by Ruby Jackson
‘The very essence of Christmas,’ said Rose with a smile.
‘Exactly, but you forgot a fir tree.’ She looked at Rose and Mildred, who appeared doubtful. ‘I always baked a very big cake. In October, I seem to remember, and then the puddings. Will the cooks make puddings?’
‘I suppose so. My brother Sam has been in the army since 1935 and he always had cake and Christmas pud. But if you get leave, Gladys, you can bake your own cake at home.’
‘Wouldn’t be the same. And there’s only me now. That’s one of the things I really like about army life – there’s always someone to talk to, isn’t there?’
Rose was quiet. She could not think of a moment in her entire life when she had felt alone. If she were to be given Christmas leave, she would return to a happy family home where she would be surrounded by family and friends, and where there would always be room for someone who was alone.
‘Gladys,’ she wanted to say, ‘if I get leave you’re more than welcome to come home with me.’ Her more practical side reminded her that even if Phil did not return home for Christmas, there would be so many others filling the family quarters above the shop. Daisy was bringing her Tomas, Sam was bringing Grace, if Grace was given leave. That was possibly doubtful, as her employer, Lady Alice, had been so generous already. Was Sally planning to spend Christmas in Dartford? If so, she – Rose – could stay at the Brewers’. A solution? No, she could not leave Gladys in a house full of strangers.
Mildred started to laugh. ‘Oh, Rose, you’ll never make a poker player. Thank God that you have a big family. If Gladys and I get leave she can come home with me. Not Buckingham Palace, but a genuine welcome just the same. I live with my sister and her man, but he’s overseas. She’ll love the extra company; doesn’t have a family yet, poor thing.’
Rose, who had finished breakfast, stood up. ‘You’re a marvel, Mildred. I was worrying about her. We’ll talk later. Right now I have an intimate date with…’ she waited for a second…‘a British artillery tractor. Tell Francesca good luck from me with the cake.’
She wrapped her heavy coat around her and walked out of the noisy, almost airless room, into the bracing cold of a late November day. Even this military camp looked better with its sprinklings of frost and snow. The weather, and the thought that – no matter where she would be – it would soon be Christmas, her favourite time of the year, put a spring in her step. She went through the list of Christmas cards she must buy, write and send. Stan? Rose stopped, her happy feeling cut short. One less card this year, one less gift. She bowed her head, thinking of her friend and of her brother Ron, casualties of this hateful war. Rose lifted her head and, through eyes blurry with tears, looked into the future. She could not let grief prevent her functioning. Yes, Christmas was coming; there would be gifts to buy and to post. She must add Chiara to her list. At the thought of Chiara, her endless kindness, her personal immeasurable grief, and her own inability to visit, Rose realised that she must now begin to look forward, to stop moving around in a semi-dream state.
I’ll miss you for ever, Stan, and you too, Nonno, but I must remember the living.
Head held high, eyes clear, Rose reached the depot where several other mechanics were already working. They called hello and one added, ‘Before you start, Rose, Boss wants you in the office.’
What could he want? Rapidly Rose ran through her last jobs. Yes, everything had been done according to rules and she had left her station as clean and tidy as she could possibly get it.
‘Come in, Petrie,’ Starling called, although she had only knocked, not given her name.
‘Two bits of news, Petrie: one definitely good, the other a mixed blessing, as it were.’
Less than five minutes later she left the office, trying hard not to grin from ear to ear. His good news, which made her want to jump in the air and shout hooray, was that she had been given a week’s holiday over the Christmas period. She could, with luck, travel to Dartford on Wednesday the 23rd and return to York a week later. The trains, she decided, would all be extra busy on the way south, but perhaps would not be quite so busy on the way back north. Then she remembered that the 30th was the day before New Year’s Eve, known as Hogmanay in Scotland, and so every Scot who could travel home would be on that train. Uncomfortable travel conditions were unimportant. Rose Petrie was going home for Christmas and that was wonderful.
Rose was absolutely thrilled with what Warrant Officer Starling had called a mixed blessing. To her immense surprise she had been promoted and was now a lance corporal. She supposed that he had christened her promotion ‘a mixed blessing’, as it meant a little more money and much more responsibility. But, right now, in her state of euphoria, all she could think about was how delighted her parents would be about her achievement. She pictured their dear faces. She would not write, but tell them when she arrived. Occasionally she had imagined how pleasant it would be to be promoted. Now, one daydream had come true, and Lance Corporal Petrie would be home for Christmas. She could already hear her mother’s voice. ‘Our Rose, a lance corporal! Who’d have thought it?’
She wondered if her father would find a bottle of sherry with which to celebrate the event or might he remember the generosity of Squadron Leader Adair Maxwell who had once sent the family fine wine?
Poor Adair. Poor Daisy.
No, there was no need to shed tears for Daisy, who would be bringing her ‘darling Tomas’ home for Christmas.
Rose walked back to the area where several ATS personnel were working, only to be met by a cheer and some back-slapping.
‘Well done, Lance Corporal.’
Blushing with embarrassment and pleasure, Rose pulled on her overalls and got to work.
After tea that evening, and after the many congratulations that came her way, Rose managed to write some letters. The first was to her parents.
Dear Mum, Dad and George,
I’m coming home for Christmas. Leave starts 23 Dec. but I’ve no idea what time I’ll get a train or even if I will catch one, and I have to be on duty 31 Dec., 08.00 hrs. But somewhere in there, there’s almost a week, and I’m so happy. Could you let me know who’s going to be sleeping in the house, as there’s a friend here who has no one to go to? Don’t worry too much as Mildred, another ATS friend, says Gladys, that’s Gladys Archer, is welcome to go home with her as she has room. Neither of them has heard about leave yet!! That’s the army for you.
Just then, right in the middle of writing the letter, she remembered Stan and heard him say how he would salute her when she became an officer. Rose had to blow her nose loudly and say her watering eyes were a result of the dusty atmosphere of the machine shop. When she recovered, she went on with her letter.
What has George grown out of this year? I haven’t had time to spend money or coupons and I could get him something for Christmas. Hope we’ve time to go to the market, Mum, as I am badly in need of something for special occasions. I’m bringing you a delicious Italian Christmas cake, Mum. Don’t want you baking and cooking all hours.
Love,
Rose
She wrote to Chiara, to Daisy, to Sam, to Chrissy and to Cleo.
When she had finished she stood up and stretched. ‘Six letters,’ she said. ‘That has got to be an ATS record.’
‘And I bet you’ll send them all Christmas cards too,’ said Mildred. ‘You should have waited and saved on stamps.’
‘Christmas cards? I haven’t bought any yet.’
‘My mother says every Christmas card she has ever sent is hanging in an art gallery in Florence,’ said Francesca with a smile.
‘Wow, is your mum an artist, Fran?’
‘Not good enough to hang in an art gallery, Mildred. Nonno took us to Italy once. Do you remember when we were schoolgirls and no one anywhere talked of war? Mamma went to a famous gallery while we went for ice cream. When she came out we knew that she had been crying; her make-up was all over her face. She had seen many very famous paintings and had recognised every single one from C
hristmas cards. I need to go back there some day and see them for myself.’
‘Sounds a wonderful idea, Francesca. I’ll come,’ Rose promised. ‘My brother has good memories of Italy. Who knows, maybe he’ll come too.’
‘We’ll hire a bus,’ laughed Gladys. ‘I never saw a painting as could make me cry – not from happiness, anyway.’
That remark made them all laugh.
Later, Rose managed to catch Francesca alone as they walked to the toilet block. ‘I wrote to your mum, Francesca, and I’ll post it tomorrow, but I was asking her if I could visit on Saturday morning.’
Spontaneously, Francesca hugged her. ‘Oh, she’ll be so pleased to see you. I’m going to stay with her on Friday night and so I’ll be there too. She’ll be delighted about your promotion.’
‘That’s nice, but I want to order one of her super cakes to take home with me.’
‘She’ll be thrilled to bake for your family.’
‘I know, but I’ll say it’s for a Grace Paterson. She’s an old friend and my brother’s in love with her. Chiara’s too generous, Francesca, and right now she needs to think of her future and let me buy a cake.’
Francesca laughed. ‘Between you and Enrico she hasn’t a chance to do anything else. Now we had better hurry or they’ll think we are lost in the snow.’
The visit to Francesca’s mother was a happy occasion. She called herself ‘pure Yorkshire’ but it was with Italian exuberance that she hugged Rose.
‘Rosa, cara,’ she said. ‘Oh, it is so good to see you.’
‘I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.’
‘Nonsense; we were all dealing with trauma in our different ways but you’re here now and you need to see my cakes.’
She was delighted to add Grace Paterson’s order to the orders that had already come in from the station. The large top-floor flat was full of the delicious smell of baking and Rose had fun picking out the scents that reminded her of Christmas at home.
‘Cloves,’ she called, ‘and ginger. Treacle and baking itself, such a super smell.’
‘Almonds,’ added Francesca, ‘and melting chocolate.’
‘But there’s something else. The kitchen is full of it.’
‘Mamma, you’re roasting chestnuts.’
‘Yes, we can’t have Christmas without roast chestnuts.’
‘I smell something else,’ said Rose as they walked into the kitchen. ‘I know what it is but I can’t think.’
‘Brandy,’ said Chiara. ‘Lots and lots of brandy. Now come and taste these cenci, but not too much or you will spoil the lunch.’
Rose picked up one of the fried pastry ribbons and bit into it. ‘Delicious, Chiara. Quite wonderful, and so different.’
‘And so easy. I’ll teach you, but not today. Today we salute the new lance corporal and thank her for all she has done for our family.’
It was a wonderful morning, finished with a delicious meal. As Rose cycled back to the camp she knew that she would never forget helping prepare an Italian Christmas in a little kitchen in an old house in York.
Back at her billet she found that, already, Cleo had written with her congratulations.
How I’d love to be there to sew on your stripe. Remember to use a slender needle and tiny, tiny stitches – and the right colour, of course. When are we going to meet, Lance Corporal? Every time I get anywhere near you, you take off to somewhere else. Most uncivil of the military.
I take up a new post in London after the New Year. It’s probable that I’ll be there for the duration. Surely you can pop down to civilisation for a weekend? I have a darling little flat – yes, I know, the idle rich – but there’s a minuscule guest room where you are more than welcome to rest your weary head.
Have a wonderful Christmas and love to everyone, including my friend George.
Rose smiled. How thrilled George would be to know that Cleo remembered him.
The days between receiving the news of her promotion and the start of her leave were busier than ever. To raise money for a military charity, the camp put on a remarkably professional pantomime and, somewhat to her surprise, Rose found herself cast as ‘The Giant’ in Jack and the Giant Killer.
She did her best to act and was grateful that no one asked her to sing.
In a newspaper she saw a picture of a foreign military officer being driven to Buckingham Palace in the rather splendid 1937 model of the Wolseley 18, a four-door saloon car.
‘Wouldn’t mind driving that beauty one day,’ she murmured, unaware that Henry Starling was standing behind her.
‘Huge engine, Rose, two to three litres, lots of power. Driver’d feel it through his – or her – hands on the steering wheel, but happens you’re more likely to see a Daimler in a British depot. The King likes them, and foreigners like to like what the Royal Family likes. Late 1940, it was, I saw a spanking new Daimler four-door all-weather tourer. Now that’s a car to dream about.’
In a second he changed from friend to Boss. ‘And driving luxury cars is only a dream, Lance Corporal. Right now, there’s the engine of a British artillery tractor with your name in big letters on it. Be great if you could do something with it before you go off to wherever.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Rose lifted her tool kit, made sure she had her protective goggles, and went off to find her project. She would certainly recognise the important machine when she saw it.
Three days later she took it out for a test drive. She chose the field where she had ruined the grass as she wanted to be quite sure that she would hear every sound made by the engine.
‘Purring like a kitten, sir,’ she said as she signed in the valuable machine.
‘You’re a genius, Rose. There’s lots of lads will have reason to be grateful to you, although they’ll never know.’
‘It’s my job, sir.’
‘I know and you’re damned good at it.’ He turned to walk out and stopped at the large sliding doors. ‘I’m grateful to you too, Rose. Chiara’s almost her old self these days. Have a good Christmas.’
And he was gone.
Rose had never met anyone quite like Warrant Officer Starling. She admired and respected him. He could be abrupt but he was always fair. He was a completely different man when he was with Chiara – kind and gentle, never impatient.
‘Happy Christmas, Enrico,’ she whispered after him.
Sally had gathered up all the silver chains that, last year, they had made from the lining of tea boxes, and brought them to the Petries’, since they were the family doing the most Christmas entertaining this year. She had heaped them up on one of the armchairs in the front room and gone off to a rehearsal for the Christmas review that ENSA was staging at a naval base on the south coast. Rose, so used to waking very early, stumbled on the chains when she wandered into the front room on the morning after her arrival from York. She stood, in her blue flannel pyjamas, looking at them and laughing. She picked up two of them, and wrapped them around her neck, as if they were those fashionable furs worn by rich ladies that had little beady-eyed heads hanging from one end.
‘Ravishing,’ said a voice, and there was Sam. ‘Keep yourself warm in your silver fur, Rose, and I’ll make us a cup of tea.’
Less than ten minutes later he returned with two mugs. ‘Enjoy a mug while you can. Mum has decided we deserve only the best china. Dad’s in the bathroom; I’ll get him a mug when I hear the water run out.’
Rose sat drinking in both her hot tea and her beloved older brother. He was Sam, the old Sam, the real Sam, and she wanted to weep with the joy of it.
‘When does Grace arrive?’
At the word ‘Grace’, his face became wreathed in a smile. ‘You’ll not believe it, Rose, but she’s driving down with Lady Alice, and so I’ve no real idea of when she’ll get here. Mid-afternoon, I hope. She’s going to sleep over at the Brewers’ since we’re bursting at the seams. Grace’s Polish friends are with Lady Alice too. You remember them, don’t you? Really nice girls, refugees really. Grac
e likes them both and says that Eva is a beautiful singer. They’ve been invited for Christmas at the lord’s house in Mayfair: isn’t that nice? Grace thinks Lady Alice wants important people to hear Eva’s voice.’
‘Can you believe it, Sam? Daisy flying planes. Your Grace driving in a posh car with a titled lady. You, safe home and back with your regiment.’
Sam laughed. ‘The world is changing for the better.’ He looked at her steadily. ‘Is it better for you, Rose?’
Rose thought for a moment, but since she had thought of nothing else for almost a year, she was merely marshalling her thoughts. ‘I’ve been in the ATS almost a year, Sam, and I’m no nearer being allowed to be a driver, but I can fix anything and I really do think I could drive anything anyone asked me to drive. Plus, I’ve already been promoted – that has to be a good sign. So, yes, life is better.’
‘Great. Plans for today? I’m going over to the Brewers’ to fetch Grace.’
Rose gulped down some hot tea. ‘Mrs Crisp, my friend Stan’s gran,’ she said. ‘I have no idea what to say to her but I must see her.’
In the end it was not nearly as bad as Rose had thought it would be. Stan’s grandmother had turned her front room into a shrine. There were pictures of Stan everywhere: some in uniform, obviously provided by his regiment, but there were a few from his childhood as well. Two of these were not actual photographs but images of Stan cut from newspapers. There he remained, fourteen years old, in running shorts or football kit. Tears stung Rose’s eyes.
‘It’s all right, Rose love. I know what good friends you were, all his life. He were a good lad, my Stan. Well, he’s with his dad now, isn’t he? That has to be good, my son and my grandson together.’
‘It’s a lovely thought, Mrs Crisp.’