Some Sunny Day. Annie Groves

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 The earlier light-hearted mood had been replaced by a dark undercurrent of anger and hostility that made her feel vulnerable and afraid.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?’