by Ruby Jackson
‘Being sent to prison isn’t exactly abandoning one’s family, Flora dear, but…’
Whatever Miss Partridge had been going to say was lost for ever as there came a bang on the door and a voice calling, ‘Hello, the house,’ and Flora and Miss Partridge ran to meet Rose, who had walked up from the station.
Miss Partridge hugged Rose, extracted a promise of a chat, and then diplomatically took herself off to leave mother and daughter together.
In no time at all, the kettle was boiling for tea and a plate of fresh scones was warming in the oven.
‘My scones aren’t the same these days, pet,’ said Flora as they settled down. ‘Nothing is, come to that, but we manage. Now, tell me all about your Italian friend and this young man you mentioned and all your driving. Rose Petrie, we are so proud of you.’
Rose reached for a second scone, which she did not really want, but she intended to show her mother that her baking was as good as ever.
‘You have to tell me the absolute truth about Phil’s injuries, Mum,’ she said as she helped herself to a tiny spoonful of the final jar of last year’s raspberry jam.
Tears welled up in Flora’s eyes and she shook her head as if to clear it of all negative thoughts. ‘We told you he lost his left arm. So, you’re right, Rose, it’s better that you’re prepared; there’s nothing left of it at all and there was some damage to his shoulder. He’s had surgery on that and it’s healing nicely, the surgeon told us.’
‘His hearing, Mum?’
‘There’s nothing they can do about the left ear, and there’s still ringing – whatever that means – in his right ear, but once that’s over his hearing will be perfect.’
‘That’s a blessing, Mum.’
They were still talking two hours later when Fred and the Petrie foster son, George, arrived home from the warehouse, having gone there to pick up rationed supplies for Fred’s customers. Rose, who hadn’t talked so much for some time, was expected to tell her stories all over again. But she wanted to talk about Phil and about young George’s plans for his future. After all, he was seventeen now…She decided to leave discussions on George’s future until later.
‘Phil’s finished in the navy, and he’s right sad about that, but there’s a job for him here – if he wants it, that is; someone has to take over the shop some day,’ said Fred.
‘I won’t have my poor boy think he has to work for a living, Fred. He can stay here and when he’s strong enough, he can help out in the shop if he wants to, but no one’s going to force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.’
Fred looked somewhat stunned by this outburst and Rose stretched while she tried to think of anything encouraging that she could say. She tried to remember if Phil had ever worked in the shop, after school, on Saturdays, during school holidays. She knew that he had driven the van sometimes, and that, like their two other brothers, he had been useful in carrying heavy boxes or tea chests, but had he ever worked behind the counter, as she had done sometimes, and as Daisy had done, day in and day out, for years?
‘I suppose the doctors will suggest that he moves slowly, Mum.’
‘One of my boys? Move slowly?’
‘I meant as far as making a decision.’ Rose looked over at her father. ‘Have they talked about a discharge date, Dad?’
‘It’ll be a while, love. Mum wants him home, thinks she’s the best one to look after him, and that’s true,’ he added quickly as he saw the expression on his wife’s face, ‘but our lad needs physio and specialised medical care at this point, and we can’t do that.’
‘He won’t be able to work at all for a while.’ Young George decided it was time he added to the conversation. ‘Adjustments have to be made.’
All three adults looked at the boy as if he had suddenly spoken in an unknown language.
‘Adjustments?’ Flora asked.
‘They didn’t pay much attention to me when I was in there, and so I heard everything they said.’
Rose looked at George, whom she had tended to remember only as the young troubled boy who had been taken in by her parents after the death of his mother and brother in an air raid. She saw now that, while she had been away, George had grown and developed until he was almost a man. Fear for him clutched her stomach. He had lived through too much already, but if this dreadful war went on much longer, he would be expected to serve in the armed forces.
‘George, do you mean the doctors say things to one another when there is just you there with Phil, but they don’t say them when Mum and Dad are there?’
‘I don’t know what they say when Mum and Dad Petrie are alone with Phil, Rose, but when I was keeping him company, telling him what Sam’s been doing and Miss Partridge and that, they talked about future surgery and therapy and getting over shock. Seems Phil still has nightmares where he thinks he’s on the ship and he can’t get away.’
‘It’s all right, George, lad. They do tell us what still needs to be done, and Mum and me know about the dreams,’ said Fred. ‘Rose’ll come with us on Sunday. We’ll make a nice day of it. A nice visit with our Phil and then a late meal in a pub. One of these days the nurse said they’ll let us take Phil out with us.’ Fred turned to Rose. ‘The doctors do try to tell us everything that’s happening, and his condition changes day to day, good days and bad days. We’ll tell them we want to know if Phil will be strong enough to be at Sam’s wedding; Sam wants him as best man.’
Rose was delighted that the conversation had moved away from the emotive subject of Phil’s future to the happier topic of Sam’s. At this point all the family knew about their elder son’s wedding was that he fully intended to marry his sweetheart, Grace Paterson, just as soon as it could be arranged.
‘And what about Daisy?’
‘How can there be a wedding until this damned war is over? They’re never in the same place for more than two minutes at a time.’ As usual, Flora exaggerated.
Rose felt the warm weight of Brad’s class ring against her skin. Was this a perfect time to show it to her parents, to explain the significance? If only there had been a recent communication from Brad. Daisy and Tomas had two-minute meetings; she and Brad were never in the same place. How she wished that he were here; that she could prepare a sandwich – a decent, delicious Brad-sized sandwich – and go off for a lovely long walk in the beautiful Kent countryside.
‘You’ve gone all funny, Rose.’ George brought her mind back into the room.
She forced herself to smile. ‘I was just wondering whether or not to tell you all about someone very special.’
Flora jumped up. ‘Not a word till I get back. I’ll just light a match under the soup.’
Fred watched his wife, all gloom evaporated, hurry into the kitchen before leaning over and squeezing his daughter’s knee. ‘Two weddings or, who knows, even three, would be a right nice way to celebrate the end of this bloody war.’
‘Dad, language,’ said Rose, adding quickly, ‘but it’s not nearly ended,’ as she heard her mother hurry back. ‘Let’s try to be positive.’
Flora, her smile lighting up her face, plopped down in her armchair. ‘There, we can have a nice chat. Tell us all about your chap, Rose, love.’
‘All right. There is a very, very special man. He’s a soldier, a sergeant—’
‘Oh, nice, like our Sam,’ broke in Flora.
‘He and some of his men pulled me and Gladys – you remember my old friend Gladys – out of a type of ditch at the beginning of last year…’
‘Last winter, and we’re hearing about him now?’
‘Give ’er a chance to tell us, love.’
Rose smiled at her father, all the time wondering if he would be quite so understanding when he heard the whole story. ‘It was nothing but a slight accident, Mum, a skid on some ice and we overturned, but no one was hurt. In fact the girls were quite pleased.’
‘Pleased? They’re in an accident and you say they’re pleased. Oh, Rose, love, were you driving?’
‘Yes, Mum
, but no problems. I was exonerated; it was winter conditions, more or less unavoidable.’
‘Why were the girls happy?’ began George, and then, as a thought came to him, he grinned from ear to ear. ‘Because they were rescued by big handsome men, weren’t they, and those men were Yanks? Bet they were.’
Rose could see realisation dawning on her mother’s face and the beginning of a frown but, before Flora could say anything, Fred broke in, ‘That’s nice. We read as there were Americans in the north, Rose, in Northern Ireland and the Midlands too, I believe. Seem to be nice lads, from what we hear, and ready to do their bit. Maybe I shouldn’t say, but there’s rumours that the Yanks is planning to invade Europe – they’ve got thousands of men and machines all over the place. Seems they made arrangements to come over here and work out all their manoeuvres on friendly soil. When I went to the pub last Saturday afternoon with my ARP shift, we heard stories, probably a bit exaggerated, about huge tanks the Americans were trying to hide or camouflage.’
Flora stood up and walked over to the fireplace where one of Sally’s silver links from the Christmas decorations still sat on a candlestick. She kept her back to the others. ‘I don’t want to hear about invasions. My boy already invaded and ended up a prisoner. What makes the Americans think they can do better?’ Her colour heightened by her unusual ill temper, Flora turned to Rose. ‘So this lad’s an American, our Rose. You didn’t think you could tell us?’
Rose put her hand up to touch the ring through her jumper. ‘There wasn’t anything to tell, Mum, not for a long time.’
Flora removed the broken decoration and returned to her chair. ‘Well, tell us now, love, especially if he’s very important to you.’
Rose smiled at her mother, who tried bravely to smile back. ‘His name is Brad, Brad Hastings, and he’s tall, and I suppose he’s good-looking. Yes, he’s very good-looking: lovely eyes, and he has a nice voice; not loud, not soft, a manly voice. He’s beautiful, Mum, just beautiful, inside and out.’
‘Oh yuck!’ exploded young George. ‘Is he a cowboy? Does he wear a cowboy hat and fancy boots like in the pictures? Does he say “pardner” and “yes, ma’am” all the time, and chew gum or tobacco?’ He gave Rose no time to speak but answered himself. ‘Fantastic. When is he coming to see us? I’ve never met an American.’
‘And you never will, lad, if you don’t let Rose talk,’ said Fred firmly. ‘You’re behaving like a four-year-old instead of a lad almost grown to a man.’
‘Only teasing,’ said George.
‘How long have you been seeing him, Rose?’ asked Flora, her voice still showing her hurt.
Rose considered the question. ‘It’s so hard to say, Mum. We met and then his CO invited everyone to a dance at their base. I told you about that.’ Surely she had said that the dance was on an American base?
Her parents nodded.
‘Brad drove me to the dance—’
‘Wow, in a Jeep, Rose, did you get to be in a Jeep?’
Rose nodded. ‘I saw him once or twice. Once we walked on the moors and had lunch in a pub. He knows a lot about English history and so he was really fascinated by old pubs and old villages. But we couldn’t meet regularly because of our jobs. I was transferred but we wrote to each other and sometimes Brad telephoned and once we were able to meet in London.’ She decided this was not the time to mention his father or the fact that, without knowing who or what Brad’s father was, she had actually been the American senator’s driver. ‘He was transferred and I don’t know where he is exactly, but he’s somewhere in the south of England because he came to see me on Christmas Day. Would you believe, somehow he got to my base, waited for me to finish my shift and then we met for a few minutes.’ She relived the moments: the snow in his hair, the love in his eyes, the touch of his lips, his question and her answer. ‘He brought a lovely hamper of food for me to share with my roommates. From Fortnum and Mason, Mum, like your special honey. Do you remember that?’
‘’Course, I do. Got the jar on the counter in the shop – ever so lovely it is.’
‘What was in the hamper, Rose?’
‘Chocolates, Georgie Porgie, and smoked salmon, lovely things. Even a bottle of champagne.’
‘So he’s rich.’ George decided that being able to assess Brad’s financial status was worth putting up with silly old nicknames.
‘Not necessarily.’ Fred decided to answer for his daughter. ‘They say Americans are very generous. He got a lift from his base to yours on Christmas Day, Rose, to see you for a few minutes?’
Rose nodded.
‘Nice lad, don’t you agree, Flora? Here were you last year asking for a nice lad for our Rose, and along came Brad Hastings.’
‘With a name like that he has to be a cowboy,’ said George.
‘The soup’s ready,’ said Flora, leading them into the kitchen. ‘I’m glad you told us, pet. I suppose our Daisy has known all along.’
Daisy had no knowledge of the heavy golden ring that nestled inside her sister’s bra. ‘More or less, Mum. We haven’t talked much. We’re both very busy.’
How could she explain that the dawning realisation that she loved and was loved in return was much too precious to discuss with anyone? It had been enough for a time merely to experience, to feel.
‘Gosh, I’ve missed your soup,’ she said as she sat down between her father and her foster brother at the same table with the same blue-and-white checked cloth, and was passed a bowl, the one with the tiny chip out of the rim, a chip that was deemed too small and insignificant to be a cause for throwing it away.
‘I’ve always loved this bowl,’ she said as they began to eat.
They took the bus the few miles to the hospital. The weather refused to be obliging; it was very cold and the mist that hung over everything seemed to have frozen, completely blocking out what might have been pleasant views from the bus windows. Not that anyone could see anything, since the windows had been taped over to avoid the possibility of a passenger being struck by shattered glass should there be an air raid. With such reminders around them, it was almost impossible to be cheerful, but they tried. Rose was going to see her brother for the first time in years, and that fact outweighed the knowledge that he was not physically the same Phil that she had seen on that long-ago Christmas.
‘I’m so glad I got leave, Mum, and I’ll tell him about the cars I’ve been driving.’
‘I want to hear about the cars too,’ Fred and George said together, and the women laughed. Rose had saved some of the chocolate that had been in Brad’s Christmas hamper; Flora had baked a honey-and-walnut pudding, which she hoped the nurses would allow Phil to share with other injured soldiers in the same room. Since it was mainly stale breadcrumbs, flour and chopped walnuts – generously given to her by the Humbles at Old Manor Farm – she had used fresh eggs and sweetened it with honey, and then baked it in a pie dish.
‘It’ll be easy for him to cut up, but I do wish I had more honey to drizzle over.’
‘The men will love it, Mum Petrie,’ George assured her. ‘Alf selected the walnuts special.’
The ever-doubtful Flora smiled at the boy. ‘You’re right, George. A bit of home cooking always goes down well, and with our Rose’s posh chocolate…I’ve never seen this make, Rose.’
‘It’s American, Mum. Almost everything on the base is shipped over from the States.’
‘On ships?’ George’s surprised shout must have been heard by almost everyone on the bus.
‘Never thought to ask, George. I assume shipped means shipped in ships.’
‘That’s terrible,’ protested young George. ‘I thought ships were needed for the war effort, not to bring posh chocolate. Wish I hadn’t eaten it now.’
‘Maybe it was flown in, lad. I mean to say, how long does a ship take to get all the way from America?’
‘Wait a minute, Dad.’ Rose had no idea how the American forces brought in their supplies but there was one thing she did know and she repeated it now to her belligeren
t young foster brother. ‘George, there are thousands of American servicemen here. Where should they get their food? Talk to Grace when she’s here next and she’ll tell you how hard she and all the other Land Girls have to work to grow food for us – and there still isn’t enough. Do you want to share yours with the Americans? They have thought it all over very carefully and someone, their president perhaps, said it was better to have their own supplies. And, George, they share. I’m not talking about bars of chocolate – maybe Brad’s father brought them…’ Too late she remembered that she had never mentioned Brad’s father to her family. She decided to carry on and brave it out. ‘When they come to our base, they bring food, lots of tinned goods, fruit, ham, that sort of thing. Some lovely people in the area where I met Brad ask American soldiers to Sunday dinner. That is a kind gesture to men who are sometimes thousands of miles away from their families and very, very lonely. I never heard of any American who doesn’t take gifts with him for the British family.’
‘Why don’t they go where the fighting is, if they’re so wonderful? No one is fighting here.’
‘Happen they’re practising for something, George.’ Fred had had enough squabbling. ‘We’ll find out what they’re doing when it’s time for us to know. You can’t think Mr Churchill doesn’t know they’re here.’
‘’Course he knows. He’s the Prime Minister.’
‘Right, so let him get on with it. And we’ll get on with visiting our Phil and we’ll have no argy-bargy or glum faces.’
No one uttered a sound until they reached the hospital. Fred seldom put his foot down, but when he did he set it down firmly and the wise did not argue.
On a better day, a walk in the grounds would have been pleasant as they had been well set out by the original owners and were still reasonably well kept. Most flowerbeds had gone, and much of what must once have been a magnificent lawn was now a vegetable garden, but there were still some trees that would soon bear the green of early spring and several showed promise of future blossom.
