On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘We’ve learned to do without, lass; hardly notice any more that we haven’t seen a banana in years. Here, have a look in this,’ Flora said as she handed her daughter a catalogue. Flora hid her misery well. She would never accept that all five of her children were, as she put it, in the Forces – the four still alive, that was – but she could pretend, she hoped, until Rose was gone.

  Looking at the advertisements in her father’s catalogues was an important part of searching for ‘best price’. Fred had no space on his packed shelves for deodorants but they were listed in the catalogues. Flora had found one with a catchy name: ODO-RO-NO – ‘The greater the strain, the greater the risk of underarm odour.’

  Rose laughed. It practically claimed that no matter how hard she worked, there would be no unpleasant smells. ‘Not too expensive either, Mum. We’ll have a look in the town.’

  Palmolive soap was listed at thruppence ha’penny per bar and Rose decided to buy two or three bars, if possible. Soap had been rationed in February, as fat and oil had been deemed more necessary for food production than for cleanliness.

  ‘I’m sure we has some Lifebuoy soap in the flat. I been saving mine,’ Flora offered. ‘We has to take your coupons for soap, love; iron-clad rules, your dad has.’ She looked at the items heaped on her daughter’s bed. ‘Is there anything left that hasn’t been rationed, love?’

  ‘I expect chocolate, sweets and biscuits will be on the list before long.’

  ‘Best to stock up on what’s available. Your dad hears rumours when he goes to the distribution centres.’

  Rose smiled. ‘Every Saturday since I’ve been old enough for pocket money, I’ve bought a tube of Rolos. Could I survive without them?’

  Flora, who ate few sweets but was, she had to admit, a little too round, looked with affection and a little envy at her tall, slender daughter, who ate everything and anything and yet never gained weight. ‘’Course you could; we gets used to anything after a while, but as it happens there’s some Rolos in the shop and I could put some in a tin for you so they’ll keep.’

  Rose’s wage was not going to be quite as much as she had earned in the factory and so she would be compelled to be more frugal – and she’d have no parents there ready and willing to hand over the odd shilling ‘till the end of the week’.

  She had seen nothing of Stan since she had left the factory and there was an unaccustomed dull ache in her insides. None of the lads fancy me, she told herself, not even Stan. Daisy knocks them down like skittles and we’re twins. What’s wrong with me?

  Try as she did, she could not understand what Stan had tried to tell her. ‘Not in her league’, indeed. What a load of old tripe. Was it possible that Stan had palled with her because no one fancied him? No, Stan wasn’t like that. She had written to Daisy about it and Daisy had tried to console her.

  You and Stan have been friends for ever and friendship is very important. He does love you and I think you love him the same way, as a dear and special friend. Don’t let go of that, Rose. Tomas is my friend, but our love for each other is so much more than that and you’ll know it when it comes. It’s like being run over by a Spitfire, knocks you for six. Absolutely wonderful.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Daisy, I don’t think,’ Rose had said angrily, and got on with her packing.

  It was young George who brought her news of Stan. She had gone down to Central Park for a last walk round and bumped into her foster brother on his way home.

  ‘Got a letter for you, Rosie,’ he had said with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Rose, not Rosie, you horrible little boy – and how come you’ve got a letter for me?’

  George had lived with the Petries since his mother and brother had been killed in an air raid. Nothing had been heard from his layabout father since and, frankly, no one missed him. The two years of regular food and sleep, plus affection and guidance, meant that the boy was completely at ease with all the Petries, and he merely laughed. They walked along together companionably while he searched through his pockets. ‘Got it last night but you was in bed when I got back from the pictures and you was up before me this morning. Now where can it be?’

  ‘If this is some kind of a horrible boy joke, I will tie you to my—’

  Eventually George hastily pulled out the rather grubby, crumpled envelope before Rose could think of something nasty to do to him. ‘Here,’ he said with a grin. ‘Your chap kissed it lovingly, made me want to be—’

  ‘You have no idea how sick you’ll be if you utter one more word, Georgie Porgie.’

  George was bright in more ways than mathematics and he handed over the letter and walked sedately beside her. ‘Blimey, Rose, you’re not going to wait till we get home. Maybe he wants a quick reply.’

  ‘Then he can wait,’ muttered Rose, and she began to stride out so that, fit as he was, young George was no match for her speed and had to trot to keep up as they rushed home.

  Once inside, Rose hurried up the stairs that led from the family shop and from the back door she called, ‘I’ll be there in a minute, Mum,’ and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She flopped into the old chair that had worn the same flowered cotton cover for as long as she could remember. For a few years she and Daisy had been able to sit in it together comfortably, but as they’d grown they’d had to take turns – one in the chair, the unlucky one on the bed. Since her twin had gone off to join the ATA, Rose had been able to make constant use of the chair, which made her miss her sister more than ever.

  ‘Well, let’s see what Stan has to say, Daisy,’ she said aloud.

  The letter had been written the day before and had Stan’s Dartford address on it.

  Dear Rose,

  I have joined the army. I’m the lowest of the privates in The Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment. I never meant to hurt you, never. You’re my best friend, have been since we was five. That’s a long time and I don’t want nothing to spoil it. I love you, Rose, can’t think of another word for what I feel but I do know it’s not the love that you need for marriage. Please write to me because if I’m going overseas…

  Please understand, Rose. I don’t know. Maybe it was them Spitfires sent out to help the people in Malta and every last one of them bombed to bits before they could even get off the ground. Maybe it’s these raids on lovely bits of England. Gran took me on a trip to Bath once – couldn’t believe it was real and now thousands and thousands of buildings is damaged. Gran’s right cross about Bath and about me joining up but I’m making her an allowance, same as I give her now. She’s not old, Rose. I suppose you always think your gran is old but she’s not and the neighbours both sides say they’ll keep an eye on her. She’ll always know where I am. I’ll write to both of you when I can.

  George said as you have joined up too. I bet you’re in the ATS and one day we’ll see you driving all them famous people around London.

  Love,

  Stan

  Oh, Stan, I know, and I love you too.

  There was a PS, but he’d very effectively scored it out. Rose tried to decipher it but could make nothing of it. She got out of the chair and lay down on the bed. Stan was gone, and unless his grandmother had his address she would have to wait until he wrote to her – if he ever did. At least she could get a letter written and Mum or Dad could get the address when Stan’s gran came in for her rations.

  She got up, found her writing pad and started writing.

  Dear Stan,

  I’m ashamed of myself. Imagine falling out over a dance I never really wanted to go to anyway. Stupid.

  You’ll be a great soldier. I am very proud of you and I bet they make you a general. I hope the West Kents have a nice uniform.

  I think I’ll be going away soon too. Don’t worry about your gran. With the neighbours and Mum and Dad, she’ll be all right.

  Please answer this,

  Your friend always,

  Rose

  She stood up, sniffed, wiped her eyes which had gone all teary, tidied her hair and
went downstairs to join what was left of her family.

  THREE

  Guildford, Late May 1942

  ‘Think yourselves lucky, girls. When I joined the ATS we were definitely the military’s poorest relation. Some of us were without a uniform for months and had to wear out our own clothes, and I do mean wear out. The ATS is not a stroll in the park. If we were lucky we got a badge. Three years later and you’re getting everything, including your knickers.’

  ‘Which no woman in her right mind would want to wear.’

  ‘Very funny, Petrie, or was it you, Fowler? Maybe they’re not Selfridges’ best but, believe you me, you’ll be glad of them in the winter.’

  Rose, who had been standing quietly among the new recruits or auxiliaries, as ordinary members of the Auxiliary Territorial Service were now called, said nothing but merely waited till she was given her uniform. She had made no remarks, no matter what the commanding officer thought. Her stomach was churning with excitement that she was to be – at long last – an actual servicewoman.

  ‘Hope we have your size, Goldilocks. You’re tall but you’re slim. Any good with a needle?’

  ‘Not very, ma’am, but my mother is.’

  ‘And did you bring Mummy with you?’

  Rose blushed furiously, but contented herself with reflecting that she could, if so inclined, pick up this bossy little bantam and toss her in a wastepaper basket. She said nothing and watched the separate pieces of uniform pile up on the table. A lightweight serge khaki tunic was joined by a matching two-gore skirt, which she hoped would reach her knees, two khaki shirts and a tie. Slip-on cloth epaulettes with the ATS logo stitched on followed the battledress trousers, which the new controller had insisted upon as being much more sensible for the work the ATS auxiliaries were called upon to do, preserving modesty in some cases and simply being more comfortable in others. A cap, some unbelievably ugly green stockings, khaki knickers that were, if possible, even uglier, heavy black shoes and robust boots completed the pile.

  ‘I’ve given you the longest items we have, Petrie, but I’m afraid they’ll all be too loose.’

  In some despair, Rose spoke tentatively. ‘Didn’t the army expect tall women, ma’am?’

  ‘Of course women of all sizes were expected, and I myself have dressed at least three over the years who were much taller than you, Petrie; at least six feet in height, and broad too. I’ll keep my eyes open for items that will fit a little better, but in the meantime there are several seamstresses who’ll be happy to help out. In fact we have one auxiliary who did tailoring at an exclusive address on Bond Street in London. Look at the notice board in the canteen. Names and units are there.’

  The group, having received their issue, returned to the rather Spartan hut that they were to live in for the foreseeable future. It contained iron beds, some cupboards, a few chairs, and a picture of Eleanor Roosevelt, wife of the President of the United States, who had toured the camp in August.

  ‘Shouldn’t she be in the lecture rooms with the King and the PM?’ Rose asked, but no one answered, being too involved in comparing uniforms.

  Rose was not a vain woman, personal vanity not having been encouraged by the Petrie parents, but when she saw herself dressed in uniform for the first time, she wanted to weep. The tunic was wearable if she tightened the half-belt at the back till it was almost nonexistent, but the skirt, although long enough, was so loose that it fell down, leaving her standing in her new knickers. Since leaving school, only her twin sister, Daisy, or their mother had seen Rose in her underwear and she was embarrassed.

  ‘Why did I ever leave Dartford?’ she said aloud. The uniform looked so unprofessional and, although she was at a base in Surrey, which was not too far from home, the new intake had been told not to expect leave for some time. Were she to post the absolutely necessary items home, it could take weeks for them to get there, be altered and be sent back.

  ‘Don’t worry, Rose.’ Another girl, whose name she had not yet learned, came over from her bed. ‘I’ll take the skirt in for you after tea, and they’ll all be here to admire the stunning new khaki issue, so try to take it in your stride. With those blue eyes and that glorious golden hair, the colours will suit. And as for modesty, three months at a boarding school and you wouldn’t have an inhibition left. That’s about all I learned, apart from a bit of sewing – both skills equally useful in the ATS.’

  ‘You’re very kind. I can sew on buttons, jobs like that, but—’

  ‘Always better to leave it to the professional. I’m Cleo Fitzpatrick, by the way, which is, believe it or not, short for Cleopatra. My father was stationed in Egypt when I was born; I still haven’t discovered a really good way of paying him back.’

  Rose, who had a very happy home life, looked at Cleo’s face and relaxed as she saw that the girl was joking. She was obviously as fond of her parents as Rose was of hers. ‘My twin sister and I always hated being called after flowers.’

  Cleo looked up at Rose. ‘But you suit your name, and what about your sister? Are you identical?’

  Before replying, Rose reached for her shoulder bag, took out her purse and retrieved a small black-and-white snapshot taken on the beach at Dover before the war. ‘I’m obviously the giant looming over two of the others, but which one d’you think is Daisy?’

  Cleo examined the picture for some time. ‘None of them even has the same eyes or hair. That one maybe, the taller one.’

  ‘That gorgeous creature is our friend Sally. The sweet little one in gingham is my twin sister.’

  ‘No, you’re not serious.’

  ‘Cross my heart. She’s in the ATA, believe it or not, and a pilot. Been in since ’41.’

  There was no time for further chat as several other girls poured in. ‘Quick, you two, the boiler’s on in the washhouse. First come first served.’

  The accommodation on this training base was basic. It consisted of huts of all shapes and sizes. The toilet block was a long rectangle built over a pit. A slight wall separated each toilet, but at this time there were no doors. Girls like Cleo who had spent years in boarding schools and were used to dressing and undressing in front of other girls were much more relaxed about this situation than those who had been raised to keep all matters of personal hygiene private. Rose hated it and longed for the day when her induction period was finished and she would be transferred, she hoped, to more comfortable living quarters. There was only one washhouse for the group and a limited supply of hot water was available, and only in the evenings. The new auxiliaries soon worked out a rota system – ‘another thing boarding school taught,’ said Cleo.

  The oldest auxiliary in Rose’s hut was a thirty-eight-year-old widow from Derby, who told the others that she had joined up when her twenty-year-old son had insisted on joining the army.

  ‘“Join the army and see the world, Mum,” he said, and I, tears streaming down my face, begged him to reconsider. He’s all I got in the world, see, but – “I got a chance to do something grand, Mum,” he said, “and, just think, I’ll be able to give you a bit of a hand. All my food’s provided, and my uniform, plus I get paid. You’ll see, we’ll be able to put a bit aside for that cottage you’ve always wanted. The war’s an opportunity for them as is willing to take it.”’

  Chrissy Wade explained her situation to the girls during a welcome break. ‘An opportunity to get killed is what I told him, so what could I do but join up? Had a cleaning job afore the war and a lot of opportunity there was there, I don’t think. Hope this lot don’t give me all the cleaning to do in the ATS.’ She had laughed then, and the younger women laughed with her, already liking her spirit.

  The others were, like Rose, in their twenties. They included waitresses, beauticians, seamstresses, shop assistants, factory workers like Rose, and even two university students: Cleo, and a shy, rather intense girl from Poole named Phyllis.

  ‘You two will be officers in no time,’ said Chrissy, ‘that’s what my lad said. Ten lads signed up with him and one went
straight for training to be an officer.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Cleo.

  ‘You couldn’t be an officer, Cleo,’ Rose teased her. ‘How embarrassing for the ATS to have an officer with two left feet.’

  ‘Don’t officers just stand looking rather splendid while the others march?’ Phyllis, who hardly spoke, surprised them all by joining in.

  It was obvious to Rose that Phyllis was joking, but most of the others seemed to take her remark seriously. Except Cleo.

  ‘That lets you out too, Phyllis. You’re too small to be splendid.’

  ‘Thanks very much. I’ll remind you that Queen Victoria was small.’

  ‘Like a little Christmas pudding,’ Rose surprised herself by suggesting. Everyone laughed.

  The trainees were up by seven o’clock, their sleep having been somewhat disturbed by the almost constant droning of aircraft. Rose, like thousands of other people living in the south of England, had become used to the sound of planes flying overhead night after night, and she could recognise the sound of enemy aircraft.

  ‘They’re ours,’ she mumbled several times during the night. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  They slept and woke, dozed and woke again, and by eight o’clock were washed, dressed, beds made, room tidied, and in the canteen for breakfast. Rose, who had shared the cleaning of their little shop and their homely flat above it, had hoped that cleaning would not be on her list of daily tasks.

  ‘I don’t mind keeping my own area clean, and I’ll clean up after myself, but I didn’t join the ATS for domestic duties.’

  After breakfast came the dreaded drill. Learning to march certainly woke them up every morning. Cleo complained loudly that her boarding school had not included marching in its comprehensive syllabus. ‘Honestly, Rose, it looks so bleep-bleep simple when we see regular soldiers on the parade ground, but it’s far from easy. And that drill sergeant yelling in my ear only makes me mix up my feet. I’d do better if you were teaching it. Why do we always have to be bullied by men? Makes something in me rebel. But right now I’m thinking of drawing a great big R on one of these ghastly, clumpy shoes.’