by Ruby Jackson
Where are you tonight, Tomas, and you, Daisy, and Phil?
How she hated the phrase ‘somewhere at sea’.
They reached the Nissen hut where they would eat, and carefully Rose glued a smile to her face. She had a feeling that many of the others had done exactly the same.
They downed hearty bowls of hot nourishing soup with dumplings, a nice change from the more usual thick slices of bread labelled Wartime Loaf. This was thick and heavy, but no one who ate it left the table hungry. When Rose had first joined the ATS, meals had been accompanied by many mutters of, ‘Do you remember…?’ but now, as the beginning of the fourth year of this war drew closer, there were few mutterings of disapproval as the women fuelled themselves for the work ahead.
They finished with blisteringly hot strong tea and something called a biscuit, which threatened to break teeth. Occasionally Flora and Fred sent a few ounces of tea to Rose but, as with the tea that had been sent up to cheer Rose’s friend, Chrissy, the girls saved Petrie tea for their Nissen hut.
‘Dash it all, it’s snowing,’ called one of the girls who had peeked out. ‘Snow in November. Why couldn’t it wait for Christmas?’
Arm in arm, they walked back to the billet singing ‘Jingle Bells’.
‘Noise like that shouldn’t be allowed,’ yelled some others, heading off hurriedly towards another hut, but Rose’s group merely laughed and continued singing until they were snugly inside their hut.
‘Guess what I found in the office, Rose – something guaranteed to cheer you up.’ Gladys, her own cheery face bright red from the severe cold, handed Rose several envelopes. ‘Must be your birthday.’
Rose stood up and took the letters. ‘Are you sure they’re all for me?’
‘No, I grabbed the nearest handful. Of course they’re for you. I’m off to wash my unmentionables but I’ll be back in time for the wireless.’
Rose thanked her friend and sat down, the first envelope already opened.
The feelings of righteous anger that even a short note from Terry instilled in her were surprising. She could hear his voice as she read the note, apologising, begging and pleading. He couldn’t believe he’d spoken the way he had. She was right to be angry but he would do anything … She could read no more. She crumpled up the page – Basildon Bond, white, with the address printed at the top right hand in black, very tasteful – and tossed it into the stove where it blazed for a second and then disappeared for ever. Turning to her other letters, she opened the one with her mother’s handwriting on the envelope. That was the last letter she read for some time.
Dear Rose,
I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, pet, but I couldn’t let you know any other way. Mrs Robertson as lives across the stair from Stan’s gran came in to get Mrs Crisp’s rations. She told us Mrs Crisp had a telegram from the army. I’m very sorry, Rose, but Stan was killed three weeks ago. The officer as wrote about Stan says it was quick and he wouldn’t have known anything about it. He also said as how Stan was one of the nicest young men he had ever had in his command and that he would have put Stan forward for promotion. He’s buried over there, poor lad, and his gran will be told the address of the place as soon as they can.
I know you’ll be upset and I wish I was there with you, but we hope maybe we’ll see you at Christmas. Mr Tiverton will say words about Stan at the Christmas service.
Your dad and me are thrilled you’re doing so well. We’re so proud of you.
Love,
Mum and Dad and George
The letter, together with the others, slipped through Rose’s fingers to the floor and she sat and looked at the flames. Why? Why Stan? And why had she not known? Surely their bond was so strong that she should have felt something? Why had she been able to sit reading a note from a man she despised when Stan, her oldest and dearest friend, had died? No, he had not died. He had been killed in battle.
Rose did not hear the concerned words from the other young women as they watched her stare blindly into the fire, looking for what? An answer to an unanswerable question?
‘Rose, are you all right?’
‘Rose, how about a cuppa?’
Rose ignored them all; she heard nothing but her mother’s voice saying the unspeakable. Stan. Leaping to her feet, she ran out of the room.
The others looked at one another doubtfully. ‘It’s snowing, damn it. I’m going after her.’ Mildred Fleming grabbed her Teddy Bear coat and moved to follow Rose from the cosy Nissen hut.
‘So two of you will be laid up; it’s snowing. Bet you two bob she feels the cold and comes back,’ said another girl as she held a toasting fork up to the fire.
But Mildred, having grabbed a second coat, ran out without another word.
Snow was whirling around outside, swooping high and then diving low and hurling itself against Mildred’s face. She stopped for a moment to get her bearings and adjust the heavy coat as she peered into the swirling white darkness.
Nothing.
She thought of calling out but something told her that Rose would not appreciate notoriety. She struggled on, remembering that if she turned right at the end of the walkway, she would come to a grassy area where there were some seats. If Rose, who had looked quite unlike herself, was distressed by news in the letter she had been reading, then she would probably want a place where she could sit and think or weep or even shout in anger.
Mildred reached the main road and was about to turn right when a figure loomed up directly in front of her.
‘Rose?’
‘I grew a foot since I went to wash my undies?’
‘Gladys, thank goodness it’s you. Rose read one or two of her letters, dropped them on the floor and ran out like a bat out of hell.’
There was silence and then Gladys said, ‘Where’s your torch?’
Mildred shrugged. ‘I thought only of a coat for her.’
‘Come on then. I have a torch.’ The two women walked quickly, Gladys sweeping the torch’s beam from side to side. Two empty seats, a wastebasket, but no Rose.
‘She must have gone back. We missed her in the dark, that’s all. Let’s hurry, Mildred; if she hasn’t I’ll have to alert the boss.’
They turned and began the difficult walk back to their hut.
‘Wait, what was that?’
‘What can you hear in this wind? It’s nothing, let’s get back and send out an alert.’
‘Possibly nothing but…’ Gladys tried to send the light directly across the prevailing wind. It wavered. Surely there was nothing there. ‘Rose, Rose, my dear.’
Rose was hunched on a wooden bench, tears and snow mingling on her cold cheeks.
‘Quick.’ Gladys took one look and went into action immediately. ‘Put the larger coat around her and help me get her up. She’s so cold. Come on, Rose, walk, walk I tell you.’
Awkwardly, Rose stumbled to her feet, so that the coat Mildred had thrown round her shoulders fell to the ground. Mildred picked it up, shook it and put it round her again. Rose shivered a little and then said, ‘Thanks, Mildred.’
‘Faster,’ ordered Gladys. ‘We’re heading for the laundry because it’s right steamy in there and we can all have a chance to warm up.’
‘Gl…Gl…Gl…’ Rose tried to speak but her whole body was trembling and shivering with cold.
‘Not a word. No excuses, no explanations. With luck everyone will have gone.’
One solitary eighteen-year-old private was still using the clothes wringer. She glanced at them curiously but a glare from Gladys, a corporal, had her hurriedly turning her back and carrying on with her work.
‘That towel just been dried, pet?’ Gladys, now smiling, had cast a quick look over the girl’s laundry. ‘Great. I’ll borrow it for a minute, if I may.’
‘We don’t want any talk in the camp, Rose,’ Gladys whispered. ‘Play along with me, pet.’
Even in her distress, Rose understood that Gladys was trying to ensure that no one found out about her hysterical outburst. ‘I
’m fine, Gladys.’
‘We know,’ Gladys said more loudly. ‘That’s why you were chosen for the manoeuvre. How stupid of me not to realise you’d be absolutely soaked.’
Gently Gladys patted Rose’s face with the warm towel until it was dry. ‘Do you need to undo your hair?’
In answer Rose put the towel around her head like a scarf. She smiled sadly and shook her head.
‘We’ll get this to you tomorrow, Private,’ Gladys addressed the young private. ‘All right? Good, now, mum’s the word.’
The girl, both delighted and terrified to have been part of something obviously risky, even dangerous, gathered her laundry together and left, and Rose and her friends sat letting the damp warmth penetrate their bones.
‘Sorry,’ croaked Rose after a while.
‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ said a small chorus of voices.
‘You had a letter, Rose. Bad news? Do you want to talk?’
Rose nodded, her face a white mask of misery and despair. ‘You never expect it. My brother and now Stan. Seems worse because he was happy in the army. Why Stan?’
‘Was he very special, Rose?’ Mildred dared to ask.
Rose nodded. ‘Very. I’ve known him all my life. We met in Sunday school, aged about three.’ She smiled as a memory of Stan and herself as shepherds, dressed in costumes fashioned from spare mattress ticking, lightened her grief for a moment. ‘We were in the same class at school, in the same sports team, same cycling club, left school the same day and started working at Vickers the same day.’ She sobbed and then said, ‘And his poor gran. Dear God, she’s got nobody. Why did it have to be Stan?’
The tears started again and the others suggested that they return to their much more comfortable Nissen hut, have some cocoa and go to bed.
‘Not going to say anything trite, Rose, but you do need to get thoroughly warm and then into bed for a good night’s sleep.’
Rose, now aware that the others had spent the evening almost as miserably as she had, nodded and got to her feet. She hugged each of her friends without saying a word, smiled at Mildred as she took someone else’s too-short Teddy Bear coat and walked out again.
Gladys told Francesca of Rose’s tragic loss when she returned from her stint of volunteering in the station library.
‘I’ve never seen her like it,’ Gladys said. ‘She was really cut up at your granddad’s funeral, but this was scary. I had no idea she was walking out with someone at home. She said he was a school friend but I think there was much more to it.’
‘She loved him. He was like one of her brothers. Poor Rose. Pity she can’t go home; there’ll be something in the church. Being part of it might make her feel better.’
‘I’ll do what I can, Fran, and if you could say something on the q.t. to Warrant Officer Starling…’
Francesca did talk to the senior officer who, although sympathetic, was bound by rules.
‘Sorry, Francesca,’ was the message passed on to Gladys. ‘I wish I could but I can’t help Rose. She’s just not close enough; she’s not a blood relation. Several of you are down for a week at Christmas. Best I can do is to try to get Rose on – if she’s not there already.’
Rose, meanwhile, unaware that her friends were applying pressure on her behalf, went through the next few weeks like an automaton. She worked as hard, perhaps even harder than ever, but to Starling it seemed as if her heart was not in what she was learning. He was careful to treat her exactly as he had always done, and once or twice thought he saw a slight look of gratitude.
Gladys, Francesca and even Chiara tried to do the same, but Rose held her grief very close to herself and accepted none of Chiara’s invitations to see the new flat.
‘I need to write to Stan’s grandmother first, Francesca. The words come out all wrong. Tell your mum, thank you, and I’ll look forward to seeing her as soon as possible.’
Even Rose knew that her words seemed stilted, but while images of Stan at various stages in their long friendship kept flitting through her head, she could behave in no other way.
She forced herself to write home.
Dear Mum and Dad,
Thank you for letting me know the sad news about Stan. I am trying to write to Mrs Crisp but it’s hard to find the right words. It wouldn’t be easy to speak them either. What can I say? The truth. He was my best friend all my life and as close to me as my sister and my brothers. Mrs C used to drop little hints about us getting married and I think, for a while, I thought that would be the way too, but Stan was brave enough to tell me he didn’t love me. Poor Stan, he tried to make it nice. I love you, Rose, always have but…You see, the truth is he wasn’t in love with me and after a while I knew I had never been in love with him either. I thought loving and being in love were the same…
‘Oh, blast, blast, this is rubbish.’
Fiercely, she crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it into the mouth of the stove that belched forth heat. She took another sheet and began again.
Dear Mum and Dad,
I am fine. Thank you for telling me about my dear friend Stan. I am very sorry and I will write to his gran. Does she have anyone else?
The dates of Christmas leave will be out soon. I’d love to come home but don’t get your hopes up. You’ll have Daisy. Wouldn’t it be special if Sam and Grace were free too? Is Tomas coming? It would make Christmas very special. Oh, say hello to the Humbles. Do you remember the pig we fattened and the delicious ham? Maybe you fed a pig this year too?
Rose.
She read it, was dissatisfied, but knew that she could do no better. How could she have forgotten to send her love? She looked at the unsatisfactory note, turned the full stop after ‘Rose’ into a comma and added ‘with lots of love’. Feeling slightly better, she sat down to write to Cleo Fitzpatrick, her first ATS friend. She should write to Mrs Crisp. Tomorrow, she promised.
TEN
Rose woke before her alarm the next morning and was delighted to feel more like her old self. Was it because she had finally written to her parents and to the delightful Cleopatra? Her sister had once accused her of feeling guilty all the time. ‘You’ll wear yourself out, Rose. It’s impossible to please everyone. You’re too much of a perfectionist and you ask too much of yourself. Relax.’ Rose had been annoyed but every now and again she heard Daisy’s voice and wondered if perhaps she could be right.
It had stopped snowing. Only a light covering on the ground told them of the snowfalls there had been. The sky was now clear and stars were twinkling brightly.
‘Christmas weather,’ said Mildred as they walked, bundled up in their unglamorous, heavy but definitely warm coats, to the canteen for breakfast.
‘Where’s Fran?’
‘Francesca,’ said Rose deliberately, ‘is cleaning her shoes. We’ll save her a place.’
‘What a mouthful. Francesca. Besides, that’s Italian, and she says she’s English.’
‘It’s her name, Gladys, and she likes it.’
‘Anyone got leave?’ Mildred changed the subject.
‘We’ll hear this week, I think, and not before time,’ said Gladys as they reached the door and opened it to the delicious smell of – what? Could it be bacon?
‘It’s Spam.’ Mildred had gone exploring while Rose and Gladys had found a table near the stove. ‘But there’s scrambled eggs and I actually think there’s one or two real ones in the mix. Cook says porridge will be ready in a minute, thick enough to dance on, and he’s got golden syrup, if we beat the rush. Will we wait for Fran?’
No one answered as the door opened, letting in an icy draught and a crowd of personnel, male and female, and there, at the end of the line, Francesca Rossi.
‘I’ll keep the seats warm. Spam and eggs for me, please, Rose.’ Gladys commandeered four chairs and sat down to wait.
Another woman from their billet joined her and appropriated the other chairs. ‘We should just put the hut number,’ she suggested with a laugh. ‘Be easier. Francesca went to a Catholic s
chool – ate in what the nuns called the Refectory, but everyone was assigned a place and it was always the same.’
‘Yes, but they always knew how many were coming in to eat. It’s different every mealtime here, so first come first served, which is why we’re near the food and the heat.’
A few minutes later Gladys was joined by Rose and Mildred, followed not long after that by Francesca and the others carrying trays.
By now there was a constant babble of voices and the clanging of pots and cutlery, though the large room grew marginally quieter as people began to eat.
It seemed that Christmas leave was on everyone’s mind.
‘Fran’s mum has sent us in an Italian Christmas cake,’ Gladys told the women. ‘That is extremely kind of her, Fran, and I’ll send a note as from our billet.’
‘Not necessary, Gladys. It’s a bit of advertising too, you see, not just being kind. Did you see it, Rose?’
Before Rose could say anything, Gladys answered. ‘No one’s seen it yet, Fran. I asked Cook to put it in the larder and, when you want it, we’ll have him take it out for you. No point in it sitting out all day while we’re at work.’
Francesca was not too happy with that decision. ‘I’d rather like people to see it, Gladys, and taste it, and the fresher the better. Could you ask for it at teatime, please? No hard sell, ladies, but Mamma’s going to need all the help she can get to start her business again.’
‘If it’s as tasty as the Christmas cake I bought from the café last year, you’ll love it, girls,’ said another of the women at the table. ‘My family really likes trying different things, except my gran. I don’t think she’s ever tried anything different.’
‘Fine, Rose, I agree with you; it looks good, but you have to admit that it looks nothing like a real Christmas cake – not even a sprig of artificial holly or a cardboard Santa.’
Gladys, who had arranged for Chiara’s Christmas cake to be put in the centre of a large table so that everyone who entered the canteen would see it immediately, was delighted to see a wry smile cross Rose’s unhappy face. ‘All right, I suppose it’s real in Italy and, bless her, she’s sharing it, but, for me, a Christmas cake has to have marzipan and thick white icing, lots of icing holly leaves and berries, of course, and perhaps a snowman, maybe a little tin reindeer.’