On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Yes, Rose,’ said Brad, striving to look very solemn and serious. ‘Do you want a kiss or don’t you?’

  He did not wait for an answer.

  When he released her she almost stumbled. Daisy was right, but Rose felt as if she had been flattened, not only by the Matador, but also by a Spitfire. It was rather a lovely feeling. ‘Oh, Brad, dear, dear Brad.’

  He kissed her again. ‘Miss Petrie, do I ever like doing that. Let’s go have tea. Not in the Ritz, I’m afraid. They have a beautiful private dining room where really important meetings are held. We can only guess at the participants but just in case someone drops in who knows…’

  ‘There are lots of places on Piccadilly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rose. Don’t I sound like a little kid who doesn’t want Daddy to know what he’s doing?’

  Once again they had reached the gates, and this time they turned left and walked away from the Ritz until they were able to cross the road in comparative safety. They stopped at the first hotel where Brad chatted to the doorman. Rose could hear a recording of Noël Coward’s soothing, honeyed tones coming from inside.

  ‘Tea and scones,’ Brad said as they were ushered in. ‘I’d love tea and scones, wouldn’t you, Lance Corporal?’

  ‘Love it,’ she said as brightly as she could, for she was feeling slightly guilty. Brad was not the only one keeping secrets. She had never told him about the assassination attempt on a man who was risking his life every day to protect that of the Prime Minister. She had not told him that she had once driven General Eisenhower to a secret meeting in a big house.

  ‘Brad?’

  ‘How neat is that?’ He held up the menu card. ‘With jam, or with cream and jam?’

  ‘Don’t they know there’s rationing? Where are they getting jam or cream?’

  ‘They have a cow on the back lawn, which is lined with jam bushes.’

  She started to laugh. ‘Sorry. Sounded like the poor cow was lined – and what is a jam bush?’

  They sat, they laughed, they talked, they ate scones and they drank tea – which Brad especially enjoyed.

  ‘Wait till you drink my mother’s tea. Petrie’s Groceries and Fine Teas is renowned…’ She did not finish.

  Brad looked at her and, leaning over, took her hand in his. He kissed the back of her hand as he looked into her eyes. ‘One of these days I will sit down in your mom’s front room and I will drink her “Fine Teas”. Maybe it will be a while before we meet, but I meant what I said, Rose. I love you, and every time I even just think of you, I find I’m loving you more.’

  He looked around the pretty English country house-style interior, as if memorising it. ‘It’s cosy,’ he said, ‘and I like cosy.’ He gazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, partially covered by their drawn blackout curtains. ‘Look over there, in the park. I think that’s my favourite tree. It’s the tree that saw me try to find the courage to tell a girl I loved her. You haven’t really said anything about that – my declaration. Maybe it was a shock. A girl goes out on a late summer afternoon for tea and scones and, wham, this guy suddenly tells her – and half of London – that he loves her. And he does, Rose, with every atom of his being. Do you love him, even a little bit?’

  Rose began to laugh. ‘If you would stop talking for a moment, I might get a chance.’ She leaned over the table and put her free hand on his lips. ‘Ssh.’ And when they had stayed like that for a little, she withdrew her hand. ‘That will always be my favourite tree too. Yes, Brad, I love you. It was wonderful news to me when I realised that I have loved you for a long time.’

  There were several, mainly elderly people in the room, and each and every one was listening to and enjoying their conversation. Brad looked back at them, bringing his most devastating smile into play, no doubt causing one or two elderly hearts to flutter pleasantly. ‘Lovely to have had tea with you, ladies and gentlemen. Come on, Rose, you go powder your nose while I pay the bill.’

  He stood and bowed, and Rose could scarcely believe what she saw. With the exception of an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair, everyone else stood up too, and as Rose and Brad left the room, they clapped.

  ‘And Mom says the Brits are stuffy.’

  He found their waiter and, with many thanks and a generous tip, paid the bill. Rose was waiting for him on the pavement, the skirt of her yellow-and-white summer frock blowing in the breeze.

  ‘That’s a cute dress, Rose,’ he began as he walked with her to her bus stop. ‘Damn, how do I begin?’

  ‘At the beginning is always good.’

  ‘Oh, Rose, honey, this afternoon was meant just to be…perfect. You and me. I wanted to tell you that I love you, that I want to marry you, and oh how much I hoped you’d say you loved me too. And then orders came in. One of the things I need to tell you is that I’m going away for a while, a training exercise. Don’t know how often I’ll be able to contact you, if at all, but I’ll try.’

  He had just said that he loved her and with almost the same breath had said that he was going away? Surely not. ‘Going away? Where?’

  ‘If I knew I couldn’t tell you. If I’m in Britain, I’ll call you; if I’m not, I’ll write. That’s the best I can do, my darling.’

  ‘Oh, Brad,’ Rose said and, oblivious of the sensitivities of anyone near them, she threw her arms around him.

  He held her tightly, murmuring words of love into her hair while she thought of Sam and Grace, Daisy and Tomas, and all the other lovers who found themselves being tossed hither and yon by the waves of war.

  ‘It can’t last for ever, Brad, and I’ll be waiting. No, please, go and meet your father. You don’t want to be late,’ and she pulled out of his arms and hurried along the street, arriving at her bus stop just in time to catch the last bus that would get her back to base on time.

  Every day she looked for a letter or a card, and from the time she got up in the morning until the moment she climbed, exhausted, into bed at night, she listened for someone calling her name. But no letters came from Brad and neither were there any telephone calls.

  He loved her. He had said he loved her. She had witnesses, and she smiled tearfully as she remembered the faces of the elderly residents of the hotel where she and Brad had had tea. But she did not need witnesses because she believed in him implicitly. He was the man Stan had assured her was out there, the one who, according to Stan, would be in her ‘league’. That league was to do with character, and personality, and had nothing at all to do with money and position.

  She put herself, heart and soul, into her work.

  In the weeks following that lovely, last meeting with Brad, it seemed to Rose that she had never worked so hard.

  On her first morning in the vehicle depot she had had a pleasant surprise. There was a new mechanic in the huddle around an ambulance that was being readied for transfer abroad. It was a woman; Rose could not see her face, but then she heard the voice.

  ‘Corporal Church?’

  ‘It’s Sergeant, thank you…Rose? Rose Petrie. How lovely. So this is where they sent you? I heard you were driving.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. On and off.’

  ‘Let’s have dinner together and we can catch up. Now, you lot, let’s get this vehicle safe and secure for our wounded personnel.’

  Sergeant Church was another of Rose’s happy memories of her early training in Preston, and so far was the first member of the ATS to join Rose in London. She remembered how patient the mechanic had been and how much she had been liked and respected by everyone, including male mechanics.

  Rose could scarcely wait for the dinner bell to sound. She looked forward to catching up.

  London was full of dignitaries from the Allied countries. Many, if not most of the ‘top brass’, as they were termed, really liked the beautiful Daimlers provided by the British Government, and Rose found herself driving American and French dignitaries to meetings in and around London. She surreptitiously examined every American of a certain age, wondering if he could possibly be Brad’
s father, but after a while, tall, well-built men with American accents and beautifully tailored suits began to resemble one another, and she felt that she was even in danger of not remembering what Brad looked like.

  He had not telephoned and therefore it seemed that he must be overseas; otherwise he would have called her, as he had promised. But if he was in a theatre of war, where were his letters? And then, out of nowhere, arose rumours that the Americans were planning to bring the war to an end and, to do this, they were actually rehearsing the final blow somewhere in England.

  To many it sounded insane, like a very bad Hollywood movie, but to members of the military – and certainly to Rose’s platoon – it sounded like something guaranteed, the beginning of the end. And oh, how they longed for the end.

  Vera Lynn’s voice soared out of open windows, repeating her encouraging messages from wirelesses in every home throughout the land, assuring the military that when they heard Big Ben they would be safely home, or that one day soon returning servicemen would see bluebirds flying like little live Spitfires over Kent’s magnificent stretches of white cliffs. Like thousands of other women who waited, Rose knew every word of every poignant song, but her question was never answered. Where was Bradley Hastings?

  Autumn had blown in, carried by winds strong enough to strip the leaves from every tree in Green Park and elsewhere. Small branches and an occasional heavy bough followed the leaves and covered the usually immaculately tended greens with untidy piles.

  Rose waited patiently to hear from Brad and from Chiara who had made no mention of the abdication of the King of Italy or the fall of the dictator, Mussolini.

  ‘Italy’s on our side now,’ she told herself, ‘and that’s bound to please Francesca.’

  So it did, and, at last Chiara found time to write.

  Mamma is delirious with joy. She’s hoping that now some of the family will be able to come to the wedding, even if it’s only one or two. In Italy the whole village would come; they’d help with the food and the wine. There would be singing and dancing well into the next day but, don’t worry, Rose, we’ll have a wedding for Mamma that would please dear Nonno.

  A few weeks later Daisy Petrie had a twenty-four-hour pass and, for once, was close enough to be able to visit her sister. ‘The leaves did look rather pretty all over the parks and gardens but, believe you me, they are a dratted nuisance on an airfield,’ said Daisy. ‘They seem to come from miles away. As far as I remember, there are a few scraggy rose bushes on my base and a holly bush that somehow appeared outside the CO’s billet.’

  Rose tried to rustle up some interest in rose bushes and holly but could not manage.

  The young women were having tea, courtesy of Daisy, in Fortnum and Mason’s lovely store on Piccadilly. The tea itself, they agreed, was almost as good as the blend their parents ordered for a few special customers, like Rose’s ‘butler’, who actually owned the great house to which Rose had once delivered a bloodstained dispatch.

  ‘I never see him in uniform, Daisy, always very well-tailored civvies, but I suppose he’s in the Forces. He’s often referred to as “the commander”.’

  ‘Why? Maybe he’s in the navy, or was in the navy. He could be a politician or an adviser, or even a boffin like our dear Dr Fischer.’

  ‘Have you seen Mr…sorry. We spent years calling him Mr Fischer and it’s hard for me to remember him as Dr Fischer.’

  ‘Not recently, no, but I do know from Mum and Miss Partridge that his landlady is being paid to keep his room available for him. He wants to return to Dartford when the war’s over.’ Daisy cut a small piece from the cake she was eating and pushed her plate towards her sister. ‘Try that. Tasty, and I swear it has to have real eggs in it.’

  ‘So many things I want to know and will never be told about,’ Rose said with a sigh as she sampled the small sponge square, ‘including whether or not this cake has eggs in it.’

  ‘So many things we have to take on faith, Rose. Tomas and I are never on the same station. He doesn’t tell me about his sorties; I never tell him where I’ve dropped a parcel. Brad may even be back in the US. Who knows? You have to trust.’ She twisted her beautiful engagement ring around on her finger as if just touching it gave her some strength. ‘You’re in love with him and you say he feels the same about you?’

  ‘That was September.’

  ‘Is he worth waiting for?’

  Rose had actually never asked herself that question. She and Brad had admitted their love for each other. There had been no talk of plans, of possible – probable? – difficulties because she was a grocer’s daughter from Dartford and he was the only son of a wealthy American politician. There had been no time. He had left her and, as far as she knew, had spent some time with his father before returning to his base in Yorkshire. She remembered him now: saw him standing under the tree in Green Park; bowing to the elderly people in the hotel; smiling, that beautiful open smile.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  EIGHTEEN

  Rose had enjoyed her dinner with Sergeant Church, whom she was to call Prue when they were together and Sergeant or Ma’am when anyone else was there.

  ‘Prue?’

  ‘Short for Prudence. I ask you, Rose, Prudence Church. Did my parents even say the two words together before they had me christened?’

  ‘I like it.’

  They had eaten their midday meal, chattering all the while as if they had always been friends. ‘I think real friendship is like real love, Rose. Sometimes you meet someone and instinct tells you this person will mean something in your life. I liked you from the start.’

  ‘Thank you, Prue.’ Rose had been about to say ‘Ma’am’, but managed to stop in time. ‘I took to you at once. You were so capable but so patient.’

  ‘Poor me. What chance did I have with a name like Prudence Church?’

  They laughed, looked at the Bakelite clock that hung on the ugly green wall near the kitchen, and went back to work.

  ‘It’s going to be such fun here,’ said Prue. ‘Now, let’s lead by example and get back to the depot on time.

  Not all non-commissioned officers were like Prue.

  ‘Ever heard of an amphibious vehicle, Petrie?’

  Motor Vehicle Warrant Officer Carter was leafing through some papers as he sat behind his desk. He looked up at her. ‘Well?’

  ‘Not that I can remember, sir. I have seen one or two films about waterproofing vehicles but, if they were serious, then it was only at the very earliest stage of development.’

  ‘You have an American boyfriend. Has he mentioned them?’ He waited for an answer and then said, ‘Don’t look so shocked, Lance Corporal, there are no secrets in the military. Has he? He drives a Jeep, doesn’t he, a Willys Jeep, the MA model?’

  Rose – thinking it possible that WO Carter might even know Brad’s date of birth – said, ‘He did drive one, yes.’

  ‘And where is he stationed?’

  ‘I don’t know. Many of the American soldiers were transferred. We haven’t been in touch for some time.’

  ‘Better and better. Please let me know when you hear from him.’

  Rose had no intention of promising any such thing. If, or when, Brad telephoned or wrote to her, much would depend on what he had to say. ‘Is that all, sir?’

  ‘Anyone else from your former station shacked up with one of the Yanks? Seemingly nylon stockings reel you women in like fish.’

  Rose, who was at least two inches taller than the warrant officer and a great deal fitter, played with the dangerous thought of doing him some not-too – well, fairly – serious bodily harm. ‘I wouldn’t know, sir, but since I believe “shack up with” means to be living with another person, I can’t see how that’s possible.’

  ‘Careful, Rose, careful. Just because Starling thinks the sun rises and sets on your head – it doesn’t, by the way – and some ponce at the War Office seems to think likewise, don’t think you can take liberties. Perhaps I could arrange for your mail to be opened.�
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  Rose took her courage in both capable hands. She was unsure if it was legal to open mail, especially if it came from a British ally. Sam’s letters from his POW camp had been read by his captors and his letters from ‘the field’ had obviously been read, but that was in case, inadvertently or deliberately, a soldier had written something that would help the enemy. ‘Maybe I should discuss this with my friend at the War Office, sir. And you do know, I’m sure, who Master Sergeant Hastings’ father is?’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Sir.’ Rose saluted and marched smartly from the room.

  Where on earth did that come from? she asked herself as she almost ran back to her billet. You should have kept quiet, Rose, and if you have a chum at the War Office he’s never introduced himself. And that smart remark about Brad’s dad! I can’t believe what you’ve just done. It doesn’t matter that he had absolutely no right to talk to you like that.

  She lay down on her bed when she returned to the billet and went over and over the interaction with the WO. What a difference between him and WO Starling, the absolute epitome of a good non-commissioned officer. Was there anyone she could ask for advice?

  Oh, Brad, I hope I hear from you soon.

  ‘Golly, that’s not like you, Rose, flat out on your bed at three thirty in the afternoon.’ Agatha Bird, one of the other motor-pool drivers, had come in to change her stockings, which sported a ladder almost wide enough to climb on, straight down the front of her leg. ‘Twice worn, would you believe, and nothing, absolutely nothing I can do to repair it.’

  ‘According to old Carter, all you need to do is meet a Yank, shack up with him – to use his delicate term – and live a life full of nylon stockings.’

  ‘Oh, Rose, you are an innocent. Didn’t you know ATS personnel are usually called “officers’ groundsheets”?’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Rose, before she realised and blushed an unbecoming shade of red. In an attempt to recover she said that the warrant officer had asked what she knew about amphibious vehicles.

  ‘Frogs.’