by Ruby Jackson
Rose glared at her roommate.
‘Sorry, Rose, couldn’t resist. Why did he want to know that, and do you know anything? I’ve never seen any vehicle that could travel over land and under water. Submarines aren’t amphibious. Don’t you think that’s a bit like a Jules Verne story?’
‘Didn’t you get all those films about tanks and lorries and tractors? I saw one about early attempts at waterproofing but I can’t remember a single thing about it.’
‘It was so riveting.’
‘Exactly. But why does he want to know? And does he think the Americans are a step ahead of us and he wants a slap on the back for finding out?’
‘Yes, to both, I would say. And by the way, who’s the sergeant you had dinner with?’
Rose told Agatha how she had met Corporal, now Sergeant, Church. ‘You’ll like her, and I’ll introduce you the first chance I get. Probably you’ll run into her anyway. She’s the new chief mechanic.’
‘Sergeant P. Church. I was expecting a man, but then I’m always expecting a man. She won’t hobnob with a lowly lance corporal.’
‘Lots of NCOs socialise, Agatha. Just remember to keep business and pleasure separate.’
‘Right. So let’s get back to frogs.’
‘Very funny. I honestly don’t know why the Americans – and Canadians, I seem to remember – are here. Rumours tend to fly around like dandelion seeds in a wind. No one knows where they come from, but they’re there. If the Americans are rehearsing a manoeuvre then all I can say is good luck to them. They’re a close ally. Doesn’t that mean we shouldn’t spy on them? Asking me to tell him what Brad and his platoon are doing is spying, in my book.’
‘But if we’re on the same side it’s likely he wouldn’t object to telling you.’
‘Doesn’t feel right,’ said Rose, swinging her long thirty-denier-stocking-covered legs off the bed. ‘Carter threatened to open my letters.’
‘Ooh, not nice, but I think he’s allowed, if a senior officer thinks there’s grounds of some kind. Four years we’ve been at war, Rose. We’re all at the end of our tethers. I have a feeling that almost anything goes. Talk to the CO. She’ll set you straight. Or Sergeant Church – she’ll sort him. I wouldn’t want old Carter reading my Jeremy’s letters: curl his hair if he had any.’
But Rose had no letters.
She wondered if Brad had changed his mind. Much can happen in two months. He could have met someone else. He could be in the States, deciding that a love affair, where the couple were at least three thousand miles apart, made no sense. Perhaps he was ill, had been injured, perhaps he was…No, she could not even think that word. She could bear no more.
Work. Work was the best defence against despair.
And so Rose worked.
Her best days were when she had passengers to transport. She had driven military sitting quietly in the back looking at the scenery, and she had foreign dignitaries who spoke in languages she did not recognise, which was hardly surprising as she had met very few people who spoke anything other than English. Dr Fischer, she now knew, was German, but he had only ever spoken perfect if heavily accented English; Tomas, her brother-in-law-to-be, spoke several languages fluently, according to Daisy, but he too spoke English and she had never heard Czech spoken. She would have recognised Italian at once since Nonno had occasionally spoken in his native language to Chiara. But she was quite sure that Italian was never spoken by any of her dignitaries.
One morning in early November she was told to drive to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square to pick up two Americans, obviously extremely important ones, and take them to the Ritz Hotel. She was then to wait for as long as they were inside. Understanding that she might be there for hours and could, in no circumstance, leave her vehicle, Rose prepared in advance. She carried a book, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which she had been told by Sally that she must read – Sally read a lot while waiting backstage – and she had a fish-paste sandwich which, she told herself, was better than nothing, and a Thermos of tea.
Her passengers, a man and a woman, both extremely well dressed (surely clothes were rationed in the United States too?), chatted all the way from the embassy. Rose tried not to hear what they were saying. The woman’s voice, however, was especially strident, and the conversation became less like chatting and more of a discussion, possibly the extension of a meeting they had already had. Rose tried to blot out the voices by humming or even singing under her breath until she heard, ‘And where did you say your son was? Brad, isn’t it?’
The man’s voice was quieter and so Rose could not make out his answer, but she assured herself that there were hundreds of Americans named Bradley. She tried not to listen but she almost felt her ears straining to pick up any sound.
They were on Piccadilly. They passed Fortnum and Mason.
‘Do I ever love that store, Anderson.’
Anderson. Was her passenger a Mr Anderson, or did Mr Whoever have a surname as a Christian name, just as Bradley had?
‘Most women do,’ the attractive voice replied, ‘but it’s not one of Mirabelle’s haunts. Brad asked her about it and she advised him to check it out for himself.’
Rose drew up at the side door of the Ritz Hotel, and whatever the woman said in answer to that was lost for ever. She looked at her male passenger as carefully as she could, noting his height, his build, his facial features, and decided he looked American and nothing more. Was he Brad’s father?
How stupid you are, she chided herself. He looks nothing like Brad and his name is Mr Anderson.
The uniformed doorman had opened the door for her passengers. They alighted. The woman walked straight into the hotel but Mr Anderson stopped as he passed Rose’s window. ‘Thank you. I hope we don’t keep you too long,’ he said, and followed his compatriot up the steps and into the hotel.
‘And, like most Americans, he’s very polite,’ Rose added.
She moved the car to her designated parking place, poured herself a cup of tea and unwrapped her sandwich, trying to make herself believe it was filled with the finest line-caught Scottish salmon. She opened the book, which she had been told was a beautiful story about an Irish family living in Brooklyn in the first twenty years of the century, and began to read.
At any other time, the story would have captured her immediately, but she could not settle. Again she heard ‘Mr Anderson’ speaking both in rather hushed tones from the back of the car, and then in a clear voice as he bent to talk to her through the window. She was sure that she had heard that distinctive voice before. Common sense took over. She had never driven this particular VIP before – he was not the type of man who faded into the background or was indistinguishable in a group. But the voice? She told herself to stop being silly, to finish her sandwich and her drinkable tea and to start to read the book again.
She picked it up from the passenger seat and it fell open as if it was used to being open at that page.
‘…something in the man reminds you of him.’
The words pierced her to the heart. She thought of Brad and the American called Anderson who spoke with Brad’s voice, reminding her of him, and then she wondered why the book, Sally’s book, had fallen open on that page. Was it an accident, or had Sally read it so often that the book automatically opened there? And if so, what did the passage mean to her old school friend? And then Rose laughed and relaxed. Surely if the book meant something special to Sally she would not, so easily, have given it away.
I’ll write to her when I’ve finished it.
Her mind made up, Rose opened the book at the beginning and began again to read.
‘Good story?’ After the utter silence of she knew not how long, the voice beside her at the window made her jump. She had been quite lost in the tale.
‘Sir. Sorry.’ She reached for the handle to let herself out.
‘No, don’t worry. Look, we will be some time and that’s a dreadful waste of your time and of this beautiful automobile. I called the boss and he OK’d it. You
go on back to the depot and when – if – we ever get done, we’ll get a cab. Heck, maybe they’ll even let me ride a bus, a London bus.’
As quickly as he had come he was gone.
Two hours later, Rose was driving a renovated ambulance to a military hospital near Dover. She returned by train to London and got a lift to her depot in the rather badly aired cab of a truck whose driver was delivering sheep to an abattoir.
‘Life’s little tapestry,’ she heard herself saying.
‘What’s that, lass?’ asked the rather large woman who was driving the truck and who, from the whiffs from her underarms, had taken the advice to save water rather too seriously.
‘Didn’t know I was speaking. I was thinking about all the unexpected things that happen to us every day.’
‘Aye, that’s what my old man must have been thinking when he came out of the pub at dinner time and got hit by a bit of shrapnel as big as a bus.’
Rose felt terrible. ‘I’m so sorry, that must have been dreadful for you.’
‘It was him that got hit, love. The kids don’t miss him neither.’ Perhaps she too felt that she was sounding rather unfeeling, for she swiftly added, ‘It was quick, and that’s a blessing.’
The rest of the journey was spent in silence, but when they reached Rose’s base, the woman surprised her again by wishing her luck.
‘Think all you young girls is marvellous, driving ambulances and flying aeroplanes, would you believe? But more than time it were over. Thought them Yanks coming was supposed to fix everything. There’s millions of ’em in Northern Ireland, on the south coast, everywhere. Can’t pop in for a half without falling over one of ’em. Got to be on my way. Butcher’s waiting. Flag me down anytime, love. Always got room for the army.’
Rose thanked her and waved as the great truck with its overcrowded passengers carried on its way. What a character the driver had been. Was that what was called Blitz spirit, this ability to be cheerful, no matter what?
She watched until the truck had disappeared around a bend and took several breaths of clean air. Body odour and sheep were not a good mix.
‘Got a lift back then, Rose?’ Corporal Sweet stated the obvious. ‘I think his nibs – sorry, Warrant Officer Carter – has another job for you. He’s still in the office.’
Another job? Rose looked at her watch in case her body clock wasn’t functioning and she would discover that it was only early afternoon.
The watch read eight thirty. Rose shook her left wrist and listened to the steady ticking. The watch was working perfectly and so was her body clock, which was telling her that it was high time she had something to eat. ‘Blast,’ she said, and kicked a tuft of grass.
No point in delaying. She went straight to the depot office, knocked, and was told to enter.
‘Glad you got back, Petrie. God, you smell. What did you come back in, a refuse bin?’
She was sure he did not expect an answer.
‘You had better have a bath and then see if the kitchen can give you anything. I take it you haven’t eaten?’ He reached into a drawer and removed some papers. ‘Couple of letters arrived for you. If there is something that you can share, it would be nice to have advance warning of what our allies are planning – only as it affects us, of course. Wouldn’t want you snuggling up, even with an ally, just to get a little information. You’ve been asked for special, some American woman as “felt so safe in her hands” as she told her ambassador. Pack for an overnight; nice frock, if you’ve got one, and probably you’ll need all your jumpers and some woolly pyjamas. You’re driving to a country house – bound to be bloody freezing. Lots of foreigners are going, military, diplomatic. Keep your ears and your eyes open and bring your passengers back safe, Sunday lunchtime. All right?’
‘You said a woman. The one I drove today?’
‘Of course it’s the woman you drove today, and she’ll have someone with her. Could be de Gaulle, could be Eisenhower. You just do your job. Dismissed.’
Rose took the letters handed to her, saluted and hurried back to her billet where cries of ‘Heavens above, Rose, have you been sleeping with wet dogs?’ drove her to the showers before she tried to find a hot meal and peace to read her letters. It took an immense amount of willpower not to look at either of the two envelopes. She felt as she had long ago as a child when, with her twin sister and her brothers, she had waited sleeplessly to see if Father Christmas had visited.
She stood in the cubicle enjoying what was left of the now warmish water on her back and shoulders while her mind worked furiously.
She was much too junior to be ordered to drive either of the two generals in London; besides, each had his own dedicated driver. Carter was being, for him, amusing.
‘Ha-ha,’ she said as she tried to rub dry her hair, looking over longingly at her folded clean clothes. In the pocket of her jacket were the letters and she desperately wanted to read them.
She dragged a comb through her hair, plaited it, dressed and wrapped herself in her Teddy Bear coat.
Quickest shower ever, she thought, but how good cleanliness felt.
In the dining hall were several stragglers and a very tired kitchen assistant.
‘Only hot plate is soup, barley,’ offered the server.
‘And it’s thick enough to walk on,’ called a disgruntled mechanic.
‘Just the way I like it,’ said Rose, and was given a large bowl of steaming hot thick soup, a rather tired morning roll and an even more exhausted apple.
‘Happy Hallowe’en.’
‘It’s November.’
‘Apple’s left over from Hallowe’en but there must be a little bit of goodness in it.’
Rose looked at the apple. ‘Pre-war Hallowe’en?’
‘Very funny. There’s cocoa.’
She took some cocoa, her soup and her roll and went to an empty table, so that she could read her letters in peace.
She smiled, a broad, happy smile. A letter from Brad – she was almost sure that was his writing on the blue envelope – and one from her mum. She was more than happy to see the face of the reigning monarch, George VI, on the stamps on both letters. Brad was in Britain somewhere.
Dear Rose,
I love you. I hope you still love me. I know I haven’t written and I’m sorry but, believe me, my beautiful girl, I have never been worked so hard in my entire life. Several times I started a letter and fell asleep over it. Can’t say what we’re doing or where we are, not that I’m absolutely sure where we are myself, since there are no road signs of any kind around here and nothing that helps. One hill looks much like another hill, and one tree like another. I can tell the difference between, no, they’d scrub out what I was going to write there so I’ll write this. I love you with all my heart and that Saturday was the happiest day of my entire life bar none.
Do you feel even a little bit the same? Oh, honey, I dream of holding you. Please write. It’ll take a while but they swear mail will reach us.
Brad
Rose read it until she had memorised every word – and her hot soup was cold – but she ate it and decided it was absolutely delicious, as was the roll and the cocoa which, sensibly, she had been drinking while she was reading.
Very carefully she folded the sheet of paper, admiring his firm, strong handwriting as she did so, and returned it to its envelope, which she put in her bag. She took the second letter and opened it.
Dear Rose,
Now try not to be upset and worry but Phil has been injured in…an incident, they called it in the telegram. A magazine exploded and I couldn’t understand that but Daddy told me what it is. Phil got hit by bits of metal and is in a hospital, not on the ship, but somewhere they won’t tell us but it’s not England, it’s in the Mediterranean. Daddy said we would take our savings and go but they say we’re not allowed and they’ll keep us informed and when he’s well enough to travel, he’ll be brought back to England. Daddy says I have to tell my girls the truth and so my Phil has lost his left arm and there
’s something wrong with his left ear. He hasn’t got one and can’t hear on that side but he’s alive, Rose, and that’s all I and that’s all we care about, isn’t it?
I want him home here where I can look after him. Dad says I shouldn’t ask but I’m going to ask them to send him home in plenty of time for Christmas. He hasn’t had Christmas at home for years and the doctors here are better than in the Mediterranean. Everybody knows a person gets well quicker at home.
Miss Partridge is a wonderful help and young George is ever such a good boy. He’s grown a lot since you was last home, seemed just to spurt. He says, apart from his black hair he’s getting to look more like a Petrie. Good laddie, isn’t he?
Come home when you can and maybe they’ll give you a pass when our Phil comes home. He’ll feel better seeing his sisters.
She finished by sending Rose all her love. Rose smiled through the tears that had begun to spill. ‘All her love’ had been sent to Daisy and to Sam and probably on to poor injured Phil himself.
The family had worried about their sailor son for a long time. They were used to not hearing from him for months and then getting four, five or even more letters on the same day. No letters but a telegram had come, and Flora, who had received two before during the course of this terrible war, had, as always, feared the worst. But he was not dead. Her son was injured, maimed even, but she would love him and care for him for as long as he needed her.
Rose knew that as well as she knew her own name. Phil had been injured but the injuries were not life-threatening, and Brad Hastings was somewhere in Britain and he loved her. Life could not get better.
She returned to her billet to write to her parents, assuring them that she was well, enjoying her work, and that she would come home as soon as she possibly could to see Phil. In the meantime she would write to him. She reminded her mother that she had had leave the Christmas before, and so it was unlikely that she would be given Christmas leave two years in a row. And then she wrote to Brad, a letter that she sent to the strange address he’d given, praying that those seemingly odd letters and numbers would make sense to the Post Office.
