It's Now or Never (18 page)

Roberta dropped the subject and instead thought she would do a little more work on her drawing of Nick, wanting to catch his expression exactly right. She would take the finished article with her when she and Lynne visited Betty's flat to show her.

‘Because you're mine, the brightest star looked down on me …' sang the dark-haired youth, clad in a black crew-neck sweater with matching black trousers.

Lynne, who was standing over by the window in Betty's flat, where there was a fantastic view of the cathedral and beyond that the Mersey, was nursing a glass of Babycham. She had not realized that hers and Roberta's visit to the flat would turn into a party with music. She guessed the lad was not much older than her daughter, who was perched on a pouffe with her sketch pad on her knee, gazing at him. Apparently he was part Italian and was good looking with curly hair that was almost as black as the jet jewellery Lynne was wearing. In a few years time he would be a real heart-throb and would have his pick of the girls.

Hopefully her daughter was only seeing him as subject matter for her pencil but Lynne doubted it. Roberta was getting to that age when boys were starting to become interesting, which meant she was going to have to keep an eye on her. She had discovered a drawing of another boy in the drawing pad when she had taken her daughter's gym clothes out of her satchel the other evening.

The song came to an end and he said, ‘And how about a burst on the banjolele?' Grinning, he picked up the instrument.

‘Not that, Tony,' groaned the girl, who had been introduced as Betty's cousin, Maggie, and had come with Emma.

‘What's wrong with the banjolele?' asked Betty.

‘It reminds me of George Formby and he's so old-fashioned.'

Emma, who was seated comfortably on the large sofa, said, ‘I don't see anything wrong with the banjolele or George Formby. He's one of our own, a Lancashire lad. His films and his comic songs always made my grandad burst into fits of laughter.'

‘Oh, Emma, he's gormless!' cried Maggie.

‘Well it made him rich,' put in Lynne. ‘I read an article in the
Echo
about him. I wouldn't mind his money.'

‘Some of his music is swing,' said Tony, his brown eyes gleaming, ‘and I enjoy playing swing.'

‘I'd like to jive,' said Maggie. ‘Couldn't you play Bill Haley and his Comets' hit from last year?'

‘If you want to dance, then you'd be best putting out your ciggy or you'll burn someone waving your arms about the way you do,' said Betty.

Maggie sighed. ‘You're always getting at me. That's why I moved out. What with that and your boasting.'

Tony began to thrum the strings of the banjolele and played a few lines of ‘Leaning on a Lamp Post'. Jimmy, the leader of the music group which was to play at Hester's wedding, picked up his guitar.

‘Well, you did the right thing, Maggie,' said Betty mildly, determined not to be provoked. ‘Only you left me with a bit of a problem, what with me going to Italy. Fortunately that's been solved by Jeanette.' She glanced at Lynne and changed the subject. ‘Did you bring your pattern book?'

‘I put it on the table,' replied Lynne.

‘Oh, that's yours, is it?' said Maggie, smiling at her. ‘There's some nice designs in it. I had a quick look. I wouldn't mind you making me a costume for when I go to Charm School in London. A dress and a jacket was what I was thinking.'

‘You're going to have to join the queue,' said Betty. ‘I'm first to have Lynne's services because I'll be off to Italy before you go to London.' She turned to Lynne, who had moved over to the sofa. ‘I'll be staying with Tony's relatives for most of the time, so I'll be based in Castellammare di Stabia, not far from Sorrento.'

‘That's a cue for a song,' said Tony.

‘Were you born in Italy?' asked Roberta, glancing up from her drawing.

He nodded. ‘So was Poppa and therein hangs a tale.' He played several swift chords on the banjolele before stopping and saying. ‘I fancy a coffee and a bite to eat. I'm prepared to make it myself. Is that OK, Betty?'

‘Of course, put the kettle on,' she said, perching on the arm of the sofa and turning a page of the pattern book. ‘Do you think your stepbrother will visit that far south, Lynne, on his European travels? I'd like to know what he thinks of the area.'

‘I honestly don't know,' said Lynne. ‘Perhaps when I get a postcard from him, he might give me an idea of his itinerary.'

They began to talk in low voices as they looked at the patterns of summer wear.

Tony went over to a cupboard and took out a container of coffee as well as a tea-caddy. Roberta put down her sketching pad and went over to him. She had it in mind to draw an Italian background to the sketch she had done of him so was interested in his story.

‘I'd like to hear that tale you mentioned?' she said boldly, the faintest of blushes on her cheeks.

‘What tale?' asked Tony absently, glancing over at Maggie who was moving the paintings leaning against a wall about.

‘You said that you were born in Italy so how did you end up in Liverpool?' asked Roberta, wishing that Maggie would not distract him. She had to confess that the other girl was pretty, even if she seemed at odds with Betty. What was Maggie doing now messing about with her cousin's paintings?

Tony glanced down at her. ‘You really want to know?'

‘Yes, unless it would bore you?' she said, giving him all her attention and thinking the way each syllable rolled off his tongue caused her heart to flutter.

He smiled and shook his head. ‘I never tire of talking about it.' He paused to spoon instant coffee into a couple of mugs. ‘My poppa was in the Italian navy when I was born and his ship was bombed in the Med.'

‘So your father was a sailor like mine,' she interrupted.

He frowned. ‘I doubt exactly like yours. Poppa was taken prisoner by the British.' She opened her mouth to say hers had been killed but the look in his eye caused her to clam her lips firmly shut and Tony continued, ‘Because he spoke fairly good English, he was taken to India with a whole lot of Italian prisoners and acted as a translator. When an armistice was signed by Italy and Britain, my father and many other prisoners were asked if they would like to go to Britain and help with the war effort.'

‘So he did,' blurted out Roberta.

‘Who's telling this story?' demanded Tony.

‘You,' she said meekly, thinking she might be going off him when she had just started to be fascinated by his dark good looks and voice. ‘Sorry.'

‘I should think so. You're as bad as my little sisters. They're always butting in. Anyway, Poppa ended up in a POW camp over here. As he wanted to get to Italy to find me and my
mother, he knew he had to escape and thought to get help from his mother's relatives in Liverpool.'

‘I presume he escaped?'

Tony sighed. ‘Of course, but he was injured on the way here.'

‘Your poor poppa!'

This time Tony only said, ‘Then due to the bombing, he couldn't find the house of his aunt, so he went to the priest's house. And that is how he met my stepmother.'

‘But how did he find you? And what about your mother?' asked Roberta.

‘Sadly my momma had died and I had been put in an orphanage run by the nuns. Anyway Poppa came to Italy despite the Germans and managed to find me and he smuggled me into England.' He paused. ‘That's the short version.'

‘How fascinating!' exclaimed Roberta. ‘Your father could write a book.'

Tony chuckled. ‘Oh, he isn't one to boast about his bravery. I do it for him. Of course, it is sad that my momma died but I don't remember her at all.'

‘My father died before I was born,' said Roberta, switching off the kettle. ‘But I'm proud of him because he must have been brave to be willing to die for his country.'

‘Now Betty, she is proud that her father was an artist, not that he died at Dunkirk,' said Tony, glancing her way.

Betty lifted her head. ‘I heard that. It's only because I would have preferred him to stay alive. If he hadn't been killed we would have gone to Italy together and he'd have taught me so much about art.'

‘You can't be sure of that,' said Maggie, glancing towards her as she picked up a canvas. ‘What's this supposed to be?'

Betty passed the pattern book to Lynne and went and took the picture from her cousin and held it at arm's length. ‘I can't remember. I think I was exploring colour.'

‘There's certainly enough colours in it,' said Lynne, staring at the painting. ‘I like it. They're what I call warm colours.'

‘It's not a bit like the one your dad painted that's in the Walker art gallery,' said Tony.

‘I was experimenting.' Betty held out the picture to Lynne. ‘Here, you can have it if you want?'

Lynne seized it in both hands and said delightedly, ‘I've never had an original painting! Thank you.'

‘What about my sketches?' asked Roberta. ‘They're originals, Mam. You can take your pick.'

Lynne smiled. ‘I know I can. I suppose I inherited my skill for design from your Nan but when it reached you it developed differently. You could make an excellent art teacher.'

Roberta sighed and exchanged a look with Betty, thinking she would understand how she felt about that comment.

But it was Emma who spoke next. ‘What did your great-grandmother do?'

‘She worked in the theatre as a dresser,' said Roberta.

‘Betty's mother and mine were involved with the theatre in an amateurish way,' said Maggie, lifting up another painting. ‘Why is it you've never wanted to follow in your mother's footsteps, Betty?'

She took the painting from her. ‘Mam never talked about those days. She was proud of my dad's skill as a painter because he made money out of it! I suppose she encouraged me because she believed I'd inherited his talent and could make money, too.'

‘Well, I'll tell you this,' began Maggie, ‘I don't think you did inherit his talent.'

‘What d'you mean by that?' asked Betty, frowning.

‘I mean …'

‘Enough, Maggie,' said Emma, a warning note in her voice. ‘I don't know why there has to be this rivalry between you and Betty.'

‘That's what girls are like,' said Tony. ‘Now my sisters …'

‘Boys can be just the same and it's not just in families that one gets rivalry,' said Roberta brightly. ‘Now who wants coffee and who wants tea?'

‘I'll have tea.' Lynne smiled at her daughter before turning to Emma. ‘What do you want?' she asked the woman who was nervously twisting her wedding ring round and round her finger. It made her wonder whether Emma knew what was behind that rivalry between the cousins. She felt sorry for her, thinking she shouldn't have such squabbles to bother her when she was pregnant. Fortunately the subject was dropped and the conversation moved on.

Roberta would have liked to have discussed Betty's pictures with her but she had either forgotten her reason for inviting her to the flat or she did not want to talk about art because of Maggie's words. She was almost glad when it became time to go home, although she had enjoyed the music. She wondered what Nick would have made of it. Perhaps not his style if he went for country and western or jazz.

It was Emma who remained talking to Lynne and Roberta at the door a bit longer than expected. ‘I'm sorry about that spat earlier,' she said in a low voice. ‘It's what happens in families.'

Roberta glanced at her mother, thinking of her grandmother Graham, but Lynne did not mention her; instead she placed her hand over Emma's and said, ‘If you need a listening ear …' Then she stopped.

No doubt she had remembered that Emma had a husband to confide in, as well as her close friend, Hester. Roberta linked her arm through her mother's and they left.

Only later did Lynne remember that she had forgotten to pick up her book of patterns. Hopefully Betty, Emma and Maggie would have another look at it and get in touch. Emma might decide she needed something new for Hannah's wedding. Thinking of the coming event reminded Lynne of Sam Walker. No doubt he would be there. Unfortunately he was likely to have Dorothy Wilson on his arm.

Dorothy was thinking of her mother as she heard a car draw up outside the hotel. She was also remembering giving birth and the agony of it. Her son had been a fair size, no doubt due to his father being a six-footer. She remembered her mother telling her that she had been a dainty baby with a head of blonde curls.

She went over to the window and gazed down into the road and her heart sank further. Last night it had snowed again. It would be the first day of spring on Mothering Sunday and the weather was the pits. She watched as Sam stepped out of the car and without wasting any time, she picked up her weekend bag and vanity case. Should she try and change his mind about going away? Of course, he might have already done so when it had snowed again, although somehow she doubted it.

She hoped fervently that if they did go that these two days away would not prove a mistake. Oddly, despite Sam being quite tough and no doubt ruthless with criminals, he was a romantic at heart. It could be that after their conversation at the Philharmonic pub, this weekend might not be exactly as she imagined it. She guessed he had given no thought to it being Mothering Sunday. Why should he? His mother was dead and Dorothy didn't know where he stood on sending a card to his stepmother. Would her own son have bought her a card if she had kept him? She felt the slightest of aches thinking of him buying one for another woman, proclaiming her the best mother in the world. She swallowed a sigh, knowing it was stupid to entertain such thoughts. She had her career and she was going to earn a decent amount of money and spend time in the sun this year. Goodbye snow!