Keep Smiling Through (Beach View Boarding House 3)

by Ellie Dean

  ‘Come on, then. Let’s get it over with.’ Rita smiled as they linked arms and headed for the factory. They were the same age and height, May’s fair hair a perfect foil to Rita’s dark curls. May’s father had long since done a runner, leaving her mother to wallow in bitterness and resentment, and May had realised very quickly that if she was ever to achieve anything in life she had to do it on her own. Like Rita, she was a little battler who stood no nonsense when it came to defending herself. Their friendship was firm, their shared passion for motorbikes welding them even tighter.

  Rita didn’t want to believe such nastiness could exist in Cliffehaven, but as they marched into the enormous shed arm in arm, she was made all too aware of the huddles of women who fell silent as they passed, their suspicious eyes following them as they approached their lockers to hang up their coats and gas mask boxes.

  ‘Just ignore them,’ muttered May as she shed the leather jacket and adjusted the straps on her overalls. ‘They’re mostly full of hot air anyway.’

  Glad of her friend’s support, Rita tried to follow May’s advice – but it was difficult. The talk was all about Mussolini’s declaration of war and the ensuing battles that had been fought in the town. She heard the snide comments and the sniggers and stoically tamped down on the urge to answer back, but as she and May approached their work stations in the welding bay Aggie Rawlings deliberately blocked their way.

  ‘We need to know what side yer on,’ Aggie said belligerently, her meaty arms folded beneath her large bosom.

  Rita noticed how several of Aggie’s cohort of grim-faced women had sidled over, and were now surrounding her and May. Refusing to be daunted, she lifted her chin. ‘I’m here to do a job and help win the war against Hitler,’ she said clearly into the deathly hush that had fallen over the vast echoing shed.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said May, ‘so bugger off and leave us alone.’

  ‘Lie with dogs and you’ll get fleas, May Lynch,’ snapped Aggie. ‘This ain’t your business.’

  ‘It ain’t yours neither,’ retorted May.

  ‘Keep out of this, May, if you know what’s good fer yer,’ snarled Aggie.

  ‘She’s my friend, and all the while you’ve got something to say to her, then you’ll say it in front of me.’

  Aggie glared at her. ‘You ain’t right, the pair of yer,’ she snapped. ‘What with yer motorbikes and men’s clothes. It ain’t normal.’

  ‘If normal means having a fat arse and hairs on your chin, then I’m glad we’re different,’ said Rita tightly. ‘What’s your real beef, Aggie?’

  ‘What about them Eyeties yer so friendly with? I ‘ear you practically live with them, and that you was there last night.’

  ‘So?’ Rita eyed each woman in turn as she balled her fists deep in her overall pockets. ‘Every one of you has been in that café at some time. And I bet most of you go to the market garden, the ice-cream parlour and the butcher’s as well. The Italian families aren’t a threat – just decent, hard-working people who have earned the right to feel safe in their beds at night.’

  ‘That don’t make no difference when there’s a war on,’ Aggie retorted. ‘They’re our enemies now, and if you ask me, prison’s the best place for ’em.’

  ‘With a husband like yours, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Rita fired back. ‘How many years has he done so far? Or have you lost count?’

  Aggie’s expression hardened and the light of battle gleamed in her eyes as she took a step towards Rita. ‘I’ll ’ave you fer that,’ she snarled. ‘My old man ain’t no saint, but at least he ain’t a greasy Eyetie collaborator.’

  Rita eyed her with loathing. ‘Tino is no collaborator,’ she retorted. ‘Take that back, Aggie.’

  ‘I ain’t taking nothing back.’ Aggie swiftly glanced at the other women who’d edged forward. ‘And we all reckon you ain’t all you make out to be and all. You look Italian, you speak their lingo and spend all your time with ’em. Perhaps you should have been arrested as well.’

  ‘My mum was Irish, as you very well know,’ Rita said with dangerous calm.

  Aggie sniffed. ‘If you say so.’ She looked for approval among the others. ‘But we don’t like you working here, so sling yer hook, Eyetie lover.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ Rita and May took a pace forward, both ready to stand their ground as the other women formed a tighter circle round them.

  ‘Right, that’s enough.’ The knot of women reluctantly parted as the sturdy, no-nonsense figure of Major Patricia Marshall marched through to stand between Rita, May and Aggie.

  Dressed in the uniform of the Royal Engineers, Major Marshall was a formidable presence and not someone to argue with. Her steely blue gaze raked over them. ‘I will not have that kind of talk in my factory,’ she said coldly. ‘Rawlings, go to your workbench and stop causing trouble. Lynch, your loyalty is to be commended, but I will not have fisticuffs in the workplace. The rest of you, get on with your work.’ The flinty gaze settled on Rita. ‘Smith. In my office.’

  Rita shot May a look of gratitude, but she could taste the bitterness of that short, nasty spat, and could hear the sniggering and whispering as she followed the broad beam of the woman in charge, and braced herself for what she suspected might be a stern dressing-down.

  According to the gossip, and verified by Rita’s father who knew about such things, Major Marshall was an Oxford graduate who, before the war, had designed and built aircraft for the RAF, as well as for the burgeoning number of private flying enthusiasts. She and her husband, who was a hugely respected Wing Commander at the local airfield, had run this successful business together. Now Patricia was in sole charge of the government contracts to build aeroplane parts in this area, and took her duties very seriously indeed.

  Closing the door behind her, Rita stood in the small, cramped office and waited nervously for the other woman to tear her off a strip – or worse, to question her loyalties.

  Major Marshall sat down in the battered chair and eyed Rita across a desk strewn with paperwork and technical drawings. ‘You have an important job here, Smith, and I don’t want it compromised by your relationship with your Italian neighbours.’

  Rita was about to protest when she was silenced by an impatient wave of Major Marshall’s hand. ‘The events of last night were unfortunate. I do not agree with mob rule – never have. But the fact is we are at war with Italy and, as with all enemy foreign nationals living in this country, it is the law to take them into custody.’

  ‘But Antonino has lived here since he was a boy, and Roberto’s a British citizen. They had no right to arrest him.’

  The Major took a deep breath and eyed Rita down her long, patrician nose. ‘I suggest you make sure you are familiar with the salient facts before you make such wild statements.’

  Rita frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  The older woman stood, clasped her hands behind her back and stared out through the heavily taped window to the yard in front of the shed and the enormous barrage balloons that swayed above it. ‘Because of their connection with you, I have made enquiries,’ she said, ‘and it appears the Minelli son was actually born in Naples.’

  Rita stared at her in shock. ‘That’s not right,’ she protested. ‘Louise has always . . .’

  The Major turned from the window, her impatience clear. ‘It is of no matter to you, Smith, and we are wasting valuable time discussing things that don’t concern either of us. Go back to your work and don’t rise to the baiting of the other women. Not everyone feels the same as Aggie Rawlings, and last night’s shocking events will soon become of less interest as this war progresses.’

  She relented somewhat with a stiff little smile. ‘You are a valuable member of my team despite your youth, Smith. It would be a shame to blot your copybook now.’

  Rita knew better than to speak and, at the other woman’s nod of dismissal, she hurried out of the office and headed to the welding bay which was at the far end of the enormous shed.r />
  May was already busy welding, but on Rita’s approach, she switched off the blow torch and raised the heavy leather visor. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ Rita replied, reaching for the sturdy gloves. ‘But Major Patricia has her beady eyes on us, so we’d better get to work. I’ll tell you more during our lunch break.’

  ‘All right, but don’t let them upset you, Rita. Their opinions don’t matter a jot.’

  Rita shot her a grin and, ignoring the sly glances of the others, she fastened the heavy leather hooded visor over her head, pulled on the thick gloves and sturdy apron and adjusted the oxyacetylene supply. Having tested the strength of the flame coming from the blowtorch, she focused her attention on welding the two pieces of metal together that would form an intrinsic part of an aircraft wing.

  As the blindingly bright sparks flew and the sweat began to sting her eyes beneath the stifling visor, her thoughts kept returning to Louise and the lie she and Papa Tino had maintained for almost twenty years. It made no sense, and she was impatient for her shift to be over so she could get the truth from Louise.

  Beach View Boarding House was in one of the many terraces of Victorian villas that climbed the hill from the seafront on the eastern side of Cliffehaven. It was not aptly named, for the view of the sea could only be glimpsed from the corner of one of the top-floor bedroom windows.

  Tall and narrow above the two basement rooms and scullery, its depth provided six other bedrooms, a bathroom, dining room and kitchen. The garden at the back housed the outside lav, a coal bunker and shed, and the ugly, rather menacing hump of the Anderson shelter. The washing line was stretched between poles to hang over the neat rows of vegetables that had replaced the lawn, and every inch of fence was covered with sprouting beans, peas and tomato plants.

  The boarding house was conveniently close to Camden Road, where there was a small row of shops, the school where Anne taught, a pub, the fire station, clothing factory and the hospital. Cliffehaven’s High Street and main shopping centre could be accessed at the far end of Camden Road, but it was a steep climb to get to the top of it, and most of Peggy’s neighbours preferred the easier option of shopping locally where they were registered for their rations.

  It was almost lunchtime and Peggy was peeling potatoes. The elderly Mrs Finch was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table, and Ron was outside weeding his vegetable plot, his every move closely watched by Harvey, his shaggy lurcher. Charlie and Bob were at school, Cissy was rehearsing for her show and everyone else was at work. Jim was not on duty in the projection room of the Odeon cinema until this evening, but he’d left the house several hours ago – no doubt up to something he shouldn’t be.

  She cut the potato into chunks and dropped them in the saucepan of salted water, then stood gazing out of the window at nothing in particular as she let her thoughts ramble. She had known Jim was a rogue when she’d married him, and despite his roving eye and penchant for a dodgy deal, Peggy still adored the Irish charmer But she did wish he wouldn’t sail so close to the wind. Black marketeering was illegal, and if he was caught, then it would be prison or enforced enlistment. At over forty, with experience of war the first time round and used to his home comforts, she doubted he’d appreciate either.

  Pulling her thoughts together, she reached for the kettle that always stood filled and ready on the side of the Kitchener range that she’d spent half the morning blacking and polishing. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mrs Finch?’

  There was no reply. Mrs Finch had turned off her hearing aid – not that it made much difference, the damned thing was useless most of the time. Peggy gave a wry smile, wiped her hands on her wrap-round apron and reached for the cups and saucers.

  ‘I think I’ll make a cup of tea,’ said Mrs Finch as she set the paper aside. ‘Reading all that news has made me thirsty.’

  ‘The kettle’s already on the boil. Do you want a biscuit?’

  Mrs Finch frowned as she twiddled with her hearing aid. ‘I didn’t know tea could spoil,’ she muttered, ‘but if you’re prepared to risk it, then so am I.’

  Peggy chuckled. Conversations with Mrs Finch were always confusing, but at least they brought a smile. She poured the water over the leaves, dragged the knitted cosy over the brown china pot and sat down.

  Mrs Finch was aptly named, for she was birdlike and twittered a great deal, especially when Jim and Ron were around. But Peggy felt a deep affection for the old lady and was glad she could make her last years more comfortable by bringing her into her home and making her part of the family. She had been worried the war would unsettle her, but it appeared she’d discovered a new lease of life with the house so full of young people, and Peggy could only hope that would last.

  As they waited for the tea to mash, Peggy dug her packet of Park Drive out of her apron pocket, lit one and tried to relax. But there were so many things to think about, what with the wedding only three days away, that she found it impossible. She gazed around her kitchen, noted the worn lino, the faded oilcloth on the table, the flaking paint on the window frames and the dust lining the shelves next to the range. This was the heart of her home and although it was shabby, and a world away from her sister Doris’s pristine kitchen in Havelock Gardens, she drew comfort from it, and the lovely memories it recalled.

  Ron tramped into the kitchen, closely followed by an equally dishevelled Harvey. ‘Can I smell tea brewing?’

  Peggy eyed them in horror. ‘Take your boots off, Ron. You’ve got half a garden of mud on them and I’ve just scrubbed the lino.’

  ‘To be sure, you’re a hard woman, Peggy Reilly,’ he said with a deep sigh, his brogue as strong as ever despite having left Ireland many years before.

  Peggy eyed him with a mixture of exasperation and affection. Ron was a widower of many years and, at sixty-three, was as fit as a butcher’s dog, with strong shoulders and arms and a rather disconcerting habit of wearing the first thing he picked up from the floor each morning. His favourite clothes were baggy corduroy trousers, threadbare sweaters and the large poacher’s coat he wore when he took Harvey up into the hills hunting for game and anything else that might just happen to fall into the many hidden pockets.

  The only times he looked passably smart were when he was in his Defence Volunteers’ uniform, or on his way to court Rosie Braithwaite, who was the middle-aged but very glamorous landlady of the nearby Anchor pub. He’d lusted after her for years, and despite the fact that Rosie was at least ten years younger than him, he remained determined to snare her.

  Peggy wrinkled her nose as Harvey investigated the biscuit tin. ‘You can take him out of here as well,’ she said in disgust. ‘He’s been rolling in something and absolutely stinks.’

  Ron grabbed the dog’s collar and grimaced as the aroma finally hit him. ‘He got in the compost before I could stop him,’ he grumbled. ‘Go on, ye heathen animal – downstairs.’

  Harvey put his tail between his legs and, with a look of utter dejection that was meant to change Peggy’s mind, reluctantly made his way down the steps to the basement scullery where he slumped on the bottom step with a defeated sigh.

  Ron pulled off his boots to reveal unsavoury socks and reached for the cup of tea Peggy had placed in front of him. ‘To be sure, and that hits the spot, so it does,’ he murmured.

  Peggy was about to ask him how the tomato plants were coming on when she heard the front door slam. Jim was back. She looked up as he strode into the room and her pulse gave a little jump as it always did every time she saw him. He was still so handsome with his dark hair and twinkling eyes – how could she ever be cross with him?

  ‘You’ll not believe what happened last night,’ he said without preamble as he flung his cap on the table. ‘And in Cliffehaven of all places.’

  ‘My goodness,’ chirped Mrs Finch as she patted her hair, adjusted her hearing aid, and gazed at him in admiration. ‘Whatever have you been up to, you young rogue?’

  ‘We’ll no doubt find out soon enough
,’ said Peggy dryly as she fetched another cup and saucer, happy to let him have his moment of drama.

  Jim winked at Mrs Finch. ‘To be sure, ’tis not me causing the trouble this time.’

  Mrs Finch frowned, clearly not understanding a word he’d said, and rather than repeat himself, he turned back to Peggy. ‘I was chatting to Alf the butcher,’ he said as she put his tea in front of him. ‘He said the police had to be called and the amount of damage done would probably amount to hundreds of pounds.’

  He blew on his tea, took a sip and grimaced. Reaching for the almost empty bowl of sugar, he tipped most of it into his cup and stirred it vigorously.

  ‘Jim,’ protested Peggy. ‘You’ve got to take it easy on the sugar. It is rationed, you know.’

  ‘War or no war, I’ll not be drinking tea without sugar,’ he declared. ‘And besides, there’s plenty more where that came from.’

  Peggy didn’t want to know about illicit sugar. ‘Never mind all that,’ she replied. ‘I want to hear what sort of trouble had the police out.’

  He looked at her over the lip of his cup, his expression solemn. ‘The local Italian families had their businesses and homes wrecked last night. Alf said Gino and his brothers put up a hell of a fight, but they were outnumbered and the police got there too late to stop the mob from burning down two of their shops.’

  Peggy stiffened. ‘Dear God,’ she breathed. ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘They got the women and children out in time, but two of Gino’s brothers had to be taken to hospital with broken bones.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she gasped. ‘Not here. Not Cliffehaven.’

  Jim slurped his tea. ‘There’s always been a rough element over on the other side of the rail tracks, and they need little excuse to start trouble.’

  ‘What about the Minellis?’ Peggy’s voice was sharp with concern.

  ‘Their café was wrecked, but the mob moved on without setting fire to the place.’ He eyed Peggy over the cup. ‘Rita and Louise are all right, Peg, but that’s not the half of it.’