mother.’
Mrs Berry nodded, her eyes never moving from the child’s face. What was behind this escapade?
‘Where have you come from?’ she asked.
The boy put the empty bowl carefully in the corner of the hearth.
‘Tupps Hill,’ he answered.
Tupps Hill! A good two or three miles away! What a journey the child must have made, and in such a storm!
‘Why d’you want to know?’ said the boy, in a sudden panic. ‘You going to send the police there? They don’tknow nothin’ about me runnin’ off. Honest! Don’t let on, madam, please, madam!’
The ‘madam’ amused and touched Mrs Berry. Was this how he had been told to address someone in charge of an institution, or perhaps a lady magistrate at some court proceedings? This child had an unhappy background, that seemed certain. But why was he so scared of the police?
‘If you behave yourself and show some sense,’ said Mrs Berry, ‘the police will not be told anything at all. But I want to know more about you, young man.’
She picked up the bowl.
‘Would you like some more?’
‘Can I?’ said the child eagerly.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Berry, resting the bowl on one hip and looking down at the boy.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Stephen.’
‘Stephen what?’
‘It’s not my foster mother’s name,’ said the boy evasively.
‘So I imagine. What is it, though?’
‘It’s Amonetti. Stephen Amonetti.’
Mrs Berry nodded slowly, as things began to fall into place.
‘So you’re Stephen Amonetti, are you? I think I knew your dad some years ago.’
She walked slowly from the room, sorting out a rag bag of memories, as she made her way thoughtfully towards the kitchen.
C HAPTER S EVEN
A monetti!
Pepe Amonetti! She could see him now, as he had first appeared in Beech Green during the final months of the last war. He was a very young Italian prisoner of war, barely twenty, and his dark curls and sweeping black eyelashes soon had all the village girls talking.
He was the youngest of a band of Italian prisoners allotted to Jesse Miller, who then farmed a large area at Beech Green. He was quite irrepressible, bubbling over with the joy of living – doubly relishing life, perhaps, because of his short time on active service.
As he drove the tractor, or cleared a ditch, or slashed back a hedge, he sang at the top of his voice, or chattered in his pidgin English to any passer-by.
The girls, of course, did not pass by. The string of compliments, the flashing glances, the expressive hands, slowed their steps. Pepe, with his foreign beauty, stood out from the local village boys like some exotic orchid among a bunch of cottage flowers. In theory, he had little spare time for such dalliance. In practice, he managed very well, with a dozen or more willing partners.
The young lady most in demand at Beech Green at that time was a blonde beauty called Gloria Jarvis.
The Jarvises were a respectable couple with a string of flighty daughters. Gloria was one of the youngest, and had learned a great deal from her older sisters. The fact that the air base nearby housed several hundred eageryoung Americans generous with candy, cigarettes and nylon stockings had hastened Gloria’s progress in the art of making herself charming.
As was to be expected, ‘them Jarvis girls’ were considered by the upright members of the community to be ‘a fair scandal, and a disgrace to honest parents.’ Any man, however ill-favoured or decrepit, was reckoned to be in danger from their wiles, and as soon as Pepe arrived at Beech Green it was a foregone conclusion that he would fall prey to one of the Jarvis harpies.
‘Not that he’ll put up much of a fight,’ observed one middle-aged lady to her neighbour. ‘Got a roving eye himself, that lad.’
‘Well,’ replied her companion indulgently, ‘you knows what these foreigners are! Hot blooded. It’s all that everlasting sun!’
‘My Albert was down with bronchitis and chilblains all through the Italian
Mrs Berry nodded, her eyes never moving from the child’s face. What was behind this escapade?
‘Where have you come from?’ she asked.
The boy put the empty bowl carefully in the corner of the hearth.
‘Tupps Hill,’ he answered.
Tupps Hill! A good two or three miles away! What a journey the child must have made, and in such a storm!
‘Why d’you want to know?’ said the boy, in a sudden panic. ‘You going to send the police there? They don’tknow nothin’ about me runnin’ off. Honest! Don’t let on, madam, please, madam!’
The ‘madam’ amused and touched Mrs Berry. Was this how he had been told to address someone in charge of an institution, or perhaps a lady magistrate at some court proceedings? This child had an unhappy background, that seemed certain. But why was he so scared of the police?
‘If you behave yourself and show some sense,’ said Mrs Berry, ‘the police will not be told anything at all. But I want to know more about you, young man.’
She picked up the bowl.
‘Would you like some more?’
‘Can I?’ said the child eagerly.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Berry, resting the bowl on one hip and looking down at the boy.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Stephen.’
‘Stephen what?’
‘It’s not my foster mother’s name,’ said the boy evasively.
‘So I imagine. What is it, though?’
‘It’s Amonetti. Stephen Amonetti.’
Mrs Berry nodded slowly, as things began to fall into place.
‘So you’re Stephen Amonetti, are you? I think I knew your dad some years ago.’
She walked slowly from the room, sorting out a rag bag of memories, as she made her way thoughtfully towards the kitchen.
C HAPTER S EVEN
A monetti!
Pepe Amonetti! She could see him now, as he had first appeared in Beech Green during the final months of the last war. He was a very young Italian prisoner of war, barely twenty, and his dark curls and sweeping black eyelashes soon had all the village girls talking.
He was the youngest of a band of Italian prisoners allotted to Jesse Miller, who then farmed a large area at Beech Green. He was quite irrepressible, bubbling over with the joy of living – doubly relishing life, perhaps, because of his short time on active service.
As he drove the tractor, or cleared a ditch, or slashed back a hedge, he sang at the top of his voice, or chattered in his pidgin English to any passer-by.
The girls, of course, did not pass by. The string of compliments, the flashing glances, the expressive hands, slowed their steps. Pepe, with his foreign beauty, stood out from the local village boys like some exotic orchid among a bunch of cottage flowers. In theory, he had little spare time for such dalliance. In practice, he managed very well, with a dozen or more willing partners.
The young lady most in demand at Beech Green at that time was a blonde beauty called Gloria Jarvis.
The Jarvises were a respectable couple with a string of flighty daughters. Gloria was one of the youngest, and had learned a great deal from her older sisters. The fact that the air base nearby housed several hundred eageryoung Americans generous with candy, cigarettes and nylon stockings had hastened Gloria’s progress in the art of making herself charming.
As was to be expected, ‘them Jarvis girls’ were considered by the upright members of the community to be ‘a fair scandal, and a disgrace to honest parents.’ Any man, however ill-favoured or decrepit, was reckoned to be in danger from their wiles, and as soon as Pepe arrived at Beech Green it was a foregone conclusion that he would fall prey to one of the Jarvis harpies.
‘Not that he’ll put up much of a fight,’ observed one middle-aged lady to her neighbour. ‘Got a roving eye himself, that lad.’
‘Well,’ replied her companion indulgently, ‘you knows what these foreigners are! Hot blooded. It’s all that everlasting sun!’
‘My Albert was down with bronchitis and chilblains all through the Italian
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