On a Wing and a Prayer
Page 7
Rose was disappointed as the new film was garnering rave reviews. ‘Too bad, Terry. Sold out?’
‘No. It hasn’t got up this far yet. Something about how many copies of the film there are.’
Rose smiled. Having grown up with Sally, whose father was the projectionist in a cinema, she knew all there was to know about releases. ‘It’s all right, Terry. What’s on?’
‘You’re a darling, Rose. I just knew you wouldn’t fuss. Suspicion is playing, Alfred Hitchcock.’
‘Super. I love Hitchcock’s films, don’t you?’
‘Wow, thanks, Rose. I was so worried, having practically promised Mrs. Miniver.’ He started the car and, happily without any breakdowns, they drove off into town. They saw the thriller, shared a bar of Batger’s vanilla fudge, and enjoyed themselves immensely.
Rose was happy. Terry had not touched her at all during the film, except when he touched her hand as they shared pieces of the recently rationed sweets, and he took her hand naturally as they walked back to the car.
He drove straight back to the camp, parked and walked her to her Nissen hut where they stood at a door for a few minutes. Rose was slightly nervous. What was she supposed to do?
‘May I kiss you good night, Rose? I realise we’ve only just met, but you’re so lovely, so special.’
He was not afraid of her. Rose was cheering inside. She nodded and he took her in his arms and kissed her very gently on the lips. Rose felt her stomach flip-flop while wonderful and completely new feelings swam through her body.
‘Good night, my gorgeous Viking,’ he whispered against her ear. ‘I’ll see you as soon as I can, maybe next weekend?’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ whispered Rose, and he looked at her for a moment before once more kissing her.
They said good night again and then Terry turned and walked back to the borrowed car.
FIVE
York, August 1942
The train puffed slowly out of the station. Rose grasped the metal bar that stretched across the window, looked out, and said her silent goodbyes to her second posting.
She had not expected to be transferred again so soon; after all, they had been at Preston for only a few months. But less than a month after the dance, several girls had departed to ‘pastures new’, and Rose had been amongst those summoned to the commander’s office.
‘Have to lose you, I’m afraid, Petrie; seems you’re needed elsewhere. We do want you to know that the ATS is proud to have you in our midst and that it has been decided – unanimously – that we can best make use of your skills in the drivers’ pool. I’m sure there’s no need to tell you that the utmost discretion is expected at all times. You will leave for York tomorrow to begin driver training.’
Her mind in a whirl of impressions, memories, hopes, Rose saluted and left the room. Where had the weeks gone? She had never climbed the fell, or even spent much time in the town.
You weren’t on holiday, Rose, she told herself. You were learning a trade and you’ve done it. I don’t know how, but it seems I’m going to be a driver – or a driver mechanic. Why so sudden? Did someone read that silly newspaper article? That got me accepted in the first place. But I don’t care. Just as long as no one talks about it and I don’t have to see it.
She was so excited that she pulled her skirt up to her knees and jumped over a bench. Realising what she had done, she looked around furtively, praying that no one had seen her. She breathed with relief; the parade ground appeared to be empty. Rose was so pleased with her new appointment that she was sure that anyone she passed could tell that her entire system was afloat with millions of tiny bubbles. She sighed but told herself that it was just as well there had been no time to become really close to Terry. That was a sad thought. A slight pang ran through her as she remembered their first meeting and their few dates. He had been a perfect host at the cinema, neither too pushy nor too restrained. He knew exactly how attractive he was, and being actively pursued by a virile, attractive man had certainly boosted Rose’s morale. Their second date had been at a dance in town and Rose had been surprised to see how Terry assumed that she would not want to dance with anyone else.
‘The lady’s with me,’ had been his remark to one of the men in Rose’s own motor pool. He had not been pleased when Rose had laughingly insisted that she was going to dance with her colleague.
‘You’re my date.’
‘Yes, Terry, but it’s a dance and you can’t expect me to ignore my colleagues.’
Terry had given in, but with poor grace. This is moving a little too fast, Rose decided, telling herself firmly that she had not joined the ATS to find a substitute for Stan but to become a properly qualified driver. She had given up hoping to join the élite drivers’ corps – someone had said those drivers were all civilians – but the war couldn’t last for ever and she, Private Rose Petrie, would be well qualified for a new and exciting civilian life.
Her euphoria melted away as suddenly as it had come. She wanted to achieve her dreams through hard work and ability, nothing else. She could not forget her encounter with the dispatch rider, which had ended so tragically for him and for those who loved him. She would always be happy that she had been able to help him but she did not want to profit in any way from his death.
You already have, a nasty little voice in her head said.
Rose brushed away the voice and allowed herself to think of her recent progress. In the few weeks in Preston after the dance, Corporal Church had been true to her word. Having got to grips, so to speak, with motorcycles, Rose had been allowed to work on an ambulance. Silently and at length she had thanked her three brothers and her father for teaching her everything they knew.
‘There was a mix-up, Petrie,’ Corporal Church had said after Rose, beaming from ear to ear, had almost floated out of the office after hearing the news. ‘Don’t ask me what, but just enjoy yourself.’ She had pointed to a dilapidated old ambulance, one door hanging open and the bonnet up. ‘Get that bugger working and I’ll let you work on a staff car, a fairly new Ford. I’ve got a ten-bob bet on that you can do it, so don’t let me down.’
Later the corporal had pocketed a ten-shilling note, thanked Rose and, in the following days, had allowed her to work on the engines of both a three-ton truck and a Bedford fifteen-hundredweight utility van. Rose had found the van marginally more difficult than her father’s, and the three-ton truck trickier, more modern and definitely more powerful. But she had loved every sweaty, oily moment.
‘A joy to drive, Corporal,’ she reported.
‘Don’t get too used to it, Petrie. We have loads more of them big bruisers in Mechanised Transport,’ she explained, pointing to the truck, ‘than we do of the gorgeous staff cars. I’ve heard there’s a Daimler armoured car. Wouldn’t that be a nifty Christmas present?’
Now, once more on her way to what could be an exciting and fulfilling post, Rose unfolded the issue of the Dartford Chronicle that her mother had sent because there was a picture of their actress friend Sally Brewer on the front page. Sally was in naval uniform, one beautiful hand smeared with engine oil and the other holding a can of a new miracle concoction that was guaranteed to remove dirty oil from anything.
In an inside page Rose found a different type of advertisement. ‘Girls wanted to make Vidor Batteries. Aged 18 and over.’ Rose giggled at that line but assured herself it was the girls, not the batteries, that had to have reached that exciting age. ‘21/6 per wk. 43-hr wk. Holidays with pay plus piece-work earnings.’
‘Piece-work earnings’ sounded rather nice. Just think, if I’d stayed at home I could have applied for that, Rose mused, knowing full well that, even if her assignments had not yet been what she had dreamed of, she was still where she wanted to be.
She thought of Terry, whom she had known for such a short time. He had definitely not seen her as ‘one of the blokes’. Rose knew what she looked like and knew that she was quite attractive, if on the tall side, but Terry had made her feel feminine and
even pretty. She had always thought that men found sophisticated girls like Sally or delicately formed girls like Daisy attractive, but she was in no doubt at all about Terry’s feelings. He had cycled over to her unit, a week after the dance at which he had behaved as if he owned Rose, and had apologised.
‘Being with you makes me feel so great, Rose. I just want to keep you to myself, you’re so lovely; but I behaved like a cad and it’ll never happen again.’
Rose had forgiven him, and when, a few days later, she had told him of her new posting, he took it very well.
‘York isn’t a long way away, Rose, and I can borrow a bike and come up when we have time off. Let’s not just drift.’
‘I won’t drift, Terry. I’m a really strong swimmer.’
He had laughed with joy and kissed her then, a kiss that seemed to fill her with both ecstasy and longing; longing for what, she did not know, but she would keep in touch with Terry and, yes, she would be kissed like that again.
SIX
Rose had never visited York but was familiar with it from photographs in magazines and on calendars. She had looked forward to her first glimpse of the historic city. She knew that York had been bombed in April but was still stunned by how much the picture in her head differed from the new reality. The station and the railway lines had suffered, and evidence of destruction and repair were everywhere. The only building she recognised was York Minster, still standing unchallenged among ruins of houses, churches and schools.
She had travelled with an older woman, Gladys Archer, a lance corporal, who had come north from London. On the way to the camp, the drive through the old city had sickened both of them. The devastation of war was everywhere. There were huge craters in several streets, together with piles of broken glass and rubble, still uncollected. Skeletons of homes and businesses stood out against the lovely summer sky. Rose was relieved to reach the camp.
Less than an hour later, she was meeting her roommates and unpacking her kitbag.
‘Well, Petrie, still delighted to be in the Auxiliary Territorial Service?’ asked a very pretty young woman, smiling brightly at Rose out of beautiful, very dark eyes as she handed her a mug of hot sweet Camp coffee. ‘I’m Francesca Rossi, and I do prefer Francesca, but call me Fran if it’s easier.’
‘Yes, Francesca, I’m still delighted,’ answered Rose, and all the young women in the Nissen hut laughed. ‘I’m Rose and, believe it or not, I even like that coffee.’
‘Real coffee’s fearfully expensive, but the bottled mixture does make a pleasant change from the terrible tea,’ said Francesca.
Gladys, who confessed to a headache after all the travelling, glared at the pretty young woman. ‘What would an Italian know about tea?’
‘I know all about tea,’ Rose said hurriedly as she saw what appeared to be the beginning of an unpleasant scene, ‘and quite a lot about coffee.’
Francesca smiled her beautiful smile. ‘I can answer Gladys, Rose,’ she said. ‘I am sure her bark is, as you might say, worse than her bite. Firstly, Gladys, I am not Italian. My grandparents were Italians who were happy and grateful to come to England many years ago. My father, Giuseppe, was born in England and was a British citizen and that made him very proud. He fought for his country – this country – in the Great War and was gassed. His lungs were so badly injured that he lived only until 1921. I was born three weeks after his death and so I too am British, but of English and Italian descent. And yes, we have an ice-cream shop…’
‘Best ice cream in the whole of Yorkshire,’ another girl put in.
Francesca laughed. ‘Yes, it is, thank you, and in the café Nonno makes the best lunches.’
‘Sold,’ said Rose. ‘When are we free to go? And what does Nonno mean?’
‘Italy is still on Jerry’s side.’ Gladys seemed not to want to let go.
‘Grampa,’ Francesca answered the second question. ‘But very soon Italy will join the Allies because most Italians are unhappy with Il Duce, Benito Mussolini. Unfortunately some people here are very angry with Italians, even those whose families have lived in this country for many years. This is unfair. We are loyal British citizens whose ancestors came from Italy and, even after what happened to Nonno, we pray for the day when Italy and England will be allies.’
‘Can’t come soon enough,’ Gladys conceded, sitting down on an empty chair.
Rose looked at Francesca and saw her lovely dark Italian eyes were sparkling with tears she was trying hard not to shed. ‘Francesca, can you tell us what happened to your grandfather?’
‘Everything is well now, Rose, but we will never forget it. We prefer not to speak of it, but the very day that Italy declared war against Britain, Nonno was arrested and interned. All the years he has lived and worked here and they called him “of hostile origin”…For him, thankfully, imprisonment lasted only a few months.’
Both Rose and Gladys gasped. ‘How awful for you, Fran,’ said Gladys. ‘I’m sorry I was grumpy.’
Francesca seemed determined to remain calm and friendly. ‘I have been in this camp several months, and I’m very happy – with everything,’ she added, looking over mischievously at Gladys. ‘And, Rose, you will be happy with the appalling engine the transport officer will find for you to work on, no?’
She means yes, thought Rose, but she smiled. Apart from the fact that Francesca was very friendly and determined to remain polite, even when others were being rather churlish, she was an Italian – no, she was British of Italian descent.
‘No, Francesca, I was looking forward to actually driving a truck or a car or even a Jeep; instead you say I’ll be in overalls, as usual, and covered in oil and gunge.’
‘The driving will come, Rose. The maintenance is as important, if not even more important, than being able to drive whatever one is asked to drive. What if you are taking a politician or a general to an important meeting and the car goes phut two miles from the venue? What do you do?’
‘Fix it, I hope.’ Rose smiled at Francesca. ‘I see your point, but everything seems to take so long.’
Francesca offered her a box of biscuits. ‘Have some. They’re Italian.’
‘And quite delicious,’ said Gladys, determined to show her better nature. ‘Forgive my bad mood.’
‘I think everyone in the world has a bad mood sometimes, Gladys, and, believe me, you’re an amateur. An Italian, like Nonno, in a bad mood is a force of nature. Maybe we can all go to my nonno’s café for lunch when we next have time off. I’ll tell him, cook as for Italians: that way, we don’t get chicken and chips.’
‘But what about his bad mood?’
‘You’ll see a good mood – a beautiful sight. Maybe he’ll sing. A force of nature, remember? You’ll tremble and say, “What does he do with all this energy when he’s angry?”’
‘He uses as much energy being angry as he does when he’s happy?’ Gladys was laughing.
‘Exactly. Now who has an afternoon off soon?’
Rose smiled. She would miss her friends from Preston, just as she had missed the friends she had made at Guildford, but she knew she would like most of these hard-working, dedicated women just as much.
‘There’s a very pretty girl here called Francesca,’ she wrote to Stan later.
She’s about twenty-one, I think. And then there’s a woman, Gladys, who must be about thirty; she can be touchy but maybe that’s because she’s a lance corporal in a billet with several privates. Bit of a shame we have to move around so much. We say we’re going to keep up but it’s almost impossible to find time to write home, never mind write letters to all the lovely people I’ve met. I remember Grace Paterson telling us she’d made a really good friend at her training farm, but when she did get around to writing the friend had moved. Maybe Grace’s letter is travelling all over England looking for her. Who knows?
She was going to add that Grace had Sam to write to now but that seemed a little insensitive. After all, Grace and Sam were in love. Stan and Rose were not. We’re best friends,
she decided, and always will be.
‘I’m off duty on Sunday afternoon, Francesca,’ she said later that evening when she met Francesca in the washroom, a place where the girls seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time. Many of them liked washing small items of clothing every night and hanging them up to dry in the warm, damp atmosphere rather than sending them to the efficient but often time-consuming laundry service.
‘Lovely.’ Francesca smiled broadly. ‘I am too. We’ll sweet-talk someone at the stables to take us in. Maybe Gladys will come too.’ She looked at Rose who had the strangest expression on her face. ‘Is there is a problem, Rose?’
‘Stables? I didn’t know we had stables and, even if I did, I think my riding skills aren’t up to riding a horse all the way to York. And what on earth would we do with them once we got to your granddad’s café?’
To Rose’s surprise Francesca burst out laughing. The fact that even her laughter was attractive and highly contagious did not, in that moment, actually endear her new friend to Rose.
‘My riding is limited to hanging onto the mane of a great carthorse; lovely animal, but I prefer car seats.’
Francesca patted her gently as if she was a small child. ‘We’re not going to ride in, Rose, although I must admit it would be quite lovely. No, no horses. The only mode of transport in our stables is on four or more wheels – well, there could be a bicycle or two…’
‘Before I pick you up and—’ began Rose.
‘Cavalry officers refer to “the stables” when they are talking about vehicle storage. I have a chum in the Blues and Royals. One picks up their jargon.’
‘Does one indeed?’ asked Rose.
‘There’s the loveliest MTWO,’ began Francesca with a worried look at her new friend.
‘I understand our own jargon, thank you: motorised transport warrant officer.’
‘He’s become rather a close family friend, Rose. Indeed, after a slice or two of Nonno’s lasagne, he is putty in my hands. I’m sure if anyone is going into York on Sunday, we’ll be offered a lift.’