Some Sunny Day

by Annie Groves

  Dreamily Rosie imagined how wonderful it would be to have met her special someone and be planning her own wedding. She would have a simple very plain wedding dress, trimmed with lovely French lace, and she would carry a bouquet with white freesias in it. They had always been Maria’s favourite flower because of their wonderful scent. Tears blurred Rosie’s eyes. Very fiercely and determinedly she blinked them away.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be off down the Grafton tonight, will you?’ Rosie’s mother asked her. ‘Only I’m going out meself tonight, wi’ some of the others from the factory.’

  Her mother had left the hairdressers and was now working at Littlewoods parachute factory off Hanover Street instead. Although it was further away from their home than the hairdressers she claimed that it was easier to get to since, because it was war work, the company laid on transport to take the women to and from work. The factory also had a canteen, and once a month the management put on a show for the workers with well-known singers like Vera Lynn coming in to sing for them. The pay was better as well, Christine had told Rosie – nearly five pounds a week if you worked evening shifts, which was a huge amount compared to Rosie’s own earnings. Money they could do with, Christine had announced, with a war on and having to pay extra for ‘under the counter’ luxuries, like proper soap, tinned fruit and nylon stockings, if you wanted them, and them with no extra money coming in to pay for things like that with Rosie’s father away at sea for weeks on end.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You haven’t got a spare pair of stockings you could lend me, I don’t suppose?’

  Rosie shook her head. ‘I’ve got some leg tan, though, from Houghtons. I called there on the way home.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose that will have to do, but mind you wash all yours off when you come back. I don’t want to be washing sheets all covered in leg tan stains come Monday. I’ve got better things to do wi’ me time than run around all over the place looking after you. You’re not a kiddie any more, Rosie, and I’ve got a right to a bit of life of me own, especially now that there’s a war on and none of us know whether or not we’ll be here tomorrow.’

  Rosie shivered. ‘Don’t say that, Mum.’

  ‘Why not? It’s the truth, after all. And you won’t catch me staying at home knitting like some folks seem to think I should, when I could be out dancing and having a good time.’

  Rosie didn’t say anything. Since she started working at the factory Christine had become worse, acting more as if she was a girl of Rosie’s age than a grown woman and a mother. It made Rosie feel both uncomfortable and angry.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten that Dad’s ship is due in next week, have you, Mum?’ she asked her mother now, anxious she should be home to greet him, especially after last time.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ she replied, and then started to frown. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to drop hints about something, would you?’ Cos if you are, like I just said, if I want to go out and have a bit of fun then that’s my business and not yours.’

  Rosie’s face burned. None of the other girls she knew had mothers who went out dancing, or who behaved in the way that her mother did.

  ‘It doesn’t seem right that you should be going out when Dad’s not here,’ she protested awkwardly.

  Immediately her mother gave her an angry look and demanded, ‘What do you expect me to do? Stay in and be miserable? I’ve allus said that you tek after your dad more than you do me. A dead ringer for that sister of his, you are. And who are you to tell me what to do? I suppose your dad’s bin telling you to spy on me, has he? Well, if he doesn’t like it, he knows what he can go and do. There’s plenty of men around who appreciate a woman who likes a bit of fun. You should hear the compliments that manager down at the factory gives me, when he sees me. A proper gentleman, he is, and no mistake.’ Christine tossed her head vainly. ‘I’ll bet he knows how to treat a woman.’

  Her mother’s words were conjuring up a mental picture inside Rosie’s head that brought a hard lump of misery to her throat. But she knew better than to tell her mother how she felt. The war seemed to be changing so much and Rosie wasn’t sure that she liked some of the changes. The city was full of young men in uniform, some of whom were a bit too free with their attentions. Rosie had been forced tactfully to reject the too flirtatious remarks of a couple of young soldiers only the previous week, when they had stopped her in the street when she was on her way home from work, pretending that they wanted a light for their cigarettes. They had taken her polite rebuff good-naturedly, fortunately. Many, though, were not as respectful as they might be in the opinions of protective parents of young women. Not that her own mother would care what she got up to so long as it didn’t affect her.

  The dance halls were full of men from the Forces, standing round the dance floor, eagerly watching the girls and trying to catch their eye. Some girls encouraged them, enjoying flirting with them, but Rosie preferred to keep them at a bit of a distance.

  To Rosie’s relief her mother had already left the house when she came downstairs. She had deliberately lingered in her room rather than come down and risk provoking another argument.

  As she walked through the streets, Rosie looked around her with new, more worldly eyes. The sparkle and magic, the hustle and the bustle of the place had left with the Grenellis. It seemed to Rosie now that without the Grenellis and the other Italians, not only had the heart gone out of the area, but somehow the warmth seemed to have gone out of her mother as well, turning her into a different kind of person.

  Rosie often thought about their friends, especially Bella, and hoped that somehow they were managing to survive the war without their men. The dreadful nature of their deaths, so cruel and so unnecessary, had left a permanent shadow on Rosie’s own heart. She often visited the small memorial that had been placed in the churchyard to commemorate the deaths of those, like the Grenelli men, whose bodies had not been recovered. Every Sunday when she went to church she said a special prayer for them, and for those who were having to go on living without them. It was hard at times not to let her grief overwhelm her, but Rosie knew that she had to try.

  She forced herself to focus on the evening ahead. Sylvia would certainly be eager to have a jolly time and that would help cheer her up as well, Rosie acknowledged.

  Sylvia was a true scouser with a true scouser’s wry sense of humour and, as shocked as she sometimes was by the things Sylvia came out with and did, Rosie couldn’t help but laugh at her cheeky jokes and good humour. Small and on the thin side, Sylvia had a brazen cheekiness about her that half shocked Rosie and yet at the same time lifted her spirits. Sylvia was as different from Bella as it was possible for two girls to be.

  Bella…She must stop grieving for her lost friendship and accept that Bella and her family had needed to get away from everything and everyone that reminded them of what they had lost. She hoped that they had found some comfort in the large Italian community that lived in Manchester, and that Bella was happy with Alberto. Were they married yet? Had Bella thought of her on their wedding day and how she had always sworn that she would not get married without Rosie being her chief bridesmaid? They had even planned the colour of Rosie’s dress – pale pink to match her name – and the flowers Bella had wanted her to carry.

  Rosie could feel her throat thickening with tears. The past was over, she reminded herself fiercely. Over…like Bella’s friendship. She had to concentrate on the present now and her new life without Bella. A life that included new people and friends, like Sylvia.

  Rosie could feel her misery lightening as she thought about her giddy new friend. No one could be around Sylvia for very long and remain down in the dumps.

  ‘What do you think of these?’ Sylvia greeted Rosie with a grin when they met up outside the Grafton, opening her coat to show off her suspiciously shapely bosom, beneath the low-necked ruched top of the floral cotton dress she was wearing.

  Rosie’s eyes widened. She knew quite well how much Sylvia deplored her somewhat fla
t chest.

  ‘What…?’ she began uncertainly whilst Sylvia laughed and then explained proudly.

  ‘I borrowed this frock off my sister Bertha, and I’ve borrowed one of her brassieres an’ all, and stuffed it with all sorts. I tried using a bit of leftover blackout material at first, but it itched me that bad, and left me covered in black dye an’ all.’

  ‘So what have you used?’ Rosie asked uneasily.

  ‘Well, you know them balls of wool we was sent to knit up things for soldiers?’

  Rosie gasped reproachfully. ‘You’ve never used that, Sylvia! That would be like stealing.’

  ‘Only them socks I was knitting that didn’t turn out right, that’s all,’ Sylvia assured her, adding gleefully, ‘The lads will be swarming all over us tonight, Rosie, you just wait and see. Mind you, I’ll have to mek sure that none of them gets up to what they shouldn’t and starts trying to put his hands where I don’t want them.’ She grinned, giving Rosie a naughty wink. ‘A bit of a shock they’d get if they did.’

  ‘Sylvia—’ Rosie began, but Sylvia shook her head vigorously.

  ‘Oh, don’t start going all po-faced on me, Rosie. It’s all right for you. You’ve got a lovely figure and no mistake. That was one of the reasons I wanted you for me friend,’ she added forthrightly, adding bluntly when Rosie looked slightly affronted, ‘Well, there’s no point in getting friendly with a girl that the chaps aren’t going to fancy, is there? You and me are a real pair of lookers and that’s the truth. It’s no wonder that all the lads want to dance wi’ us. And now they’re going to want to even more.’

  Rosie could see that there was no point in trying to argue with Sylvia’s logic, and besides, the queue had almost reached the door to the dance hall.

  ‘You’d better cover them up before we go in,’ she warned Sylvia drily, ‘otherwise we might end up having to pay for an extra ticket for them.’

  ‘Cheek,’ Sylvia laughed, unoffended. Linking her arm through Rosie’s as they walked up to the cashier to buy their tickets, she added in a whisper, ‘Mind you, I dare say our Bertha is going to have summat to say when she can’t find her new brassiere. I’ll have to tell her that it must have got lost down at the wash house.’

  Like the women in a lot of families living in the poorer parts of the city, Sylvia’s mother had to do her washing in the public wash house.

  As always, the Grafton was seething with young people, all determined to show Hitler what they thought of him by having as good a time as they could despite the blackout and the bombs.

  Tonight one of the city’s all female bands, led by Ivy Benson, was providing the music, and Rosie was not surprised to see how many young men in uniform were clustered as close to the band as possible, admiring them.

  ‘Come on, there’s a table over there,’ Sylvia announced, grabbing hold of Rosie’s arm and practically dragging her through the crowd.

  Rosie didn’t see the table until they had reached it and Sylvia was asking the couple already occupying it if they minded if they sat down on the free chairs.

  ‘Sylvia,’ Rosie protested in an embarrassed undertone, sensing that the couple would have preferred to remain alone, but Sylvia tossed her head and whispered to Rosie, ‘Don’t be daft. Besides, there’s nowhere else to sit.’

  Giving the couple an apologetic look, Rosie sat down, and only then realised that Nancy’s unpleasant cousin Lance was seated at the adjoining table with some of his friends.

  ‘’Ere, Rosie, tek a look at that tall, good-looking, dark-haired chap on the next table,’ Sylvia breathed excitedly. ‘’E looks just like a film star.’

  Rosie’s heart sank as she realised that Sylvia was referring to Lance, and it sank even further when she saw that he had seen Sylvia looking and was now smirking knowingly at them. He turned and said something to one of his friends, who laughed, and then to Rosie’s dismay the whole table were staring openly at them.

  ‘Sylvia,’ Rosie hissed pleadingly to her friend, ‘don’t look at them; you’ll only encourage them.’

  Sylvia, though, wasn’t listening. Ignoring Rosie, she preened herself, pushing out her enhanced chest, and then tossed her head, thus ensuring that even more male attention was focused on her body. Not that Sylvia was giving away the fact that she knew that, Rosie acknowledged, as her friend managed to look as though she hadn’t noticed the effect she was having.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ she whispered to Rosie, grinning. ‘I saw that Rita Hayworth do it in one of her films.’

  The female half of the young couple they were seated with moved closer to her boyfriend and Rosie was mortified to see the look of disapproval she was casting in Sylvia’s direction, but as she already knew, Sylvia was irrepressible. And it wasn’t as though she meant any real harm.

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ Sylvia complained. ‘You haven’t got a bit of Ponds or Snowfire in your bag, have you?’

  ‘I have but you can’t powder your face here in public,’ Rosie reminded her, scandalised. Even her mother wouldn’t dream of putting on her ‘slap’ in a room full of people.

  ‘Well, I’m not getting up and having our seats snapped up by someone else,’ Sylvia responded promptly. ‘And promise me you won’t go telling the other girls about this, will you?’ she begged, indicating her enhanced bust.

  Rosie shook her head. ‘You’ll have to be careful when you get up and dance,’ she warned, eyeing the protuberance uneasily. ‘What do you want to drink? Port and lemon?’

  ‘If you hang on a minute,’ Sylvia hissed to her, ‘we probably won’t have to buy our own drinks.’ She opened her handbag and to Rosie’s astonishment extracted a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Rosie asked her, mystified. ‘You don’t smoke.’

  ‘They’re our Clara’s,’ Sylvia told her, adding mischievously, ‘Watch this.’

  To Rosie’s discomfort, the moment they saw the cigarette packet, several of the young men at the adjoining table leaped to their feet, pushing one another out of the way in their determination to be the first to offer Sylvia a light. Lance didn’t get up, though, Rosie noticed. He stayed where he was, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Sylvia through the smoke from his own cigarette.

  Rosie had heard the girls at work talking about how Lance was involved in the kind of ‘business’ activities that involved obtaining and selling goods from the docks that had ‘fallen off the back of a lorry’.

  ‘A real nasty temper he has on him – even Nancy herself used to say as much,’ Bernadette had told them.

  Other girls might think that Lance was handsome but there was something about him that made Rosie feel inexplicably uncomfortable.

  It quickly became obvious, though, that Sylvia didn’t share her feelings, and whilst Rosie looked on in dismay, Sylvia put on an act of demure naughtiness that wouldn’t have discredited a screen actress, and somehow, despite Rosie’s protests, within five minutes of them arriving, they had moved from their own table to share that of Lance and his friends.

  ‘Sylvia, I wish you hadn’t done this,’ Rosie protested under cover of tucking her handbag beneath her chair. ‘I’d have rather we’d stayed where we were.’

  ‘Wot, and give up the chance of talking to a few lads? Don’t be daft. This is wartime, Rosie. We’ve got to enjoy ourselves whilst we can. We could all be dead tomorrow.’

  Rosie shivered, her mother’s words from earlier ringing in her ears. She just wondered what Christine was up to…

  Rosie knew it wasn’t the ‘few lads’ Sylvia was interested in – just one of them. And she could see from the way that Lance was watching Sylvia that he knew it as well. Sylvia might think she knew what was what, but Lance was closer to thirty than twenty, and obviously worldly-wise. Rosie wasn’t happy about the situation they were in. However, it was impossible for her to tell Sylvia how she felt now that they were actually sitting here, and Rosie’s own sense of responsibility wouldn’t allow her to leave Sylvia all alone with a man she disliked so much. Still,
even if she couldn’t leave, she could make her feelings plain, which she did by steadfastly refusing to allow anyone to buy her a port and lemon, insisting that she bought her own drink and that it was just lemonade.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Rosie, why are you drinking lemonade? Do you want them to think that we’re just kids?’

  ‘I’d rather have them thinking that than thinking that we’re easy,’ Rosie retorted sharply. ‘A bit of fun’s one thing, Sylvia, but a person can take things too far. You know what they say about girls who start making up to every lad they meet.’

  Sylvia’s face crumpled and she looked so upset that Rosie immediately felt guilty.

  ‘I just thought that we could have a bit of fun, that’s all,’ Sylvia protested. ‘Just a few dances and a bit of a laugh. Where’s the harm in that?’

  Her distress made Rosie feel that she was being unnecessarily prim and critical. And it was true that the other men seemed to be decent enough sorts, even if they were drinking a fair bit. They were certainly full of fun and good humour, exchanging jokes with one another and competing to sit next to Rosie and Sylvia and compliment them, but Rosie was still glad when a discreet look at her watch told her that it was time to leave.

  ‘It’s getting on for ten, Sylvia,’ she warned her friend, reminding her, ‘I’ve got fire-watch drill in the morning.’

  ‘Fire-watch drill? Ah, come on, you don’t go doing that, do you?’ Lance jeered. ‘You won’t catch me getting roped in for anything like that. I can think of better things to do wi’ me time of a blackout.’ He winked at Sylvia.

  ‘It’s the law,’ Rosie told him stiffly, and then wished she hadn’t brought herself to his attention when he leered at her.

  ‘Well, there’s them wot’s daft enough to let others tell ’em wot to do and then there’s them like me wot does what they want. And when you know the right people like I do, you don’t have to bother with that kind of stuff,’ he told her.