On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  And so it proved. Warrant Officer Starling himself had to visit the town and would be pleased to drop the girls off at the café and pick them up later.

  Immediately after the all-ranks church service on Sunday, the three young women hurried to change out of their uniforms. The prospect of a few hours with no heavy stockings, no shirt and tie was delightful. Rose and Francesca, who were slender, laughed to see that they were both wearing almost identical dresses. The dresses had been fashioned taking into account the new austerity. They were A-line and reached just below the knee; material was in short supply and so there was very little swing to the skirts. Francesca, with her dark colouring, had chosen the shirtwaist in red and white, whereas Rose, a blonde, was wearing a very similar dress in light green, but with white cuffs on the short sleeves, and a white collar. The buttons on her bodice were dark green while those on Francesca’s were white. Gladys, slightly more mature in age and figure, had chosen to wear a floral skirt and a simple white blouse with a blue cardigan thrown around her shoulders.

  ‘Wish I was a bit skinnier, like you two,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Well, they do say Bile Beans are the answer, Gladys. At least, according to an advertisement in one of Dad’s catalogues, they’re all you need “for radiant health and a lovely figure”,’ Rose said mock-seriously. Gladys looked at her questioningly. ‘Is a word of that true? Bile Beans?’

  ‘She’s teasing, Gladys. You don’t need to be thinner; you look very nice.’

  The opinion of the warrant officer was the same. ‘And very nice too,’ he said as he looked at his passengers. He himself was in uniform as he really did have a delivery to make in York.

  Rose and Gladys enjoyed their second glimpse of the famous city. They saw the spires of the fabled minster rising up into the skyline, long before they reached the outskirts.

  ‘Will we have time to see it, Fran?’ asked Gladys. ‘I’d love to get a postcard for my mum.’

  ‘Great idea,’ echoed Rose. Propaganda was already reminding the populace to keep in mind members of the Forces in their Christmas mailings and, although Rose felt it too early to even think of Christmas, she knew her family would love postcards. ‘My sister was here, before the bombing.’

  ‘Then she is one of the lucky ones,’ said Francesca with a heavy sigh. ‘For some reason they didn’t bomb the minster and fires never reached it, but thousands of houses were destroyed. It will take years to replace them or repair the damage.’

  Rose felt cold. ‘All those homes. It’s ghastly. There must have been so much loss of life.’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? The raiders came at night when most people were sound asleep in bed. We were. But somehow, can you believe it, only about three hundred people died. Have you ever been bombed?’ Francesca looked at her two friends.

  Gladys had never experienced an air raid in her home town, but Rose, of course, had lived through many, as Dartford lay directly in the path of enemy aircraft heading for London from Berlin. ‘Dartford’s had some bad times, hospital wards destroyed, some houses, but apart from in London, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s frightening.’

  ‘’Course, I’m not telling you anything you shouldn’t know,’ Warrant Officer Starling piped up suddenly, ‘but they say as some Luftwaffe general thought it was a good idea to destroy all the cities in England that featured in a German guidebook: Bath, York, Norwich, Canterbury and others. They made a right mess of Canterbury, missed the cathedral but destroyed the medieval centre. We can build new houses but we can’t rebuild our past, our history.’ He stopped, as if suddenly embarrassed by his own eloquence.

  ‘You’re so right, sir,’ said Rose, ‘but we can make certain that we remember it.’

  ‘Come on. We’ve gone all doomy and gloomy,’ complained Gladys. ‘We’re off base, we’re going out to a delicious lunch and every girl in the unit will be jealous when we report back. Where are you dropping us, Officer?’

  ‘Right here,’ said Warrant Officer Starling as he drew up close to a shining café window over which hung a very pretty blue-and-white awning.

  ‘We used to have the Italian colours,’ said Francesca sadly, ‘but after…Nonno decided it was better to change.’

  ‘It looks lovely,’ the girls agreed and, after thanking their driver, walked with Francesca into the little café.

  Mrs Rossi, Francesca’s mother, hurried out to meet them. Rose had assumed that middle-aged Italian matrons were usually of average height and rather round, but Francesca’s mother was an older edition of her daughter, slender and very beautiful, with dark sparkling eyes and the longest eyelashes Rose had ever seen.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ she called out, her accent not Italian but Yorkshire. ‘Papa has the lasagne ready and he has saved a little of his own wine for you.’ She waved at Warrant Officer Starling, who was returning to his lorry, and Rose was surprised to see how different, even tender, he looked as he waved back. ‘We are saving lunch for you, Enrico, whenever you come.’

  Once again he raised his hand in farewell as he returned to his vehicle.

  ‘Enrico?’ said Gladys.

  ‘Italian for Henry. It’s very nice,’ said Francesca, with a slight note of pride or concern in her voice. ‘Mamma has been alone for too many years. Come and meet Nonno.’

  ‘Very nice indeed,’ Gladys whispered to Rose as they followed mother and daughter towards the exquisite, mouth-watering smells that were coming from the back of the building.

  Francesca’s grandfather was tall and broad-shouldered, but very thin – as if, perhaps, he did not eat his own cooking, or perhaps as a result of his imprisonment. He welcomed them as warmly as any Italian Rose had ever seen in the Hollywood films she had enjoyed as she grew up. In no time at all, it was as if they had known one another always. They sat at a large round table and ate lasagne, but only after they had eaten all the other delicious dishes he had prepared for them. When they told him how incredibly wonderful it all was, he sighed deeply.

  ‘Ah, before the war, before the war I could make such dishes and I will again. This is very humble food,’ he shrugged, dismissing the feast he had just served, ‘but I am glad you like it. Only the best is good enough for friends of our little Francesca.’

  ‘Ice cream, Nonno, please. Many on the base say your ice cream is the best anywhere, don’t they, Rose, Gladys – and the café too?’

  ‘Yes, and some were surprised that you’re open on a Sunday afternoon,’ said Rose, who had been wondering if she had enough money in her purse to pay for such a lovely meal.

  Signor Rossi laughed, a laugh as hearty as his lasagne. ‘Open? The café is not open; this is the house kitchen. I cook today only for family,’ he gestured towards his daughter-in-law and his granddaughter, ‘and welcome friends.’

  Rose blushed to the roots of her hair. She was feeling quite stupid. As far as she could remember, she had not been invited to join the Rossis for lunch. They had talked about visiting the café but surely only as customers. She could just imagine her mother’s reaction if she thought her daughter had gone to lunch with friends and had not taken flowers, chocolates, or even a packet of special tea.

  ‘You are hot, Rose. I fetch the gelato and that will cool you down.’

  Francesca and her grandfather got up from the table, collected the plates, cutlery and serving dishes and turned to go into the scullery behind them, flashing breathtaking smiles as they did so. Rose looked at Gladys, who did not seem to be worrying as she was. She was surprised when Mrs Rossi reached over and patted her hand gently. ‘They’re Italian, Rose, and everything is perfect. Now, I’m almost pure Yorkshire and know you’re squirming with embarrassment. But that’s my Francesca and I wouldn’t have her any other way. Since she could walk she has been bringing people home. “Come,” she would say, holding out her little hand to reassure them. “Come.” Nonno has always encouraged her; she is the light of his life.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Mrs Rossi.’

  Befor
e Francesca’s mother could reply, there was a knock on the door of the café. ‘That will be Enrico. Excuse me.’

  ‘Let’s walk around York while the WO eats,’ suggested Francesca, and Rose and Gladys were absolutely delighted to leave Mrs Rossi and the warrant officer alone.

  Francesca took them to York Minster and they enjoyed visiting the glorious building. Then they wandered among the surrounding streets, gazing in awe as Francesca pointed out one interesting site after another, and buying postcards. ‘They say that house has been there for hundreds of years,’ she said, pointing. ‘And there’s a room dedicated to each period during which it’s been standing. So there’s a Jacobean room and an Elizabethan, and a Georgian and a Victorian and whatever else. You must come back when we have more time. And we should explore the Shambles, the street where all the butchers had their shops in the Middle Ages, and Parliament Street and Fossgate…’ Francesca spoke at length about her home town and Rose wondered what there was in Dartford that she could show off with such pride.

  The ancient Holy Trinity Church, of course.

  Gladys was not, by inclination, a sightseer and was glad to return to the Rossi café where they found Warrant Officer Starling waiting for them.

  ‘Almost had to leave you three. Come on, Fran, shout cheerio and get in the lorry; you two, an’ all.’

  *

  Rose thought wistfully of that pleasant family-centred afternoon quite often in the week that followed. Prior to joining the ATS she had believed that she knew almost everything there was to know about driving and the care and maintenance of smaller engines. She soon realised that this was very far from the case. Her initial feeling on first seeing the engine of a thirty-hundredweight lorry – small by military standards – was one of excitement.

  ‘Magnificent,’ she breathed.

  The more she gazed in awe, the more terrified she became. This monster wasn’t remotely like the shop’s van. That engine she could take apart and put together again. Would she ever master this great beast and its bigger relatives? Simply changing a wheel would be a problem. She remembered struggling to lift the motorcycle from the dispatch rider. That had taken time and the cycle weighed a lot less than this lorry.

  But I was extra careful because I was afraid of injuring him. That made a difference.

  ‘Come on, Rose,’ she instructed herself, ‘this is just another step on the road you want to take. So get cracking.’

  She determined to think positively. She had stripped the engine of her dad’s van before she was twelve. Surely, not ten years later, she could learn how to get the best out of this one and others like it.

  It was with renewed vigour that she attended to instructions and demonstrations.

  She received a quick note from Daisy telling her how, initially, Daisy had found some of the planes she was asked to fly rather frightening.

  And just with a little notebook full of instructions, Rose. I like to think that our generation is smoothing a path for women in the future. The outlook for women is changing for the better. Just such a pity that it’s taking a world war to do it. I look forward to seeing you cruising down the high street in a three-tonner – unless you prefer to show off in an armoured Daimler with Mr Churchill. Pity you won’t ever be asked to drive the King. Nearest I’ve ever got to him is a signed picture in an office.

  Tomas is hoping to come to Dartford with me for Sunday dinner sometime soon. High time he met Mum and Dad. We want to go out to the Humbles so that we can put some flowers there for Adair, but I think his cousin is home on sick leave.

  Anyway, it would be great if you had time off too.

  Love,

  Daisy

  That letter cheered Rose as she contemplated the joy of meeting again the man who would one day become her brother-in-law. Nothing official had been said, but the family now took Tomas’s position in their lives for granted. It had never occurred to Rose when she had accosted the tall, slender Air Force pilot in Dartford that Christmas that she was meeting someone who was to become part of the family. A little time can make such a big difference.

  She worked even harder as she contemplated the joy of seeing the family and having news to share.

  The day came when she was allowed to drive a lorry. There was no important journey to be made; it was merely to move the vehicle from the workshop area to its habitual parking spot in the depot.

  ‘What’s taking you so long, Petrie? Are you going to stand looking at it all night or do you plan to park the damned thing?’

  Warrant Officer Starling definitely had two personas: the gentle, cheerful, friendly man who loved Francesca’s widowed mother, and the professional soldier who had no favourites but who treated everyone, including Francesca, with the same brusque professionalism. Francesca and her friends preferred the first one.

  ‘I’ll put it away, sir.’

  ‘Nice of you,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Now get on with it.’

  Still she stood when she should have been climbing into the cabin.

  ‘It’s a truck, Private; you have driven a truck before?’

  ‘Lorries, sir, much smaller.’

  ‘It’s a big lorry, Private, just a big lorry, and you’ve got nice long legs to reach the brake and the clutch – a doddle. Now move out.’

  ‘Sir.’ Rose snapped to attention. A big lorry, that’s all it is: a huge grocery van.

  She reached up, grabbed the door handle and hauled herself up. Wow, how high above the ground she was. She sat for a moment feeling the seat under her and making herself familiar with the cabin. For several days they had enjoyed perfect summer weather, but all day rain had been threatening. It chose that moment to start. Rose looked at the windows and tried to remember where the controls for the wipers were. She started the engine. Woohoo, she thought. Lovely, lovely purring engine. The windscreen wipers functioned beautifully and she let go of the brake, accelerated a little and felt the huge vehicle move smoothly. All she had to do now was drive it to the Motorised Transport Depot. Luckily that was not too far away and she began to relax as the superbly tuned machine responded to her commands.

  And then…disaster. Coming down the road straight towards her was another truck, a vehicle almost twice the size and weight of hers.

  ‘Get over,’ she yelled, waving her left hand furiously, but of course the driver could see but not hear her. ‘It’s on the wrong side of the road,’ she whispered. How could he not be aware of his mistake? The truck was going to smash right into her.

  It happened so quickly that she scarcely had time to think, and her brain and body worked instinctively. Rose wrenched the wheel round to the right and, protesting furiously, the large vehicle swung around while at the same time, the other driver seemed to have become aware of the situation and yanked his wheel – unfortunately to the left.

  They were still heading straight towards each other. For a single mad moment, Rose wanted to close her eyes so as not to witness the inevitable crash but, in the nick of time, she hauled again on the wheel. The great vehicle obeyed her frantic instructions and swung even further to the right, almost grazing the other truck. Next it careened off the wet road, easily dismissing the slight barrier between the actual road and the field, and charged off across the grassy land where, luckily, because of the rain, no one was walking or playing a quick game of football.

  ‘Don’t slam on the brakes.’ The voice in her head was her father’s. To brake had been Rose’s first intention but now, that well-loved voice echoing in her ears, she managed to stop her legs trembling so much and ease off the accelerator. The truck began to slow its tempestuous charge and gradually it drew to a complete halt, smack in the middle of the recreation field.

  Rose slumped over the wheel as reaction hit her and the trembling began again.

  ‘Are you planning on staying here all bloody night, Petrie, or would you like to park this bloody expensive bit of equipment where it belongs?’

  Two swearwords in less than two seconds – a record for
Warrant Officer Starling, who was standing beside the truck, shouting in through the slightly open window.

  Rose’s head snapped up. ‘No, sir. Yes, sir. At once, sir.’

  She had time to wonder how on earth he had got there so quickly. Had he been watching her majestic, if somewhat slow exit?

  ‘I’d go now, Rose,’ Starling said gently. ‘I wouldn’t want you to hear the vocabulary I use when I make mincemeat of the idiot driving that one.’

  The other truck was now stationary on the road, its hapless driver being extremely sick over the front-right wheelbase.

  ‘Back her up; don’t turn her. This isn’t a racing track.’

  Rose was incapable of speech. She managed a salute, started the engine and began very, very slowly to back the truck across the field, hoping to do no more damage to the recreation area.

  If he was watching, Warrant Officer Starling would expect to see her driving confidently and not hesitantly. A doddle? Who had said driving the lorry was a doddle? She could not remember – perhaps she had used the word herself, perhaps it was the WO.

  ‘This is easier than I thought,’ said Rose to herself as she finally reached the road and straightened the lorry so that it was facing towards the vehicle depot.

  In less than five minutes she had parked the truck in the correct place, locked it, hung the keys on the proper peg and was walking quickly back down the hill to her quarters.

  ‘I don’t half need a bath!’ she declared as she slumped into a chair.

  ‘It must have been dirtier in a munitions factory, Rose,’ Gladys, who was sorting through a drawer, reminded her.

  ‘Dustier, Gladys. You seem to know about factories. Did you work in one too, before the war?’

  ‘Usual story: left school at fourteen, got a job in a glove factory. I made thousands and thousands of gloves. The air was full of fibre; can’t rightly remember what the older women called it – ooze or oose, something like that. And then the war came and I joined up right away. Started in the kitchens and worked my way up. Before this damned war is over I want to make sergeant. I can’t wait to see my husband’s face when I do. He had me believing I was stupid.’