Read Online Hero on a Bicycle by Shirley Hughes - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shirley Hughes
Ads: Link
interminably. She was attempting to relieve the tension by writing to her mother — a letter that she knew was extremely unlikely ever to arrive. Postal communication between Italy and England, two countries at war, was totally unreliable.
“We are all well here and managing to avoid food shortages somehow,” she wrote. “I do hope it’s the same for you, Mummy, and you’re not getting too exhausted with all the work you’re doing for the war effort.”
She paused.
Why am I writing this kind of bracing, optimistic stuff when I know she’ll probably never read it? she thought. Mind you, I never did tell her anything about what’s really happening to me, anyway.
The old prewar England she remembered was becoming a kind of faraway edifice of her own memories, and her mother was rapidly becoming part of it.
When her father had died, in 1938, it had been one of the great sadnesses of Rosemary’s life, a loss from which she would never fully recover. She had seen so little of him in the years since her marriage. There had been visits to London with the children, of course, mostly without Franco, who had been too busy to accompany them. Her father had been deeply worried about the rise of Fascism in Europe and the inevitability of another war. For his generation, having witnessed the carnage in the trenches during the First World War, it was an unthinkable dread. She had watched his old sociable optimism turn to gloomy introspection and his health decline as a result. And when he had died suddenly of a heart attack, she had not been there.
Once war had been declared against Britain, Rosemary, living in Florence and married to an Italian, could have little contact with her English mother, though she guessed that she would be surviving widowhood with her characteristic brisk energy. War work would provide her with an ideal opportunity to overcome her grief. When the bombing had begun in earnest, Rosemary had pictured her mother channeling all her formidable organizational skills into helping to evacuate London children and running canteens for servicemen and servicewomen and hostels for bombed-out families.
The rare letters that had gotten through from her had been full of buoyant enthusiasm. Her mother’s only complaint was that the deafening nightly barrage from the big anti-aircraft guns on Primrose Hill was robbing her of a decent night’s sleep.
If only I could be more like her, thought Rosemary. I’d give anything to be so single-minded.
Her own position in Florence demanded a different kind of bravery, though. It was a lonely life of waiting, keeping a low profile, and trying to protect her children. And it was all falling apart. She seemed to have lost control altogether, and all she could think was that she had put her family in mortal danger.
She buried her face in her hands. Oh, Franco, she thought, if only you were here.
Paolo, meanwhile, was hanging around the house in a state of high excitement, finding it impossible to settle down to anything. He just wanted the action to start. The trip to Florence was planned for just after dark, when, with luck, there would not be too many military police patrols around. His stomach turned over with fear every time he thought about what he had agreed to do. But there was no going back now. He had checked his bicycle three times already that morning, and he was ready. At last he was going to get some action, a real man’s job. Helping Allied servicemen escape was really something special, something he could tell his father about when he came home, even if he could never let on about it to his friends.
He hovered in the hall at the top of the cellar stairs. Why was Constanza taking so long down there? What were they talking about? He wondered if he should go down and join them but then thought better of it. Perhaps he should keep a low profile for the moment.
Constanza finally appeared, carrying two empty plates.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” said
“We are all well here and managing to avoid food shortages somehow,” she wrote. “I do hope it’s the same for you, Mummy, and you’re not getting too exhausted with all the work you’re doing for the war effort.”
She paused.
Why am I writing this kind of bracing, optimistic stuff when I know she’ll probably never read it? she thought. Mind you, I never did tell her anything about what’s really happening to me, anyway.
The old prewar England she remembered was becoming a kind of faraway edifice of her own memories, and her mother was rapidly becoming part of it.
When her father had died, in 1938, it had been one of the great sadnesses of Rosemary’s life, a loss from which she would never fully recover. She had seen so little of him in the years since her marriage. There had been visits to London with the children, of course, mostly without Franco, who had been too busy to accompany them. Her father had been deeply worried about the rise of Fascism in Europe and the inevitability of another war. For his generation, having witnessed the carnage in the trenches during the First World War, it was an unthinkable dread. She had watched his old sociable optimism turn to gloomy introspection and his health decline as a result. And when he had died suddenly of a heart attack, she had not been there.
Once war had been declared against Britain, Rosemary, living in Florence and married to an Italian, could have little contact with her English mother, though she guessed that she would be surviving widowhood with her characteristic brisk energy. War work would provide her with an ideal opportunity to overcome her grief. When the bombing had begun in earnest, Rosemary had pictured her mother channeling all her formidable organizational skills into helping to evacuate London children and running canteens for servicemen and servicewomen and hostels for bombed-out families.
The rare letters that had gotten through from her had been full of buoyant enthusiasm. Her mother’s only complaint was that the deafening nightly barrage from the big anti-aircraft guns on Primrose Hill was robbing her of a decent night’s sleep.
If only I could be more like her, thought Rosemary. I’d give anything to be so single-minded.
Her own position in Florence demanded a different kind of bravery, though. It was a lonely life of waiting, keeping a low profile, and trying to protect her children. And it was all falling apart. She seemed to have lost control altogether, and all she could think was that she had put her family in mortal danger.
She buried her face in her hands. Oh, Franco, she thought, if only you were here.
Paolo, meanwhile, was hanging around the house in a state of high excitement, finding it impossible to settle down to anything. He just wanted the action to start. The trip to Florence was planned for just after dark, when, with luck, there would not be too many military police patrols around. His stomach turned over with fear every time he thought about what he had agreed to do. But there was no going back now. He had checked his bicycle three times already that morning, and he was ready. At last he was going to get some action, a real man’s job. Helping Allied servicemen escape was really something special, something he could tell his father about when he came home, even if he could never let on about it to his friends.
He hovered in the hall at the top of the cellar stairs. Why was Constanza taking so long down there? What were they talking about? He wondered if he should go down and join them but then thought better of it. Perhaps he should keep a low profile for the moment.
Constanza finally appeared, carrying two empty plates.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” said
Similar Books
