On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘My home’s in Dartford, so occasionally.’

  ‘Well, then—’ began the cook, but whatever he wanted to say was lost for ever as Rose was summoned to attend her passengers. They stood for a few minutes, shaking hands and talking animatedly, and then the slightly shorter man saluted and hurried down the steps and into the car. ‘Take me back to the airport,’ he ordered, and Rose was surprised to hear an American accent. ‘If you’re needed later, they’ll call you.’

  Call? Rose, who was desperately trying to place the man’s face, which was vaguely familiar, and the voice, wondered what ‘call’ meant. The butler would be highly unlikely to shout to her.

  Must be American for get in touch, she decided, but said only, ‘Yes, sir,’ and drove back to the airport.

  It’s all really exciting, she thought. This must be what a driver’s life is like, chopping and changing, depending on what the important people need to be done. She was just wondering if it was likely that she would ever return to that great house when she realised who her VIP really was, and was so thrilled that she had to force herself to be calm and contained. No wonder they managed to find a really special car.

  That night she wrote to her family about her first driving experience. She told them about the coincidence of meeting the man she could only refer to as ‘the butler’ and was delighted to tell them that he had recognised her and called her by name. But the best she saved for last.

  I can’t tell you the name of my VIP yet. I didn’t really recognise him at first, didn’t really look at him because I was so happy to see the butler, but I did think I’d heard the voice before. He is so important I can hardly believe they allowed me to drive. Funny old world, isn’t it? Hope I did well and that they’ll give me another assignment.

  But when she lay in bed that night, going over the events of the day and looking forward to the dance and her date with Sergeant Bradley Hastings, she wondered what he would think if she were to tell him she had driven Dwight Eisenhower, Supreme Commander, Allied Force of the North African Theatre of Operations, back to the airport.

  THIRTEEN

  Chiara had spread all the clothes she thought might be of some use to her daughter or Rose on the sofa, the chairs, and even the dining table of the furnished flat she was renting.

  With scarcely hidden regret, Francesca rejected a midnight-blue sequined cocktail dress. ‘Not for a hop, Mamma – that’s too formal.’

  ‘But it would be enchanting on you.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we need to be able to move. That black skirt with all those red poppies would be perfect for you or for Rose.’

  Rose held up the skirt. ‘Was this originally curtains, Chiara? I haven’t seen so much material in a skirt for years. Your colouring is perfect for it.’

  ‘Only a tall, slim woman could wear this, Rose, and that’s you, my dear.’

  Rose held the skirt against her and lifted one of the sides up as if she were dancing. ‘Only problem is I could get into it twice. I’m afraid the owner was tall – and fat.’

  They put the skirt aside while they examined some of the other clothes. There was a smart suit and a business-like dress that Francesca thought would be useful, if altered to fit her.

  ‘But I have coupons, Mamma, and I want to buy new clothes.’ She stopped as she remembered that she hoped to be buying a new dress to wear as bridesmaid at her mother’s wedding. ‘But these two are worth altering, don’t you agree, Rose?’

  ‘Yes, I love the two-piece costume. Reminds me of one we all saved up to buy for a friend who was going to drama school. Can you imagine, someone at school with me was able to go to university if she wanted?’

  ‘My cousin, Luigi, was going to the university but he joined the army to fight for Italy. Then he found he was fighting for Germany.’

  ‘Girls, remember why you’re here.’

  Rose and Francesca laughed and started examining the clothes again. ‘I only need something for the dance tonight,’ sighed Rose, ‘and I like the skirt but…I wish I wasn’t such a beanpole.’

  ‘Rose Petrie,’ scolded Chiara, ‘you are tall and slender and can wear anything, including this skirt, because I picked up a wide elasticised black belt, which will hold up the skirt no matter how hopping the hop is.’

  Naturally Rose had to try and she pulled on the skirt over her trousers. Then she and Chiara waltzed around the room until, breathless, they sank onto the sofa.

  ‘Oh, what fun to laugh again,’ said Chiara, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. ‘Don’t look gloomy, girls, I’m crying because I’m happy. Now, Rose, a black blouse would be wonderful.’

  Rose shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.’

  ‘Then white will have to do. And Francesca, surely there is something here that maybe I can turn up or sew a flower on, or something?’

  Nothing was found among the clothes set aside for the girls, but among those spread on the bed in Chiara’s bedroom was a beautifully tailored blue-and-white polka-dot day dress. There was just enough material in the skirt to make exuberant dancing possible.

  Francesca looked at it. ‘It’s a lovely frock, Mamma, but too long, and if you cut it, it will be too short for you.’

  ‘Silly, sweet girl,’ said Chiara. ‘Rose, dear, help her into it while I get my scissors.’

  Americans seemed to be everywhere. The accents, familiar from films, were now heard on the streets, in the pubs and in British military camps. Everyone in Rose’s platoon had accepted the invitation to the ‘hop’ on the American base, but Rose was the only one to be picked up two hours before the festivities started.

  Brad drove himself over in a vehicle he called a Jeep. Rose had seen one or two of these all-surface vehicles travelling around the countryside but she had never seen one up close.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me if you’re uncomfortable, Rose. I’ve never actually been a passenger in one. The Government loves them; they can drive up and over everything.’

  ‘So it’s mainly for driving in rough country, through woods, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I guess. A test driver drove one clear up the steps of the Capitol building in DC, just to demonstrate its power.’

  ‘My brothers would love it,’ said Rose, smiling as she remembered Sam, Phil and Ron learning to drive and then passing on their skills to their twin sisters.

  Naturally he asked how many brothers she had and she said, ‘Two,’ then asked about his family.

  But Brad was an only child and had no light chatter about family.

  For a few awkward miles, they talked about recent daylight bombings, not only in London but in Reading.

  ‘Must be frightening, hearing the planes approaching and being able to do nothing but wait.’

  Rose, who had lived through nights of bombing and had been slightly injured in one daylight raid, merely nodded, and so Brad went quiet. But conversation did become easier.

  ‘Tell me more about your family, Rose; sounds like fun.’ Brad was, basically, a quiet man, but he was a good listener and seemed to enjoy Rose’s chatter about her family and her friends.

  ‘Wow, you must have had a great time growing up. I did too, mostly, but we always had to borrow other kids during vacations and stuff. I think my parents liked that; meant they didn’t have to worry about entertaining me.’

  He was quiet for a moment or two. ‘That didn’t sound nice. My parents were both professionals and always busy.’

  Rose thought of her own ‘always busy’ parents, who had made time to be with their children. ‘We entertained one another,’ she said, and then added, ‘By the way, Sergeant, where are we going?’

  He stepped on the brake and the Jeep screeched to a halt. ‘Excuse me, ma’am. I’m sorry; I worked it all out in my head so often I thought I already asked. Rose, Miss Petrie, I want so badly to go to an English pub. Is that OK for a lady? I mean, there are some places in my home town I certainly wouldn’t take you to.’

  Rose laughed and he looked at her and laughed too.

&nbs
p; ‘Dumb Yank.’

  ‘Of course not. English pubs are, on the whole, lovely places. We used to go on summer Sundays to a lovely country one in Kent. That’s where my home is, Kent. My parents would have cider and sandwiches and we had lemonade – and sandwiches and cakes too.’

  ‘Sounds great. So let’s find us a pub that has cider and sandwiches.’

  ‘Would you settle for beer and sandwiches?’

  ‘Warm English beer. I’ve been told about that.’ He did not add that he thought anything at all would taste good if he was in the company of this lovely woman.

  Brad had been advised to go to the Abbot’s Inn, a pub not far from the American base. ‘Been there since the Middle Ages, Rose, so they say. Is that credible?’

  ‘This is England, Brad. It could be older. So could the beer.’

  He laughed then, a full-throated hearty laugh.

  ‘Oh, you are just a tonic, Rose. Let’s find the old pub and the older beer; we don’t really have too much time if we want to get to the dance.’

  They found the pub, a very elderly building that time seemed to have squashed into the ground, so that Brad and even Rose had to bend to avoid hitting their heads on ancient oak lintels.

  ‘My dad would love this.’

  ‘What about your mother, or don’t American ladies go to pubs?’

  ‘Mom’s way too Ivy League, Daughters of the American Revolution. She likes the Ritz, Claridge’s, places like that.’

  ‘She’s visited England then?’ Grace asked, and added quickly, ‘Brad, that’s all too nosy. I sound as if I’m prying but that’s not…’ She could not continue. He had been so easy to talk to, so calm, so…so…She could not find words. ‘Come on. Let’s get you a beer and a sandwich.’

  He laughed, took her hand – which made her jump, as if an electric shock had travelled through her body – and guided her through an unnecessarily dark room to a table. He ordered beer and sandwiches.

  ‘Cheese and pickle,’ he was told.

  ‘Wait and see,’ suggested Rose when he asked her what that meant.

  When the sandwiches arrived, Rose found herself wishing she had a camera or could draw – anything to preserve the look on his handsome face.

  ‘Boy, if that’s a sandwich, I can’t wait to get you a real sandwich.’

  ‘This is real. The English invented sandwiches.’

  ‘And we sure improved them. But don’t worry, we’ll feed you at the base.’

  ‘Is it true Americans bring all their food with them?’

  ‘You wouldn’t want us homing in on your rationed goods, would you?’

  Rose had not considered what difficulties having thousands of Allied troops in the country might cause, and said so. ‘But tell me about the town where you grew up. Please,’ she added, in case he might think her rude.

  He took a bite of his slim, white, crust-less sandwich and smiled. ‘Good, if a tad different,’ he said, and then told her about growing up between Washington DC, the capital, and a little place in Connecticut, which he obviously loved. Then he looked at his watch and she saw his muscular tanned arm and had to forcibly stop herself from putting her hand out to touch it.

  What on earth is happening to me? Is this being knocked down by a Spitfire?

  ‘We’ll be late if we don’t move,’ he said.

  She wanted only to sit there and watch his face and listen to his warm, attractive voice, but she stood up and let him help her on with her coat, conscious all the time of his hands on her shoulders.

  They chatted all the way to the base. Yes, ‘A cheese and pickle sandwich was very good’, and, ‘I’d love to see one of those redbirds.’

  ‘Redbird is the nickname; they’re really called red cardinals. My mom used to say that seeing one brought good luck. I guess that’s because they’re not really a northern bird and so they’re still kinda rare in the north-east. Tell you one thing, though – you’ll hear them before you see them and sometimes you can’t be sure until you actually see the bird because they don’t just say “tweet-tweet”. They have a whole bunch of different songs; maybe they do it just to fool us.’

  It was definitely the oddest conversation Rose had ever had with a man and, as she was helped out of the car by his warm, tanned, strong hand, Rose knew that she had never enjoyed one so much.

  The rest of the evening was just as interesting.

  The room chosen for the dance was sparkling clean and had been decorated with British and American flags, streamers and a great many red, white or blue balloons. Every table had a white paper table covering, and in the middle of the table stood a ceramic pot holding a small British flag and a small American one. Rose wondered if every American soldier studied music, for the band boasted over a dozen skilled musicians.

  Rose and Brad joined a table where Francesca, Gladys and Mildred were sitting and, in no time at all, the table was overcrowded. No one moved to a different table. Private Arvizo was there and, when he saw where Gladys was sitting, he upended the chair next to her, unseating the young soldier who was already there and sat down himself.

  Francesca gestured to the empty seat beside her, the soldier sat down, drinks were brought, and the music began.

  Rose had heard American music on the radio and she had seen films in which there was dancing, but she had never listened to anything like the music being played that night. Neither had she ever danced to music with that beat.

  Jive, jitterbug, swing, Lindy Hop; the words and the music swirled around her. Somehow everyone was on the floor, and Rose laughed as she saw Gladys frantically moving Arvizo’s hands nearer to her waist. He was unrepentant, though, and the hands kept sliding.

  ‘Stop dancing with him, Gladys, if he’s making you angry,’ Rose said as they took a few minutes’ rest while some of the men went to bring food to the table, and Francesca and Mildred went to freshen up.

  ‘He’s not making me angry, he’s making me laugh, and laughter is so good. Did you ever have a dog, Rose? No, then trust me. Arvizo’s like a big exuberant puppy, all over you and not an ounce of badness in him. Besides, Lance Corporal, you seem welded to your gorgeous sergeant, so don’t talk.’

  Rose blushed furiously. ‘He’s not my sergeant.’

  Gladys reached over and patted Rose’s hand. ‘That’s not what anyone on this base thinks, Rose, from the lowliest private to the commanding general.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. We hardly know each other.’

  Gladys looked up. ‘Here he comes and, believe me, you’re the only person in the room he sees.’

  Brad grinned at them as he reached the table; he was balancing several laden plates in his hands. ‘We brought some of everything. Hope you like pinto beans. Arvizo here has a Mexican grandmother and he sweet-talked Cookie into fixing them just like his grandma makes.’

  ‘A culinary masterpiece,’ confided Arvizo. ‘I begged them to do all Mexican-American but do you know what he said? He said, “You’re not the only ethnic minority on this base.” They’ve fixed corn-pone for the Southerners and hamburgers made from the finest Texas beef for Easterners like the sergeant here.’ He was pointing to each food as he mentioned them.

  ‘Dare I try corn-pone?’ Rose asked Brad.

  ‘Sure, it’s only bread, and have a burger and some of these Tex-Mex beans.’

  The others returned to the table, their plates just as heavily loaded, and the evening went on, eating, dancing, talking, or sometimes sitting back quietly and listening to the band.

  Rose listened to music she was unaware of having heard before. The instruments were piano, two guitars, a saxophone and a trumpet.

  ‘It’s so sad.’

  Brad covered her hands with his. ‘That’s the blues, Rose. Mood music, full of longing for something lost, very Southern.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t you like it? I’ll tell them to play something else.’

  ‘No, it’s beautiful.’

  The others agreed and Rose, embarrassed, slid her hands away, whispering something a
bout ‘freshening up’.

  Immediately Brad stood, followed by Arvizo as Gladys too stood up.

  ‘Wow, do these Yanks move quickly,’ said Gladys as they stood, side by side, tidying their hair and reapplying lipstick. ‘Your Bradley is a real gentleman. Didn’t you see how he stood up?’

  But Rose said nothing. She felt her life was now whirling like the frenzied rhythm of the jive and it was just too fast for her.

  FOURTEEN

  London, March 1943

  On the Monday after the dance Rose was sent to London. She was told very little, merely to pack for several days and to tell no one where she was going.

  That meant Brad too. Rose had no way of contacting him, but she asked Francesca to tell him – if he should come to the camp, or if a call came for her in the station call box – that Rose was sorry and would contact him when she returned. She felt this was dreadfully rude, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that he too was a professional and would understand.

  When the dance ended he had driven her back to the camp and had escorted her to the door of her billet. They had been quiet on the drive back, quiet in fact from the last interval, when a few of the musicians had played blues music mainly for themselves.

  ‘Did I say something wrong, Rose?’ He stood at the door, looking down into her eyes, his own eyes troubled.

  ‘Oh, no, Brad, it was a wonderful evening. I think I’m rather tired, and certainly too full of delicious food.’

  ‘Me too.’ They stood still and silent. Then he smiled but it was not his normal delightful smile, more a passable attempt. ‘May I see you again? Maybe visit York, have dinner; or there are theatres and movie houses in York too.’

  ‘That all sounds lovely.’

  ‘Great. There has to be a call box on the base somewhere. I’ll find it and call you.’

  Again they stood. Rose wondered if he would kiss her and admitted to herself that she wanted him to, but no, this had been their first date. If he kissed her, would he think her fast if she responded, and if she did not, would he call her frigid, as Terry had done? She took a quick, small step back.