On a Wing and a Prayer

Saturday came and the Nissen hut was full of excitement as the young women prepared to have a wonderful time at the rare social evening. Flora had persuaded Rose to take the pretty dress with her and, although she had worried that the dress might make her remember the embarrassing conversation with Stan, Rose had packed it – after all, she had no idea what she might be doing in the next few months. She did think of Stan, but that was because – at long last – a letter from him had arrived, and not because seeing the dress made her sad. She was delighted to have something both new and pretty to wear.

Short and sweet, said Rose to herself as she reread Stan’s letter – a bit like you, Stan.

Dear Rose,

I got your letter. It was great to hear from you. I heard from a lad in my squad that ATS takes the same ranks as regular army so we’ll both be privates by now, unless you’ve gone to be an officer and if you have, and you should, I’ll be thrilled for you. I’ll even salute. That would be so easy, as I’ve looked up to you, in more ways than one, all my life. I’ve done basic training and found muscles I never knew I had. They’re quite glad I’m good at gym as there are competitions among the regiments. We’re shipping out, can’t tell you where even if I knew, which I don’t, but please write to me again, Rose.

I really like being in the army and I hope you do too.

Stan

‘Come on, girls, time to change from pumpkins to Cinderellas.’

The young women, in varying stages of undress, looked at Ada and laughed.

‘Cinderella didn’t change into a pumpkin. It was a coach, all silver and gold and with red plush cushions.’ Ella heard what she was saying and stopped. ‘That didn’t come out right. The pumpkin changed into the coach. Cinderella didn’t change into anything, did she?’

‘A beautiful princess,’ answered at least three of the girls.

‘And this rich, handsome, completely unattached and therefore available prince fell in love with her,’ said Vera.

‘Absolutely. And, who knows, tonight may be the night. Anyone have any lipstick?’ Ella was rooting through a very untidy drawer as she spoke.

Rose picked up her ATS shoulder bag and took two lipsticks out of it. ‘Almost gone,’ she said as she held them up. ‘Tangee Natural pink in this one and Theatrical Red in this, but I did find refills in Boots.’ She had been delighted to find the Tangee priced at one and ten, but her favourite red had been a whopping five shillings. ‘I get the Theatrical Red first, but you’re all welcome after that.’

Vera offered the ubiquitous Evening in Paris toilet water, an offer eagerly accepted. Rose slipped on the pretty cotton dress with its sweetheart neckline and almost full green-and-blue patterned skirt. It was some time since material had been widely available, but there was enough in the skirt to make sure that there would be a discreet, tantalising glimpse of the two petticoats she was wearing with it, one white and the other blue. She smiled as she remembered her disappointment that Stan had not taken her dancing in it.

Must have hurt my pride and not my heart, she decided, but she was quietly glad that she and Stan were still friends.

She looked over at Vera, who had changed out of her uniform into a simple blouse and skirt.

‘Come on, girls,’ said Ella. ‘Destiny awaits.’

‘Let’s hope he’s tall, dark and handsome, with no spots,’ said Ada, and the unmarried girls shrieked in pretended horror.

The gym was already crowded when the women got there, and the noise from the band and conversations being conducted at a volume guaranteed to defeat the musicians was almost deafening, sure proof that the evening was going well. There was no time to look for a table as each girl was whisked onto the floor almost before she had removed her coat. It was only after some time that a breathless Rose saw that Vera was not dancing and was sitting alone at a table. Rose excused herself from her over-eager partner and joined her roommate.

‘You’re too pretty not to have been asked to dance, Vera. May I ask why you’re not up on the floor?’

Vera looked at her with suspiciously moist eyes and tried to smile. ‘Scruples, I suppose, Rose, and I am enjoying the music and watching all the dancers, really.’

‘I have scruples too, Vera. Bet you ten bob almost every person in the room has some.’

‘But they’re not all engaged – well, almost engaged – to a prisoner of war.’

‘A dance is just a dance, nothing more, and I’m sure that if we asked we’d find there’s someone bravely dancing here who is married to a prisoner of war.’

Vera sniffed. ‘You don’t understand. You have absolutely no idea what it’s like to be waiting for someone. I promised James, I shouldn’t be here enjoying myself while who-knows-what’s happening to him.’

She stood up as if preparing to leave, but Rose touched her hand. ‘Sit down for a minute, Vera, and we can have a beer or some cider. Look, there’s a friend of mine, Chrissy Wade. She’ll go to the bar for us.’

Since Vera seemed to accept this, Rose waved frantically at Chrissy, who saw her, gave a happy smile and made her way over to join them.

‘Hello, this is fun, isn’t it? That music makes me feel as young as you two.’

Rose introduced Vera and asked Chrissy if she would mind standing in the line to get drinks for all three of them while she and Vera had a private conversation. Chrissy was happy to help and, when she had gone, Rose turned again to Vera. ‘You said “almost engaged”. So you’re not engaged to your prisoner of war but you love him and he loves you?’

‘I think so.’

Now what? Rose felt totally inadequate. Was this what Stan had meant when he said she spoke like a man? Did that mean she also thought like one, for she could not think of a single thing to say to cheer up the other girl. As always in times of stress, she found herself taking a deep breath. ‘Vera, you don’t think you love him?’

‘That’s what’s so awful. I know I don’t love him – if loving means going all soft inside like when I see Jimmy Stewart at the pictures. I never get like that with James, but we’ve been paired off for years and he enlisted when he was seventeen and begged me to save myself for him and I promised, and I think that means I shouldn’t want to dance with other men, especially since poor James is in a POW camp. He’s only twenty and that’s so sad. You have no idea.’

Rose was delighted to see Chrissy making her wary way across the dance floor.

When they were sitting, glasses in hands, and had taken at least one sip, Rose said, ‘Chrissy, how old is your Alan?’

Chrissy did not answer immediately; it was almost as if she had to try to remember. ‘Hard to believe he’s twenty,’ she said at last.

‘About your James’s age, Vera,’ pointed out Rose as she turned back again to Chrissy. ‘Does he have a girl?’

‘No, and where’s he supposed to meet one on a troop ship or in the desert, I do not know.’

‘He could have our Vera here. She’s got a lad that doesn’t want her to have any fun while he’s deployed. And it’s worse now,’ she added quickly, as she could see anger sparkling in Vera’s eyes, ‘because he’s a POW.’

As soon as she spoke, Rose knew that Vera did not understand her meaning. She had wanted to explain that Vera was determined to make life as pleasant as possible for her own beloved prisoner of war, wanted to assure him that she was true to him.

But Vera was standing, her face rigid with anger. ‘I did not say that, Rose Petrie. I said he wanted me to keep myself for him, and he’s ever so brave. He was a dispatch rider and got caught by a patrol and now he’s a prisoner of war.’

‘Then I’m sure he wants you to be dancing with a nice lad, Vera, instead of sitting here talking to Rose and me,’ said Chrissy gently. She looked around the room. ‘Like that one with the ginger hair over there,’ she said in a tone loud enough for the soldier to hear. ‘Honestly, Vera, if your James loves you, he knows a dance is just a dance. You’re not marrying the chap.’

‘Well, well, well, am I in luck? Three lovely ladies all by themselves.’ The tall, ginger-haired soldier smiled, walked over to the table, said, ‘May I?’ and without waiting for a reply, sat down. ‘Corporal Terry Webster,’ he said.

‘Hello,’ Vera began bravely. ‘I had a chum at school called Terry.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ said the soldier, holding his hand out as if to brush away Vera’s words. ‘Bet she was a saintly girl whose name was Theresa. Am I right?’ He laughed.

His laugh was pleasant. Rose looked across the table and smiled at him. Corporal Webster was a few inches taller than she was, and the width of his shoulders told of the strength in those long arms.

‘And, Viking Princess, my hair is not, as your lovely friend said, ginger. It’s called châtain clair, translating, for those who don’t parlez-vous, as clear chestnut.’

‘Much nicer than ginger,’ agreed Rose, who was surprised to find herself drawn to the young man, so different from any of the other young men she knew. He was at ease and friendly, confident but not overwhelming, and there was more than a hint of sophistication about him. In the same situation, Stan would have been tongue-tied. She smiled as she thought of her old friend. ‘And do you parlez-vous, Corporal?’

‘Terry, please, and let’s just say I wouldn’t go thirsty in Paris.’

‘Glad to hear that. Now this is Chrissy, and this is Vera.’

‘And I’m Ada,’ said another voice, and Ada appeared from the direction of the bar, obviously ready to chat to a handsome young man. ‘Now, if you haven’t had time, tell us all about yourself.’

Terry smiled at her out of startlingly green eyes. ‘I’d rather hear all about you.’

‘Behave yourself,’ said Rose, forgetting for a moment that he was not one of her brothers.

He laughed and called over some friends. The rest of the girls joined them and the evening went with a swing. Everyone danced, including Vera, who, after a few minutes of arguing with her conscience, relaxed and began to enjoy the evening.

‘I’ll write to James,’ she told Rose. ‘It’s only talking to other men and dancing, but all my friends are here too, aren’t they?’

She looked so worried that Rose reassured her.

She wrote to her sister Daisy later that night expressing her doubts.

It’s none of my business, of course, Daisy, but the poor little thing doesn’t seem to know if she loves him or not. She’s promised to save herself for him, and if that means what I think it means, then she’s not in much danger on a dance floor with over a hundred other people on it.

We have alerts here all the time and I hate the sound of the big bombers, but if I pretend that you’re flying one of them – and, yes, I know you’re not a fighter pilot – then the noise doesn’t bother me so much. Sometimes the rumbling and droning goes on for ages and I can’t see a thing because they’re too high up or there’s beastly weather with thick, dark clouds.

Met a nice chap called Terry. He’s taking me to the cinema next Saturday and I’m looking forward to it. He says a fantastic film has just come out in London. It’s called Mrs. Miniver, with Greer Garson. Isn’t she one of Sally’s idols? It’s got superb reviews and we’re crossing fingers it’s in Preston. And – would you believe – Terry’s taller than me and he’s broad and somehow seems to be much bigger. Says he was a swimmer when he was at school, and, let me tell you, he looks as if he can hold his own. Plus he’s got the most gorgeous green eyes you ever saw in your entire life.

Any chance we can get leave together or meet somewhere? I miss you, Daisy, even more than I miss Mum and Dad. Is that awful? Just I can’t imagine telling Mum about Terry’s beautiful eyes.

Rose

PS. He says I’m a Viking princess, daft, isn’t he!!

The following Saturday, Rose spent the afternoon preparing for her date. She washed her long hair and brushed it dry so that it rippled over her shoulders and shone like gold. Unfortunately she could not find even the smallest piece of mascara with which to darken her fair lashes, but excitement was making her lovely blue eyes sparkle and so she decided that she would do. She was trying to decide between a dark-blue shirtwaist dress with a little white collar and a light-green fitted jacket to be worn with a pleated grey skirt when Chrissy announced that her date had arrived. Rose grabbed the dress, which was closer and easier to haul over her head, slipped on black peep-toed shoes, picked up a white cardigan and her handbag and hurried out to meet him, slowing down as she got to the end of the pathway so that her breathing had time to get back to normal.

There was no mistaking the admiration in his green eyes.

‘Well, Miss Petrie, you look like something out of a magazine.’

‘Thank you, kind sir, I think,’ teased Rose as he gallantly opened the passenger door of the small Morris car.

‘You should wear your hair down all the time, Rose,’ said Terry as he started the engine. ‘Now I think you look like a princess in a fairy story.’

‘Not Viking?’

He laughed. ‘Absolutely a Viking princess. I’m the luckiest man in the British Army.’

Terry had managed to borrow a friend’s car and, as he helped her into the rather elderly vehicle, Rose found herself hoping that it would last the journey; she certainly did not want to spend time working on the ancient car in her pretty dress.

Terry did not start the engine immediately and Rose looked at him. He looked rather crestfallen.

‘What is it, Terry? Has something happened?’

He sighed and leaned back in the seat. ‘Rose, I’m so sorry, but we won’t be going to Mrs. Miniver.’

Rose was disappointed as the new film was garnering rave reviews. ‘Too bad, Terry. Sold out?’

‘No. It hasn’t got up this far yet. Something about how many copies of the film there are.’

Rose smiled. Having grown up with Sally, whose father was the projectionist in a cinema, she knew all there was to know about releases. ‘It’s all right, Terry. What’s on?’

‘You’re a darling, Rose. I just knew you wouldn’t fuss. Suspicion is playing, Alfred Hitchcock.’

‘Super. I love Hitchcock’s films, don’t you?’

‘Wow, thanks, Rose. I was so worried, having practically promised Mrs. Miniver.’ He started the car and, happily without any breakdowns, they drove off into town. They saw the thriller, shared a bar of Batger’s vanilla fudge, and enjoyed themselves immensely.

Rose was happy. Terry had not touched her at all during the film, except when he touched her hand as they shared pieces of the recently rationed sweets, and he took her hand naturally as they walked back to the car.

He drove straight back to the camp, parked and walked her to her Nissen hut where they stood at a door for a few minutes. Rose was slightly nervous. What was she supposed to do?

‘May I kiss you good night, Rose? I realise we’ve only just met, but you’re so lovely, so special.’

He was not afraid of her. Rose was cheering inside. She nodded and he took her in his arms and kissed her very gently on the lips. Rose felt her stomach flip-flop while wonderful and completely new feelings swam through her body.

‘Good night, my gorgeous Viking,’ he whispered against her ear. ‘I’ll see you as soon as I can, maybe next weekend?’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ whispered Rose, and he looked at her for a moment before once more kissing her.

They said good night again and then Terry turned and walked back to the borrowed car.

FIVE

York, August 1942

The train puffed slowly out of the station. Rose grasped the metal bar that stretched across the window, looked out, and said her silent goodbyes to her second posting.

She had not expected to be transferred again so soon; after all, they had been at Preston for only a few months. But less than a month after the dance, several girls had departed to ‘pastures new’, and Rose had been amongst those summoned to the commander’s office.

‘Have to lose you, I’m afraid, Petrie; seems you’re needed elsewhere. We do want you to know that the ATS is proud to have you in our midst and that it has been decided – unanimously – that we can best make use of your skills in the drivers’ pool. I’m sure there’s no need to tell you that the utmost discretion is expected at all times. You will leave for York tomorrow to begin driver training.’

Her mind in a whirl of impressions, memories, hopes, Rose saluted and left the room. Where had the weeks gone? She had never climbed the fell, or even spent much time in the town.

You weren’t on holiday, Rose, she told herself. You were learning a trade and you’ve done it. I don’t know how, but it seems I’m going to be a driver – or a driver mechanic. Why so sudden? Did someone read that silly newspaper article? That got me accepted in the first place. But I don’t care. Just as long as no one talks about it and I don’t have to see it.

She was so excited that she pulled her skirt up to her knees and jumped over a bench. Realising what she had done, she looked around furtively, praying that no one had seen her. She breathed with relief; the parade ground appeared to be empty. Rose was so pleased with her new appointment that she was sure that anyone she passed could tell that her entire system was afloat with millions of tiny bubbles. She sighed but told herself that it was just as well there had been no time to become really close to Terry. That was a sad thought. A slight pang ran through her as she remembered their first meeting and their few dates. He had been a perfect host at the cinema, neither too pushy nor too restrained. He knew exactly how attractive he was, and being actively pursued by a virile, attractive man had certainly boosted Rose’s morale. Their second date had been at a dance in town and Rose had been surprised to see how Terry assumed that she would not want to dance with anyone else.

‘The lady’s with me,’ had been his remark to one of the men in Rose’s own motor pool. He had not been pleased when Rose had laughingly insisted that she was going to dance with her colleague.

‘You’re my date.’

‘Yes, Terry, but it’s a dance and you can’t expect me to ignore my colleagues.’

Terry had given in, but with poor grace. This is moving a little too fast, Rose decided, telling herself firmly that she had not joined the ATS to find a substitute for Stan but to become a properly qualified driver. She had given up hoping to join the élite drivers’ corps – someone had said those drivers were all civilians – but the war couldn’t last for ever and she, Private Rose Petrie, would be well qualified for a new and exciting civilian life.

Her euphoria melted away as suddenly as it had come. She wanted to achieve her dreams through hard work and ability, nothing else. She could not forget her encounter with the dispatch rider, which had ended so tragically for him and for those who loved him. She would always be happy that she had been able to help him but she did not want to profit in any way from his death.

You already have, a nasty little voice in her head said.

Rose brushed away the voice and allowed herself to think of her recent progress. In the few weeks in Preston after the dance, Corporal Church had been true to her word. Having got to grips, so to speak, with motorcycles, Rose had been allowed to work on an ambulance. Silently and at length she had thanked her three brothers and her father for teaching her everything they knew.

‘There was a mix-up, Petrie,’ Corporal Church had said after Rose, beaming from ear to ear, had almost floated out of the office after hearing the news. ‘Don’t ask me what, but just enjoy yourself.’ She had pointed to a dilapidated old ambulance, one door hanging open and the bonnet up. ‘Get that bugger working and I’ll let you work on a staff car, a fairly new Ford. I’ve got a ten-bob bet on that you can do it, so don’t let me down.’

Later the corporal had pocketed a ten-shilling note, thanked Rose and, in the following days, had allowed her to work on the engines of both a three-ton truck and a Bedford fifteen-hundredweight utility van. Rose had found the van marginally more difficult than her father’s, and the three-ton truck trickier, more modern and definitely more powerful. But she had loved every sweaty, oily moment.

‘A joy to drive, Corporal,’ she reported.

‘Don’t get too used to it, Petrie. We have loads more of them big bruisers in Mechanised Transport,’ she explained, pointing to the truck, ‘than we do of the gorgeous staff cars. I’ve heard there’s a Daimler armoured car. Wouldn’t that be a nifty Christmas present?’

Now, once more on her way to what could be an exciting and fulfilling post, Rose unfolded the issue of the Dartford Chronicle that her mother had sent because there was a picture of their actress friend Sally Brewer on the front page. Sally was in naval uniform, one beautiful hand smeared with engine oil and the other holding a can of a new miracle concoction that was guaranteed to remove dirty oil from anything.

In an inside page Rose found a different type of advertisement. ‘Girls wanted to make Vidor Batteries. Aged 18 and over.’ Rose giggled at that line but assured herself it was the girls, not the batteries, that had to have reached that exciting age. ‘21/6 per wk. 43-hr wk. Holidays with pay plus piece-work earnings.’

‘Piece-work earnings’ sounded rather nice. Just think, if I’d stayed at home I could have applied for that, Rose mused, knowing full well that, even if her assignments had not yet been what she had dreamed of, she was still where she wanted to be.

She thought of Terry, whom she had known for such a short time. He had definitely not seen her as ‘one of the blokes’. Rose knew what she looked like and knew that she was quite attractive, if on the tall side, but Terry had made her feel feminine and even pretty. She had always thought that men found sophisticated girls like Sally or delicately formed girls like Daisy attractive, but she was in no doubt at all about Terry’s feelings. He had cycled over to her unit, a week after the dance at which he had behaved as if he owned Rose, and had apologised.

‘Being with you makes me feel so great, Rose. I just want to keep you to myself, you’re so lovely; but I behaved like a cad and it’ll never happen again.’

Rose had forgiven him, and when, a few days later, she had told him of her new posting, he took it very well.

‘York isn’t a long way away, Rose, and I can borrow a bike and come up when we have time off. Let’s not just drift.’

‘I won’t drift, Terry. I’m a really strong swimmer.’

He had laughed with joy and kissed her then, a kiss that seemed to fill her with both ecstasy and longing; longing for what, she did not know, but she would keep in touch with Terry and, yes, she would be kissed like that again.

SIX

Rose had never visited York but was familiar with it from photographs in magazines and on calendars. She had looked forward to her first glimpse of the historic city. She knew that York had been bombed in April but was still stunned by how much the picture in her head differed from the new reality. The station and the railway lines had suffered, and evidence of destruction and repair were everywhere. The only building she recognised was York Minster, still standing unchallenged among ruins of houses, churches and schools.

She had travelled with an older woman, Gladys Archer, a lance corporal, who had come north from London. On the way to the camp, the drive through the old city had sickened both of them. The devastation of war was everywhere. There were huge craters in several streets, together with piles of broken glass and rubble, still uncollected. Skeletons of homes and businesses stood out against the lovely summer sky. Rose was relieved to reach the camp.

Less than an hour later, she was meeting her roommates and unpacking her kitbag.

‘Well, Petrie, still delighted to be in the Auxiliary Territorial Service?’ asked a very pretty young woman, smiling brightly at Rose out of beautiful, very dark eyes as she handed her a mug of hot sweet Camp coffee. ‘I’m Francesca Rossi, and I do prefer Francesca, but call me Fran if it’s easier.’