by Ellie Dean
Rita took her hand across the table. ‘I’m sorry, Mamma. Perhaps when he comes home and we’re both a bit older things might change. But for now . . . Well, for now it’s best to keep things simple.’
Louise considered this and then nodded. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘Both of you are too young to make such decisions now. After the war it will be different. Roberto will come home and you will know then that you are right for each other.’ She nodded as if to confirm this. ‘Then everything will be just as it should be – you’ll see.’
Rita kept her thoughts to herself as Louise returned to her cooking.
‘We have cabbage, parsnip and potato cakes tonight. I’m saving everything else for tomorrow.’ She fell silent and dipped her chin. ‘Tino loved my potato cakes,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Mamma mia, how I miss him.’
Rita hurried to her side, saw the tears spilling down her face and took her in her arms. ‘I miss him too,’ she said softly. ‘Come, Mamma, don’t upset yourself.’
Louise gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. ‘You are such a good girl, Rita,’ she murmured through her tears. ‘I thank God every day that you are with me in these terrible times, for I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Ron was swimming against the tide of darkness which seemed determined to ensnare him and pull him into its clutches. He could hear the murmur of voices, the soft squeak of shoes on a polished floor and the rustle of clothing. As he struggled to emerge from this sea of black he caught the tang of disinfectant and the unmistakable smell of hospital.
He shot out of the clinging darkness and opened his eyes. He hated hospitals. He had to get out of here.
‘Granddad, lie still.’
He paused in the act of trying to throw off the restricting sheet and blankets. ‘Anne?’ he asked, bewildered by his surroundings and the fact that he couldn’t see her properly.
‘It’s all right,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve had a nasty bump on the head and the doctors want you to stay in overnight.’
His senses cleared a little and he became aware of the tightness in his chest and the awful pounding in his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he rumbled. ‘Help me get out of here.’
‘You are not going anywhere until I give you permission.’
Ron looked up at the stern face of the middle-aged woman who loomed over him in pristine blue and starched white. ‘I’ll be going whether you like it or not,’ he retorted, struggling to breathe and deal with the pain in his head at the same time.
The heavily starched wings on her cap seemed to stiffen further at his impudence. ‘I’m in charge of this hospital, Mr Reilly. You will do as I say.’ She forcibly tucked in the sheet and blankets, making it impossible for him to move.
‘Sour-faced old baggage,’ he muttered with a glower.
‘Sticks and stones, Mr Reilly. Sticks and stones.’ With that, she rammed a mask over his face, checked the dials on the oxygen tank and then marched purposefully back to the other end of the ward.
He ripped the mask away. ‘Who the divil was that old battleaxe?’ he rasped.
‘Matron Billings,’ said Anne, fighting back a giggle. ‘She’s a bit of a tartar, isn’t she?’ She reached for the mask and gently put it over his mouth and nose. ‘I know you hate this, but it will help you breathe more easily.’
Ron’s chest felt heavy, and his head was hurting so badly it was difficult to think. But Anne was right, blast her, his breathing did feel easier with this blessed thing on his face. ‘What happened?’ he asked, his voice muffled by the hated mask. ‘Why am I in this godforsaken place?’
Anne told him about how he’d come home carrying the injured pilot and then hit his head as he dropped in a dead faint on the kitchen floor. ‘You’re quite the hero, Grandpa,’ she said fondly as she took his hand. ‘That young pilot has you to thank for saving his life.’
‘The boy’s here too?’
She nodded. ‘In another ward. He’s broken his leg in three places and lost a lot of blood, but he’s young and strong and will pull through.’ Her expression grew solemn. ‘Grandpa, the doctor thinks you may have pneumonia. It could be a while before you can come home again. Please be good and do as they ask.’
Ron looked at her over the mask, and was about to tell her not to treat him like a child when he had an awful thought. He ripped the mask from his face and grabbed her hand. ‘The pheasants and duck,’ he rasped, ‘and the stuff in the shed.’
‘I was wondering when you were going to remember,’ she replied with a soft smile as she rescued the mask and put it back over his face. ‘It was a close-run thing. Dad shut Harvey in the shed so his barking would keep everyone out of there, and he’d only just finished hiding everything else when the ambulance and police arrived.’
Ron’s heart was thudding. ‘Police?’ he managed.
Anne nodded and patted his hand. ‘It’s all right. It was Sergeant Williams, and he was only there because of the downed pilot.’ She eyed him sternly. ‘But he did take Dad aside and asked him if he knew anything about ducks. It seems Lord Cliffe has made a complaint about someone poaching from his pond.’
Ron feigned ignorance. ‘Harvey caught that duck on his own. I have no idea where he got it.’
‘Of course you don’t.’ She grinned. ‘I don’t know, Grandpa. Mum’s only been gone a matter of hours and look where we are. Let’s hope there won’t be any more dramatics before she gets back.’
Ron closed his eyes. It was a good thing Jim had been quick off the mark, but those cigarettes and bottles of drink would have to be moved – and soon. He squirmed against the tight bindings of sheet and blanket and wrestled to free himself of the mask. ‘Tell your father I need to see him,’ he said urgently. ‘And it has to be tonight.’
‘Visiting hour is almost over. It will have to wait until tomorrow.’
He grabbed her hand. ‘Tell him to move the stuff from the shed. Rosie will put it in her cellar for me. She’s done it before.’
‘He’s already started on that,’ she said. ‘Honestly, Grandpa, is it worth it for all the trouble it causes?’
Ron was too weary and in too much pain to reply, but he would have told her that it was – for the excitement of putting one over on Sergeant Williams and Lord Cliffe and, more to the point, for the money that contraband would bring in.
Chapter Eight
RITA HAD STAYED at Louise’s as she usually did when their nights off coincided, and she had spent it restlessly in Roberto’s bedroom, fretting over her application and Louise’s reaction to it.
She lay in the comfortable bed in almost total darkness – it was still very early and the sun had yet to rise and penetrate the thick blackout curtains – and tried not to think where Roberto and Tino might be at this moment. There had been so many rumours, but no one seemed to really know or care where they had been sent. And that made her very sad.
She could just make out the bulk of the wardrobe and the heavy chest of drawers where Louise had carefully tidied all of Roberto’s clothes away, and knew, without being able to see, that his shaving kit and hairbrush still stood on the top of the chest, and his dressing gown hung from the back of the door. They were stark reminders that he’d been snatched away without even these most basic personal possessions, and it made her angry to think of how badly he and Papa had been treated.
The door creaked open and light flooded in from the gas lamps in the main room as Louise stepped over the threshold. ‘Happy birthday, Rita. Time to get up and open your presents.’
She swung out of bed and returned Louise’s hug. ‘Gosh, I don’t feel another year older,’ she said, doing her best to dispel the weariness with a bright smile.
‘You don’t look it either,’ replied Louise, running her fingers through the tangled mop of Rita’s hair. ‘Come on, hurry and get washed and dressed. I’ve made a special breakfast, and there’s a pile of presents waiting in the other room.’
Rita sniffed the air. ‘Can I smell bacon?’
Louise
smiled. ‘You can – and that’s not all. Hurry up.’
Rita cleaned her teeth and washed in the kitchen sink then hurriedly got dressed in a clean shirt, sweater and dungarees. The delicious aroma of frying bacon made her mouth water as she tugged on thick socks and ran a brush through her hair. The weariness had fled, and she felt ready for her special day as she excitedly began to open her presents.
There was a lovely warm sweater in the softest moss green from Louise, a pretty winceyette nightdress from Peggy, and a pair of beautiful leather gloves from her father accompanied by a letter and a silky scarf. ‘My goodness,’ she breathed. ‘I will look smart.’
‘Only if you don’t wear the sweater and gloves on that bike of yours,’ said Louise. ‘I spent too long knitting that to have it ruined with oil.’
Rita gave her a huge hug. ‘Thanks, Mamma. It’s beautiful and I shall take enormous care of everything, I promise.’
‘There is one more gift,’ said Louise, taking a neat package out of the table drawer. ‘Papa Tino saw them months ago and he and Roberto agreed they would be perfect for this very special birthday.’
Rita carefully undid the lovely red ribbon and opened the box. ‘Oh,’ she breathed. ‘How lovely. How simply . . .’ She could feel the onset of tears as she took the pearl earrings out of the box. ‘They’re perfect, Mamma,’ she sighed, holding them to her ears to get the effect in the mirror on the wall, ‘but Papa Tino shouldn’t have spent so much.’
‘It was no matter to Tino,’ said Louise. ‘You are his little girl, and he wanted you to have something to mark your journey into womanhood.’
‘I’ll have to get my ears pierced,’ Rita replied, looking this way and that and admiring her reflection in the spotted glass.
‘I can do that tonight,’ said Louise. ‘I have some simple gold rings you can wear until the holes heal. My daughters used them when I did theirs.’
Rita wasn’t at all sure if she wanted Louise sticking a hot needle through her earlobes, but she would just have to grin and bear it if she wanted to wear those gorgeous earrings. She carefully put them back in their nest of cotton and closed the box.
‘All the excitement has made me ravenous, Mamma. Where’s that breakfast you promised?’
Louise carefully took the two plates out of the warming section of the range, and proudly placed them on the table.
Rita gasped at the sight of half a sausage, a rasher of bacon, fried bread and – wonders of wonders – a beautiful golden egg. ‘Where on earth did you manage to get this lot?’ she breathed. ‘It must have taken all your coupons and cost half a week’s wage.’
Louise sat down and picked up her knife and fork. ‘That’s for me to know,’ she said smiling back. ‘It’s worth it just to see you smile, and we both deserve a treat now and then.’
‘Thank you, Mamma,’ Rita said softly.
‘Eat,’ she ordered, waving her fork at her and sniffing back her tears. ‘It’s getting cold.’
Several minutes later their plates were empty and Rita was mopping up the last of her delicious breakfast with a hunk of bread. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a meal, and was feeling pleasantly full and rather sleepy.
‘You must go,’ said Louise, as she cleared the plates. ‘It’s getting late. I’ll see you and May back here at five sharp.’
Rita struggled into her heavy boots and tied the laces before slipping on her coat. ‘I’ll take the bike so I can get there and back quicker. I’ve got enough petrol.’
‘You be careful. Now go, and leave me to prepare our special supper before I leave for work.’
Rita kissed her goodbye, ran down the back stairs and quickly got the motorbike out of the garage. There were no letters in the box below the slit in the door, but then it was hours before the postman was due to deliver. Aware of how early it was, and that most sensible people would still be tucked up in bed, she pushed the bike to the end of the road before starting it.
As she rode through the twilight of the quiet streets she experienced a rush of hope and excitement. She was eighteen at last, and the only thing that would make this day even more perfect than it already was, was a letter from the WAAFs telling her they wanted her to join them.
Setting aside all the doubts that had plagued her ever since she’d filled in that form, she breathed in the cold December air and concentrated on the deep, satisfying rumble of the Norton’s engine, and the sense of power it always gave her to be in command of such a machine.
The factory was a hive of industry despite the hour, with the night shift leaving and the early shift drifting in. May was already busy welding and gave her a wave in greeting. ‘Happy birthday,’ she shouted above the noise. ‘We’ll catch up during the break.’
Rita grinned back and nodded. She hung her gas mask box and coat on her hook and placed her packet of sandwiches and flask of tea on her bench. Reaching for the protective leather apron, she slipped it over her head and began to tie it round her waist.
‘Good morning, Rita.’ Vi Charlton emerged from the small canteen where she worked as a cook, and was pulling on her coat and scarf. She gave a vast yawn. ‘I’m ready for me bed, and that’s a fact. I hate working nights.’
Rita stifled her own yawn. ‘I’m not too fond of these early starts either, but someone’s got to do it.’
Vi placed a beret neatly over her glossy hair. ‘I saw you talking to Chuck Howard yesterday,’ she said, her eyes glinting with curiosity. ‘Are you stepping out with him?’
Rita laughed. ‘He was only asking about the bike, Vi.’
Vi regarded her evenly. ‘You’re a pretty girl, Rita. There’s no harm in having a bit of fun.’ She came closer so those nearby couldn’t overhear. ‘Did he ask you out?’
‘Just for a drink, but I turned him down.’
‘But why?’
Rita shrugged. ‘I’d come straight from work and looked a fright.’ She grinned back at Vi. ‘It was a good thing I did turn him down,’ she confided. ‘You should have heard Louise hit the roof when I told her.’
Vi pulled on knitted gloves and wound the scarf more tightly about her throat. ‘You’re young and free and should make your own choices,’ she said flatly. ‘Louise should realise that and not keep you tied to her apron strings.’
Rita felt a jolt of defensiveness. ‘She’s only looking out for me, Vi.’
‘Is she?’ Vi arched a finely plucked brow. ‘Or is she looking out for herself now she’s only got you to rely on?’
Rita bristled. ‘That’s unfair, Vi. She’s been like a mother to me and we rely on each other.’
Vi gave a deep sigh. ‘I know, and I didn’t mean to cause offence, but you have a life to live, Rita – and it seems to me you’re wasting it by hiding away with Louise.’
‘I think you’ve said enough,’ warned Rita.
Vi’s pretty eyes clouded. ‘Yes, I probably have. But think about what I’ve said, Rita. You’ll thank me for it in the end.’ With that, she hitched her gas mask box and handbag over her shoulder and stepped out into the dawn.
Rita was seething as she snatched up the visor and put it over her head until it settled firmly, and then donned the heavy gloves. Vi had a cheek, she thought. It was all very well for her – she had nobody to worry about but herself since her children had been evacuated. And as for suggesting Louise was holding her back – well, that was just ridiculous. She picked up the blowtorch, examined the job in hand and set to work.
It was breaktime and Rita and May had found a relatively quiet corner to eat their sandwiches. ‘Happy birthday, Rita,’ muttered May through a mouthful of bread and Spam. ‘I’ve got you a present, but I’m saving it until tonight.’
‘You didn’t have to get me anything,’ Rita protested.
May shrugged. ‘I wanted to, and anyway, this could be the last birthday we’ll share until this war’s over, so why not make it special?’ She regarded Rita from beneath her heavy blonde fringe. ‘What’s Louise doing for tea tonight? I l
ove her cooking.’
‘I don’t know.’ Rita chuckled. ‘She’s keeping it a secret.’ She went on to tell her friend about her lovely presents. ‘Louise promised to pierce my ears for me, but I’m not sure I’m brave enough.’ She eyed May’s earlobes where tiny gold studs glistened. ‘Does it hurt very much?’
‘Yeah, a bit at first, but you soon get over it.’
‘Smith. In my office, please.’
Rita looked up at Major Patricia and quailed. What on earth had she done wrong now? She set aside her sandwich and, with a grimace at May, hastened to follow the striding figure into the office.
‘Shut the door.’
Rita shut the door and waited nervously as the older woman reached for some papers on her desk.
‘I have had a letter from the Air Force Administrators,’ she said without preamble. ‘They have asked for a reference.’
Rita swallowed as excitement fluttered in her midriff. ‘For me?’ she managed.
‘I’d hardly be discussing this with you if it wasn’t,’ the Major replied dryly. She eyed Rita sternly. ‘Are you unhappy here, Smith?’
‘Not at all,’ she stammered, ‘it’s just that I . . . I . . .’
‘Want something more exciting than welding,’ the other woman finished for her. She clasped her hands behind her back and stuck out her chest. She looked formidable. ‘You have an important posting here, Smith. Not many young women are as efficient and skilled as you, and the RAF relies absolutely on their aircraft being fitted out to the highest standard.’
Rita really didn’t know what to say.
‘I see from your records that you are eighteen today and therefore entitled to sign up to any of the forces. But before I send this reference off, I want you to be absolutely sure you wish to join the WAAFs and not continue your sterling efforts here.’
Rita was quaking, but she realised that in a backhanded sort of way she’d been given enormous praise by this hard-to-please woman. ‘Thank you, Major,’ she managed, not daring to meet those gimlet eyes. ‘I have enjoyed working here, but I’m quite sure about joining the WAAFs. It’s something I’ve wanted to do ever since war was declared.’