Some Sunny Day (31 page)

Rosie’s white face told its own story.

‘Why don’t you tell him what you’ve just told me? About your mam and your dad and all.’

‘No! No, I can’t…And you mustn’t either. You promised you wouldn’t say a word to anyone, Mary,’ Rosie reminded her fiercely.

The next day the girls went to work in silence, avoiding looking at the rust-coloured patches in the field where their comrades had died. The gang of workers to which they had belonged had been dispersed, so they had heard on the grapevine, and the girls who had survived sent home to their families before going to join new gangs in other parts of the country, in an attempt to help them to make a fresh start. It didn’t do to dwell on things, they all knew that. There was a war on and it was their duty to make the best of things and to keep on working for the good of the country and its fighting men. But even so, the horror of what had happened had touched them all. It seemed so incongruous that anyone should be machine-gunned by an enemy plane here in the country. But as Mary had told Rosie and the others, Ian had explained to her that the German plane had been part of a group flying in to attack the docks, and had somehow lost its way, so its pilot had looked for what targets he could find. It was a tragedy that the girls had been working in the field when he flew over it – and a miracle that more of them hadn’t been killed. The tall row of trees had helped to save them, had been Ian’s opinion, because it had caused the pilot to veer off or risk crashing into them. Rosie, however,
was in no doubt as to what – or rather
who
– had saved her, and in doing so sustained an injury himself. And whilst she naturally grieved for the girls who had lost their lives, and for their families – after all, she knew herself what it was like to lose a loved one, as indeed they all did – her sharpest anxiety and concern was for Ricardo, about whom she had not been able to discover anything, despite all her own and Mary’s best attempts to do so.

The sunshine had given way to a sullen pewter sky with thunder grumbling in the distance, and an electricity in the air that mirrored the girls’ nervy tension. None of them mentioned the deaths of the girls who had been shot down, but they all knew that each and every one of them was thinking about them, and feeling torn between their grief for their loss and their guilty relief that they had been spared their fate. A heavy sombre silence had taken the place of their normal chatter and happy singing. The slightest sound had them stopping work to look upwards.

A week went by with no relaxation of the girls’ shared mood of grief. For Rosie it was an especially long week of sadness for the lost lives, and anxiety for Ricardo. Unusually, there had been no sign of the Italians all week, and Rosie could only assume that they must have been sent to work on another farm. Even though Mary assured her that Ian had checked and could confirm that Ricardo had suffered only a flesh wound, Rosie knew she
wouldn’t be able to believe that fully until she had seen him for herself.

They were halfway through the following week before Rosie saw Ricardo again, and despite the fact that they were in the middle of a thunderstorm, the sight of him jumping awkwardly out of the army lorry made her feel as though the sun had come out and was shining brilliantly on her.

Ignoring the rules, she ran across to him, and then stopped, feeling acutely self-conscious and uncertain.

He didn’t seem to have any such inhibitions, though. He came towards her. ‘I…I heard that you’d been hurt…when…when you saved me,’ she began awkwardly. ‘I wanted to thank you…’

‘You being alive is all the thanks I need,’ he responded, looking at her in such a way that her heart thudded into her chest wall.

‘Is your leg…?’ Rosie looked down at his body and then flushed brilliantly, looking quickly away.

‘The bullet just grazed the skin, that’s all.’

‘I’m glad…I mean, I’m glad that that’s all it did, but I wish that you hadn’t been hurt at all,’ Rosie told him almost incoherently.

‘I’m sorry about those other girls.’ He sounded as awkward now as she felt, Rosie recognised.

‘Yes. It was awful,’ she agreed and then shuddered. ‘Their poor families.’

‘Rosie…’ He had reached for her hand and had taken hold of it before she could stop him. It felt so
small and safe in his. The feel of his calloused palm against her skin made her tremble with unfamiliar excitement edged with another emotion. Rosie tried to pull her hand free but he refused to let her go.

‘I’ve bin wanting to get you all to myself so that I could talk to you proper, like, for weeks,’ he told her softly.

‘I don’t know why you should be wanting to do that,’ Rosie felt obliged to say.

‘Don’t you?’

Her whole body was trembling now, not just her hand.

‘You’re a very special girl, Rosie, and I…I want you to know that I think I’m falling in love with you,’ he told her rawly.

‘You mustn’t say that. You hardly know me,’ Rosie protested, but her heart was leaping with a wild joy she couldn’t control.

‘I can’t help how I feel, and as for knowing you, I know what you do to me, Rosie.’ His frankness was making her colour up hotly. ‘Is there any hope for me, Rosie?’ he demanded huskily.

‘I…’ What could she say? He might have died saving her. She might have lost him for ever. Perhaps they were rushing things but everyone knew that that’s the way it was in wartime. She knew you had to snatch your happiness whilst you could in case it was taken from you. ‘I…’

‘There’s going to be a dance in Nantwich on Saturday. We’ve been told we can go. Will you dance with me there, Rosie?’

Unable to speak, Rosie nodded. A feeling she could only associate with those times as a child when her father had returned home from sea, picking her up so that she felt so giddy with excitement and anticipation that she thought she could fly was billowing through her. She wanted to both laugh and cry; to turn somersaults and to reach out and embrace the whole of the world. Her happiness was so bright and shiny, so intense and new, that she was afraid that if she blinked it might disappear.

So this was love and the freedom to feel that love.

I love you, Dad, she offered in silent tribute, the words an exchange for her freedom to move on from their shared past to her own new future.

‘Quick, Rosie, the foreman’s on his way,’ Mary hissed warningly.

‘You’re afraid of him?’ Ricardo asked protectively. ‘You need not be. I will not allow him to hurt you, my Rosie.’

His words brought a loving smile to Rosie’s lips but she shook her head, urging him to leave. ‘There’s no point in us courting trouble,’ she told him, a smile curving her mouth as she added with deliberate emphasis, ‘especially now that we’re courting one another.’

‘I knew all along you were sweet on Ricardo,’ Mary announced with open satisfaction when Ricardo had gone back to join the other men and she and Rosie were back at work. ‘Didn’t we,
girls?’ she demanded, seeking the support of the others.

‘Yes, it’s bin obvious how you and Ricardo felt about one another, Rosie,’ the others confirmed, laughing when she started to colour up self-consciously.

‘Not that we aren’t pleased for you, Rosie,’ Mary assured her. ‘I’ll tell you someone who isn’t, though, and that’s that foreman. Just look at the way he’s watching us. Just because we’re having a bit of a chat.’

The foreman
was
watching them, and even though he was standing several yards away, Rosie could feel his anger.

‘Pity we haven’t bin moved on somewhere else. I hate the way that Duncan looks at us,’ Sheila grumbled later on in the day.

‘Ian was saying as how His Grace is expected back on leave any day,’ Mary informed them, adding teasingly, ‘so you’ll be able to go and complain to him if you want to, Sheila.’

They all laughed but Rosie didn’t feel at all like laughing at the end of the day when the Italians had been driven back to their camp and she and the other girls were still waiting for their own transport. They were in the farmyard, and she had been talking to Mary about the upcoming dance in Nantwich when some sixth sense caused her to turn round to find that the foreman was making his way towards them.

‘I want a word wi’ you,’ he announced sharply.
‘What do you think you’re up to, encouraging that ruddy Italian? If it’s a man you want then there’s plenty of English lads around. You don’t have to go giving it to some bloody Eyetie. Or are you one of them that likes giving it to the enemy? Is that what it is?’

He was standing so close to her that Rosie could smell the sour stink of his sweat. She wanted to step back from him but there was nowhere for her to go. He had moved so close to her that he had virtually trapped her up against the wall, so that he was standing between her and Mary. Fear spiked through her when she saw in his eyes the lust that was the real reason for his hostility towards her. ‘They want teaching a lesson that would mek sure they don’t go sniffin’ round the likes of you, them bloody Eyeties do – aye, and I know a few handy lads an’ all who would be happy to do it.’

To Rosie’s relief, Mary pushed her way past the foreman, planting herself right in front of him.

‘The Italians are prisoners of war here and have to be treated proper, just like our lads do when they’re taken prisoner. That’s what we were told before we came here, and Mr Churchill himself has said as how we should treat the POWs with respect.’

The sound of someone clapping their hands and a deep, cultured voice calling out, ‘Bravo, my dear. Well said,’ had then all turning to look across the yard to where a tall, handsome man in RAF uniform was standing watching them.

It was the foreman who reacted first, his face draining of blood to leave his skin a sickly putty colour as he stammered, ‘Your Grace. I didn’t know as how you was back.’

‘Yes, indeed. I can see that, Duncan. Oh, and by the way, the young lady is quite correct. And even if Mr Churchill had not urged us to treat the POWs as we would want to be treated ourselves, I certainly won’t stand for them being treated badly whilst they’re working on
my
land. I’ll speak to you later.’

With that, the newcomer turned on his heel and left the yard, while Rosie and Mary exchanged awed looks.

‘The duke himself!’ Mary exhaled excitedly.

‘Of course it was, and if you’d not been telling George Duncan what for, you’d have seen him drive up in his posh sports car like the rest of us just did,’ said Sheila loftily.

‘Truck’s here,’ Sheila called out excitedly. ‘Hurry up, you lot.’

Ian and Charlie had offered to pick up the girls in a truck they were ‘borrowing’ to save the girls having to ride their bikes into the nearby town, and it was a jolly laughing band of girls that crowded onto the lorry in their finery in the warmth of the summer evening, giggling good-naturedly when they discovered that it was already half full of young men ready and eager to offer them laps to sit on so as not to soil their frocks.

‘You never said anything about this lot, Ian,’ Mary chided her boyfriend.

‘I hadn’t planned on them being here, but someone spilled the beans,’ he answered ruefully.

Rosie watched as Ian squeezed Mary’s hand and the two of them exchanged tender looks. Now she was a member of that magical world that belonged only to two people, and yet to all those who knew what it was to love.

It didn’t take them long to get to the town, where, as they discovered, the dance was already in full swing. They were all made very welcome, though, and Rosie was thrilled to see that Ricardo and some of the other Italians were already there. She was almost as thrilled when she saw that George Duncan wasn’t, exhaling in relief when she had carefully looked round the dance hall and reassured herself that he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Rosie.’

A blush warmed her skin when she looked up and saw that Ricardo was standing beside her.

‘Will you dance with me?’ he asked.

Unable to speak, Rosie nodded and stood up.

The crowded, dimly lit dance floor was an invitation for couples to make use of the intimacy it offered, and as Ricardo drew her close, Rosie closed her eyes and gave in to her own emotions.

The band were playing ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’. Dancing with Ricardo was as easy as breathing; they seemed to fit together so perfectly.

‘I feel as though I don’t want this evening ever to end,’ Rosie whispered an hour later, when they were still on the floor, swaying to the music, lost in their own private world.

‘I am hoping that I might soon have some good news for you,’ Ricardo told her.

‘What? Tell me now,’ Rosie begged.

‘The duke has said that he would like to have some of us permanently attached to his estate. He will provide us with accommodation and take personal responsibility for our status as internees. He has asked for volunteers, and I have put myself forward.’

Rosie could hear both the excitement and the tension in his voice.

‘It will not mean total freedom, of course, but it is a step in the right direction. I want you as my wife, Rosie. I know that at the moment that is not possible. Nor can I even ask you to become engaged to me because I have nothing to offer you as things stand at the moment. But I do love you and the very first moment I can I intend to ask you to be my wife. Will you wait for me, Rosie?’

He sounded so humble that she wanted both to cry and to fling her arms protectively around him and tell him that she would marry him tomorrow. But what he had said was true. She didn’t even know if it was possible for an internee to marry. But she did know that it was possible for her to wait. For ever, if need be.

‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘Yes, I will. Ricardo, what
are you doing?’ she protested when the moment the music stopped he took hold of her hand and hurried her off the dance floor and out through the door into the darkness of the evening.

Moonlight illuminated the town square, but it could not reach into the narrow cobbled alleyways that led off it, and it was in one of those, in the shadow of the ancient church, that Ricardo took her into his arms and kissed her as a man kisses the woman to whom he has given the whole of his heart.