On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  Rose looked around the room at the men and women either deep in serious conversation or laughing together at someone’s joke or tale. She put her half-finished glass on a convenient table and began to make her way through wall-to-wall people, all seemingly determined to enjoy themselves. She saw two women walking purposefully towards one of the many doors, and decided to follow them. Then she too would look as if she knew where she was going.

  One had disappeared into the cubicle by the time Rose caught up with them and the other was very carefully examining her teeth in the mirror that hung above a painted porcelain basin. She saw Rose in the mirror and said something, but between her heavily accented English and the fact that she was holding her mouth open with her fingers, Rose had no idea what she was saying.

  ‘…don’t you agree?’ finished the woman, having removed her hands from her mouth.

  Rose made a sound that could have been taken for anything and the woman smiled. ‘Exactly,’ she said, just as the door opened and her companion came out.

  They exchanged places after the woman had politely indicated to Rose that she was welcome to make use of the facilities first, if her need were greater.

  ‘Your head, it is real?’

  Assuming that she was asking about her hair, Rose touched the beautiful coil at the back of her neck and said yes.

  The woman looked at Rose’s ‘dress it up or down’ dress and said, ‘You can sell for much money.’

  Is it likely that this woman might say anything the commander would want to hear? thought Rose, as she tried to smile while edging away. The opening of the cubicle saved her and so she took her place inside. When she came out after a few minutes, both women were gone.

  Rose made her way back to the party. Ingram was waiting for her. She expected him to ask if she had learned anything in the ladies’ room. Instead he asked her how well she knew Senator Hastings.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Rose, who was already beginning to put two and two together. A rich father who had meetings with important people in places like the Ritz Hotel.

  ‘Hastings, your friendly American. You drove him a few times and you were in the garden with him. What did you talk about?’

  This could not be happening. Hastings? She did not want the American’s name to be Hastings. His name was definitely Anderson. He could not be Brad’s father. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ingram.’

  ‘Over by the fireplace, talking to the commander. Who is that?’

  She turned her head but she did not look because a stone in the pit of her stomach was telling her who was chatting by the fire. ‘I’m just the driver; we weren’t introduced.’

  He looked at her and then decided that she was telling the truth. Drivers did not expect to be formally introduced to the packages they delivered. ‘His name is Anderson Hastings. Job? United States senator. One wife, Mirabelle Bradley Hastings, swimming in oil and everything else. One son, Master Sergeant Bradley Hastings. Need I go on?’

  ‘I didn’t know any of that, and it’s none of my business. What difference does it make who he is? You didn’t expect me to listen in to his conversations.’

  ‘That would be quite nice.’

  ‘I listened to the two women I followed to the loo. Riveting. One mangled the King’s English and the other spoke very little. She obviously thought my dress disgustingly inexpensive and dropped a hint that, in order to salvage my wardrobe, I could sell my hair. I got out before she reached for scissors.’

  ‘And Bradley?’

  ‘I’ve already told those who needed to know that we haven’t been in contact for some time. You surely can’t think his father, if that is his father, is not on our side?’

  ‘Of course not. The family foundations have put millions into aiding the war effort, and they are amazingly generous with the Bundles for Britain scheme some other rich American woman set up. Odd that the only child is a non-commissioned officer. They could have bought him a commission if his degree from Yale hadn’t got him one on a silver salver.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever heard of principles, Ingram? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the table over there and listen in to lots of conversations. What’s the betting that most of them are talking about the ridiculous price of caviar, or the appallingly badly trained staff one gets these days?’ And with that nasty little dig, Rose turned and left him.

  She walked with unseeing eyes across the luxurious carpet. Of course she had known that Brad’s father was a senator, but she had stupidly fought tooth and nail against admitting that the friendly American she had driven around London and talked to in the commander’s starlit garden was Senator Hastings. Had Brad told his father about her? Had he said, ‘I’m in love with a girl whose dad has a grocery shop?’ Had he told him that Rose had left school at fourteen with no qualifications at all? Wow, how beautifully she would slot into this family.

  Slot into the family! What on earth was she thinking? Brad had said he loved her. A few days later he had disappeared out of her life without a word. She would not think of him, even though he had whispered that he wanted to marry her.

  Even in a time of war, of rationings, of short supplies, of shipping difficulties, to her untrained eyes there seemed to be plenty of luxury items available for those who had the funds to pay for them. Not all the guests agreed with her, as she heard one or two of those gathered around the long table, men and women, talking of ‘the good old days’ when one could really ‘set a decent table’. She strove to remember that each and every person here represented his or her country in some way, and perhaps had made sacrifices that she would never be called upon to make.

  Rose picked up a small plate and helped herself to half a boiled egg. The yolk had been taken out, mixed with all manner of things she did not recognise, and pushed back in. Rose wondered how she was supposed to eat it and what she would do if it tasted horrible. Was there some way of disposing of it? She looked back at the large oval plate on which sat at least twenty of the eggs and reminded herself that eggs were scarce. She could not possibly waste food.

  ‘Finger food, honey,’ whispered Senator Jarrold, who had moved so quietly that Rose had not noticed her arrival. ‘Devilled eggs, and almost as good as my recipe. Enjoy,’ she whispered as she moved away, her diamonds glittering in the candlelight.

  Rose enjoyed, and stood for a moment trying to list the ingredients. Mum would love to try that.

  ‘Couldn’t believe it, the bottom half resembled a boat, and the top looked like a tank.’ The accent was English and the dinner-suited man was standing a few yards away from Rose and was chatting to a man in uniform.

  ‘An amphibious vehicle. There is nothing new about trying to design a vehicle that can move safely through water and on solid ground too. You really must bone up on naval history, old chap. Fascinating. Everything from coracles to mulberries. Didn’t that Leonardo chappie draw models, or was that only of aircraft?’

  The uniformed man was looking directly at Rose as he spoke. She put down her plate, as if that was what she had intended to do all along, and moved away from the table.

  The conversation carried on but the sense of it did not reach Rose. She wondered if what she had overheard was the type of party chitchat she was supposed to report. She could see no value in it. WO Carter had brought the subject up first, though, and here were two men – one a sailor, if she had read his uniform correctly, and the other a civilian, possibly a government officer – saying there was nothing new in amphibious vehicles; or was that what they had been saying? How could a spy learn anything from the tail end of a conversation? Two grown men, each of whom had, no doubt, spent part of his childhood sailing boats on a pond, were simply talking about boats – and fruit. She hummed the old nursery rhyme ‘Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush’.

  ‘Nothing to report, sir,’ was what she would say if questioned.

  Rose was hungry and thirsty. She had eaten half of a mucked-about-with egg and had enjoyed almost half a glass of wh
at she had been assured was first-class champagne. She would rather like to finish the drink if it was still where she had left it.

  The domestic staff members were much too well trained and her glass had been removed long before it could possibly have marked the polished wood on which it had sat.

  She almost said hurrah for well-trained staff since, almost immediately, a young man with a tray approached and offered her a second glass. It was cold and delicious, and she was enjoying it very much when another snippet of conversation made its way to her from behind a large bank of plants.

  ‘Pontoons, flat-bodied boats, very uncomfortable in rough weather.’

  A woman’s voice this time, but not a familiar one, and each word more difficult to hear than the word before as the talkers moved away from the area. Rose, glass in hand, made her way around the flower barrier as quickly but as subtly as she could.

  Impossible to know which member of which group had been speaking. Several groups of people were obviously making their way to the cloakrooms. The party was coming to an end.

  Rose followed on; it had been an experience but she was quite glad it was over.

  TWENTY

  ‘And what precious gems did you pick up on your little visit with those and such as those, Petrie?’

  Once again Rose wondered just what Carter thought she might have overheard. The guests in both great houses were Allies. She decided to see how he would deal with the unvarnished truth. ‘Should I ever need money in a hurry, Warrant Officer, I can sell my hair for “much money”.’

  ‘Very useful, I’m sure. And as to the war?’

  ‘The only time I heard anyone mention the war, sir, was when someone complained that shortages were ruining parties. They did hold meetings but I wasn’t near any of those. Sorry, sir, but surely you didn’t expect someone like me to be able to nose out a spy or a traitor?’

  ‘You watching too many spy films, Petrie? You’re not bright enough to make a spy, but you’ve got a Yankee boyfriend. They’re planning something and, yes, they’ll tell us when they’re good and ready, but wouldn’t it be nice to know now? Promotion, Petrie, the ladder of success; are you climbing it or not?’

  Rose had never given much thought to promotion, being more interested in doing her duty as faithfully and as thoroughly as she could. She answered truthfully, ‘Never give it much thought, sir.’

  ‘Some of us don’t think of anything else; that next stripe tantalises, staying just out of reach. Now, say you was to have a golden nugget that I could pass on to…someone, then maybe I could put something extra in your way.’

  ‘Master Sergeant Hastings wouldn’t tell me anything, even if he knew it, sir.’ The word ‘sir’ seemed to stick in her throat.

  ‘How would you like to spend the rest of this bloody war driving vehicles the scrap yards would refuse?’

  What was she to answer? Tell the truth: I would prefer to drive the latest Daimler? Tell him that somebody had to drive them – or would that be judged colossal cheek? She said nothing.

  ‘Seems you’re so pally with the Yanks, you walked into that posh place wearing a fortune in mink. I have eyes and ears everywhere, Petrie. Belonged to the woman who says she feels so safe in your little hands.’

  ‘Senator Jarrold is an extremely thoughtful woman.’

  ‘And Senator Hastings?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know how thoughtful he is.’

  ‘And what did you talk about during your little tête-à-tête by the goldfish pond? You look startled, Lance Corporal. A friend told me.’

  Rose took her courage and her growing anger in both hands and held tightly. ‘International relations.’

  Warrant Officer Carter grinned just like a cat that has finally found an available dish of cream. ‘In particular?’

  ‘Well, sir, we discovered that occasionally each of us would like to punch someone right in the nose, but, because of the same international relations, we take a walk instead. Now, if that’s all, sir, I need to iron my uniform for tomorrow.’ Rose did not wait to be dismissed but saluted smartly, turned on her heel and left the office.

  ‘I think the phrase is “professional suicide”,’ said Agatha, when Rose told her of the conversation with WO Carter. ‘He’s been passed over for promotion so often and can’t bring himself to believe that it has anything to do with his less-than-riveting personality. Possibly a little late to warn you, but the less interaction with him the better – strictly business; no personal conversations at all.’

  ‘Thanks a lot.’

  ‘Anyone seen a Rose Petrie?’ yelled a voice from the door, and Rose called, ‘Here,’ almost as loudly.

  ‘Phone call.’

  The first terrifying thought was that something had happened to Phil. Mr Tiverton would ring. So afraid was she that it never occurred to her that it would be very difficult for the vicar to discover the number of that one public telephone box out of so many. She ran to it. ‘Hello,’ she gasped.

  ‘Rose? Gosh, honey, you didn’t need to run. I have a whole bucket of those pennies.’

  ‘Brad?’

  ‘How many guys are you expecting to call, Miss Petrie? Yes, ma’am, it’s Brad, and I wanted to apologise on behalf of the US of A for keeping me God alone knows where for all this time. Say Brad again,’ he whispered, his voice deep with rich meanings. ‘Just hearing you say my name is a joy.’

  ‘Brad,’ she said. ‘Brad?’

  ‘Great, your voice saying my name is in my head now and I have a feeling that I’ll need to listen to it over and over in the months ahead.’

  ‘Is something happening?’ She was asking the very question that Carter wanted her to ask, but not for Carter, for herself. ‘Sorry, Brad, I didn’t mean to ask like that but…but…oh, Brad, I do love you and I worry.’

  Oh, why did I say that?

  ‘Brad, forget everything I’ve said.’

  ‘No way. I will remember “Brad, I love you” for ever. But, honey, I don’t have much time and I needed to tell you my dad called a while ago. He says he’s met a really beautiful English girl who’s an ATS driver, a Lance Corporal Petrie.’

  Rose waited a moment or so for him to continue, but when he stayed quiet, she spoke. ‘Seems I’ve driven him a few times before last weekend. I thought he was Senator Anderson. I forgot what a bad habit you Americans have of using surnames as Christian names – very confusing. On Saturday evening I met him by a fish pond, and later drove him and another American senator to a country-house party. Is that what you wanted to know?’

  He laughed. ‘He never lies to me, Rose. Sometimes he omits to tell me something he thinks I don’t need to know, like whether or not he introduced himself, and whether or not the lovely English girl told him his son is crazy for her.’

  ‘I liked him, Brad. He said nothing about his son and he asked me nothing. Well, he did.’ She stopped without telling him what his father had asked.

  ‘Don’t tease, sweetest Rose. I didn’t react; at least I don’t think I reacted when he said your name. As soon as I can, I want to tell him – and Mom. I want to walk up to them, with you beside me, and say, this is Rose, the woman I love and want to marry. It’s amazing, I’ll tell them, what a lucky guy can fish out of an English ditch.’

  She thought she might explode with joy. Surely this happiness was too big for a mere human body to contain. ‘He asked nothing, Brad. He was sweet, told me I’d freeze if I stayed out any longer. But I can’t think why he’d ever put the two of us together.’

  She heard him groan. ‘Me. I did it, that day we walked in Green Park. I was high as a kite with happiness when I met up with him and he guessed it had to be a girl.’

  ‘You told him my name?’

  ‘No, if I had, he would have introduced himself to you. I said I met a fabulous English girl who’s in the ATS; he was impressed, hoped we’d see more of each other. I told him I sure would be working on that. Mom has a goddaughter she would quite like to welcome into the family, and she has a couple of golfin
g buddies with daughters. Poor girls are as tired of being pushed at me as I am of being offered up to them.’

  Rose smiled. Could life and love, which had always confused her, be so simple? All her life she had had friends who were male. Only with Stan had it been a bit different, she supposed, and with the awful Terry. But now it seemed possible that two people might meet, sometimes in extraordinary circumstances, and then meet again and talk, and somehow they’re in love. Such a beautiful, miraculous and thrilling realisation. Rose Petrie was in love with Bradley Hastings and he was in love with her. She said nothing of this. Instead she said, ‘There are three people waiting outside in the cold, Brad.’

  ‘OK, I’ll be real quick. I’m busy, we’re playing soldier. Things are being thrown at us or dropped on us and most of the time I am cold, tired and very, very wet. When this is all over, let’s get married and go somewhere very hot and dry.’

  The line went dead. Had he run out of coins or had he said too much? Seemed to Rose that Sam had told his family exactly the same about his military training; things were always being thrown at him or dropped on him, and by this she had supposed he meant ammunition – surely not live – and he was always crawling through ponds. Possibly that was an integral part of every infantryman’s training. She would not allow herself to worry, and neither would she worry about goddaughters or golfing buddies.

  ‘I get pneumonia and I’ll sue you, Petrie,’ said the first person in the queue for the telephone, and the others nodded in agreement.

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ said Rose as she hurried past them and back to the warmth of her billet.

  During the days that followed, those who were lucky enough to have Christmas leave packed their bags and made their separate ways across the United Kingdom. The others, like Rose, continued to work. There was no shortage of projects. The short December days, no matter how cold or bleak as they rushed headlong towards the fifth year of this war, were always cheered by the arrival of the post. For months the Government had had posters strategically placed, telling everyone, everywhere, from the North of Scotland to the tip of Land’s End, to remember service personnel at Christmas. Rose was heartened to receive cards from ATS personnel with whom she had trained, from former school friends, from Mr Tiverton, the vicar, and was especially touched – and embarrassed – to receive a card and a beautiful hand-knitted scarf from Stan’s grandmother. Her heart went out to that old lady who, for the second year running, was sitting alone, knitting for everyone but the person she had loved more than anyone else in the world. Rose had never been in the habit of exchanging gifts with Mrs Crisp, but she vowed to begin this year. If she sent a card as soon as she could find one, Mrs Crisp would be bound to receive it before Christmas. She remembered that Stan had always bought angels, shepherds or a Robin Redbreast, preferably with at least a twig of holly and fat red berries, for his gran’s card, and so Rose would take up that tradition now; she vowed to continue it year after year.