Free Birmingham Blitz by Annie Murray

gently. ‘The war’s only just started and we don’t know what’s coming. Francesca’ll see they’re all right. She’s nearly grown up now.’
    I looked at Micky timidly. He was a moody so-and-so – tough as anything on his kids, though he’d barely ever said a harsh word to me. ‘How’s the Fire Service, Mr Spini?’ I asked.
    ‘Dad ’ad a bit of a shock this week, didn’t you?’ Teresa said cautiously.
    We waited for a split second to see the reaction. And Micky’s face broke into a grin, as did Stevie’s. ‘Oh God yes, the jump!’ He blew smoke at the ceiling, smoothed a hand over his wiry black curls. He’d done his first two weeks in the Auxiliary Fire Service. ‘They got us doing sheet jumps. That means you ’ave to go up the drill tower in the station. Everyone else is standing at the bottom holding out a sheet to catch you. If you’re holding it you have to brace yourself to take the weight.’ He clenched his fists, the hairy backs of his hands turned towards the floor. ‘So you’re up the top of the tower, sitting on this window-sill and the instructor’s told you “Don’t jump off, just step off.” You’re thinking Christ Almighty—’
    ‘Micky!’ Vera interrupted, eyes fierce.
    ‘Sorry. But I was, I can tell you. I was thinking to myself, that’s not a sheet down there, it’s a pocket handkerchief.’
    ‘So you jumped?’
    ‘Didn’t have no choice. My insides followed me down about five minutes later!’
    ‘You should just thank your stars you don’t have to jump out of aeroplanes!’ Vera said.
    ‘Well at least they have a parachute!’ We all laughed at his head-shaking indignation.
    Vera got up, clearing dishes already wiped clean with bread, scraping bones and wrinkles of fish skin on to the top one. She was not a tall woman, but rounded and comfortable, and Teresa looked very like her, although Vera Spini’s long hair was blond – out of a bottle Mom said – but it suited her, even though her eyebrows were jet black.
    Already it was half way through the afternoon. They could make meals last an age, the Spinis. Eating was a pastime as well as a necessity. Sometimes, Sundays, they were all still sitting round the table at four o’clock, spinning the meal on into cups of tea.
    ‘Who wants ice cream?’ Vera called from the scullery.
    ‘Oooh!’ I said. ‘Yes please!’
    ‘I didn’t need to ask you, did I?’ She smiled, bringing the basin of homemade ice cream to the table. ‘You’d eat it until it came out of your ears.’ She leaned forward and pulled my cheek affectionately between her finger and thumb.
    ‘Only my ice cream,’ Micky teased.
    Vera faced him indignantly, hands on her shapely hips. ‘ My ice cream? Listen to him. Who makes all the ice cream around here Micky, eh? Whose family has been making ice cream for three generations?’
    ‘Yours, my darlin’.’ Micky looked mock humble.
    ‘I should think so.’ Vera dug in the spoon. ‘We had a few punnets of strawberries over so I put them in too.’
    That set my mouth watering. Vera’s mom and dad, the Scattolis, were part of the community from Sora in the middle of Italy, one of the ice-cream families, and you came across Scattoli ice-cream cycles all over town. When Vera married Micky, a newcomer and a southerner, the family accepted him and helped set them up in their own shop. Old Poppa Scattoli gave his blessing not only on the marriage, but also on their using the family’s ice-cream recipe for another string to the Spinis’ business bow – provided they used the Scattoli name.
    The ice cream was delicious. I was just sitting there relaxing, thinking how nice it was to be eating food that might’ve been made by angels, in a proper family with a mom and dad there and no rows, when Teresa had to go and say, ‘I wish I could get a job.’
    Micky’s eyes swivelled round to her angrily and Vera and Stevie sighed. Teresa always had a way of offering the red rag straight to the bull. You