On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  Francesca and Chiara wrote bringing Rose up to date with their plans.

  It will be a small wedding, Rose, as small as my Italian relatives will allow, but it would make us all very happy if you could be here too. You saved my life and you tried so hard to save Nonno’s. How happy he would be to see you with us, a very special member of our family. I will let you know as soon as I know the date, or maybe Enrico will know a way that is faster than the post.

  Rose felt Chiara’s happiness jump from the page. I’ll certainly try, Rose decided, even if I am almost the only one there who doesn’t speak Italian.

  But for the moment she was determined to enjoy Christmas Day, even though she was on maintenance duty. Together with another driver, she cycled to a farm where they bought – ‘at a special price for the ATS’ – a small tree. The farmer threw in a few sprigs of holly and cut-off branch ends from bigger trees, and the two young women managed to get all their purchases into their bags and transported, without too much difficulty, back to the station. They sang Christmas songs and, when they ran out of songs and carols that they both knew, they changed to favourite songs of the year.

  ‘“In the shade of the old apple tree”,’ sang Rose at the top of her voice as she tried to remember every detail of London’s Green Park and Yorkshire’s Marston Moor.

  ‘“I’m always chasing rainbows”,’ her companion sang, unaware or uncaring that she was completely out of tune.

  They reached the gates and, singing last Christmas’s classic, ‘White Christmas’, sailed through, holding their twigs of holly aloft as if they were regimental standards.

  ‘Right, we’ve done the hard work; let the others decorate our little home from home.’

  Decorations were unearthed from a cupboard in one of the offices, but before they were arranged on table-tops or tied to bedsteads, the two stalwarts, who had made much of the fact that they had gone bravely out into the cold to find the tree, were as involved as anyone else.

  Rose recalled Christmases at home with her family and was sure that most of the others did too. Occasionally a tear was shed as the ATS women felt homesick or, in spite of the friendly group around them, lonely. They watched as the fittest, most agile and tallest balanced on a ladder as she attached all the Christmas cards to strings, which had been saved from the year before and probably the year before that.

  Warnings accompanied the decorating. ‘Watch that string, it’s pre-war – you can’t get string like that these days. I’ll want every inch of it back, and if anyone gets some on a parcel, donate it, please.’

  On Christmas Eve almost everyone who was off duty attended the multi-denominational carol service.

  ‘My fifth carol service of this damned war,’ said more than one woman, ‘but somehow, and I don’t know how, I found this one really inspiring.’

  Rose agreed, for as she had listened to the readings or joined in the singing, she could see four girls, arm in arm, walking down a dark street to an ancient church lit only by candles. They would do it again, she vowed. Not this year, maybe not the next, but they would do it and the church would be ablaze with lights and the church bells would peal out the message of goodwill to all men.

  Despite rationing and shortages, the cooks were working hard to make the meals not only nourishing, but also mouth-watering. On Christmas Day, Rose was working on the rather tired engine of a Morris Reconnaissance car and therefore was not too concerned about the menu for Christmas dinner. No matter how tasty it was, it was not cooked in that cosy flat above the grocery shop in Dartford. She was completely involved in her work; her hands – and even her nose where she had rubbed it – were covered in dirt and oil. She had decided to bury herself in hard physical labour so as to drown out the reality that she was not very far from home and all those she loved. For the first time, however, her thoughts and dreams and memories were not all about family but about a beautiful man who had come into her life such a short time ago. Yes, she admitted to herself, Stan had been right all along when he had said that one day she would meet a man who would be right for her, who would be in her league.

  ‘Is Brad in my league, Stan, my old friend,’ she said now, ‘or more importantly, am I in his?’

  Stan’s grandmother was not the only one who had sent Rose a Christmas gift, and like many of the other lucky ones who received presents from home, Rose had shared her treats with the others in her billet. Now she worked on the engine until she knew it would be foolish to work any more, hungry, tired and in rapidly fading light.

  A hot shower. That was what she wanted. That would be the best Christmas present. She tidied her station, cleaning every tool before putting it away in its proper place, cleaned her hands as well as she could, pulled off her overalls and put them in the laundry hamper, turned off the lights, and walked out, locking the door behind her. Since there were no mirrors, apart from those on vehicles, she had no idea how dirty her face was.

  ‘In disguise, Rose?’ asked the first person who passed her.

  Rose put the remark down to Christmas spirit, perhaps the glass of wine the cook had promised to find for everyone in the decorated dining hall.

  Some runners laughed as they passed her and one called, ‘Merry Christmas, Cinderella.’

  Rose looked down at the uniform. Well pressed and perfectly clean. Cinderella surely had worn rags.

  She reached her hut and went in.

  ‘Surprise,’ yelled the women who were there. ‘Quick, Rose, before he goes. Poor man only has twenty minutes before he has to leave.’

  Rose was confused by the silly remarks about Cinderella. ‘What’s wrong with all of you? What man? Where?’

  ‘Quick, this is my last half-inch of cleansing cream. Use it to clean your face and never forget who cleaned you up on Christmas Day.’

  ‘The CO’s office, Rose. Run, and wipe your face on the way. And wish him Happy Christmas from us too.’

  She hesitated. ‘Brad? Is it Brad? It can’t be Brad,’ but, without stopping to clean her face, she ran back out into the cold December day and up the hill to the office block. Standing outside was…

  ‘Brad.’

  She ran to him and he held out his arms and closed them round her as if he would never let her go. ‘Merry Christmas, Rose,’ he said, and bent down to kiss her. ‘Happy, Happy Christmas, my beautiful, wonderful Rose.’

  How lovely it would be to stand like that for ever, held against his chest, watching perfect white flakes of snow drift down out of the grey sky onto his dark hair, but she could not. He was a soldier and must be back on his base.

  ‘I have to go, sweetheart, but just seeing you has made my Christmas. I’ve left a box for you and the girls; oh, and Arvizo says Feliz Navidad. He hitchhiked clear across country to say that to Gladys.’

  Rose had known that her friend Gladys was writing to the American soldier, but not that they were so close that he would go to such lengths to see her. ‘I’m glad they’re still in touch. She worries because she’s older.’

  ‘Tell her not to worry. He’s been in the military since he was sixteen years old and we soldiers age fast. Now, enough of them. I’ll walk you back to your billet, and then, oh, Rose, Rose, my so special Rose, I don’t know when I’ll see you again. I’m moving again but that’s all I can say. Possibly I’ll be overseas. When I get back, will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes, Brad, I will.’

  ‘So we’re engaged, more or less?’

  ‘I think so, Brad,’ Rose whispered, her whole body quivering, not with cold, but with joy.

  ‘I didn’t have time to look for a ring.’

  ‘I don’t need a ring; it’s more than enough to see you and hear your voice.’

  He let her go. ‘Wait,’ he said, and he held out his hand. ‘This is my class ring from Yale. Way too big for your fingers, but maybe if you wore it round your neck…’ He slipped the heavy gold ring into her hand. ‘Will you take it, honey?’

  ‘I’ll find a chain and I’ll wear it always – until
you come back from wherever you are going.’

  He reached up and she saw that he wore a chain around his neck. Little metal tags hung from it and he took them off. ‘Dog tags,’ he laughed, ‘and I can get another chain easy.’

  He slipped the chain through the ring and lowered it over her head. ‘Wear my ring, my Rose, because it says, Bradley Anderson Hastings loves you and will love you for ever.’

  Rose struggled to hold back the tears. She felt the weight of the ring against her skin; she would always be able to feel it. There would be time enough to worry about what her parents might say concerning her plan to marry an American and probably going with him to that town in Connecticut. There would be time enough to worry about his mother and her hopes and plans for her only son, time enough to worry about so many things, like whether his father, who had been so friendly and kind when he saw her only as an ATS driver, would be just as courteous when he realised that she was the girl with whom his son had fallen in love. But now there was only Brad who was going into danger. He was a soldier and would do what he had to do as professionally as he could.

  ‘Come back to me, Brad, some day.’

  He kissed her again until they were both breathless, and then he took her hand, but not before she saw the tears in his eyes, and he ran with her down the hill.

  They did not speak again. Rose stood at the door of her quarters and watched him race to where a Willys Jeep sat, the engine already running. He jumped in, the driver accelerated away.

  A moment later, Rose was alone in the snow.

  TWENTY-ONE

  February 1944

  The year began badly. What was left of the German air force threw itself into more attempts to bomb Britain into submission. Unfortunately for Germany, they could not outfly the more manoeuvrable Royal Air Force planes, or match the skill of the night fighters, and so they did not succeed. They did, however, cause some damage and there were casualties. One night a stray bomb hit Mrs Bamber’s house while she sat, as always, on the bottom stair, waiting for her daughter to come home from another exhausting shift at the hospital.

  Iris, forced to seek refuge in a shelter, worried about her mother as she sat there. The unknown woman beside her started a conversation. Such conversations were one of the few compensations for being forced, tired, worried and frightened, into the shelters. Strangers would chat, sometimes for a few minutes, often for hours as they sat waiting for it all to be over. ‘Bloody Jerry. Just as we was beginning to think there wouldn’t be no more – bang. You a nurse, pet? Gawd, you girls is something else, the way you cope. Hubby waiting up?’

  ‘My mother. We’ve been lucky so far,’ Iris said as she tried hard to remain calm. ‘We made it through the Blitz, not a scratch, and this is nothing, nothing at all like it was then.’ She tried to send thought messages to her mother. Go to the shelter, Mum. There’s not many of them; it’ll only last a…

  The all clear sounded then and – with the other Londoners who had found themselves together, including her new friend, whom in all probability she would never see again – Iris left the shelter as quickly as possible. She hurried on towards a bus stop, hoping against hope that a bus was running that was going her way. She had a little luck. A night bus, whose route took it not too far from the street, stopped for her, and she stood with the conductor and looked out towards the area where her home stood.

  She saw the flames first. She heard the crash of falling masonry, of shattered windows. She smelled cordite.

  The commander alerted Rose.

  On a cold, grey afternoon, Rose – who for once had a free half-day – made her way to the little church where the funeral service was already in progress. Iris, in uniform, stood with one elderly man and two middle-aged women at the front of the church. There were one or two rather distinguished-looking men and women at the back and a few people, possibly neighbours and friends, in other pews.

  Rose found herself remembering Mrs Bamber’s kindness, and then she thought of Stan and of her brother Ron. One day I’ll visit your graves, she assured them.

  The sad little family group stood outside the church and thanked everyone for making the effort to attend on such a dismal day. To Rose’s surprise, Iris, who looked pale and tired, but somehow even more beautiful than she had when they first met, brightened when she saw her.

  ‘Oh, Rose, thank you so much for coming. Mum would be so pleased to see you here. Her boss came, which I hadn’t expected, the neighbours, and my uncle and my aunts.’

  The two young women hugged. ‘Your mum made me feel so welcome, Iris. I’m very sorry.’

  How do you ask someone you hardly know if they have somewhere to live and how do you help if they haven’t? Rose asked herself.

  ‘I’m living in the nurses’ hostel, Rose.’ It was almost as if Iris knew what Rose was thinking. ‘And there’s room at my auntie’s when I’m off duty.’

  They did not make promises to stay in touch. The war had brought them together for a moment. Now each girl would carry on doing the job that she had been trained to do. They might never meet again – that was the nature of war – but if they did, they would be happy to see each other.

  Not long into the New Year, Rose was given a week’s leave and was able to go home to be with her family. They planned to visit Phil, who was, at long last, back in England, although still in hospital. Fred had written to his other children with the news, explaining that their mother was so happy at the thought of seeing her son that she could not stop her hands from shaking and was unable to use a pen.

  ‘Dear Sam, Rose and Daisy,’ he had written.

  Mum and me is over the moon and we know you will be too. Our Phil is come home and is being transferred to a special hospital for wounded servicemen just a few miles from – would you believe, Dartford, on our very doorstep. We can see him as soon as they tell us he’s settled in, whatever that means. The waiting is hard as all Mum wants to do is see him, touch him, feed him o’ course, but we’re trying to be patient, the doctors knows what’s best. And yes, your mum is managing to bake, although the pints of salty tears as goes into them scones is something awful. George has decided that he will be ‘the runner’. Sally’s dad had him at the pictures and there was something about a boy doing all the carrying of letters, spying or something, and our George is going to keep track of messages between you lot and our Phil. Can’t remember as Phil ever met the boy and Mum was worried as how he might be a bit too much for Phil in his condition but he done really well with you, didn’t he, Sam, and I think he’ll make Phil laugh, Phil not ever being used to having someone waiting on him hand and foot.

  Rose read her letter over and over, and pictured her brother and sister reading their identical letters at the same time. It was almost like being in the kitchen with them, the wireless and a mug of cocoa.

  A familiar ache struck her. Thinking of poor, wounded Phil had served to remind her of Ron, and memories of Stan were never far behind. Would she ever be able to think of them without pain? But eventually her stomach churned with excitement as she thought that there was always the chance that she might see other family members during her week’s leave. According to Mum’s Christmas letter, Daisy and Tomas visited Dartford as often as possible as they tried to arrange their wedding. Sam was once again ‘with his regiment’, but neither his fiancée, Grace, nor his parents had any idea where he was. What if he were near Brad? What if they were to meet? Possibilities for happiness were endless.

  As always when one of her children was coming home, Flora tried to prepare all their favourite dishes. ‘I had five children, but I pride myself on knowing all the favourite meals,’ she told Miss Partridge, who had come into the shop for an extra morning so as to give Flora a chance to prepare her equivalent of the fatted calf. ‘And I need to give the girls’ room a good going-over.’

  Miss Partridge smelled beeswax polish, something cooking – possibly home-made stock for the hot soup that would be cooked all afternoon to nourish Flora’s returning chil
d, and smiled. ‘Flora Petrie, the whole of Dartford knows perfectly well that one could eat a meal off the floor in any of your rooms at any time.’

  Flora blushed with pleasure at the unaccustomed praise. ‘You’re kind to say so, and I do try to keep up standards – slipping would be letting the enemy win, wouldn’t it? – but I just don’t seem to have the same energy these days.’

  ‘When did you and Mr Petrie last have a holiday?’ asked Miss Partridge.

  ‘A holiday?’ Flora repeated the word as if it was new to her. ‘We had a day out here and there every summer when the children were small. The beach; they always liked the beach and the donkey rides, or we’d take a picnic on our bicycles – some lovely picnic spots around Dartford, you know. We had a nice cup of tea at a café after our first visit with our Phil.’

  ‘I know you did, and I think you should have a whole day out while Rose is at home. I’ll take care of the shop and young George.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Miss Partridge, but we’ll have a visit with Phil on Sunday. George will go too. He plans to chat to Phil about how the war’s going, especially anything that involves Phil’s precious Royal Navy, and then he’ll write to our Sam about the conversation. Do you know, the longer George lives with us, the more I wonder what his father was thinking of, abandoning a family like that.’