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Some Sunny Day
Annie Groves


Forbidden love and family secrets In World War Two Liverpool in the heartrending new saga from the author of Goodnight Sweetheart.Rosie has grown up in the heart of Liverpool's Italian community, treated as one of their own. With a father away at sea and a mother more interested in other men than her only daughter, the bighearted Grenellis are the closest thing Rosie has to a proper family.But when war breaks out, and Italy becomes the Allies' adversary, everything changes. The community is torn in two: friends become enemies, neighbours become traitors and Rosie is left uncertain of just who she can trust.As war intensifies, and Liverpool is subjected to relentless bombings, things become more perilous. When a devastating attack leaves her mother dead, Rosie is sent to live with her aunt in Edge Hill. Her father is feared missing at sea and her aunt lets slip a family secret which has unimaginable consequences…Fleeing her cruel aunt, Rosie becomes a Land Girl and falls in love – with someone utterly forbidden. As bombs drop and families are ripped apart by conflict at home and abroad, can they find happiness or will war stand in their way?






Some Sunny Day


ANNIE GROVES









Copyright (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

This paperback edition 2007

1

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2006

Copyright © Annie Groves 2006

Annie Groves asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins eBooks.

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007279630

Version: 2017-09-12


To all those who lived through WW2

– and to all those who did not.




Contents




Title Page (#uf801dcdf-1FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Copyright (#uf801dcdf-2FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Dedication (#uf801dcdf-3FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)







Part One: June 1940 (#uf801dcdf-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter One (#uf801dcdf-8FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Two (#uf801dcdf-9FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Three (#uf801dcdf-10FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Four (#uf801dcdf-11FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chaprer Five (#uf801dcdf-12FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Six (#uf801dcdf-13FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Seven (#uf801dcdf-14FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Eight (#uf801dcdf-15FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Part Two: October 1940 (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Part Three: February 1941 (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)Part Four: Summer 1941 (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)By the same Author (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



PART ONE (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)



June 1940 (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)


ONE (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

‘’Ere, Rosie, you live down in Little Italy with the Eyeties, don’t you? Only it’s just bin on the wireless that that Mussolini of theirs has only gone and sided with ruddy ’Itler, just like it’s bin saying in the papers ’e would. I heard about it when I took Mrs V.’s parcels to the post office for ’er.’ Nancy, rushing into the small sewing room at the back of Elegant Modes, announced the news with malicious relish. ‘Fascists, that’s what they all are, living over here, spying on us. If you ask me, the whole lot of them want locking up.’

‘That’s not fair, Nancy,’ Rosie Price objected, her brown eyes brilliant with emotion, and her cheeks flushing as she put down the dress she was holding and determinedly faced the other girl. ‘Most of the Italians in Liverpool have been here for years, and I know for a fact that a lot of the boys from the families near us were amongst the first to join up when war was announced.’

Nancy tossed her head and eyed Rosie resentfully. Until Rosie had started working at the dress shop on Bold Street just after Christmas, she had been the prettiest girl there and had grown used to the other girls both admiring and envying her. Mrs Verey, who owned Elegant Modes, had even asked Nancy to model the dresses now and then if a customer couldn’t quite make up her mind.

Mrs Verey bought her stock with her regular customers in mind. For daytime there were smart tweed suits for the winter with neat little fur collars, to be worn with pretty knitted twinsets, and blouses trimmed with lace; for the summer, short-sleeved cotton and silk dresses and good navy-blue lightweight coats. She also carried a range of truly beautiful evening frocks, in silks and satins, with full panelled skirts flaring out from tightly fitted bodices. Most of the frocks came with matching wraps and pretty little evening bags. These dresses, like the wedding dresses she also sold, were kept in special glass-fronted wardrobes in their own special ‘salon’. And since Rosie, with her tiny waist and her curves, her thick, naturally curly dark hair, and the dimples that softened her cheeks when her mouth curved into a smile, had come to work at the salon, it was she who Mrs Verey chose and whose inherent style the other girls were now trying to copy.

Rosie loved the expensive fabrics of the clothes Mrs Verey sold and searched the stalls in St John’s market for offcuts and bargains – pretty pieces of lace and unusual buttons with which to dress up her own clothes. She favoured neat, simple styles rather than frills and ruffles, preferring to buy plain things she could put her own stamp on with some pretty trimmings: a lace collar, or a contrasting belt. Mrs Verey had said approvingly, ‘You’ve got a proper sense of style, Rosie, and no mistake. That’s something that can never be bought.’

‘Well, you might be all pally with them, Rosie, but there’s a lot of folk in Liverpool who are a bit more patriotic,’ Nancy announced sharply. ‘My dad was saying only the other night as ’ow we don’t need the likes of Eyeties and Fascists over here eating our rations and that.’

Rosie had no idea why Nancy kept picking on her the way she did. From her very first day at the shop, Nancy had gone out of her way to be unkind to her and get her into trouble. Rosie could still remember how, on her first morning, Nancy had told Rosie to iron a fragile satin dress satin side up, which would have ruined the garment completely if one of the other girls hadn’t stopped her just in time. When Rosie had said innocently that she was following Nancy’s instructions Nancy had claimed that Rosie must have misunderstood her. But it hadn’t been until later in the week when Ruth, one of the girls, had overheard Nancy telling Rosie that Mrs Verey wanted her and that she was to go down to the showroom right away, that Rosie realised that it wasn’t kindness that was motivating Nancy to take an interest in her but quite the opposite.

‘Rosie, you just tek no notice of anything Nancy tells yer to do, wi’out checking wi’ one of us first,’ Ruth had warned her. ‘We all know that Mrs Verey doesn’t allow us girls to go down into the showroom in our workroom clothes, and looking untidy. I reckon Nancy has a mind to get you into trouble so that Mrs Verey decides to get rid of you. She’s allus bin a bit like that, has Nancy. She’s got a real nasty streak to her, if you ask me.’

Now Rosie tried to avoid Nancy and not get drawn into arguments with her. She didn’t want to risk losing her job, not whilst she was still only a trainee assistant, to give her job its proper name. Rosie’s working day was filled with a variety of jobs that included making sure the floors were kept free of dust, especially in the workroom, learning how to press the delicate fabrics, making sure that clothes that had been tried on by customers were put back properly in the correct place, and just occasionally, under the stern eye of one of the more senior girls, being allowed into the shop to serve those customers who had come in for some small item such as a pair of stockings or some handkerchiefs. But now she couldn’t just stand there and let Nancy get away with saying what she had.

‘That’s not fair,’ Rosie repeated. ‘Some of the families, like the Volantes, the D’Annunzios, the Santangellis and the Chiappes, have been in Liverpool for fifty years and more.’ Although she wasn’t Italian, Rosie had grown up amongst the immigrant Italian families who inhabited that part of the city known as ‘Little Italy’, the heart of the Italian community in Liverpool. Rosie knew how proud Liverpool’s Italians were, both of their roots in the Picinisco area of Italy, poor farming country between Naples and Rome, and of their English home from home. The first immigrants, men in the main, driven out of their home country by poverty, to look for work to support their families wherever they could find it, had worked hard, saving what they could to send home, and returning there in the summer to help tend the family farms. As soon as they were able to do so, they had brought to Liverpool their wives and children, and a tradition had built up of the Italians marrying within their own community and adhering as much as they could to the ways of the old country.

The Italian immigrants had always been made welcome and were able to find work because they possessed wonderful artistic talents. Rosie had been told how in the early days of their arrival, in Lionel Street, a number of Italian families had converted their cellars into little workshops where they made beautiful and intricate figurines and statues, sometimes working in marble. These skills were passed down from one generation to the next. Those unskilled men amongst the earlier immigrants had been prepared to undertake almost any type of work to support their families. One of their occupations was knife sharpening, and Rosie had often heard how proud the Gianelli and the Sartorri families were of the fact that from humble beginnings they had developed commercial businesses within the city, offering their knife-sharpening services to hotels and restaurants.

As new immigrants arrived from Italy, those who were already established welcomed them, taking them in as lodgers and helping them to establish themselves in turn, so that a closely knit community began to develop. Ever watchful for an opportunity to earn a living, one man, Vincenzo Volante, set up in business hiring out handcarts and larger carts for transporting barrel organs. Vincenzo could speak several languages and so he took on the responsibility of helping the newcomers who could not speak English.

As la Nonna, the grandmother of Rosie’s best friend, Bella, had told Rosie with great pride, the Italians coming from the homeland were extremely gifted artistically and musically, and soon the streets of Little Italy were warmed by the songs of the old country and the laughter of its people.

Those who pushed their barrel organs around the city entertaining the public, quickly realised that there was a market for the ice cream they had enjoyed at home in Italy, and so certain families set up small businesses in their homes making ice cream. Raphael Santangelli in particular was famous for his ice-cream business, starting from humble beginnings in Gerard Street, and selling his ice cream first from handcarts pushed around the streets, and then, as the business became more successful and he could afford them, via three-wheeler ice-cream carts. Now the Santangellis were well known and respected, and their motorised ice-cream vans were seen everywhere in the city. La Nonna was very proud of her own family’s distant connection to the Santangellis, to whom she was a cousin several times removed. She had boasted to Rosie, though, that her own recipe for ice cream was just that little bit better than that of the Santangellis, owing to a ‘secret’ extra special ingredient she had learned at her own grandmother’s knee and which she only intended to pass on to her daughters on her deathbed.

The Chiappe family was also famous for its ice-cream business. They had a well-known ice-cream shop near the Gaiety Cinema in Scotland Road, and another branch at 8 Feather Road, owned by Angelo Chiappe, who was a great friend of Bella’s father. In the winter, when no one wanted to buy ice cream, the sellers sold roasted chestnuts instead.

Many Italian men found work in the catering trade in Liverpool’s hotels, and in 1939, when Romeo Imundi had retired from Romeo’s, the grocery store owned and run by the Imundi family on Springfield Street, the whole community had turned out to wave him off back to Picinisco.

Knowing what she did about the length of time the Italian families had been established in Liverpool, and just how much they had contributed to the city in different ways, and how much they cared about it and about one another, it shocked and disgusted Rosie to hear Nancy speaking so nastily about them, and she was fully prepared to say so. Nancy, though, wasn’t prepared to listen.

‘They’re still Eyeties, though, aren’t they?’ she insisted.

‘Don’t pay no mind to Nancy, Rosie,’ Ruth said quietly as Rosie carefully hung up the dress, ready to start work on it in the morning. ‘I dare say Nancy’s had her fair share of Gonnelli’s ice cream and Podestra’s chips in her time.’

Rosie managed a small smile, more out of politeness than anything else. It made her so angry when she knew how hard the Italians worked to hear them being run down so unfairly.

‘Nancy’s being so unkind, Ruth,’ she replied fiercely. ‘You should have seen how proud the Italian folk in our street were when their boys joined up. St Joseph’s Boxing Club was practically empty, so many of the boys who go there had enlisted. The Fuscos a few doors down from us lost their only son at Dunkirk,’ she added quietly. Her eyes clouded at the thought.

The whole country was still in shock over the dreadful news they had all heard about the British Expeditionary Force, the very best of the country’s experienced soldiers. Trapped when Hitler had swept into Belgium and then France, the British soldiers had been forced to retreat to the French beaches of Dunkirk. Thousands of them had died there and thousands upon thousands more would also have perished or been taken prisoner had it not been for the brave men who had risked their own lives over and over again to sail across the Channel to bring their fellow countrymen safely home.

Rosie had seen the newsreels, showing that valiant rescue operation. She had seen too the heart-wrenching celluloid images of the haggard, grey-faced men in their uniforms, heads bent in shame and defeat. Mr Churchill’s stirring words, though, had raised everyone’s spirits and given the fighting men of Great Britain back their pride, as he had turned defeat into pride that so many brave men had been saved. But the terrible events of Dunkirk had left a shadow over the whole country, along with the fear of Hitler’s threatened invasion.

Just thinking about the war made Rosie feel so afraid. And not just for herself. Her father was a merchant seaman, sailing under the ‘Red Duster’, as the Red Ensign was nicknamed. All through the winter, merchant ships had made their way across the Atlantic in convoys, bringing much-needed supplies to the country, but the loss of life and shipping had been severe, and Rosie could never relax when her father was at sea.

Although the dress shop closed at five o’clock, the girls in the sewing room were expected to work on until six. Normally Rosie, who as a trainee was mainly working on alterations to start with, loved her work, adjusting pretty clothes in beautiful material, coming up with interesting trimmings and using her skill as a seamstress to excellent effect, but tonight she was anxious to leave so that she could hurry home and find out more about the news Nancy had referred to. Their Italian neighbours had been reluctant to talk about the likelihood of Mussolini joining Hitler. All of them still had family back in Italy, and Rosie, knowing how close-knit Italian families were, could only imagine how anxious they must be feeling.

The shock of being at war, and most especially the Dunkirk evacuation, was at the forefront of everyone’s mind and had brought a sombreness to people, but it had also brought a resoluteness, Rosie recognised, as she stepped out into the early evening sunshine and headed for home. Rosie’s parents rented a small house in Gerard Street. Like the children of their Italian neighbours, Rosie had attended Holy Cross school and worshipped at Holy Cross itself.

It wouldn’t take her very long to walk home, and although her stomach growled hungrily as she drew level with her favourite chippy, she refused to give in to the temptation to go in, telling herself as she turned into Springfield Street that she’d come back later after she’d seen Bella and get herself a tuppenny dinner. It wasn’t likely there’d be dinner on the table, after all. Her mother, Christine, wasn’t the domesticated sort, and Rosie had learned from a young age that when her father was at sea she had to look after herself. Rosie expected that right now Christine would be round at the Grenellis’, smoking and laughing with the men, whilst Maria bustled around her kitchen making dinner for everyone. Sometimes Rosie found it hard to understand what her undomesticated, often hard to please mother had in common with gentle, homely Maria, and why Maria put up with a friend who was as difficult and selfish as Rosie knew her mother to be. As a little girl she had often wished secretly that Maria was her mother, loving the way she would sweep her up onto her lap and cuddle her, something Christine never did.

Her mother practically lived at the Grenellis’ when Rosie’s father was away at sea. Rosie imagined that Christine, who had left her large family of brothers, sisters and cousins behind when she had left Preston to come and live in Liverpool as a young wife, missed them so much that she naturally preferred the hustle and bustle of her neighbours’ house to the solitude of her own home. Rosie knew how her father had fallen in love with her mother at first sight when he had been visiting a fellow sailor who lived in that town, and how he had refused to take no for an answer and had finally persuaded her mother to marry him. She had often complained to Rosie, though, about how lonely she had felt when she had first arrived in Liverpool, knowing no one there but her new husband, who had promptly returned to sea, leaving her on her own. It had been the Grenellis – especially sweet-natured, gentle Maria – who had taken pity on her and taken her under their wing, inviting her into their home and offering her their friendship.

Rosie suspected that it was because of that friendship, and her reluctance to be parted from such longstanding and kind friends, that her mother had refused all her father’s attempts to persuade her to move out of the Gerard Street area, with its small shabby houses, and up to a bigger and smarter house on Chestnut Close between Edge Hill and Wavertree where his widowed sister already lived. Her father was a hard worker and, unlike many other seamen, neither drank nor gambled away his wages, so they had the money to go, but her mother wouldn’t even entertain the idea of moving.

Rosie had grown up hearing her parents arguing about it, and then pulling the bed covers over her ears to block out the sound. She often felt guilty for loving her father so much more than she did her mother. But her mother treated her sometimes as though she resented her rather than loved her. It wasn’t that she was ever actively unkind to her, Rosie admitted; her mother simply wasn’t like that. But neither was she the kind of mother who openly showed tenderness and love for her child, and Rosie had learned very young not to go to her mother for cuddles. If she did, Christine was more than likely to refuse to pick her up, telling her instead to go away.

Things were better between them now that Rosie was almost grown up, and these days Rosie found herself behaving towards her mother as though she were the child, and in need of looking after, as well as taking over most of the domestic responsibilities.

The love she hadn’t got from her mother, though, she certainly had received from her adoptive Italian family. Maria had no children of her own but her comfortable knee and warm arms had always been there for Rosie throughout her childhood. And whilst her mother had often spoken critically and sometimes even unkindly to her friend about her plumpness and her homely ways, Rosie loved Maria deeply. She had sensed too, in that way that children can, that Maria loved her. It had been Maria she could remember singing lullabies to her and telling her stories, Maria to whom she had wanted to hurry after school so that she could tell her about her day.

Giovanni and Lucia, Bella’s grandparents, had first come to Liverpool as a very young couple, with the encouragement of other family members already living in the city. Both Maria and Sofia had been born in Liverpool, although Giovanni had insisted on them marrying young men from his and Lucia’s old village. Maria and Sofia had both been new brides at the same time as Christine, and Rosie’s first memories were of being in the Grenellis’ busy, aromatic kitchen, playing with Bella whilst the grown-ups worked and gossiped around the kitchen table. Rosie soaked up the Italian language like la Nonna’s famous ciabatta soaked up the pungent olive oil that was lovingly sent from Italy four times a year. La Nonna, as the whole family called Lucia, could speak English but she preferred her native tongue and, especially whilst cooking or eating, the rest of the family followed suit. Over the years, sitting on the floor, listening attentively, wide-eyed and enthralled, Rosie learned the history of the Grenelli family from la Nonna.

Rosie had been so entranced by la Nonna’s stories that she had asked her school teacher, Miss Fletcher, to show her where Naples and Rome were in the dusty, slightly worn pages of a school atlas, and had then lovingly traced the whole country of Italy from that map, marking out first the cities la Nonna had named, and then the Picinisco area itself. When she had seen what Rosie was doing, Miss Fletcher had helped her to chart a dotted line all the way from Picinisco across the sea to Liverpool. Then when this had been done, under Miss Fletcher’s guidance, Rosie had transferred the tracing onto a clean piece of white paper, carefully marking out the cities of Rome and Naples in different coloured pencils before drawing in Picinisco itself. When she had proudly given her map to la Nonna she had been rewarded with tearful delight and a good many hugs and kisses.

La Nonna had so many stories to tell about the old country and the old ways of life, and about the hardship her people had endured in their journey to Liverpool. Rosie had listened to them with delight, drinking in everything she was told, and imagining for herself how it must have felt to go through such a frightening upheaval. With the acceptance of the young, Rosie had seen no difference between herself and Bella, feeling as at home sitting on the floor listening to la Nonna as though she were her own grandmother, and the stories she was hearing were stories of her own family.

Indeed, from a young age Rosie had been more familiar with the names and family relationships of Bella’s extended family, in Liverpool and in Italy, than she was with her mother’s extensive but seldom seen siblings. As an only child, she relished the close network of the Grenellis, the support and love they showed for one another. It would have been a lonely life otherwise, especially when her father was at sea.

Perhaps it would have been different if they had lived nearer to them or if her father had been part of a large family, but he only had his elder sister, Rosie’s Aunt Maude and her husband, Henry, whom they had seen so rarely that, after his death when she was twelve, Rosie could barely remember what he looked like.

That her mother and her father’s sister did not get on had always been obvious to Rosie, even when she was little. Whenever her mother spoke about ‘your Maude’ to Rosie’s father, she did so in a scathing, slightly high-pitched and angry tone of voice that always made Rosie’s tummy hurt, especially when she saw her father looking so sad and sometimes cross.

As she got older Rosie was told by her mother that her Aunt Maude was a snob who had never wanted Christine to marry her brother. And in fact on more than one occasion her mother had told Rosie that part of the reason she had married Rosie’s father had been ‘to show that snotty bitch what’s what’.

The trouble had started, apparently, when Rosie’s father had taken his new fiancée to Liverpool to introduce her to his sister.

‘Acted like I was a piece of muck wot had got stuck to her shoe, she did, trying to show off wi’ her la-di-da way. If you ask me she never wanted yer dad to marry anyone. Mothered him she had, you see, Rosie, him being the younger and then him going spoilin’ her by giving her half his wages and allus bringin’ her stuff back when he came ashore. Of course she didn’t want him getting married and her gettin’ her nose shoved out of joint. Stands to reason. But your dad’s that soft he couldn’t see that. He thinks she’s perfect and she bloody well isn’t. I’ll bet that husband of hers were right glad to die and escape from her.’

Her mother had always been fond of making outrageous statements of this nature but Rosie had always dreaded her making them when her father was at home in case it sparked off one of their increasingly bitter rows.

‘Then you coming along didn’t help,’ her mother had informed Rosie bluntly, ‘especially when she saw how your dad took to you. She and that husband of hers never had no kiddies of their own and you’d have thought she’d have bin glad to have a little ’un in the family, but not her. Hates you almost as much as she does me.’

Her aunt certainly didn’t like her very much, Rosie was forced to admit. Whenever her father took her to visit, her Aunt Maude’s manner towards her was always cold and disapproving. There was none of the warmth in her aunt’s house that there was in the Grenellis’, even if there was more money. Not that the Grenellis were poor. Giovanni had worked hard for his family, and both his sons-in-law worked in his ice-cream business: small, plump Carlo, who was Sofia’s husband and Bella’s father, with his twinkling eyes and lovely tenor voice, and tall, good-looking Aldo, who spent his spare time like many of the Italian men at St Joseph’s Boxing Club, or in the room at the back of Bonvini’s shop with his fellow paesani, playing cards, and who was married to kind Maria. In the winter the men of the family, all skilled musicians, earned a living entertaining cinema queues and playing at Italian weddings and christenings.

The first thing Rosie noticed as she turned the corner into Springfield Street was the strange silence. The street was empty of the children who would normally have been playing under the watchful eye of their grandmothers. The caged singing birds, trained by some of the Italian families who had brought them from their homeland, were absent from open doorways and the doors themselves were firmly closed where normally they were always left open for friends and family. There were no voluble discussions on the merits of rival products from the women, no occasional mutters of deeper male voices belonging to the card players in the smoke-filled, wine-scented room at the back of the shop. And, most extraordinary of all, the shops themselves were closed – even Jimmy Romeo’s, as the grocery shop owned by the Imundi family was fondly known. Rosie stared at it in bewilderment. Jimmy Romeo’s never closed. On halfdays when other shops locked their doors and hung their signs in the window, and proud fathers walked with their sons to meet up with friends, Jimmy Romeo’s remained open for the men to play their favourite card games of scopa and briscola in the back room, and exchange banter. The street seemed almost alien without the familiar sharp smells of cheese, sausage, olives, coffee and garlic wafting through the open doorways. Something, not fear exactly, but something cold and worrying trickled down Rosie’s spine like the ice cream Dino Cavelli had deliberately dropped down the back of the taffeta dress Maria had smocked so carefully and lovingly for her to wear for her eleventh birthday party. Dino’s parents were close friends of Bella’s, comparaggio in fact, the name Italians gave to those very close friends they had honoured by inviting them into their family. As was the tradition, Dino’s parents had been compare and comare at Bella’s parents’ wedding, and were also Bella’s godparents, just as Bella’s parents were Dino’s. Rosie often envied Bella the security of the traditional Italian network of friends and family that surrounded her, although Bella complained that she found it restrictive and would love the freedom to go out with girlfriends that Rosie enjoyed.

Dino was a tall handsome young man now, and Rosie didn’t mind admitting that she rather enjoyed his flirtatious teasing whenever they happened to meet. Like her own father, he was in the merchant navy, and it always gave her a small frisson of excitement to see him walking down the street towards her when he was back on leave. So far she had resisted his invitations to go to the pictures with him, knowing all too well that he would not have dared to put such an invitation to an Italian girl. It was well known that young Italian men might enjoy a bit of dalliance with English girls but when it came to marriage they were too worried about their mamma’s feelings to do anything other than marry the girl of her choice – and she would always be a good Italian girl.

Not that she wanted to marry Dino – or indeed anyone right now. It was impossible for her to think of falling in love and being happy when the country was at war and so many dreadful things were happening. Her father was the kind of man who believed in protecting his family from the realities of what it meant to sail across the Atlantic, knowing that Hitler’s U-boats were waiting to hunt down and sink the merchant vessels that were bringing the much-needed supplies of food, oil and other necessities back to Liverpool. He might not say to them that each time he sailed he knew that every day he was at sea could be his last, but Rosie knew the truth. In February his ship had been late getting back into Liverpool, because one of the other vessels sailing with it had been torpedoed and sunk with the loss of most of its crew. Rosie had inadvertently overheard her father talking about it with some of the other sailing men from the area.

No, her father might not talk much to her about the dangers he and the other merchant seamen faced, but that did not mean that Rosie was not aware of them. She had felt indignant on her father’s behalf when she had learned that if a merchant ship was lost then the seamen were paid only for the number of days they had been on board it. If a ship was torpedoed and the men had to abandon it, they were paid nothing at all for the days, sometimes even weeks, it might take them to get back to port and find another berth.

Rosie had heard her Aunt Maude berating her father for not getting a shore job where he would be safe and better paid, but as easy-going as her father was, when it came to his work he could not be shifted. He had salt water in his blood, he was fond of saying, and the life of a landlubber was not for him.

Rosie crossed Christian Street into Gerard Street, a small smile curling her mouth as she thought of her father. The smile instantly disappeared the moment she heard angry raised voices, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Half a dozen or more men had suddenly appeared at the far end of the street, some wielding heavy pieces of wood, and yelling out insults and threats as they smashed in the window of an ice-cream shop. As Rosie watched, paralysed with fear, more men joined those attacking the shop, and then several started to march up the street, one of them stopping to throw a brick through a house window, whilst others banged on doors and called out insults. Above the yells of the attacking mob and the sound of glass being trodden underfoot, Rosie could hear a woman screaming and a baby crying. Rose Street police station was only five minutes away. If she ran she could be there in less, Rosie decided, her heart bumping against her chest as she hurried off.

Fortunately she didn’t need to go all the way to the police station, because she met several policemen coming towards her. One of them was their local bobby, Tom Byers, whose son had been at school with Rosie and Bella.

‘There’s a gang battering down Gonnelli’s ice-cream shop,’ Rosie told him breathlessly. ‘I could hear a baby crying …’

‘You get yourself off home, and make sure you stay there, young Rosie,’ Tom told her grimly, straightening the chinstrap of his helmet, his usually friendly face looking very stern. ‘It isn’t safe for you to be out with these young hotheads on the loose, creating trouble for decent honest folk.’

‘What’s happening to … ?’ Rosie began, but the noise from the mob was growing in volume and the policemen had already started to hurry towards it.

But instead of going home, Rosie scurried down to the Grenellis’, going round to the back door as she always did and calling out as she knocked on it.

‘It’s me – Rosie.’ She couldn’t bring herself just to walk in unannounced. even after all these years and countless admonishings from the Grenellis to do so.

The door was opened immediately, and Rosie was almost pulled inside by Bella’s grandfather.

‘Did you see what’s happening, Rosie?’ Bella asked her anxiously from the back of the kitchen. ‘We heard shouts and breaking glass.’

‘It’ll be them crazy mad Inglesi who was down here earlier full of drink, yelling that we’re all Fascists,’ Sofia, Bella’s mother, always sharper-tongued than her gentler sister, Maria, answered tersely.

‘Well, you can’t blame ’em for what they’re thinking, not with bloody Mussolini doing what he’s done,’ Rosie’s mother announced, putting out her cigarette and almost immediately lighting another one as she leaned against the wall, constantly stealing quick furtive glances towards the door.

Despite the fact that it was June, the room seemed unfamiliarly shadowed in some way, and shrouded in an atmosphere that was a mixture of confused helpless anger and growing apprehension.

Rosie’s father was always saying what a beautiful girl her mother had been, and she was still good-looking now, Rosie admitted, although privately she couldn’t help wishing that her mother wouldn’t dye her brown hair such a brash blonde, nor wear such a bright red lipstick. She had seen the way other people looked at Christine and it made her feel both angry and protective. Her mother made no secret of the fact that she liked a good time: she loved dancing, and Rosie had often heard her asking Maria if she minded if she borrowed her Aldo so that she could go down to the Grafton for a dance.

No one was thinking about dancing now though, as the sounds from outside grew louder and ever closer.

‘We’ll be all right,’ Carlo tried to reassure them. ‘It will be those with shops they’ll be going for.’

‘How could anyone do something like this?’ Rosie protested.

‘They’re doing it because we’re Italian,’ Sofia told her. ‘If I was you, Christine, I’d take meself home. It’d be much safer for you and your Rosie there, that’s for sure. After all, you aren’t Italian, are you?’

Inexplicably there was a mounting tension between her mother and Sofia that Rosie didn’t understand and for the first time she felt uncomfortably like an outsider to their close-knit family group.

‘I saw Tom Byers on the way here and he said it was just a few hotheads, and that they’d soon have it sorted out,’ she offered, in an attempt to give some reassurance and dissolve the tension, but as she spoke the noise from outside became so loud that she couldn’t even hear Bella’s response.

Giovanni and Carlo exchanged anxious looks and, as always in times of great emotion, Giovanni reverted to Italian, gesticulating wildly as he spoke.

‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ Rosie repeated, trying not to wince as she heard the threatening sound of shouted abuse mingling with that of breaking glass. It was so loud now, as though a full-blown riot were taking place: angry voices, the sound of blows, breaking glass and police whistles.

‘It’s because Mussolini is joining Hitler, Rosie,’ Bella explained to her, raising her voice so that she could be heard above the din.

‘I know about Mussolini but why should that mean—’

‘Some people look for any excuse to make trouble,’ Sofia told Rosie. ‘They think that because we are Italian we are now their enemy. They forget that our children play with their children, that we have sons who are wearing the same uniforms as theirs. It’s all right, Mamma.’ She tried to comfort Lucia, who was looking anxiously at the door and crossing herself, whilst saying that she wished she had never left Italy.

‘You’d better go next door, Carlo, and make sure that Giovanna is all right,’ Sofia instructed her husband. ‘She’ll be on her own with the babies because Arno’s gone over to Manchester to see his brother. Tell her she’s welcome to come here if she wants. And if you see any police about, ask them what they’re doing, letting this happen.’

Despite the gravity of the situation, Rosie couldn’t help smiling slightly as she listened to Sofia bossing her husband around.

Carlo had almost reached the back door when the sound of someone banging loudly on it made them all gasp.

They each let out a breath when they heard Aldo’s voice calling out, ‘Maria, it’s me, Aldo. Let me in.’

Maria opened the door, but it was Christine who was first at Aldo’s side, leaning weakly against his broad shoulder and saying weepily how afraid she was. Almost comically opposite in looks to his brother-in-law, Aldo was tall, and broad-shouldered, lithe, with a dark, smouldering gaze and a dismissive way of treating Maria that made Rosie feel for her.

‘Aldo, Carlo’s just going round to bring Giovanna back here. You’d better go with him, in case she needs some help with the bambini,’ Sofia instructed her brother-in-law.

Although no one ever said anything – like all Italian families, they were intensely loyal to one another – Rosie suspected that Sofia was not overfond of her sister’s husband.

‘There’s no point,’ he answered her dismissively, causing Maria to pale and Sofia to suck in her breath.

‘It’s too late? They’ve been hurt?’ Maria exclaimed in distress. ‘Oh, Aldo …’

‘Did I say that?’ he answered irritably. ‘They’re fine. Giovanna’s brother was at the club. He walked up the street with me.’ The women exhaled a collective sigh of relief. Rosie, as ever, automatically fell into the familiar pattern of echoing the huge sigh and expressive gestures of the others.

‘Here, Mamma, drink this,’ Maria was instructing la Nonna whilst she hurried to get a small glass and pour her some of the special restorative ‘cordial’ that came all the way from ‘home’ and which was normally only served on very special occasions or when someone was in need of a tonic. ‘Rosie cara, help Bella to make us all some coffee, will you?’ Maria called back over her shoulder.

Rosie needed no second instruction. It felt so comforting to go through the routine she and Bella had learned together as little girls. Rosie could still remember how proud she had been when she had been allowed to serve la Nonna and Grandfather Grenelli the first cups of the coffee she had made all by herself.

These days there was no need for her to concentrate or worry as she ground the beans, releasing their wonderful rich dark aroma into the kitchen, and then waited for the kettle to boil. The Grenellis preferred to use an old-fashioned range rather than a modern stove, and Rosie admitted that there was something comforting about the warmth it gave out.

The giving of a medicinal cordial followed by the family gathering round the cordial drinker to offer comments on his or her condition, whilst they drank coffee was a part of Rosie’s growing up and she took comfort from it now.

When her father was at home Rosie always drank tea because she knew it was what he preferred, but secretly she preferred coffee. Here in the Grenelli household she was more Italian than English, whilst at home she was very much her father’s daughter. She had, she knew, inherited his calm temperament, and his abhorrence of any kind of flashy showiness. They shared the same sense of humour, laughing over silly jokes on the wireless on programmes such as ITMA, which had her mother complaining that they were both daft. The delicacy of Rosie’s bone structure came, her father had always claimed, from his side of the family, along with her warm smile. Rosie cherished the closeness between them, and even though she envied Bella the closeness of her loving family, Rosie wouldn’t have changed her dad for anyone.

As Maria handed her husband the coffee Rosie had just poured, he told them, ‘And Giovanna’s brother is taking them back home with him. I saw the police helping them out the back way.’ As always, Aldo barely acknowledged Maria, taking the coffee from her without bothering to thank her and then turning back to Rosie’s mother, who was still clinging fiercely to his arm, to say, ‘Don’t worry, Chrissie, there’s nothing to be afraid of now. The police have moved the rioters on.’

La Nonna muttered something to Sofia that Rosie couldn’t catch, but which caused Maria to shake her head gently.

‘Trust you not to be here when Maria needed you, Aldo,’ Sofia told her brother-in-law scornfully.

‘I couldn’t get back. We had to stay where we were for our own safety, until the police had rounded up the troublemakers. It weren’t just winders they were battering, you know,’ Aldo answered her defensively. ‘When I came up the street there was a man lying in the gutter who the mob had left for dead. Police were waiting on an ambulance to tek him to the hospital.’

‘And with you, of course, your own safety always comes before that of anyone else, especially poor Maria,’ Sofia snapped.

‘Sofia, please,’ Maria protested. ‘It is not fair to blame Aldo. He is not responsible for those who are rioting.’

‘Isn’t it time you went home, Christine?’ Sofia said to Rosie’s mother sharply. ‘You aren’t Italian, after all,’ she repeated, ‘and you’ll be safer behind your own front door.’

Again a charged look passed between her mother and Sofia, which Rosie couldn’t interpret.

Christine gave a small shrug. ‘Walk us ’ome, will you, Aldo?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t fancy walking back on me own, not with all them fellas running riot.’

A strange, almost prickly silence filled the small room, broken only when Maria bowed her head and said softly, ‘Yes, Aldo, you must go with Christine and Rosie, and make sure they get home safely. May the Blessed Virgin keep you safe, Rosie,’ she added, her words muffled against Rosie’s hair as she hugged her tightly and kissed her.

Tears burned the backs of Rosie’s eyes as she returned the hug and then followed her mother and Aldo, who was already opening the back door.

The street was now quiet, its silence making the devastation that lay before them all the more shocking. The road was scattered with broken glass and doors that had been ripped off their hinges. Rosie’s stomach lurched when she saw the bright red streaks of blood on the glass. She hoped fiercely they belonged to the men who had done the attacking and not to those who had been attacked.

‘Jesus, it looks as though bloody Hitler’s bin bombing the place,’ Rosie heard her mother whisper to Aldo, as she clung tightly to his arm. Rosie, though, hung back, reluctant to take hold of his other arm. For some reason she was unable to understand, Rosie had never felt entirely comfortable in Aldo’s company. In fact, when she witnessed the way he treated poor Maria, she couldn’t understand how her mother could make such a fuss of him and, even worse, openly flirt with him in front of Maria herself. But she knew better than to take her mother to task for her behaviour. Christine made her own rules and didn’t take kindly to being criticised, plus she had a keen temper on her when she was angered. Rosie had heard the arguments between her parents when her father had attempted to reason with her. On more than one occasion Rosie had witnessed Christine throwing whatever came to hand at her husband, including the crockery, before storming out, slamming the back door behind her and leaving Rosie and her father to pick up the broken shards.



They had almost reached their own front door, which was several doors down from the Grenellis’. Their house, unlike those of the street’s Italian families, looked uncared for, the step dusty and undonkey-stoned, and the paintwork dull instead of the bright blues, reds and yellows favoured by the Italians, which, like the window boxes of summer bedding plants in their equally rich colours they loved so much, were reminders of the warm, vibrant Mediterranean they had left behind. Stepping into the streets of Little Italy was like turning a corner into a brilliantly vivid special place where all the colours seemed brighter, the song birds sang more sweetly, the laughter echoed more happily, and even the air itself, scented with the rich smells of Italy, seemed warmer. But, best of all, the whole area, or so it seemed to Rosie, was imbued with a special atmosphere of love.

Set against this backdrop, her own home seemed unwelcomingly drab. No carefully tended window boxes of flowers adorned her mother’s windowsills, the sound of singing and laughter never wafted out onto the air from open windows, no appetising smells of delicious pasta and soups wafted from her mother’s kitchen, unless Rosie herself was making them, which wasn’t very often because her father didn’t like ‘all that foreign muck’, so when she cooked for him Rosie stuck to the traditional English dishes.

Christine modelled herself on her favourite screen actresses, like Rita Hayworth, who were known for their glamour rather than their domestic virtues, rather than on a respected Italian mamma like la Nonna.

‘Rosie, run over to Currie Street and fetch us a fish supper from Pod’s, will yer?’ Rosie heard her mother demanding. She was still leaning on Aldo’s arm and had handed him her door key, intimating that she felt too weak to unlock the door herself. But not so weak that she didn’t want her supper, Rosie reflected wryly as she hurried off towards Podestra’s, hoping that the chip shop had escaped the vengeance of the rioters.

Podestra’s fish-and-chip shop was normally only a few minutes’ walk away, but tonight, with the glass and other debris littering the streets, it took Rosie over twice as long as usual to pick her way through it in the ominous silence that hung as heavily on the air as the dust from the destruction.

Sickeningly, through one of the windows that had been broken in she could see where furniture had been smashed to pieces, the horsehair spilling out of a sofa through the deep knife cuts slashed into it, whilst a child’s hobbyhorse lay broken on the floor beside it. Despite the warmth of the evening, Rosie shivered, wondering what had happened to the family whose home it was, and praying that they were unhurt.

Although Rosie’s mother was a Catholic, her father was staunchly Church of England, which was yet another bone of contention between her parents. Rosie had been christened as a Catholic at her mother’s insistence, but Christine was not a devout churchgoer, and sometimes Rosie suspected that her mother had only insisted on Rosie becoming Catholic to annoy Rosie’s father. It had been pious Maria who had encouraged Rosie to go to church with Bella, and who had provided the necessary white dress for Rosie’s confirmation. Rosie was obedient to the dictates of her religion and attended church every week, as well as making her confession. Her faith was a simple but strong belief in God, although war and the horrible things it was bringing sometimes tested that faith. However, because her father was of a different religion, Rosie stood slightly outside the traditional observances in the Italian community, where many of the older women went to church every day – sometimes more than once. Rosie did say her prayers every night, though, always asking God to protect those who were in peril, especially her father.

She had almost reached the chippie when three young Italians, still just boys, walked past her going in the opposite direction. Two of them were supporting the third between them, as he struggled to walk. One of the two had obviously received a head wound, and dried blood was visible on the bandage tied around it.

Rosie shivered. What was happening to people? To the city she loved? Those boys had grown up here in Liverpool. Suddenly she longed desperately for her father, with his slow reasoned way of speaking and his gentle strength. He might not be a handsome man like Aldo, nor possess the musical talent and hospitable warmth of Carlo, who drew others towards him so easily, but her father had his own special strength and Rosie loved him with a fiercely protective intensity. She hated it when her mother snapped at him and taunted him because of the limp he had developed as a young boy, when he had fallen downstairs and broken his leg so badly that he was left with it slightly shorter than its fellow, and which made it uncomfortable for him to take her dancing.

‘If you’re mekin’ for Pod’s I shouldn’t bother, it’s closed,’ a woman called out to Rosie from the other side of the street, showing her the empty bowl she had obviously intended to have filled with pease pudding.

Thanking her, Rosie regretted her own decision earlier not to stop to get herself something to eat. The larder would almost certainly be bare.

The summer light was beginning to fade from the sky, which was now streaked the colour of blood. Blackout curtains were going up in those windows that hadn’t been broken, and outside those that were, small groups of men were gathering to examine the damage and make temporary repairs. At least it was summer and rain was unlikely to hinder their efforts. The look on the victims’ faces made Rosie feel shamed of her own nationality. She wanted to go to the Italians and assure them that not everyone felt the same way as those who had rioted against them.

When she got home she found her mother in the parlour, sitting on the sofa with her feet up on a worn leather pouffe, smoking a cigarette, her hair already rolled up in rag curlers, and a scarf tied round them turban style.

‘Where’s us supper?’ Christine demanded irritably. Her lipstick had bled into the lines around her mouth, Rosie noticed absently. And there was a button unfastened on her blouse.

‘Pod’s was closed.’

‘So why the hell didn’t you go somewhere else? It’s not as though there ain’t enough ruddy chippies around here,’ Christine complained acidly.

‘Yes, and they’re all Italian-owned,’ Rosie reminded her, ashamed that her mother was only thinking of her stomach at a time like this.

‘Aye, well, they’ve only got themselves to blame,’ Christine told her. ‘That Sofia thinks she’s bin so bloody clever getting her Carlo in with that Fascist lot and her Bella enrolled at one of them language schools what they run, but you mark my words, she’ll be regretting it now.’

There had been a lot of talk in the area whilst Rosie was growing up about Mussolini and his effect on Italian politics. Being a passionate race, Liverpool’s Italian community talked as intensely and fiercely about ‘Fascismo’ as they did about everything else. Rosie knew from sitting in the Grenellis’ kitchen whilst these often heated discussions were going on that to the older generation of immigrants, Mussolini’s desire to treat them as though they were still ‘Italians’, albeit living away from their homeland, meant so much to them emotionally. They saw what Mussolini was doing as a means of uniting them, of giving them respect and status, and of preserving their Italian heritage. They couldn’t see, as their younger British-born children could, the dangers of Fascism.

Hadn’t Mussolini shown respect for their patriotism? the older men argued. Hadn’t he encouraged ‘his’ people living outside Italy to set up social clubs where the men could meet to talk about their homeland and to share their sense of what it meant to be Italian? Hadn’t their mother country sent delegations to talk to them and, thanks to them, hadn’t an Italian school been opened in Liverpool so that their children could learn their true mother tongue? If some of their non-Italian neighbours in their adopted country chose to resent what Mussolini was doing for his people, then that was their problem. For themselves, they were now doubly proud to be Italian and to know that their mother country valued them and recognised them as such.

Stubbornly these often elderly men believed that Fascism was more about an upsurge of patriotism and a love for their homeland, than about politics, which they did not really understand or want to accept.

Many of the younger men, on the other hand, especially those who worked alongside non-Italians, were concerned that in clinging so determinedly to the mother country their fathers and uncles and grandfathers were ignoring the realities of just how antagonistic towards Mussolini the English people and the British Government were, and this led to heated arguments within families when they gathered together. Rosie had seen the way Maria shook her head when they took place in her own kitchen. Sofia was fiercely proud of her Italian heritage, and determined to encourage her husband and her daughter to be equally patriotic, so easy-going Carlo was bullied into joining their local Fasci club, and Bella was sent to the Italian school in the evening for Italian lessons, even though she complained that she already spoke Italian perfectly well.

Rosie had felt slightly left out at first and a little bit hurt when Bella came back talking about the new friends she had made, but Rosie was a gentle-natured girl and she couldn’t resent her best friend’s obvious enjoyment of the fun the classes provided for too long.

It had been in 1935, after Italy invaded Abyssinia, that people had begun to realise the possible implications of Fascism. About that time Rosie could remember hearing a great deal of talk of some members of the Italian community deciding to naturalise and become British citizens. The Grenelli men hadn’t though, mainly because Sofia had been so insistent that to do so would be unpatriotic.

‘Sofia and Carlo aren’t Fascists, they’re just patriotic,’ Rosie protested.

‘Huh, that’s what Sofia might say, but there’s folk around here as thinks different.’

Rosie frowned. ‘I thought that the Grenellis were our friends, but you’re acting as though you don’t even like them. Maria’s always—’

‘Oh, Maria’s well enough,’ Christine stopped her. ‘But ruddy Sofia, she’s allus had it in for me. I’ve warned Aldo many a time not to let Sofia go dragging him into that Fascist lot with her Carlo. Well, I just hope that Aldo’s listened to what I’ve bin saying to him and not got hisself involved, now that there’s all this trouble brewing and folk taking against Italians. Did you try the chippie on Christian Street?’ Christine finished.

It was typical of her mother that it was her hunger she was thinking about and not the fact that she, Rosie, could have been in danger if there had been another outbreak of violence, Rosie accepted ruefully.

‘I’m not going back out again tonight,’ she told her firmly. Other girls with stricter mothers might have been wary of being as outspoken as she was. She was a gentle girl, not normally argumentative, but she knew with her mother she had to stick to her guns – or risk being bullied into doing whatever it suited Christine to have her do.

‘I’ll be glad when Dad gets back,’ she added.

Since Rosie had overheard her father discussing his ship’s near miss, she had prayed extra hard, not just for her father but for all those men who had to make that perilous journey across the Atlantic to be kept safe. War was such a very dreadful thing but, as her father had told her, they had no option other than to stand up to Hitler and to fight as bravely as they could.

‘Well, if I’m not goin’ to get me supper I might as well go to bed. Pity we didn’t get a bit of sommat at number 16. We would have done an’ all if bloody Sofia hadn’t started havin’ a go at me like that.’

‘I don’t think she liked the way you were with Aldo,’ Rosie told her mother uncomfortably.

Christine dropped her cigarette, cursing as it burned a hole in the thin carpet. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You should have let Maria be the one to greet him first. She is his wife, after all.’

Christine gave a dismissive shrug. ‘We all know that. Old Giovanni had both Aldo and Carlo shipped over from the old country so as he could have husbands for his daughters. Mind you, it were the only way he could get them wed. Maria’s that saintly she should have been a ruddy nun, and as for Sofia, she’s got that sharp a tongue on her, the Grenellis don’t need no knife-grinder comin’ round.’

‘Mum …’ Rosie objected. It disturbed her to hear her mother running down the two women who were surely her closest friends, but she knew better than to take Christine to task when she was in this kind of mood.


TWO (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

Rosie plumped up her pillow and tried to get comfortable. There was silence outside in the street now, but the earlier violence had left her feeling on edge and unable to sleep, even though she was bone tired. Right from being a little girl, Rosie had been afraid of the dark. Then she had been able to creep into her parents’ bed when her father was at home, seeking reassurance. She couldn’t do that now, of course, but no matter how much she tried to rationalise away her fears, the blackout was something she hated.

Further up the street she heard footsteps and then the sound of a knock on a neighbouring door. Silence followed, suddenly broken by a woman’s screams of anguish. Quickly Rosie slipped out of bed and hurried over to the window, easing back the blackout curtain.

Several doors down from them she could see four burly policemen marching seventy-odd-year-old Dom Civeti away from his front door whilst his wife pleaded with them not to take him.

Rosie couldn’t believe her eyes. Everyone knew and loved Dom Civeti, who was the kindest and most gentle man you could imagine. He trained the singing birds that so many Italian families liked to keep, and he was also famous throughout Liverpool for his accordion playing. Rosie could remember how Dom had always had barley sugar in his pockets for the street children, and how he would patiently teach the young boys to play the accordion.

As her eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness, she saw that there were other men standing at the end of the street under the guard of the unmistakable bulk of Constable Black, a popular policeman from Rose Street police station. Having escorted Dom to where Constable Black was standing, the other policemen turned back down the street, heading, Rosie recognised with a lurch of her stomach, for the Grenellis’.

She let the blackout drop and raced to pull on her dressing gown as she hurried into her parents’ bedroom, switching on the light and demanding urgently, ‘Mum, wake up.’

When there was no response from the sleeping figure, Rosie gave her mother a little shake.

‘What the … Turn that ruddy light off, will you Rosie?’ Christine objected grumpily, rubbing her eyes and leaving streaks of mascara on her face. Christine claimed that it was a waste to clean her mascara off every night when she was only going to have to put fresh on in the morning, and she often derided Rosie for her insistence on thoroughly removing nightly what little bit of makeup she did wear.

‘It’s the Grenellis,’ Rosie told her mother. ‘I’ve just seen the police going to their door.’

‘What?’ Christine was properly awake now, pushing Rosie away and sitting up in bed, the strap of her nightgown slipping off her shoulder. Several of the rags she had tied in her hair had come out whilst she had been asleep, leaving tangled untidy strands hanging round her face. The air in the room smelled strongly of cheap scent and, despite her anxiety for their friends, Rosie was guiltily aware of how much she wished that her mother was different and more like other girls’ mothers.

‘Are you sure it was the Grenellis’ they were going to?’ Christine demanded.

‘Yes …’ Rosie tensed as they both heard the sound of angry male voices outside in the street.

‘Pass us me clothes then, Rosie. We’d better get dressed and get over there to find out what’s going on,’ Christine asserted. ‘No, not that thing,’ she refused when Rosie handed her her siren suit, as the unflattering all-in-one outfit everyone was urged to keep to hand to wear in case of an air raid in the night, was called. ‘Over my dead body will I go out in that. You’d better go and get summat on yourself,’ she added, when Rosie had handed her the discarded skirt and twinset Christine had been wearing before going to bed and which she had simply left lying on the floor.

Five minutes later they were both dressed and on their way to the Grenellis’.

There was no question in Rosie’s mind about any risk to their own safety. The Grenellis were their friends and if they were in trouble then Rosie and Christine should be there to help them if they could, or share it with them if they couldn’t.

‘What the bleedin’ hell … ?’ Rosie heard her mother suddenly exclaim sharply, both of them coming to an abrupt halt as they saw Constable Black shepherding Giovanni, Carlo and Aldo out through the Grenellis’ front door.

Rosie’s stomach tightened with shocked disbelief when she saw Giovanni, the once proud head of his household, looking so shrunken and old and, even worse, so very frighteningly vulnerable. As she and her mother hurried up to them Rosie could see the tears on his lined cheeks.

‘What’s going on?’ Christine demanded as she ran forward and grabbed hold of the policeman’s uniformed arm.

‘You can’t do this,’ Sofia was protesting angrily as she came out of the house. ‘You have no right to come into our house, saying that you’re looking for Fascist papers and taking away good innocent men.’

‘I’m sorry, Sofia,’ Constable Black apologised gruffly, ‘but orders is orders and we’ve bin given ours. There’s no need for you to go carryin’ on like this. Like as not your dad and the others will be sent home in the morning, once everything’s bin sorted out.’

Christine was now deep in conversation with Aldo. La Nonna was standing just inside the open door, still dressed in her nightgown, her long white hair in a plait. Bella was at her grandmother’s side, her own thick black hair curling softly onto her shoulders. Where Rosie was fine-boned and slender, with delicate features, Bella was slightly plump, with warm olive skin and large dark brown eyes, that could flash with temper or dance with laughter, depending on her mood. Immediately Rosie rushed over to her friend.

‘La Nonna cannot understand what is happening,’ Bella whispered tearfully to Rosie, as Rosie reached for la Nonna’s thin veined hand to give it a comforting squeeze. It felt so cold, trembling in the comforting grasp of her own.

‘They are taking my Giovanni away, Rosie,’ she wept, ‘but he has done nothing wrong.’

‘Hush now, Mamma. It will be all right. You will see.’

Rosie turned with relief to see Maria, neatly dressed as always in her plain black clothes, her hair, like her mother’s, confined in a neat long plait, and looking as calm as though it was nothing unusual to be woken in the night and forced to watch the family’s menfolk being marched away by the police.

‘You’re a fool if you think that, Maria,’ Sofia cried out bitterly. ‘Mamma and Papà should have left this country and gone home to Italia where we would all have been safe. I have told them that so many times.’

‘England is our home now, Sofia,’ Maria reproved her sister gently, whilst Rosie and Bella stood protectively either side of la Nonna, trying their best to comfort her.

‘How can you say that? Look at the way we are treated! See the way our men are dragged from their beds, and our homes are invaded. Is that the way to treat people?’

‘Constable Black has explained to us that he is simply carrying out his orders. It is for Papà and the other men’s safety that they are being taken to the police station. Especially whilst there is so much rioting going on in the city …’

‘That’s nonsense,’ Sofia stopped Maria scornfully. ‘Look at Mamma … see how distressed she is. This will be the death of her, you do know that, don’t you?’ Sofia turned to challenge the policeman bitterly. ‘Is that what you want? To have the blood of an innocent Italian grandmother on your hands?’

‘Sofia, please, you are upsetting Mamma and Papà,’ Maria reproved her sister quietly.

‘Oh, Maria, why are you such a saint that you cannot see what is beneath your own nose?’ Sofia rounded on her angrily.

‘What’s happening, Constable Black?’ Rosie questioned the policeman shakily, as Maria struggled to calm her volatile sister.

‘Like I said, it’s orders, Rosie,’ he answered her reluctantly. ‘But there’s nothing to worry about, you’ll see.’

‘It isn’t just our family – all our men are being rounded up like animals,’ Bella told Rosie fiercely. ‘They are to be taken into custody on the government’s orders in case they are Fascists. That is what we have heard from the other families.’

‘Oh, Bella. How can such a dreadful thing be happening?’ Rosie hugged her friend, and they clung together, both in tears.

‘Constable Black, I implore you,’ Maria protested. ‘You know my father. You know he is a good man. My cousin’s boys are in the British Army. My father is not a Fascist – none of us are. Please do not take him away. My parents are old and frail. They have never been apart before,’ she whispered urgently.

‘I’m sorry, Maria, but orders are orders …’

‘But where are you taking them? How long will they be gone? At least give us time to pack some things for them – clean clothes, food …’

‘There’s no need for that. Like as not you’ll have your pa back in the morning. And now if you’ll tek my advice you’ll all get yourselves back to bed.’

Rosie felt sick with shock and disbelief. She was shivering as though it was the middle of winter, not a warm summer night. She thought of Giovanni and la Nonna as her own grandparents, because that was what they had been to her. She had never known her father’s parents, who had died before she was born, and her mother had fallen out with her own family, so she had told Rosie, because she had married outside her religion. How could this be happening – men being taken from their homes in the middle of the night without any warning and marched away as though they were criminals? Carlo looked worried but determined to remain calm, whilst Aldo was protesting noisily. But Giovanni wasn’t saying anything. Instead he was simply standing there, an elderly man robbed of his pride and dignity. Rosie’s heart ached with love for him. As she had done earlier in the evening but for different reasons, she wished desperately that her father were here.

‘Where are you taking them?’ she asked Constable Black, who had not answered Maria’s question.

‘I can’t tell you that, Rosie,’ he said gravely, ‘but I promise you there’s nothing to worry about.’

Constable Black was a great favourite in the area, and Rosie’s anxiety eased slightly. He was a kind and trustworthy man and if he said there was no reason for concern then surely that was true.

Bella had come to stand beside her so that Rosie was between Maria and her friend. Rosie reached for Bella’s hand and squeezed it as tightly as Maria was squeezing hers.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ she told Bella. ‘Constable Black says so.’

Bella’s mother was still protesting loudly, whilst Rosie saw that her own mother was crying as the men were marched off to join the others. Maria released Rosie’s hand to guide la Nonna gently inside and then came back for Sofia. Automatically Rosie went inside with Bella.

La Nonna was seated in her chair, rocking herself to and fro, making a soft keening sound, her apron flung up over her face. As always the kitchen smelled of good food and warmth. From further down the street they could hear the sound of another family being woken up and fresh shocked protests of disbelief and grief.

Rosie could see in Bella’s eyes the same dull glazed look of shocked disbelief she knew must be in her own. She went over to her friend and reached for her hand. Wordlessly the two girls clung together. Yesterday they had been giggling about the soulful looks they had received from Dino and one of his cousins as they passed them in the street, and talking excitedly about the new dresses they hoped to buy. Tonight they were wondering if life would ever be the same again.

‘You’d better get off home, Rosie,’ Sofia told her. ‘Your ma’s already gone. But then, of course, there’s nothing for her to stay here for now.’

Rosie saw the small gentle shake of her head that Maria gave in her sister’s direction whilst Sofia’s mouth tightened as hard as though she were eating a sour grape. Sometimes Bella’s mother could be very sharp, and over the years Rosie had learned not to be hurt by that sharpness.

‘You’ll tell me as soon as you hear anything, won’t you?’ Rosie begged Maria.

‘Constable Black will have it right, Rosie. Our men will be back home here in next to no time once the authorities realise that they’re good men,’ Maria announced firmly.

‘Oh, Bella …’ Rosie hugged her friend tearfully.

‘It isn’t your fault, Rosie,’ Bella told her emotionally, ‘even though you are English and it’s the British Government that’s doing this, and I shall hate them for ever for it.’

‘Oh, Bella!’ Rosie hugged her even more tightly, not knowing what to say.



They were so close to the longest day that the sky was already beginning to lighten as Rosie walked home. It was three o’clock in the morning and she had to be at work at eight, but she knew already that it would be impossible for her to sleep. The street was empty now and silent. Where had the police taken the men? Rose Street station, the nearest police station, was surely too small. The authorities couldn’t intend to keep them for very long, Rosie tried to comfort herself as she let herself into her home, not if they hadn’t let them take any clean clothes.

Her mother was seated at the kitchen table, smoking. There were even darker black tracks down her face now where her mascara had run. Her hand trembled as she put out her cigarette. As well as selling ice cream, the Grenellis also sold cigarettes and sweets from their handcart. Rosie suspected that sometimes these cigarettes came from the black market and her heart thudded in sudden anxiety. If that came out, would that mean trouble for the Grenelli men? Not that they were alone in supplying their customers with black-market cigarettes. Indeed, buying goods that ‘had fallen off the back of a lorry’ coming out of the docks had become part of the city’s culture, and often the only way in which poor families could feed and clothe their children.

Christine worked in a hairdressing salon, but right now she did not look like a good advertisement for the business, Rosie reflected sympathetically as she took in her mother’s haggard expression. Her hair was now untidier, and without the red lipstick she always wore, her face looked pinched and pale. It touched Rosie’s heart to see her mother, who often seemed so hard and unemotional, so distressed on behalf of her friends. Lovingly she reached out for her hand and squeezed it.

‘Maria was wonderful the way she took charge, wasn’t she? You’d have thought that Sofia would be the one to do that but—’

Almost immediately, her mother dragged her hand free, and snapped, ‘Stop going on about it, will you, Rosie? I told Aldo there was goin’ to be trouble, but of course he wouldn’t listen. Ruddy fool … Now look at the mess he’s got hisself into. I’m goin’ up to me bed. Oh, and when you go to work you can call in at Sarah’s and tell her that I won’t be in on account of me nerves being bad.’ She reached down and scratched her leg and then stood up, lighting up a fresh cigarette as she did so. ‘A ruddy slave, that’s what she thinks I am, paying me next to nowt and expectin’ me to work over when it suits her.’

Rosie sighed. As usual, Christine managed to turn the situation to herself, complaining about the hardships she constantly suffered. Life might hold dramatic changes, as she had witnessed that very evening, but some things would always stay the same.



As she had predicted Rosie hadn’t really slept, but at least she now had plenty of time to nip across to the Grenellis’ before she needed to leave for work, just in case they had heard anything. Her mother was still in bed, and Rosie made as little noise as she could when she brewed herself a cup of tea, and put up some sandwiches for her dinner.

She was halfway across the road when she saw Bella coming towards her.

‘Has there bin any news?’ she asked anxiously.

Bella shook her head. ‘La Nonna is taking it that badly, Rosie. Cryin’ all night, she’s bin. Me mam as well, rantin’ and ravin’ she were, sayin’ as how we should all have left and gone back to Italy, and how it’s me Uncle Aldo’s fault that we didn’t. It would be different if all of them had teken out British nationality, but it’s too late for that now.’ She gave a small shiver. ‘Me Auntie Maria were up all night trying to calm them both down.’

‘Oh, Bella.’

The two girls looked at one another.

‘Mebbe they’ll know a bit more at Podestra’s. I’ve told me Auntie Maria that I’ll send word if I hear anything and that she’s to do the same for me. That’s if there’s any of our men left to tell us anything,’ she added bitterly.

Bella worked in the back of one of the Podestra family’s chippies, peeling and chipping potatoes, and it was expected between the two families that eventually Bella would marry the young Podestra cousin who was lodging with the family. Rosie had once asked Bella if she minded her future being decided for her but Bella had simply shrugged and said that it was the custom and their way, that she liked Alberto Podestra well enough and that she would rather marry him than some lads she knew.

‘But don’t you want to fall in love, Bella?’ Rosie had asked her.

Once again Bella had shrugged. ‘Marriage isn’t about falling in love for us, it’s about family,’ she had told her.

Rosie had mixed feelings about love and marriage. Her father had fallen passionately in love with her mother but their marriage had not been a happy one, so far as Rosie could see. Sofia, however, married to placid easy-going Carlo, seemed perfectly happy with the man her parents had chosen for her. But there was Maria, who had also had her husband chosen for her and who anyone could see was not treated kindly by Aldo. From what she had seen around her in the marriages of those closest to her, Rosie wasn’t sure if falling in love was a good thing. On the other hand, all the girls at work could talk about was falling in love like they saw people doing in films, and living happily ever after. And what she did know was that she certainly did not want her husband chosen for her. In that, if nothing else, close as she and Bella were, they felt very differently, Rosie admitted.

After she had said goodbye to Bella, imploring her not to worry with a strength and cheeriness she really didn’t feel inside, Rosie called round at the hairdressing salon where her mother worked to deliver her message, and then headed up into the city, trying not to look too closely at the broken glass and damaged buildings as she did so. People were already outside cleaning up the debris.

Newspaper sellers were out on the street, and Rosie hurried to buy a paper, scanning the headlines quickly, her eyes blurring with tears as she read about the violent rioting of the previous night, which had been caused, according to the papers, by patriotic feelings overwhelming some people on hearing the news of Mussolini’s decision. The paper did of course condemn the violence, but although Rosie searched the print several times, she couldn’t find anything to tell her what was going to happen to the men who had been taken away, other than that Mr Churchill had acted swiftly to ensure that dangerous Fascists were ‘combed out’ from Italian communities, and would be interned as Enemy Aliens for the duration of the war. Her heart jumped anxiously inside her chest when she read the words ‘Enemy Aliens’, but of course they did not apply to men like the Grenellis. And there was some comfort in knowing that it was only those men who were a danger to the country that the government wanted to detain, not men like Giovanni, Carlo and Aldo. She tried to cheer herself up by thinking that by the time she finished work tonight they would be safely back at home, and that Bella’s mother would be back to her normal self. No doubt too la Nonna would be spoiling them and cooking up a celebration supper for them. Her own mouth watered at the thought of it. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday dinner time, apart from a piece of dry toast without butter before she left the house this morning.

It had been left to Rosie to deal with the complexities of shopping on the ration, Christine having no intention of standing in line for hours for scarce cuts of meat, and learning to experiment with the recipes the Ministry of Food was recommending.

Stopping to talk to Bella meant that Rosie was the last to arrive at the shop, despite her early start. Several of the girls were clustered around Nancy, who was standing in the workroom, with her back towards the door.

‘Go on, you’re ’aving us on,’ Rosie heard Dot, the cleaner, protesting.

‘No I’m not. It’s as true as I’m standing here,’ Nancy retorted. ‘Me dad’s an ARP warden and he said he’d heard as how the police ’ave arrested every single one of them and that they’ve bin told not to stand no nonsense from any of them. About time too, that’s what I say. We don’t want their sort over here. A ruddy danger to all of us, they are, not that some people have got the sense to see that,’ Nancy added with a challenging toss of her head, having turned round and seen Rosie standing in the doorway. ‘Ruddy Eyeties. Me dad says if he had his way he’d have the whole ruddy lot of ’em sent back to Italy before they start murderin’ us in our beds.’

‘That’s not true.’ The hot denial was spoken before Rosie could stop herself. Everyone fell silent and looked at her. She could feel her face burning with a mixture of anger and self-consciousness. She might know her own mind but she wasn’t generally one for speaking out and being argumentative. There was no way, though, that she was going to stand here and let Nancy Dale speak like that about her friends.

‘Oh, and you know, do you? Well, that’s not what Mr Churchill says. P’haps seeing as you think so much of them as is decent people’s enemies you ought to have bin teken away by the police along wi’ them.’

‘I’d rather be with my friends than with someone like you,’ Rosie responded. She could feel her eyes starting to burn with angry tears. The arrival of the police in the middle of the night to take away the men, even if they had been led by kindly Constable Black, whom they all knew, had left her feeling frightened and upset. Not that she was going to let Nancy Dale see that, she told herself fiercely, but she was still glad that Mrs Verey’s arrival had them all hurrying to their posts, and the argument was brought to an end.

Rosie was supposed to be working on the uniforms belonging to some friends of Mrs Verey who were members of the WVS. With limited ‘standard’ sizes to choose from, many women were finding that the regulation uniforms they were supplied with simply did not fit, and dress shop owners like Mrs Verey, anxious to find ways to keep their business going at such a difficult time, were now offering alteration services.

Normally Rosie took a pride in turning the not always flattering clothes into neatly tailored outfits that brought grateful smiles from their pleased owners, but today she simply couldn’t focus on her work. When yet another accidental needle stab to her already sore fingers brought a small bead of blood, tears filled her eyes and her throat felt choked with misery. What was going to happen to Papà Giovanni and the other men? She looked at her watch. It wasn’t even eleven yet. She didn’t think she could manage to wait until after work to find out if there was any news. If she was quick and she could slip out the minute the dinner bell went, she would have time to run back home.

The workroom door opened and one of the other girls came in carrying two mugs of tea.

‘Here, Rosie, I’ve brought yer a cuppa,’ Ruth announced, putting down both mugs and then heaving a sigh as she sank onto one of the room’s small hard chairs. ‘There’s not a soul bin in the showroom, nor likely to be with a war on. I ’ate standing round doin’ nuffink; it meks me legs ache far worse than when I’m bein’ run off them.’ She took a gulp of her tea, and then added, ‘Mrs Verey sent me up to tell you that Mrs Latham will be coming in later to collect her suit, and that you’re not to take your dinner hour but that you can leave early to make up for it.

‘Oh and I need a favour of yer. I’ve torn me spare work frock. Can you mend it for us, on the quiet, like?’

All the girls who worked for Mrs Verey wore neat plain grey short-sleeved dresses trimmed with removable white collars and cuffs for washing. The dresses were made in the workroom, and the cost of them deducted from the girls’ wages so that any damage to them meant they had to be replaced.

‘I’ll try,’ Rosie agreed. ‘But I’ll have to have a look at the tear first. If it’s a bad one …’

Ruth grinned and winked before telling her, ‘It’s one of the buttonholes that’s bin torn. My fella got a bit too keen, if you know what I mean. Mind you, since it was his first time home since he joined up last Christmas, and he were at Dunkirk, I suppose there’s no point in blamin’ him. I’ll bring it up later when Mrs V. is chatting with her friend. I’ve got to run. Me mam’s asked me to collect us ration from the butcher’s this dinner time and if I don’t get there dead on twelve there’ll be a queue right down the ruddy street. Ruddy rationing. Me da was saying last night that there’ll be clothes rationing next. Mrs V. will certainly have summat to say about it if they try that on.’ She stood up, gulped down her tea, and had almost reached the door when she turned round and said, ‘There’s a few of us goin’ dancing at the Grafton this Saturday, Rosie, if you fancy coming wi’ us.’

Ruth hadn’t mentioned the argument earlier with Nancy but Rosie knew that the invitation was her way of showing Rosie that she had her support, and she was grateful to her for that. Nor was she shocked by Ruth’s talk of how her dress had come to be torn. No one could live for very long in the Gerard Street area without becoming aware of what went on between the sexes. Not that Rosie herself was one for letting lads think they could get away with anything. Perhaps because she had spent so much of her time in a traditional Italian household, she had automatically absorbed the Italian attitude towards the difference in the freedoms allowed to young women and young men and the different way in which their transgressions were regarded. No way was Rosie going to have any lad or his family talking about her behind her back as being ‘easy’. She didn’t hand out her kisses like she had seen other girls do, as they embraced the new freedoms the war had brought, giggling that it was their duty to offer fighting men a little bit of ‘home comfort’. Rosie was a sensible girl, though, and she was ready to accept that she could well feel differently if she were to fall in love. Just as she had witnessed the behaviour of those girls who saw the war as something that was providing them with fun, so too she had seen the very real grief and despair it brought to those women who feared for the lives of the men they loved.

She was a long way from being ready to fall in love yet, though, and as she admitted to herself now, she was also secretly relieved that she was not subject to the same rigid traditions that prevented Bella from being able to go out to any social function, never mind dancing at the Grafton unless she was doing so under the watchful eye of an older married female relative.

Once Ruth had gone, Rosie went back to her sewing, trying not to feel too disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to nip home. She would eat her sandwiches just as soon as she had finished this seam, she promised herself, even though her appetite had vanished. The anxiety inside her was making both her head and her insides ache. Six o’clock – five o’clock now since Mrs Verey had said she could go home an hour early to make up for working through dinner – seemed like a lifetime away.


THREE (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

In the end Rosie’s need to be with her friends compelled her to take the short cut home, almost running there despite the city’s evening heat.

There was no sign of broken glass any more but the boarded-up windows and doors were a chilling reminder of what had happened.

She was halfway down Gerard Street when one of the neighbours called through her open door, ‘If you’re on your way to the Grenellis’, Rosie, there’s bin no news yet.’

‘But surely the men must be home by now,’ Rosie protested, shielding her face from the evening sun as she looked up to the narrow balcony where the young woman was standing, her baby on her hip.

The other woman shook her head. ‘I’ve heard as how they’re not letting any of them go until they’re sure that they aren’t Fascists. Daft, I call it. All the ruddy government needs to do is to come down here and ask around to find out what they want to know, not go locking up decent men. I heard this afternoon as how Bella’s ma has teken it real badly, screaming and yelling and sayin’ as ’ow she were going to end up wi’out her father and her hubbie, on account of the government as good as murderin’ them. Maria were down at the church asking if the priest would come up and see her, so Fran Gonnelli two down from me, were sayin’.’

Like Rosie, Doreen Halliwell was not Italian, and Rosie guessed that she was more interested in gossiping about what had happened than offering any helpful information, so she didn’t want to linger in the street. Besides, her comments about Maria going down to Holy Cross church had made Rosie even more anxious to get to the Grenellis’ house and find out what was happening.

Fortunately the baby started to cry, giving her the excuse to hurry on her way.

Bella opened the door to her brief knock. Her olive skin had lost its normal warmth, leaving her looking sallow, her brown eyes shimmering with tears as the two girls embraced one another before Bella drew her inside.

‘Are they back?’ Rosie began, even before she had closed the door, desperate to be reassured that all was well.

But Bella was already shaking her head, telling her brokenly, ‘No! There is no news, good or otherwise, Rosie. I wish that there was.’ Her eyes, already red-rimmed from crying, swam with fresh tears. ‘All we do know is that all the men who were rounded up last night have been taken to the North Western Hotel on Lime Street for questioning, and that we aren’t allowed to see them or speak with them. Aunt Maria has been down to the police station with food for them and clean clothes, but even though the police were sympathetic, they said there was nothing they could do to help, not with Mr Churchill himself having issued a general internment order against all Italian men aged between sixteen and seventy. They were saying at Podestra’s that even the Italian Consul in Liverpool has been taken.’ Her voice dropped. ‘My mother is taking it very badly. You know that she’s always wanted the family to go back home.’

Rosie nodded. Over the years there had been many passionate discussions around the Grenelli kitchen table about this subject, with Sofia saying how much she would like to go back to the village she had left as a small baby. Rosie could remember them quite clearly and she could remember too how much they had scared her and how much she had worried about the Grenellis going back to Italy and leaving her behind in Liverpool, pining for them. She had loved the whole family so much she had not been able to bear the thought of them not being there. As she grew older, every time the subject of ‘going home’ was discussed, Rosie had tried hard not to think selfishly of her own feelings but to recognise instead how hard it must be for the older generation of Italians, who had come to Liverpool genuinely believing that their absence from their homeland would only be temporary, and that once they had made enough money they would be able to return home to retire. Now, in view of what was happening, Rosie could understand why Sofia wished they had left.

‘Aunt Maria is worried that she will be reported to the authorities, and she has begged her not to say any more. I hadn’t realised myself until now how strong my mother’s convictions are, or that she and my father …’ Bella chewed worriedly on her bottom lip. ‘Rosie, you must promise me not to say anything to anyone about what I have just said.’

Was Bella saying that her parents were Fascists? Rosie didn’t know very much about Italian politics other than what she had heard in the Grenelli kitchen, but she could see how shocked and fearful Bella was and so she nodded vigorously and gave her promise. It was ridiculous that anyone could think that men like Giovanni and Carlo could be mixed up in something dangerous and illegal.

‘Father Doyle has been round this afternoon,’ Bella added, ‘to see la Nonna and my mother …’

‘Doreen Halliwell was on her balcony as I came down Gerard Street and she told me that Maria had been to fetch him. Did he manage to …’ The girls were exchanging whispers in the scullery, and Rosie tugged on Bella’s sleeve, not wanting to go into the kitchen and join the others until she knew everything there was to know.

Bella shook her head dispiritedly. ‘Mamma won’t listen to anyone. Like I said, she is taking it very badly, Rosie. I have never seen her like this before. One minute she’s furiously angry, and the next she just won’t speak at all. Then she says that we will never see our men again and that they are as good as dead, and that without them we might as well all be dead.’

Rosie shivered as she heard the fear in her friend’s voice. Somehow she had expected that it would be gentle tender-hearted Maria who would be the one to suffer the most, not her more fiery sister, but as though she sensed what Rosie was thinking, Bella offered sadly, ‘My mother has always been devoted to Grandfather Giovanni, and him to her. Aunt Maria says it is because she is so like his own mother. She cannot bear the thought of him suffering in any kind of way, and she is distraught that this has happened to him. Even Father Doyle was unable to comfort her. She has spent all afternoon on her knees praying that they will be set free and allowed to return home, but Father Doyle says that the British Government will not free any of the men until they are sure that they have combed out those amongst them that are true Fascists. He has asked permission to visit them, but he has been told that at the moment that is not possible. But with our consul taken along with the others, there is no one to speak to the authorities on their behalf.’

Bella’s revelations left Rosie too shocked to make any response for a few moments. ‘But surely the authorities must know which men they truly suspect of working against our country,’ she protested when she had recovered herself.

‘You would have thought so,’ Bella agreed, ‘but according to Father Doyle there is a great deal of confusion caused by so many of our men socialising with one another and being unwittingly drawn into the Fascist organisation, although they are not Fascists in any way. It does not help that so many of the older men do not speak English very well, and have been saying how much they want to return to Italy, like my mother. It is only pride that makes them say such things and our own local police understand that, but Constable Black is concerned that the government may not understand this. And, of course, there are those who resent us and who are glad to see this dreadful thing happen to us,’ Bella added. ‘Let’s go into the parlour. Aunt Maria and la Nonna will be glad to see you.’

Bella did not say that her own mother would be glad to see her, Rosie noted, but she was too fond of her friend to say anything.

The good smell of soup and garlic from the large pan on the stove made Rosie’s stomach growl with hunger, but for once there was no familiar call to her to sit herself down at the table whilst la Nonna demanded to be told about her day, and Maria hurried to bring soup and bread, along with a glass of the watered-down wine the whole family drank.

La Nonna was seated in a chair beside the fire, watching Maria’s every movement with an anxious gaze, but it was Sofia who caused Rosie to feel the greatest fear. Bella’s normally assertive mother was sitting in a chair staring into space without blinking or even turning her head to look at them as they entered the room.

‘She has been like this since Father Doyle left,’ Bella whispered.

At the sound of her granddaughter’s voice la Nonna broke into rapid Italian, speaking too quickly for Rosie to be able to understand.

‘La Nonna says that we need an Italian priest to help us speak both to the authorities and to God,’ Maria explained with a sad smile.

Italian priests without parishes of their own were permitted to preach within the Italian communities by the Catholic Church, but since they travelled from parish to parish, they were not always on hand.

‘Surely there is something that can be done,’ Rosie protested, a small frown creasing her forehead as she wondered why her own mother wasn’t here with their friends.

‘Everything that can be done has been,’ Maria assured her gently. ‘Those of our leaders who have not been taken have tried to speak to the government, but we have been told that we must wait and that there is nothing to fear for those who are not Fascists.’ Her mouth trembled and she blinked away tears.

‘But if that is so, then why do they continue to hold our men?’ Bella burst out fiercely. ‘Especially my grandfather. You know how devoted to one another he and la Nonna are, Rosie,’ she appealed to her friend.

Rosie nodded.

‘La Nonna cannot understand why they have not let him come home. We have tried to explain to her but she doesn’t understand. She is worrying about his chest, and if there is anyone at the police station to give him some cordial when he coughs. She is desperately afraid that the police will come back and take her away next and that she will never see Grandfather or any of us again. And my mother is just as distraught. She says it will kill my grandfather to be treated like this and that we will never see him or my father alive again. Oh, Rosie, I am so scared that she could be right,’ Bella admitted.

‘Oh, Bella, don’t,’ Rosie begged her, white-faced. ‘You mustn’t think like that because it isn’t going to happen,’ she went on stoutly. ‘It’s all a terrible mistake, Bella, it has to be. And as soon as the police realise that—’

‘But what if they don’t, what if—’

‘They will. They have to,’ Rosie insisted quickly. It was unthinkable that an elderly man like Giovanni should be taken away from his family and not allowed to return. Unthinkable too that kind-hearted Carlo could be mixed up in anything as dangerous as Fascism.

‘You can say that, but why are they keeping them for so long? Surely by now they must have realised that they are innocent.’

‘These things take time, Bella,’ Maria intervened in her calm gentle voice. ‘All we can do is pray for patience, put our trust in God and wait. Mr Churchill knows how many of our boys are fighting for this country. He is a fair and just man and once he has assured himself that there is no danger he will set our men free, just as Father Doyle says.’

‘If that is true why aren’t they free already?’ Bella announced fiercely. ‘I am going to go to Lime Street now and demand to see my father and my grandfather.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Rosie offered immediately.

Maria shook her head and bustled both girls out of the parlour, closing the door behind her as she did so.

‘There isn’t any point in going to the North Western Hotel.’

‘We could take them food and clean clothes …’

Lowering her voice, Maria said tiredly, ‘You won’t be allowed to see them and besides … Father Doyle has already been down to Lime Street and been told that they are going to be moved in the morning. I haven’t told la Nonna or Sofia yet.’

Both girls looked at her in fresh shock. ‘Moved where?’ Bella demanded.

‘Huyton,’ Maria told them quietly.

‘The internment camp?’ Rosie whispered. She felt as though hard fingers had taken hold of her heart and were squeezing it so tightly she could hardly breathe. Early on in the war, certain streets on the new Huyton housing estate had been converted for use as an internment camp to hold those individuals who were considered a threat in the event of an invasion. Several roads in the estate had been sealed off with an eight-foot fence of barbed wire, and internees were billeted in the cordoned-off houses, where they faced the prospect of being sent to the Isle of Man, or even deported to Canada.

‘Yes,’ Maria answered. As she spoke Maria’s head dropped as though in shame and through her numbness Rosie felt a fierce surge of anger that she should be made to feel like that.

‘They can’t be going to Huyton.’ Bella’s voice was more that of a frightened child than a young woman. Rosie could feel her own hope draining out of her, to be replaced by cold disbelief and shock. How could this be happening? ‘They might say they are being interned but that’s just another word for being imprisoned, isn’t it?’ Bella whispered, tears filling her eyes. ‘Oh, Aunt Maria, what’s going to happen to them?’

Maria shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Father Doyle says he’d heard that all those Italians who had been taken into custody were to be sent to somewhere near Bury – Warth Mills it’s called – where they’ll be held until the government combs out the Fascists. Then when that’s been done …’ Her voice trailed away, tears brimming in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. ‘Promise me you won’t say anything about this to your mother or la Nonna, Bella. There’s no point in getting either of them even more upset than they already are.’

Rosie’s heart went out to Maria. She guessed that whilst it was concern for her elderly mother’s health that made her want to protect her from the news, it was the worry about what Sofia might say or do that made her feel her sister couldn’t be trusted with the truth.

‘You’d better go home now, Rosie,’ she added gently. ‘Your mam will be waiting for news.’

Rosie hugged her tightly before turning to leave. She could sense that this was a time when the family needed to be alone although it hurt her too to know that she could not be part of the tight-knit circle of grieving, worried women because she did not share their blood, or their nationality.



‘At last. Put the kettle on, will yer?’ Christine demanded when Rosie opened the back door. ‘I’m parched.’ Christine was sitting with her feet up on a chair whilst she painted her nails a vivid shade of scarlet. Her hair and makeup looked immaculate and she was wearing one of her best frocks. Tight-fitting and in bright red imitation satin, it was a dress that Rosie knew her mother loved, whilst whenever she saw her in it, all Rosie could think was that she wished her mother wouldn’t wear it, and that it looked both cheap and too young for her.

It astonished Rosie to see Christine looking all dressed up and full of herself, when the Grenellis were experiencing so much heartache, but the last thing she wanted to do was provoke a row with her, so instead of saying what she felt she said quietly instead, as she filled the kettle, ‘I’ve just been round at the Grenellis’.’ Trying to keep the reproach out of her voice, she continued, ‘They’ve had some news, but it isn’t very good. The men are going to be moved to Huyton in the morning.’

‘Yes, yes, I know all about that,’ Christine interrupted her, looking bored. ‘I went down to Rose Street this dinner time and managed to sweet-talk Tom Byers into telling us what was going on. I suppose Sofia’s still carryin’ on about how she wishes they’d all gone back to Italy, is she? Ruddy fool. She wants to watch her tongue, she does, otherwise it won’t just be her Carlo who’ll end up being deported as a Fascist.’

Rosie couldn’t conceal her shock. ‘The Grenellis aren’t Fascists, Mum.’

‘Well, you could have fooled me the way Sofia’s bin carryin’ on. I’ve bin warning Aldo to keep his distance from Carlo – not that Carlo’s to blame. It’s ruddy Sofia wot’s got them all into this mess, if you ask me, allus goin’ on about Italy and that Mussolini. Of course, she’s allus bin able to twist her dad round her little finger. It should be her wot was taken off, not Aldo. Anyway, Tom Byers has tipped me the wink that them as is found to be Fascists will end up being interned on the Isle of Man, wi’ the worst of them shipped off to Canada. I’m going up to Huyton in the morning to see if I can manage to have a word wi’ Aldo and warn him to keep his mouth shut when he’s questioned at this Warth Mills place they’re all going to be sent to.’

Rosie could only stare at her mother. How had she managed to find out so much when poor Maria had been told next to nothing? Rosie winced inwardly as she took in her mother’s smug expression and dressed-up appearance.

‘I would have thought you’d be straight round to the Grenellis to tell them what you’d heard,’ was all she could manage to say.

Christine reached for her cigarettes. ‘Wot, and ’ave to listen to Sofia ranting on? No, thanks. Besides, I don’t want to get tarred wi’ the same brush as them, and if you’ve any sense in that head of yours, our Rosie, you’ll keep a bit o’ distance from Bella whilst all this is goin’ on. Hurry up with that cuppa, will yer, Rosie?’ Christine looked down at her legs and added, ‘I hope that yer dad remembers to bring us some stockings back wi’ him this time. Honestly, he’s that daft at times. Fancy goin’ all the way to New York and not thinkin’ on to fetch us some stockings.’

‘They were almost torpedoed the last time, Mum, and Dad said that they were lucky not to be sunk. I dare say he didn’t have time to go looking for stockings with them having to unload and come back so quick so as not to miss the convoy,’ Rosie told her.

She was still trying to come to terms with the change in her mother’s attitude towards the Grenellis – a change that left her feeling ashamed and determined to make sure that the family knew they could count on her loyalty and friendship at least.

* * *

The week dragged by with no real news about what was going to happen to the men. Rosie had no idea whether or not her mother had visited Huyton as she had said she was going to because Christine had flatly refused to discuss the subject with her, saying that it was her business what she did and no one else’s. There were times, Rosie acknowledged, when she found it very hard to understand the way her mother’s mind worked. Her mother’s behaviour made her feel guilty when Bella told Rosie that she and Maria were going to Huyton with the Podestra family to see if they could somehow or other manage to see their menfolk.

‘We’re going to take them some food and some clean clothes.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Rosie volunteered immediately.

Bella shook her head. ‘You can’t, Rosie. We’re goin’ in the morning because that’s when Louisa Podestra reckons the guards let the men come out for some fresh air. You’ll be at work. Louisa has told me I can have the time off. Not that we’ve got that many coming into the chippie since it all happened, exceptin’ to ask if there’s bin any fresh news. It seems to me that me mam’s in the right of it and it would have bin better for us if we’d gone back to Italy,’ Bella added with a new bitterness in her voice.

‘Bella, don’t say that,’ Rosie protested. ‘You’re as English as I am.’

‘No I’m not. I’m Italian, and proud of it even if I were born here.’

‘We’re at war with Italy now,’ Rosie reminded her, trying not to look shocked.

‘I don’t need telling that, do I?’ Bella retaliated. ‘Not wi’ me dad and me granddad in a concentration camp.’

‘Huyton isn’t a concentration camp.’

‘Huh, those who run it may not be callin’ it that, but what else can it be when they’ve got men imprisoned there?’

Rosie said nothing. She was beginning to feel as though she didn’t know her friend properly any more. She hadn’t missed the bitter looks Sofia gave her whenever she went round to the Grenellis’, and now here was Bella treating her more as though they were enemies than friends, and as though England wasn’t her home at all. Rosie was confused by her own feelings. She felt hurt by Bella’s attitude towards her and, if she was honest, she felt angry as well when Bella complained and said that she wished she were living in Italy. She had understood when Bella had been upset about what had happened to the Italian men, but she couldn’t agree with what Bella was saying now.

‘I hope you manage to see your dad and granddad,’ was all she could manage to say eventually. And for the first time since they had grown up they did not hug one another when they said goodbye.


FOUR (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

‘You’re still on for Saturday at the Grafton, aren’t you, Rosie?’ Ruth asked cheerfully as the girls put on their coats to leave work.

Rosie hesitated before replying. The truth was that the last thing she felt like doing was going out dancing, but she didn’t want to let Ruth down by backing out now.

‘Of course she is, aren’t you, Rosie?’ one of the other girls laughed. ‘You won’t catch me missing out.’

‘Meet us outside at half-past seven, Rosie,’ Ruth told her, adding with a wink, ‘And thanks for sortin’ me dress out for me. I’ll write and tell my Fred not to be so eager next time.’

As she walked down Springfield Street half an hour later, Rosie wondered whether or not she should call at the Grenellis’. Don’t be so soft, she chided herself. There was no call to go getting all upset and taking it to heart because Bella had been a bit funny with her. Chances were that she had only been like that because she was so worried and feared for her dad and granddad. She had probably read too much into Bella’s wild talk. Reassured by her own thoughts, Rosie felt her spirits start to lift as she headed for number 16. She had missed Bella even though it had only been a couple of days since she had last seen her.

It was Maria who opened the door to her knock, hugging her briefly, her expression betraying the strain she was under.

‘If you’ve come to see Bella, she’s round at Pod’s,’ Maria told her before Rosie could ask after her friend.

‘Who is it? Oh, it’s you, is it?’ Sofia announced in a hostile tone, answering her own question as she came into the kitchen. ‘Where’s your mother, or daren’t she show her face here after what she’s been doing?’

‘Sofia …’ Maria protested.

‘What’s wrong?’ Rosie demanded, indignant at her mother being talked about in such a way even though she had been feeling ashamed of her behaviour herself these last few days. ‘What’s my mother supposed to have done?’

‘There’s no supposed about it,’ Sofia answered bitterly. ‘Seen at it, she was. Acting cheap around our men, wi’ them wot’s guardin’ ’em and we all know why. Some of us have allus known what she is, even if others …’

Sofia’s voice was rising higher with every word she spat out. She was trembling with fury whilst Rosie had started trembling herself. All her life she had thought of the Grenellis as her family, never imagining that anything could change the deep bond she had believed they shared. That belief had been turned on its head the moment the trouble had started in Liverpool.

‘Sofia, please …’ Maria begged her sister urgently in a low voice.

Rosie heard her but she was too shocked to be able to react. Somewhere in a corner of her mind she had always known that her mother’s behaviour wasn’t like that of Maria and Sofia, but she had put that difference down to the fact that they were Italian, not because … She couldn’t stand here and let Sofia call her mother cheap without defending her. She took a deep breath.

‘I know my mother went to Huyton Camp but—’

‘She had no right to go there,’ Sofia shouted her down angrily. ‘What’s she to us? Nothing! And you can go home and tell her we don’t want her coming round here any more. Not that she’ll dare to show her face here after what she’s done …’

Rosie looked helplessly at Maria, not knowing what to say or do and not really able to understand why Sofia was so worked up.

‘You’d better go home, I think, Rosie,’ Maria advised her, bustling her out of the room. ‘I’m sorry that Sofia spoke to you like that. She’s not herself at the moment.’

‘I know how much you must all be worrying, Maria,’ Rosie agreed, swallowing down the tears that were thickening her voice. ‘How is la Nonna? Have you managed to get any word of the men?’ The questions she wanted to ask came tumbling out on top of one another as Maria hurried her towards the back door.

‘You’re a good girl, Rosie. A kind girl,’ Maria told her, without answering her. ‘But with things the way they are, it’s best that you don’t come round for a while. Just until things settle down and Sofia’s back to her normal self.’

The tears burned in the back of Rosie’s eyes. She wanted to throw herself into Maria’s arms and be told that everything was all right, just as she had done so many times as a little girl: when she had lost both her first front teeth and had been teased at school; when she had not been chosen for the school pantomime; when the goldfish her father had won for her at the fair had died, to name just a few of the small sadnesses that had coloured her growing up. But this was different. Everything was not all right, and she wasn’t a little girl any more. Poor Maria. Rosie could hardly bear to think about what she must be going through.

Squaring her shoulders, she reached out and gave Maria a fierce silent hug, and then hurried away before her emotions got the better of her.


FIVE (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

Rosie frowned as she studied her appearance in her dressing-table mirror. Having dipped her forefinger into a pot of Vaseline, she then drew the tip of it along the curve of her dark eyebrows to smooth and shape them, a beauty aid that Bella had shown her.

She was wearing a frock she had made herself from a remnant of pretty floral cotton, bright yellow flowers against a white background. She had bought a roll of it at St John’s market in the spring. There had been just enough to make herself a halter-necked frock with a neat nipped-in waist and a panelled skirt.

She had made the halter and trimmed the top of the bodice with some white piqué cotton, and then used the offcuts from the floral material to trim the little matching bolero jacket she had made. The result was an outfit that had brought her more than a few admiring comments. The smile that had been curving her mouth at the memory of those comments dimmed when she remembered how many of them had come from the Grenelli family and how Bella had begged her to make a similar frock and jacket for her. Together they had gone to St John’s every market day until they had found the perfect fabric for Bella’s dark colouring: a deep rich red, patterned with polka dots. They had both worn their new outfits for Bella’s birthday early in May. Less than two months ago but it might as well have been a lifetime ago, so much had changed, Rosie admitted sadly. Her mother hadn’t said anything about the fact that neither of them was visiting the Grenellis any more and, having heard Sofia’s bitter denunciation of Christine, Rosie had felt unable to talk to her about what had happened or why she had stopped visiting their old friends.

‘Where are you off to then?’ her mother demanded now when she saw Rosie dressed up to go out.

‘The Grafton,’ Rosie answered. ‘I’m meeting up with the other girls from work. It was Ruth’s idea. I think she’s feeling a bit low with her Fred in the army, and she wanted a bit of cheering up.’

‘Huh, well, we’d all like a bit of that, I’m sure,’ Christine said sharply. She lit a cigarette and inhaled, then exhaled the smoke, narrowing her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t mind comin’ with yer meself to be honest, Rosie. How do yer fancy havin’ yer old mam along? Mind you, I bet I could show you young ’uns a thing or two,’ she added, her pursed lips relaxing into a small secretive smile.

Rosie’s heart sank. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mother – she did – but she didn’t feel comfortable about her coming out with them, especially after what Sofia had said.

‘There isn’t time for you to get ready now. I promised the others I’d meet up with them at half-past seven,’ she blurted out.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed again but not against the smoke this time. ‘I see you don’t want me along spoiling your fun.’ She gave a small contemptuous shrug. ‘Please yourself then. I can soon find meself summat to do. As a matter of fact them from the salon are going to the Gaiety tonight and they’ve asked me to go along wi’ them,’ she said, referring to the cinema on Scotland Road.

Rosie felt guilty at how relieved she was to be leaving the house without her mother. It was a pleasant evening, and the city’s streets were still busy with people coming and going, making the most of the light evening and the freedom from the blackout that the dark nights brought.

Like everyone else, Rosie was carrying her gas mask on her arm in its protective box. She had hated having to carry it around all the time at first. It had looked so ugly and felt so cumbersome. But soon, along with other girls, Rosie had been finding imaginative ways to dress up the carrying case with a cover made from scraps of fabric, just like the fancy carrying cases she had seen in the magazines. Automatically she stopped to scan the headlines written up on the newspaper sellers’ sandwich boards, sucking in her breath, her stomach tensing with anxiety that there was more bad news about the Italian men being held.

‘You can allus buy a paper instead of trying to memorise it, love,’ the newspaper seller told her drily, causing passers-by to laugh. Rosie blushed but she too laughed and shook her head. However, the three young lads who had stopped to listen to what was going on, and admire her as they did so, bought a paper apiece.

‘Here, you can stay if you like,’ the seller grinned, winking at her. ‘Pretty lass like you is good for business.’

Rosie laughed again. She was going to be late meeting the others if she wasn’t careful. The lads who had bought papers watched her from the other side of the road, and whistled at her.

Cheek, Rosie thought to herself, tossing her head slightly to let them know what she thought of their impudence, but still secretly pleased by their harmless admiration.



‘There you are. We was just thinking you weren’t going to come,’ Ruth told Rosie, grabbing hold of her arm. ‘Let’s get inside and get a table before it gets too packed.’

The Grafton was one of Liverpool’s most popular dance halls. It had a wide double stairway that led up to the dance hall itself, and on busy nights the stairs could be packed with people eager to dance, as well as some couples standing there smooching, oblivious to the crowd around them. The Grafton was well known for having the very best dance bands on, led by the likes of Victor Silvester, Oscar Rabin and Ivy Benson. As Ruth had predicted, it was already almost full of young people, all keen to enjoy themselves whilst they still could. Of course, the young men in uniform attracted the most interest from the girls in their dance frocks.

‘And remember,’ Ruth cautioned the party from Elegant Modes as they wriggled through the crowd just in time to grab the last vacant table close to the edge of the dance floor, ‘no one’s to go encouraging any RO lads.’

RO lads were the men who were doing very necessary reserved occupation work, but who lacked the glamour of a uniform.

‘That dress looks ever so pretty on you, Rosie,’ Evie Watts, a window dresser at the shop, commented admiringly. ‘I thought so the last time I saw you wearin’ it. Mind you, you ’ave got the figure for it.’

Rosie had just started to thank her for her compliment when Nancy butted in nastily, ‘For meself, I allus think that shop-bought looks smarter than home-made, especially when you’ve had the fabric off of the market and half of Liverpool’s wearing it.’

‘Don’t mind Nancy, Rosie,’ Ruth whispered. ‘She’s just jealous of you on account of her thinking she were the bee’s knees and the prettiest girl in the shop until you come along.’

The band had already started to play and Ruth nudged Evie as a group of young men several yards away edged a bit closer to their table.

‘I’m dancing wi’ the one with the blond hair and blue eyes, in the corporal’s uniform,’ Ruth announced with a predatory gleam in her eyes. ‘He’s got his stripes and I like a lad wi’ a bit of experience about him.’

‘Wot about your Fred?’ Evie demanded

‘Wot about ’im?’ Ruth came back smartly.

When Evie pulled a face behind Ruth’s back and whispered to the others, ‘I fancied that blond lad meself,’ Rosie couldn’t help giggling, her spirits starting to lift.

Ruth might be more outspoken than she was herself but she was such good fun that you couldn’t help but enjoy being in her company. Ruth was always the one for a bit of quick backchat and never behind the door when it came to putting a cheeky lad in his place if she felt like it. Rosie remembered how much it had made her laugh when Ruth had riposted to one particular lad who had swaggered over to them like he was really something, to ask her to dance, ‘Come back in five years when you’re old enough – and tall enough.’

Two girls who Rosie didn’t recognise made their way over and were introduced by Evie as her cousins Susan and Jane. Drinks were ordered, cigarettes lit, and the girls settled down to the ritual of pretending they were oblivious to the way the boys were eyeing them as they smoothed already straight seams and patted immaculately rolled curls, thus showing off slim ankles and shining hair.

‘’Ere, that blond lad’s on his way over. Remember what I said. Hands off, everyone else,’ Ruth warned with a wicked grin.

After a few muttered comments about some girls having the cheek to grab all the best lads before anyone else had a chance to get a good look at them, the girls dutifully clustered together in such a way that the young man was automatically channelled towards Ruth.

‘I reckon it were you he really wanted to dance with, Rosie,’ said Evie as they watched Ruth dancing past them in the arms of the young soldier, who had introduced himself as Bob. ‘There’s no Italian lads here tonight by the looks of it. Shame, ’cos they’re good dancers, and good-lookin’ too.’

Rosie’s smile faded. Evie’s comment had reminded her of the dreadful things that had been happening to the Grenellis. Because of her family’s plans for Bella to marry one of the Podestra boys, Sofia did not allow Bella to go dancing with Rosie, but Bella had always been eager to hear about the fun Rosie had. Dances at the Grafton would be the last thing on Bella’s mind now, Rosie thought, her happiness suddenly shadowed by guilt because she was here and enjoying herself. One of the other young men in army uniform who had been watching them came over and asked her to dance. He was blushing slightly, his brown hair slicked back, and his gaze fixed on a point somewhere past her shoulder. Rosie didn’t have the heart to turn him down. His hand, when he clasped hers, felt hot and slightly sticky, and she could see how self-conscious he felt. His accent wasn’t Liverpudlian, and under her kind questioning he admitted that he had only recently joined up and that he was feeling a bit out of his depth.

‘I didn’t realise that Liverpool was going to be so big,’ he confessed, his honesty and humility making Rosie warm to him.

‘So where are you from, then?’ Rosie asked him.

‘Shropshire,’ he told her. ‘My dad works on a farm down near Ironbridge. I’ve never seen so many houses all together before I came to Liverpool. Nor the sea neither.’

He sounded rather forlorn and Rosie felt quite sorry for him.

‘You must have made friends with some of the other men who joined up at the same time,’ she suggested.

‘Oh, aye, I done that all right,’ he agreed, looking happier. ‘A nicer bunch of blokes you couldn’t hope to meet.’ He gave Rosie a shy grin. ‘After all, it were them as persuaded me to come here tonight. Aye, and it were them an’ all that said I should ask you to dance.’

By the time their dance was over and he had returned Rosie to her table it was surrounded by a jolly crowd of mostly uniformed young men.

Ruth was a flirt, there was no doubt about that, but she was also a big-hearted girl, and Rosie saw how she made sure that even the shyest girl on their table was invited to get up and dance.

‘Here’s Nancy coming over wi’ that cousin of hers wot thinks he’s God’s gift with bells on,’ Evie muttered. ‘Watch out, girls.’

Rosie turned to look at the man coming towards their table. Nancy was at his side and two other young men who were also obviously part of the small group were walking slightly behind him. He was tall, with broad shoulders, his dark hair brilliantined back, and almost film star good looks, apart from the fact that his eyes were too close set, but Rosie knew immediately why Evie had disparaged him. It was all there in those eyes, everything a person needed to know about him, and it made her recoil from him physically. There was not just a coldness but a brutality in his eyes as his darting gaze moved arrogantly over the girls seated at the table. There had been a boy very similar to him at school, Rosie remembered, a bully and a liar who had terrorised the younger children, stealing from them and physically hurting them, until one day the big brother of the small first year he had pushed to the playground, stamping deliberately on his glasses and leaving him crying, had come down to the school and taught him a much-needed lesson.

‘Come on, Lance, you promised you’d dance with me,’ Nancy was wheedling, when they reached the table. She was hanging on to his arm, and looking up at him in a way that was more lover-like than cousinly. It was plain, though, that he did not return her interest because he disentangled himself from her quickly and almost brutally. Rosie could feel him watching her, staring at her, she realised indignantly, as he struck a pose and lit up two cigarettes, withdrawing one from his mouth and then trying to hand it over to her. His action was so deliberately intimate that it made her face burn, not with self-conscious female delight but with anger.

‘No, thank you,’ she told him coolly. ‘I don’t smoke.’

‘But you do dance, right?’

He had put out the cigarettes now, but he hadn’t stopped looking at her and he had moved closer to her as well – so close that she instinctively wanted to put some space between them. But that wasn’t possible with her still seated.

‘What’s happened to them Italian Fascist friends of yours?’ Nancy cut in, taunting Rosie, unhappy the limelight wasn’t shining on her. ‘Or need we ask? All bin imprisoned, I expect, and so they ruddy well should be – aye, and all them wot support them as well. You should be reportin’ her to the authorities, Lance, not asking her to dance.’

‘Supportin’ Fascism – that’s treason, that is,’ Nancy’s cousin announced. The way he was looking at her made the fine hairs on Rosie’s neck rise in angry dislike.

‘Having Italian friends doesn’t make anyone a traitor and it doesn’t mean that they’re Fascists either,’ she defended.

‘I know a group of handy lads, who have their own way of deciding how ruddy Fascists need to be treated. Aye, and they’ve proved it already,’ Lance taunted.

The other girls were beginning to look uncertain and uncomfortable now. Was Nancy’s cousin saying what Rosie thought he was saying? Was he implying that he was one of those who had been involved in the violent riots?

‘Mebbe there are some Italians fighting for Blighty but there’s a hell of a lot more fighting our lads, aye, and killin’ ’em as well. Why take any chances, that’s wot I say. A concentration camp is the best place for the ruddy lot of them,’ Lance told her. His voice had risen as he became more animated, so that the rest of the revellers could hear what he was saying and Rosie could see the approving nods that some of the people standing around them were giving. The earlier light-hearted mood had been replaced by a dark undercurrent of anger and hostility that made her feel vulnerable and afraid.

‘Well, I reckon it’s daft to start thinking that all Italians living here are Fascists because they’re not.’

Everyone turned to look at the young man Rosie had been dancing with earlier. He was facing Lance with an expression of dogged determination on his face that said he wasn’t going to be bullied into backing down. Rosie felt her heart lift as she smiled at her unlikely champion.

‘Alan’s right,’ another young soldier chipped in. ‘We’ve got several Italian lads in our unit and they’re as British as you and me.’

‘Come on, Lance, let’s go and dance,’ Nancy demanded, bored now, grabbing hold of her cousin’s hand and tugging him in the direction of the dance floor.

‘He gives me the willies, that Lance does – those eyes …’ Evie shuddered after they had gone. ‘You did well standing up to him like that, Rosie.’

‘It wasn’t me, it was Alan,’ Rosie replied, giving him a grateful smile.

Perhaps everything would work out after all, especially if there were more people like Alan around.



It had been an enjoyable evening, all the more so when Nancy and Lance had gone over to another table to join some of Lance’s friends, Rosie admitted as she put her key in the back door of number 12. Alan had offered to walk her home but she had walked back as far as Springfield Street with Evie’s cousins instead. She had liked Alan but it didn’t do to go encouraging lads, not even the shy ones, though she was looking forward to telling Bella all about him …

Her smile abruptly disappeared. Ever since Maria had told her that it would be best if she stopped calling round, Rosie had been trying to push her unhappiness about the situation into a corner of her mind where it wouldn’t keep bothering her. But of course she couldn’t. She and Bella had been friends all their lives. They had been best friends practically in their cradles, playing hopscotch together, learning to skip, riding the tricycle that Maria had bought second-hand for them to share, taking it in turns to pedal whilst the one who wasn’t pedalling stood on the back. Then had come their first day at school, when they had stood hand in hand together. If she closed her eyes, even now she could recall the stickiness of their joined hands in their shared nervousness, just as she could recall the loving warmth of Maria’s cuddly body next to her own on her other side. Her own mother had been working and so it had been Maria and Sofia who had taken the girls to school.

Then later she and Bella had walked there together, holding hands, and giggling over their shared secrets and jokes. Then had come ‘big’ school where their friendship had remained as strong as ever. There had hardly ever been a cross word between them. They were as close as sisters – closer. Or rather they had been. Rosie had never imagined that could ever change, but now it had and her heart felt sore and hurt.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen, quickly closing the door to block out any light that might attract the interest of a watchful ARP patrol.

The first thing she saw was her father’s jacket hanging on its peg and the second was her father himself, propped up asleep in one of the kitchen chairs.

‘Dad!’

He woke immediately at the sound of her excited voice, a smile splitting his face as he looked at her.

Rosie almost flew across the kitchen, flinging herself into his arms, half laughing and half crying. ‘When did you get back?’ she demanded breathlessly.

‘We docked just turned midnight, and they let us off more or less straight away. The Port Authority don’t like us docking until it gets dark just in case the ruddy Luftwaffe teks it into its head to have a go at bombing the docks, so that meant we’d bin waiting out on the other side of Liverpool bar since early this morning. It made me feel right bad being so near but not being able to come and see you straight away. Let’s have a look at yer, lass.’

Obediently Rosie let him hold her at arm’s length whilst he scrutinised her. They had always been close, and Rosie often felt guilty that her love for her father was stronger and went deeper than the love she had for her mother.

‘Summat’s botherin’ you,’ he pronounced shrewdly, his inspection over.

Rosie shook her head in rueful acknowledgement rather than in denial of his judgement.

‘What is it?’

‘Has Mum told you what’s happened to the Grenellis?’ she asked.

She could see him start to frown. Her father was not part of the close friendship she and her mother shared with their Italian neighbours. This was, Rosie had always believed, because he was away so much and had therefore not had the chance to get to know them in the same way. But he was also a quiet man who valued his own fireside when he was not at sea. The busyness of the Grenellis’ kitchen, with people constantly coming and going and voices raised in lively conversation and sometimes equally lively argument, was not something he would enjoy.

‘I haven’t seen your mam yet. She’s out somewhere,’ he muttered.

‘I think she’s gone to the Gaiety, with the others from the salon,’ Rosie told him, ‘and then I expect she went back with one of them for a bit of supper. You know what she’s like about not wanting to be in on her own.’

‘Aye, your mam’s never bin one as has enjoyed her own company,’ Rosie’s father agreed. ‘So you’ve bin worrying that soft heart of yours about the Grenellis, have you? I heard summat down at the docks about the Italian men being taken off.’

‘Dad, it was so awful. There were riots, and then the police came and took the men away. La Nonna was dreadfully upset, and Sofia as well.’

‘They haven’t got anything to worry about if they haven’t done anything wrong,’ her father said reassuringly.

‘Of course they haven’t done anything wrong,’ Rosie immediately replied.

Her father’s expression softened. ‘I know it must be hard for the families that have got caught up in this, Rosie, but it won’t do them or you any good you worrying yourself about it, lass.’

‘I can’t help it …’ She paused and shook her head. ‘Giovanni is nearly seventy-six, Dad, and he doesn’t always understand English properly even though he’s lived here for so long. I can’t understand why the government hasn’t released men like him already.’

‘Governments have their own way of doing things, Rosie, and they don’t allus make a lot o’ sense to ordinary folk like us. How’s your mam taking it?’

‘She hasn’t said much. She went up to Huyton when they first took the men there, but …’

‘But what?’ her father pressed her gently.

Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t know really, Dad, only that Sofia’s taken everything really badly and there’s been a bit of a falling-out. Mum hasn’t been round to see them since the men were taken and Maria’s asked me not to go until things are sorted out.’ Rosie’s voice thickened, her eyes suddenly filling with tears at being separated from close friends. ‘It made me feel so bad when she said that. I know we aren’t Italian, but we’ve always been friends, and now it’s as though …’

‘It won’t be easy for them, Rosie. Maria’s a good woman and she won’t have intended to hurt you. But sometimes it’s best to stay close to your own when things like this happen. Like to like, kin to kin.’ He gave her a warm hug. ‘You have a good cry if it will make you feel better.’

Rosie gave him a wobbly smile. ‘What a way to welcome you home, Dad – Mum not here and me crying all over you about other people’s problems. I’m so glad you’re home, though. I think about you all the time and I say a special prayer every night that you’ll be kept safe.’

‘You’ve always had a soft heart, you have, our Rosie. Don’t ever lose it. I’m going up to Edge Hill tomorrow to see your Auntie Maude,’ he told her, changing the subject. ‘Why don’t you come with me? She’d like to see you.’

Rosie seriously doubted that but tried not to look unenthusiastic. She knew how strongly he believed he owed his sister for looking after him when their parents died in an outbreak of cholera when he was only twelve years old, and she knew too how much discord it caused between her parents when her mother refused to go and see Maude.

‘Of course I’ll come with you,’ she assured him, and was rewarded with a smile and another hug.

‘I’m for me bed,’ he told her as he released her. ‘I only waited up on account of you not being in.’

‘Don’t you want to stay up for Mum?’ Rosie asked him.

‘No. If I do that I could end up staying down here all night. I didn’t send word to her that we’d docked, and you know your mother … if she’s had a few drinks like as not she’ll stay over with her pals and not come home until morning.’

He said it quite dispassionately but Rosie’s tender heart couldn’t help but feel sad for him. By rights her mother ought to be here waiting to welcome him home but, as they both knew, Christine just wasn’t that sort of woman.


SIX (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

There was a joke in Liverpool that with each intersection a person crossed as they walked up from Edge Hill through Wavertree, the houses got larger and the accents got ‘posher’.

Gerry Price’s elder sister might live closer to Edge Hill than the poshest part of Wavertree, with its tennis club and its smart big houses, but she certainly acted as if she was something special, Rosie acknowledged as she got off the bus with her father and crossed the road to turn into Chestnut Avenue.

Since it was a summer Sunday it was no surprise that the avenue’s inhabitants, especially its children, should be out enjoying the sunshine. Rosie was grateful for the warm smile one of a trio of young women, their gas masks slung casually from their shoulders, gave her as they walked past. The other two young women were both wearing smocks and were obviously pregnant, one of them holding on to a pretty little girl.

Rosie suppressed the sharp pang of envy she felt for their friendship. The one who had smiled at her had her arm linked with the one without the little girl and it was obvious how close they all were.

‘Come on, June,’ Rosie heard her saying. ‘We’d better be getting back, otherwise Dad will wonder what’s happened to us.’

There had been no word at all from Bella since Rosie had last seen her, although to be fair she had heard that she had been spending most of her time at Podestra’s, helping the family keep the chippie open. Rosie had tried to mend the breach between them. She had slipped a note through the Grenellis’ front door, asking Bella if they could meet somewhere, and she had told her how much she missed them all and how much she would like to hear any news they had had of the men, especially Giovanni. She had waited eagerly, convinced that Bella would get in touch with her, and then when she hadn’t done, Rosie had become very downcast and upset. After that rebuff she had told herself that she had too much pride to go running after a ‘friend’ who didn’t want her friendship any more, but then her pride had crumpled and she had been so desperate to see Bella and have news of the family that she had gone to the chip shop and waited outside, hoping to catch Bella when she left work. However, when Bella had eventually come out, she had been with her intended, and his parents. Rosie had felt so uncomfortable about stepping forward when Bella was surrounded by other people that she had ducked back into the shadows, creeping away once they were safely out of sight.

She told herself that Bella knew where she was if she wanted to see her, but deep down Rosie grieved for the friendship she had lost, and found it hard to understand how Bella could neglect it either. She had tried to put herself in Bella’s shoes and to imagine how she might have felt had their circumstances been reversed, but she just couldn’t imagine ever not wanting Bella to be her friend.

Maude Leatherhall lived at number 29, one of a row of three red-brick houses that, like the rest of the estate, had been built by a private developer at the beginning of the century.

Heavy lace curtains shielded the interior from the curious stares of passers-by whilst, Rosie suspected, still allowing her aunt to keep a watch on everything that was going on. A privet hedge enclosed the small front garden and its immaculate ‘rockery’ of a few pieces of soot-lined limestone brightened by pockets of brightly coloured annuals, planted with regimented precision. The window frames and the front door were painted cream and green, and twice a year Maude summoned Rosie’s father to come round to clear out her gutters and wash down her paintwork.

As they drew level with the gate, the ARP warden coming towards them slowed down, obviously wondering who they were. Since it was his responsibility to know the occupants of all the houses in his area, Rosie wasn’t surprised to hear her father informing him easily, ‘We’re just visiting m’sister.’

‘Thought I hadn’t seen you around before,’ the other man responded.

The path was so narrow that Rosie had to walk up it behind her father, but the front door opened so quickly after their knock that Rosie knew she had been right in thinking that her aunt kept a beady eye on the goings-on of the avenue from behind her lace curtains.

‘Oh, you’ve brought Rose with you, have you?’ Maude sniffed.

‘It’s a good while since you last saw her, Maudie, and I thought that with it being a Sunday and her being at work during the week, it would be a good opportunity for her to come along with me.’

‘You’d better come in then,’ was her grudging response as she led the way into the back parlour.

The house smelled of polish and pride. The parlour was cold, as though the sun never warmed it, the back door closed, unlike the door of the adjoining house, which Rosie could see through the window was propped open, as though in invitation to anyone who might want to call.

‘I can’t offer you a cup of tea, I’m afraid, not with this rationing.’

Rosie saw her father smile and reach into his pocket. ‘You get that kettle on, Maudie,’ he insisted, giving her a wink. ‘I’ve brought you a bit o’ summat you can put in your teapot.’

‘I hope this isn’t off that black market, Gerry. You know I don’t approve of that kind of thing, not like some I could name,’ Maude answered disagreeably. But Rosie saw that she still took the packet of tea and the small bag of sugar her father was handing her.

‘It’s not black market. I bought the sugar in New York and traded the tea with another sailor.

‘So how’ve you bin keeping, Maude?’ he asked when she had filled the kettle and lit the gas.

‘Well enough, I suppose, seeing as there’s a war on, and I’m living on me own with no one to care what happens to me. A poor frail widow, that’s what I am now, without my Henry. It takes all me strength some days just to get meself out of bed and dressed.’

Her aunt certainly didn’t look or sound the slightest bit like a frail widow, Rosie reflected. She was a well-built woman, with a slightly florid complexion and a steely expression that made her look rather formidable. When war had first been announced Rosie had heard her mother saying to her father, ‘Well, we won’t need no tanks to defend Liverpool, not when we’ve got your Maude, what with her being built like one.’ Rosie could see just what she meant.

‘It was nice to see the young ’uns out in the street having a bit of fun when we walked up,’ Rosie’s father commented. ‘This war is hard on them.’

‘I’ll thank you to remember that this is an avenue, not a street, if you please, Gerry, and if you ask me these modern youngsters have far too much fun. They make far too much noise as well. Of course, I blame the mothers. It’s not like it was in our day. I was saying as much to one of me neighbours the other day. Widowed like me, she is. Only she’s got a son. Mind you, he’s not going to be much comfort to her now he’s gone and got himself married. She was telling me about all the trouble she’s bin having with her daughter-in-law and now there’s a baby coming. No sense of responsibility, some people haven’t. You’d think the girl would know that a widow needs her son to look after her, especially now.

‘Put me in mind of how Christine persuaded you into getting married before you’d known her five minutes. Which reminds me, there’s a house just come up for rent at the other end of the street. You should go and have a word with the landlord, Gerry. It’s a pity you didn’t move up here years ago like I wanted you to, especially now that there’s bin all that trouble with them Italians. Of course, it was bound to happen. Foreigners. Fascists. I’ve never understood how you could go on living down there instead of wanting to better yourself a bit.’

‘Christine likes it …’

Rosie saw the way her aunt’s whole face tightened, and her own stomach did the same as she anticipated what was going to come next.

‘Well, you know my opinion, Gerry. You’ve let Christine have far too much of her own way. It’s the man who earns the wages, and pays the bills, and if Christine hasn’t got the sense in her head to know that you’d all be better off living up here, then you should put your foot down and make her see sense.’

‘It doesn’t seem fair for me to be telling Christine where she should live when I’m away at sea so much. Besides, Gerard Street’s handy for the docks.’

‘Yes, and it will be handy for Hitler’s bombers when they come over as well, but I don’t suppose she’s thought of that. I don’t suppose she thinks of anything other than doing her hair and painting her nails and going out spending your money. When was the last time she had a hot dinner waiting on the table for you when you got back from sea? I’ll never know why you married her in the first place.’

Her father was looking red-faced and uncomfortable, and no wonder, Rosie thought angrily. Aunt Maude had no right to speak about her mother like that, but neither could she really blame her father for not trying to defend her. Somehow she didn’t think that Aunt Maude would have been convinced. No wonder her mother had likened her to a tank. And no wonder too that she didn’t want to come and live up here close to her sister-in-law. Rosie didn’t blame her one little bit. Did her aunt ever have a good word to say about anything or anyone? Rosie wondered. She hoped they wouldn’t have to stay for very much longer. Already she was longing for the visit to end.



‘You didn’t have much to say for yourself at your auntie’s, Rosie,’ her father commented when they were on their way home.

‘I’m sorry, Dad, but I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I’d say the wrong thing. I know she’s my auntie and your sister, but it isn’t right the way she’s always finding fault with others, and especially with Mum.’

Her father sighed. ‘No, they’ve never got on, and your mother doesn’t help matters, acting the way she does when she does see her.’

Rosie gave him a swift look. ‘Mum’s always said that Aunt Maude didn’t want you to marry her and that she didn’t think she was good enough for you.’

‘Aye, well, to be honest they never hit it off right from the start. I suppose with your Aunt Maude looking after me from being a nipper she was more like a mother to me than a sister, and I dare say she wouldn’t have thought any girl was good enough for me. Of course, your mum doesn’t see it that way. She reckons she’s the one that could have done better for herself.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t think she could. No one could be better than you, Dad,’ Rosie told him, rubbing her face against his shoulder. ‘You’re the best dad in the world.’

She could see the fine lines, put there by years of wind and salt spray, crinkling out from the corners of his eyes as he smiled. ‘Go on with you, trying to soft-soap me.’

‘I’m not. It’s the truth. There’s no one I would rather have as my dad than you.’

He looked down at her. ‘Aye, well, there’s no lass I’d rather have as my daughter than you, Rosie.’

‘It’s just as well that I am then, isn’t it?’ she teased him, before raising herself up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. ‘Come on,’ she urged him. ‘I’m getting hungry.’

‘Well, your auntie was right about one thing: your mother won’t have a dinner waiting for us.’

Rosie laughed. ‘We can call at the chippie on the way back and get some pie and chips.’

‘It’s Sunday,’ her father reminded her.

‘Podestra’s will be open. They always open on a Sunday,’ Rosie told him, giving him her sunny smile and linking her arm through his.

‘Rosie,’ he suddenly stopped dead right in the middle of the road, reached out and took hold of her hand, ‘if anything was to happen to me, I want you to promise me you’ll mek sure you keep in touch with Auntie Maude. For my sake.’

Rosie stared up at him, the horror at what he was saying showing in her face. ‘Don’t talk like that, Dad,’ she begged him fiercely. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. I won’t let it …’

‘Oh, well, if you won’t let it then of course it won’t,’ he laughed, teasing her. ‘I’ll tell that Father Doyle that you’ve got the ear of God, shall I?’

‘Don’t talk daft,’ Rosie smiled.

‘I meant what I said about your Aunt Maude, though. Promise me, Rosie,’ he repeated quietly, seriously.

‘She doesn’t like me, Dad. She loves you but she doesn’t even like me. And as for Mum … But all right, I promise, just for you,’ she gave in.



‘You’ve only got three days’ shore leave, so why you have to go and spend one of them with your ruddy sister, I don’t know,’ Christine complained angrily before lighting a fresh cigarette and pacing the small parlour. ‘All on me own, I’ve bin, all afternoon.’

‘You could have come with us.’

‘Huh, if you think I’m going visiting that old battleaxe you’ve got another think coming. I suppose she was calling me from here to New Brighton, was she, Rosie?’

‘She never mentioned you, Mum,’ Rosie fibbed.

‘So what did she have to say for herself, then?’ Christine demanded with narrowed eyes.

‘She didn’t say much at all, only that she wished we’d move up to Edge Hill.’

‘Oh, I might have known. She won’t rest until she’s got you living up there and back under her thumb, Gerry. If you had anything about you you’d put her in her place good and proper.’

‘She’s me sister, Christine.’

‘And I’m your wife. Wives come before sisters, and it’s time you made sure she knows that.’ Cos if you don’t, one of these days I will. You’re just not man enough to stand up to her, that’s your trouble. If you were a proper man you’d tell her that it’s not up to her to say where we live.’

There was a bottle of gin on the table, and Rosie felt her heart sink as she listened to her mother’s complaints. Christine often talked wildly when she’d had a few drinks.

‘We brought you some pie and chips back,’ she told her mother. ‘It’s in the oven, keeping warm.’

Christine had been out when they had got back and so they had eaten their own meal together without waiting for her. However, it seemed there was no pleasing her. Instead of being grateful that they had thought about her she burst out bitterly, ‘Pie and bloody chips! If you was any sort of a man, Gerry, you’d make sure we had something a bit better than that on the table.’

‘Like what?’

‘A decent bit of meat, for a start.’

‘There’s a war on.’

‘Yes, and there’s a black market as well. If others can get it then why can’t you? Kate Hannigan from five doors down was boasting the other week about how her Kieron works down the docks and brings them all sorts. Oh, there’s no point in talking to you. I’m going out.’

‘Mum …’ Rosie protested, but it was too late; her mother was already yanking open the back door.

‘Let her go, Rosie,’ her father told her quietly.

‘But she hasn’t had anything to eat, and—’

‘Your mother can look after herself.’ There was an unfamiliar hard note in her father’s voice. ‘Come on, lass. I’ll give you a hand with the dishes, and then how about we put the wireless on?’

* * *

‘Look after yourself, Dad.’ Rosie gave her father a fierce hug two days later, burying her face against the rough fabric of his jacket to hide her tears as she stood with him in the shadow of the grey-hulled ship towering over them.

Rosie had got permission from Mrs Verey to leave work early so that she could come down to the dock to say goodbye to him. Her mother had said that the salon was too busy for her to get time off and, as she always did when she witnessed the tension between her parents, Rosie wished desperately that things were different between them. It made her miss the warmth and conviviality of the Grenellis even more. Having her father home had eased the pain of that enforced separation. But now he was going again she felt more alone than ever.

‘I’ll bring you back some stockings, and maybe a bit of perfume,’ her father promised.

Rosie shook her head. ‘You just bring yourself back safe, Dad, that’s all I want.’

She hugged him again one final time and then stood and watched as he joined the other men going on board, their kitbags slung over their shoulders.

A pretty blonde girl standing close to her was drying her tears, a shiny new wedding ring on her finger glinting in the sun. Rosie eyed her sympathetically as she stood watching the ship, sensing that, like her, she wouldn’t move until the vessel had not only sailed, but disappeared completely from sight.


SEVEN (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

‘Bella!’

Rosie had seen the other girl turning into Gerard Street ahead of her and she had hurried to catch up, thrilled to have a chance to speak to her at long last.

Bella might have stopped and turned round, but she was not returning her smile, Rosie saw. However, she was so pleased to see her friend that she immediately exclaimed, ‘Oh, Bella, I’ve been thinking about all of you so much! I’ve been longing to come round and see how you all are. Has there been any news yet?’

‘We’ve heard that Dad and Aldo are to be sent to the Isle of Man and interned there, but at least Granddad is going to be released and allowed to come home. Not that Liverpool feels like home to us any more after what’s happened.’ There was an unfamiliar stiffness, not just in Bella’s voice but also in the way she was standing.

Looking at her, Rosie felt her excitement draining away into worry.

‘Bella, please don’t say that,’ she begged her. ‘This is your home, of course it is.’ Hot tears filled Rosie’s eyes as she reached out towards her. ‘I miss you so much, I really do. I know we aren’t related, but I think of you all as family.’

‘But we aren’t family, are we? We’re Italian and you’re English. The police didn’t come for your father in the middle of the night and take him away, did they? He isn’t being sent to a … a concentration camp …’

‘Bella …’ Rosie recoiled from her hostility.

‘I’m sorry,’ Bella told her, not sounding sorry at all, ‘but it’s the truth.’

What had happened to the soft, kind Bella she had thought she knew? Rosie didn’t recognise this new Bella, who was looking at her with such contempt.

‘When will your grandfather be home? Do you know?’ she asked her eagerly, determined to ignore her hostility.

‘No, not yet.’ Bella’s answer was given reluctantly, as though she would rather not have to talk to Rosie. ‘We’ve heard that some of the men your government have decided are Fascists are going to be deported to Canada.’

Rosie didn’t know what to say. There were so many conflicting stories and rumours going round the city, it was hard to know what was or wasn’t the truth. She had read the papers avidly, looking for news about the Italians, and she understood why the government had felt it had to take a strong line on the real Fascists who might work against the country from inside it. And, of course, she had heard the nasty comments made by people like Nancy, who claimed that all Italians were tarred with the same brush.

‘Well, when it comes to those that really are Fascists,’ she offered awkwardly, ‘then—’

Anger flashed in Bella’s eyes. ‘Showing your true colours now, aren’t you? You’re siding with your own government. What if they aren’t? What if they are just innocent men like my dad and my granddad? You say you think of yourself as part of our family, but you don’t and you aren’t – you never were and never will be! How can you be? It’s right what my mum says. You’ve got to stick with your own kind. How can you even begin to understand what it feels like to be me?’

‘Oh, Bella,’ Rosie protested, unable to hide her distress, but Bella shook her head and then pushed past her and hurried down the street, leaving Rosie to fight back her tears. She was trying to put herself in Bella’s shoes, but it was hard when Bella was being so nasty to her, and acting as though they were enemies and not friends. She continued home, feeling more sick at heart than she had ever imagined she could feel, and wondering whether Bella would even speak to her again.



‘I saw Bella when I was on my way home,’ Rosie told her mother later. ‘She told me that Carlo and Aldo are being sent to the Isle of Man and that Grandfather Giovanni is going to be released.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Christine agreed carelessly. ‘I managed to send word to Aldo when I was up at Huyton the other day, and he sent a message back to me.’

‘You never said anything.’

Christine shrugged dismissively. ‘So what? Pass us me ciggies, will you, Rosie?’

‘So can anyone go up to Huyton and do that then?’ Rosie asked her mother curiously. ‘Only Bella never said that she’d been in touch with her dad.’

Christine lit her cigarette and blew out a ring of smoke, studying it for several seconds before replying, ‘No they can’t, and don’t you go telling Bella that I’ve done it neither. It all depends who you know. It just happens that I’ve got to know one of the chaps up there on guard duty, and he sorted it all out for me.’

There was something that her mother wasn’t telling her, Rosie felt sure, something about her story that didn’t quite ring true.

‘What do you mean, you’ve got to know one of the chaps?’ she asked uncertainly. As a child Rosie had never questioned the fact that it was the men of the Grenelli household with whom Christine spent most of her time when they went there, but now as a young woman she hadn’t been able to help noticing that her mother was a woman who seemed to prefer men’s company to that of her own sex.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rosie, stop questioning me, will you? If you must know I do his wife’s hair. Now give it a rest, will you? You’re making me head ache.’

‘What are we having for tea? There’s some of that tinned fish left and we could make a bit of a fish hash pie with it,’ Rosie suggested.

Christine shook her head. ‘You have some if you want, but I don’t want anything. I’m going out to the Gaiety with some of the others from the salon and then we’re all going round to Flo’s for a bit of supper afterwards. I don’t know what time I’ll be back. You know what that Flo is like once she’s had a couple of drinks. She’ll keep us natterin’ at her place all night if we let her. I might even end up staying over with her. Are you doing anything?’

Rosie nodded. ‘I’ve promised to meet up with Evie and her cousins and go to the pictures with them.’

‘You mean you’re going to the Gaiety as well?’ Christine demanded sharply.

‘No, Evie said to meet her up town outside Lewis’s.’

‘Well, just you mind what you’re doing. Your dad thinks you’re the next best thing to a ruddy angel and he won’t be too pleased if he comes home to find you’ve gone and got yourself in trouble with some lad in a uniform who’s taken himself off and left you.’

‘There’s no need to say that,’ Rosie assured her indignantly, her face pink. ‘I know better than to let any lad mess around with me.’

‘You can say that now, but there’s a war on, remember. Maggie Sullivan, her as looks after Father Doyle and Father Morrison, was saying in the salon the other day that people are queuing up to book weddings, and that most of them should be booking the christening at the same time, by the look of them. And that’s only them as are with lads who are willing to stand by them and do the decent thing. There’s plenty of the other kind around who won’t.’

‘There’s no need to worry on my account.’

‘Well, you just make sure it stays that way. I’ve had enough trouble with your dad’s bloomin’ sister, without you giving her more ammunition to fire at me.’

‘I don’t know why you’re having a go at me like this,’ Rosie objected. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Not yet you haven’t. Like I just said, there’s a war on,’ her mother answered darkly.



Later that evening, queuing for the pictures with Evie and her cousins, Rosie had cause to acknowledge that her mother had a point when she claimed that the war was affecting the way people behaved. There were several couples in the queue who were wrapped in one another’s arms and behaving as brazenly as you liked.

‘Here, look at them two over there,’ Evie urged Rosie, giving her a nudge in the ribs. ‘Just look where he’s got his hand! You won’t catch me letting a fella show me up like that in public.’

Rosie peered over Evie’s shoulder, automatically avoiding stepping back on the heavy sandbags, which had been put in place when war had first been announced, to protect buildings from bomb damage, but which were turning green, and leaking trickles of sand.

‘No,’ Jane giggled. ‘Me neither. It’s best waiting for the blackout if you want to get up to that kind of how’s-your-father.’

It was impossible to pretend to be shocked and Rosie didn’t try, joining in with their raucous laughter.

‘They were doing this new dance at the Grafton last weekend. It’s all the rage in London,’ Evie informed the others. ‘It’s called “the Blackout Stroll”. All the lights go off whilst you’re dancing and then you change partners in the dark. Last weekend I ended up with this Canadian chap – a pilot he told me he was, and ever so handsome.’

Rosie could well imagine what her Aunt Maude would think of Evie’s revelations.

The queue moved forward slowly. There was a big crowd to see the latest newsreels of the war, as well as the main film. Rosie loved the cinema; she had done ever since she was a small girl and her father would take her to see the latest Disney film as a treat when he was on leave. As she grew up, she couldn’t wait for the Saturday afternoons of darkness and excitement, of adventure and passion. The women were all so beautiful, the men so brave. But just because they fell in love and lived happily ever after, it didn’t mean that that could happen to real people, Rosie always reminded herself warningly. She would hate to end up in a marriage like her parents’, where one partner loved too much and the other not enough.

Now the cinema fulfilled a different function. It was a means of escape, certainly from the devastation and drudgery, but also it was a way of finding out more information on the hostilities, of seeing for oneself the progress of the war.

‘Last time I came here they were still showing them newsreels of them taking the men off the beaches at Dunkirk,’ Jane told them all, as the queue moved towards the door. ‘Sobbed me heart out, I did.’

‘Me an’ all,’ Evie agreed.

Rosie nodded. She couldn’t imagine that anyone could not have been affected by the pictures of those brave men waiting patiently to be brought home to safety, knowing that the Germans were advancing on them.

In the clear evening sky the barrage balloons down by the docks were clearly visible, glowing a misty pink in the rays of the setting sun. Rosie couldn’t look at them without a small shudder. They were a constant reminder, if one was needed, of the fact that they were at war. She shuffled along again, grateful of the chance to escape into the world of film for an evening.

* * *

‘Well, I say that it’s good riddance, and the more of them Eyeties they get on board the ships and get out of our country, the better,’ Nancy insisted, taking a bite out of her sandwich and then pulling a face. ‘Cheese again. I’m that sick of it.’

‘You should think yourself lucky. I’ve only got a bit of pickle on mine,’ Evie told her.

‘Swap you one then,’ Nancy offered. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t got summat to say about them Eyeties being shipped off, seein’ as how you think so much about them,’ she challenged Rosie.

They were all in the workroom having their dinner, and the truth was that Rosie was trying valiantly not to get dragged into the conversation Nancy had initiated about a ship – the ArandoraStar – which had been lying off the Liverpool landing stage and had left in the early hours of the morning, sailing for Canada, carrying on board a large number of Italian and German internees. They were being sent to Canada where it was deemed by the government they would not be able to participate in the war as enemies of Britain.

‘It must be very upsetting for Italian families who have lived here for a long time,’ was all she allowed herself to say.

‘Rosie’s right,’ Evie supported her. ‘I wouldn’t like it if it were my dad or hubbie wot was being sent all them miles away from me.’

‘It’s no different than having your dad or your man away fighting,’ another girl chipped in. ‘And at least them Italians will be safe. No fighting for them like our lads are having to do.’

‘A lot of the families have sons in the Forces,’ Rosie felt bound to remind the others.

There’d been stories going round the neighbourhood about men returning from active duty or off their merchant ships to find their fathers and younger brothers missing and their mothers and sisters distraught. Rosie knew too that this was causing a lot of bad feeling amongst Italians who had previously considered themselves to be British, but who now, like Bella, felt alienated and badly done by. There had been talk too of members of those families who had relatives on board the ArandoraStar going down to the landing stage in an attempt to say a final goodbye to their loved ones, but that armed guards had been posted there to prevent them from doing so. Rosie gave a small shiver. What a dreadful thing it must be to know that someone you loved was being sent so many thousands of miles away. It was different in families like her own, where the breadwinner was in the merchant navy. He might be gone for weeks on end sometimes and there was always the sea itself to fear but you knew that he would be coming back – at least you hoped. Those on board the Arandora Star could be separated from their families for years.

Although she had been hungry, suddenly Rosie couldn’t stomach her sandwiches.

‘Come on, back to work,’ Evie called out as the dinner bell rang, adding, ‘A girl I know was telling me that in London the girls are getting dressed up and wearing long frocks now when they go out dancing. Mrs V. was saying as how she’d had one or two ladies in already asking if she can sort them out with evening frocks. I’m going to try and get meself a few yards of chiffon and satin and mek meself up something.’

‘Satin and chiffon? Where do you think you’ll get that?’ Nancy scoffed.

‘There’s plenty of second-hand stuff around if you know where to look. What about it, Rosie? Why don’t you do the same, so that we can go out together in them?’

‘Don’t you listen to her, Rosie,’ another of the girls chipped in. ‘You know what she’s after, don’t you? She can’t set a stitch to save her life and she’s hoping you’ll make hers for her as well as your own.’

There was always some good-natured bantering going on amongst the girls so Rosie laughed and answered pacifyingly, ‘Well, I don’t mind doing that.’

‘You’re a real pal, Rosie,’ said Evie warmly. ‘And as a matter of fact, I do just happen to have seen a really nice dark red taffeta frock in a shop up by the Adelphi Hotel. Proper posh-looking it is, and I reckon it must have belonged to someone rich. The colour would suit you a treat. We could go and have a look on Saturday after work if you like.’

Rosie wasn’t really sure she needed or even wanted a full-length evening dress but Evie was so enthusiastic she found herself giving in and agreeing. It would be a welcome distraction from her ever-confused thoughts. She did so miss the happy times she and Bella had shared when they had hurried off to St John’s market to look for bargains.



‘Ta-ra then. See you tomorrow,’ Evie sang out when she and Rosie reached Great Crosshall Street where their routes home separated. ‘And don’t forget about Saturday and us going to look at that frock.’

Rosie still hadn’t got used to the unfamiliar silence of the streets of Little Italy. Those Italian families that hadn’t already moved to be with their relatives in Manchester or London, where there were larger Italian communities, were keeping themselves inside their houses, with the doors firmly closed against the outside world. Less than a month ago virtually every door would have been open, with women calling out to one another and children playing happily in the street, men pushing home their ice-cream carts and gathering on street corners to talk, whilst the sounds of music from accordions and flutes mingled with the smell of freshly ground coffee and herb-flavoured tomato sauce cooking, but now all that was gone.

Michael Farrell, whose wife, Bridie, did all the local laying-outs, was leaning against a lamppost, obviously the worse for drink.

‘Oh, it’s yourself, is it, Rosie,’ he greeted her. ‘And sad day this is and no mistake, all them poor sods drowning.’

As he spoke he was wiping his arm across his eyes to blot away his tears. ‘Over a thousand of them, so I’ve heard. Aye, and the ruddy ship torpedoed by their own side. Complaining they was being sent to Canada, but there’s many a family here in Liverpool will be wishing tonight that that’s where they are instead of lying drowned at the bottom of the sea.’ He swayed and staggered slightly, belching beer-laden stale breath in Rosie’s direction but she barely noticed. A horrible cold feeling had seized her.

‘What do you mean? What’s happened? Tell me please,’ she begged the Irishman.

He focused on her and blinked, hiccuping. ‘It’s that Arandora Star what was taking them Italians and Germans to Canada,’ he told her. ‘Gone and got itself sunk, it has.’


EIGHT (#uf801dcdf-4FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)

It couldn’t be true. Michael Farrell must have got it wrong. But somehow Rosie knew that he hadn’t. After she left him she started to walk home as fast as she could and then broke into a run, driven by a sickening sense of dread.

Her mother was in the kitchen. She was standing right beside the wireless, a fixed expression on her face, even though she was listening to someone singing. Rosie knew immediately that she too had heard what had happened.

‘You’ve heard,’ she still said.

Her mother nodded. ‘Someone came and told us at the salon. There’s bin hundreds drowned, so they say.’

‘Has the BBC news … ?’

‘I haven’t heard anything official yet. Mind you, I haven’t bin in that long.’

‘It can’t be true,’ Rosie whispered, still unwilling to accept that something so terrible could have happened. ‘The Arandora Star wasn’t a warship. It was carrying Germans and Italians.’

Christine gave a small shrug. ‘Well, perhaps someone ought to have told ruddy Hitler that.’ She reached for her cigarettes, her hands trembling as she lit one. ‘Apparently there’s a crowd of women down at the docks already, waiting for news, daft sods. More than likely they’ll be ruddy lucky to get a body back, never mind news, and it won’t be here they’ll dock, more likely somewhere up in Scotland.’ She spoke with all the authority of a sailor’s wife.

‘At least the Grenellis weren’t on board.’ Rosie felt guilty even saying that when so many families would have had men on the ship. ‘I’m going to go round and see them,’ she announced. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

Christine shook her head. ‘We won’t be welcome there, Rosie,’ she warned. ‘If I was you I’d stay away.’

‘I can’t do that. Not now that this has happened. And anyway, I don’t understand why they don’t want to be friends with us any more.’ When her mother made no response she told her fiercely, ‘I’ve got to go round; it wouldn’t be right not to.’ None of the Grenelli men would have been on board the Arandora Star but there were bound to have been men on the ship whom the family knew and Rosie felt she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t at least go round and offer her sympathy and her help.

‘Why don’t you leave it until after your tea?’ Christine suggested. ‘There might have been something on the wireless by then.’

Rosie shook her head. ‘I couldn’t eat a thing. Not now …’ she said, rushing out of the door.



As she slipped down the alleyway that led to the Grenellis’ back door, Rosie could see Father Doyle up ahead of her, stepping into the home of one of the Italian families. Seconds later the fine hairs on Rosie’s skin lifted at the unnerving sound of a woman’s single solitary anguished scream of denial. The grief it held was like a physical blow.

Outside the Grenellis’ back door Rosie hesitated. Her palms were sticky with sweat. What was she going to do if Bella’s mother answered and slammed the door in her face or, even worse, started to shout at her? She took a deep breath, wiped her hands on her skirt and then knocked on the door before she could lose her nerve.

To her relief it was Bella who opened it, but there was no smile of welcome in her eyes or lifting of her mouth. Instead she looked as blankly at Rosie as though she had been a stranger.

‘We’ve heard the news. I had to come,’ Rosie began in a rush. ‘I know that Carlo and Aldo and Granddad Giovanni weren’t on board, but—’

Bella looked at her and then said bleakly, ‘They were on board.’

Rosie’s heart jerked. ‘No,’ she protested. ‘You said … you told me yourself that Granddad Giovanni was coming home and that your father and Aldo were going to be interned on the Isle of Man.’

‘They were, but some … someone my father owed a favour to asked if they would swap places with them.’ The words came jerkily as though it hurt her to say them.

‘I don’t understand …’

‘Families were being broken up, fathers sent to the Isle of Man, sons sent to Canada, brothers and cousins separated. Our most important men held a meeting at Huyton and it was decided to change around the papers everyone had been given so that families could stay together. There was one family … an important family in our community to whom my father owed … loyalty who had pieces of paper for the Arandora Star.’

‘But the Arandora Star was sailing for Canada,’ Rosie protested. ‘And Grandfather Giovanni is so old, surely—’

‘It was a matter of duty,’ Bella told Rosie fiercely, ‘a matter of honour; Grandfather agreed that my father had no choice. That is what my mother said. We only found out last night that they were to sail. There was a message …’

‘No,’ Rosie repeated. A wave of sickening heat surged over her and then retreated, leaving her feeling icy cold and trembling violently. She desperately wanted to sit down. But how could she give in to her weakness when Bella was standing there looking so in control of herself? ‘Maybe they weren’t on the Arandora Star? I’ve heard that there is another ship sailing tomorrow. Maybe—’

‘No. We know they sailed on the Arandora Star.’

‘There will be survivors,’ Rosie told her eagerly. ‘Maybe—’

‘My grandfather can’t swim; he is old; they were put in the very bottom of the ship. This is what we know and what we have been told. The German sailors, they will have survived, but not our men.’

‘You can’t know that,’ Rosie protested. ‘Bella, you mustn’t give up hope. Not yet.’

‘Who are you to tell us not to give up hope?’ Bella rounded on her bitterly. ‘We should not need to have hope. Our men should not have been taken away and imprisoned. They should not have been sent to Canada. I will never forget what your country has done to us, Rosie, and I will never forgive it. My mother is right – you are all our enemies.’

‘Bella, that isn’t true.’ Rosie was trembling with the force of her emotions.

‘Isn’t it? Ask your father what he thinks of us, Rosie; ask those men who rioted against us and destroyed our homes. Go and ask them if they are our friends.’

‘My father wouldn’t have wanted this. He’s a sailor. No sailor would ever want something like this to happen.’ She knew that that was true, but she also knew that Bella was right and that her father had never really understood her mother’s friendship with the Grenellis.

Bella gave a small uncaring shrug. ‘It doesn’t matter much any more. We are leaving Liverpool as soon as it can be arranged. We have relatives in Manchester who will take us in, for how are we to earn a living now when there is no sugar for us to make ice cream and no men to sell it? You’d better go,’ she added coolly. ‘My mother will be coming downstairs in a minute and if she knows that you are here she won’t be pleased.’



Rosie wasn’t quite sure how she managed to get home. She certainly couldn’t remember walking there. She stood in the middle of the shabby parlour and told her mother emotionally, ‘I’ve just seen Bella. They were on board, all three of them – her father, Grandfather Giovanni and Aldo.’ And then her whole body was shaking, racked by the sobs that seemed to be being torn away from her heart itself.

‘Stop that.’

The sharp slap her mother gave her shocked her into a stunned silence. Her cheek burned. Slowly she lifted her hand to touch it.

Her mother’s eyes were glittering with anger, her own face burning almost as bright a red as Rosie’s cheek.

‘You must have misunderstood what Bella was saying. Mind you, she’s as much of a drama queen as that ruddy mother of hers. Their men couldn’t have been on board. I spoke to Aldo meself on Saturday night. He told me then that they was going to the Isle of Man.’

‘You spoke to Aldo? But that’s impossible. You couldn’t have done. No one was allowed to talk to the men.’

‘Well, I did. And don’t go looking at me like that. It’s the truth. Like I’ve already told you, there’s always ways and means, Rosie, if you know how to go about things and you know the right people. Bella’s got it wrong. Aldo was full of it, and that relieved …’

‘Bella said that they’d changed places with someone,’ Rosie stopped her mother quietly.

Between one breath and another Rosie saw her mother’s expression change, and the colour leave her face, only to rush back into it to burn in two bright spots on her cheeks.

‘The stupid bastard,’ she breathed. ‘The stupid, stupid bastard. I warned him not to …’ Suddenly it was her mother who was shaking from head to foot. She dropped down into a chair and leaned her elbows on the table, holding her head in her hands.

‘Mum …’ Rosie begged her uncertainly. She was upset – devastated – but her mother was inconsolable.

‘It’s that ruddy Carlo – he’s the one who’s responsible for this.’ It was as though she was talking to herself. ‘He’s the one who dragged Aldo into that Fascist lot on account of Sofia nagging at him. She’s the one who’s to blame for them all being drowned … She might as well have murdered them with her bare hands.’

Had the news somehow affected her mother’s brain? How was it possible for her to know so much?

‘We don’t know what … what’s happened yet, Mum. They might still be alive …’

Her mother was giving her the same look that Bella had given her when she had said that to her.

‘No, they won’t be alive,’ she told Rosie bitterly. ‘I need a drink.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Rosie offered.

‘Not that kind of drink. A proper drink. There’s a bottle of gin in the sideboard – go and get it for us.’

‘Mum, I don’t think—’

‘All right, don’t get it, I’ll go and get it meself,’ she glowered.

‘I don’t understand,’ Rosie protested. ‘Why did they change places with these other people, and why did you say it was Sofia’s fault? They aren’t Fascists.’

‘Aldo certainly wasn’t. Sofia’s had it in for Aldo for a long time – well, I hope she’s happy now with what she’s gone and done.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Rosie repeated.

‘No, you don’t understand, Rosie, and that’s the ruddy truth.’



It was another week before they knew for sure that the Grenelli men were indeed amongst those missing, presumed drowned. And not once in that week had the Grenellis’ door opened to Rosie’s knock, even though she had gone round every day hoping to be allowed to share their grief. Rosie went with her mother to the service that was being held at Holy Cross in memory of those who had died, both of them dressed in their most sombre clothes.

The church was packed full, and it was almost impossible to hear the voice of the priest because of the noise of women crying, Rosie and her mother included. And then during the prayers one woman screamed so loudly in her despair that Rosie thought she herself was going to faint from her pain. The grief they were all feeling couldn’t be contained. It spilled over and filled the church as the mourners gave themselves over to it.

All Rosie could think about was how the Grenellis must be feeling and how much she wished she had been allowed to share this dreadful time with them. All week she had hoped that today of all days they would relent and accept that although she and her mother were not Italian, they shared their sense of loss and bewilderment. But the church was so packed that it was impossible to find anyone particular amongst the huge crowd. Many of the widows and children of the men who had lost their lives were given seats at the front of the church, but although Rosie craned her neck to see if the Grenellis were amongst them, she couldn’t find their familiar faces.

The grief of the mourners brought home to Rosie not just the cruel tragedy of what had happened but also the reality of what it meant to have a beloved husband or father die in such a dreadful way. It had always been her fear that one day her own father might not return home, and witnessing the anguish here reinforced that fear and added to her grief for all the lost lives.

She and her mother clung to one another for support when they left the church after the service. Rosie had never seen Christine so emotionally affected by anything. For once her mother was not wearing her trademark mascara and bright red lipstick, and it tore at Rosie’s tender heart to see her looking so unexpectedly vulnerable, as some of their Italian neighbours glowered pointedly at them, making it plain that they considered them to be outsiders.

‘Did you see the way that Carlo Cossima were looking at us, like we was to blame for what’s happened, when it were me wot tried to save Aldo? If there’s anyone to blame for them drowning then it’s that Sofia and not me,’ Christine wept as she clung to Rosie.

Rosie could feel her mother trembling. She squeezed her arm, trying to comfort her, not trusting herself to speak. Her mother seemed fixated on Aldo’s fate, whereas Rosie recognised that it was for all of their men that most of the women had come to mourn, and that was why they were looking so bitterly at them – because they were English and it was the British Government they believed had sent their men to their deaths.

Everyone had been saying that the war was going to change people’s lives for ever, but Rosie felt sure that nothing else could ever have the impact on hers that the internment and deaths of the Italian men from Liverpool had had. She felt bereft without the closeness and friendship of the Grenellis, but her pain went deeper than that, and she knew that a part of her would never recover from the words Bella had thrown at her. They had grown up together, both innocent of any differences between them, bonded by a friendship Rosie had believed would last for ever. But now that innocence was gone. Rosie’s tender heart ached for all the Italian families who had suffered so much pain and loss, but it ached as well for her own loss.

It ached too for her mother, who had begun to frighten Rosie with the way she was drinking. All week Rosie had lain in bed at night, hearing her mother walking around downstairs, wanting to go down to her to beg her to come up to bed, but knowing that Christine would have had too much to drink to pay any attention to her. It had been the early hours before she had eventually come upstairs and then in the morning she had been sleeping so heavily that Rosie had been unable to wake her up properly so that she could go to work. Rosie was astonished that her mother had actually made it to the service.

She longed for her father to come home, and yet at the same time she felt guilty because he was alive whilst so many other men from the neighbourhood were dead. Over seven hundred had drowned, so it said in the papers, most of them Italian. Amongst them had been the man she had thought of almost as her own grandfather. She and Bella should have been mourning his loss together, supporting one another and comforting one another. How could her friend not understand that she had loved him too?




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