Читать книгу On a Wing and a Prayer - Ruby Jackson - Страница 10

York, August 1942

The train puffed slowly out of the station. Rose grasped the metal bar that stretched across the window, looked out, and said her silent goodbyes to her second posting.

She had not expected to be transferred again so soon; after all, they had been at Preston for only a few months. But less than a month after the dance, several girls had departed to ‘pastures new’, and Rose had been amongst those summoned to the commander’s office.

‘Have to lose you, I’m afraid, Petrie; seems you’re needed elsewhere. We do want you to know that the ATS is proud to have you in our midst and that it has been decided – unanimously – that we can best make use of your skills in the drivers’ pool. I’m sure there’s no need to tell you that the utmost discretion is expected at all times. You will leave for York tomorrow to begin driver training.’

Her mind in a whirl of impressions, memories, hopes, Rose saluted and left the room. Where had the weeks gone? She had never climbed the fell, or even spent much time in the town.

You weren’t on holiday, Rose, she told herself. You were learning a trade and you’ve done it. I don’t know how, but it seems I’m going to be a driver – or a driver mechanic. Why so sudden? Did someone read that silly newspaper article? That got me accepted in the first place. But I don’t care. Just as long as no one talks about it and I don’t have to see it.

She was so excited that she pulled her skirt up to her knees and jumped over a bench. Realising what she had done, she looked around furtively, praying that no one had seen her. She breathed with relief; the parade ground appeared to be empty. Rose was so pleased with her new appointment that she was sure that anyone she passed could tell that her entire system was afloat with millions of tiny bubbles. She sighed but told herself that it was just as well there had been no time to become really close to Terry. That was a sad thought. A slight pang ran through her as she remembered their first meeting and their few dates. He had been a perfect host at the cinema, neither too pushy nor too restrained. He knew exactly how attractive he was, and being actively pursued by a virile, attractive man had certainly boosted Rose’s morale. Their second date had been at a dance in town and Rose had been surprised to see how Terry assumed that she would not want to dance with anyone else.

‘The lady’s with me,’ had been his remark to one of the men in Rose’s own motor pool. He had not been pleased when Rose had laughingly insisted that she was going to dance with her colleague.

‘You’re my date.’

‘Yes, Terry, but it’s a dance and you can’t expect me to ignore my colleagues.’

Terry had given in, but with poor grace. This is moving a little too fast, Rose decided, telling herself firmly that she had not joined the ATS to find a substitute for Stan but to become a properly qualified driver. She had given up hoping to join the élite drivers’ corps – someone had said those drivers were all civilians – but the war couldn’t last for ever and she, Private Rose Petrie, would be well qualified for a new and exciting civilian life.

Her euphoria melted away as suddenly as it had come. She wanted to achieve her dreams through hard work and ability, nothing else. She could not forget her encounter with the dispatch rider, which had ended so tragically for him and for those who loved him. She would always be happy that she had been able to help him but she did not want to profit in any way from his death.

You already have, a nasty little voice in her head said.

Rose brushed away the voice and allowed herself to think of her recent progress. In the few weeks in Preston after the dance, Corporal Church had been true to her word. Having got to grips, so to speak, with motorcycles, Rose had been allowed to work on an ambulance. Silently and at length she had thanked her three brothers and her father for teaching her everything they knew.

‘There was a mix-up, Petrie,’ Corporal Church had said after Rose, beaming from ear to ear, had almost floated out of the office after hearing the news. ‘Don’t ask me what, but just enjoy yourself.’ She had pointed to a dilapidated old ambulance, one door hanging open and the bonnet up. ‘Get that bugger working and I’ll let you work on a staff car, a fairly new Ford. I’ve got a ten-bob bet on that you can do it, so don’t let me down.’

Later the corporal had pocketed a ten-shilling note, thanked Rose and, in the following days, had allowed her to work on the engines of both a three-ton truck and a Bedford fifteen-hundredweight utility van. Rose had found the van marginally more difficult than her father’s, and the three-ton truck trickier, more modern and definitely more powerful. But she had loved every sweaty, oily moment.

‘A joy to drive, Corporal,’ she reported.

‘Don’t get too used to it, Petrie. We have loads more of them big bruisers in Mechanised Transport,’ she explained, pointing to the truck, ‘than we do of the gorgeous staff cars. I’ve heard there’s a Daimler armoured car. Wouldn’t that be a nifty Christmas present?’

Now, once more on her way to what could be an exciting and fulfilling post, Rose unfolded the issue of the Dartford Chronicle that her mother had sent because there was a picture of their actress friend Sally Brewer on the front page. Sally was in naval uniform, one beautiful hand smeared with engine oil and the other holding a can of a new miracle concoction that was guaranteed to remove dirty oil from anything.

In an inside page Rose found a different type of advertisement. ‘Girls wanted to make Vidor Batteries. Aged 18 and over.’ Rose giggled at that line but assured herself it was the girls, not the batteries, that had to have reached that exciting age. ‘21/6 per wk. 43-hr wk. Holidays with pay plus piece-work earnings.’

‘Piece-work earnings’ sounded rather nice. Just think, if I’d stayed at home I could have applied for that, Rose mused, knowing full well that, even if her assignments had not yet been what she had dreamed of, she was still where she wanted to be.

She thought of Terry, whom she had known for such a short time. He had definitely not seen her as ‘one of the blokes’. Rose knew what she looked like and knew that she was quite attractive, if on the tall side, but Terry had made her feel feminine and even pretty. She had always thought that men found sophisticated girls like Sally or delicately formed girls like Daisy attractive, but she was in no doubt at all about Terry’s feelings. He had cycled over to her unit, a week after the dance at which he had behaved as if he owned Rose, and had apologised.

‘Being with you makes me feel so great, Rose. I just want to keep you to myself, you’re so lovely; but I behaved like a cad and it’ll never happen again.’

Rose had forgiven him, and when, a few days later, she had told him of her new posting, he took it very well.

‘York isn’t a long way away, Rose, and I can borrow a bike and come up when we have time off. Let’s not just drift.’

‘I won’t drift, Terry. I’m a really strong swimmer.’

He had laughed with joy and kissed her then, a kiss that seemed to fill her with both ecstasy and longing; longing for what, she did not know, but she would keep in touch with Terry and, yes, she would be kissed like that again.