On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  *

  A few days later she was back on duty. Francesca had been there to meet her as she arrived back at the base. The girls hugged and stood for a few minutes just being aware that they were alive.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come, Rose, but Mamma…’

  ‘I know. You must believe that they’ll find who did it, Francesca. They’ll question everyone who has ever said a nasty word about Italy or Italians.’

  Francesca tried to smile. ‘Let’s not tell them about Gladys, Italians and tea.’

  ‘Good to laugh, Francesca,’ Rose continued as they walked to their billet, ‘but how are you both doing, really?’

  ‘Rose, how would you feel if someone you loved very much was burned to death, your mother and two friends were injured, and you lost your home and everything you owned? It will take time.’

  ‘I know, dearest Francesca. Just remember that I’m here.’

  ‘You are special to both of us, Rose. Now let’s deal with the others.’

  They were warmly welcomed and, after the initial enquiries as to Rose’s health, it was ATS life as usual.

  ‘You don’t want to ride motorbikes, do you, Petrie?’

  ‘I’d prefer not, sir,’ replied Rose, carefully looking at Warrant Officer Starling’s left ear instead of meeting his eyes.

  ‘But you can ride a bicycle?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then give this a try. I’m considering asking permission to purchase several of them to facilitate speedier movements around the station.’

  Starling smiled, as if he were a conjuror doing tricks at a children’s party, and pulled a container aside to reveal a surprisingly small two-wheeled object.

  ‘What is it, sir?’ Rose asked.

  ‘It’s a prototype of the Excelsior Welbike, Private – basically a very small motorbike.’

  ‘A Welbike?’

  ‘That is what I said. Now, if I’m not taking up too much of your valuable time, get on it and start the engine.’

  Rose looked at the strange little machine in front of her. More than anything it reminded her of a child’s scooter. It had a seat, and handlebars that seemed to be perched much higher than the seat although, thankfully, as on a normal bicycle, that could be adjusted. It had two wheels, each less than half the diameter of a bicycle wheel.

  ‘I can’t find the brake – or the lights. How will it help in the winter?’

  ‘There’s a rear brake and I want you to test it. No lights? We won’t break the law then, will we?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Rose adjusted the seat and mounted. ‘Nice balance,’ she said.

  ‘The War Office is delighted that it meets with your approval,’ said Starling with his usual sarcasm. ‘Now, go round the camp putting it through its paces. Quite small fuel tank; adequate power. I’ll be interested in the mileage.’

  Mileage, thought Rose as she turned on the engine; this could take some time.

  Half an hour later she returned to the depot. ‘No suspension, sir, but, thankfully, the rear brake does work. I got some odd looks as I went round perched like a parrot on a wire.’

  He laughed. ‘You must learn to accept progress, Petrie. You are a bit on the tall side to be comfortable on it, but that’s a small price to pay. How did it handle?’

  Rose, who had felt rather silly perched on the too-small Welbike, had to admit that the little machine handled very well and did build up speed very quickly.

  ‘Good. I’ll have one of the shorter women try it out before I make a decision. Dismissed.’

  Rose saluted and turned to the depot door when his voice stopped her.

  ‘Rose, tell me truthfully, how’s Francesca doing? Her mum’s worried. She tries to behave as she always did, bright as a button, but it doesn’t ring true.’

  ‘Sir—’ began Rose, but he stopped her.

  ‘Please, Rose, Chiara’s worried. She’s angry that Francesca didn’t ask for an extension of her compassionate leave. She would have got it. I haven’t the right to interfere…had thought Christmas might be the right time to move on. We’ve known each other for almost seven years. Francesca never knew her dad and so there hasn’t been a problem. Sorry, you don’t need to…’

  Rose smiled at the usually so-controlled warrant officer. She wanted to advise him to keep to his original plans for Christmas, but she hesitated; he moved so quickly from friend to boss. She dared not ‘step out of line’, to use her brothers’ phrase. ‘Francesca knows she could have asked for more time, sir, but she felt it was better to get back to her normal duties as quickly as possible. Not that she’s finished with grieving. I’ve no idea how to help her there.’ She hesitated and then spoke again. ‘I lost my brother Ron early in the war, but I’ve never been in her position. I do know she misses her grandfather and she worries about her mother. Frankly, I think she’s worried that there could be another attack. You must know that the police have said that whoever torched the Rossis’ premises dropped a canister of smoke quietly through the letterbox. That put Chiara, Nonno and little Nicco to sleep. That wasn’t done out of kindness, so that they wouldn’t know what was happening. It was deliberate so that no one would be alert enough to go for help. That’s sick hatred. Francesca is angry because she stayed later at the dance than she had promised. She feels guilty and has convinced herself that if only she’d gone home earlier, she might have seen who did it, might have been able to stop it.’

  ‘Might have died herself, more like, and you too. Four, five deaths because some twisted soul doesn’t like Italians. Doesn’t bear thinking of. Go home with her when you can spare the time, Rose. Chiara likes you.’

  ‘I like her too. So she’s found a place to live?’

  ‘No, not yet. We found her a flat in a big house. Woman who owns it can’t really afford to live there any more – no real income, poor old thing – and she’s afraid that she’ll be forced to take in lodgers. I can understand that. Elderly woman with no family to help her could be a bit scared of strangers, especially ones she couldn’t understand. Eventually Chiara will get some insurance money that will help her rebuild. The Government’s too stretched to help out, and if they did have a bit of cash it would go to the poor sods bombed out. The house and café will have to be demolished and that’ll take time – she’s bottom of a huge list. There’s one or two pieces that could be repaired, things that belonged to Chiara’s husband or to Signor Rossi. Unfortunately, what the fire and smoke didn’t destroy, the water did; but, thanks to you, Rose, she’s alive.’

  Rose remembered standing in the smoke-filled room, praying that she would not drop the unconscious woman. ‘A fireman was there.’

  ‘So you said, but the firemen say they couldn’t have saved both of them without you. Dismissed, Private,’ he said brusquely, changing from friend to senior officer in a blink.

  Rose, not having been offered the use of the Welbike to whisk her back to her billet, was at the end of the line for supper. Nothing appealed to her and she was suddenly very, very tired. ‘A mug of tea will be enough, Gladys,’ she said to her other close friend in the unit.

  Gladys fetched a tray of tea and two clean cups. ‘Fran’s gone for a swim. Good for her to get a bit of exercise.’ She was quiet for a moment as she poured tea, but then said what was bothering her. ‘You were a long time up at the depot, Grace. Didn’t go unnoticed, if you get my meaning. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Boss has a new toy called a Welbike. It’s supposed to be for front-line troops. Basically it can be dismantled and carried like other kit. I tried it out for him, manoeuvred or guided it, I don’t know which, all round the station, timing each journey.’

  Gladys reached for the sugar. ‘Good Lord, what’s a Well Bike like?’

  ‘One word, one L – don’t ask why because I don’t know. It’s a cross between a bicycle, a motorbike and a toy, if you ask me, and dashed uncomfortable for someone of my height. Even with the seat lifted, my knees were tucked under my chin. And no one need worry abou
t my being closeted with the WO, Gladys. Most of the time, I was out around the camp making a laughing stock of myself; lots of personnel, including the Methodist chaplain, saw me.’

  ‘Good. There’s been a little gossip about Francesca, Francesca’s mother and Starling…’

  ‘No one’s business who the WO chooses to walk out with.’

  ‘I know that, and most people in this camp know that, but Mildred says she overheard two girls saying he’d hugged Fran when she arrived back from the hospital. Not a sensible thing for a senior officer to do.’

  ‘He’s human, Gladys, and emotion got to him. Believe me, he is very deeply in love with her mother.’ She realised she was probably breaking Starling’s confidence and asked Gladys not to mention what she had told her. ‘C’mon, I think I’ve got a rather squashed tube of Rolos in my bag. They’ll do for supper.’

  ‘Should have tried the barley soup, Rose. Seemingly the Ministry of Food, would you believe, has been asking the British housewife for her cooking secrets and this recipe was picked up and tried out: barley, onions, carrots, salt and pepper, a cup or so of milk and water. Takes about two hours plus soaking time but I’ll give it a try on my next leave.’

  They walked back to their billet, meeting Francesca on the way.

  ‘Had a good swim, Francesca?’

  ‘Great, thanks. My mind seems to be able to shut off from everything when I’m in a pool. Nonno used to say it was because my family is Sicilian and happiest in water.’

  ‘I feel exactly the same, but the water’s hot and in a nice, deep bath tub.’

  Such a relief to laugh.

  ‘It’s lovely and warm in here,’ said Gladys as she pushed open the door. ‘Your hair will dry in no time.’ She waited for a moment and then added, ‘How’s everything going, Fran?’

  They took off their coats and joined two other women who were sitting knitting beside the stove.

  ‘Slowly. There is so much demolition work and rebuilding to be done in York. We are at the bottom of a very long list.’

  The others smiled at Francesca. ‘Such a shame, Fran,’ said one as she began to wind a ball of red wool. ‘Hope your poor mother got settled somewhere, Christmas coming and all.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. She has been lucky enough to rent a furnished flat from a house owner who thinks Mamma is a lesser evil than some refugees or evacuees. The business community has been helpful too, and some of my grandfather’s associates are trying to find suitable premises so that she can reopen the business, after Christmas probably. Our customers are very faithful and there have been many offers of help.’

  ‘Pity she’ll miss the Christmas business, Fran,’ a second woman said. ‘I remember last year there was ever such lovely Christmas treats.’

  That was obviously a comforting remark, for Rose saw Francesca’s eyes brighten as if at some lovely memory.

  ‘Orders taken, ladies. Mamma did all the baking, you know; Nonno was the chef and ice-cream maker.’ Her voice seemed to stick in her throat. She stopped for a moment to compose herself and then, with a bright if somewhat artificial smile, said, ‘I’ll bring in some samples the next time I go h…the next time I visit Mamma.’

  Francesca’s voice had stumbled slightly and Rose stood up. ‘Would you believe I forgot I had some sweets to share and, since we’ve mentioned Christmas, won’t you tell us what you two are knitting? Red wool – has to be Father Christmas, right?’

  The conversation moved easily to hopes for Christmas and the New Year until, calm and relaxed, the young women, only too aware of their early starts, decided to take themselves off to bed. Rose’s last thought before she fell asleep was that one of the knitters had mentioned that the writer Agatha Christie’s latest book, The Body in the Library, had been published not long ago. That would make the perfect Christmas present for her dad.

  NINE

  November 1942

  ‘We do what…ma’am?’

  Rose was so surprised that she barely managed to squeeze the ‘ma’am’ in there, so that the small but imposing woman standing glaring at her could not accuse her of incivility.

  ‘Fill them every morning, and empty them every night. And next time I have to repeat an instruction to you, Petrie, you will find yourself in the guardhouse.’

  Despite the fact that the top of her cap barely reached the bottom of Rose’s top pocket, Corporal Holland was quite formidable. What she lacked in height she more than made up for in width and sarcasm. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ This time Rose’s unruly tongue had almost let the word ‘sir’ slip out instead of ‘ma’am’. Not that Rose meant to be rude, but dealing with – or rather, being dealt with – by anyone like Miss Holland was a new and unpleasant experience for her. Her own nature was rather sunny, and before she joined the Auxiliary Territorial Service, the people she met had tended to respond in kind to her pleasant manner. Corporal Holland was impervious to sunshine, or so it seemed to the disheartened new driver mechanic.

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Preferably before the radiators freeze, Petrie.’

  Freeze? Good Lord. Why didn’t I think of that and why didn’t she explain? Rose asked herself. In all her years of driving she did not remember ever having to empty the van’s radiator in case of a freeze. Winters in lovely Kent could be extremely cold. The van had a radiator but, try as she might, she did not remember a time when it had frozen. Her father and brothers had never spared the girls the dirtier or more unpleasant tasks of vehicle maintenance, but she had never, as far as she could remember, emptied a radiator.

  Of course, our vans were always kept in the lock-up at night, and yes, Dad always threw an old rug over the bonnet.

  ‘And fill ’em all up before drill in the morning.’ The words floated across the parade ground, followed by a rather disheartening laugh.

  Rose looked after the small figure, reflecting that if this was a page in one of the comics George read, Corporal Holland would step on a particularly slippery section of ice and…No, she would not proceed with that line of thought.

  There was no garaging available for all the trucks, vans, cars and bicycles on this base. Feeling slightly stupid, Rose set to work with a will. She blew on her very cold fingers and set herself to emptying twenty-six radiators. It was cold work but, she tried to tell herself enthusiastically, it was yet another step forward. She was going to look at every unpleasant task in the same way. Everything she learned took her a little closer to the dream job.

  ‘Come on, ladies, move over and let Rose into the fire. She’s blue.’ Gladys, the only corporal in the hut and therefore very much the senior, began to rearrange the seating arrangements of the other women. The Nissen hut was comfortably warm as the large round stove sent out tremendous heat, and Rose was warm again very quickly. As usual, because the windows were carefully taped closed, the air was heavy and unpleasant. The mug of steaming, hot Camp coffee pushed into her icy fingers helped.

  ‘Whose skirt is that drying on the stove? I’m not looking because I don’t want to know, but take if off there now and, blimey, don’t be so stupid again.’ Once again the strident tones were those of Gladys. ‘That’s a bloody fire hazard. Do it again and I’ll put you on a charge.’

  The offending article was whisked away with an apology. ‘Sorry, got caught in the rain, Corporal.’

  ‘So did half the blooming ATS but they’re drying their knickers in the laundry room like rational human beings.’

  Several young women were now totally downhearted, one or two looking helplessly at the round clock face on the wall, almost willing it to sing out, ‘Supper time.’

  Rose looked across at Gladys and smiled. She knew the tragic fire had affected many more than those directly involved. ‘“To begin with you will drive – and maintain – a selected vehicle,”’ she quoted loudly into the gloom. ‘Except for anytime anyone wants you to do horrid tasks like emptying radiators on the coldest night
of the year so far.’

  ‘Blimey, Rose, you didn’t fall for that “drive and maintain a whatever” palaver?’ asked Francesca, her vocabulary showing that she was as English as anyone in the room.

  ‘I did. When I was told I was to train as a driver mechanic, I really believed that I would actually, occasionally, get to drive a blooming car, instead of ruining my beautiful hands –’ she held her slowly thawing hands out to the group – ‘by stripping down engines, fixing gear boxes and emptying and refilling bleep-bleep radiators. My father always said I was naïve. I believe everything anyone tells me.’

  ‘Especially men,’ said two or three of the women at the same time.

  Everyone, including Rose, laughed. She said nothing, having no desire to talk about men, especially not Terry.

  ‘When will they let me drive a Wolseley 18? Now there’s a car. Or a Daimler would be nice, especially one of those fabulous armoured ones. Can’t you just smell the finest leather upholstery? Car heaven.’

  ‘Maybe the WO still has nightmares where he sees you driving his newest lorry. He wakes screaming as he watches you being chased across the recreation ground by a gigantic truck.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Rose, pretending to glare at the offending speaker. ‘C’mon, I’m thawed out, just in time to freeze again on the way to supper.’

  The women bundled themselves up in their Teddy Bear coats and ventured out. It was a frosty evening, stars twinkling like friendly little messengers from the blue-black sky, and the moon a bright white light.

  ‘Bomber’s moon,’ whispered someone. ‘Who’s going to get it tonight?’

  No one answered, each alone with her thoughts. Rose thought of the tall Czechoslovakian whom her sister loved. He had said something about an exciting new plane that he had watched on its test flight.

  ‘Have said probably too much already, ladies, but if we get it into mass production, it will change the course of history,’ he’d told them.