On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Husband?’

  Gladys wore no rings and had said nothing at all about her private life, but most of the women were still new to one another and personal information tended – depending on the individual personality – to be given slowly or all at once. Gladys and Rose were of the first group.

  ‘Former. And no, I have no idea where the sod is, but if – when – I make sergeant, I’ll find him.’ She began to laugh and it was so infectious that Rose found herself laughing too.

  ‘High time we freshened ourselves for tea,’ said Gladys when they were calm. ‘If we go now we might be lucky with the hot water.’

  ‘Rose, Rose, I found this.’ Francesca was hurrying in just as they were hurrying out. She was waving an envelope. ‘Very masculine writing.’

  ‘Then it’s probably from my dad,’ teased Rose. She thanked Francesca and took the letter. ‘I’ll follow you along, Gladys.’

  She sat down on her bed and opened the envelope.

  Dear Rose,

  I have a PASS this weekend. I’m delivering someone to Durham – or somewhere thereabouts – and I’ll nip in to see you. 18.00 hours Saturday. OK? Glad rags.

  T x

  SEVEN

  Rose’s meeting with Terry at the weekend was short and sweet. As promised he arrived at six o’clock on the Saturday evening. Rose, as commanded, was in her ‘glad rags’. Terry was not. He was in uniform.

  Rose heard an unfamiliar voice. ‘I can give you twenty minutes for a quick chat, Corporal, or whatever else you can get up to in twenty minutes, but this vehicle has to be stabled before it’s missed.’

  Rose had been really pleased to see Terry waving to her out of the window of the small pick-up. She had expected him to arrive in whatever vehicle was being used for transporting his passenger, but was surprised to see that it was he who was the passenger.

  He jumped out easily and together they watched the pick-up move away.

  ‘Change of plan, Rose,’ he said as he gave her a quick hug. ‘My VIP will eventually end up in London. He was supposed to stay overnight in Durham, but I’m now driving him to an RAF station where he’ll get a plane to London. Afraid I have to return the car to base and, if I’m lucky, catch a train or wait until something is returning to Preston. Could we walk or maybe grab a cup of something?’

  Rose had been brought up in a house where tea was treated with great respect and so ‘grabbing a cup of something’ was always the last port in the proverbial storm. ‘A walk would be nice.’

  He took her hand and they began to walk around the station, where she pointed out the scene of her upsetting encounter with a truck on the wrong side of the road. ‘I pulled over to the right to get out of his way but he pulled to his left to get to where he should have been in the first place.’

  Terry hugged her to him as if she was very delicate and needed extra care in handling. ‘Good God, Rose, you could have been killed. Was he a Yank? They all drive on the wrong side of the road.’

  Rose had rather enjoyed being treated as if she was made of some delicate porcelain but she stepped out of his arms, taking his hand instead. ‘Not all of them, surely, Terry, but I have no idea who was driving. Probably I should have pulled left. That way I would have gone into the rec ground on the other side. But look at it; it’s a good job they don’t play cricket here. I churned up the field quite a bit.’

  Terry examined the damage and shrugged. ‘A roller would take care of it – but don’t suggest it or you may end up becoming their new groundsman.’

  They laughed together and, tension over, wandered quite happily around the field, hand in hand, which, to Rose, felt intimate and exciting, chatting of this and that.

  ‘We heard that two of our ships, Eagle and Manchester got sunk recently, Terry. Did you hear? I don’t know exactly when. I seem to be the last person on the base to hear any news because I hardly ever have time to read a newspaper, though I listen to the news on the wireless every chance I get. My brother Phil wasn’t on either of the ships and that’s great.’ Rose felt that she was boring her companion, who said nothing at all as she rambled on. ‘Blimey, that sounded selfish. I’m sorry for all the lads and their families. And HMS Eagle was going to Malta with supplies so the brave people there are affected too.’

  ‘There’s a war on, Rose. These things happen every day. If we heard everything we probably couldn’t function. Now forget the bloody war and pay attention to me.’ He pulled her round gently so that she was facing him, holding her so close to him that she could feel his heart beating. ‘Oh, Rose,’ he almost groaned her name. ‘When do you have a few days’ leave? Let’s plan a weekend together in York.’ He put his face close to hers and kissed her cheek and then her ear.

  Every nerve in Rose’s body seemed to respond. ‘Terry—’ she began, but he interrupted.

  ‘I can’t stop thinking of you. Morning, noon and night. Do you feel the same way about me? You must. I can feel you tremble and respond. You can’t deny your feelings, Rose, lovely, lovely Rose. Tell me you think of me too.’

  Rose had thought of Terry often, but no thought of a weekend together – with all that possibly entailed – had entered her head. She pulled away from him. ‘Yes, I think of you, but what kind of girl do you take me for, Terry? You can’t think that I’m the type of girl who goes off for a weekend with a man I’ve met three times – no matter how much I like him.’

  He let his arms drop to his sides. ‘This is the fourth time and, damn it, Rose, I respect you. Nothing would happen that you didn’t want to happen. But there’s a war on. People are getting killed every day. We have to grab life while we can. Women are different now, doing men’s jobs. A girl can do what she wants with her life. Old rules don’t apply.’

  Part of her agreed with him – and she was well aware that being held in the way that he had held her was sending exciting shivers coursing through her body – but a larger part knew that her parents would be disappointed in her if she were to spend a weekend with a man she barely knew. In fact, she was quite sure that Flora would be unhappy if she were to spend a weekend with a man to whom she was not married, and she certainly had given no thought at all to any idea of marrying Terry.

  ‘You’re too fast for me, Terry. I like you a lot and, yes, as I said, I do think about you…’ She thought for a moment and said honestly, ‘I think about you quite a lot. I’ve heard all the arguments about experiencing everything in case we get killed and, honestly, I don’t know what I would do if I was in love…’

  ‘I love you, Rose, and I’m sure you feel the same way about me. When we were so close now, didn’t you just want that to go on and on? Maybe get closer?’

  ‘In time, Terry. It’s too fast—’ she began.

  ‘Frigid bitch.’

  She was shocked to hear the phrase spat at her face viciously as he pushed her away so fiercely that, had she not been so athletic, she would have fallen heavily.

  ‘Leading men on. The world is full of bitches like you. And I drove all the way up here just to see you. Well, it won’t happen again.’

  He left a stunned Rose standing speechless on the pavement while he took off across the field to where the pick-up was parked. She had said no; said that their relationship was moving too quickly for her. Was that so terrible, too much of a blow to his masculine pride?

  Doubts ran through her head. Had he actually brought a VIP up to York? Was he driving the very important someone-or-other to an RAF station? I’ll never know now, Rose thought. She looked around, hoping against hope that no one had witnessed the rather embarrassing encounter. One or two ATS personnel were walking around, one with a dog. She realised that she was cold and trembling. She could not meet anyone she knew; they would know immediately that something had happened. Frigid bitch. What a ghastly expression. Rose dashed the tears from her eyes. I’m not frigid, I liked it when he kissed me, but I don’t want anything serious yet. Is that so awful? Mum would say, ‘Oh, Rose, you haven’t got the brains you were born with.’
How would Daisy have handled that? Or Sally?

  Rose forced herself to calm down and returned to her billet as casually as possible. ‘He had to drive a VIP, so no date,’ she murmured, and, picking up her sports clothes, went off to the recreation hall to see if she could find someone to beat at badminton.

  Rose returned from the badminton courts feeling pleasantly tired but quite pleased with herself. She had beaten a sergeant – which was not, in the opinion of one or two of her friends, a particularly smart thing to do; but since the sergeant had asked that a return match be played when he had recovered both his pride and his equilibrium, she disagreed. She had also played in a mixed foursome where she was obviously the most experienced player, so that her team won easily. The others were happy to have met someone who could probably help them improve their games.

  ‘If you ever have time, Rose.’

  She had agreed, and it was only when she was walking into the mess hall with Gladys and Francesca that she again remembered Terry’s wounding words and all her doubts came flooding back. She heard Stan’s voice: ‘I’m not in your league, Rose.’

  Somewhere there had to be a man who would love her even if she were better at some things than he was.

  She wrote, of course, to her twin sister, the one person in the world who would never be shocked or horrified or angry about any of the thoughts that were racing around in her head.

  I felt humiliated, Daisy, worse than when Stan told me the lads were all scared of me, so scared that they didn’t even want to…well, get a bit closer. I’m tired of being one of the lads, but I don’t want to be bullied into something I’m not sure of or ready for.

  Her letter reached Daisy when, for once, Daisy had a free morning, and so a reply was dispatched much more quickly than usual.

  Poor old Rose. Your Terry was not a nice character and you’re much better off without him. I have to remind you that Stan was very brave to tell you what he did. It couldn’t have been easy. Not in his league. Silly Rose, that proves he knows you’re very special. Stan loves you but not the way Tomas loves me – and that doesn’t mean you’re not an attractive woman. You’re gorgeous and just haven’t met the right chap yet. Stan’s not the only decent man in the world, Rose; there are lots of them. I’ve been blessed to love two wonderful men, Adair and my darling Tomas. We’re hoping to have good news for our families soon but in the meantime we very rarely see each other and so can’t make definite plans. Stop looking for Mr Right and one day you’ll fall over him. Just see if you don’t.

  All my love – of the sisterly kind!!!

  Daisy

  Very funny, Daisy, said Rose as she read the letter but, as always, communication from her sister cheered her. Rose was no closer to knowing when she could get back to Dartford. Apart from seeing her family, she had hoped to meet Cleo, who was now in London, but the supply of military vehicles needing careful attention continued to grow.

  ‘A full week as soon as it can be managed, Petrie,’ was the usual reply to any request for a short pass.

  ‘Don’t forget there’s a war on,’ she told herself gloomily. But how could anyone forget? The girls had been miserable when sweets and chocolate had been rationed in the previous month, but if that wasn’t bad enough, biscuits were added to the long list of rationed foods. Signs of war, especially death, were everywhere. Not even the Royal Family was exempt. On 25 August, the King’s youngest brother, Prince George, Duke of Kent, was killed in an air crash near Wick in Scotland.

  ‘War’s no respecter of anyone,’ said Gladys, as she looked at sad newspaper photographs of the beautiful young duchess. ‘She was a princess before she married Prince George,’ Gladys informed them all. ‘Greek, I think. And there’s a baby boy just born as will never meet its father.’

  ‘Terribly sad,’ said Rose. ‘Can’t begin to think of how sad the poor woman is when she should be really happy.’

  ‘Oh, Rose, there are many, many mothers mourning the father of their children. But it shows that the royals are just as much at risk as anyone else. They are suffering too. Buckingham Palace was damaged and even the Houses of Parliament.’

  ‘It’s all ghastly,’ said Rose, ‘but as far as the palace and Parliament are concerned, I would imagine those were deliberate targets. Let’s find something cheerful to talk about. Didn’t someone say that ITMA’s coming back again? I love hearing “Can I do you now, sir?” Absolutely guaranteed to get my parents laughing.’

  ‘Didn’t I hear something about moving it to the seaside and calling it It’s That Sand Again?’ Gladys asked. ‘Doesn’t seem to matter since I seem to be somewhere else whenever there’s anything funny on.’

  ‘Well, they never did say we’d be working office hours, but there is a social in my church hall in two weeks,’ Francesca announced. ‘Anyone who’s off on that Saturday evening is more than welcome. I can tell you two that things haven’t been very nice lately. Some of our customers have stopped coming and Nonno is afraid he’ll be interned again. So many men of Italian descent have been already, and conditions in these camps can be poor…’ She forced a smile. ‘But no more of those worries – back to the social. Mum and Nonno are helping with the food and they’re hoping that loyal customers will support him. There’ll be dancing too and – this is my mother talking – a small but very select band. That probably means a piano and an accordion, if Father Geddes can find someone. Two shillings covers admittance and supper; drinks extra but any profit goes to the Spitfire Fund.’

  ‘I’m up for that,’ said Rose. ‘Count me in.’

  Others agreed too, depending on the availability of transport. One girl said it would be against her principles to support the Catholic Church.

  ‘Golly,’ said Gladys, ‘I had no idea Spitfires had a religious affiliation. Learn something new every day. Pity they’re not C of E, but I’ll come, Fran, if I can get into my party frock.’

  Rose had fallen into an easy friendship with Francesca and her family. The Rossis were extremely hospitable and seemed genuinely delighted when Francesca brought friends home. Francesca’s grandfather was pleased that Rose’s family were shopkeepers and he liked to chat with her.

  ‘The Emperor Napoleon said that England was a nation of shopkeepers, Rose, but now you see that we Italians are becoming English shopkeepers too.’

  Chiara Rossi smiled, pleased to see that already it was as if Rose and the Rossis had known one another all their lives.

  ‘Enrico is on duty the evening of the church social, Rose, and so he will not be here to bring my Francesca home. If you have an overnight pass, would you stay the night here? Nonno is really too old for late nights and, if you are here, he will not stay awake fretting if she comes home with the dawn.’

  ‘She won’t come home with the dawn if she’s with me, Mrs Rossi. We’re both on duty mid-morning.’

  ‘Good, it is settled then. And you must call me Chiara, please Rose.’

  Early on the evening of the dance Rose and Francesca were able to get a lift from some soldiers from a nearby base who were going into York. Carrying their party dresses, shoes and overnight things, the young women clambered into the back of a Leyland breakdown lorry.

  ‘Pray we don’t see a vehicle in trouble, girls. We’d have to stop,’ grinned the corporal who’d helped them on board.

  But it was a perfect early autumn evening and the road remained clear. The soldiers jumped down and gallantly caught their overnight bags and then the girls as they lowered themselves onto the pavement just a few steps from the Rossis’ front door.

  ‘There is plenty of hot water for washing,’ said Francesca’s mother as she welcomed them, ‘and I have the ironing board ready in the kitchen if the dresses need pressing. But first we will have supper.’

  ‘But, Mamma, we will eat at the social.’

  ‘Nonno is preparing pasta with pesto especially for Rose. Now, go, put your things in the bedroom and hurry back.’

  It was, thought Rose, like being a child again, and so lik
e being at home that she felt her eyes begin to prickle as if she might cry.

  ‘Lovely, Mrs Rossi…Chiara, although I have no idea what pesto is.’

  ‘A sauce, delicate and utterly delicious.’

  The girls hurried to the bedroom and Rose smiled with pleasure. The furnishings were perhaps more feminine and rather more expensive than those in the room she had shared with Daisy, but basically they were the same. Two beds, but with matching quilts, one chair covered in the same material as the curtains, a very pretty soft-grey carpet, a white dressing table that any girl would have envied and, on the wall close to it, a porcelain hand basin with gold taps in the shape of dolphins.

  ‘How lovely, Francesca.’

  ‘Oh, good, I’m so glad you like it. It was refurnished for my sixteenth birthday and I had quite a job persuading Nonno not to order everything in pink. I do love having my own washbasin. Three people and one bathroom makes for disastrous mornings.’

  ‘Think what it’s like having seven,’ said Rose, remembering frantic mornings when every Petrie was at home.

  ‘Good and bad, Rose. I have my own little sink with my beautiful taps, but do you think I would not trade them, without thought, for my father?’ She decided that she had been too serious. ‘Forgive me. The discussion over the death of the King’s brother reminded me that I too never knew my father.’ She smiled. ‘But I have Nonno, grandfather and father rolled into one. Quick, I smell the pesto.’

  They hurried along the corridor and down the stairs to the kitchen, only to be enveloped in Mr Rossi’s arms. ‘Rosa and my little Francesca,’ he said. ‘Come, I have made something special.’

  They sat down at the table where Rose was surprised to see that the plates and bowls were of blue glass. The serving dishes were blue with exquisite flowers rioting over them.