars Bridge would be
too late to stop for coffee, let alone a waffle. Pity really, for he still had
a little of the batter left.
There was the sound of a street organ and round the corner came a man pushing the organ, with a frail little boy accompanying him. The boy had a cap in his hand, ready to collect pennies from passers-by at the next pitch. Carlo knew most of the street musicians, the flute players, violinists and organ grinders with their monkeys, for many of them were Italian-speaking like himself and they would often call out a friendly greeting. But this man he did not know. There was something amiss about him. He seemed dark and angry.
As he set down the organ at the pitch, he shouted at the boy. The little lad turned, frightened, stumbled and fell, spilling the few pennies he had in the cap. The man began to shout and abuse the boy and then to Carlo's horror to strike him with a stick as he lay on the ground.
Thwack, thwack. The sound of the stick on the boy's back rooted Carlo to the spot. He could almost feel the blows on his own body. And in an instant the whole dreadful memory of the beating he had received from his old schoolmaster flooded over him. It was a beating he could never forget - a beating which had driven him from his valley home, across the high mountains all the way on foot to Paris and eventually here to London.
"Morning Carlo. Am I too late for coffee?" It was Mr. Smith, the railway engineer. Carlo shook his head and shook away the old memory.
"Niente, niente, signore. For you there is always coffee?"
