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Authors: Ellie Dean

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BOOK: Keep Smiling Through
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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 soon.’

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.

He ate the delicious pasta, content just to listen as she chattered away to his parents in fluent Italian. Small and dark-haired, with a raucous laugh and fearsome Irish temper – he guessed a legacy from her mother – Rita Smith had been a part of his life as far back as he could remember. He’d pulled her pigtails at school and teased her with dead frogs, earning himself many a deserved clip round the ear. They’d played in the street together, made secret camps out near the airfield, and sat next to one another in church. Rita was two years younger, but she could give as good as she got, and it had sometimes galled him to discover she could climb trees and race along the cobbles much faster than he – and that she could fight like a boy when necessary and knew more about engines than he’d ever learn.

He bit down on the grin as he finished the pasta and wiped the bowl clean with a bit of bread. Rita was a tomboy, racing about on that infernal motorbike in her leather trousers and ridiculous goggles, and there were times when he wished she’d just be a girl – but, he admitted, he loved her the way she was, and hoped that one day she might think of him as more than a brother, and love him back.

Roberto pushed his plate aside and sipped his wine. He held few illusions about his chances with Rita, for he was no handsome hero, nothing special – just a nineteen-year-old youth who would one day inherit the family café – if it survived the war and the strict rationing which had begun in January. He was of average height with the dark hair of his father and the creamy skin and blue eyes of his mother which, but for fate, might have made him handsome.

He fingered the scar that puckered his brow and eyelid. The childhood accident with a gas boiler had left him blind in his right eye, the scar a permanent reminder of that day. But not all the scars were visible. He was all too aware of the curious looks he still got, of the almost imperceptible shudder of the girls he tried to impress, and the fact that even now it set him apart. For, when he’d gone to enlist, they’d turned him down for active service, and he’d had to watch his friends excitedly leave for war while he had to settle for working in the canteen at the local hospital, and a position with the local Defence Volunteers along with his father and all the other old men.

The bitterness of his situation caught him unawares and he lit a cigarette to mask his emotions. There were others far worse off than he; he should be grateful he hadn’t been blinded in both eyes and had half his face blown off. At least he got to wear a uniform of sorts and was doing his bit to protect the vast sprawl of important factories on the other side of town from enemy raids, which were expected at any moment.

The meal continued in the usual leisurely fashion, even though there was no soft mozzarella cheese, no fruit or dark, rich olives to eat with salty biscuits and slivers of hard, strong-tasting parmesan cheese. The quiet chatter continued around him in the homely, loving atmosphere of the candlelit room and Roberto was reminded of all the other nights he’d sat at this table, and prayed that the war wouldn’t change things too much, and that it would soon be over.

With the blackout curtains closed, the room was like a cave, his mother’s brightly coloured home-made tablecloth, napkins and cushion covers adding a touch of further warmth to the ambient glow of the range and the candles on the table. The room where he’d once played as a toddler on the worn rug before the range was sparsely furnished. Apart from the table and chairs, there were two comfortable armchairs placed before the range, pictures of Naples on the walls, and a treasured statuette of the Madonna and Child taking pride of place on the mantelpiece. To Roberto, who had never been to Naples, it was a tiny corner of Italy, and he knew Rita felt the same, for it had become her second home.

His father finally pushed back from the table and lit a cigarette as Rita and Louise gathered up the dishes and put the kettle on to boil. There was no rich, dark coffee to finish the meal, no little almond
biscotti
to dip in it, but they’d become inured to the English habit of drinking tea – even though it was often as weak as the dishwater in his mother’s kitchen sink.

Antonino was off duty tonight, but Roberto was already dressed in his Defence Volunteer’s uniform, ready to leave the house in an hour’s time for his late-night stint of fire-watch duty on the new factory estate. The nine o’clock news would be on the wireless soon and his father was, as usual, twiddling with the knobs to try and get a better reception. He caught Rita’s eye as she stacked the clean plates in the rack above the wooden draining board, and they shared a knowing grin. Papa was forever messing about with the wireless, and it was a miracle the damn thing still worked at all.

The sound of concert music drifted into the homely room as his mother made a pot of tea and finally sat down. Rita hung the cloth above the range to dry just as the tranquillity was shattered by the sound of heavy bombers taking off from the nearby airfield. They were heading south again for another raid on enemy ports.

They all looked up, not voicing their fears for the young men who flew so bravely towards conflict, but silently praying they would all return safely. There had been no serious enemy attacks on England so far, but with the Nazis now in Denmark, Norway, France, Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands, it could only be a matter of time.

The music came to an end and the pips sounded, heralding the news. They sat facing the wireless which was perched on a cupboard next to the range, hoping beyond hope that for once there would be good tidings.

The solemn announcement stunned them. Italy had declared war on Britain and France.

‘Oh, dear God,’ breathed Louise through trembling fingers. Her blue eyes were bright with tears as she looked at her husband. ‘What does this mean, Tino?’

BOOK: Keep Smiling Through
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