Читать книгу Rosie’s War - Kay Brellend - Страница 13

‘So you can hear it ’n’ all, can you, Rosie love? I thought me ears were playing tricks on me.’

John was crunching along the cinder path in the back garden dressed in his pyjamas and bedroom slippers. His palms batted against his ears at intervals as though to unblock them.

At the sound of her father’s voice Rosie turned and gave him a quick nod before fixing her eyes again on the moonless sky.

It was a humid June night and Rosie had been restlessly dozing, when the wail of an air-raid siren had brought her swiftly to her feet. She’d glanced at Hope, sound asleep, then padded to the window to stare out. It was just a week away from midsummer and, though not yet dawn, the sky hadn’t fully darkened. She’d been able to see for some distance. She’d heard the ack-ack guns start up and seen bullets tracing the heavens, but a weird noise had made her snatch up her dressing gown and investigate further.

A few months ago the first warning wail would have had Rosie grabbing her daughter and flying downstairs to the safety of the cellar, but there had been a lot of false alarms recently; German reconnaissance planes had skimmed over the capital but there hadn’t been a bombardment since the winter. The Normandy landings had been such a success that nobody was expecting one while the Luftwaffe had their hands full elsewhere. But something was surely closing on London, or why were the defence batteries blasting away?

The drone of approaching bombers was terrifyingly familiar to East Enders, whereas whatever was up there tonight was making an odd roaring noise as though a mechanic’s giant blowtorch had taken flight. The searchlights were in full swing yet Rosie hadn’t had a glimpse of a plane’s silhouette. She rubbed the back of her stretched neck, wondering if the eerie throb was coming not from above but from some new-fangled machinery down on the Pool of London, where supply ships heading for Normandy were being loaded up.

Suddenly the sky directly overhead was striped by a searchlight, making Rosie anxiously blurt out, ‘Not taking any chances, Dad. I’m getting Hope and going to the cellar. Come on … don’t care if it is another false alarm. Never heard anything like that before and it can’t be one of ours or the guns would have stopped.’

‘What the bloody hell is that?’ John yelled, pointing towards the south. ‘’S’all right, love. Look, it’s not a bomber. It’s much smaller … a fighter plane, I reckon, and the Jerry bugger’s taken a hit. Look!’ He wagged his finger at the sky.

Rosie halted by the back door, again gazing heavenwards.

There, caught in a crosshair of searchlights, was the outline of a plane; and it did, indeed, have a plume of brilliant fire spurting from its tail.

‘It’ll crash, Dad,’ Rosie shouted. ‘Get inside.’

‘It’s gonna crash all right,’ John said in awe, watching the fast-moving object. ‘Blimey! Wonder if the pilot’s ejected. Keep an eye out for a parachute, love. Don’t want no Kraut landing on me roof.’ Suddenly he went quiet, as did the V1 rocket, but the weapon glided on silently before its nose dipped …

‘Come on, Dad!’ Rosie was already inside the back door, holding it ajar for him. ‘Quick! Let’s get in the cellar!’

‘What in God’s name’s going on?’ Doris had shuffled into view, belting her dressing gown. ‘We got a proper raid?’

‘Is that Jerry? Taken a hit, has he?’ a fellow bawled across fences. ‘Bailed out, has he? See anything, did yer, John?’

‘Dunno what the hell it is, mate,’ John yelled back at Dick Price. Peg’s husband was yawning and scratching his pot-belly beneath a grimy vest. John had noticed that the trail of flames had disappeared at about the same time that the aircraft’s engine cut out. He didn’t reckon that the pilot would’ve managed to extinguish that fire. As the thing had got closer he’d also noticed that it had the Luftwaffe cross on it but it wasn’t even big enough to be a Messerschmitt.

‘Reckon it might be wise to get under cover.’ Finally John’s fear overtook his amazement. He waved his arms in warning at his neighbour before limping into the house and following Doris down the cellar stairs. Rosie joined them seconds later with Hope clinging sleepily around her neck.

When the explosion came a few minutes later Rosie instinctively curled her body protectively over her small daughter until the mortar that had been loosened from the bare brick walls had finished coating them in fine dust.

‘Reckon that was over Bethnal Green,’ John said after a short silence. ‘Bet Jerry sent over some sort of Kamikaze pilot in a toy plane. ‘I ain’t never seen the like of that before.’

‘If you’re right, I hope there’s just the one of them.’ Rosie cradled Hope, soothing her whimpering daughter with gentle murmurs.

‘Don’t reckon Hitler’ll get many volunteers. Jerry ain’t like the Nips when it comes to that sort of thing.’ Doris picked up the knitting she kept in the cellar to while away the time during air raids. ‘If this is a sign the Blitz is starting all over again then I’m getting out of London. I was living on me nerves last time, never knowing which way to run to the nearest shelter.’ Doris threw down the needles, unable to concentrate on counting stitches. ‘D’you reckon there’ll be more of those blighters tonight?’ She gazed at her husband for a response but John was still shaking his head to himself in disbelief at what he’d seen and heard out in the garden. ‘Well, I ain’t having it,’ Doris said shrilly. ‘I’m off to me son’s place in Kent for some peace and quiet. Already been invited to stay so I’m taking me daughter-in-law up on it.’ Still John sat rubbing his bad leg and gazing at the ceiling. With an agitated tut, Doris picked up the cardigan sleeve and started knitting a row of pearl.

As soon as Rosie’s father had shouted out that there was a letter for her it had been a relief to give up the pretence of rest and hurry downstairs. They’d all trooped up to bed when the all clear sounded but Rosie had found it impossible to get back to sleep. The sinister chugging that had first woken her had continued to pound through her brain. She’d buried her head in the pillow to try to block it out but by then the sun had been filtering through the curtains.

Her father was obviously not in the mood to share any news about her forthcoming job interview so with a sigh Rosie returned to her bedroom with her letter. Within half an hour she had got dressed, neatly filled in the Form of Application for National Service, and put on her mac as it was drizzling outside.

‘Just off to the post box. Will you mind Hope for a few minutes?’ Rosie poked her head round the kitchen door to ask her dad. ‘She’s still asleep so shouldn’t be any trouble.’

‘What name you going under then?’ John asked, pointing at the envelope in his daughter’s hand.

‘My real name. I’m Rosemary Gardiner, aged twenty-two, spinster, born and bred in Shoreditch.’

‘So your daughter doesn’t exist then?’

‘Oh, she does!’ Rosie vehemently declared. ‘But Hope’s my private business and there’s no reason to bring her into it.’

‘Well I say there is!’ John retorted. ‘Round here you’re Mrs Deane now and that’s the way it should be. Using two different names’ll brew up trouble.’

‘Answering questions about my poor dead “husband” will brew up trouble,’ Rosie replied flatly. ‘I don’t want to start off in a new job telling a pack of lies about myself; they always trip you up in the end.’

John muttered beneath his breath but he couldn’t deny the truth in what his daughter had said. He wished in a way that he’d agreed to brazen out Rosie’s pregnancy. It had been what his daughter had wanted rather than stooping to deceit. At the time he’d sided with Doris and insisted his daughter protect the family name by inventing a story. It hadn’t stopped the gossip; in fact he could see now that it had just provided more grist for the mill. But they couldn’t backpedal on it now or it would make matters worse.

Rosie felt frustrated with her father’s attitude but she didn’t want an argument with him so tried a different tack: ‘Look, I’ve been shirking conscription for years, pretending I’m a married woman.’

‘Ain’t shirking. Women with kids – legitimate or not – ain’t breaking the rules in staying home and caring for them,’ John returned. ‘Anyhow, you’ve been fire watching plenty of times.’

Rosie gave up trying to put her point across and headed for the front door.

‘It’ll come out you’re an unmarried mother,’ John called out after her. ‘Then when they’re all talking about you behind yer back you’ll wish you’d done things differently.’

The deputy station officer of Robley Road Auxiliary Ambulance Station in Hackney – or Station 97 as it was better known – was seated behind a battered wooden desk. Having studied the notes in front of her she inspected the young woman perched on a chair opposite.

Rosie neatly crossed her ankles, nervously clasping her hands in her lap. She was wearing a smart blue two-piece suit purchased years ago when she was flush from working at the Windmill Theatre. It was a bit loose because she’d lost a few pounds running round after her toddling daughter, but was still in pristine condition. And the colour suited her. Her pale blonde hair had been styled into a sleek chin-length bob rather than jazzy waves, and she’d applied her make-up sparingly: just a slick of coral lipstick and some powder to cool the colour of her peachy complexion.

‘Your references are very good.’

Since leaving her job at the Windmill Theatre Rosie hadn’t had much to deposit in her bank account but the elderly manager of the Barclays Bank in the High Street had agreed to give her a character. And so had the retired draper who’d employed Rosie as a youngster, winding wool for pocket money on Saturdays. Rosie had carefully chosen her referees from people who were unaware she was a mother and had always known her as Miss Gardiner. She might be withholding personal information, but it wasn’t the same as lying in Rosie’s opinion.

‘Do you consider yourself to be strong and healthy?’

‘Oh, yes, I’m fit as a fiddle,’ Rosie immediately returned.

‘You’ll need to be,’ Stella Phipps emphasised. ‘It’s surprising what a severed limb weighs. Then there are the stretchers to lug about. Lifting those to the upper position in an ambulance can put a person’s back out.’ Stella cocked her head, examining Rosie’s figure dubiously. She looked soft and petite, whereas most of the female recruits were strapping individuals.

‘Oh, I’m used to lifting …’ Rosie’s voice tailed off. She’d been on the point of adding that she’d got a chubby two-year-old who liked to be carried about but stopped herself in time. She was Rosemary Gardiner, spinster, no dependants. ‘My dad’s got a bad leg injury so I’ve lugged him up and down the cellar steps in the past, amongst other things.’

‘That’s the sort of stuff that comes in useful, but you do seem a bit weedy, dear, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ Stella took off her glasses to polish them. ‘Of course, you’re very attractive so no offence meant.’

‘I’m very capable,’ Rosie returned stoutly. ‘And I’ll prove it.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do your best, Miss Gardiner. It’s just that I feel obliged to impress on you that the work is arduous … and gruelling.’ Stella sighed. ‘Apart from physical sturdiness you need to be prepared for some harrowing sights. Have you had any medical training?’

‘No, but I’d quickly learn,’ Rosie said eagerly. ‘And the sight of a bit of blood doesn’t bother me. I tended to my dad when he got badly injured.’

‘The sight of “a bit of blood” is what you might encounter here when the sanitary bin in the ladies’ convenience overflows.’ Stella replaced her spectacles and gazed grimly at her interviewee, ignoring the girl’s blushing. If Miss Gardiner were serious about getting a job with the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service she’d better be prepared for some plain speaking. ‘If you’re accepted and your experience follows mine you’ll encounter rat-eaten bodies and scraps of terry towelling nappies containing burned flesh … all that remains of what was once a human baby.’ In the silence that followed Stella stabbed her pen nib repeatedly on the blotter, eyes lowered. ‘I’d been in the job just a fortnight when I observed a parachute descending and in the dark I thought it might be a German who’d bailed out. It was something far deadlier … a landmine. It exploded in Brick Lane about a hundred yards from where we’d just been called to another incident. That was during the winter of 1940 at the height of the Blitz.’ Stella paused. ‘We lost two of our ambulance crew that night.’

Rosie swallowed, hoping she didn’t look too green about the gills. She knew the deputy station officer wasn’t being deliberately cruel. In fact, she was being very kind. ‘I understand … I’m prepared for the worst,’ Rosie vowed in a quavering yet resolute tone.

‘You’re a better person than I then, Miss Gardiner,’ Stella replied. ‘I wasn’t up to it at all; I brought my heart up the first time I had to deliver a man’s leg to the fridge at Billingsgate Market.’ She saw Rosie shoot her a horrified glance from beneath her thick lashes. ‘Oh, that’s sometimes the first stop for odds and ends before they make it to the mortuary, you see. We’re not cannibals in England … not yet, anyhow, despite the paltry rations.’

Rosie smothered a giggle. Stella Phipps might be a fierce-looking dragon but she had a sense of humour. Rosie realised that it was probably an essential requirement for working in the LAAS, the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service. Having heard those stomach-churning anecdotes, she relaxed and decided she liked the woman who might soon be her boss.

‘I can book you on a first-aid course with the St John Ambulance if you pass the interview.’ Stella closed the manila folder in front of her. ‘Any driving experience? We could do with drivers.’ She sighed. ‘Most of the men we had in the service have gone off on active duty, you see.’

‘I used to drive my dad’s car,’ Rosie burst out. She was determined to be taken on; and if that meant embellishing the truth a little, she’d do it. The only driving she’d ever done had been at the age of fifteen when her father had taken her for a day trip to Clacton and after much badgering had allowed her to get behind the wheel in a country lane. It was the first and last time, though; Rosie had scraped the paintwork of John’s pride and joy after swerving into a hawthorn hedge while fighting with the stiff gears.

‘Do you still drive a car?’ Stella asked optimistically.

‘Um … no,’ Rosie owned up. ‘Since Dad got injured he’s sold the Austin. And I never actually passed a test.’

‘At least you’ve a head start, dear. An RAC course might be all that’s required to bring you up to scratch.’

Rosie nodded, feeling a fraud. None the less she added stoutly, ‘I’m sure I’ll do fine so long as I can remember where the brake is.’

Stella chuckled, then looked thoughtfully at the new recruit. The volunteers were usually keen, eager to be of service. Some lasted just a few weeks before they took fright. Others, like herself and her friend Thora Norris, had been serving since the start of the Blitz. In those days they’d turned up for work dressed in their civilian clothes without even a pair of sensible shoes between them. As the war dragged on the service had become a lot more organised and efficient.

‘Following the landings in Normandy it seemed as though we might wind down when victory seemed finally within reach,’ Stella said. ‘The routine here had become quite mundane. Oh, we still got called out, but on the whole we were dealing with domestic incidents or road accidents.’ She shook her head in despair. ‘You’d be surprised at how many dreadful injuries have been caused by the blackout. It’s as lethal as any Jerry bomb.’

‘But if the damage done by that bloody rocket coming over and causing havoc is anything to go by, you might need more volunteers …’ Rosie had anticipated what Stella Phipps was about to say and blurted it out, rather bluntly. She blushed, mumbled, ‘Sorry … language …’

Stella smiled. ‘You’ll hear worse … say worse … than that, dear, if you join our little team at Station 97. Letting off steam is essential in this line of work. So no apology required.’

Rosie smiled sheepishly.

The recent explosion in Bethnal Green had everybody talking fearfully about a fiendish new weapon, although Whitehall was doing its best to keep the details under wraps to avoid a panic. But rumours were already spreading that the blazing plane Rosie and her father had watched speeding across the sky was a bomb shaped like a rocket and there had been whispers of others falling across London.

‘I saw that first one come over; the noise it made was deafening and very eerie,’ Rosie said. When she noted Stella’s interest she rushed on, ‘Dad and I watched it from the garden. Dad thought it was a miniature Messerschmitt and wondered whether the pilot might bale out and land on our roof because it seemed to be on fire.’

‘Let’s hope the rumours are just that,’ Stella said. ‘We don’t want a return to the Blitz.’

Stella’s concern reminded Rosie of her stepmother fretting about London being heavily bombarded again. Doris had moaned constantly whilst they’d waited for the all clear to sound that night.

‘I’ll get one of my colleagues to show you around our station, though you might be posted to another one. Have you any preference where you’d like to be sent?’

‘As close to home as possible,’ Rosie answered quickly, following the older woman out into the corridor. ‘Here at Station 97 would be just fine.’

‘Righto …’ Stella said, striding along at quite a pace. ‘Of course when we get called out it’s not always to local incidents. If a Deptford crew for example are engaged on a major incident we might be required to cover for them on their patch.’

‘I understand,’ Rosie said, trotting to keep up with the older woman.

‘Have you seen Thora Norris?’

Stella’s question was directed at a brunette who was propped on an elbow against the wall, smoking. She turned about, flicking her dog end out through an open door into the courtyard. ‘I think she’s gone shopping with the new mess manager, ma’am. We’re low in the cupboards, by all accounts.’

‘I’m hoping there are no petrol cans stored out there, Scott.’ Stella Phipps angrily eyed the stub smouldering on concrete.

‘Sorry … didn’t think.’ The young woman trotted outside to grind the butt out with a toe, looking apologetic.

‘Mmm … and not the first time, is it?’

The young auxiliary was dressed in a uniform of navy-blue safari-style jacket and matching trousers. The letters ‘LAAS’ were picked out in gold embroidery at the top of a sleeve. She turned to look Rosie up and down. ‘How do? You mad enough to want to join us, then?’ She stuck out a hand and gave Rosie’s small fingers a thorough pump.

‘Nice to meet you, and yes, hope I’ve got the job.’ Rosie sent a peeking glance at the deputy station manager.

‘I think you’ll fit in,’ Stella said with a severe smile. ‘I’ll leave you in Hazel Scott’s capable hands.’ Her eyebrows hiked dubiously. ‘She’ll show you round the place and even if you’re not posted here, you’ll get a feel for things, Miss Gardiner. The auxiliary ambulance stations are all much of a muchness.’

‘Only ours is best.’ Hazel said sweetly, earning a smile from her superior.

‘Don’t mind her,’ Hazel hissed as Stella’s rigid back disappeared round a corner. ‘Bark’s worse than her bite and all that. I’ve worked in three different stations now and some of the DSOs – that’s deputy station officers to the uninitiated – well, they’re worse than the top dog.’ Hazel stuck her hands in her jacket pockets and chuckled. ‘Got something to prove, I suppose.’

‘She seemed very nice, I thought.’ Rosie managed to get a word in edgeways. She was glad to have any information about ambulance station life. She realised that there had been no need to turn up looking so demure: Hazel’s eyelashes were laden with mascara and crimson lipstick outlined her wide mouth.

‘Nice? Really?’ Hazel rolled her eyes in a show of surprise. She drew out her pack of Players and offered it to Rosie. ‘Don’t smoke?’ she snorted when Rosie declined with a shake of the head.

‘Used to … gave it up.’

‘Not for long in this place, you won’t. Couldn’t get by without a fag an hour, me.’ Hazel’s cockney accent seemed to have become more pronounced. She took a long drag on the cigarette then pointed with it. ‘Fancy a cuppa? Canteen’s just down this way.’

‘I’m Rosemary Gardiner, by the way. Rosie, friends call me.’

Hazel slanted a smile over a shoulder. ‘I’ll call you Rosie then, and I’m Hazel to my friends. Most of the others here address us by our surnames. But I don’t go for being formal with people I like.’

It was a typical canteen set with uncomfortable-looking chairs pushed under Spartan rectangular tables. Hazel led the way into the kitchen at the back and filled the kettle at a deep china sink. Having rummaged in a cupboard for some cups and saucers she turned to give Rosie a searching stare.

‘Got a man in your life?’

Rosie shook her head, having noticed that Hazel was glancing at her fingers, probably searching for a ring of some sort. Her mother’s wedding ring was wrapped in tissue in her handbag. ‘You got a boyfriend?’ Rosie always turned a leading question on its head. Her home life wasn’t up for discussion.

‘Mmm … he’s a sailor. Chuck’s due back on leave soon.’

‘Lucky you,’ Rosie said with a friendly smile.

‘Lucky him … if you know what I mean,’ Hazel winked a weighty eyelid, lewdly puckering up her scarlet lips. She cocked her head. ‘Can’t believe you’ve not got a feller.’ She tutted. ‘Sorry, that was a bloody stupid thing to say, all things considered. There’ve been so many casualties in this damned war.’

‘No, it’s all right; I’ve not lost anybody over there or here. Just not got anybody special in my life … a man that is …’

Rosie’s private smile as she thought of Hope went unnoticed by Hazel.

Hazel spooned tea into a small enamel pot. ‘Best get this down us before the hordes descend. Teatime at four thirty.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, got half an hour to spare.’ She poured boiling water onto the leaves and stirred. ‘Come on, while that brews I’ll show you a bit more of the set-up.’

Hazel was tall and solidly built. From the young woman’s forthrightness Rosie reckoned Hazel was no shrinking violet when it came to cleaning up the human wreckage left behind after Hitler had dropped his calling cards.

‘This is the common room.’ Hazel waved at a young fellow who was filling some hurricane lamps ranged in front of him on a table. In response he called out a cheery hello.

‘New recruit, Tom,’ Hazel informed. ‘Tell Miss Rosie Gardiner she’s barmy; go on, she won’t believe me.’

‘Listen to Hazel,’ Tom called with a rather effeminate wave. ‘Scarper while you still can.’ He then turned his attention to the funnel he was using to drip oil into the lamps.

‘Tom Anderson is a conchie,’ Hazel said quietly. On seeing Rosie’s bemusement she explained, ‘Conscientious objector. We’ve had a few of those sent here. He might not want to fight but he’s a bloody godsend with the ambulances. He’s a driver and knows a thing or two about mechanics. He used to drive a tractor on his dad’s farm.’

Rosie hoped Tom was unaware that Hazel had been gossiping about him. His boiler-suit-style uniform made him look more like a plumber than an ambulance driver.

‘Table tennis …’ Rosie had spotted the net shoved into a corner, bats and balls scattered on the top. ‘I used to be pretty good at table tennis.’

‘I’ll give you a game if we end up on the same shifts,’ Hazel offered. ‘What did you do before this damned war buggered us all up?’

‘Worked in a theatre a few years back.’

‘Me, too!’ Hazel burst out, delighted. ‘Which theatre?’

‘The Windmill …’ Rosie started examining the table tennis bats. She never volunteered the information that she’d worked as one of the theatre’s famous nudes. But neither did she deny what she’d done, if asked directly.

The Windmill Theatre had stayed open throughout the war. But Rosie had never felt any inclination to go back for old times’ sake and see a show, or look for the few old colleagues who might remain working there.

‘I worked as a magician’s assistant,’ Hazel informed her. ‘He was always trying to have a fiddle down the front of me costume so I dropped him and went out on my own. I could do a bit of singing and dancing but never made much of a name for myself.’ Hazel click-clacked a few steps with toes and heels, hands jigging up and down at her sides. ‘I was in the chorus at the Palladium once when one of the girls went sick at the last minute.’ She sniffed. ‘Never got asked back, though. They said I was too tall for the chorus line.’ She gazed at Rosie admiringly. ‘The Windmill! Now why didn’t I try there!’ She grinned. ‘What’s the place like? Bit racy, ain’t it, by all accounts? All the servicemen flocked there. Chuck and his navy pals used to race to get a seat at the front. Bet you had a few followers, being as you’re so pretty.’

‘Take a look at an ambulance, can I?’ Rosie asked brightly. ‘I’d better see what it’s all about just in case I’m lucky enough to get to drive one.’

‘You think that’s lucky? Oh, come on, the tea’ll be stewed.’ Hazel led the way back towards the canteen. ‘Getting behind the wheel of a meat wagon is no picnic, I can tell you. Gilly Crump had held a motor licence for years yet she drove an ambulance straight into a wall in the blackout. Knocked herself sparko and ended up in the back of the blighter on a stretcher.’ Hazel chuckled. ‘Gave in her notice shortly after when she got out of hospital. You’ll need to do a few practice runs under instruction before they’ll let you loose on your tod with an assistant.’

‘You won’t put me off, you know.’

Hazel poured the tea then held out a cup, grinning. ‘You look like the sort of girl that does all right whatever she turns her hand to. Some people just have that sort of luck. Whereas me … I bugger up everything.’

‘I bet you don’t!’ Rosie returned, thinking ruefully that if Hazel knew her better she’d be revising her opinion.

Rosie rather liked her new colleague’s droll manner. She knew already that she’d chosen well in applying to the service; it didn’t feel like home yet, but it did feel right being here with Stella Phipps and Tom Anderson and Hazel Scott. In fact, she was itching to get started.