by Ellie Dean
The front room served as kitchen and living space, with a small range in the chimney breast, a narrow table, two chairs and a sagging couch. A photograph of her mother had pride of place on the mantel next to the new one of her father in his uniform, and a wireless stood in one corner, the mahogany casing gleaming dully through the layer of dust that had settled since this morning. It wasn’t a big room, but it was the heart of their home, and as Rita eyed her father’s empty chair, she felt his absence even more keenly.
The sadness threatened to overwhelm her again, so she drew the blackout curtains and lit the gas lamps – the electricity supply had recently come to this end of town, but not every house had been fully adapted. She eased off her sturdy boots, then stripped off the heavy leather trousers and moth-eaten flying jacket and slung them over the back of the couch where she’d left the dungarees she wore to work. Wriggling her toes, she pulled off the thick socks and, dressed only in her camiknickers and vest, padded across the faded linoleum into her bedroom.
It was a small, rather untidy room – there never seemed to be enough time for housework these days, which suited her just fine – with a single iron bedstead, chest of drawers, wardrobe, and a view out of the window over the tiny backyards of the houses in the next terrace to the shunting yards beyond the high brick wall. There was no bathroom, and it would take too long to fill the big metal tub which hung on a hook in the outside lav, so she would have to make do with a quick wash in the kitchen sink.
Now the sun had gone down it was chilly, so she pulled a warm knitted dress and cardigan from the wardrobe and returned to the front room. Standing well back to avoid getting her eyebrows and lashes singed, she lit the ancient boiler and washed as well as she could in the tepid water.
Her stomach rumbled as she finished dressing, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since the paste sandwiches she’d shared with her father at lunchtime. She hadn’t had any appetite then, but now her mouth watered at the thought of Louise’s pasta. But her main concerns were far from the family dinner awaiting her as she rubbed her hair dry and tried to restore some order to its dark, wayward curls. They were still centred on her father, and the memories and passions they shared.
The airfield to the north of Cliffehaven had fascinated her from the moment her father had taken her there as a small child. She’d stood holding his large warm hand, not at all afraid or overwhelmed by the noise of the place, and over the years she had become a familiar figure about the hangars and runways, asking endless questions of the mechanics and pilots as her father tinkered with the engines on his one day off.
She had never had a yen to actually go up in a plane – she preferred to have her feet firmly on the ground – but the yearning to be a part of that exciting world and to work in the hangars had remained with her, growing stronger with every passing year.
Rita gave a deep sigh as she ran a comb through her damp hair. The airfield had been enlarged over the past year, with more runways, a new control tower, Nissan huts and extra hangers to house the steady influx of planes and pilots. It was now an important RAF airbase and therefore off limits for the duration.
She had been to the RAF recruiting office and asked about joining the WAAFs as a mechanic, but she was still too young, and her qualifications incomplete. The woman there had suggested she wait until her eighteenth birthday to apply for an administration post, but that didn’t appeal at all. The thought of being stuck in an office all day made her shudder.
Her dad had understood, but even he couldn’t get round the ever-stringent rules and regulations that were now in force. He’d suggested the job in the factory as a stopgap until she found something else, and she supposed she should be satisfied she was doing her bit by welding parts of planes together. But she couldn’t quite dismiss the thought of how much more satisfying it would be to become a useful member of the engineering team that ensured the planes’ engines were running smoothly so the courageous pilots could be brought home safely.
Dragging her thoughts into order, she glanced at the clock and gasped at how quickly time had passed. Louisa’s pasta would be ruined if she didn’t hurry up.
Chapter Two
PEGGY REILLY WAS in her early forties and had lived in Cliffehaven all her life. She and her husband, Jim, had taken over the running of Beach View Boarding House when her parents retired, and it was there that she’d raised her four children. Jim had recently returned home unscathed after taking part in the rescue of the troops from Dunkirk’s beaches with his older brother Frank, and she gave nightly thanks they’d been spared.
Her father-in-law, Ron, and his large Bedlington-cross, Harvey, lived in the basement of Beach View, sharing the two small rooms and scullery with her young sons, Bob and Charlie. Her much older girls, Anne, who was a teacher, and Cissy, who was theatrical, shared a room at the top of the house. Anne’s future husband was an RAF pilot who had to live on the base nearby, and Peggy fretted as much as her daughter over his safety now they were flying so many missions across enemy territory.
The elderly Mrs Finch lived on the first floor. She’d become a permanent boarder once she’d admitted she could no longer live alone. She was as deaf as a post and refused to replace her ailing hearing aid – not that it mattered a jot, for the family had come to love her as their own, and her confused, but cheerful twittering always made them smile – and in these dark times a smile was worth a great deal.
The holiday trade had dried up once war had been declared, but with the evacuation process in place and more service personnel arriving all the time, Peggy’s home was once again full to the rafters – which was the way she liked it.
Cliffehaven was changing and growing rapidly as the war progressed, but despite the influx of foreign servicemen, and the barbed wire and gun emplacements on the seafront, it still felt like home to Peggy. There were numerous new factories being built on what had once been wasteland to the northeast of the town, the airfield to the north had become a strategically important centre for the RAF, and the grand hotels on the seafront had become billets to allied servicemen from all over the world. A vast Canadian camp had been built in a distant valley to the west, close to the permanent American airbase which had been there since the last war. Although the Americans had yet to join in the hostilities, they could often be seen about the town helping to fix things, and using their jeeps and heavy machinery to good advantage when called to do so.
Peggy rather liked the Americans; they were so terribly polite, calling her ‘ma’am’ all the time and offering to carry her shopping. But she wasn’t daft enough to be taken in, for she knew only too well that their real interest was in her youngest daughter Cissy and the girl from London who was billeted with her.
She smiled as she packed away the last of the blankets and locked them in a cupboard. She’d been in the boarding house business long enough to have a sharp eye for shenanigans, and she kept to the strict rule of no men in the house – unless they were lodgers, or too old to cause trouble.
Peggy eased her back and yawned. She had just finished her afternoon stint at the WVS centre which was now based at the Town Hall, and although she was tired and there was a great deal still to do at home before she could put a meal on the table, she was determined to visit Rita. This would be her second visit in the ten days since Jack had left, and she wanted to make sure the girl was still coping.
The old bike had seen better days, but her father-in-law, Ron, had fitted new tyres and chain, given it a lick of black paint, and managed to find a lovely new basket which he’d tied to the handlebars with thick leather straps. Peggy dumped her handbag, gas mask and parcels in the basket and wheeled the bike out of the Town Hall, down the steps between the great wall of sandbags and out into the road.
It was a steep climb to the station, taking her up the High Street, away from the shops, the cinema and the seafront, and over the hump-backed bridge to the north of the town. She decided it might be better to push the bike most of the way, for gone were the days
when she could have cycled up this hill with ease – gone too were the days when she used to drive up here to get her dear old car serviced.
Her journey was made longer by friends stopping her for a chat, and although she liked a good gossip, and was desperate to share the news of Anne’s impending wedding, she didn’t really have time to stand about. Beach View Boarding House was full of people waiting to be fed, not least of all her husband, Jim, who would no doubt be filching anything he could find in her woefully understocked larder to ward off his imaginary starvation.
With that thought in mind, she pushed harder and crossed the railway bridge. It was much flatter on this side of the line, and the wheels hummed nicely as she rode through the narrow back streets of crowded terraces and headed for Barrow Lane. It was still early June, and the day had been pleasant, but now the sun was dipping behind the hills she felt chilled by the light breeze she stirred as she raced along.
Barrow Lane looked more forlorn than ever now most of the children had been evacuated, and Peggy despaired for the families who had to live in those damp, dark little houses. The council should have done something about this whole area years ago, and the mayor – who was the landlord – should be ashamed of himself for letting things deteriorate so badly.
The brakes screeched as she came to a halt outside the wooden doors which stood open. She propped the bike against the wall and peered into the gloom. ‘Hello? Rita?’
‘Aunt Peg!’ Rita was grinning with pleasure as she appeared from the deep shadows clutching a spanner. ‘What a lovely surprise.’
Dressed in her dungarees and heavy boots, she’d covered her hair in a knotted scarf and looked so young it made Peggy’s heart hurt. ‘Just thought I’d pop in with a few bits,’ she said, her voice catching as she gave the girl a hug. ‘How are you coping, dear?’
Rita smiled as she put down the spanner and dug her hands into her pockets. ‘I’m all right,’ she replied. ‘Work at the factory keeps me out of mischief, May and I have our bikes to tinker with, and I go next door most nights. Mamma Louise is feeding me so well I’ve probably put on pounds,’ she added wryly.
‘I’d like to know where,’ muttered Peggy, who was just as slender and slight. ‘You still look as if a breeze would knock you over.’ She plucked one of the parcels out of the basket. ‘It’s only a bit of brisket and a couple of kidneys, but I’m sure Louise could do something tasty with them.’
Rita beamed with pleasure. ‘Thanks, Auntie Peg. I’m sure she will. Her herb garden is coming on a treat and Papa Tino still goes to the allotment every day, so there’s always plenty of veg.’
Peggy breathed in the heavenly aroma of cooking that wafted from the next-door top window, and was reminded rather sharply that she had to get home to her own kitchen. ‘Cissy sends her love, by the way, and wants you to know she can get you tickets for one of her shows should you feel like going.’
Rita giggled. ‘So she finally made it into a proper theatre, has she? Good for her. I know how much she wanted to go on the stage.’
Peggy nodded. Her youngest daughter had always been theatrical, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand where she’d got it from. No one in her family had ever been that way inclined, and she didn’t know if she should approve or not. ‘She’s been badgering me and her father to let her join ENSA, but thankfully she’s too young and they won’t take her without our permission.’ She cocked her head. ‘What about you, Rita? Still hankering to join the WAAFs?’
The girl’s large brown eyes became sad. ‘I’d love to, but I’m too young and they won’t take me on as a mechanic until I’ve passed my final exams – and of course the college is closed now.’ She chewed her lip. ‘It looks like I’m stuck at the factory until something more challenging comes up.’
Peggy nodded, but her thoughts were racing as she eyed the motorbike in the corner. Anne’s fiancé had mentioned something about the need for motorcycle dispatch riders with the RAF – but whether that included girls as young as Rita she had no idea. She made a mental note to ask next time she saw him – and then dismissed it. Racing about on motorcycles was dangerous at the best of times, and with the war on and the airbase bound to be a prime target, Rita’s father would have her guts for garters if she encouraged the girl in such a foolhardy enterprise.
‘Never mind, dear,’ she said. ‘I’m sure something will come along, and at least you’re doing your bit at the factory, and that’s got to count for something.’
Rita sighed. ‘I know, but it’s not very exciting.’
Peggy thought about the all-too-recent ‘excitement’ over the Dunkirk rescues. Jim had suffered from nightmares ever since he’d been back, for not all those little fishing boats had returned home, and thousands of men had died in the most terrible way. ‘Excitement isn’t everything,’ she muttered, ‘and your father wouldn’t want you taking any unnecessary risks. How is he, by the way?’
‘He’s settling in and enjoying the work, though the sergeant major’s an absolute beast who does nothing but shout all the time.’ Rita grinned. ‘I don’t think Dad takes too kindly to being ordered about.’
Peggy chuckled as she pulled on her gloves. ‘It certainly can’t be easy after running your own business for years. I must go, Rita, or no one will get fed tonight.’ She gave the girl a hug and a kiss and headed for her bicycle. ‘If you need me, you know where I am – and don’t leave it too long before you come and visit us. Cissy and you used to be close as children and it would be a shame to let your friendship dwindle away.’
‘We don’t really have that much in common any more,’ said Rita, eyeing her dirty hands and chipped nails. ‘But it would be nice to catch up with her again, and hear all about life on the stage.’
‘Come to lunch one day soon,’ said Peggy as she wheeled the bike into the street. ‘Once this wedding’s over, we’ll have more time to chat.’
‘How’s everything going with the wedding plans?’
Peggy heaved a sigh. ‘It’s not been easy, but I think everything is about done. Anne got extra rations for the cake, my evacuee, Sally, is making the dress, and the neighbours have been very generous with their donations for the wedding breakfast.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘My sister Doris has bought a new hat, which no doubt will outshine anything I can put together.’
‘You’ll look lovely, regardless of what you wear,’ replied Rita. ‘You shouldn’t let her wind you up, Aunt Peg.’
‘She manages that by simply walking into the same room as me,’ said Peggy with some asperity. ‘I don’t know where she gets those airs and graces. My younger sister Doreen and I are chalk to her cheese.’
‘How’s Doreen getting on in London?’
‘She’s finally seen sense and sent her two girls to the country, but she insists upon staying up there.’ Peggy tugged at her gloves. ‘Doreen has a very good job as personal assistant to a businessman and she seems to think he can’t manage without her,’ she said rather sharply. ‘Which is why she’s not coming down for the wedding. Anne’s quite disappointed, actually. She and Doreen get on very well.’
‘That’s a shame,’ murmured Rita. ‘Please give Anne my very best wishes for a happy day.’
Peggy smiled and nodded, realising she’d said more than she’d meant to. Rita had enough to think about without her blathering on. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come?’
Rita shook her head. ‘I can’t, Auntie Peg. I’m working, and Major Patricia only gives us days off if we’re at death’s door.’
Peggy grinned. ‘She sounds a fright.’
‘She’s not that bad really,’ Rita conceded. ‘Not when you think of what pressure she must be under to fulfil all those contracts.’
Peggy nodded. ‘Well, let me know when you can come for lunch then, and I’ll make sure Cissy’s at home.’
Rita kissed her cheek and gave her a swift hug. ‘Thanks, Auntie Peg.’
‘TTFN, as they say on the wireless. Take care of yourself, dear, and I’ll see you soo
n.’
Peggy stood on the pedals as the bike jolted over the cobbles, and before she turned the corner she looked back at Rita and waved. The girl might be small and seemingly fragile, but there was a tough core to her that was lacking in Cissy. There had been too many tears and tantrums these past few weeks, and it was time Cissy was made to realise that life was not all about dancing and make-up and frothy, sparkling frocks. It would do no harm to get the two girls together again, for Cissy needed a good dose of reality, and by the look of it, Rita needed as many friends as she could find. Feeling much more positive about things, Peggy headed for home.
The great bowl of steaming spaghetti was a delicious concoction of garlic, onions, tomatoes and shredded chicken, accompanied by the crusty yellow bread that Louise made each morning. The crust was hard enough to break teeth, and had to be chewed thoroughly, but when used to mop up the fragrant sauce, or to dip in the precious dish of olive oil, it tasted wonderful. To add to this feast was the rough red wine Antonino had hoarded in the cellar beneath the café.
Roberto knew there were enough bottles down there to see the family through at least a year, and he hoped it would be enough. His father had bought a substantial consignment from an Italian friend who’d imported it secretly from Naples before the hostilities in Europe had begun. Antonino Minelli might have embraced the English way of life for over forty years, but he was still very Italian when it came to his food, and regarded a meal without wine as an intolerable privation.
Roberto surreptitiously watched Rita as the meal progressed. She looked so fresh and bright-eyed, and he wondered if she even knew just how beautiful she was – wondered if she’d guessed at how much his feelings for her were changing.