by Leah Fleming
‘You go, son. We must fill our quota of priests. There are no atheists in foxholes and there’s a job to be done. Those young men will need you by their side to teach them how to pray.’
Frankie felt proud of his uniform with the Cross insignia on its collar. His parents had bought him a purple silk stole, which he could fold up to use in field services. He was glad so many priests had volunteered, so many of them of Italian extraction like him. He still couldn’t believe how Italy had been seduced into this war at Hitler’s side. He no longer felt any connection to the old country, not like his papa, but his name was distinctive and he felt he must work extra hard to prove his loyalty.
Training was intense and many times he wondered if he would be up to the job when the moment came. Would he show a cool temperament when faced with shelling on the front line, or worse? How would he cope with the sight of terrible injuries, even though they’d prepared them with photographs of what to expect? Would the men respect him?
Frank knew he was no tough nut, not like his brother, Jackie. He would be unarmed, unproven, but the lecturer had said, ‘Courage is only fear that has said its prayers. You must draw on your own faith to carry you through.’ He only hoped that was true.
What he was dreading most was going to sea in one of the big troopships. His sea legs were hopeless. He felt sick even on a boat on a lake. How would his men feel seeing the priest with his head stuck in a bucket for the entire voyage across the Atlantic? He’d be a laughing stock before they even started.
On his embarkation leave he’d returned back home for a farewell meal with his family. He had devoured all his favourites dishes, arrabiata, dark and succulent, and a special cheesecake from Bellini’s bakery. He’d sat at the table trying to capture every second of it in his mind. You’ll have to feed off this in the months to come, he’d mused, as Patti chattered on and Mum smiled, pushing back the straggles of hair from her brow, while Jack glanced at his expensive wristwatch, anxious to be off to his haunts in the city.
His family were his rock, his flesh and blood, warts and all, as one of his new Protestant colleagues was always saying. He was going to miss their down-to-earth ways. He would have to work alongside men like Jack, tough, questioning, rough men, who thought priests a waste of space.
It was only when he was leaving that his papa shoved something into his hand for safekeeping. It was soft and oddly familiar. ‘I want you to take this, Frankie, a keepsake from your papa. We’re so proud of you.’
He looked down at the tiny shoe. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, wondering what this token was doing in his hand.
‘I used to think it was my baby girl’s shoe. Crazy, I know, but in my heart she never died. Whoever’s shoe it was, son, it came from the Titanic. It survived that terrible disaster. I want you to keep it on you for good luck.’
‘But that’s just superstition,’ he said, shaking his head, but his father once again pressed it on him.
‘This little shoe stands for hope and love and survival against the odds. Plus, it’s a small reminder of home, of your mamma and your papa, and all of us waiting here for your return. Please take it.’
What could Frankie do but agree and hold his father tight, slipping the package into his pocket. ‘Perhaps it’ll stop me being seasick,’ he joked, trying to lighten the mood of the parting. ‘Pray for me.’
‘Every night,’ Mamma croaked through her tears, her hands shaking as she picked up his plate. ‘Take care, son, and Godspeed.’
Angelo watched his son leave trying not to give in to tears. He was so proud of both his sons: both enlisting, one in the infantry and one a front line padre. No one could say the Bartolinis were not patriots. He still couldn’t believe his family back in Italy were now officially the enemy. There wasn’t a mean bone in his father’s body. But in their letters he sensed fear, confusion, silence and suspicion. He hadn’t crossed the ocean and left his family to make enemies of them. He’d tried once to enlist, during the last war, but now he was too old, too weak in the chest, to do much but pray for their safety. Besides, someone had to guard the family honour. Patti was in danger of forgetting her Italian roots. She’d even changed her stage name to Patti Barr.
‘What is wrong with Patricia Bartolini?’ he’d demanded when he discovered this name on a theatre programme.
‘It’s too long. I need something modern, something short and snappy,’ she’d argued, tossing her flame-red hair as if to remind him she was half Irish too. Children these days were showing less respect. He would never have dared cheek his father but one look from those green eyes and he was putty in her hands.
Besides, she had him over a barrel. ‘I am doing a first-aid course,’ she’d also announced. ‘I might want to join up as a nurse.’
‘Two sons in the army is enough for any family. There’s no way I’ll let all my children out of my sight,’ he thundered.
‘For once your papa is right. Hold your horses. Revues give everyone relief from their worries. Entertaining is just another form of service, after all,’ Kathleen added, also petrified of losing her daughter to the battlefields. ‘We want to see your name in lights one day.’
The dear woman knew just how to handle his daughter. He wondered how Maria would have coped with Alessia. She would be married by now in that life that never happened. This was real life, though, and he would concentrate on the family that needed him.
He felt foolish for giving Frankie the shoe, but for some reason it felt important. He would’ve given Jackie his watch if he didn’t fear it would get thrown onto some poker table. What a world they lived in . . . He sighed. And all he could do was sit on the sidelines and watch his precious children slug it out on the world stage.
108
It was turning out to be a hard labour. Ella felt she’d been trying to squeeze out her baby for days, not hours. It was snowing hard outside and getting dark. The midwife had called, gone, and called back hoping things were moving along apace. She examined Ella again and smiled.
‘This little one is just too lazy and cosy in its nest to want to come into such a wintry afternoon, but there’s no turning back now. You’re fully dilated.’
Ella didn’t want to know the details, she just wanted it over with. Anthony was flying somewhere over Germany, unaware that their baby was on its way. It had been the longest night of her life and yet, for all the pains, she was excited; a new life was coming with all the possibility it promised. She only wished her mother were here to share in the joy. May had been such a good mother, all the resentment and anger she’d once felt had long gone. If only she was by her side to guide her through the coming hours.
The nursery was already prepared. Celeste had returned to Red House, while Archie was on duty in Portsmouth. Selwyn was out guarding the railway lines from fifth columnists. Shortages were beginning to take their toll in shop windows. Cardboard cut-outs filled the empty spaces and knitting wool was scarce, as were cosmetics. Everyone was being extra careful to make their soap, their foodstuffs last, while trying to look bright and cheerful to keep up morale.
After several more hours, the midwife put her cone on Ella’s stomach. ‘I’m going to have to call the doctor if you don’t get going.’
‘Lying here doesn’t help. Let me walk about for a bit,’ Ella said, feeling trapped lying in bed waiting for each pain.
‘That’s not allowed. Mother should be on her side by now,’ Nurse Taylor insisted.
‘Then bring me an old birthing stool. They had the right idea in the olden days. If I walk about it might help things along.’ She made for the rug, pacing the floor, willing the baby inside her to push its way down. ‘Come on, come on!’
It was slow, agonizing, but in the end gravity did its work and the baby slid out purple, yelling and plump as a capon.
‘It’s a girl!’ said the midwife, holding her up by her feet.
‘Oh,’ Ella gasped, a little shocked. ‘I was sure it would be another Anthony. I never expected a little girl,’
she smiled, examining her baby with care.
‘Just you be thankful that she’s a perfect specimen. You could always call her Antonia,’ came the no-nonsense reply as the nurse bustled around her bed.
Ella sighed at the sight of this tiny mite with her mop of black hair and the darkest of blue eyes blinking up at her. A flood of love washed over her as she held her new daughter.
Celeste was allowed in to admire their new addition and Mrs Allen brought a knitted layette made from unravelled lambswool the colour of weak tea.
‘I know it’s a funny colour, but that’s rationing for you. At least it’ll be very warm. You must be so proud, Mrs Harcourt. Your mother would have loved to see her.’
Ella looked down at the infant nuzzling her breast, feeling confused by the flood of emotions rushing through her. Was this how my own mother felt, whoever she was; this overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude, pride and fear?
Later, Selwyn came in. ‘Well done, old girl.’ He seemed pleased to see that the baby had finally arrived but gave her only a cursory glance, distracted by the latest wireless bulletin. ‘I’ve just heard more news,’ he muttered to Celeste, who was warming nappies by the fire rail in the bedroom. ‘The American fleet has been attacked in Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. They’re in the war now.’
Ella was too tired and sleepy for this terrible news. She sighed, shutting her eyes. ‘No one will ever forget the date of your birthday, little one, but I’m not calling you Pearl. That’s just too sad. We must send a telegram to your daddy and let him choose your name.’
And so Clare Antonia Mary was baptized on Christmas Eve in the cathedral wrapped in the lacy nightdress and bonnet from her mother’s suitcase and a huge shawl; the very lace bonnet that had seen Ella onto the Titanic. Anthony was given short leave from his station in Lincolnshire. Celeste and Hazel acted as godmothers, with Selwyn as godfather. It was a chill biting winter, but nothing could dampen their spirits, even the letter from Roddy saying he’d enlisted and was in some military fort miles from anywhere.
They’d wired him news of Clare’s arrival and he’d sent a pretty dress in a parcel marked as ‘tinned goods’, which somehow managed to get across the Atlantic and dodge the U-boats. The dress was much too big for her but at a time of rations and coupons it was precious.
Ella wept when Anthony’s leave was over and he was due back to his station in Bomber Command. It was dangerous work and he was looking fatigued. He’d been waking each night, sweating and shouting orders in his sleep. They’d clung to each other for comfort but she’d discovered him early one morning staring down at his daughter in her crib as if she was too precious to hold.
‘If anything should happen to me, at least I know there’s a part of me in her somewhere, even though she looks exactly like you.’ He paused, seeing the anxious look on her face.
‘Don’t talk like that,’ Ella replied, anxious to stop his train of thought.
‘No, listen, things have to be said. You know what I do, the risks. The odds are getting worse with each op. There’s always a price for both sides and I may be one of the ones who pays it.’
‘No, please . . .’ She tried to steer him away from these gloomy thoughts. ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
He continued regardless. ‘When I’m with you, I can live for a few hours as if there’s no war. When I’m high over the North Sea I think of you safe, going about your life, doing everyday things. It gives me such strength and now, with Clare, we are a family no matter how far away I am. When I hold you both, I can forget what tomorrow may bring, the fear I may not return in one piece or that there may be no happy ever after for us.’
Ella wept at his words. How could he say such things?
‘Don’t cry, you’re the best thing in my life, everything I ever wanted. You light up a room with your smile, your hands create beautiful things and you care for people. How can I not love you? When I think how easy it would have been never to have conked out in that field, never to have met you. I feel so lucky so blessed. Many chaps never got the chance to be loved by a woman. We’ll pull through, we will, so don’t worry.’
‘You’ve done your tours. It’ll be a training post soon, surely?’ she asked.
‘I hope so, but only for a while, darling. I can’t sit at a desk, knowing what I know.’
‘Promise me you’ll come back to us,’ she pleaded, clinging to him.
‘If I don’t, I want you to get on with your life, your art, find another chap. Don’t become a nun. My parents will see to Clare’s education. You are not to worry about money,’ he insisted.
‘Stop it. Just keep yourself safe for us.’ She hated him talking like this. It was bad luck to talk about dying. She felt as if someone had walked over her own grave.
‘You have to face facts, Ella. The odds are stacked against us. Sometimes I get a feeling in my bones . . .’ Ella flung her arms round him and halted his words with her kiss.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk. You’re just tense about leaving. Fresh air will do us all good. We can walk down the towpath and take the baby to feed the ducks.’
As they walked slowly, they heard planes droning overhead on their way back to the Operational Training Unit at Lichfield, returning from doing ‘circuits and bumps’, the routine training flights around the district, getting the hang of how to work as a crew, testing their skills. She could never escape from the roar of their engines. They even haunted her dreams.
So much had happened so quickly for them. Clare was a honeymoon baby. Love in a war was indeed love in a rush but she wouldn’t change a day of it. Anthony must survive for Clare’s sake. She must have a father. Clare must have what Ella had never known, a proper family with two parents to love and provide for her. Nothing else would do.
109
August 1942
The summer picnic for the evacuee children had been exhausting. The WVS had organized an outing to Hopwas Wood for sports, games and fresh air, with extra hands provided by mothers, grandparents and able-bodied volunteers in the city. Celeste was helping to organize the picnic tables, ready for the bun fight when the hordes of city children made a dash for the sandwiches and cakes they would wash down with bottles of fizzy pop, which had been carted up the hill in wooden crates. The pent-up enthusiasm of these boisterous children was exhausting just to witness.
Ella and little Clare were entertaining the few young mothers who had stayed with their children, most of whom were finding Lichfield too quiet, sleepy and remote to their liking.
At the back of Celeste’s mind she was still chewing the cud over Roddy’s last letter. He’d revealed his training was over and he’d got a commission into the army and was looking forward to seeing action in the Far East. Now she had no idea on earth where he was in the world.
They’d had an influx of American troops into the local barracks at Whittington. What with the boys in blue at the air base at Fradley, Lichfield was now a busy garrison town. She only wished Roddy were here.
At night they crowded into the public houses; raucous, noisy boys, accompanied by some Waafs in uniform, spilling out onto the streets, drunk, making the most of their leave. The whole city was geared up for war with convoys once again trundling down the main streets. The traffic passing Red House was so loud at night, it made the windows rattle, and overhead was the ever-present drone of planes on night-time bombing missions.
Celeste couldn’t believe they’d had nearly three years of war, three years of rationing and coupons, travel restrictions and blackouts, with no sign of an end. Sometimes she felt every one of her fifty years, her legs constantly aching from standing, and the drabness of make-do-and-mend shabbiness had taken its toll on her spirits.
It worried her that Clare wouldn’t know anything but blackout curtains and gas masks, home-made toys and cut-down clothes. She was the one bright spark in their day with a ready smile to light up their darkness. Ella had proved to be a natural mother. She also found time to work on her sculpting and she’d mad
e pen and ink drawings of Clare to send to Anthony. One of Anthony’s friends had introduced her to some of the leading artists in the Midlands, and a gallery in London had bought two pieces, which was such a boost to her confidence. The war wasn’t dampening her talent, even if her materials were harder to come by.
The picnic was going so well. It was as if there was no war in the woods, just the screams of children enjoying themselves. The sun was shining and it was a perfect summer day until they heard the roar of engines overhead as if a dogfight was breaking out above them. They whipped up the children, dragging them under the cover of the woods just in case there was strafing. To her relief Celeste saw it was no more than a Wellington limping slowly back to Fradley with smoke coming out of its backside.
But then she watched in horror as it stuttered and spluttered lower and lower. There was nothing they could do for the stricken plane but pray. It was still too far off the runway to make a safe landing. It was too low, and the barracks at Whittington had some sort of landing strip. Celeste willed the pilot might make it down safely but then it dropped out of sight, and they heard a sickening explosion as it burst into the ground, a great pall of smoke rising up. Those poor men in that bomber were doomed.
Death had marred a beautiful holiday. Celeste wanted to scream out loud, and then she saw Ella’s face, white with fear in the agony of wondering if this was how Anthony and his crew might end their lives one night.
‘Come on, everyone,’ shouted the committee chairman, rallying her troops. ‘Home, James; let’s pack up. Time to head back. There’ll be lots to do at HQ.’
Keep busy was their motto when things were dire. Keep busy, keep calm and keep going, no matter what. Everyone scurried about packing baskets, folding tables and chairs, finding blankets and making the silent children pick up litter, distracting them from the stench of smoke and what they had all witnessed.