The Girl from Portofino: An epic, sweeping historical novel from Siobhan Daiko

By Siobhan Daiko

A compelling, emotional wartime story, from bestseller Siobhan Daiko

When Gina Bianchi returns to the beautiful Italian resort of Portofino to attend her father’s funeral, she is beset by vivid memories of World War 2, when she joined the Resistance, alongside her identical twin sister, Adele.

In her childhood bedroom, Gina reads Adele’s diary, left behind during the war. As Gina learns the shocking truth about her sister, she’s compelled to face the harsh realities of her own past.

A hauntingly epic read that will sweep you away to the beauty of the Italian Riviera. For readers of Rhys Bowen, Fiona Valpy, and Victoria Hislop.

Praise for Siobhan Daiko:

A beautiful story with a compelling historical storyline that you won’t want to put down’ Ann Bennett

’I was completely absorbed by … all the characters and intrigue’ Angela Petch

'...like meeting an old, dear friend after a long absence. What a poignant, emotional, thoroughly enjoyable read this was! ... such beautiful prose and such a brilliant story that completely transported me.' Renita D'Silva

‘An exciting, impeccably-researched wartime adventure with lots of heart ... the perfect mixture of tragedy and happiness' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Reader review

A poignant and emotionally charged novel that explores the human spirit's resilience in the face of adversity and I was hooked from start to finish' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Reader review

'So much heartache but alongside this the love of the people who did so much in WWII' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Reader review

‘A powerful historical novel that I just could not put down' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Reader review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Jul 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781837519033

Siobhan Daiko

Siobhan Daiko writes powerful and sweeping historical fiction set in Italy and in the Far East during the second World War, with strong women at its heart. She now lives near Venice, having been a teacher in Wales for many years.

Book preview

1

1970

Gina brushes past an errant wisp of the wisteria arching over the pub door. In Portofino, she thinks, a riot of purple flowers will already be perfuming the warm spring air. Here in England, though, wisteria doesn’t usually bloom until May, and the weather is decidedly un-spring-like. For a fleeting moment, homesickness overwhelms her; it has been nearly twenty-five years since she was last in Italy.

The wisteria tendril touches the side of her cheek; she’ll need to get it pruned or the customers might complain. She pushes through the door and makes her way across the red carpeted floor of the high-ceilinged bar area, where her husband, Vincent, or Vinnie as he prefers to be called, is wiping down the surfaces. Before he can greet her, the telephone rings, and he picks up the receiver. ‘George and Dragon. How can I help you?’

Gina heads towards their private quarters. Vinnie gives her a wave and carries on talking to the brewery about a delivery of beer. Silver streaks highlight his hair, giving him a distinguished look, but the boyish charm of the man she married still lurks beneath his ageing exterior.

‘Is that you, Mum?’ Hope calls out from her bedroom. ‘Did you collect my prescription?’

Gina sighs. Hope has been on antidepressants since she came home from the hippy commune in Dorset, where she went to live after dropping out of studying architecture at UCL last summer. Such a pity; she would have had a brilliant future, but during the gap year she spent at Chelsea Art School before starting her degree course, she became involved with a group of druggies, and hasn’t been the same since.

‘Yes, dear. I fetched your prescription.’ Gina would rather flush the pills down the toilet. Hope is too dependent on Valium but following her breakdown after she finished with the latest in a string of boyfriends two months ago, she’s become a huge worry to Gina. A butterfly child, like the song customers keep selecting from the pub’s jukebox, but Hope is twenty-four and no longer a child.

In the kitchenette, Gina shrugs off her coat, smooths down her tweed skirt, fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. She strikes a match and lights the gas; she picked up the British habit of a cup of tea at five o’clock in the afternoon shortly after arriving in the UK, although her Italian side still clings to a morning coffee. She’ll go and give Vinnie a hand behind the bar shortly. Just as soon as she’s drunk her tea and checked on Hope.

The door to the kitchenette swings open, and Hope drifts in. Dressed in bell-bottomed, faded denim jeans and a white cotton floaty top, her long dark-blonde hair cascading in ripples around her oval face, Hope pouts her lips in a beguiling smile that lights her chocolate-brown eyes. She looks so much like she herself once did, Gina thinks, and her identical twin sister, Adele, in those halcyon days before the Germans occupied Portofino and changed everything.

Gina returns Hope’s smile. ‘Would you like a cuppa, darlin’?’ She rolls the letter ‘r’ like a true Italian but leaves off the ‘g’ like a true Londoner. It occurs to her she’s become something of a hybrid.

‘Thanks.’ Hope grabs a mug from the cupboard, then pulls out a chair. She yawns, covering her mouth with a hand. ‘I’m so tired.’ Hope’s accent is far posher than her parents’; they’d scrimped and saved to educate her privately. Fat lot of good that did, Gina can’t help thinking.

‘It’s the pills.’ She doesn’t mention the dope she found under Hope’s mattress while changing the bed linen yesterday. ‘Maybe you should try and manage without them?’ And without pot.

‘Maybe…’ Hope sips her tea. ‘But if I don’t take them, I can’t sleep at all.’

Gina is about to suggest a gradual reduction in dosage and stopping smoking weed altogether, but the door crashes open and Vinnie appears. Wide-eyed, he holds out a telegram letter. ‘This came in the second post. It’s addressed to you, love.’

Gina’s hand trembles as she gets to her feet and takes the envelope from him. With shaking fingers, she extracts a piece of paper.

Babbo è mancato. Chiamami subito. Tommaso.

‘My dad has passed away.’ Gina’s voice falters. ‘My brother wants me to call him.’ Tears trickle from her eyes, and she gives a sob.

‘Oh, sweetheart.’ Vinnie’s arms wrap around her. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ Hope has joined in with the hugging. ‘How did it happen?’

‘Tommaso doesn’t say.’ Gina sighs. ‘I’ll have to phone him and ask.’

Later, after Gina has got through on a crackly line to Portofino, and Tommaso has told her that their father suffered a sudden fatal heart attack yesterday while having dinner, Gina manages to enquire, her throat scratchy with tears, ‘How is Mamma coping?’

Gina has spoken to him in Italian, her tongue relishing wrapping itself around the familiar words.

‘She’s devastated, of course,’ Tommaso says. ‘How soon can you get here?’

‘You want me to come?’ Gina’s mouth has turned dry.

‘Not only do I want you to come, I expect you to come. Mamma needs you. The whole family needs you. It’s time you faced up to your responsibilities, sorella mia.’

He called her his sister, as if she’d forgotten. And, truth be told, she hasn’t been much of a sister to him. She hasn’t even met his two daughters. ‘When’s the funeral?’

‘In three days’ time.’

‘So soon?’

‘You can fly out tomorrow. With Vincent and Hope.’

‘We have a pub to run, don’t forget.’

‘Leave Vincent in London, then. I’m sure he’ll manage without you for a week or so. Bring Hope. We all want to meet her.’

‘She’s not very well, I’m afraid…’

‘Is it serious?’ Tommaso sounds concerned.

How to go into the whole sorry saga? Gina has only exchanged Christmas and birthday greetings with Tommaso over the years.

‘Hope is just a bit run-down,’ Gina says, and leaves it at that.

‘The sea air will do her good. Her cousins are longing to meet her.’

‘I’ll call Mamma tomorrow,’ Gina says. ‘I need to discuss this with Vincent. Give everyone my love.’

‘Will do. Despite the sad circumstances, we’re all looking forward to seeing you again soon.’

Gina hangs up the phone and goes through to the bar, where Vinnie is pulling a pint. He lifts a brow as she approaches.

‘I’ll tell you everything after closing time,’ she whispers, breathing in the fug of beer, cigarettes and salt and vinegar crisps.

Tying an apron around her waist, she smiles at a waiting customer. ‘What can I get you, darlin’?’

It’s a busy evening and Gina is rushed off her feet. Although she and Vinnie have staff: Sandra, and Kathleen, East End girls through and through, who are popular with the patrons and hard-working, there’s an endless stream of bottles and glasses, impatient customers and, finally, a group of locals who dawdle past closing time.

‘You go to bed, love,’ Vinnie suggests eventually. ‘I’ll lock up as soon as this lot have left.’

Gina brushes a quick kiss to his stubbled jaw. She listens out for sounds from Hope’s room as she passes, but all is quiet. In her and Vinnie’s room, she kicks off her court shoes, unzips her skirt, unbuttons her silk blouse, and goes through to the en-suite bathroom.

Every night it’s the same routine; she showers and washes her bobbed hair to get rid of the smell of cigarettes and beer. After drying herself, she slips on a nightie, pulls back the bedding and snuggles down to wait for Vinnie. She exhales a long, slow breath. How can she leave him to manage the pub on his own? And, more to the point, how will she cope without him in Portofino? Vinnie has been her rock for so long, she knows she’ll be bereft.

There must be some way of getting out of this.

The bedroom door opens and Vinnie treads across the floor to the bathroom. Gina is about to drop off to sleep when she feels the mattress dip and his muscular body wrap itself around hers. ‘You still awake, love?’ he murmurs.

She turns to face him, tells him about the phone conversation with Tommaso. ‘I really don’t want to go.’

Vinnie fixes her with a firm gaze. ‘You must, sweetheart. Your mum needs you. Imagine how you would feel if Hope lived far away and you’d suddenly lost me. You’d want her to be with you.’

‘She has Tommaso.’

‘Your mum is grieving. She needs all her family around her.’

Gina nods. ‘How will you manage in the pub?’

‘The brewery has a locum service. I’ll get us a married couple from them.’ He kisses her on the nose. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘What about Hope?’

‘You should take her with you.’

‘She’s a handful. I don’t know if I’ll be able to deal with her. Especially let loose in Italy.’

Vinnie holds Gina close, rubs her shoulders. ‘We can’t carry on mollycoddling Hope. She’s got to grow up sometime. Maybe she’ll find her path in Portofino. At least it will get her away from London and her druggie friends.’

Gina chews her lip. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I know I’m right. And, if the locums work out, I might be able to get away and join you both.’

He kisses her again, deeper this time. Need sparks between them and she moans with pleasure at his touch.

Their lovemaking is ardent, as ardent as it has been since the beginning. Never routine, always heart-felt. They have nothing but admiration for each other. And love.

So much love.

Their bodies rock together, and Vinnie raises himself on his arms to gaze down at her.

She caresses his cheek and stares deep into his eyes.

All will be well. It has to be. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

2

1970

The BEA plane descends over the Ligurian Sea, then banks and heads towards Genoa airport. Gina peers out of the window; far below, the water glitters, golden in the late afternoon sunshine. Her chest squeezes with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Excitement at seeing her old home again. Trepidation at the memories that are bound to resurface.

She points out the Tigullio Gulf and the Portofino Headland to Hope. Gina has never flown over this area before; the view of the mountainous interior dipping down to either a thin strip of coast or a rocky shore sets her heart hammering. From the height of the aeroplane, the crags beneath appear innocuous, but Gina knows otherwise. She fought the Nazi-fascists with the partisans in those mountains a quarter of a century ago, in a landscape as harsh and unforgiving as the enemy.

Soon they begin their descent over the port of Genoa, the busiest in Italy, with myriad ships and cranes and warehouses, and then they land on the runway built on ground reclaimed from the sea.

‘How long will it take to get to Portofino?’ Hope asks. ‘I can’t wait to meet your family.’

‘They’re your family, too, darlin’.’

The fact that Hope has been enthusiastic from the outset about accompanying Gina to Italy is a godsend, she thinks. Hope appears to have roused herself from her recent torpor and is taking an interest in life again, which can only be a good thing. She’s even packed her watercolour paints, portable easel, and sketchbook.

They go down the aircraft steps with the rest of the passengers. Squashed in a bus like sardines in a tin, they’re taken to the terminal – where they queue for immigration, then head along a corridor to the baggage claim hall.

‘What’s that dog doing?’ Hope stares at the German Shepherd nosing the suitcase of a young man with long hair. The Alsatian is on a short lead held by a stern-looking policeman standing in the customs area.

‘Sniffing for drugs, I imagine.’ Gina shoots Hope a piercing look. ‘You haven’t brought any with you?’ She lowers her voice and hisses, ‘Tell me you haven’t!’

Hope’s face has turned ashen. ‘I need to go to the ladies’. I thought I’d get away with hiding a stash in my knickers, but that dog will sniff it out. I’ll just go and flush it.’

Gina sucks in a quick breath. Hope should have been named Hopeless, for that’s what she is. Gina points towards seats lining the wall at the far side of the foyer. She grits her teeth. ‘I’ll wait for you there.’

She finds a luggage trolley and lifts hers and Hope’s suitcases onto it.

A woman with a baby in a pushchair strolls past.

Gina’s tummy twists. So many lost babies. She miscarried most of them early in her pregnancies, her body expelling them before they’d quickened in her womb. But the two who’d ripped her heart into pieces, the twin boys who’d been stillborn after barely five months’ gestation, had broken her and she still feels their heart-breaking loss.

Vinnie convinced her to stop trying afterwards. Said he saw the effect on her and didn’t want to put her through it again. She has a daughter; she should be happy. But Gina can’t help longing to fill her empty arms with new life. She heaves a deep sigh, remembering holding new-born Hope, breathing in her sweet baby scent, kissing her soft downy head. A never to be repeated experience.

Gina glares at her ‘butterfly child’, breezing across the hall as if she hasn’t a care in the world. ‘Come on. Your uncle will be wondering where we’ve got to.’

Hope smiles and takes the trolley, pushes it in the direction of the ‘Nothing to Declare’ channel, and Gina strides behind, muttering to herself, ‘She could at least have apologised.’

A policeman indicates with his hand that they should halt, and Gina’s heart stutters.

The dog gives their suitcases a good sniff, then turns away.

The policeman motions them through.

Hope shakes her head. ‘That bloody dog didn’t come near me. I got rid of my weed for no reason.’

‘Shush.’ Gina places a finger to her lips. She’s so angry she could slap her. Except she’s never, ever raised a hand to Hope, unlike some of her English friends, whose mantra would be, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’. Perhaps that’s where Gina went wrong? No, violence only breeds violence, she knows from bitter experience.

Outside, they strip off their coats in the warmth of the April evening and head towards the designated pick-up area. Gina’s brother, Tommaso, waves at them. He’s thicker set than she remembers, and his hair is just as streaked with grey as hers and Vinnie’s. Tommaso holds out his arms, and she slides into them. He kisses her on both cheeks. ‘Ben tornata. Welcome home!’

Gina steps back. ‘Come sta la Mamma? How’s Mum?’

‘Still in shock. We all are. But she’s strong… she’ll cope.’ He turns and says to Hope in English, ‘It’s good to meet you at last.’

Hope bestows her breath-taking smile on him, and he does a double take. ‘You are so like…’

‘Shouldn’t we get going?’ Gina snaps. ‘Mamma will be waiting for us.’

They load their suitcases into the boot of Tommaso’s Lancia Flavia and set off.

Presently, they arrive at a motorway toll booth. ‘This is new,’ Gina says.

‘Completed in ’67. Halves the driving time between Genoa and home.’ Tommaso accepts a ticket from the operator then drives on.

The autostrada cuts through mountain slopes and spans steep gorges on impressively engineered viaducts. After about half an hour, they take the Rapallo exit. From there, the road leads them to Santa Margherita Ligure, curving past grand hotels dating back to the turn of the century.

Both resorts have been holiday destinations for rich Milanese for decades, Gina recalls. And, before the war, wealthy English people would also arrive. They stopped coming when Italy sided with Germany in 1940, of course, and tedeschi replaced the inglesi as holidaymakers.

‘This town is so pretty.’ Hope’s admiring voice comes from the back seat. ‘Those buildings painted in all different colours are beautiful.’

‘Wait until you see Portofino,’ Tommaso boasts. ‘It’s even more beautiful.’

The drive from Santa Margherita lasts about twenty minutes, the narrow road twisting and turning around great jutting rocks that tumble into the cobalt blue sea. Everything is the same, Gina marvels, remembering coming this way so many times in the thirties. It was tough growing up in a small fishing village with few facilities for young people. She used to enjoy competing in swimming competitions, which meant either catching the bus or walking to Santa Margherita and Rapallo.

The road leading into Portofino curves behind the houses lining the edge of dolphin-shaped bay. Tommaso parks in the residents’ parking area and retrieves Gina’s suitcase, brushing away her protests. Hope, on the other hand, doesn’t protest at all when Gina takes her luggage from her. She maintains her backpack is heavy enough because of all her art materials.

It’s only a short distance – the village is tiny – and, within minutes, they step into the small, cobbled square, the piazzetta facing the centre of a U-shaped inlet. ‘Wow! This place is outta sight,’ Hope gushes. ‘I can’t wait to paint it.’

‘You’re an artist?’ Tommaso gives Hope a sideways look. ‘I thought you were studying architecture?’

Hope stays silent, so Gina whispers, ‘Ne parleremo dopo, va bene? We’ll talk about it later, okay?’

Tommaso nods and heads down Calata Marconi, a row of tall, terraced, multicoloured houses built along the left-hand-side of the U. Gina stops, puts down the suitcase, and gazes in awe at the setting sun, pinking the sky and casting the sea in rosy hues. She’d forgotten how picturesque her old home could be; she took it for granted when she was young.

Not much has changed. Just the fishing boats. In years gone by, they took up practically every square inch of the little harbour. But now they appear to have halved in number and are bobbing alongside several large luxury yachts. She picks up Hope’s suitcase again and follows Tommaso along the calata until they get to the ochre-yellow property with louvred green shutters that has been in Gina’s family for generations.

She observes another change. The restaurant Tommaso established with his wife in 1950, when Portofino started to become synonymous with the dolce vita – the hedonistic lifestyle of the rich and famous – has replaced the storage magazzino on the ground floor. It was where Babbo used to keep his fishing boat, tackle, and nets. Grief floods through Gina as she thinks about him, and she brushes a tear from her eye.

Tommaso unlocks the wooden door at the side of their building, and, after checking Hope is behind her, Gina follows him up the steep stairs to her parents’ apartment on the first floor.

Mamma must have heard them; she’s standing in the open doorway, her wispy grey hair scraped back in a bun. ‘Figlia mia, my daughter,’ she cries as Gina enfolds her in a warm embrace. Mamma seems to have shrunk in size; her body is smaller than Gina remembers, and she can feel her bones under her wrinkled skin.

When Gina releases her and looks her in the eye, however, she catches the steely determination of the family’s matriarch. The strong woman who held everyone together after… Gina shakes her head; she won’t think about that now. Instead, she speaks in Ligurian dialect, ‘This is your granddaughter, Hope.’

‘’Ope,’ Mamma drops the ‘h’, not like a Londoner, but because it’s a silent letter in her own language.

Hope steps forward and kisses her, smiling. ‘Ciao, Nonna. Hi, Gran.’

Gina’s jaw gapes: she’s never heard Hope speak any Italian before. She took the subject at school, even obtained an O level, but she claimed she was shy about practising in front of Gina.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ Tommaso says after carrying their suitcases into the flat. ‘Time for me to go to work.’

Gina squeezes his hand. ‘Thanks for meeting us at the airport.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow. The funeral is at three o’clock in St George’s Church.’

He kisses Mamma, Hope, and, finally, Gina, then makes his way back downstairs.

‘You’re in your old room, tesoro,’ Mamma tells Gina.

How lovely to hear the Italian word for darling again…

‘And ’Ope is in Tommaso’s.’ Mamma’s smile is warm. ‘Come through to the kitchen when you’ve freshened up. You’ll want to eat straight away as you must be hungry.’

‘Oh, Mamma, I forgot to mention that Hope is vegetarian,’ Gina blurts, her cheeks burning.

‘Humph. It’s a good thing I made your favourite meat-free Ligurian specialities, isn’t it?’

‘What did Nonna say?’ Hope tilts her head towards Gina.

‘I told her you’re vegetarian and she said it wasn’t a problem.’

‘Thanks, Mum.’ Hope flashes her grandmother a captivating smile. ‘Grazie, Nonna.’

Later, after they’ve enjoyed Genoese pesto with the short, thin, twisted pasta known as trofie, followed by focaccia di recco – flat oven-baked bread similar in style to pizza, sliced with Prescinsêua cheese – and lastly, farinata, a type of chickpea pancake, Hope declares she’s stuffed and asks to be excused so she can go to her room.

‘’Ope is beautiful. Bella.’ Mamma takes a glass from Gina as they do the washing up. ‘So like you and Adele at her age.’

‘Thanks for hiding the photos of us both together, Mamma. As you know, I’ve yet to tell Hope anything.’ Gina puts away a plate, relieved she’d thought to make the request yesterday when she’d phoned with their flight details.

‘All is not as it seemed.’ Mamma twists her hands together. ‘I found Adele’s diary when I was getting your room ready. There was a loose floorboard and, underneath, Adele’s journal. She wrote down everything that happened to her from October 1943. I think you should read it.’

Gina suddenly feels light-headed. She grips the kitchen counter. ‘It’s the last thing I want to do.’

‘Your sister wasn’t who everyone thought she was.’ Mamma touches Gina’s arm. ‘Adele was good and brave as well as naive. I think you owe it to her memory to learn the truth.’

Gina doesn’t comment. She simply pulls Mamma in for a hug. ‘I’m tired. Think I’ll follow Hope’s lead and go to my room.’

‘Buonanotte, tesoro.’ Mamma pecks her on the cheek. ‘You do look tired. Tomorrow will be stressful, but once we’ve laid Babbo to rest, you can relax.’

Gina steps into the bedroom she used to share with Adele, and her skin prickles. Her sister has been gone for nearly twenty-five years, but her presence in the room is palpable. The spare bed is hers. The second wardrobe is hers. The cushion on the chair