sweetheart ever get married?’ Rosie blurted, keen to change the subject.
‘He lost his life in the Great War. He was too young to join up, but he went anyway. Lots did. He was killed at Ypres, still eighteen. I’ve grown old without him.’
‘You met nobody else?’ Rosie asked, saddened but still inquisitive.
‘I’d have liked to find somebody, but so many young fellows of my generation are still in Flanders, aren’t they?’ Nurse Johnson’s expression turned rather severe, as though she regretted betraying her feelings. ‘Does your father agree with your plan for adoption?’
‘It’s up to me to decide what’s best for her,’ Rosie blurted. ‘He doesn’t like the gossip going round, in any case.’
‘Neighbours chinwagging?’ Nurse Johnson asked with a slight smile.
‘They’ve been told I’m Mrs Deane, too, but they’re not green. I did go away and live with my aunt in Walthamstow for a few months, so I could say I’d had a whirlwind wedding before he bought it overseas.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve already had a run-in with Mrs Price; I don’t suppose it’ll be the last time.’ She frowned. ‘I’m going to find work that takes me away somewhere. Then I can start afresh and Dad’ll marry his fiancée …’ Rosie glanced at the midwife. She was not a bad sort. She’d not turned sniffy on knowing the baby was illegitimate. Neither had she gone off in a huff when her offer to take the baby hadn’t been snapped up. ‘I think you’d make a good mum,’ Rosie said kindly. ‘Good enough for me, anyhow,’ she added on impulse.
‘You mean … shall I start to make arrangements for myself then?’ Trudy’s eyes had lit up, her voice shrill with emotion.
‘I’m glad it’s you.’ Rosie sounded more enthusiastic than she felt. ‘I only want the best for her, you know.’
‘I know you do, dear.’ Nurse Johnson stood up and Rosie did too. They took a step towards one another as though they might embrace but instead shook hands just as the baby started to cry.
‘She takes her bottle without any trouble,’ Rosie informed the midwife quickly. She’d never wanted to feel a soft pink cheek against her naked breast and the baby gazing up at her with steady, inquisitive eyes.
Rosie glanced down and noticed that her clothing was wet.
‘You’ll need to bind yourself up, dear.’ Trudy nodded at the damp patches on Rosie’s bodice.
‘I know … it’s a right nuisance.’ Rosie frowned, grabbed the pinafore and put it on again, hiding the stains on her blouse. ‘How long will it all take … the adoption?’
‘You’re sure you don’t want to think about it for longer?’ Trudy felt conscience-bound to ask although she prayed Rosie wouldn’t back out now when she was considering Angela as a lovely name for such a blonde cherub.
Rosie nodded vigorously. ‘I’d offer you tea, but I’ve a pile of ironing to do.’ There were only two of her father’s shirts and one of her blouses in the basket, but Rosie wanted the woman gone. She felt a strange raging emotion within that was making her want to sink to her knees and scream. She guessed her conscience was troubling her but she mustn’t let it. Her father might accuse her of being selfish and heartless, but she truly wanted the best for her daughter.
‘It’s all right … I’ve got to get on too.’ Trudy realised that the young woman wanted to be on her own now. With a surreptitious look of longing at the baby, she gathered up her things and followed Rosie towards the front door.
‘Gone has she, the interfering old bag?’
Her father must have been waiting for the midwife to leave. He’d emerged from the cellar almost before Rosie had shut the front door, having seen the woman out.
‘Yes, she has … but you’ve no need to speak about her like that. She’s all right, is Nurse Johnson.’ Rosie knew that crossed-armed, jaw-jutting stance of her father’s meant another row was in the offing. He was likely to hit the roof when he found out what arrangements she’d made, and spit out a few more choice names for the nice nurse.
‘Go and see if little ’un’s all right, shall I?’
‘She’s fast asleep; I’ve only just come out of the bloody front room and you know it,’ Rosie retorted in response to his cantankerous sarcasm.
‘How long are we going to keep calling the poor little mite “she”? Getting a name, is she, before her first birthday?’ John continued sourly.
His barbs were starting to get on Rosie’s nerves but she reined in her temper. They had a serious conversation in front of them and she’d as soon get it over with. ‘Come and sit down in the kitchen, Dad. There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
Rosie took her father’s elbow and, surprisingly, he allowed her to steer him along the passage.
‘Let’s wet our whistles.’ Rosie began filling the kettle, hoping to keep things calm if not harmonious between them.
John pulled out a stick-back chair at the kitchen table and was about to sit down when he hesitated and glanced up at the ceiling. Rosie had heard it too: the unmistakable sound of aeroplane engines moving closer.
‘Must be some of ours,’ Rosie said, putting the kettle on the gas stove and sticking a lit match beneath it.
There’d been no warning siren and the afternoon was late but still light. The Luftwaffe mostly came over under cover of darkness. Since the Blitz petered out last May, German bombing had thankfully become sporadic and Londoners – especially East Enders who’d borne the brunt of the pounding – had been able to relax a bit.
John peered out of the window, then, frowning, he opened the back door and stepped out, head tipped up as he sauntered along the garden path. His mouth suddenly fell agape in a mixture of shock and fear and he pelted back towards the house, shouting.
But the sirens had belatedly begun to wail, cutting off his warning of an air raid.
Rosie let the crockery crash back to the draining board on hearing the eerie sound and sprang to the back door to hurry her father inside. Before John could reach the house a short whistle preceded an explosion in a neighbour’s garden, sending him to the ground, crucified on the concrete at the side of the privy.
Crouching on the threshold, arms covering her head in instinctive protection, Rosie could hear her father groaning just yards away. She’d begun to unfold to rush to him when debilitating terror hit her. She sank back, shaking and whimpering, biting down ferociously on her lower lip to try to still her chattering teeth. Tasting and smelling the metallic coppery blood on her tongue increased the horrific images spinning inside her head. She rammed her fists against her eyes but she couldn’t shut out the carnage she’d witnessed in the Café de Paris a year ago. Her nostrils were again filled with the sickly stench of blood, and her mind seemed to echo with the sounds of wretched people battling for their final moments of life. Some had called in vain for loved ones … or the release of death. Limbless bodies and staring sightless eyes had been everywhere, tripping her up as she’d fled to the street, smothered in choking
