by Ruby Jackson
‘Then tell your mates, lad. We’re a bit off the beaten track but I usually manage to have something – a rabbit, pigeons; sometimes even a nice fresh-caught trout.’
They promised to tell everyone they knew and, hand in hand, walked back across the moors. Every now and again they stopped just to look at each other and, of course, to kiss. It was always Brad who pulled away.
‘You are irresistible, Lance Corporal, and I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t want to…Oh God, Rose, I wish I could see the future. My platoon is here for a reason and none of us knows exactly what that purpose is.’
‘Three years, Brad, we’ve been at war for three years, give or take a few months. It must be over soon, especially now that—’
‘We’re in,’ he interrupted her.
‘Yes. We must be positive.’
He started to laugh and, since they had grown so serious, Rose wondered what he found so amusing.
‘Run,’ he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her along. ‘Here they come. “I’m always chasing rainbows”,’ he began to sing in a pleasant baritone, just as the heavens opened and an April shower that had saved itself up for a special occasion decided to fall. ‘Race you,’ he shouted.
They ran. He was marginally faster, but Rose was more used to running in such rough terrain and, both soaked to the skin, they were neck and neck as, exhausted, they left the moors. The bus driver who picked them up some minutes later was none too pleased as they dripped all over the seats, but he said nothing except ‘Crazy Yanks’ as he opened the door to let them alight when they reached Rose’s base.
‘When?’ began Brad.
‘When we can,’ she said.
They did not kiss, not there beside the guardhouse.
‘See you,’ he said, his hand brushing her face.
‘See you,’ she replied, and watched him lope off.
Francesca met her almost at the door of their billet. ‘You’re soaked,’ she exclaimed as if, possibly, Rose was unaware of the fact. ‘Starling wants to see you. Not a problem, he says, but, if possible, as soon as you got back.’
‘And it’s not a problem. I suppose he wants me to drive the bride to the wedding. Have they set a date yet?’
‘No, Mamma dreamt of having some of the family there but she’s not having much luck. She expected communications to speed up once Italy joined the Allies, but they haven’t … and, of course, no one in our Italian family has a telephone – awkward. I don’t know why Starling needs to see you, Rose; you know he usually separates work and personal relationships.’
They had reached their billet. ‘I’ll get changed and go up to the depot, Francesca, and I do hope everything goes well with your mum’s wedding plans.’
‘Me, too. They took forever to admit to liking each other and, as for plans to marry…never mind, they’ve got there now. Go and dry your hair: you look a mess.’
‘Thank you, my dear friend,’ said Rose, affectionate sarcasm dripping from every word. ‘I’m almost there.’
She hurried inside, decided against taking time to have a shower and merely changed her clothes, brushed out her hair and plaited it again.
Five minutes later she was knocking on the door of Warrant Officer Starling’s office.
‘Come in, Petrie.’ Obviously no one else had been sent for.
‘You sent for me, Warrant Officer.’
‘Not exactly, Lance Corporal. You’re still off duty, but I hoped you would – knew you would – come up. I’m sorry, but I’ve had a telephone call.’ He stopped and looked at her. ‘You’re being transferred, Rose.’
His use of her Christian name alerted her. This was serious.
‘Transferred?’
‘To a depot in London, as a driver. Not all bad news; you’ll be able to pop down to Dartford, see your parents, old friends.’
‘Am I allowed to ask why?’
‘You can ask me anything you want, Rose, and if the answer isn’t an official secret, I’ll tell you.’ He looked directly at her and his face was serious. ‘You saved my Chiara, I can never forget that. If I can ever do anything to help you in any way, I will. You’re damned good at your job and you’ve been noticed: it’s as simple as that. I know that maybe, personally, this isn’t the best time, but everything that’s real lasts, believe me. You have no choice here – but Chiara, Francesca and I want you back for the wedding. You’ll do your best, won’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. When do I leave?’ she asked mechanically, her mind racing.
‘First train tomorrow morning.’
‘No.’ The word exploded from her. Tomorrow. How could she possibly move to London, to anywhere, so soon? ‘It’s impossible. I need to pack, to alert people, to do a million—’ She stopped. He was looking at her, listening to her.
‘Train’s at 6.45 a.m. Dismissed.’
She jerked herself to attention. ‘Sir,’ she said as she saluted, then turned and walked out of the depot.
She had no thought for who had ordered her transfer. Her mind could think of nothing and no one but Brad Hastings. Good Lord, there were scarcely twelve hours left before she would be on a train trundling its smoky way south.
Pack. Her parents. Gladys, Francesca, Mildred. Chiara. Cleo. Chrissy. She could not forget Chrissy. Notes for her successor on the unfinished work on that engine. Starling, or Francesca, would tell Chiara. That left Brad. How sweet had been their time on the great moor. What if she never saw him again? Why were the Americans here? She wondered what their great plan was, and where it would take Brad. Would he be able to tell her? What if she never saw him again?
No, she would not think like that. Rose hurried back to her billet.
Anxious faces looked at her, from seats around the stove, from the edges of beds, from the hard chairs by the tables.
‘I’m not being court-martialled, ladies. Afraid I’ve been transferred to a depot down south. London, actually, and now I have to pack.’
‘You have to eat, Rose; we were waiting for you. We’re just on our way.’ Gladys was sounding quite cheerful and matter of fact, but her face was strained.
‘Had a great late lunch, ladies. A cup of cocoa later will be fine. Really must keep my parents up to date.’
‘You know I’ll forward anything. Brad? Do you have a way of contacting him?’
‘I know where he is, Gladys. Don’t worry. I’ll write a quick note and, if he asks for me before he gets it, then I hope you’ll let him know.’
‘A promotion, I suppose.’
A promotion. The thought had never occurred to her. ‘No idea. Shouldn’t think so. I haven’t had time to read my orders. Don’t really want to, which is rather childish, I expect.’
‘London, you say?’
‘Yes, and that’s not too far from home. We’ll keep in touch and I’ll expect you to come down to Dartford. Mum and Dad’ll be thrilled to meet you and I won’t miss Francesca’s mum’s wedding.’
Gladys smiled. ‘Won’t that be a day? We should form a guard of honour for the WO – or, wait, we could be flower girls. I’ll talk to Fran.’
‘Call her Francesca and you’ll have a better chance.’
Gladys opened the door as if to go out and then pulled it to again. ‘What time?’
‘First train.’
‘Damn. I’m on duty.’
‘Hey, this isn’t another Dunkirk. I’m only going to London. Now go away and let me get on.’
There really was not too much to pack: her uniforms, some sports clothes, night things, and one or two pieces of casual clothing. ‘Be great to get home, even for a few hours, and get some lighter things.’ But would she be in London long enough to earn some time off to get to Dartford?
Transferred. What was she thinking? She was being transferred; each time she had been transferred she had spent several months in the new billet. Brad. She relived their hours on the moor, felt his arms around her, and the feeling of utmost safety as he held her, heard his voice as he sang her favourite song. Were she and Brad me
rely ‘chasing rainbows’? Surely not.
Why? The word seemed to echo around the Nissen hut. It wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair. Something very beautiful and sacred – yes, sacred, she could say that – had begun to grow, take shape, take root and…she had been transferred. Would she ever see him again? Why would he try to keep up a relationship with someone in London when the camp here was full of women, several of whom would be only too happy to take her place?
For a mad moment she allowed despair to overcome her. Only a few hours ago, she had been in his arms, and now…No, she would not give in. He was special; what had begun to grow between them was special. What was a few months, after all?
She had not packed her notepaper and so she sat down to write several quick notes. The first one was to Brad and, very carefully, she wrote her new address at the top of the page.
‘Dear Brad, Thank you. I had such a lovely time today.’
She tore up the paper and started again.
Dear Brad,
I loved every single moment of our time today. Orders were waiting for me, though, and tomorrow I will be on the early train to London. No idea if it’s short or long term, but I will be a driver and, after all, that’s what I always dreamed of being.
She stopped for a moment, wanting to write down how much he had come to mean to her but afraid to say too much too early. What could she say?
Eventually she added, ‘I hope we can keep in touch.’
Again she struggled. Should she write ‘Love, Rose’, or was that too much, too soon? Too forward? No actual words of love had been spoken by either of them.
She decided on simply ‘Rose’.
Before she could change her mind, she folded the sheet and put it in an envelope, which she sealed. Resolving not to look at it again, she got to work and wrote one short note after the other.
By the time the others returned she had a neat pile of stamped envelopes.
No one had heard from Phil in months, but there had been no terrifying communication from the War Office either, and so Rose had decided she would write to him, then to Sam, who would tell Grace, and lastly to Sally, who would tell Daisy. After all, she had written to Daisy recently and it was impossible to write to everyone. As it was, postage was costing her a fortune. When she got to London she could use the public call box to ring Cleo and bring her up to date.
What fun that would be, and somehow so sophisticated.
SEVENTEEN
London, September 1943
By the end of September, Rose felt that she was beginning to know every street, every alley, and every shortcut, not only in London but also in the entire south of England. She had, after all, driven up or down each and every one of them, and, in her own time, had walked many of them. She knew the great buildings and the not-so-great, the railway and bus stations, the hospitals, the theatres, the monuments, the hotels, the restaurants and the small cafés. Even in its war-ravaged state, the great city had cast its spell and Rose Petrie was captivated.
Her only problem with London was its distance from Yorkshire, where Sergeant Bradley Hastings was based. They had seen each other once since she had taken up her new appointment. Brad’s father, whom she now knew to be a very important person indeed, seemed to fly back and forth across the Atlantic with more ease than Rose travelled to Dartford, but, when Senator Hastings was in London, he liked to see his son.
‘Drives me crazy, Rose, politicians’ maneuverings,’ Brad had written,
but if it gives me even half a chance to see you then I’ll go along with it. And, to be fair to Dad, he only pulls strings attached to me once in a while. Besides, my boss isn’t stupid and he’s going to make sure I learn something of interest to him. Everybody wins.
They had met in Green Park, one long, hot, August afternoon, when foreign dignitaries were enjoying a garden party at a stately home. He had come up the steps from the Underground station and, at her first sight of him, her heart almost stopped. He was wearing civilian clothing: dark-blue cotton trousers and a white short-sleeved top; round his waist he had tied a dark-blue cardigan. He looked wonderful, clean and strong and healthy, and somehow very, very American.
‘Boy, I’ve missed you,’ he said, taking her in his arms.
All the way to Green Park Station, Rose had been worrying about how she should greet him, and yet how easy it had been. He held her and she stood close, looking up into his lilac-blue eyes. ‘I’ve missed you too, Sergeant,’ she said, and he bent down and kissed her.
People were milling around them, people entering or leaving the Ritz Hotel, or just rushing, as Londoners seemed always to do, but no one broke the invisible ring around their little island.
They seemed totally oblivious of anyone but themselves as, at last, they moved, holding hands and walking along past the world-famous hotel.
‘I wanted to have afternoon tea in there, Rose: very British. Is that something you’d enjoy, or maybe you’ve done it?’
‘The Ritz. Are you out of your mind? Have you the slightest idea what…?’ Rose stopped as, for the first time, she realised that Brad was the type of man who patronised the Ritz, who could easily afford it.
He seemed to read her mind. ‘Not on a GI’s salary,’ he said, and laughed.
‘GI? We hear that all the time.’
‘General issue. The uniforms.’
She laughed. ‘Your uniform wasn’t general anything.’
For a moment a cloud passed across his face and his eyes darkened. ‘No, it wasn’t, Rose, and yes, my folks have money.’ His voice was hard. ‘Let’s not make it an issue.’ He looked at her lovely face and saw that she had grown very pale.
‘Oh, Rose,’ he said, as once more he took her in his arms and held her close to him; as if, with his body, he would protect her from anything. ‘I’m sorry; let’s go someplace and talk.’
They turned. He took her hand as if he feared that she would forbid him that intimacy and, when she let her hand rest in his, he tightened his grip. ‘Sometimes I can be such a damn fool.’
She said nothing but squeezed his hand as they retraced their steps, and this time they walked through the gates of the park and began to stroll around the perimeter. On their left stood a line of imposing buildings. Most, with their no-doubt glorious gardens, were hidden from passers-by, while before them and to the right of them grass and trees stretched as far as the eye could see.
‘Is it OK to walk on the grass?’
‘If it’s not, then all those people over there will be in a lot of trouble soon.’
‘I seem to remember signs all over that said, “Do Not Walk on the Grass”.’
‘No idea,’ Rose said, as she pulled him over onto the grass where a man in a non-military uniform was setting out deckchairs. ‘I suppose they might say that if the grass was being reseeded.’ She looked up into his eyes. ‘Why are we talking about London parks?’
‘I think it’s called “Avoiding the issue”.’
They had reached the bottom of the outside path. They had a choice of crossing the road towards Buckingham Palace or turning left. He gave her no choice but waited for a break in the unnaturally sparse and quiet traffic – no horns blaring, no brakes squealing – and escorted her across.
‘Some building!’
‘Issue,’ murmured Rose.
He laughed. ‘Let’s go down Horse Guards; no, we might be seen. Better to turn back through the park; we can talk as we walk.’
‘Who might see us? Is there something you’re not telling me?’
They were silent for a few minutes and then Brad said, ‘Like I told you, I have to meet my dad for dinner tonight and he thinks I’ll arrive more or less on time. He’s at a function. His life is regimented by functions, meetings. I told you he’s a senator, Rose; pretty powerful stuff. His folks were, well, more than OK financially, but Mom’s family are seriously wealthy. Does that bother you?’
‘It has nothing to do with me.’
‘But it does or, let’s say, I wa
nt it to. I did go to college, Yale…’
She nodded. ‘OK, you went to a great university.’
‘Yale Law School.’
‘You’re a lawyer and you joined the army?’
He nodded.
‘You had a good reason?’
‘It wasn’t to annoy my parents, although both of them believe that it was. I felt sure that war was coming, that it could not be avoided; many Americans did. Any idea of the number of Americans in the Canadian Air Force—?’
‘Brad,’ she interrupted him.
He stopped there, almost beneath the branches of a tall sycamore, and pulled her round so that they were face to face. ‘I didn’t want to be a lawyer, Rose, and I certainly never planned to go into the military. I studied law, OK, to get my folks off my back. Any idea what I really wanted, still want, to do?’
Rose looked at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She wanted to scream at him, to ask him why any of this was relevant to her, ask why he felt she needed to know. She did not scream but instead asked quietly, ‘What did you want to do?’
‘Teach history.’
She saw him on Marston Moor, reading the inscription on the memorial, showing that he knew something about English history too. She smiled. A teacher. She would never have guessed.
‘Do it,’ was all she said.
With a whoop of joy, which startled a few elderly walkers, as well as several pigeons and two squirrels rooting at the foot of a nearby tree, he put his arms around her and whirled her around.
‘Do it, she says, do it.’ He laughed with joy. ‘So simple. Oh, Rose Petrie, I love you.’ The grin left his face and he looked at her as if he had never really seen her before. ‘I love you,’ he shouted. ‘That’s what all this was leading to. I love you, Rose.’
‘For Pete’s sake, lad, kiss her and let us all have a bit of peace and quiet to read the paper.’ An elderly man in one of the deckchairs looked from Brad to Rose, then continued, ‘Go on, girl, answer him.’
‘He hasn’t asked me anything.’
‘Oh, blimey, do you want a kiss or don’t you?’