Rosie’s War

‘Got a man in your life?’

Rosie shook her head, having noticed that Hazel was glancing at her fingers, probably searching for a ring of some sort. Her mother’s wedding ring was wrapped in tissue in her handbag. ‘You got a boyfriend?’ Rosie always turned a leading question on its head. Her home life wasn’t up for discussion.

‘Mmm … he’s a sailor. Chuck’s due back on leave soon.’

‘Lucky you,’ Rosie said with a friendly smile.

‘Lucky him … if you know what I mean,’ Hazel winked a weighty eyelid, lewdly puckering up her scarlet lips. She cocked her head. ‘Can’t believe you’ve not got a feller.’ She tutted. ‘Sorry, that was a bloody stupid thing to say, all things considered. There’ve been so many casualties in this damned war.’

‘No, it’s all right; I’ve not lost anybody over there or here. Just not got anybody special in my life … a man that is …’

Rosie’s private smile as she thought of Hope went unnoticed by Hazel.

Hazel spooned tea into a small enamel pot. ‘Best get this down us before the hordes descend. Teatime at four thirty.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, got half an hour to spare.’ She poured boiling water onto the leaves and stirred. ‘Come on, while that brews I’ll show you a bit more of the set-up.’

Hazel was tall and solidly built. From the young woman’s forthrightness Rosie reckoned Hazel was no shrinking violet when it came to cleaning up the human wreckage left behind after Hitler had dropped his calling cards.

‘This is the common room.’ Hazel waved at a young fellow who was filling some hurricane lamps ranged in front of him on a table. In response he called out a cheery hello.

‘New recruit, Tom,’ Hazel informed. ‘Tell Miss Rosie Gardiner she’s barmy; go on, she won’t believe me.’

‘Listen to Hazel,’ Tom called with a rather effeminate wave. ‘Scarper while you still can.’ He then turned his attention to the funnel he was using to drip oil into the lamps.

‘Tom Anderson is a conchie,’ Hazel said quietly. On seeing Rosie’s bemusement she explained, ‘Conscientious objector. We’ve had a few of those sent here. He might not want to fight but he’s a bloody godsend with the ambulances. He’s a driver and knows a thing or two about mechanics. He used to drive a tractor on his dad’s farm.’

Rosie hoped Tom was unaware that Hazel had been gossiping about him. His boiler-suit-style uniform made him look more like a plumber than an ambulance driver.

‘Table tennis …’ Rosie had spotted the net shoved into a corner, bats and balls scattered on the top. ‘I used to be pretty good at table tennis.’

‘I’ll give you a game if we end up on the same shifts,’ Hazel offered. ‘What did you do before this damned war buggered us all up?’

‘Worked in a theatre a few years back.’

‘Me, too!’ Hazel burst out, delighted. ‘Which theatre?’

‘The Windmill …’ Rosie started examining the table tennis bats. She never volunteered the information that she’d worked as one of the theatre’s famous nudes. But neither did she deny what she’d done, if asked directly.

The Windmill Theatre had stayed open throughout the war. But Rosie had never felt any inclination to go back for old times’ sake and see a show, or look for the few old colleagues who might remain working there.

‘I worked as a magician’s assistant,’ Hazel informed her. ‘He was always trying to have a fiddle down the front of me costume so I dropped him and went out on my own. I could do a bit of singing and dancing but never made much of a name for myself.’ Hazel click-clacked a few steps with toes and heels, hands jigging up and down at her sides. ‘I was in the chorus at the Palladium once when one of the girls went sick at the last minute.’ She sniffed. ‘Never got asked back, though. They said I was too tall for the chorus line.’ She gazed at Rosie admiringly. ‘The Windmill! Now why didn’t I try there!’ She grinned. ‘What’s the place like? Bit racy, ain’t it, by all accounts? All the servicemen flocked there. Chuck and his navy pals used to race to get a seat at the front. Bet you had a few followers, being as you’re so pretty.’

‘Take a look at an ambulance, can I?’ Rosie asked brightly. ‘I’d better see what it’s all about just in case I’m lucky enough to get to drive one.’

‘You think that’s lucky? Oh, come on, the tea’ll be stewed.’ Hazel led the way back towards the canteen. ‘Getting behind the wheel of a meat wagon is no picnic, I can tell you. Gilly Crump had held a motor licence for years yet she drove an ambulance straight into a wall in the blackout. Knocked herself sparko and ended up in the back of the blighter on a stretcher.’ Hazel chuckled. ‘Gave in her notice shortly after when she got out of hospital. You’ll need to do a few practice runs under instruction before they’ll let you loose on your tod with an assistant.’

‘You won’t put me off, you know.’

Hazel poured the tea then held out a cup, grinning. ‘You look like the sort of girl that does all right whatever she turns her hand to. Some people just have that sort of luck. Whereas me … I bugger up everything.’

‘I bet you don’t!’ Rosie returned, thinking ruefully that if Hazel knew her better she’d be revising her opinion.

Rosie rather liked her new colleague’s droll manner. She knew already that she’d chosen well in applying to the service; it didn’t feel like home yet, but it did feel right being here with Stella Phipps and Tom Anderson and Hazel Scott. In fact, she was itching to get started.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘Didn’t know if you’d still come over for a picnic after what’s gone on,’ Gertie called out as soon as she saw Rosie rounding the corner.

‘’Course I’d come for a picnic. Been looking forward to it. Take more than a load of flying bombs to keep me away from our day out.’ Rosie grinned although she wasn’t feeling quite as chipper as she sounded. While heading to their rendezvous spot Rosie had also wondered if she was making a fruitless journey. She wouldn’t blame Gertie for wanting to stay day and night right by an underground shelter after losing three children in the Blitz.

‘Head off towards the park, shall we?’

Gertie nodded. ‘We had a couple of close shaves in our street. Get any blasts your way from those damned rockets?’

‘Where I live they’re always coming too close for comfort,’ Rosie replied with feeling. ‘Thankfully, no hits in the street. I saw the first one come over, though.’ She shook her head as she recalled that night. ‘Couldn’t believe my ears … or eyes.’

That first doodlebug had come down in Bethnal Green, blowing to smithereens the railway line and several houses. Unfortunately, Stella Phipps’ hopes that the rumours weren’t true had been dashed. Hundreds more of the missiles had whizzed overhead since in a relentless German onslaught. The sight of a fiery tail approaching, coupled with a sinister roaring, was dreadful enough, yet when the rocket’s engine died and it carried on silently for several seconds, the uncertainty of where it might drop was even more terrifying.

They turned in through the iron gates of a small square recreation area. A couple of urchins in plimsolls and short trousers raced past, almost colliding with them. Having mumbled an apology they hared off again. The local school had turned out and the park was crowded with mothers and children making the most of the afternoon sun. But Rosie noticed that a lot of women looked anxious and were keeping an eye on the open skies. The missiles hadn’t only been arriving after dark and there was a tension in the air despite the children’s joyful voices.

‘Here’ll do.’ Gertie swiped away a crust of bird droppings on a bench’s slats. Having sat down she delved into her shopping bag, pegged on the pram handle. ‘Brought a flask.’ Gertie held out the Thermos. ‘Not much in the way of a picnic, though. Sorry, me rations are low.’

‘I’ve got some Spam sandwiches.’ Rosie dug into her bag and found a small packet. She unwrapped it and offered the sandwiches to Gertie. ‘Would have been corned beef but Dad wanted to keep that to fry up for our teas tonight.’

‘Blimey! They’re fit for a queen!’ Gertie looked admiringly at the tiny neatly cut triangles, unlike the doorsteps of bread and jam encased in greaseproof paper that she’d brought along. ‘Thanks.’ She took a bite before unscrewing the Thermos and pouring two weak brews into plastic cups.

‘Bread’s a bit dry; only had a scraping of Stork left in the pack,’ Rosie apologised.

‘Tastes fine to me,’ Gertie said truthfully, taking another hungry bite. At home she never had sandwiches with butter or marge. Those rations were saved for her husband and kids.

‘Your little ’un’s good.’ Gertie nodded at Hope, sitting quietly in her pram. Victoria, on the other hand, was rocking herself on her bottom and banging her heels against the thin mattress to get her mother’s attention.

‘She’s too big for the pram now,’ Gertie said, giving her daughter’s nose a wipe. ‘Like to get out and walk, don’t you, Vicky?’ Gertie lifted her daughter out of the pram and let her sit beside her on the seat. ‘Behave yourself,’ she warned. ‘Be a good girl like Hope.’

‘You wouldn’t have said that if you’d heard the little madam last night,’ Rosie responded ruefully. ‘Thought Doris was going to have a fit …’

‘Doris?’ Gertie asked, holding out Rosie’s tea to her. She noticed Rosie’s expression change. ‘’S’all right … not prying, honest.’ Gertie rummaged for a jam sandwich. She broke off a piece for her daughter and Victoria stopped fidgeting and tucked in. ‘Can Hope have a bit?’

‘Yeah … I’ve got her bib somewhere.’ As Rosie fastened the terry towelling about her daughter’s neck she said, ‘Doris is my stepmother. Dad got married again recently.’

‘Take it things ain’t always easy between you two.’ Gertie followed up with a knowing laugh. ‘I had some of that with me mother-in-law. Mustn’t speak ill of the dead, though, so enough said.’ She handed a morsel of bread oozing thick dark jam to Hope who promptly took a bite then threw the remainder overboard.

‘She’s not very hungry,’ Rosie apologised. ‘Dad gave her a few biscuits about an hour ago. He spoils her.’ She glanced at Gertie. ‘You’ve probably guessed that I’ve not got a home of my own and live with Dad.’

‘Me ’n’ Rufus started off married life at my mum’s,’ Gertie replied flatly. ‘Couldn’t wait to get out and into me own place.’

‘Drive you mad, did they?’ Rosie asked.

‘Wasn’t them; they did what they could for us. But couldn’t take living with me younger brother.’ Gertie clammed up. She never spoke about Michael. She didn’t want to see or hear from him ever again. In fact she hoped that the nasty bastard was six feet under. He’d been a thorn in her side for decades; even as kids they’d not got on. Then he’d plunged a dagger in her heart when her little boys died; she blamed him for the children having been left alone in the house that night.

In Gertie’s experience most of life’s troubles revolved around the men in her life. And she reckoned that Rosie was reluctant to talk about Hope’s father because she held the same opinion.

‘Army, is he, your husband?’ Gertie asked sympathetically. ‘Rufus ain’t the easiest man to live with yet when he was in France I fretted no end about him. Almost came as a relief when he got invalided home; I know that’s a wicked thing to say.’ She wiped her jammy fingers on a hanky. ‘Sometimes I’d not have the wireless on in case of any bad news about the Middlesex Regiment. Didn’t want Joey to hear it; it didn’t seem fair landing that on him as well after he’d lost his brothers. ’Course, now his dad’s back we don’t have that bother.’ Gertie gave a bashful smile. ‘Sorry, going on a bit, ain’t I?’

‘I like to hear about your family, Gertie. You must miss your sons so much,’ Rosie said quietly.

Gertie nodded. ‘Joey took it badly. Thought at one point he’d need a dose of something from the doctor to calm him down. But we got through it … the two of us. After Rufus enlisted it was just me and him for a while, before Vicky was born.’ She sniffed, glanced at Rosie. ‘I understand if you don’t want to talk about your husband, though …’

‘I said I’d tell you more about myself today, didn’t I?’

‘’S’all right; you don’t have to say a thing if you don’t want to. Plenty of stuff in my past I never talk about.’ Gertie grinned. ‘Bet that’s come as a surprise to you after listening to me rabbiting nineteen to the dozen.’

Rosie sat back sipping her tea. ‘I don’t have a husband,’ she suddenly blurted. ‘My name’s still Rosie Gardiner and never been any different although some people think I’m a widow called Mrs Deane.’

‘Stops ’em yakking, don’t it, if they see a ring on your finger?’ There had been a long silence before Gertie’s reply, but when it came it sounded matter-of-fact. ‘Wrong ’un who ran off, was he, the father?’

‘He was a wrong ’un all right,’ Rosie said bitterly. ‘But he didn’t run off. He never knew, thank God.’

‘Didn’t want no help off him?’ Gertie asked, surprised.

Rosie shook her head vigorously. ‘Never wanted to see him again. And I got my way. I never did. He died before I even found out I was expecting.’

‘Killed in action?’

‘He got discharged as unfit before he’d ever held a rifle. Didn’t do him much good, though; he perished in a nightclub fire. The day I found out I could have jumped for joy. Some people might think that wicked.’

‘Not me. He raped you.’ Gertie’s quiet statement was husky with sorrow.

‘I didn’t say so,’ Rosie rattled off. Suddenly she regretted revealing too much about her past. Her dearest wish was to protect Hope, and hearing gossip that your father had raped your mother was a dreadful thing for any child to deal with. Having a chat and a picnic couldn’t alter the fact that she and Gertie still didn’t know one another well enough to share secrets.

‘You don’t need to worry,’ Gertie reassured. ‘Like I said, there’s plenty of stuff in my past I don’t talk about. So I’d never talk about your’n, promise.’

‘Thanks,’ Rosie mumbled. ‘Hark at us! Right pair of miserable cows, aren’t we? Thought I was getting out of the house to cheer myself up.’ She got to her feet, brushing sandwich crumbs from her skirt. ‘Let’s have a quick stroll round the grass before the heavens open.’ A cliff of dark cloud was menacing the horizon. People were gathering up their belongings and hurrying towards the park gates as they noticed the air changing.

‘Don’t fancy getting drenched.’ Gertie put the flask back in her bag and they headed off side by side, pulling the hoods up on the prams in preparation for a downpour.

‘I volunteered to work as an ambulance auxiliary. I’ve been talking about making myself useful for ages, so I finally did something about it.’

Gertie looked surprised, then smiled. ‘Glad to hear it! They’ll take you on, no trouble, especially if a fellow interviews you.’ She glanced sideways at Rosie’s stylish skirt and blouse, so much prettier than the faded cotton frock she was wearing herself.

‘A woman interviewed me. And I got a letter this morning offering me a job.’

‘Good for you!’ Gertie glanced at Hope. ‘Yer stepmother going to mind the little ’un for you?’

‘Dad’ll help out as Doris is working.’

‘I’ll give a hand babysitting, if you like,’ Gertie volunteered. She’s such a cutie it’d be a pleasure to have her round to play with Vicky.’

‘Dad got moody when I spoke about getting Hope a nursery place. He’s determined to mind her,’ Rosie quickly rattled off. She liked Gertie but the woman was a rough-and-ready sort and she didn’t know enough about the Grimes family to let Hope stay there.

Rosie felt bad for thinking she was a better mother than Gertie. Considering what life had thrown at the poor woman she deserved praise for coping so well.

At the park gates Rosie turned to give Gertie a spontaneous hug. ‘Thanks … for everything.’

‘Ain’t done nothing,’ Gertie replied bashfully.

‘Yeah you have, and I’m so glad we bumped into each other that day. Don’t know what my shifts are going to be yet but I hope we can keep on meeting up.’

Gertie took a scrap of paper from her bag. ‘Shopping list,’ she explained the spidery scrawl filling half of one side. Turning it over she printed her address on it with a stub of pencil found in a pocket. ‘There. When you get a day off, come and see me, if you like. I’m usually about.’

With a wave the two women quickly set off in opposite directions as fat raindrops were spotting the hoods of the children’s prams.

It had been clear skies when Rosie had set out for a picnic so she hadn’t bothered to stuff a scarf in her pocket, fearing the weather might turn. By the time she trotted up to her front door her stylish fair locks were glued to her cheeks in sleek rat’s-tails.

‘Crikey, you did get caught in it, didn’t you?’ John clucked his tongue while inspecting his daughter’s bedraggled figure.

Rosie gave her head a shake and quickly unbuttoned her cardigan and took it off, hanging the sodden wool over a chair back.

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