Читать книгу On a Wing and a Prayer - Ruby Jackson - Страница 9

Preston, Lancashire, July 1942

It could have been worse. She might have been sent to Scotland. Not, thought Rose, that there was anything wrong with Scotland, but it was just so very far away from Dartford.

Preston was not too far really, and what she had seen from the train looked almost familiar. They were not stationed in the town itself but a few miles out. There was a river, the Ribble. Rose liked the sound of water flowing, jumping over stones on its way to the sea. She thought it would be pleasant to walk, run or cycle in the area around the base. It was mainly moorland and there was a high point called a fell not too far away. It was called Beacon Fell, possibly because beacons were lit on it on special days or to warn nearby inhabitants that trouble was coming.

She wondered if the beacon would be lit to warn of an air raid, then scolded herself for being silly. If she ever got time off she could get a train from Preston to London, and then another from London to Dartford. Cleo was in a place called Arundel. She’d have to look that up, but niggles in her brain hinted that Arundel was a lot closer to Dartford than it was to Preston. A really bright spot, however, was that Chrissy was here with her. To arrive at a new base and know not one person there would have been awful.

‘Pity we’re not in the same billet, Rose, but for me it’s lovely to know at least one person.’

They were sitting in the canteen enjoying their dinner of corned beef, potatoes and carrots – at least Rose was. Chrissy was merely pushing her carrots around.

‘I’m delighted you’re here too,’ said Rose, ‘but you don’t look too happy, Chrissy. I’ll fetch us a nice cup of tea and you can tell me what’s bothering you…if you want to, that is.’

She walked across to the tea trolley and poured two cups of tea. ‘Good heavens,’ she said aloud. ‘It’s too weak to run out of the pot.’

‘Very funny, Petrie. We’re lucky to be getting any tea at all. Kitchen does its best, but with rationing—’

‘Rationing? When was tea rationed?’

‘You been in outer space, girl?’ asked the irate cook. ‘At least two years.’

‘Since 1940? I was working in a munitions factory in ’40, but my parents sell tea, high-end market as well as the housewife’s choice, and I don’t remember a word about it.’

‘Parents don’t tell their offspring everything.’

Rose thanked the cook, apologised for complaining and then walked back to her table, remembering recent conversations about parents and the sacrifices they were prepared to make for their children.

‘Here you go, Chrissy, can’t exactly stand a spoon up in it, but it’s hot, wet and sweet enough!’

‘Just the way I like it,’ said Chrissy with an attempt at a smile.

Rose sat down beside her. ‘What is it? You can tell me and I’ll help if I can.’

Chrissy looked at Rose for a long moment. ‘It’s my Alan,’ she said at last, ‘my son. I haven’t had a word from him in weeks and I’m worried sick.’

‘Where is he?’

‘That’s it. I don’t know. He said in his last letter as he might be going overseas. Really excited, he was, and I pretended I were, an’ all. See the world: Paris, France, the mysterious East.’

‘Letters from overseas take much longer than from – where was he stationed?’

‘Aldershot.’

‘That must have been nice, not an awful long way from Guildford. Did he write to you in Guildford?’

‘Yes, but he won’t know this address if he didn’t get my letter telling him.’

‘That won’t matter, Chrissy. If he sends a letter to Guildford it’ll be sent on to you. Happens every day of the week, but try not to worry.’

Rose knew all about worrying over absent loved ones. They had waited for letters from Ron, and Flora would always treasure the few he had written before his death in action. Rose could not speak of her brother’s death to anyone, and especially not to a woman who was worried about her only son.

‘My brother Phil’s at sea, Chrissy. Sometimes it’s months between letters and then five or six arrive at the same time. He numbers them now and so Mum knows if one’s missing. Sometimes they do get lost and sometimes the lost one turns up months later. And when my brother Sam was on active service, Mum got letters every week and then it was months between…It doesn’t mean he’s not writing, Chrissy, just that there’s a hold-up somewhere. You have to stay positive.’

‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Rose. I’m trying to concentrate on the typing and the shorthand but then I start worrying about Alan and I can’t see the keys or the symbols – all I can see is Alan’s face.’

That was what it must have been like for Mum and Dad with the boys. Did I give them half the sympathy I’m giving Chrissy? I hope so.

‘You haven’t touched your tea. Don’t blame you really. Doesn’t even smell like tea. We lived above the shop and if we weren’t smelling Mum’s baking, we were smelling tea leaves – lovely. Some of them’s really exotic, you know, from China and places like that.’ She picked up Chrissy’s cup. ‘I’ll fetch you another cuppa.’

‘No, this is fine, Rose. You’ve been a grand help.’

‘Haven’t done anything but, Chrissy, maybe if you try to concentrate on how proud of his mum, the secretary, Alan’s going to be…’

‘I will, and thanks.’

‘Nice of you to join us, Petrie.’

The senior mechanic was not pleased to see Rose walk in after he had started talking. She had been late leaving Chrissy and then her attention had been caught by the sight of a long line of army vehicles, each obviously in dire need of care and attention. Her heart had leaped with anticipation as she saw some vehicles that she recognised: an Austin light utility with its spare wheel anchored neatly on top of the driver’s cabin; a Bedford fifteen-hundredweight general service lorry. Each vehicle bore a large red L, and each one was surrounded by trainees and, surprisingly, soldiers. Everyone stood gazing hopefully into the engines, as if by merely looking they would understand all the mysteries inside.

‘Sorry, Sergeant, won’t happen again, sir.’

‘Better not, or you’re out on your ear. Keeping our vehicles moving is about as important a job as there is. What do you know about motorcycles?’

For a second Rose felt faint as she saw again the young man pinned under the motorcycle, and heard his voice: ‘Urgent, please.’

‘Very little, sir.’ She thought quickly. ‘I’d recognise a Harley-Davidson. If you can’t lift it, you can’t ride it.’

The sergeant’s face, red with anger, stared into Rose’s. ‘Is that a girly attempt at humour?’

‘No, sir. I heard it somewhere.’

‘Right, you’re a big girl, let’s see how many of them you can lift.’

He led the way across the machine shop to where motorcycles in various stages of disrepair were lying. ‘Pick them up, Petrie, and if you value your skin, don’t drop any.’

‘I hardly think that’s a sensible use of Private Petrie’s abilities, Sergeant Norris.’ Neither Rose nor the sergeant had heard Junior Commander Strong enter. ‘As far as possible, I hope she will never need to lift a motorcycle but, in the meantime, a working knowledge of the engine would be helpful.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good. Petrie, do try not to be late. The machines won’t repair themselves.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

The officer turned and walked out of the workroom, leaving Rose and Sergeant Norris looking at each other while everyone else determined to look anywhere but at them.

‘Get to it then, girl.’

To Rose the smell of oil was almost as pleasant as that of exotic tea leaves from ‘the mysterious East’; she almost revelled in it. Soon her hands were oil- and grease-marked. As a qualified mechanic, Corporal Church instructed her painstakingly.

‘What have you worked on before, Rose?’ Corporal Church asked.

‘My dad’s van and the occasional old banger some of the lads had.’

‘This is your first bike, then?’

Again Rose pictured the crashed motorcycle. ‘Yes, Corporal.’

The corporal smiled, and her rather plain face seemed to light up with an inner glow. ‘Good start. We’ll take this one apart and put it back together again.’

It sounded simple.

‘Bit fiddly,’ said Rose, an hour or so later as she handed over the unfinished job.

‘Maybe so, but you’re well on the way, Rose.’ Once more the mechanic surprised Rose with her friendly smile. ‘I’ll finish this off. While I’m doing that, you can clean those parts lying over there. Keep them in exactly the order you find them; in other words, pick up a part, clean said part, put it down exactly where it was to start with. Got it?’

‘Yes, Corporal.’

For the rest of the afternoon, Rose scarcely lifted her head as she examined and cleaned the motorcycle parts. She found minor and, unfortunately, major dents in some pieces, but was pleased that she was able to repair them. Sally’s fingernails wouldn’t handle this little lot, she thought with a smile as she remembered her actress friend. She looked at her own long and very dirty fingers with their short blunt nails.

‘Better get used to it, Rose.’

Rose smiled at the mechanic. ‘I’m admiring them, Corporal. These dirty hands bring me one step closer.’ She stopped, embarrassed.

‘Closer to what?’

It was impossible to tell the exact truth, which was to be a driver, although, since she had not passed into the unit for drivers, Rose felt deep down that her dream was further away than ever. ‘To be a fully qualified mechanic,’ she said, crossing her fingers behind her back as she spoke.

Corporal Church stood up and stretched to her full height – which was considerably less than Rose’s. ‘A few weeks on bikes, Private Petrie. Do well and I’ll give you an ambulance. Get that going for us and I might just be able to find a staff car that needs a little tender care.’

In spite of what she thought of as a bad start, Rose returned to her billet, a long and fairly wide Nissen hut, in a happy frame of mind. She had started to learn and had achieved a little. She had been reprimanded by the senior mechanic but admitted that she had been careless about time-keeping. He was right to tell me off, she told herself, and he took it on the chin when he caught it from the junior commander. And Corporal Church is a superb mechanic. I like her. There’s something about her, nice and calm and competent. I get the feeling that she’s very fair too.

Dear Mum and Dad,

If you’re planning on putting a packet of tea in my sock at Christmas, could I please have it a little early, like now? Food’s not bad; we had some decent gravy today, which covered up the smell of the corned beef very well, and hid the taste and all. I told you about Chrissy as trained with me. She’s here too, which is lovely because she’s a nice woman, but she’s worried sick about her son. A really good cuppa would make quite a difference, I think. He’s not long shipped out and she hasn’t had a letter since he left. Have you had a letter from our Phil?

Rose stopped for a moment and shouted, ‘I wish this blasted war was over.’ Feeling slightly better, she returned to her letter.

Has Daisy said anything about Tomas, about where his family is? That was another horror story when we were catching up with the news. A whole village in Bohemia, which I’m told is part of Czechoslovakia, was burned down and everybody killed. It’s called Lidice, the village that is. Really awful. I hope Tomas’s family isn’t from there. Good news is the Americans have defeated the Japanese at a place called Midway, which I think is an island in the Pacific Ocean. All our senior officers were cheering so it must be something special. It was Mr Fischer who used to explain all the news to Daisy, wasn’t it? Daisy said she bumped into him somewhere, didn’t she? Wonder where he is because I would really like someone to explain all this.

I miss you. Today I got started on engines but they were motorcycle engines and I never worked on one before. The chief mechanic is pretty grumpy. No, actually that’s not fair, I was late and he was angry. Afraid I didn’t cover myself with glory as I just could not get the hang of what he was trying to explain and he got more and more impatient. I met a really nice mechanic though, a corporal, so we can’t be friends since I’m just a private, but there’s something about her, Mum, you know. You get a feeling sometimes, doesn’t matter if they’re rich or poor, but something in the face or the eyes tells you this is a good person. Well, that’s Corporal Church and she was ever so supportive.

Say hello to everybody in your letters and remind our Daisy she’s got a twin sister in case she’s forgotten. Ha-ha.

Love to all,

Rose

Rose finished her letter, put it in an envelope, which she addressed and sealed before looking around the room, aware for the first time in several minutes that other girls had entered the hut while she had been writing and were now making themselves comfortable on beds or chairs.

‘How you can concentrate, Rose?’ said Vera Harding, who was about the same age as Rose. ‘Who were you writing to, Laurence Olivier or Clark Gable?’

‘Top secret.’

‘If I’d annoyed the chief mechanic the way you did today, Rose,’ a second girl entered the conversation, ‘I’d have been studying the manual.’

Immediately several voices joined in, some siding with Rose. ‘She’s wet behind the ear, Ella. Don’t worry, Rose, most of us cried for days the first time we had to work on an engine.’

‘Why did they accept you if you know nothing about motorcycles? I take it you have some experience with machines?’ Ella Barker went on.

‘Yes, I can drive and I—’

‘We can all drive.’ It was Ella again, like a dog after a bone.

Rose looked at her for a time before replying. ‘I am so pleased for you,’ she said coldly, and smiled a little as Ella blushed.

Several of the young women in the billet began to laugh.

‘Oh, Rose, oh, lovely English rose. At last someone who can give as good as she gets,’ said Vera. ‘Our Ella, Barker by name and barker by nature.’ She ignored Ella’s mutterings and continued, ‘Now, do come and tell us all about yourself, and all about the handsome soldier you were writing to.’

‘Sorry, Vera, I was writing home, and now I will study the manual.’

But for some time she was not allowed to return to her studies as various young women introduced themselves. By the time they all crowded around the wireless to listen to their favourite programmes, it seemed to Rose that she had known everyone in the billet, even the formidable Ella, for much longer than the short while she had been in Preston.

Having worked very hard all day, the girls were quite happy to get into bed at lights out. Rose lay for some time going over the events of the day and the evening. I miss Mum and Dad and George, she thought to herself, but these women are all in the same boat as I am, and they’re making an effort – well, most of them – to get on with everyone else. I’ll learn all about motorbikes – if our Daisy can go from driving cars to flying a blooming great plane, I can learn about bikes. Again the image of the dispatch rider pinned under his bike came into her head. I’ll learn for you, she decided, and maybe I’ll even be brave enough to ride one of them…

‘I’m not promising,’ she whispered as she fell asleep.

Next morning she joined several of her roommates for breakfast. From across the room she saw Chrissy, seemingly quite happily chatting to the women at her table. Rose waved and was delighted when Chrissy too raised her hand in greeting. Letters were delivered every day; maybe today she would hear from her son and maybe Rose Petrie would get a delivery of tea leaves.

By the end of the first week, Rose was thoroughly enjoying the work and the companionship of all the other women. Work was going well, and Sergeant Norris had even congratulated her on her aptitude and application.

‘Well, well, teacher’s pet,’ laughed Vera as they walked back to their billet one evening after the last class. ‘Aptitude and application. He’ll have you a motorcycle dispatch rider before you can shake a stick.’

‘I sincerely hope not. It’s cars I want to drive, although ambulance drivers are needed, aren’t they?’

‘Every kind of driver is needed, Rose. Drivers have accidents; they get strafed or bombed just like any other soldier. There’s risks everywhere.’

Vera had looked and sounded rather tense as she spoke, and Rose had the feeling that there was something on her mind. She decided to wait until her new friend was prepared to share it and so she decided to change the subject. ‘What are you wearing to the dance on Saturday night? I’ve only got one suitable frock with me and everyone will be tired of it after a while.’

‘I don’t dance.’

Rose was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she made up her mind. ‘I went to lots of dances at our local church hall and at the Palais,’ she said. ‘I bet there was a Palais in your town too, Vera, but could I just say that if you have religious reasons for not dancing then, of course, I’ll respect that, but…’ She stopped, wondering how best to carry on now that she had started. ‘But if you haven’t had time or opportunity to learn how to dance, I think I could teach you.’

They had reached their hut. ‘We could have some tea and a listen to the wireless if no one’s having a lie-down,’ suggested Vera without answering Rose’s question.

‘Just time to have a shower and wash my hair.’ Ella, who also shared the billet, was on her way out as Rose and Vera went in.

‘We’ll save you some tea,’ Vera called after her, but Ella waved a hand as if to say, ‘No, thanks.’

‘Hello, ladies, anyone for a cuppa?’ Vera addressed the women inside.

‘It’s made already, girls, and Susan’s mum sent a bar of chocolate,’ Ada Plumtree, the oldest ATS member in their hut, called to them. She counted quickly. ‘Two squares each if we eat quickly. Now, who’s going to the dance on Saturday? There’s rumours of Yanks in the area.’

‘Not Yanks, Poles,’ Susan argued, ‘but who cares, they’ll be as tall as the Yanks.’

‘But, unfortunately, a helluva lot poorer,’ Vera said, and everyone laughed.

‘You’re a married woman, Ada. You shouldn’t be interested in other men.’

‘I’m married, love, not dead. You going, Rose? There’s bound to be at least one taller than you.’

The happy chattering went on as they relaxed after a full day of hard work.

Ella came back from the shower room to join them. ‘Anyone got a spare towel? I dropped mine and it’s too wet to dry my hair. I can’t go into the lecture room with water dripping down my neck.’

A dry towel was produced and Ella sat vigorously rubbing her short fair hair while the others talked of the various nationalities that might turn up at the base’s Saturday night dance. For many of them this dance would be the first frivolous evening they had spent in some time.

‘Any POWs coming?’ one of the girls asked, stunning her companions into silence.

‘Prisoners? My mother would have a fit. They’re the enemy.’

‘They’re human beings,’ said Rose. ‘My brother was a POW in Germany,’ and then she laughed.

‘What’s funny, Rose? Being a prisoner anywhere isn’t funny.’

‘Sorry, Ada, I was about to say my brother would have loved to go to a dance. He’s a good dancer. Then I remembered there weren’t any women in the camps and he wouldn’t have danced with a man for all the tea in China.’

‘Funny things, men,’ said Ada. ‘God bless them every one.’

‘My hair’ll do, girls. We’d better get off to the canteen or we won’t have time to have a decent meal before the lecture.’

The lecture turned out to be three short films on the care and maintenance of military vehicles, including motorcycles and Churchill tanks.

‘Good Lord,’ said Ella, as they walked home in the gathering darkness, ‘from the sublime to the ridiculous. You take it all in, Rose?’

‘Absolutely. I would love to drive one of those giants. The Churchill must be named after the Prime Minister, don’t you think? I’ll ask if I can work on one of them.’

‘You’re going to be lucky to get to work on a beaten-up old ambulance. Got any idea of the cost of one of them tanks?’

Ada joined Ella in teasing Rose. ‘You joined the wrong branch of the service, chum, if you’re set on driving. Maintenance only gets to keep them running.’

‘I can hope.’

They stopped walking so suddenly that they bumped into one another. ‘Didn’t you ask to be a mechanic, Rose?’

‘No, when I was joining I did ask about being a driver but when we took the tests the marks I got showed that maintenance is where I’m best suited. Aptitude, they call it.’

‘But you can drive?’

‘I told you that already, Vera. I’ve been driving since I was ten – tall for my age – but our dad and my brothers – had three of them – taught my sister and me how to repair and maintain.’ She stopped talking, wondering if it would be thought boastful to show her pride in her twin sister. In for a penny? No, another time.

The women walked on without speaking, quite happy to be tired and to know that they had done their best all day and had, perhaps, improved their skills. They reached their Nissen hut and Ella startled Rose by breaking the silence.

‘Any of these gorgeous brothers of yours available?’

‘For what?’ Rose asked without thinking.

The others laughed; when she realised what Ella meant, Rose laughed too. ‘Sam’s spoken for,’ she said. ‘No wedding yet, but soon, we hope. Phil’s available but he’s a sailor and you’ll have to catch up with him. We never know where he is until he’s been – if you know what I mean.’

‘Hope he’s nowhere near Malta. It’s really getting a battering. You don’t believe the Germans would really try to starve a whole island to death, do you?’

‘Awful things happen in wars – on every side,’ said Vera in the voice of someone who has seen and heard everything.

‘Put the kettle on, somebody,’ called a voice from a bed near the door, ‘and come in or stay out, but make up your minds.’

Calling out apologies, they hurried inside, closing the door behind them. A few girls appeared to be asleep; others were sitting up in bed, reading magazines or writing letters.

‘Last one in makes the cocoa,’ called out the first voice, and soon the hut was quiet as some busied themselves with ironing uniforms, polishing shoes, or putting in curlers, making and serving cocoa to their roommates, just a few of the tasks that had to be done every night before sleep claimed them.

Rose was drifting off when she heard a voice from a bed near her. ‘You told us about two of your brothers, Rose. Is the third one available?’

The question brought back all the grief and sorrow caused by Ron’s death. How to answer? Pretend to be asleep? Would the question be asked again in the morning?

‘Afraid not, Ella. He’s unavailable.’

‘Shame, but who knows, maybe the answer to a maiden’s prayer will be at the dance on Saturday.’

‘Shut up and let people sleep or you’ll be unable to walk, never mind dance.’

Rose did not recognise that harsh voice but she did agree with her sentiments. Happily so did Ella.

Saturday came and the Nissen hut was full of excitement as the young women prepared to have a wonderful time at the rare social evening. Flora had persuaded Rose to take the pretty dress with her and, although she had worried that the dress might make her remember the embarrassing conversation with Stan, Rose had packed it – after all, she had no idea what she might be doing in the next few months. She did think of Stan, but that was because – at long last – a letter from him had arrived, and not because seeing the dress made her sad. She was delighted to have something both new and pretty to wear.

Short and sweet, said Rose to herself as she reread Stan’s letter – a bit like you, Stan.

Dear Rose,

I got your letter. It was great to hear from you. I heard from a lad in my squad that ATS takes the same ranks as regular army so we’ll both be privates by now, unless you’ve gone to be an officer and if you have, and you should, I’ll be thrilled for you. I’ll even salute. That would be so easy, as I’ve looked up to you, in more ways than one, all my life. I’ve done basic training and found muscles I never knew I had. They’re quite glad I’m good at gym as there are competitions among the regiments. We’re shipping out, can’t tell you where even if I knew, which I don’t, but please write to me again, Rose.

I really like being in the army and I hope you do too.

Stan

‘Come on, girls, time to change from pumpkins to Cinderellas.’

The young women, in varying stages of undress, looked at Ada and laughed.

‘Cinderella didn’t change into a pumpkin. It was a coach, all silver and gold and with red plush cushions.’ Ella heard what she was saying and stopped. ‘That didn’t come out right. The pumpkin changed into the coach. Cinderella didn’t change into anything, did she?’

‘A beautiful princess,’ answered at least three of the girls.

‘And this rich, handsome, completely unattached and therefore available prince fell in love with her,’ said Vera.

‘Absolutely. And, who knows, tonight may be the night. Anyone have any lipstick?’ Ella was rooting through a very untidy drawer as she spoke.

Rose picked up her ATS shoulder bag and took two lipsticks out of it. ‘Almost gone,’ she said as she held them up. ‘Tangee Natural pink in this one and Theatrical Red in this, but I did find refills in Boots.’ She had been delighted to find the Tangee priced at one and ten, but her favourite red had been a whopping five shillings. ‘I get the Theatrical Red first, but you’re all welcome after that.’

Vera offered the ubiquitous Evening in Paris toilet water, an offer eagerly accepted. Rose slipped on the pretty cotton dress with its sweetheart neckline and almost full green-and-blue patterned skirt. It was some time since material had been widely available, but there was enough in the skirt to make sure that there would be a discreet, tantalising glimpse of the two petticoats she was wearing with it, one white and the other blue. She smiled as she remembered her disappointment that Stan had not taken her dancing in it.

Must have hurt my pride and not my heart, she decided, but she was quietly glad that she and Stan were still friends.

She looked over at Vera, who had changed out of her uniform into a simple blouse and skirt.

‘Come on, girls,’ said Ella. ‘Destiny awaits.’

‘Let’s hope he’s tall, dark and handsome, with no spots,’ said Ada, and the unmarried girls shrieked in pretended horror.

The gym was already crowded when the women got there, and the noise from the band and conversations being conducted at a volume guaranteed to defeat the musicians was almost deafening, sure proof that the evening was going well. There was no time to look for a table as each girl was whisked onto the floor almost before she had removed her coat. It was only after some time that a breathless Rose saw that Vera was not dancing and was sitting alone at a table. Rose excused herself from her over-eager partner and joined her roommate.

‘You’re too pretty not to have been asked to dance, Vera. May I ask why you’re not up on the floor?’

Vera looked at her with suspiciously moist eyes and tried to smile. ‘Scruples, I suppose, Rose, and I am enjoying the music and watching all the dancers, really.’

‘I have scruples too, Vera. Bet you ten bob almost every person in the room has some.’

‘But they’re not all engaged – well, almost engaged – to a prisoner of war.’

‘A dance is just a dance, nothing more, and I’m sure that if we asked we’d find there’s someone bravely dancing here who is married to a prisoner of war.’

Vera sniffed. ‘You don’t understand. You have absolutely no idea what it’s like to be waiting for someone. I promised James, I shouldn’t be here enjoying myself while who-knows-what’s happening to him.’

She stood up as if preparing to leave, but Rose touched her hand. ‘Sit down for a minute, Vera, and we can have a beer or some cider. Look, there’s a friend of mine, Chrissy Wade. She’ll go to the bar for us.’

Since Vera seemed to accept this, Rose waved frantically at Chrissy, who saw her, gave a happy smile and made her way over to join them.

‘Hello, this is fun, isn’t it? That music makes me feel as young as you two.’

Rose introduced Vera and asked Chrissy if she would mind standing in the line to get drinks for all three of them while she and Vera had a private conversation. Chrissy was happy to help and, when she had gone, Rose turned again to Vera. ‘You said “almost engaged”. So you’re not engaged to your prisoner of war but you love him and he loves you?’

‘I think so.’

Now what? Rose felt totally inadequate. Was this what Stan had meant when he said she spoke like a man? Did that mean she also thought like one, for she could not think of a single thing to say to cheer up the other girl. As always in times of stress, she found herself taking a deep breath. ‘Vera, you don’t think you love him?’

‘That’s what’s so awful. I know I don’t love him – if loving means going all soft inside like when I see Jimmy Stewart at the pictures. I never get like that with James, but we’ve been paired off for years and he enlisted when he was seventeen and begged me to save myself for him and I promised, and I think that means I shouldn’t want to dance with other men, especially since poor James is in a POW camp. He’s only twenty and that’s so sad. You have no idea.’

Rose was delighted to see Chrissy making her wary way across the dance floor.

When they were sitting, glasses in hands, and had taken at least one sip, Rose said, ‘Chrissy, how old is your Alan?’

Chrissy did not answer immediately; it was almost as if she had to try to remember. ‘Hard to believe he’s twenty,’ she said at last.

‘About your James’s age, Vera,’ pointed out Rose as she turned back again to Chrissy. ‘Does he have a girl?’

‘No, and where’s he supposed to meet one on a troop ship or in the desert, I do not know.’

‘He could have our Vera here. She’s got a lad that doesn’t want her to have any fun while he’s deployed. And it’s worse now,’ she added quickly, as she could see anger sparkling in Vera’s eyes, ‘because he’s a POW.’

As soon as she spoke, Rose knew that Vera did not understand her meaning. She had wanted to explain that Vera was determined to make life as pleasant as possible for her own beloved prisoner of war, wanted to assure him that she was true to him.

But Vera was standing, her face rigid with anger. ‘I did not say that, Rose Petrie. I said he wanted me to keep myself for him, and he’s ever so brave. He was a dispatch rider and got caught by a patrol and now he’s a prisoner of war.’

‘Then I’m sure he wants you to be dancing with a nice lad, Vera, instead of sitting here talking to Rose and me,’ said Chrissy gently. She looked around the room. ‘Like that one with the ginger hair over there,’ she said in a tone loud enough for the soldier to hear. ‘Honestly, Vera, if your James loves you, he knows a dance is just a dance. You’re not marrying the chap.’

‘Well, well, well, am I in luck? Three lovely ladies all by themselves.’ The tall, ginger-haired soldier smiled, walked over to the table, said, ‘May I?’ and without waiting for a reply, sat down. ‘Corporal Terry Webster,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ Vera began bravely. ‘I had a chum at school called Terry.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said the soldier, holding his hand out as if to brush away Vera’s words. ‘Bet she was a saintly girl whose name was Theresa. Am I right?’ He laughed.

His laugh was pleasant. Rose looked across the table and smiled at him. Corporal Webster was a few inches taller than she was, and the width of his shoulders told of the strength in those long arms.

‘And, Viking Princess, my hair is not, as your lovely friend said, ginger. It’s called châtain clair, translating, for those who don’t parlez-vous, as clear chestnut.’

‘Much nicer than ginger,’ agreed Rose, who was surprised to find herself drawn to the young man, so different from any of the other young men she knew. He was at ease and friendly, confident but not overwhelming, and there was more than a hint of sophistication about him. In the same situation, Stan would have been tongue-tied. She smiled as she thought of her old friend. ‘And do you parlez-vous, Corporal?’

‘Terry, please, and let’s just say I wouldn’t go thirsty in Paris.’

‘Glad to hear that. Now this is Chrissy, and this is Vera.’

‘And I’m Ada,’ said another voice, and Ada appeared from the direction of the bar, obviously ready to chat to a handsome young man. ‘Now, if you haven’t had time, tell us all about yourself.’

Terry smiled at her out of startlingly green eyes. ‘I’d rather hear all about you.’

‘Behave yourself,’ said Rose, forgetting for a moment that he was not one of her brothers.

He laughed and called over some friends. The rest of the girls joined them and the evening went with a swing. Everyone danced, including Vera, who, after a few minutes of arguing with her conscience, relaxed and began to enjoy the evening.

‘I’ll write to James,’ she told Rose. ‘It’s only talking to other men and dancing, but all my friends are here too, aren’t they?’

She looked so worried that Rose reassured her.

She wrote to her sister Daisy later that night expressing her doubts.

It’s none of my business, of course, Daisy, but the poor little thing doesn’t seem to know if she loves him or not. She’s promised to save herself for him, and if that means what I think it means, then she’s not in much danger on a dance floor with over a hundred other people on it.

We have alerts here all the time and I hate the sound of the big bombers, but if I pretend that you’re flying one of them – and, yes, I know you’re not a fighter pilot – then the noise doesn’t bother me so much. Sometimes the rumbling and droning goes on for ages and I can’t see a thing because they’re too high up or there’s beastly weather with thick, dark clouds.

Met a nice chap called Terry. He’s taking me to the cinema next Saturday and I’m looking forward to it. He says a fantastic film has just come out in London. It’s called Mrs. Miniver, with Greer Garson. Isn’t she one of Sally’s idols? It’s got superb reviews and we’re crossing fingers it’s in Preston. And – would you believe – Terry’s taller than me and he’s broad and somehow seems to be much bigger. Says he was a swimmer when he was at school, and, let me tell you, he looks as if he can hold his own. Plus he’s got the most gorgeous green eyes you ever saw in your entire life.

Any chance we can get leave together or meet somewhere? I miss you, Daisy, even more than I miss Mum and Dad. Is that awful? Just I can’t imagine telling Mum about Terry’s beautiful eyes.

Rose

PS. He says I’m a Viking princess, daft, isn’t he!!

The following Saturday, Rose spent the afternoon preparing for her date. She washed her long hair and brushed it dry so that it rippled over her shoulders and shone like gold. Unfortunately she could not find even the smallest piece of mascara with which to darken her fair lashes, but excitement was making her lovely blue eyes sparkle and so she decided that she would do. She was trying to decide between a dark-blue shirtwaist dress with a little white collar and a light-green fitted jacket to be worn with a pleated grey skirt when Chrissy announced that her date had arrived. Rose grabbed the dress, which was closer and easier to haul over her head, slipped on black peep-toed shoes, picked up a white cardigan and her handbag and hurried out to meet him, slowing down as she got to the end of the pathway so that her breathing had time to get back to normal.

There was no mistaking the admiration in his green eyes.

‘Well, Miss Petrie, you look like something out of a magazine.’

‘Thank you, kind sir, I think,’ teased Rose as he gallantly opened the passenger door of the small Morris car.

‘You should wear your hair down all the time, Rose,’ said Terry as he started the engine. ‘Now I think you look like a princess in a fairy story.’

‘Not Viking?’

He laughed. ‘Absolutely a Viking princess. I’m the luckiest man in the British Army.’

Terry had managed to borrow a friend’s car and, as he helped her into the rather elderly vehicle, Rose found herself hoping that it would last the journey; she certainly did not want to spend time working on the ancient car in her pretty dress.

Terry did not start the engine immediately and Rose looked at him. He looked rather crestfallen.

‘What is it, Terry? Has something happened?’

He sighed and leaned back in the seat. ‘Rose, I’m so sorry, but we won’t be going to Mrs. Miniver.’

Rose was disappointed as the new film was garnering rave reviews. ‘Too bad, Terry. Sold out?’

‘No. It hasn’t got up this far yet. Something about how many copies of the film there are.’

Rose smiled. Having grown up with Sally, whose father was the projectionist in a cinema, she knew all there was to know about releases. ‘It’s all right, Terry. What’s on?’

‘You’re a darling, Rose. I just knew you wouldn’t fuss. Suspicion is playing, Alfred Hitchcock.’

‘Super. I love Hitchcock’s films, don’t you?’

‘Wow, thanks, Rose. I was so worried, having practically promised Mrs. Miniver.’ He started the car and, happily without any breakdowns, they drove off into town. They saw the thriller, shared a bar of Batger’s vanilla fudge, and enjoyed themselves immensely.

Rose was happy. Terry had not touched her at all during the film, except when he touched her hand as they shared pieces of the recently rationed sweets, and he took her hand naturally as they walked back to the car.

He drove straight back to the camp, parked and walked her to her Nissen hut where they stood at a door for a few minutes. Rose was slightly nervous. What was she supposed to do?

‘May I kiss you good night, Rose? I realise we’ve only just met, but you’re so lovely, so special.’

He was not afraid of her. Rose was cheering inside. She nodded and he took her in his arms and kissed her very gently on the lips. Rose felt her stomach flip-flop while wonderful and completely new feelings swam through her body.

‘Good night, my gorgeous Viking,’ he whispered against her ear. ‘I’ll see you as soon as I can, maybe next weekend?’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ whispered Rose, and he looked at her for a moment before once more kissing her.

They said good night again and then Terry turned and walked back to the borrowed car.