by Ruby Jackson
‘You’re right. It’s late and it’s cold. Good night, Rose.’ He stood for a heartbeat longer, leaned forward, and she felt his lips, soft as drifting thistledown, on hers; then, with a quick wave, he was back on the road and had vaulted effortlessly into his Jeep.
‘I hope it doesn’t snow,’ she called after him, and he laughed and raised his hand in farewell.
There was another of the daylight raids on London just before Rose went there. The greatest loss of life was at Bethnal Green Tube Station, where terrified travellers had stampeded. Rose was very aware of the probability of another raid while she was in the capital; she tried not to think of that, though, but to focus her mind on the job she was going to be asked to do. Once in London she took a taxi to the address she had been given in Whitehall. As she stood before the enormous building, which spoke of power and prestige, she thought: somewhere in there is a person who is expecting me. Who, in there, knows Rose Petrie’s name?
The only way to find out was to go in.
Rose lifted her ATS kitbag, straightened her shoulders, and walked up the long flight of stairs and into the building. It was unbelievably quiet inside, the only sound being the staccato rap of leather soles on tiled floors as civilians and military personnel walked the corridors. A receptionist sat behind a desk and she looked up when Rose approached. There was no welcome on her cold, expressionless face.
‘Yes?’
‘Lance Corporal Rose Petrie reporting.’ Again she had to swallow the word ‘sir’, which tried so hard to jump out.
‘Take your kitbag to the cloakroom, and then sit down over there until you’re sent for.’
Rose had been taught to say thank you when anyone did anything for her, but she set her face – everybody’s overworked, not just you – and walked off towards the sign that said ‘Cloakrooms’. She checked her bag, and, pleased to be rid of its weight, returned to the foyer where she sat and sat, and eventually wondered if anyone wanted to see her at all.
And then, when she had almost given up hope, a young man in RAF uniform came down one of the branching corridors and said, ‘Miss Petrie? So sorry to have kept you. I do hope you had time for a cup of tea.’
Obviously he did not expect an answer and merely ushered her down the corridor to an imposing, highly polished double door. He knocked, opened the door, said, ‘Miss Petrie, Commander,’ and stood back to allow Rose to enter.
There were four people, one woman and three men, sitting round a table. The one addressed as ‘Commander’ stood up and said, ‘Do come in, Miss Petrie. It’s good of you to come.’
The commander was the man whom Rose had been thinking of for a year as ‘the butler’.
How polite he was. How good of her to come, indeed. He knew perfectly well she could do nothing else.
‘Sir,’ she said, and sat down in the chair at which he’d pointed.
Two hours later, a passenger in a military vehicle, Rose was on her way to the house in Bayswater where she was to be based for as long as ‘the butler’ felt she was needed.
The landlady of the pleasant house to which she was driven, Mrs Bamber, was obviously very used to residents who came for short stays. She showed Rose into a bright airy bedroom that smelled a little of lavender.
‘Bathroom’s just down the ’all and the yellow towels is yours. Make yourself comfy and I’ll bring you up a nice cuppa. Evening meal at seven. Me and my daughter’ll eat with you; she’s a nurse at St Thomas’s and won’t ask you no questions. If, God ’elp us, there’s an air raid, and God knows there shouldn’t be, we ’as a shelter in the garden.’
Rose sat on the pretty, spotlessly clean bedspread and listened to Mrs Bamber’s muffled tread on the carpeted stairs. London. She was actually in London and somewhere in this magnificent city lived Cleo. If only there had been time to let her old friend know that she was coming. Still, according to the commander, there would be no time to socialise. Next time – if there was a next time.
She knew very little of her assignment. She was to be a driver. A certain very important person was to be driven to various locations, the first one being Brighton.
‘Have you visited Brighton Pavilion, Miss Petrie?’
‘Afraid not, sir.’
‘Well worth a visit, for its sheer extravagance, if nothing else. Your passenger expressed a fondness for it. He may – or then again he may not – decide to go. Perhaps a pleasant drive along the front. There are several splendid hotels where he might, or again might not, choose to lunch with local dignitaries.’
Rose sat on the bed and wondered who her passenger might be. A wealthy foreigner whom someone wanted to keep happy? A foreign dignitary? An American? That was it. Americans loved English eccentricities.
The steps were heavier on the stairs and Rose could also hear deep breathing. She ran to open the door and there, two steps from the top, was Mrs Bamber carrying a tray.
Rose hurried forward and took the tray from her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bamber. You don’t have to wait on me. You really shouldn’t carry trays like that.’
‘Oh, I like to make my ladies welcome, Miss Petrie. I’ve been a landlady since 1920. My man died in the first war – gas poisoning, awful it was – but I ’ad my daughter and my ’ouse, and it’s kept us fed, warm and dry, so can’t complain. Now you ’ave a cuppa and then a bath, or ’ave a bath after supper. Water won’t be warm enough till gone ’alf six but it’ll stay warm.’
‘It would be lovely to have a bath after supper, Mrs Bamber.’
‘That’s settled then, but not too late, mind. We all ’as to be up early. Dining room’s bottom of the stairs, first door.’
Rose said thank you, closed the door behind her landlady and walked over to the dressing table where she had put the tray. There was a beautifully ironed, embroidered linen tray cloth that spoke so eloquently of her mother that Rose almost cried. A small pot of tea, a china cup and saucer with bluebells painted around the rims, and a matching plate that held two home-baked biscuits. They smelled of home.
Be strong. Rose, you’re in the army and have a job to do. Do it properly.
No one was harder on the Petrie women than the Petrie women themselves.
At seven o’clock, Rose, carrying the much lighter tray, walked down to the dining room and entered.
Mrs Bamber and a young woman were already in the room.
‘This is Iris, my daughter,’ said Mrs Bamber proudly, and Rose could see why she was proud. Iris was beautiful. She had natural blonde curly hair, the bluest of blue eyes and a beautiful, curvaceous, feminine figure; in fact, Iris looked like Rose’s idea of a film star.
‘She takes after my Albert,’ said her mother, who was putting the final adjustments to the table.
After the comparison she had just made, this comment made Rose smile.
Iris put out her hand and shook Rose’s. Hers was a strong handshake and Rose found herself smiling at the slightly older young woman.
‘Hello, I’m Rose.’
‘Iris. Do sit down. The soup’s ready.’
Mrs Bamber was right. Iris would not ask Rose about her assignment. In fact, she would not speak to her at all, apart from the few words and phrases that civility demanded.
In silence they had potato soup, followed by Spam fritters, mashed potatoes and green beans.
‘We’ll finish with a nice pot of tea and an oatcake with a slice of cheese.’
‘I have to iron a uniform for tomorrow,’ said Iris, getting to her feet. ‘Enjoy your bath, Miss Petrie, Rose, but I have a very early shift and would like to be in bed…’ she looked at her tiny watch, ‘before nine.’ She nodded to Rose and left the dining room.
‘The hours she works would amaze you, Miss Petrie. Slave labour is what goes on in ’ospitals, and every day a clean uniform. Poor lamb comes ’ome, eats, irons and goes to bed.’
‘Yes, I think everyone works really long hours these days, and nurses, well, all medical personnel, really, are needed all hours of the day and night.’
>
Frankly, Rose felt that everyone in the Forces worked long hours but, remembering her few days in the hospital in Dartford when her munitions factory had been hit, she decided not to find Nurse Iris Bamber too grumpy.
Could I be a nurse? she asked herself, and answered immediately: not in a million years.
Quickly she ate her oatcake, leaving the cheese so that it could be used for something else, drank a cup of tea, really because Mrs Bamber had gone to the trouble of making it, and went upstairs to have her bath.
Next morning she was up and out before seven. She recognised the vehicle that had driven her to Mrs Bamber’s, and the driver too was the same.
He said, ‘Good morning,’ as Rose got into the front beside him.
‘You’ll use public transport from now on, Miss Petrie. Here’s the bus timetable and they’re mostly on time.’
He said nothing else and Rose sat quietly, looking at the scenery in Whitehall as it became more austere, until they arrived at the important building. The commander was waiting. He looked her over and seemed happy with what he saw.
‘Right, follow me.’
Rose followed him through the building to the back entrance. A lovely mews stretched before them and one of the garages was open.
‘There’s your car, Rose. You know your assignment. Good luck.’
Rose walked over to the garage and slid into the soft leather-upholstered driver’s seat. It was the car they had given her before, but still she took a second to marvel at the sheer beauty of it before starting it, and then she drove, as carefully as traffic allowed, to her destination.
She drew up at a door she had seen only in photographs or on a newsreel, and before turning off the engine she glanced at the window beside the door. No, not yet, and so she turned off the engine and waited.
She did not have to wait long. A few minutes later the door opened and a tall, burly man came out, looked around carefully, and nodded. Behind him appeared a familiar figure and, in spite of her knowledge, Rose’s heart skipped a beat. He was so recognisable, almost a caricature of himself. But she obeyed her instructions: ‘Your job is to drive them wherever he wants to go and to bring them back, preferably in one piece.’
She heard the word ‘Brighton’. Answered, ‘Sir’, started the engine and eased the beautiful car into the road. She stole a quick look in her rear-view mirror, not only to make sure nothing was behind her, but also to look once more at that enigmatic figure. He was smoking a cigar while he read a document.
Rose’s blood, which had been galloping madly around her body, gradually slowed down to a relatively normal pace and her breathing quietened. Who is ever going to believe this – when I get to tell them?
She concentrated on her driving. She drove down a street that not so long ago would have been filled with nose-to-tail traffic: buses, lorries, ambulances, taxis, private cars. Today she saw two buses on the other side of the road, one delivery lorry parked in front of a small grocery shop, and a bicycle. Well-wrapped people stood at bus stops, stamping their feet to keep them warm. Had there been no petrol rationing, Rose was convinced that most of the well-dressed pedestrians would have been vying with her for road space. She smiled to see a surprised look of recognition, fevered pointing, waving, saluting.
‘Slow.’
She obeyed the curt command.
‘Drive on.’
And so went the journey out of London. It seemed to Rose that her passengers wanted to be seen, wanted to be recognised.
They were out of the city and the speed increased. Few private cars passed them, or drove alongside, but there were military vehicles, small and large, coming and going, brave flags of Allied countries flying in the stream of air caused by their speed. Again it seemed that her passengers courted recognition, and she saw his hands being raised in salute as burly, ill-shaven men leaned out from under the canvas of army trucks and waved.
The last hour or so was peaceful, the car purring along like a contented kitten, the passengers totally involved, one with the day’s Times, the other with folders of paper.
They reached Brighton and Rose drove to the Pavilion, once the favourite home of the flamboyant Prince Regent, but before she could slow to a halt a voice that she had heard often on the wireless said, ‘Drive down the front, Lance Corporal.’
Rose strove to remain detached, professional. The voice. The world could recognise that voice. It made the wisps of hair on the back of her neck stand up.
‘Sir.’ This is my job. Just do it, Rose, do it.
The sea was stormy, throwing itself angrily against the shore.
‘Pull over.’
Rose obeyed. Only a few stalwarts braved the cold to walk along the front, woollen hats pulled down around their ears, thick scarves wound around thin, wrinkled necks.
‘The door,’ said the other voice, and Rose almost jumped out and hurried round the car to open the door. Out stepped Winston Churchill, followed immediately by the taller man. The Prime Minister took a few breaths of good sea air, waved to three old men who were shuffling along against the wind. ‘Best air in the world,’ he called to them, ‘English air.’
A moment later he was back in the car and three elderly men were looking after him in excitement and disbelief.
‘I think we’ve done enough, Petrie,’ said the other voice. ‘The War Office.’
‘Sir.’
Rose drove back to London; when they reached the War Office, her two passengers left the car and hurried inside the building and she drove the car back to the depot.
‘A job well done,’ said the officer in charge of vehicles. ‘Discretion at all times. Be here tomorrow at ten and you’ll find out where you are to take them.’
‘Sir.’
Rose felt that she had said nothing but ‘sir’ for days. She took her bus timetable out of her pocket and began to work out the best way to get to her digs. But first, a cup of tea and a roll or a bun. She made her way to the Strand and went into the Lyons Corner House. As usual it was packed, but Rose bought a pot of tea and a cheese roll. That reminded her of Brad; he had simply not understood an English cheese and pickle sandwich. She sat down in a corner, poured a cup of tea and relaxed.
Her mind went over her original instructions again and again, and the more she repeated them the more excited and terrified she became. Never would she have envisaged this. Transporting a senior army officer, even the documents needed by an officer, would have made her feel useful and proud but this…even her parents would find it difficult to believe when she was eventually allowed to tell them.
‘We’re rather short of drivers at this time, Lance Corporal, but we heard about you from an important official. He says you have all the qualities required. There are times when it’s necessary that no one knows exactly where a vitally important official is. We set up decoys, doubles, using official cars, official drivers and, make no mistake about this, bodyguards. For the next three days you will be driving the Prime Minister around London and the south coast.’
Rose remembered how her heart had skipped a beat – in fact, almost stopped at that news. She hoped she had managed to hide her shock.
‘You will, of course, be driving a double, but the bodyguard will be very real and very necessary. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She was pleased at how calm and professional she had sounded when every instinct had made her want to jump in the air and shout with excitement. It’s an assignment, that’s all, a professional assignment, and I will stay calm and carry out my duties.
‘Good. The commander was sure you would not let us down.’
She could tell no one of her assignment, not her parents, her friends, and not Brad. She bit into the cheese sandwich, which was delicious – perhaps because she was so hungry – and found herself wishing that he was sitting there across from her. She could almost feel his presence, hear his voice. How had he become so important to her? What was it that suddenly appeared, as though from nowhere, and bound two people together
with an invisible but unbreakable cord?
I haven’t been hit by a Spitfire, Daisy, she sent a mental message to her twin sister. I’ve been run down by a Matador lorry.
She finished her cup and poured another one. Rose, the lance corporal in the ATS, was absolutely delighted to have been chosen for this assignment, but Rose Petrie, the woman, was unhappily conscious of unbelievably bad timing. She relived those moments standing with Brad at the door of her billet. She felt his hands on her, saw his eyes that asked so many gentle questions, felt his lips…
Had he tried to contact her? Two or three more days before she would find out. What if he had not, what if…?
No. Rose dismissed negative thoughts. Brad had said he would call; if he had not, then it was because he was a soldier and was busy somewhere else.
The third cup of tea was cold. Rose looked at her watch and had a truly lovely idea. Her landlady would not expect her before seven and so she was free to do whatever she wanted.
Cleo.
She would go to Cleo’s office building – luckily Cleo’s last short note had given the address – and ask if it was possible to see Miss Fitzpatrick.
The office, a stone’s throw from the Admiralty, was in a building just as overwhelming as the one in which Rose had been interviewed.
The receptionist here was approachable and quite happy to ring through to see if Miss Fitzpatrick was available to see a Miss Petrie.
A few minutes later, the elegant, trim Cleo arrived, breathless. ‘Rose, my very dear Rose,’ she said.
The girls looked at each other, assessing how the year since they had last been together had affected them, and then, naturally, they hugged.
‘Now, tell me, what on earth are you doing in town? You’re in uniform and so you’re working. Come along, I’ve taken five minutes and we can walk up and down outside, or there’s a canteen, but the food’s dire.’
They opted for outside where a frail sun was doing its best to warm up the cold air.
‘It’s lovely to see you, Cleo. I’m in London, working, but I wasn’t needed this afternoon and so – here I am.’
