Women on the Home Front (157 page)

‘Maria told us her secret. Where were you?’ snapped Ana.

‘And I want this sorted before my wedding,’ Lily said, still being the peacemaker.

She felt guilty that she had not confided her own precious secret to them all but it was not the right time or place, and she couldn’t be sure how they would react. Her head was buzzing with plans and ideas, half formed and too fuzzy yet to be put into words. Maria needed their help and that was enough to be going on with now.

Every time Lily thought about the coming wedding day her mind froze with panic.

Apart from the wonderful nightdress and the new suit, she’d not enough coupons to go rash with a trousseau, but she must buy some holiday slacks just to prove a point. But who could be bothered about clothes when a friend was in danger?

What’d happen if the Santinis found out Maria was carrying another man’s child? What if there was violence and shame, and she got thrown out of the flat? She needed Sylvio and her friends for protection. There had
to be a way to find him but she was running out of time.

Walter’s demand that she cut down her circle of friends after their marriage was gnawing away inside. He was being unreasonable but he was jealous and that showed how much he loved her. This mission gave her something better to think about other than all his insecurities. Meanwhile she must get on with her tasks, the first of which she would rather enjoy.

‘I know this sounds daft but we need your help as a detective,’ Lily stuttered, standing pink-faced on the whitened doorstep of number ten Eccleston Place, the small terraced house where Pete Walsh lived at home with his family.

‘Come in, come in…It’s Lily Winstanley, Mam,’ he shouted from the vestibule.

‘Put the kettle on, Kath, it’s Brown Owl. Come and sit down.’ Pete’s mother ushered her in, ripping off her pinny in honour of the visitor.

‘It’s very kind of you but—’

‘No buts, Miss Winstanley, pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you. I hope our Pete’s not been up to any trouble.’

Lily was ushered into the neat front room with its three-piece suite, draped with lace anti-macassars. The piano in the alcove was covered in Pete’s trophies and team photographs. They were treating her like a guest of honour. Her cheeks were pink with blushes at such a warm welcome.

I hope he doesn’t think I’m chasing him, turning
up at his doorstep, she thought. Who’m I fooling? I just wanted to see that grin on his face and the dimple on his chin. No one had arm-wrestled her to come and ask him to help. She was a more than willing volunteer.

‘I’m on a sort of secret mission to help a friend,’ she explained. ‘But it’s rather private. We were hoping you’d be able to help us-and the other boys, if they can.’

It was important to use the royal we, to distance herself from choosing to be the eager messenger on this quest. It was important to sit primly, straight-backed and not get distracted from her task by looking at his lips and recalling his impulsive kisses.

His mother closed the door discreetly with a, ‘Do you take sugar in your tea?’ This was going to be a best china occasion.

‘How can I help?’ he smiled.

She told him the gist of their investigation and explained that he might have some contacts in the city. His eyes never left her face as she covered the angles where he might prove useful.

‘You say Bertorelli was an ex-prisoner of war? He might have gone back to Italy under the repatriation order. There’s a lot going back home now.’

‘We never thought of that, but somehow I don’t think so. He was very friendly with a friend of ours here. I’m sure he’d want to stay but perhaps not in Grimbleton. It’s hopeless, isn’t it? A needle in a haystack,’ she sighed.

‘Not necessarily, but I’ll have a word round and see who goes where to have their hair cut. From what you’ve
said, though, I guess he’s a ladies’ man, an artist with ambition. Short back and sides are not very inspiring, are they?’ Pete tapped his own crop. ‘Still it keeps you cool in the sun.’

‘What sun?’ There had been mixed weather for days, sunny then showers.

‘Just you wait, after a winter like last we’ll get a corker of a summer. You’ll have a sunny wedding day.’ He smiled and she felt herself blushing again.

‘I wasn’t thinking of my wedding day but of all those folks forking out for a week in Morecambe and it pours down.’

‘Trust you to think of someone else,’ he replied, staring so hard she dropped her eyes from his gaze. ‘Is there anything else, I can do? I can help you look, if you like?’

‘No, thank you, you’ve done enough,’ she squeaked. It was time to leave before she embarrassed herself.

‘Enough of what?’ said his mother, edging a tray of tea and scones around the door. ‘Sit down, lass. You need feeding up before your big day. Come on tell us all about your plans.’

There was no escape from their fussing and kindness. If only Elsie Platt would give her a welcome like this every time she turned up, things would not feel so desperate right now.

As Pete predicted, the weather turned just as the holidays were over. Out came the sun, streaming down on the sooty black buildings, the bomb sites decorated with rosebay willowherb springing up everywhere. The
tarmac was melting and the pavements hot as Lily, Diana and Ana gathered in the shade under the cathedral with a map to carve up possible sightings and venues. The search for Sylvio was underway.

Susan was minding the children. Diana had brought her car, with Ana. It was the best they could muster on a Saturday afternoon. Queenie was working in the café after the salon closed at lunchtime, keeping an eye on Maria.

Ana had a list of good hairdressers around Deansgate and King Street. These were to be their first ports of call. Diana had the trade list, pages long; a daunting prospect. Queenie found them the trade newsletter in the salon, advertising local warehouse suppliers. Perhaps someone might recognise Sylvio’s name there on an order, but none of them would be open on a Saturday afternoon.

It was hopeless, and so tiring with not a single lead to show in this sticky heat. Heads were shaken politely and hands pointed to another salon up the road, round the corner, in the back street, down the lane. All their contacts yielded not one jot of hope of ever finding him.

Pete had sent a list of city barbers and the names of some footballer ex-prisoners of war.

As the afternoon wore on Lily sank into a weary slump, hot and thirsty, jaded and bad-tempered by the heat. Her toes were rubbing in her ancient sandals, unused to going barelegged. They met up by Lewis’s Arcade ready to go home. It was almost five o’clock.

‘I’m not going anywhere without a drink, an ice-cream
soda, anything to slake this dry throat,’ said Diana, who was for once looking dishevelled and perspiring in the heat in an aertex shirt and smart khaki slacks. It was good of her to give up her day off duty but she seemed to enjoy ordering them about.

Diana was a bit of a mystery, bossy and kind, polite and yet distant, all at the same time. She had not spilled out any secrets, no handsome pilots or wild parties to confess. She was part of the club but not really at the heart of it as if she was holding something back.

Perhaps it was because of her public school education. She was local and yet not a Grimbletonian. She was their officer, not rank and file. She was leading her foot soldiers from the front, brave but distant.

They picked their way through milling crowds. ‘You’d think they were giving stuff away,’ Lily said, looking round in amazement. She loved the bustle of Saturday streets, the heat of the chase for bargains. Pavements trampled with the weary feet of shoppers carrying baskets and bags, window shoppers browsing to see if there was something they could afford. Manchester was abuzz, but even Grimbleton had its moments. How would the silence of Well Cottage suit after all this excitement? Was she really a gumboots and gabardine sort of girl?

In two weeks’ time she would be floating down the aisle and onto a coach bound for Dover, if she could persuade Walt to change his mind. It was not too late.

If it was as hot as this she would need some pleated shorts and a swimming costume in her new suitcase. It was sitting at the foot of her bed, waiting to be packed.

Finding seats in a café was a struggle, but eventually they sat round a table, ticking off all the places they had on their list.

Ana shook her head. ‘He gone to London. It is no good, Lily. We never find him.’

‘No, we’ve only just skimmed the surface. Perhaps he’s gone to Bolton or Oldham or Wilmslow. There has to be a way. I know he’s here. I just feel it in my water.’ It was hard to convince them of her instinct that the man was hovering just out of sight.

‘Time’s running out for you, old girl,’ Diana said. ‘Sylvio’ll have to wait. You’ve got a big day ahead. Down the aisle for you soon.’

As Diana was speaking, Lily’s eyes meandered out through the dusty window onto the street and the building opposite, to a tall red brick church rising above the other roof tops. ‘Aisle, Altar, Hymn,’ went the old joke about a bride’s personal vows. That was just what she was hoping would happen with Walt.

‘Aisle, Altar, Hymn and a church…Why ever hadn’t she thought of that before? She leaped up out of her seat, that stuck to her bottom in the heat.

‘Where’re you off to now?’ Diana shouted. ‘We ought to be heading home.’

‘Stay here. Give me two minutes, I’ve got an idea.’

Lily shot across the cobbled street, holding her breath as she walked into the church. It was dark and cool inside, silent with just the flickering of candles and women bent over in prayer.

It was late Saturday afternoon and she knew enough about the Catholic faith to know it was a good time to
hear confessions. There was a cubicle with a curtain drawn that was doing good business. One by one the penitents rose and entered the box, coming out and walking down the aisle out into the daylight. She had time to think just what to say. When it was her turn she sidled into the seat, her heart thumping.

‘Before you start, I’m not a Catholic but I’m trying to help somebody who is…’ It was time to confess the whole sorry tale to the unseen priest. ‘…So you see, if you can find Sylvio Bertorelli for us…We’ve searched the soles off our shoes down your pavements but we’re strangers here. But I thought who would know his flock better than a priest, and priests know other priests…Sylvio is a good man. I’m not asking for confidences to be broken but for him to get in touch with us. You have to help us, please,’ she begged. ‘It’s for the best of causes. It will give the chance for two good people to find each other again.’

There was silence. Then the priest spoke with an Irish lilt. ‘How will I be making contact if I find such a man-and I’m not promising that I will?’

‘Give me a ring at Longsight Travel.’ Lily scribbled the number on a scrap of paper and shoved it through the grille. ‘Ask for Lee Winstanley, and if I’m on my honeymoon, ask for Queenie Quigley at Lavaroni’s Hair Salon, Grimbleton. Sylvio used to work there. Or Sister Diana Unsworth at Grimbleton General Hospital. He has to come back to Grimbleton, and soon. That’s the message. Thank you, I’ve taken up enough of your time.’ She made to leave.

The priest peered through the grille. ‘If everyone had
friends like you, the world would not get into such a mess, now would it? God bless you. I’ll do what I can.’

The others were waiting outside the café, furious at her desertion. ‘Where’ve you been, Lily? We are so worried.’ Ana was pointing at the time on the clock tower.

‘I’ve sorted it. With the Roman Catholic Church on board now, we might just have a chance,’ she laughed. ‘Why didn’t we think of it before?’

‘You crazy woman, this is just a little church in back street here.’ Ana was not impressed.

‘The arm of the Church is long, Ana. Anything’s worth a try but come on, time to go home and paint my toenails.’

‘Lily, that’s not like you,’ Diana laughed.

‘I know. Isn’t it fun?’

Each morning at work when the telephone rang, Lily jumped just in case it was for her. On the Sunday night before the wedding, the girls were going to meet after church, as they’d recently resumed doing, for one last supper in Maria’s flat. If no one had heard anything from Manchester by then there was going to be such disappointment.

The following Monday Pete called in to the travel agency in Lily’s lunch hour to find out how things were going but the look on her face told its own story.

‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Just be patient. Come and bring your sandwiches out into the fresh air. We can keep an eye on the shop from the square.’

It was a beautiful afternoon, baking hot, and they
sat on the nearest bench in Longsight Square Gardens. He asked her about her wedding plans and Walter’s back, and about her plans to chaperone the cross-Channel trip.

Lily would miss meeting up with him at Brownies. Watching him play football wasn’t the same as sitting next to him and seeing those eyes flash and those lips…Had he really kissed her? Had she dreamed all those lovely things he’d told her? Why was it when they were together she wanted the minutes to go so slowly and for the sun to stand still in the sky?

It wasn’t right to be fancying Pete Walsh like this, was it? It wasn’t natural. She jumped off the bench. ‘I’d better be off,’ she said. This was temptation. What if someone saw them together? Walt wouldn’t understand and he’d be hurt. It must be last-minute nerves or something.

She was about to take the biggest step of her life. The great steam train of wedding preparations was rolling into the station. It was time to jump aboard. Why did she wish she could stay on the platform?

‘I never knew I had this much stuff. Take what you want for the cottage, Lil. Where did we get so much clutter?’ Esme sighed, looking over her bare cupboards with grim satisfaction. She was going over each room, one by one.

She had her eye on a bungalow at Sutter’s Fold, halfway up the hillside. The building was coming on a treat, with its neat sitting room, two bedrooms and modern bathroom. It was small but she wanted it that
way so no uninvited guest would come muscling in on her territory. She’d had more than enough of that in the past.