Some Sunny Day (28 page)

After three back-breaking days of scrubbing and re-scrubbing the whole shed, they were told on the Saturday morning that it had been a false alarm and that both the cows and the girls who had milked them were fine.

‘They’d tell us owt to keep us working,’ one of the girls said gloomily. ‘Thank Gawd it’s Saturday and we’re off for the next day and a half.’

Some of the girls were going home but Mary and Peggy had agreed to meet up with their RAF admirers, and Rosie could see how excited they both were as she watched them get ready.

‘You can come with us, Rosie, if you’re all on your own,’ Mary offered generously. ‘I’m sure the boys won’t mind.’

Rosie laughed. ‘No, not much. I’ll bet they’ve been waiting all week to get you to themselves,’ she teased. ‘It’s kind of you to say, Mary, but I’m quite happy to stay here. I’ve got a bit of washing and mending I want to get done. The warden said that we could sit outside if we want, so I might do that if it stays fine, and then I can always walk down to the village later for a break.’

‘Pity that POW camp isn’t nearer. Then you might be able to see that admirer of yours,’ Sheila told her mischievously. ‘I reckon he’d be pretty keen to get to know you, Rosie, if you was to give him a bit of a look.’

‘I’m doing no such thing,’ Rosie told her stiffly. ‘And I wish you’d stop going on about him and making up daft stuff. I’ve only seen him a couple of times.’

‘It only takes one look,’ Sheila laughed. ‘Ask Mary and Peggy. And you can say what you want, but I saw the way you coloured up when he looked at you like he did…Just like summat out of a film, it was.’

Rosie wasn’t going to listen to any more of Sheila’s nonsense. But Sheila’s words had caused a picture of the Italian to form in her mind. She shook her head to rid herself of the image. Sheila’s dramatic ramblings were starting to have an effect on her.

It was almost midnight when Mary and Peggy got back. Rosie could hear them giggling and whispering together as they tiptoed into the dormitory, and a small stab of envy made her heart lurch against her ribs. What was she upset about? Not for a handsome Italian whose name she didn’t even know, surely? Just because two girls she’d gone and got a bit friendly with had got themselves boyfriends, that didn’t mean she had to go feeling all sorry for herself, did it? After all, if she’d wanted
she could have had Rob, couldn’t she? He’d been keen enough to put his ring on her finger, after all. Thinking about Rob and the reasons why she hadn’t wanted to marry him were enough to have her recognising that it was far better to feel a bit lonely now and again than to be married to a man she didn’t truly love.

‘…And Ian was saying how he thought they was never going to get back, and that he signalled to John to fly home without them just in case they both got shot down, but that John pretended not to see his message.’

Mary was telling for the fifth time the story of how Ian’s plane had been helped back to safety by the brave action of one of his comrades, who had flown beneath his damaged wing to help support him, but neither Rosie nor anyone else at the Sunday morning breakfast table cared. They were enthralled and eager to hear everything all over again.

‘Ian reckons that John will be decorated for what he did, and he said that when His Grace comes back on leave from Malta, he’s going to make sure he knows all about it.’

The Duke of Aston, who was second in command of the squadron of ‘our boys’, as the girls now referred to Ian and his friends, had been seconded to work with those crews who had been shipped out to Malta along with their planes.

‘I’m going to say a special prayer for them in
church today,’ Peggy told them tearfully. Her boy was the rear gunner on the plane that had supported Ian’s on its return journey, and she was pink with pride over the whole achievement.

Everyone knew that the war meant that relationships were formed quickly and deeply, and no one questioned the speed with which Mary and Peggy were falling in love, eager to grab every moment they could with their men, least of all the two girls themselves.

‘I’ve told Ian about the warden saying that they could come here. He’s talking about getting up a party of us so that we can go dancing next Saturday, if they’re off duty. Will you come along, Rosie?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Rosie was prepared to welcome any distraction.

‘Ian said to tell you that they reckon that Hitler has given up trying to blitz Liverpool,’ Mary told her quietly. ‘Not that the ruddy Luftwaffe haven’t made a real old mess of it, seemingly. You’re lucky to be out of it, Rosie.’

‘Yes,’ Rosie agreed. She knew that was true and yet a part of her felt guilty because she wasn’t there to share the ordeal with her friends. She was safe from harm, deep in the Cheshire countryside, while everyone she had once known – those who had survived and hadn’t fled – were facing danger daily. Not for the first time Rosie wondered if she was doing the right thing.

She never ever wanted to see another potato plant as long as she lived, nor another weed either, Rosie decided tiredly as she worked her hoe in between the straight lines of the planted crop, slicing and digging as she separated the weeds from the roots in a rhythm that had become almost second nature, whilst she tried to ignore the ache in her back and her shoulder.

Behind her another girl was picking up the severed weeds, whilst in front of them the POWs were digging yet another trench. Rosie lifted her head to ease the ache from her back and then frowned as she watched George Duncan heckling and bullying the young Italian who was limping badly as he tried to move out of his way.

Rosie’s frown deepened when she realised that the boy – he was little more than that – was protesting that he couldn’t work any harder because his leg was hurting so badly. Some of the men were also trying to speak up for their comrade, but since
they couldn’t speak English and the foreman did not understand Italian, all that was happening was that the foreman was getting more and more angry. She could have gone over and translated for the Italians and her conscience was in fact insisting that she did so, but she was refusing to listen to it, stubbornly telling herself that what was happening was none of her business.

But by dinner time the boy, whom Rosie had been deliberately keeping an eye on, could hardly walk, and Rosie found that she was asking herself if her father would really have wanted her not to try to help.

When the foreman had gone to have his dinner, Rosie took her chance and made her way over to where the Italians were crowded together, eating their rations.

She went up to the boy, who stared at her in mute desperation. His face was hotly flushed and Rosie could see how much pain he was in. She spoke to him slowly, searching for the right words, for although she could comprehend Italian when she heard it spoken, she wasn’t sure she could speak it well enough to make herself understood, but to her relief the boy seemed to grasp what she was trying to say and after some coaxing reluctantly rolled up the hem of his trousers so that she could see his leg.

When Rosie saw the swollen and inflamed flesh around the site of the cut she knew immediately the danger he was in. She had been fourteen when
Connor O’Reilly, a neighbour from a couple of streets away, who had worked on the docks, had had to have his leg amputated after a similar kind of injury. The whole area had been talking about it at the time, and automatically Rosie looked for the telltale red line coming away from the injury. She remembered her father talking about going to visit his sick friend and telling her how Connor O’Reilly’s wife had told him how a red line coming out from an infected wound was a sure sign that a person’s life was in danger. Now she looked anxiously at the young Italian’s wound, trying not to let him see her anxiety and praying that she wouldn’t find one. But to her horror there was one and she could see it quite plainly. Her heart started to beat uncomfortably heavily, and a sick feeling of panic filled her. What should she do now? She knew that the boy needed medical attention. She had received some very basic first-aid training when she had undergone her fire-watch training, but it was nothing like enough to equip her to deal with something like this. She also knew that the foreman was unlikely to accept her word for the severity of the situation, especially when he was the one who had inflicted the wound on the Italian in the first place. But something had to be done – and fast.

Quickly, Rosie ran back to Mary and told her what was happening.

‘I never knew you could speak Italian, you dark horse. Fancy not letting on,’ she complained.

‘There’s no time for talking about that now, Mary,’ Rosie said urgently. ‘He needs to see a doctor but I don’t think that George Duncan is going to be happy about that. Not when he’s the one who hurt him in the first place.’

‘How bad is the lad?’ Mary asked her.

‘Very bad,’ Rosie admitted. ‘I truly think if something isn’t done that he could die. He didn’t say anything at the POW camp because he was afraid that he would be separated from his friends. If we could get him back to the farm without George Duncan knowing, then we could tell the farmer but I don’t think he could walk that far. He really is poorly, Mary.’

‘Right,’ Mary said purposefully. ‘Sheila,’ she summoned her cousin. ‘You fancy yourself with the chaps, we all know that, so you can run back to the farm as quick as you like and make sure that George Duncan doesn’t see you. Tell the farmer that one of the prisoners has hurt himself bad and that he needs a doctor.’

Several of the girls had gathered around Rosie and Mary now, all looking shocked and concerned as Rosie told them about the boy’s injury.

‘He could end up with lockjaw, an’ all,’ one of them pronounced. ‘You should never let muck get into an open wound – that’s what I’ve heard, any road.’

‘Don’t just stand there, Sheila, get a move on,’ Mary instructed her cousin. ‘Rosie, you had better go back and sit with the lad and keep an eye on
him, seeing as you’re the only one who can speak Italian. Fancy not saying so before,’ she repeated, shaking her head.

‘What if the foreman comes back and sees that Rosie’s stopped working?’ Peggy asked timidly. ‘He won’t like that.’

‘No, and he’ll find out pretty sharpish that
we
don’t like what he’s done to that poor young lad. He doesn’t have no rights over us, for all that he likes to think he does. It’s not him that pays our wages, and it would serve him right if he got reported for what he’s done. He jolly well deserves to be.’

By the time Rosie had rejoined the young POW the other men had obviously heard about her ability to speak their language because they all crowded around her, talking at such speed and with such unfamiliar accents that she could only make out the occasional word. They bombarded her with questions and complaints. However, that was enough for her to feel the fierce intensity of their grievances against the foreman.

Slowly and carefully Rosie explained to them that someone had gone to get help for their friend, and urged them to go back to work.

‘I will stay here with him until help comes,’ she assured them, and then blushed a fiery red as one of them flung himself down on his knees and praised her as a ‘true Madonna’.

The boy looked horribly pale, with sweat beading his face and his calf so swollen that Rosie
could see where the fabric of his trousers pulled tight against it.

The sudden angry muttering of the men working behind her warned her that the foreman had returned to the field. As she had known he would, he came charging over at a lumbering run to where she was sitting by the hedge with her ‘patient’.

‘What the ruddy hell do you mean by this, missie?’ he bawled out to her. ‘Get back to your hoeing. You can do your whoring in your own private time.’

Rosie stiffened at the insult but instead of obeying him she moved closer to the boy, instinctively wanting to protect and to shield him from the foreman’s anger.

‘This man is injured,’ she told him, speaking up clearly and firmly. ‘He needs medical attention.’

‘What? You stupid girl. Are you really that daft that you can’t see that he’s pulling the wool over your eyes? Get out of my way.’

To Rosie’s horror he thrust her out of the way and took hold of the boy, obviously intending to pull him to his feet. Rosie could hear the sharp cry of pain and fear the boy gave.

‘Right, that’s it. Not another stroke of work do we do until you leave that lad alone and he’s been seen by a doctor.’

Rosie exhaled shakily in relief as she heard Mary’s voice and realised that she and the others had come running over to help.

‘Get back to your work,’ the foreman snarled,
releasing the boy and turning to the girls. ‘By God, but you lot will pay for this. You’ll wish that you’d never bin born by the time I’ve finished wi’ you.’

The viciousness of his words and the way he was looking at them made Rosie recoil, but Mary stood her ground.

‘There are rules that say how POWs have to be treated, and land girls as well,’ she spoke up bravely, but the foreman shook his head like an angry bull and advanced on her. Rosie overcame her fear to rush to her friend’s side. She didn’t know what would have happened if the foreman hadn’t swung round at the sound of running feet.

Sheila, accompanied not by the farmer but by an armed soldier, was hurrying towards them. Quick as a flash Mary ran to meet them and by the time the trio had joined them she had already explained to the guard what was happening.

‘Let’s have a look at this wound of his then, girls,’ the soldier told them affably, but Rosie noticed that he winked at the foreman as though expressing male solidarity with him. However, when he saw the young man’s leg his expression changed to one of serious concern. ‘You’re right,’ he announced curtly. ‘The lad needs a doctor and fast.’

Turning away from the young Italian, he muttered brusquely, ‘I’ve seen a mate die from a wound like that. Swelled up like a rotten piece of fruit, he did. Is there a doctor in the village?’ he asked the foreman. ‘Only it will take a good few hours to get him back to camp.’

‘There’s Dr Flint,’ the foreman told him truculently, ‘but you won’t get him coming out to a ruddy field for some bloody POW.’

‘Watch your mouth, mate,’ the soldier warned him. ‘We’ve got our own lads taken as POWs overseas and I wouldn’t want to think they was being treated bad. How far is the village from here?’

‘Just over a mile across the field,’ the foreman told him.

The soldier looked round the field and then beckoned to two of the strongest-looking Italians.

‘Is it true that one of you can speak Italian?’ he asked the girls.

Mary pushed Rosie forward.

‘Right, I want you to tell these lads that they’re going to have to make a chair with their hands and carry the boy to the doctor’s. One thing I do know about this kind of wound is that he shouldn’t move about too much – spreads the poison, see. You’ll have to come with us, miss, so that you can translate for the lad, and tell him what the doctor says.’

George Duncan was blustering and huffing, complaining that he couldn’t have the work interrupted like this just because of a bit of a cut, but it made no difference. The soldier was adamant. The young POW needed to see a doctor and double quick.

They must have made a rare spectacle to anyone watching as they crossed the field at an unsteady and laborious pace, the able-bodied POWs joining
hands the way the soldier showed them so that they could carry their young comrade carefully along the narrow field path that led to the village. Rosie walked beside Paolo, as she now knew the boy to be called, giving his hand the occasional small comforting squeeze and trying to keep up his spirits by chatting to him. It was obvious that he was in a great deal of pain, and it tore at Rosie’s heart to see him trying so valiantly to be polite and answer the questions she was asking him as she tried to distract him. He was so very young and so very poorly that it was impossible for her to hold on to her defensive hostility towards him.

‘Which part of Italy are you from?’ she asked him, listening attentively when he told her that he came from the countryside some little way from Rome. Until the war had come he had lived at home with his mamma, his sisters and his young brother, he explained. Rosie’s heart ached for him when she saw the tears filling his brown eyes at the thought of his family. His papa, he added, had died from a fever whilst working away from home. His family, like all the other families in his village, were very poor and so he had joined the army, hoping that he would have money to send home to his mamma and the little ones, but now he was a prisoner of war, here in this cold country where there was no sunshine. Was he going to die? he asked Rosie anxiously.

‘No, of course not,’ she reassured him with more confidence than she felt. ‘You will get better, Paolo. But first the doctor will have to look at your leg.’

To her relief he seemed to accept what she was saying, although he looked in so much agony that Rosie didn’t know whether or not he had understood her properly.

‘If you happen to know any good marching songs in their lingo, miss, you might try singing one,’ the soldier, who had now introduced himself to her as Greg, suggested. ‘Only it might help these lads to give him a less bumpy ride if they had summat to march to and it could take the poor kid’s mind off what’s happening to him.’

It had been plain to Rosie from the expression on Greg’s face, and from what he had not said rather than what he had, just how serious Paolo’s condition was.

‘I don’t know any marching songs, but I do know this,’ Rosie offered uncertainly, starting to sing a cheerful song la Nonna had taught her and Bella as young girls, singing it to them whilst they sat on the floor beside her chair.

‘That’s the ticket,’ Greg approved when the men joined in what was obviously a familiar song. Like the Italians from the old neighbourhood, these men too had good voices and Rosie thought that anyone hearing them without knowing the real situation would think they were a happy bunch indeed.

The doctor’s house was at the far end of the village and they attracted a good deal of attention as they made their way down the narrow street to the large rambling house set back from the road.

The doctor’s housekeeper opened the door to their
knock, standing guard over the hallway behind her whilst she told them that the doctor was resting and did not see patients in the afternoon. To Rosie’s relief Greg stepped forward and immediately persuaded the housekeeper of the urgency of the situation.

Within a minute of her disappearing down the hallway, the doctor himself appeared, pulling on his jacket and smoothing the thin wisps of his white hair as he hurried towards his visitors.

After Greg had explained the situation, the doctor said calmly, ‘Very well, in that case I had better see the young man. You, young lady, please stay with him as you can speak Italian and I can’t. Mrs Beddows, please show them into the surgery.’

‘I’ll take the men back to the field and then come for the lad with the lorry,’ Greg told Rosie. ‘It will be knocking-off time for the POWs soon enough anyway.’