by Daisy Styles
Maggie gave a long, melodramatic moan, ‘If things don’t improve soon, I’ll finish up walking down the aisle in mi bra and knickers!’
The very next evening, after they’d finished another sparse supper, this time faggots and mashed potatoes, Maggie dashed off to pick up her post from the Phoenix, and less than ten minutes later she came dancing back into the cowshed waving a letter.
‘A letter from Les!’ After running full pelt up the lane from the Phoenix to the cowshed, Maggie paused to draw breath. ‘Thank God – he’s been granted leave to get married on the eighth of May!’
‘That’s wonderful, cara,’ Rosa cried.
Maggie’s eyes glowed with happiness. ‘Now we can do the invitations properly, Julia,’ she exclaimed, startling Julia, who was miles away.
‘Rightio, if you say so,’ Julia answered civilly.
Nora raised sardonic eyebrows at Julia’s response, but Maggie was way too excited even to notice.
‘I’ll go to see the vicar first thing in the morning before I clock on for work – and I’ll book the Black Bull whilst I’m in town, for the reception,’ she added breathlessly. ‘Though what we’ll eat God only knows!’
Now that the wedding date was fixed, Maggie’s brain was in a whirl as she thought of even more things that she had to do. ‘I must let Les’s parents know, and Gladys and Reg too: they’ll have to travel all the way up from London …’ Suddenly she caught sight of Nora and her voice faded away. ‘Nora, love, is something wrong?’ she said, as she hurried to the window where Nora was standing staring out at the dark, wet moors.
Nora turned to her friend, a single tear falling miserably down her pale face.
‘What is it, sweetheart, what’s happened?’ Maggie murmured, as weeping Nora fell into her open arms.
‘That’s just it, nothing’s happened, nothing ever happens to me!’ As the tears increased, Nora managed to blurt out what was bothering her. ‘I’ll – never-ever-get-married!’ she said through heart-wrenching sobs. ‘Nobody will ever want to marry me!’
As Maggie gently stroked Nora’s frizzy red hair, Rosa joined her in comforting poor Nora.
‘Cara, dearest, you have so much love to give,’ she murmured. ‘One day, I’m sure, the right boy will come along and win your heart.’
Nora sadly shook her head. ‘There’s nobody out there who would want somebody like me.’
Feeling completely inadequate, Julia watched Maggie and Rosa settle Nora on the sofa; it was impossible for her to respond to the charged emotional scene as the other girls had. But, she thought suddenly, I could do something useful. Turning on her heel, she walked quickly into her bedroom; when she emerged she was carrying the fashion magazines she’d brought from London.
‘You might like to look through these,’ she said, as she handed Nora the magazines. ‘They might give you some ideas for your bridesmaid’s dress.’
Stunned by Julia’s spontaneous act of kindness, Nora gazed in disbelief, first at the elegant fashion models on the front of Vogue, then at Julia.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
After Julia had retired early as usual, Maggie and Nora flicked through the magazines.
‘Oh, they’re gorgeous,’ Maggie sighed, as she stared in wonder at the wonderful bridal gowns, beautiful bouquets and pretty accessories.
Nora was less impressed by the tall, willow-slim Vogue models. ‘I could no more wear summat like that than fly to the moon,’ she giggled self-consciously.
Maggie gave a dreamy sigh. ‘I’d give my back teeth to look like a princess on my wedding day.’
Rosa gave an inward groan. She knew Julia must have meant well, but by giving Maggie the magazines she’d set the poor girl’s standards even higher. ‘Damn!’ she thought to herself. ‘Things can only get worse.’
6. Roger Carrington
Rosa’s pretty, heart-shaped face suffused with blushes as Nora bawled across the post room. ‘Eh, Rosa! There’s a letter in your pigeon-hole – it might be from that fella of yours down South!’
Rosa cringed; much as she loved sweet guileless Nora, there were times when she wished she’d stop being so loud and indiscreet about Rosa’s personal life.
‘Thanks,’ Rosa said quickly, as she shoved the letter into her pocket.
Nora, incredulous that Rosa hadn’t ripped open the envelope straight away, spluttered, ‘Well, aren’t you going to read it?’
Fortunately, Maggie, who was right beside Nora, gave her friend a dig in the ribs. ‘Put a sock in it, our kid; love letters are better read in private.’
Now it was poor Nora’s turn to blush. ‘How would I know?’ she muttered grumpily. ‘Nobody’s ever sent me a love letter.’
After reading Roger’s effusive letter (in the privacy of one of the cubicles in the ladies’ toilets in order to avoid any awkward questions), Rosa was both excited and nervous. She’d met Roger the previous autumn, when they’d both exhibited their paintings in an art gallery in Salford. Roger, who’d driven all the way up from Norfolk, had been delighted to make her acquaintance, and Rosa fondly remembered his laughter and easy-going manner. When he’d said goodbye and kissed her modestly on the cheek (his sandy moustache tickling her nose!), he’d asked if they could keep in touch. He, she thought with a twinge of guilt, had put more effort into their correspondence than she had.
As she read the letter Rosa could almost hear his soft, cultivated voice.
Dearest Rosa,
I think of you so much and wonder how you are in the bomb factory on the wild Pennine Moors. I miss you terribly and wonder why you haven’t written recently. Are they working you munitions girls to death?
His passionate attachment to his RAF squadron and his love of flying came through loud and clear in his letter.
There’s nothing like the thrill of take off, taxiing down the runway, the propellers whirling, the engine kicking in, then that breath-taking moment when you take to the skies. Once over enemy territory and Jerry’s on your radar, the only thought in your head is survival.
Rosa’s stomach gave a sickening turn; she’d seen enough killing at close quarters to last her a lifetime and could cheerfully have forgone Roger’s gung-ho descriptions of gunning down the enemy.
The drive back to base in the dawn light is the sweetest moment – it’s the time when I always think of you. I imagine you standing on the edge of the runway, with your glorious long dark hair blowing around your face, your eyes wide as you look out for me with a smile on your lovely face. Please don’t mock: a man must be allowed to dream in wartime and you’re the girl I always dream of, Rosa. Would you ever think of coming to see me? I’ve hardly any leave due till March, and the thought of not seeing you for such an enormous length of time makes me feel unhinged! I know it’s a lot to ask but it would make me so, so happy.
Yours, in hope of seeing you soon,
All my love, Roger
When Rosa had finished the letter, she sought out Kit: the eldest of the group of friends, a married woman and a mother whom she trusted implicitly.
‘Roger wants me to visit him at his base near King’s Lynn,’ she told Kit anxiously.
‘Glory be to God!’ Kit exclaimed. ‘That’s way over on the other side of England.’
‘I know,’ Rosa laughed. ‘I’m owed some leave, but I suspect I’ll spend one day getting there and another getting back, and if I’m lucky a day with Roger.’
Seeing Rosa’s doubtful expression, Kit gently asked, ‘What’s troubling you, lovie?’
Rosa paused to consider before she answered. ‘Well, I hardly know the man for a start,’ she laughed.
‘Do you like him?’
‘Yes, I do like him,’ Rosa replied.
‘Do you want to go?’
Rosa nodded. ‘It might be a bit strange, but, yes, it would be nice to see him again.’
‘Well, then, I’d throw caution to the wind – nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ Kit exclaimed. ‘Book your ticket and tell the RAF to roll out th
e red carpet!’
As Rosa packed a small suitcase for her brief trip South, Nora became very anxious. ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to find your way back to us safely?’ she fretted.
‘You mean because I’m Italian and might get arrested as an enemy spy?’ Rosa asked, her merry eyes twinkling.
Anxious Nora nodded. ‘I wouldn’t want owt awful to happen to you,’ she blurted out.
Rosa patiently laid aside the black crêpe skirt she was packing in order to reassure Nora, who worried if any of her best friends travelled further than Manchester. ‘Cara, there is nothing to worry about.’
Determined to cheer up Nora, Rosa said with a teasing smile, ‘Do you think if I talk like you Bomb Girls people down South will understand me?’
Nora gave her a quizzical look. ‘Go on, then,’ she challenged. ‘Just you try.’
Rosa took a deep breath, then launched off. ‘I were sayin’ to our Nora t’other day, if thou dusn’t shape up we’ll get nowt done soon,’ she said in a thick Lancashire accent. ‘Well, was that convincing?’ she asked with a laugh.
Nora grinned with relief. ‘Thou’ll pass alreet,’ she said with an approving nod. ‘Talking like that you sound like one of us,’ she finished with a loving smile.
‘Of course I’m one of you, silly,’ Rosa said, as she gave sweet Nora a hug. ‘I’m a Lancashire Bomb Girl and right proud of it too!’
When Rosa set off on her long journey across England a few days later, she was at times overwhelmed by the sheer mass of troops on the move. At every station hundreds of uniformed soldiers, sailors and RAF servicemen poured out of compartments reeking of cigarette smoke and sweat. Then, in what seemed like no time at all, even more servicemen poured on to the steam train, until it was almost impossible to walk down the corridor to use the lavatories.
The bustling crowds started to dwindle when they left the major cities behind, and, as the train chugged through the flat Norfolk landscape, Rosa was able to stand up and lower the window: the blast of fresh air combined with the salty tang of the sea took her breath away. As they approached King’s Lynn, the train started to shunt slowly forwards.
‘Are you getting off here, sweetheart?’ a handsome young sailor with his hat worn at a jaunty angle asked Rosa, as she reached up for her suitcase, lodged in the netted luggage rack.
‘Yes,’ she gasped as she tugged hard to release the case.
‘Let me help,’ he said with a confident smile. ‘Hope you’ve got a boyfriend to meet you at the station?’ he asked cheekily.
Rosa blushed and nodded. ‘Yes, somebody is meeting me.’
‘Lucky fella!’ the cocky sailor joked.
Rosa descended the steep steps of the train with her heart beating double time – would she recognize Roger? The one and only time she’d seen him he’d been swamped in a huge RAF flying jacket. Would he even be there to pick her up as promised? Just as she was beginning to feel panicky, a voice rang out along the blustery platform: ‘Rosa!’
Rosa smiled at the sight of Roger, tearing up the platform, waving madly at her. He emerged from the crowd, and without a hint of self-consciousness sprinted forwards and lifted her high in the air.
‘Hahh!’ Rosa cried, as she laughed out loud in surprise.
‘Hello again!’ Roger responded with a broad smile as he set her down on her feet, then planted kisses on each of her pretty blushing cheeks. ‘It’s wonderful to see you.’
Relieving Rosa of her suitcase, he threw an arm around her shoulders, then led her along the platform and out of the station.
‘Hop in,’ he said, when they reached his parked up, battered old Morgan sports car, which Rosa remembered from the first time she’d met him.
‘She’s still going?’ Rosa teased.
‘I occasionally have to get out and push the old girl,’ Roger admitted. ‘Luckily the Norfolk lanes are kinder on her than your Pennine roads – she nearly blew a gasket up there.’
Rosa smiled with relief. Roger was just as she’d remembered him: extrovert, energetic, as carefree and open as a boy; it was exactly these qualities that had warmed her to him in the first place.
Like the gent he was, Roger settled her in the front passenger seat, where he lingered in order to softly stroke a ringlet of mahogany-brown hair from her upturned face. ‘You’re still the loveliest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on,’ he murmured.
Rosa was relieved when Roger was in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy his praise and tender looks; she simply needed to catch her breath and get used to being in his presence. Driving through the dark town, Rosa noticed there wasn’t a single light in sight; even Roger was driving with the headlights off.
‘How can you find your way in the pitch dark?’ she puzzled.
‘You get used to it,’ Roger said, as he confidently swept out of Lynn and wound his way along country lanes that were so narrow Rosa felt as if the hedgerows were brushing against the car’s wheels. ‘We’re on the very edge of the East coast, which is dotted with RAF airfields. A chance light could give away a secret location and Jerry would be on us before you could say, “Herr Hitler”,’ he chuckled. ‘Now, tell me, have you done any more Bomb Girl paintings since we last met?’
‘I’m afraid to say I haven’t,’ Rosa admitted with a shame-faced smile. ‘Though I have drawn numerous bunches of flowers for Maggie’s wedding invitations!’
Roger made a disapproving clucking sound with his tongue. ‘Very disappointing,’ he said in a mock-stern voice.
‘Since Christmas I haven’t had the time, or the inclination, to draw anything much,’ Rosa answered honestly. ‘How about you?’
Roger shook his head as he dropped gear to take a sharp double bend. ‘No, more’s the pity; we’ve hardly time to draw breath here – orders from the top are to keep bombing Jerry day and night.’
Feeling suddenly queasy, Rosa closed her eyes in the inky darkness. How many thousands and thousands of people imprisoned in German camps, just as she had been, and just as her brother probably still was – the old, the sick and the infirm, babies, children and mothers – would die under the relentless barrage of the RAF’s bombing raids over Germany? Would it eventually undermine German morale, as the British government hoped, and bring the wretched war to an end? Or would this new wave of attacks slaughter even more helpless innocents?
‘So,’ said Roger, breaking through her gloomy thoughts. ‘I thought we’d go to the officers’ mess for supper, then I’ll tuck you up in the visitors’ quarters for the night, so you’ll be as fresh as a daisy for our day out tomorrow.’
Rosa felt a huge surge of relief; she hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d been subconsciously worrying about where she would sleep. Fortunately, gallant Roger had thought of everything.
‘Don’t set your hopes too high on supper,’ Roger continued, as he ground to a halt and yanked on the handbrake. ‘The officers’ mess is a bit hit-and-miss on the grub front, but it’s always hot and plentiful.’
After their long drive in the dark, Rosa blinked as they entered the canteen, loud with the sound of clattering knives and forks, and the deep murmur of men’s voices. A brief silence fell as Roger led Rosa towards the serving hatch.
‘We don’t see many beautiful women,’ Roger whispered in her ear, as his arm protectively encircled her slender waist. ‘If I weren’t here, they might mob you,’ he joked.
Piling their trays with boiled beetroot, sprouts and something that looked like shepherd’s pie, Roger guided Rosa to a table, where he introduced her to his friends; they gazed admiringly at her shapely frame and slim legs. Shaking her rather untidy hair off her face, she sat down beside Roger and smiled at the men, who could barely keep their eyes off her.
‘Where did old man Carrington find a lovely thing like you?’ one of them asked.
‘We met at an art exhibition in Salford,’ Rosa answered.
‘Good God! It would be worth taking up painting to meet you!’ another of the men chuckled.<
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‘Leave the poor girl alone,’ Roger chided good-naturedly. ‘She’s been travelling all day,’ he added protectively.
‘Christ! I wouldn’t cross the road to see an ugly sod like you, old chap,’ his friend joshed.
Rosa broke through the raucous laughter. ‘Roger says the RAF are keeping you all busy.’
And they were off: avidly discussing the advantages of Lancasters over Halifaxes well into the second course of stewed apples and custard. Seeing Rosa’s eyelids drooping with fatigue and an excess of information on the size of various planes’ bomb bases, Roger steered her away from his friends and settled her at a quiet table, where they were able to drink their tumblers of whisky and soda in private.
‘Poor buggers,’ he said, as they clinked glasses. ‘They couldn’t believe their eyes when you walked in and lit up the room.’
‘They’ve probably all got devoted girlfriends at home,’ Rosa answered with a knowing smile.
‘Not one of them could hold a candle to you, my sweet,’ Roger said. ‘I’m the luckiest man in the world to have met you,’ he whispered, as he leant forward to kiss her on her cheek.
Rosa’s heart skipped a beat; she liked the smell of his clean skin and the way the ends of his sandy moustache swept against her warm cheek.
‘I’ve not been able to get you out of my head since the moment I first met you.’ Roger stared into her deep, dark eyes, so intensely that embarrassed Rosa started to blush. ‘I don’t want to rush you, my dearest, but do you think you might have feelings for me?’
Though taken aback at his directness, Rosa paused to consider; she’d never been the kind of woman who gushed on request, so her reply was short and direct.
‘I do have feelings for you, Roger – that’s exactly why I’m here – but please,’ she begged, ‘can we take things one step at a time? We hardly know each other,’ she finished shyly.
‘Of course!’ he agreed with a grateful smile. ‘But I do want to know everything about you, darling Rosa.’
Seeing Rosa give a sharp intake of breath, Roger quickly added, ‘In time, of course.’