Rose felt cold. ‘All those homes. It’s ghastly. There must have been so much loss of life.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? The raiders came at night when most people were sound asleep in bed. We were. But somehow, can you believe it, only about three hundred people died. Have you ever been bombed?’ Francesca looked at her two friends.
Gladys had never experienced an air raid in her home town, but Rose, of course, had lived through many, as Dartford lay directly in the path of enemy aircraft heading for London from Berlin. ‘Dartford’s had some bad times, hospital wards destroyed, some houses, but apart from in London, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s frightening.’
‘’Course, I’m not telling you anything you shouldn’t know,’ Warrant Officer Starling piped up suddenly, ‘but they say as some Luftwaffe general thought it was a good idea to destroy all the cities in England that featured in a German guidebook: Bath, York, Norwich, Canterbury and others. They made a right mess of Canterbury, missed the cathedral but destroyed the medieval centre. We can build new houses but we can’t rebuild our past, our history.’ He stopped, as if suddenly embarrassed by his own eloquence.
‘You’re so right, sir,’ said Rose, ‘but we can make certain that we remember it.’
‘Come on. We’ve gone all doomy and gloomy,’ complained Gladys. ‘We’re off base, we’re going out to a delicious lunch and every girl in the unit will be jealous when we report back. Where are you dropping us, Officer?’
‘Right here,’ said Warrant Officer Starling as he drew up close to a shining café window over which hung a very pretty blue-and-white awning.
‘We used to have the Italian colours,’ said Francesca sadly, ‘but after…Nonno decided it was better to change.’
‘It looks lovely,’ the girls agreed and, after thanking their driver, walked with Francesca into the little café.
Mrs Rossi, Francesca’s mother, hurried out to meet them. Rose had assumed that middle-aged Italian matrons were usually of average height and rather round, but Francesca’s mother was an older edition of her daughter, slender and very beautiful, with dark sparkling eyes and the longest eyelashes Rose had ever seen.
‘Welcome, welcome,’ she called out, her accent not Italian but Yorkshire. ‘Papa has the lasagne ready and he has saved a little of his own wine for you.’ She waved at Warrant Officer Starling, who was returning to his lorry, and Rose was surprised to see how different, even tender, he looked as he waved back. ‘We are saving lunch for you, Enrico, whenever you come.’
Once again he raised his hand in farewell as he returned to his vehicle.
‘Enrico?’ said Gladys.
‘Italian for Henry. It’s very nice,’ said Francesca, with a slight note of pride or concern in her voice. ‘Mamma has been alone for too many years. Come and meet Nonno.’
‘Very nice indeed,’ Gladys whispered to Rose as they followed mother and daughter towards the exquisite, mouth-watering smells that were coming from the back of the building.
Francesca’s grandfather was tall and broad-shouldered, but very thin – as if, perhaps, he did not eat his own cooking, or perhaps as a result of his imprisonment. He welcomed them as warmly as any Italian Rose had ever seen in the Hollywood films she had enjoyed as she grew up. In no time at all, it was as if they had known one another always. They sat at a large round table and ate lasagne, but only after they had eaten all the other delicious dishes he had prepared for them. When they told him how incredibly wonderful it all was, he sighed deeply.
‘Ah, before the war, before the war I could make such dishes and I will again. This is very humble food,’ he shrugged, dismissing the feast he had just served, ‘but I am glad you like it. Only the best is good enough for friends of our little Francesca.’
‘Ice cream, Nonno, please. Many on the base say your ice cream is the best anywhere, don’t they, Rose, Gladys – and the café too?’
‘Yes, and some were surprised that you’re open on a Sunday afternoon,’ said Rose, who had been wondering if she had enough money in her purse to pay for such a lovely meal.
Signor Rossi laughed, a laugh as hearty as his lasagne. ‘Open? The café is not open; this is the house kitchen. I cook today only for family,’ he gestured towards his daughter-in-law and his granddaughter, ‘and welcome friends.’
Rose blushed to the roots of her hair. She was feeling quite stupid. As far as she could remember, she had not been invited to join the Rossis for lunch. They had talked about visiting the café but surely only as customers. She could just imagine her mother’s reaction if she thought her daughter had gone to lunch with friends and had not taken flowers, chocolates, or even a packet of special tea.
‘You are hot, Rose. I fetch the gelato and that will cool you down.’
Francesca and her grandfather got up from the table, collected the plates, cutlery and serving dishes and turned to go into the scullery behind them, flashing breathtaking smiles as they did so. Rose looked at Gladys, who did not seem to be worrying as she was. She was surprised when Mrs Rossi reached over and patted her hand gently. ‘They’re Italian, Rose, and everything is perfect. Now, I’m almost pure Yorkshire and know you’re squirming with embarrassment. But that’s my Francesca and I wouldn’t have her any other way. Since she could walk she has been bringing people home. “Come,” she would say, holding out her little hand to reassure them. “Come.” Nonno has always encouraged her; she is the light of his life.’
‘You’re very kind, Mrs Rossi.’
Before Francesca’s mother could reply, there was a knock on the door of the café. ‘That will be Enrico. Excuse me.’
‘Let’s walk around York while the WO eats,’ suggested Francesca, and Rose and Gladys were absolutely delighted to leave Mrs Rossi and the warrant officer alone.
Francesca took them to York Minster and they enjoyed visiting the glorious building. Then they wandered among the surrounding streets, gazing in awe as Francesca pointed out one interesting site after another, and buying postcards. ‘They say that house has been there for hundreds of years,’ she said, pointing. ‘And there’s a room dedicated to each period during which it’s been standing. So there’s a Jacobean room and an Elizabethan, and a Georgian and a Victorian and whatever else. You must come back when we have more time. And we should explore the Shambles, the street where all the butchers had their shops in the Middle Ages, and Parliament Street and Fossgate…’ Francesca spoke at length about her home town and Rose wondered what there was in Dartford that she could show off with such pride.
The ancient Holy Trinity Church, of course.
Gladys was not, by inclination, a sightseer and was glad to return to the Rossi café where they found Warrant Officer Starling waiting for them.
‘Almost had to leave you three. Come on, Fran, shout cheerio and get in the lorry; you two, an’ all.’
*
Rose thought wistfully of that pleasant family-centred afternoon quite often in the week that followed. Prior to joining the ATS she had believed that she knew almost everything there was to know about driving and the care and maintenance of smaller engines. She soon realised that this was very far from the case. Her initial feeling on first seeing the engine of a thirty-hundredweight lorry – small by military standards – was one of excitement.
‘Magnificent,’ she breathed.
The more she gazed in awe, the more terrified she became. This monster wasn’t remotely like the shop’s van. That engine she could take apart and put together again. Would she ever master this great beast and its bigger relatives? Simply changing a wheel would be a problem. She remembered struggling to lift the motorcycle from the dispatch rider. That had taken time and the cycle weighed a lot less than this lorry.