On a Wing and a Prayer

by Ruby Jackson

  He had given her no opportunity to answer him, though she began to say, ‘But my boss—’

  ‘Will expect to find you warm and snug instead of catching your death in the car. Come on.’

  Rose stumbled as she got out. He caught her and it was only then that she realised how cold she was. ‘Please don’t…’

  ‘We looks after one another, love. It was young Archie, came out for a smoke, and asked where you was.’

  ‘Sorry to have been so stupid, Constable.’

  ‘I’m a sergeant, love, but no offence taken. Just be glad I found you. There’s some real bigwigs in there today. Wouldn’t do at all for them to go looking for you.’

  Rose said nothing but, as she began to thaw, she felt herself get a little cross. Shouldn’t her instructions cover things like where and how to make oneself invisible when waiting at palaces? But perhaps a driver who had gone through the entire gamut of driver training would have absorbed all the peripheral details.

  She was in the sentry box and a seat right beside the little heater was made ready for her by the guards on duty. ‘And there’s char here as would put hairs on yer chest, as the saying goes, miss, no offence meant.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ said Rose with a dazzling smile.

  She sat with her new acquaintances for another ninety minutes, watched them perform their duties, shared their sandwiches, and marvelled at their sense of fun as well as their deep respect for the work they were all doing. Policemen, soldiers, ATS driver, they were all in this together and, for Rose, it was a day to remember. It was to become even more memorable.

  At quarter past two, over three hours after she had arrived at the palace, a call to the sentry box informed her that Lance Corporal Petrie’s passengers were leaving.

  ‘That means you have time to put on your coat and hat and get round there to fetch the motor.’

  She thanked the soldiers and police for their kindness.

  ‘You’re welcome, love. Pop in any time you’re passing.’

  She waved, and hurried round to where she had parked the car, turned on the engine, frantically rubbed the windscreen and got in, hoping that she would be able to see out of it by the time she reached the steps.

  She drew up, left the engine idling, and waited. A few minutes later a group of men appeared in the doorway and Rose’s passengers, accompanied by a senior naval officer, came down the stairs. All three got into the car.

  ‘Admiralty House, driver,’ said a voice.

  ‘Sir,’ said Rose, and drove majestically to the gates of Buckingham Palace and then out onto the busy road. Admiralty House was one of the many addresses that Rose had memorised, but she had never expected to be driving to it from Buckingham Palace and was relieved when the same calm voice issued directions. They reached their first destination, the extra passenger got out, and by the time he had disappeared inside the Admiralty, Rose had been given her next order.

  ‘Victoria Station.’

  Why was she taking them to Victoria Station? To pick up a passenger who was returning – from a well-deserved holiday, perhaps. Or was the quiet man behind her, who was once again smoking a cigar, taking the boat train to Dover so as to sail to…a secret destination, not for a holiday but for a meeting? It was very dangerous to go to Europe, but Tomas and pilots like him flew there often on missions of mercy.

  She disciplined her wild imaginings, telling herself that she should be doing her job and not wallowing in flights of fancy. Her passengers, or the special passenger, were making no effort to hide. They sat straight up, the instantly recognisable homburg hat placed squarely on the well-known head.

  He needs people to see him. Why? Because the real man is somewhere else, involved in something terribly vital to the war effort, and he wants no one to know he’s there.

  Just then, a car pulled up almost parallel in the lane beside her.

  ‘Stupid ass,’ muttered Rose under her breath. The car had come much too close, but the driver seemed to be a tad ashamed of himself, for he lifted a hand in a short salute as his car slipped back until it was no longer alongside.

  ‘Change lanes at the earliest opportunity, Petrie.’ The calm voice spoke in her ear. ‘That car got much too close.’

  ‘I thought I’d try to move over, take the next right. We make a little circle and we’re back on the road.’

  ‘Excellent. Do that.’

  Rose glanced across. The small, undistinguished black car was once more right beside them, a figure in the back seat looking directly into the passenger seat. He raised his arm.

  ‘God damn it, accelerate, girl, accelerate.’

  That command was almost lost in the sound of a gunshot, but Rose had heard the order and had acted instinctively. Instead of accelerating, with all her strength she had slammed on the brake, causing the car to stop, practically on its nose, sending both her passengers flying. They landed heavily, in an uncomfortable heap on the floor. The driver of the car in the next lane, obviously expecting Rose to speed up in a desperate but futile attempt to escape the would-be assassin, had himself accelerated and was now some distance ahead, weaving and dodging as he tried to escape determined pursuers.

  They had come out of nowhere. Lights blazed, sirens sounded and Rose’s car sat, as if on a guarded island, while they hurtled past.

  Drivers in cars behind, and Rose, quietly thanked any power that had been watching over them, slowed and pulled over, white, shocked faces glancing at Rose or into the back seat. But the passengers were still on the floor, the taller, heavier man protecting the body of the other man with his own.

  What seemed like an eternity had taken seconds and, as realisation dawned on Rose, she began to tremble.

  ‘Rose,’ the man behind said quietly, ‘start the engine and wait for your escort. They’re coming now. Follow the two leading bikes. Everything is under control.’

  Would she talk about it one day? Would she laugh as she told of her Very Important Persons being thrown in a heap on the floor? Would she remember that during the incident she had felt nothing but determination to do her job, coupled with anger that he should be subjected to this? She did not know.

  She obeyed her orders and drove through London surrounded by motorcycle police.

  ‘Clever move to brake, Lance Corporal.’ The well-known voice again sent shivers up and down her spine.

  It has to be him. It can’t be a double. He’s too good.

  ‘Gave it some serious thought, lying on the floor there. Not my first indignity, and won’t be my last.’

  ‘Sir.’

  She followed the leaders, as she had been ordered, but had no idea which seat of power she had reached. Before the outbreak of war she had rarely visited London and, although now and again she had recognised a statue or an arch or even the front of a great department store, without street signs in areas with which she had not become completely familiar, she felt lost.

  The passenger door was opened and the two men got out. To Rose’s surprise her door was opened by a soldier. She was even more surprised when he gestured to her to leave the car.

  ‘A reviving cup of tea, Lance Corporal,’ said the taller man.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, man,’ said the VIP as he walked into the foyer. ‘She needs a brandy like the rest of us.’

  Rose was trembling, reaction perhaps to having been in danger. But as her passenger reached the door he turned, smiled at her and said, ‘Bloody quick thinking,’ and the voice was not the voice she knew.

  A marine brought her a chair with the brandy.

  On the next day, Rose travelled by bus into London and was shown into a room where, she was told, she was to be debriefed.

  The commander was there, the taller VIP who had been in the car with her, and several men, some in uniform, some not. The tall man, not named, was an experienced and highly skilled bodyguard, she was told.

  ‘Everything worked beautifully, Lance Corporal, and we’re quite happy with your work. No doubt we’ll be calling o
n your services again. Anything you want to ask?’

  Which of the many questions in her head should she put forward?

  ‘The shooters, sir?’

  ‘No, we haven’t caught them, but have no doubt they’ll be behind bars soon. Read the papers yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Nice picture of the PM going into Buck House. Excellent. And the Evening Star got rather a good shot of the actual incident: “ATS Driver’s Quick Thinking Saves the Day”.’

  He walked across to the desk and picked up a copy of the newspaper. ‘I know it seems fearfully Boy’s Own, Miss Petrie, but there are evil forces alive in the world. While you were driving your gentlemen around, allowing them to be seen, the real PM was engaged in secret but vitally important talks…We won’t play today; you are free to return to normal duties. You have time to catch the afternoon train.’

  ‘But my things…?’ Rose began.

  ‘Mrs Bamber is the essence of efficiency. Your kitbag is at Reception.’

  It was over. She had been part of something for two days but was now surplus to requirements. She stood up, saluted, and walked out.

  A Jeep was waiting outside and she was whisked to the station. Several hours later, space was found for her on a lorry that was heading to her base from York Station. Rose wondered whether she should laugh or cry. Neither, probably. She had been a small part of something she had to believe was important and now she was back at her camp, and could tell no one anything at all about where she had been and what she had been doing. Nor would anyone ask.

  Brad? Just thinking his name conjured up his handsome face, his quiet but very masculine voice. He would not ask. She only hoped that he had tried to be in touch while she had been away.

  ‘Rose, lovely. We weren’t expecting you back until tomorrow.’ It was Francesca.

  ‘Job didn’t take as long as they had first thought. Any messages, letters?’

  ‘Were you painting the town red? You look jolly tired.’

  ‘Messages?’

  ‘Of course. He rang the public telephone. Aren’t Yanks clever? How did he get the number?’

  ‘Don’t tease.’

  Fran smiled, gave her a hug and a small piece of paper. ‘He rang, a chap from the machine shop came down, I went up, and told him you’d been called away. His message is on…’

  But Rose was reading the note. ‘I don’t believe it. London?’

  ‘What kind of bad luck is that? But look on the bright side. He travelled down, military convoy, overnight. Impossible to meet, Rose, and he did say he’d be back in a couple of days. Now, can’t you tell me anything about London?’

  ‘It’s big: fabulous buildings, huge department stores – some rather pompous, even intimidating. There are bombed-out buildings, holes in some roads, signs of fires, and a smell of smoke – and I don’t want to think what else – hangs over everything and brings home just how bloody awful this war is. But my landlady was lovely, and her daughter, who’s a nurse at St Thomas’s Hospital, saw that film Terry wanted to take me to see, Mrs. Miniver, and she says it’s a real weepie.’

  ‘My kind of film. Now, put your coat on; it’s teatime. Gladys’ll have saved us seats.’

  SIXTEEN

  May 1943

  The winter had been long and cold. A perfect English spring flooded in with almost daily showers that certainly brought the May flowers.

  Off duty for the afternoon, Rose and Brad were walking towards the village of Long Marston: Brad was interested in English history and was determined to see the site of the battle of Marston Moor; he was also determined to find a pub with what he called ‘real sandwiches’. Underfoot were carpets of tiny flowers and the sight had Rose humming an ‘April Showers’ song, which she was sure she had known for as long as she could remember.

  ‘Absolutely, that song has to be the same age you are, Rose, and it’s not British, it’s Al Jolson in a Broadway show, ’20s sometime.’

  ‘I think you’re confusing two songs, Bradley Hastings. The one I’m humming was in the film Bambi – “Little April Showers”, I think it was called.’

  He stopped striding across the moor and grabbed her, and Rose laughed and tried to escape, but of course she did not actually want to escape and he had no intention of letting go. They stood just looking at each other and then Brad pulled Rose against his chest and she remained there, perfectly happily, while he whispered nonsense about raindrops and baby animals and spring flowers into her ear. Rose listened to his voice and to his heart and wondered if it were possible to die from happiness. Never had she been in such a relationship. Being with him was exciting but it was also peaceful.

  He had returned from London and hand-delivered the letter he had written to her while a train had carried him back to York.

  Dear Rose,

  I miss you every second of every minute, and why? I don’t understand it and yet, I’m a college man, supposed to have some kind of education. We only just met. It’s not like we grew up in the same town, played tennis at the same club, went together to the prom. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I remember that ghastly night when we found you sinking into the ditch. A woman I had never seen before – why should her plight affect me the way it did? – but, somehow, the moment I looked in your beautiful eyes, I knew the world had changed for me.

  And then that Saturday night, I stood there outside the door of that damned Nissen hut and I kissed you, and, Rose, I wanted to stay there for ever.

  My father is here, not in Yorkshire, in London, and I was sent down to see him because when my dad speaks, people run to do what he says. He wants me to take a commission and he wants me in London. I can fight him, Rose, but I can’t fight the whole darned army and I don’t know what is going to happen. I think I’m safe for the present and my plan is to do my job the best I can and to get to know Rose Petrie, hey, a real beautiful English rose.

  Does any of this make any sense to you? If it does, would you care to go into town with me Friday night? There’s a bus from the base, gets back 23.00 hrs. We could

  The letter stopped there, probably because the train had reached York. He had signed it ‘Brad’.

  Rose had read the letter so often that she could have recited it, and she had smiled, laughed a little, and cried a little too. She had only just met him, but had never known anyone quite like him, and life had changed for her, too. Not on the night they met, but in the hour before the hop at the American base, when he had tried so hard to pretend he liked his cheese and pickle sandwich. A trivial little thing – but tiny things can be very powerful, can they not? she thought.

  Two days after the letter was delivered he telephoned, and this time she was there, ready to run like a hare to the call box, to stand in the cold, first to listen to his voice and then to tell him that she would be free on the Friday evening.

  They had met as often as possible after that. When they could not meet, he telephoned. Sometimes they could not communicate at all. The war and their work came before everything else. And there had been plenty of both. Rose seemed to spend her working days either covered in oil and dirt inside the ‘working parts’ – usually non-working – of some military vehicle or, scrubbed and polished, driving a vehicle, delivering men, materials, medical aid; she never knew from one day to the next what her assignment would be. Brad never spoke of what he actually did all day, but when Rose mentioned the rumours about fights between black and white American soldiers that seemed to fly around day after day in the local newspapers, he did talk about it.

  ‘Can’t lie to you, Rose, and I hate even to talk about it because it’s a very ugly part of our history. Yes, there are prejudiced people in the army. I pray I’m right in saying it’s just a few who think one colour skin is better or worse than another. Most of the time, guys rub along together; everyone knows that the guy beside you, whatever colour he is, is the one you’ll depend on in conflict. We’ve had some pub brawls – alcohol does inflame, I guess; even a few fights righ
t on base, and we don’t like it any more than you guys do. On the whole, England accepted our coloured soldiers as easily as it accepted the rest of us, and let’s hope our misguided hotheads will learn from you.’

  Rose thought for a moment. ‘I’m glad we’re nice.’

  He had laughed then, his lovely warm laugh. ‘Some of you are very, very nice, Miss Petrie.’

  ‘C’mon,’ Brad growled now, releasing her. ‘I want to see this battlefield, brush up on my English history. We had a civil war, you guys had a civil war.’

  ‘Can’t see anything civil about a war,’ said Rose, ‘but all you’ll see, Sergeant, is a field and a monument.’

  ‘Exactly the same back home, a field and a monument. OK, history lessons over; let’s find a pub.’

  They found several pubs of various ages, hundreds of years old, new-built to look like hundreds of years old, and several in between. Eventually they decided on one called the Horse and Saddle, because Brad liked horses.

  ‘Perfectly good reason for choosing a place to eat,’ said Rose.

  ‘Glad you agree,’ Brad said as he put his arm around her slender waist, and, laughing, they bent almost in half to get in without knocking themselves out on the low doorjamb.

  The menu was sparse, but when the cook discovered that his male customer was an American soldier, he suddenly remembered that there were some locally made sausages in his larder. ‘I know you Yanks eat steaks all the time, but these sausages are delicious. I’ll do you a nice plate of mash with them; a bit different, boiled potatoes mashed with some boiled parsnips, all out of my own garden.’

  With the food he served them tankards of ale, and Rose and Brad sat in the inglenook and enjoyed every bite and every sip.

  ‘Best sausages I ever tasted,’ Brad congratulated the cook who had come to see how his American customer was faring, ‘and I liked the mash too.’