Keep Smiling Through (19 page)

She kissed his cheek. ‘You have another visitor,’ she said softly.

He followed her gaze. ‘Rosie,’ he muttered, desperately plucking at the oxygen mask and checking that his pyjama jacket was buttoned properly. ‘Bejesus, Anne. Don’t let her see me like this.’

‘She’s already seen you, Grandpa. Be still, enjoy the visit and I’ll come in tomorrow.’

Ron lay helplessly in the bed as Anne greeted Rosie and rushed off. He watched the light of his life sashay down the ward, noted how every man’s eyes followed her and felt a swell of pride that he was the one she was visiting. But he felt old and decrepit, thoroughly useless, and wished suddenly that she hadn’t come.

‘Hello, Ron,’ she said with a beaming smile. ‘You’re quite the hero by all accounts. Thought I’d better come in and see how you’re doing.’

Ron took off the hated mask. ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

As if unaware of the admiring glances of every man in the ward, Rosie slipped out of her glamorous fox fur coat to reveal a pencil-slim skirt and frilly white blouse which set off her admirable figure. Taking off her headscarf, she shook out her platinum blonde curls and perched on the chair beside the bed. With her long, shapely legs crossed at the ankle, she looked the picture of elegance.

‘To be sure, Rosie, ye’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he wheezed.

‘Put the mask back on,’ she said softly, reaching for it and gently placing it back over his face. ‘There, that’s better. Now you can breathe properly.’

‘I feel such an auld fool,’ he muttered.

‘You’re a very brave man,’ she replied firmly. ‘That boy owes you his life, and I want you to promise me you’ll behave yourself and get well quickly.’ She leaned her elbows on the bed, resting her chin on her hands. ‘I’ve missed not having you about the place helping with the barrels and bottles – and afternoon tea isn’t the same without you.’

Ron caught her perfume and a glimpse of soft, rounded flesh amid the ruffles of her blouse and had to tear his gaze away. Her words had warmed him enough and he was in danger of making a complete fool of himself.

‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ he replied. Then he caught sight of the big clock above the door. ‘It’s after six. Shouldn’t you be opening the pub?’

Rosie took off her gloves and kept her gaze lowered as she smoothed them onto her lap. ‘Tommy Findlay came round, so I left him in charge for an hour.’

Tommy Findlay was the sort of man Ron disliked intensely. He was in his fifties, wore sharp suits, oiled his hair and considered himself to be a lady’s man – and the worst part of it was that the stupid women fell for his smooth talk. ‘I didn’t realise Findlay was back in Cliffehaven – or that you knew him well enough to trust him behind your bar,’ he said gruffly.

‘We go back a long way,’ she said dismissively. ‘And it’s only for an hour.’

Ron saw how she avoided looking at him, and he experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. ‘Well, Rosie,’ he said, trying to shift himself up the pillows, ‘you know your business better than me – but I wouldn’t trust him.’

‘He has his faults,’ she admitted. ‘But an hour behind the bar won’t do much harm.’ She must have seen the sudden panic in Ron’s eyes, for she leaned forward and patted his hand. ‘I’ve locked the cellar door,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t trust him that much.’

Ron gave a deep sigh of relief and decided he’d better say no more – it would only antagonise her and spoil her visit.

‘Don’t fret,’ she murmured. ‘It’s all quite safe, and Jim promised to shift it on as soon as he can.’ She shot him a cheeky grin. ‘Old habits die hard, eh? I remember when you used to come back from your fishing trips with bottles of whisky and French brandy.’

Ron glanced swiftly round. ‘Shhh!’ he hissed. ‘There’s no need to let the whole of Cliffehaven into our business.’

Rosie giggled and began to delve into her handbag. ‘I brought a drop of something to keep out the cold,’ she said. Using her body as a shield, she showed him the small bottle of brandy. ‘I’ll put it in here, shall I?’ She reached to open the locker beside his bed.

‘Give it here,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Matron searches the lockers.’ He took a crafty nip and swiftly buried it down his pyjama trousers.

‘It’ll get a bit warm down there,’ she murmured, laughter tugging at her mouth and sparkling in her eyes. ‘Do you want me to bring some ice with me on the next visit?’

Ron actually blushed and was, for once, glad the mask hid his face. ‘To be sure, Rosie girl, you’re a tonic, and if I wasn’t stuck in this bed, I’d dance you all over the ward, so I would.’

‘I think you’d better leave the dancing a while yet,’ she giggled. ‘I don’t think Matron would approve at all.’

He gazed into her lovely face and wished that he had the gift of the gab like Tommy Findlay. ‘How long have you known Tommy?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘A long time,’ she said evasively. ‘Look, Ron, I didn’t come here to talk about Tommy. I want to hear all about what happened the other night. The local paper are calling you a hero.’

Ron shrugged as if such praise was an everyday occurrence – but he was astute enough to realise that Tommy Findlay would never be a hero, and this was the moment to prove to Rosie that there was far more to Ronan Reilly than what she could see confined in this damned bed. ‘Well now,’ he began. ‘Me and Harvey were up in the hills and . . .’

Rita’s ears still felt sore where Louise had plunged the hot needle through the lobes, but the little gold hoops glittered in the lamplight and showed off May’s pretty jewelled haircombs to a treat. She thought they made her look very sophisticated, and was rather disappointed that she wasn’t going out on the town tonight to show them off. It was also a bit of a shame about the stench of Dettol which Louise had used rather too liberally to clean the punctures, but she supposed that would soon fade.

Louise had excelled herself tonight. The home-made ravioli had been stuffed with minced meat, onions and garlic and was as light as a feather, and the rich tomato sauce was heavenly. Accompanying this treat was a bottle of Papa Tino’s rough red wine, home-made bread, and a dish of pickled artichoke hearts. May and Rita ate in awed silence, savouring each wondrous, melting mouthful until their plates were clean.

‘Thank you, Mamma,’ Rita sighed as she sat back and rubbed her full stomach. ‘That has to be the best meal we’ve had for months.’

May swiped bread over the last of the sauce on her plate and chewed happily. ‘I wish my mum could cook like you,’ she said. ‘Rita doesn’t know how lucky she is.’

Louise flushed with pleasure as she cleared the plates. ‘We don’t eat like this every day,’ she said, ‘but I’m glad you enjoyed it.’ She carefully poured a little more wine into the glasses. ‘I would like to make a toast,’ she said quietly. ‘To Rita on her birthday, and to Tino, Roberto and Jack, who are not here to celebrate with us.’

They raised their glasses and sipped in silence, each with their own thoughts.

‘It’s a shame you have to be on fire-watch tonight,’ murmured Louise. ‘We might have gone to the pictures or something.’

‘We’ll do that another night,’ said Rita, glancing at the clock. ‘I’m sorry, Mamma, but we’ve got to go. The fire officer is a stickler for timekeeping.’ She took out the precious jewelled combs and tucked them safely into Louise’s capacious handbag.

‘I’ve made sandwiches and a flask of tea,’ said Louise, rising to fetch them, ‘and found a couple of scarves in Roberto’s cupboard to give you a bit of added warmth.’

Rita and May reluctantly reached for the heavy-duty overcoats the fire service had provided along with a tin hat, sturdy trousers and jacket. It wasn’t the most flattering of uniforms and threatened to swamp them, but at least she and May were kept nice and warm during the long, cold nights.

‘You both look like little girls playing dress-up in your father’s clothes,’ said Louise, a ghost of a smile touching her lips as she wound the knitted scarves tightly round their necks. ‘Please be careful, girls.’

‘We will, Mamma.’ Rita gave her a hug and a kiss. ‘And if the siren goes, you’re to promise to go to the shelter.’

Louise kissed them both. ‘Of course I will, and I’ll put your special earrings in my handbag to keep them safe. Now run along.’

Rita and May left the warm, cosy room for the dark stairs and the freezing wind that blew down the alleyway. They opened the garage door, which no longer screeched, thanks to the American’s judicious oiling of the runners, and wheeled their motorbikes into the lane.

Having padlocked the doors, Rita pulled on her helmet, wincing as it caught the earrings and tugged at her earlobes. ‘I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to these,’ she muttered.

‘You will,’ said May, swinging her leg over the BSA’s saddle. ‘They won’t be tender for long, and you’ll soon not even notice them.’

Rita climbed onto the Norton, pulled on her gloves and adjusted her goggles. She shot May a beaming grin as they kicked their bikes into life and headed towards the fire station. The great bonus of working for the fire service was the extra ration of fuel they were allotted for their bikes so they could get to their posts easily – and that more than made up for the often tedious, cold and lonely watches they kept during the long nights.

The chief fire officer, John Hicks, was already waiting for them as they drew up outside the fire station. He was a handsome, well-built young man who had only recently returned from his honeymoon. Rita had learned that he’d been badly injured during the Dunkirk rescue mission, and although he still walked with a limp, he showed no sign of letting his injuries hamper his responsibilities. He was a tough, no-nonsense man, used to being obeyed – but he was also good-humoured and fair, and that made him popular amongst the men and women who worked under him.

‘Happy birthday, Rita,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Glad to see you and May are on time for once.’ He shot them a grin. ‘Right, you two little hooligans, I need you up on the cliffs with Gladys. Word is we’re in for a noisy night, so keep your radio on and your eyes peeled.’

‘How come we always get to be up there?’ asked Rita.

‘Because you’ve got transport, and I can’t spare a truck to take anyone else that far.’ He dug his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small paper bag. ‘Here you go, Rita. These should help keep you all warm. Now be off with you.’

Rita’s eyes widened as she saw the large white peppermints – they were the really strong sort, and would certainly warm their mouths and throats if nothing else. ‘Thanks, ever so,’ she murmured as she stuffed the paper bag into her pocket and climbed back onto the Norton.

‘You take care up there,’ he replied.

Rita and May grinned at one another as they kicked their bikes into life. It was a fairly lengthy ride up to their watching post, and although the headlights had been heavily masked, they knew the way so well it didn’t much matter how fast they went.

‘See you there,’ Rita shouted above the roar of the engines, and sent the bike hurtling along the street. Looking over her shoulder, she could see May only feet behind her. Perhaps, tonight, they would break the ten-minute record they’d set the previous week.

The rough terrain of the hills slowed them both down as they passed the heavily sandbagged gun emplacements along the cliffs. The soldiers manning them were sneaking crafty fags which would get them into trouble if their commanding officer caught them. A fag end could be seen glowing for miles. The girls waved back at the men’s cheerful shouts of encouragement and headed for the promontory of white cliffs which would give them the best view over the town.

A circle of sandbags was their only protection against the bitter wind that was coming off the sea, and they hurried through the narrow gap into the relative warmth and comfort of hard benches, kerosene lantern, and a battered oil heater.

‘Thank goodness you’ve arrived,’ said Gladys Albright, who was trying to knit in the dubious light of the lantern. ‘I was getting a bit fed up with my own company.’

Rita and May liked Gladys. She was a widow in her late forties and plump, with an endless supply of biscuits, gossip and humorous, rather risqué stories, and was the perfect companion on a night like this.

‘How did you get up here?’ asked May. ‘I didn’t see your bicycle.’

‘Getting a bit too old and well padded for cycling up these hills, dear,’ replied Gladys, setting her tin helmet at a less raffish angle. ‘I got a lift from one of the army boys manning the guns further along.’ She smiled and abandoned her knitting. ‘Lovely young chap. Might do for one of you young things. He’s not married and has his own little flat, you know, and he’s just about the right age to be thinking of settling down.’

‘How on earth do you find all these things out, Gladys?’ asked Rita.

‘I ask,’ she replied happily. ‘There’s nothing like a friendly chat to get all sorts of things out of people. My poor Bert was never one for gossip, and I realised pretty quick that if I wanted to know anything I’d have to find out for myself.’

Rita and May set their gas mask boxes aside, took off their goggles and helmets and replaced them with tin hats. ‘I shouldn’t think any man would fancy either of us looking like this,’ said May. ‘These tin hats are hardly flattering.’

Gladys laughed. ‘It’s not the hats they’re interested in,’ she replied. ‘Bert took one look at my legs and that was that.’

Their conversation was cut short by the roar of several squadrons of RAF planes heading across the Channel. ‘It looks like Jerry’s on the move,’ muttered Gladys. ‘I’ve checked the stirrup pump is working, but we’ve only two buckets of water and I doubt it will be much use if this place goes up in flames.’

Rita and May settled down within the lee of the sandbags, and Rita passed the mints round. There was silence as they dealt with the strength of the peppermint, which seemed to burn through their tongues. She felt pleasantly sated after that lovely tea and the thought of snuggling down for a bit of a sleep was enticing – but it was cold and blustery despite the sandbags and the old heater, which wasn’t making a jot of difference.

She looked up at the sky and the numberless twinkling stars. There was a bomber’s moon tonight, and it cast a golden glow over the town, gilding rooftops and chimneys, the shadows beneath the trees and in the hollows of the hills made deeper still where it couldn’t reach.