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First published in Great Britain by Harper 2015

Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover photographs © Johnny Ring (woman’s face); Colin Thomas (woman’s body); Popperfoto/Contributor/Getty Images (refugee girl); Shutterstock.com (letter, plane, suitcase, background)

Ruby Jackson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007506293

Ebook Edition © April 2015 ISBN: 9780007506309

Version: 2015-03-04

For Patrick O’Donnell and Dr Gary Colner with much love.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Chapter TWENTY-TWO

Chapter TWENTY-THREE

Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

Chapter TWENTY-SIX

Acknowledgements

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About the Author

Also by Ruby Jackson

About the Publisher

ONE

April 1942

‘It’s still so strange not to see Daisy sound asleep when I wake up early, Dad. The house is so quiet; when will it feel normal?’

Fred looked up from the front page of the Sunday paper. ‘When it is normal, pet, and your mum and me is hoping that’ll be soon. You’re an absolute godsend, our Rose. Kept your mum sane, you have.’ He went back to the lead article.

Rose stood quietly for a moment. Was this the time to say something, to say that she had been thinking for rather a long time that she needed a change, a chance to do something different? Could she say, ‘Remember in February when I had a bad head cold and didn’t go to evensong? Remember I caught Mr Churchill on the wireless, heard the whole thing, instead of catching just a bit as usual? I thought then – I’ve got to do something more, like Daisy and the others. When this war ends I’d like to have done something besides factory work’? She looked over at her father, relaxing in his armchair, his waistcoat for once unbuttoned, and decided not to disturb his one morning of relative peace and quiet.

She folded up the section of the Sunday paper she had been reading and almost slapped it down on the little table between them, inadvertently causing her father to jump. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to do that. I’m off for a run. Nothing but doom and gloom in the Post this morning.’

‘Don’t forget Miss Partridge is taking her Sunday dinner with us – suppose we’ll have to call it “lunch” since it’s Miss Partridge – so don’t be late.’

Rose promised she wouldn’t be and, after changing her ‘going to church clothes’ for something suitable for running, she hurried away. Effortlessly, she jogged out of the town, past houses where heavily laden and sweetly scented lilac trees leaned over garden walls, tantalising passers-by with their perfume; past Dartford Grammar School, where she pretended not to see the enormous reserve water supply tank, which had been installed the year the war broke out as one of the many preparations for conflict. Would an enemy aircraft bomb it and flood the many lovely gardens in this part of the town? She hoped not. Since May of the year before, England had been experiencing a lull in the bombing raids from Germany and from the closer German bases in occupied Holland and France. But the worst part of a lull was that one never knew when it would end. In some ways this uncertainty was worse than nightly attacks. At least then people knew what to expect.

Rose changed direction to run through Central Park, formerly a favourite meeting place for local residents, especially on Sundays when families strolled among the flowerbeds. These days anxious parents preferred to stay at home rather than take a Sunday walk with one eye always on the sky and ears straining for the threatening sound of aircraft. Out of the park she ran, further and further into the countryside, now carpeted with spring flowers. She wondered if she had ever seen such stretches of golden buttercups; they were everywhere. Who could not feel happy just by seeing them? Fruit trees, too, showed off their mantles of pink or white blossom as they swayed in the gentle breeze. Who could believe that this glorious garden could possibly be a small part of a huge battlefield?

Rose began to run towards the river, revelling in the feeling of absolute freedom, enjoying stretching her long legs. She stopped, not because she was tired or stiff but because she wanted to stand still and breathe in the clear air. How absolutely beautiful it was. Everything was perfect. The blue sky was decorated with the remains of white vapour trails, showing where aircraft had passed. In the fields below and around her, green shoots were poking up through the soil and, some distance away, untethered horses were grazing. Smiling, Rose pretended that there was no war; there had never been a war and all was well with the world. She decided to run as far as Ellingham ponds, those little man-made pools that had been created when gravel and sand quarrying had stopped just before war had broken out. Horses had drunk from them; migrating birds or local wildfowl had nested there. The ponds were hardly objects of beauty now: every one was camouflaged with wire netting on a floating wooden frame, so that German airmen, sent to destroy the nearby Vickers munitions works, could not use reflections from the water as an aid to navigation.

Eventually she came to a halt, remembering that Miss Partridge was coming to Sunday dinner. Heavens, being late will certainly spoil a perfect Sunday, she thought as she began to trot slowly back along the way that she had come, and I do want to see Miss Partridge.

She reached the rather rough road that wound its way across the area, and was about to quicken her pace when she heard the sound of a speeding motorbike. It sounded as if it was on this country pathway. What an odd place to ride a motorbike, Rose thought as she jumped off the pathway and onto the wide grass verge.

Rose’s older brothers had taught her to drive before she left school at the age of fourteen, and she was accustomed to delivering groceries in the family van, but their parents had never allowed either of their twin daughters to ride a motorcycle. ‘They’re too heavy for girls,’ Sam, their eldest brother, had agreed. ‘If you can’t lift it, you shouldn’t be riding it.’ Nothing the girls had said had persuaded him to change his mind.

The roar of the engine grew louder and closer. Rose moved further back on the verge, noting, with growing concern, both the poor surface of the road and the sound of the accelerating bike. Before she could think another thought or move a muscle, the bike was there and then…was gone.

‘Wow. Fantastic, what a speed, lucky—’ Rose began aloud, just as she heard a screech of brakes, followed by a thud. She listened but there was nothing but a terrifying silence.

For a fraction of a moment, she felt rooted to the spot, but the adrenalin lifted her out of the almost trance-like state and Rose Petrie, former junior sports champion, began to run. She was round the corner in moments. The motorbike was lying on its side across the pathway. Her stomach lurched in horror as she saw the driver pinned underneath. Rose kneeled down beside the machine and tentatively examined the unconscious man. How young he was, and how very, very still. His eyes were closed and there was severe grazing on one side of his jaw; blood was seeping from a wound in his forehead and mixing horribly with the dirt and gravel on his face.

Rose had no idea if he was alive or dead. She remembered her brother’s words – ‘If you can’t lift it, you shouldn’t be riding it’ – and wondered if it would even be wise to attempt to lift the machine off the young man’s body. Should she try somehow to clean his poor face? Water? In the wonderful films she had seen with her sister and their friends, the wounded hero was always given a sip of water. If she ran back to one of the ponds perhaps she could manage to wet a cloth, but she had no cloth. She looked again at the motorcycle, which was possibly crushing something important while she hesitated. Rose seemed to remember that any implement sticking into the body of an injured person should not be removed until qualified medical personnel were on hand, but what was she supposed to do with a machine that might well be crushing this man to death?

Thank God, Rose thought as she felt a faint pulse in the neck. Could he hear her if she spoke, and would that help him? ‘I’m going to try to move your bike,’ she said as calmly as she could. Oh God, what if I drop it back onto him? ‘I’m really very strong,’ she continued, hoping against hope that her low voice was reaching him, perhaps giving him some comfort. ‘I work in a munitions factory and lift machinery every day. You wouldn’t believe how heavy some of that stuff is.’

There was no response and so Rose stood up, took a deep breath, bent down, grasped the body of the bike firmly, and, having assessed in which direction to move, began to lift. The trapped rider groaned. He’s alive, he’s alive. I can do this. In another moment she had the bike on the grass verge. She wanted to fall down beside it, as every muscle in her well-toned body seemed to be complaining, but instead she looked for something with which to wipe the blood from his face.

Why did I change? She was wearing only a shirt and her shorts. Then she heard a voice, faint but clear.

‘Help me.’

Immediately she was back on her knees beside the injured man. ‘I’m going for help,’ she said. ‘I wish I could stay with you but there’s no one else here.’ She was pulling her shirt out of her shorts. Desperately she tried to tear off the bottom but the material resisted.

Rose looked around and her eyes lit up as she saw a large shard of glass from the broken headlamp. She picked it up and feverishly sawed at the shirt. At last there was a tear, which allowed her to rip it apart.

Praying that it was clean, she folded it and gently wiped the blood from the man’s face. ‘I wish I could do more for you but I’ll get help…’

The whisper was so faint that she had almost to put her ear to his damaged face. ‘Dispatch. Pocket. Urgent…Take.’

Again Rose looked round, hoping desperately that someone – anyone – was within hailing distance. No one.

She felt a touch on her hand. ‘Please.’

‘Of course, I’ll do what I can.’ With a hand now marked by his blood she tried the pocket of his leather jacket. Nothing. ‘It’s a dispatch. An inside pocket. Do you have…?’

His eyes blinked as if answering her. Rose reached inside his jacket, hoping that she was doing no damage to his poor body. There was a pocket, and inside was a fairly thick envelope. ‘Got it,’ she said. ‘I’ll run for help and then deliv—’

The eyelids fluttered again and the voice was fainter than before. ‘Urgent. Please.’

‘I’ll do it. Trust me. I’ll get you some help. Trust me,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll deliver your letter and I will bring help.’ As she spoke the last words she was already running. She had not run competitively since she was a schoolgirl, but she was fit and well. She tried to forget the injured, possibly dying dispatch rider, and the message that seemed to be burning a hole through her shirt. She had read the word on the front. ‘SILVERTIDES’. She knew the name only because she had occasionally delivered tea to the kitchen door of the great house. It was at least three miles away and she had a single mode of transport – her long legs.

Rose kept going. As she ran she remembered the words of her coach from those long-ago school days. ‘Long and longer strides for the first twenty paces; then accelerate until you think you can’t go any faster. Relax facial muscles.’ She almost flew, her long stride eating up the uneven ground. She tried not to think of the letter she was carrying, or the dispatch rider who had insisted that he be left, possibly to die, in order that the dispatch might reach its destination. The young man was in the military and was obviously about the same age as her brother Phil.

Twenty-three is too young to die, she thought fiercely, remembering the loss of her brother Ron, who had been even younger when he had given his life for his country.

‘Empty your head, girl, empty your head,’ came the order from the long-ago voice, and obediently Rose forced herself to concentrate on nothing but finishing the race.

She ran as she had never run before, oblivious of her screaming muscles, her labouring breath, her tears. Heel, outside of foot, rock off with the toes, over and over again; push with your ankles, drive with your elbows. For a moment she was in a bubble as she pulled remembered advice up from her subconscious, which helped her think only of technique and not of injured dispatch riders or important messages.

Ahead stood the gates of Silvertides Estate. With her last ounce of energy she reached them, clung to the bars to prevent her body sliding, exhausted, to the ground, and pressed the bell.

‘Don’t fuss, Mum, it was no more than a cross-country run.’

Rose had had a refreshing bath and was now sitting in the scrupulously tidy front room, not the kitchen, so seriously had her parents taken her story of the afternoon’s events. Of course she had been much too late for Sunday dinner and was now pressingly aware of growing hunger.

‘Quite an adventure, our Rose, but your mum and me think you’re making light of it.’

‘’Course not, Dad. Only sorry I missed Miss Partridge.’

‘She said the same about you, love, but she’d promised to do geometry or some other maths subject with George – sharp as a tack is our George.’

Delighted to have young George Preston’s prowess become the subject of discussion, Rose congratulated her father again for taking in the orphaned youngster, who had initially caused the family a great deal of bother, culminating in vandalism and an attack that had put her twin sister, Daisy, in hospital.

But Fred had had years of experience in dealing with daughters who did not want to be the focus of his attention. ‘Come on, Rose. Rose ran, Rose saw accident, Rose helped injured rider, Rose delivered letter. Rose came home. There has to be more to it than that.’

‘Aw, Dad,’ moaned Rose, using exactly the tone of voice she had used as a disgruntled child, ‘he was speeding on a poor surface and a pothole caught the front tyre. He and the bike went up in the air – I think, I didn’t see it – and the bike landed on top of him. He asked me to deliver his dispatch and I did. Possibly I spoke to a butler sort of person, quite grand and with a posh voice, but he said not to worry, it was in their hands. I sat in a lovely room and a maid brought me tea; they’ll have got an ambulance…can’t be sure.’

Is he alive? Did they find him? They had promised to go immediately and they said they would get him a doctor.

A long-ignored memory surfaced. This was not the first time she had run for help. She had tried to black out all memory of that day on Dartford Heath, when Daisy had stayed beside two unbearably sad, dead bodies, and Rose, the faster runner, almost traumatised by shock and horror, had conquered her threatening hysteria and run for help.

‘Didn’t want to warm it too quick, Rose; nothing worse than dried-up food. Eat that up and then off to bed with you or you’ll never do your shift tonight.’ Her mother had come in from the kitchen at just the right moment, for Rose wanted to be left alone to think.

Sitting in an armchair in the front room with a plate of food in her hands took her straight back to childhood. Unwell? Unhappy? Either situation could be mended by sitting in a comfortable chair in the front room, eating a plate of Mum’s best stew. Not that this stew could measure up to the ‘before this dratted war’ stews; far more vegetables than meat – thank goodness carrots were not rationed – and a gravy Mum was near ashamed of. But so far the Petrie family had managed to avoid tinned stew. ‘Can’t be sure what’s in it,’ muttered Flora as she arranged the tins on their grocery shop shelves.

As she ate her lunch, Rose could remember nothing but the face of the dispatch rider and the feel of the gates at Silvertides as her exhausted body collapsed against them. Maybe it would all come back tomorrow. She wondered if she would ever find out about the injured rider. She knew enough about dispatch riders to realise that she would never learn what was in the so-vital letter. But it had to be really important. His face swam before her tired eyes and his voice whispered, ‘Urgent, please.’

I tried, she thought to console herself. I hope it was enough.

Two days later Rose was standing at her workbench on the factory floor. She was dirty and hungry and very, very tired. More than anything she longed for the shift to be over so that she could go home.

Rose’s shift supervisor appeared at her bench. ‘Petrie, got a minute? Boss wants you in his office.’

‘What’s wrong, Bill?’ Rose could think of no reason for a summons to the office.

‘He’ll tell you hisself and that’ll save me guessing, won’t it?’

Rose straightened up, took off her overall and the scarf that covered her hair, and walked off to the office, where she hesitated before knocking on the door.

‘You sent for me, Mr Salveson,’ she said, noting that as well as her boss and his secretary there was a second man in the room.

‘Come in, Rose. Mr Porter here would like to talk to you.’

Vaguely Rose felt that she knew the second man but could not place him. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Salveson.’

‘The local newspaper would like to talk to you, Miss Petrie, about your wonderful action in delivering the dispatch for the gallant boy who died trying to do his duty.’

Rose was speechless. The secretary saw the colour drain from her face and shouted in time for Mr Salveson to catch Rose before she fell to the floor. He lowered her into a chair and gestured to his secretary to fetch a glass of water, which he held to Rose’s lips.

She pushed it away. ‘Dead? He died?’

‘Yes, one of our stringers heard about it. The housekeeper at Silvertides told us how you ran with it. Seems his lordship had to go back to London before he could talk to you.’

Rose forced herself to stand up. ‘I’d like to go home now, Mr Salveson.’

‘We need an interview,’ said the reporter.

‘No,’ said Rose quietly, and looked at her employer.

‘Are you sure, Rose? People should hear about your courage.’

Courage? What courage had she needed to run a few miles with a letter? The boy, the dead boy, had had courage. ‘I won’t talk to the press, Mr Salveson, and the hooter’s gone.’

‘You heard her, Porter. Miss Petrie doesn’t seek publicity. I’ll drive you home, Rose. I can see you’ve had a bit of a shock.’

‘No, thank you, Mr Salveson. I’ll be fine with Stan Crisp. He’ll see me home.’

The disgruntled reporter left angrily and Rose went to catch her friend, Stan, before he headed off in the opposite direction. Really she wanted to be alone, but she could not be sure that the reporter would not follow her. If he did, she knew that Stan would not allow him to bother her. She did not tell him the whole truth, merely that she felt faint and would feel better if he was with her.

She always felt better when Stan was there.

TWO

May 1942

‘Stan, won’t you please come to the spring dance with me?’

Stan looked across the table at Rose and sighed.

‘Stan?’ she persisted unhappily.

‘Yes? Sorry, Rose, I thought you were going to ask someone else. Charlie’s a good dancer. Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I have asked, and everyone is either working that night or has already got a partner.’ She looked down at her hands, afraid to meet his eyes. ‘Why do none of them ever ask me out?’ She smiled then, thinking that she might have found the answer. ‘Is it because they think we’re an item?’

Rose, Daisy and Stan had started school on the same day and had been friends ever since. Rose and Stan had always been particularly close, and Stan’s grandmother, with whom he had lived since his parents had died in a flu epidemic, always referred to Stan and Rose as the perfect couple.

‘Now that we’re grown up, we’ll have to ask your granny to stop matchmaking.’

Stan looked around the room, as if hoping he might find an answer to her question written on one of the walls of the ancient tavern. He straightened his backbone. ‘It’s not Gran, Rose. Can I tell you the truth?’

‘I’ve got bad breath? For goodness’ sake, Stan, what is it?’

‘You scare everyone to death, pet, simple as that. Blokes don’t want to be second best – all the time.’

‘Scare everyone, me? How? And if I do scare everyone,’ she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm and throbbing with hurt, ‘why don’t I scare you?’ She stood up as if to leave.

‘Sit down, Rose,’ said Stan gently, and he pulled in her hand. ‘Maybe I should have said something years ago, but I like you just the way you are, and…’ he hesitated for a moment and then jumped in, ‘more importantly, I know that the right man for you will love you just as you are.’

‘Thank you very much, I’m sure.’ Rose felt physically sick. Stan, her oldest friend, the man she had got so used to being with – what was he saying?

‘Rose—’ he began, but she gave him no time.

‘The right man?’ she repeated angrily. ‘The right man? Not you, then. So will you please tell me what’s wrong with me? Ivy Jones has dated every man in Dartford and she hasn’t a single brain cell in her fluffy little head.’

‘She knows how to talk to lads—’

‘And I don’t,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’ve been talking to lads since I first opened my mouth.’

‘You talk like you’re a lad, Rose; comes of having three brothers.’

Rose looked at him quizzically; she did not understand what he was saying.

‘You want me to pretend that I know nothing about football? And I mustn’t be caught changing a tyre on my dad’s van? If that’s the case, why is it that every single last one of our friends has been more than happy to have me change tyres, replace fan belts, cheaper than the local garage…? I could go on.’

Damn. He had hurt her and he could think of nothing to say that would improve the situation, but he was her friend and he tried. ‘You run faster, jump further, climb higher, swim better; dash it, Rose, if they let girls play football you’d be everyone’s favourite centre-half, and more than one of us has said as how Sally isn’t the only girl in our class as could’ve gone to a university. And now your picture’s been in the paper about trying to save that dispatch rider. My gran was hurt you didn’t tell her so she could buy the paper. But never mind that; you had your reasons for keeping it quiet. That was just like you, Rose. That’s what I mean. The things you do. Nobody measures up, Rose. We all love you, but you’re too good for any of us. You should join up, you should, and have a chance to meet other men. I’m going to enlist as soon as I can; still got to convince my gran.’

She looked at him in astonishment. ‘One, there isn’t a picture in the paper because I told the reporter to go away.’ She took out her hankie, a very pretty one that her friend Sally Brewer had given her last Christmas, and blew her nose. ‘And two, what do you mean, enlist? Why? You’re doing war work – have been since you were fifteen.’

‘Not enough, not when there’s lads out there willing to get killed for us; lads like your dispatch rider, and your brothers. And you talked about it, Rose, before Daisy went.’

‘I can’t compete with Daisy. Are you scared of her too?’

Stan ran his fingers through his hair in obvious exasperation. ‘Maybe if I hadn’t left school at fourteen I’d have learned the words to explain. It’s not just the things you’re good at; it’s more than that, but I can’t say exactly. But somewhere there’s the right bloke, Rose – maybe in Dartford, maybe in London; maybe, like for Daisy, in one of the foreign countries. Hanging around with me won’t help you find him.’ A huge grin creased his pleasant face and he punched the air with his hand. ‘League, that’s the word, like football teams. I’m right fond of you, Rose, but I’m not in your league.’

Again Rose got to her feet. She hadn’t really wanted to come to the Long Reach Tavern as it was unpleasantly close to where the motorcyclist’s accident had occurred, but it had always been one of the favourite places of their intimate group and she would have found not wanting to go difficult to explain. ‘I want to go home, Stan. Expecting a letter from Sam or Grace. Don’t enlist without telling me, will you?’

‘I won’t,’ he said – but behind his back he had his fingers crossed.

Rose’s heart seemed to feel a slight pang. For the first time in their relationship, he was unable to meet her eyes. ‘You won’t tell me, or you have enlisted already?’

‘I wanted to tell you first thing but the right words wouldn’t come.’

She stared at her oldest friend, hurt and anger warring with each other. ‘Then let me help you. “Rose, guess what. I’ve enlisted in the XX.” That help?’

She turned and almost ran from the room, and Stan felt in his pockets for some loose change which he threw down on the table before hurrying after her.

Her bicycle was gone and there was no sign of her on the path. Stan wheeled his own machine towards the road, shaking his head in exasperation. Over fifteen years of friendship, and few cross words, but with a couple of ill-thought-out sentences he had blown it. He began to pedal towards Dartford. He knew he would never catch her – unless she wanted to be caught – but he cycled as quickly as he could, hoping that she would have waited for him somewhere.

Rose cycled home, thoughts whirling around in her brain as furiously as the wheels on her bicycle. Not in your league…the right man…joining up.

‘You’re not the only one who can join up, Stan,’ she yelled, to the world, though pleased that there was no one within hearing distance. ‘You’re not the only one who feels second best, even though no one has ever refused to take you to a dance.’ Conveniently she forgot that Stan had a shift on the Saturday evening.

When she had gone far enough that she knew he would be unable to catch her, she got off her bicycle and sat down on the rough grass. She tried to rub away the tears but they kept falling. Stan doesn’t love me; what’ll his gran say? She wants us to marry; I know she does. Scared? Those great big lads are scared of me? Me?

As the enormity of what Stan had said really struck her, Rose cried great broken sobs. After a few minutes she pulled herself together, sniffed loudly, blew her nose on the end of her shirt and stood up.

‘You’re not the only one who wants to do more with your life, Stan Crisp. Rose Petrie does too and, watch out, she will.’

*

‘Enlisted?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘No.’

The small word seemed to echo around the kitchen, even bouncing off the clean white walls, before finally disappearing in a sigh.

‘No,’ repeated Flora Petrie, staring in distress at the only one of her five children still at home. ‘You don’t mean it, Rose, you can’t. Are you doing this because of a tiff with Stan? We knew he’d been at army recruiting; we hear everything in the shop. We wasn’t sure whether to tell you or not. It was between you and Stan, we decided. But hear me out, Rose: you’re already doing more than your share in the factory. And remember, you was bombed, you ended up in hospital. Not to mention delivering that dispatch to some admiral or general or something at Silvertides. God alone knows what goes on in that house. Boats could come right up the Thames Estuary bringing who knows what.’ She ended on a sob. ‘I can’t lose you too.’

Rose fought back a tear. She had been sure that her mother had got used to the idea of her enlisting; they had discussed it so often since the outbreak of war. ‘Please, how many times do we have to go over this? Don’t make it any harder than it already is.’

Mother and daughter, equally distressed, looked at each other.

There was the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs. ‘Flora, love, we’ve gone over this a million times. Rose has to have her chance like the others.’ Fred Petrie had come up from the family’s grocery shop, upon hearing the raised voices, to join in. ‘Come on, I need my dinner, and Rose needs hers too if she wants a sleep before her shift.’

Flora fixed on the word ‘chance’.

‘Her chance to be killed, like my Ron or that lad on the motorbike. Wonder what his mum feels like.’

Rose stood up, towering over her parents. ‘That’s it, Mum. I’ll let you know when I’m going, but I am going.’

Without another word, she walked out.

She was angry. Of course she understood her mother’s concerns – had she not lost one son to this ghastly war? Her eldest son had been a soldier, an injured prisoner of war and, finally, an escaped prisoner, now found and repatriated. Her third son was with his beloved navy, ‘somewhere at sea’, and her other daughter, Daisy, Rose’s twin, was an Air Transport Auxiliary pilot. Rose, who had worked in the local Vickers munitions factory since before the outbreak of war, had remained at home as a loving support, burying her own ambition to be, as she believed, of more value to the war effort as a member of one of the women’s services. Now, after almost three years of waiting and hoping, Rose had asked her employers to release her so that she could enlist. To say that she was surprised to have had her request granted so quickly would be an understatement. Her immediate boss had informed her that the company would write a recommendation asking that Rose Petrie be allowed to join the Women’s Transport Service, part of the Auxiliary Territorial Service.

‘We’ll be sorry to lose you, Rose, grand worker that you are, but if you want to be in the ATS then we feel it’s our duty to help you,’ said her shift foreman. ‘Mind you, we shouldn’t have had to read about the heroism of one of Vickers’ workers in a small paragraph in the local paper. Too modest by half, our Rose, and why they had to use an old school photograph, I’ll never know.’

Rose, who had refused to be interviewed or to have her photograph taken, had been unaware that the newspaper had photographs from her school sports days in their files. They had produced their article anyway, without her cooperation. She could still see nothing heroic about running for help and would have preferred it if the incident had never come to light.

‘You’d think I swam through shark-infested waters, the way they’re carrying on,’ she wrote in a letter to her sister. ‘Yes, I delivered the dispatch and I hope it was worth it, but that boy died, Daisy. He’s the hero. A hero would have been able to save him, not leave him alone to die. I can still see his face and hear his voice…’

Rose had not really expected her mother to be delighted when the letter of acceptance arrived, but neither had she expected such strong opposition. After all, it could scarcely be called a surprise. Rose loved her parents and hoped to continue to be a tower of strength to them, but it would have to be from whichever posting she was given. Her training post was to be in Surrey, a joy to both Rose and her parents as it was no great distance from Dartford. Should Fred be unable to find petrol, her parents would visit by train or, if Rose were to be given a pass, she could travel home. Rose was determined not to feel guilty: because she was looking forward with delight to being away from home, away from the cosy flat where she had lived all her life, away from the factory where she had spent several years, and especially away from embarrassing memories of Stan’s comments.

Her thoughts flew to Grace Paterson, an old school friend. Grace had simply walked out of her home and disappeared for almost a year. No one had had the slightest idea where she was or what had happened to her. Maybe I should do the same, Rose thought. Just pack my little bag and melt into the night.

Envisaging her mother’s distress if she were to do such a thing, Rose quickly changed her mind. She could never bring herself to disappear without warning. She sighed. How lovely it would be not to have a conscience. Life would be so simple.

The date had been fixed. In two weeks’ time, Rose Petrie would show herself at Number 7 ATS training centre in the lovely Surrey town of Guildford. After induction and training, she would become a fully credited auxiliary. Flora, Rose felt, would cope as she had coped with every situation this war had thrown at her.

‘It’s only down the road, Mum. I’ll come home every minute of leave I get. Maybe I’ll be able to give you a hand in the shop now and again. You’ll see. You’ll hardly know I’m not here.’

Flora pretended that she believed what her daughter was saying, while Fred explored every known avenue – and a few shady formerly unknown ones – but was unable to source extra petrol. His daughter reminded him that she was of age and perfectly capable of starting her adventure on her own.

‘For heaven’s sake, Dad, a training camp can’t be anywhere near as scary as a munitions factory, and you and Mum managed to let me do that on my own.’

‘You weren’t on your own, love; for a while you had our Daisy here supporting you.’

*

Some days later, Rose went shopping for her exciting new venture. She had been told that her uniform would be provided, and so she had packed a few changes of clothes for off-duty hours, if there would be any. Discovering the frock she would have worn to the spring dance – had Stan taken her – she pushed it to the very back of her wardrobe. She was sure she would never want to go dancing again. She was joining the ATS and would be dedicated to her work, to her new career, she decided rather grandly.

Her parents had told her to make a list of the personal items she would want to take with her. ‘You’re welcome to anything that’s in the shop, love. Me and your mum’ll be happy to pay for it,’ Fred had said, but Rose wanted the excitement of going shopping for this amazing adventure, which, even before it had properly begun, she was finding both exhilarating and frightening.

‘Stockings, pyjamas, white petticoat, white thread, black thread, darning wool, elastic – if I can find any – shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant.’ The list seemed endless. ‘Unbelievable, Mum, the list of things we can’t live without.’

‘We’ve learned to do without, lass; hardly notice any more that we haven’t seen a banana in years. Here, have a look in this,’ Flora said as she handed her daughter a catalogue. Flora hid her misery well. She would never accept that all five of her children were, as she put it, in the Forces – the four still alive, that was – but she could pretend, she hoped, until Rose was gone.

Looking at the advertisements in her father’s catalogues was an important part of searching for ‘best price’. Fred had no space on his packed shelves for deodorants but they were listed in the catalogues. Flora had found one with a catchy name: ODO-RO-NO – ‘The greater the strain, the greater the risk of underarm odour.’

Rose laughed. It practically claimed that no matter how hard she worked, there would be no unpleasant smells. ‘Not too expensive either, Mum. We’ll have a look in the town.’

Palmolive soap was listed at thruppence ha’penny per bar and Rose decided to buy two or three bars, if possible. Soap had been rationed in February, as fat and oil had been deemed more necessary for food production than for cleanliness.

‘I’m sure we has some Lifebuoy soap in the flat. I been saving mine,’ Flora offered. ‘We has to take your coupons for soap, love; iron-clad rules, your dad has.’ She looked at the items heaped on her daughter’s bed. ‘Is there anything left that hasn’t been rationed, love?’

‘I expect chocolate, sweets and biscuits will be on the list before long.’

‘Best to stock up on what’s available. Your dad hears rumours when he goes to the distribution centres.’

Rose smiled. ‘Every Saturday since I’ve been old enough for pocket money, I’ve bought a tube of Rolos. Could I survive without them?’

Flora, who ate few sweets but was, she had to admit, a little too round, looked with affection and a little envy at her tall, slender daughter, who ate everything and anything and yet never gained weight. ‘’Course you could; we gets used to anything after a while, but as it happens there’s some Rolos in the shop and I could put some in a tin for you so they’ll keep.’

Rose’s wage was not going to be quite as much as she had earned in the factory and so she would be compelled to be more frugal – and she’d have no parents there ready and willing to hand over the odd shilling ‘till the end of the week’.

She had seen nothing of Stan since she had left the factory and there was an unaccustomed dull ache in her insides. None of the lads fancy me, she told herself, not even Stan. Daisy knocks them down like skittles and we’re twins. What’s wrong with me?

Try as she did, she could not understand what Stan had tried to tell her. ‘Not in her league’, indeed. What a load of old tripe. Was it possible that Stan had palled with her because no one fancied him? No, Stan wasn’t like that. She had written to Daisy about it and Daisy had tried to console her.

You and Stan have been friends for ever and friendship is very important. He does love you and I think you love him the same way, as a dear and special friend. Don’t let go of that, Rose. Tomas is my friend, but our love for each other is so much more than that and you’ll know it when it comes. It’s like being run over by a Spitfire, knocks you for six. Absolutely wonderful.

‘Thanks a lot, Daisy, I don’t think,’ Rose had said angrily, and got on with her packing.

It was young George who brought her news of Stan. She had gone down to Central Park for a last walk round and bumped into her foster brother on his way home.

‘Got a letter for you, Rosie,’ he had said with a cheeky grin.

‘Rose, not Rosie, you horrible little boy – and how come you’ve got a letter for me?’

George had lived with the Petries since his mother and brother had been killed in an air raid. Nothing had been heard from his layabout father since and, frankly, no one missed him. The two years of regular food and sleep, plus affection and guidance, meant that the boy was completely at ease with all the Petries, and he merely laughed. They walked along together companionably while he searched through his pockets. ‘Got it last night but you was in bed when I got back from the pictures and you was up before me this morning. Now where can it be?’

‘If this is some kind of a horrible boy joke, I will tie you to my—’

Eventually George hastily pulled out the rather grubby, crumpled envelope before Rose could think of something nasty to do to him. ‘Here,’ he said with a grin. ‘Your chap kissed it lovingly, made me want to be—’

‘You have no idea how sick you’ll be if you utter one more word, Georgie Porgie.’

George was bright in more ways than mathematics and he handed over the letter and walked sedately beside her. ‘Blimey, Rose, you’re not going to wait till we get home. Maybe he wants a quick reply.’

‘Then he can wait,’ muttered Rose, and she began to stride out so that, fit as he was, young George was no match for her speed and had to trot to keep up as they rushed home.

Once inside, Rose hurried up the stairs that led from the family shop and from the back door she called, ‘I’ll be there in a minute, Mum,’ and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her. She flopped into the old chair that had worn the same flowered cotton cover for as long as she could remember. For a few years she and Daisy had been able to sit in it together comfortably, but as they’d grown they’d had to take turns – one in the chair, the unlucky one on the bed. Since her twin had gone off to join the ATA, Rose had been able to make constant use of the chair, which made her miss her sister more than ever.

‘Well, let’s see what Stan has to say, Daisy,’ she said aloud.

The letter had been written the day before and had Stan’s Dartford address on it.

Dear Rose,

I have joined the army. I’m the lowest of the privates in The Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment. I never meant to hurt you, never. You’re my best friend, have been since we was five. That’s a long time and I don’t want nothing to spoil it. I love you, Rose, can’t think of another word for what I feel but I do know it’s not the love that you need for marriage. Please write to me because if I’m going overseas…

Please understand, Rose. I don’t know. Maybe it was them Spitfires sent out to help the people in Malta and every last one of them bombed to bits before they could even get off the ground. Maybe it’s these raids on lovely bits of England. Gran took me on a trip to Bath once – couldn’t believe it was real and now thousands and thousands of buildings is damaged. Gran’s right cross about Bath and about me joining up but I’m making her an allowance, same as I give her now. She’s not old, Rose. I suppose you always think your gran is old but she’s not and the neighbours both sides say they’ll keep an eye on her. She’ll always know where I am. I’ll write to both of you when I can.

George said as you have joined up too. I bet you’re in the ATS and one day we’ll see you driving all them famous people around London.

Love,

Stan

Oh, Stan, I know, and I love you too.

There was a PS, but he’d very effectively scored it out. Rose tried to decipher it but could make nothing of it. She got out of the chair and lay down on the bed. Stan was gone, and unless his grandmother had his address she would have to wait until he wrote to her – if he ever did. At least she could get a letter written and Mum or Dad could get the address when Stan’s gran came in for her rations.

She got up, found her writing pad and started writing.

Dear Stan,

I’m ashamed of myself. Imagine falling out over a dance I never really wanted to go to anyway. Stupid.

You’ll be a great soldier. I am very proud of you and I bet they make you a general. I hope the West Kents have a nice uniform.

I think I’ll be going away soon too. Don’t worry about your gran. With the neighbours and Mum and Dad, she’ll be all right.

Please answer this,

Your friend always,

Rose

She stood up, sniffed, wiped her eyes which had gone all teary, tidied her hair and went downstairs to join what was left of her family.

THREE

Guildford, Late May 1942

‘Think yourselves lucky, girls. When I joined the ATS we were definitely the military’s poorest relation. Some of us were without a uniform for months and had to wear out our own clothes, and I do mean wear out. The ATS is not a stroll in the park. If we were lucky we got a badge. Three years later and you’re getting everything, including your knickers.’

‘Which no woman in her right mind would want to wear.’

‘Very funny, Petrie, or was it you, Fowler? Maybe they’re not Selfridges’ best but, believe you me, you’ll be glad of them in the winter.’

Rose, who had been standing quietly among the new recruits or auxiliaries, as ordinary members of the Auxiliary Territorial Service were now called, said nothing but merely waited till she was given her uniform. She had made no remarks, no matter what the commanding officer thought. Her stomach was churning with excitement that she was to be – at long last – an actual servicewoman.

‘Hope we have your size, Goldilocks. You’re tall but you’re slim. Any good with a needle?’

‘Not very, ma’am, but my mother is.’

‘And did you bring Mummy with you?’

Rose blushed furiously, but contented herself with reflecting that she could, if so inclined, pick up this bossy little bantam and toss her in a wastepaper basket. She said nothing and watched the separate pieces of uniform pile up on the table. A lightweight serge khaki tunic was joined by a matching two-gore skirt, which she hoped would reach her knees, two khaki shirts and a tie. Slip-on cloth epaulettes with the ATS logo stitched on followed the battledress trousers, which the new controller had insisted upon as being much more sensible for the work the ATS auxiliaries were called upon to do, preserving modesty in some cases and simply being more comfortable in others. A cap, some unbelievably ugly green stockings, khaki knickers that were, if possible, even uglier, heavy black shoes and robust boots completed the pile.

‘I’ve given you the longest items we have, Petrie, but I’m afraid they’ll all be too loose.’

In some despair, Rose spoke tentatively. ‘Didn’t the army expect tall women, ma’am?’

‘Of course women of all sizes were expected, and I myself have dressed at least three over the years who were much taller than you, Petrie; at least six feet in height, and broad too. I’ll keep my eyes open for items that will fit a little better, but in the meantime there are several seamstresses who’ll be happy to help out. In fact we have one auxiliary who did tailoring at an exclusive address on Bond Street in London. Look at the notice board in the canteen. Names and units are there.’

The group, having received their issue, returned to the rather Spartan hut that they were to live in for the foreseeable future. It contained iron beds, some cupboards, a few chairs, and a picture of Eleanor Roosevelt, wife of the President of the United States, who had toured the camp in August.

‘Shouldn’t she be in the lecture rooms with the King and the PM?’ Rose asked, but no one answered, being too involved in comparing uniforms.

Rose was not a vain woman, personal vanity not having been encouraged by the Petrie parents, but when she saw herself dressed in uniform for the first time, she wanted to weep. The tunic was wearable if she tightened the half-belt at the back till it was almost nonexistent, but the skirt, although long enough, was so loose that it fell down, leaving her standing in her new knickers. Since leaving school, only her twin sister, Daisy, or their mother had seen Rose in her underwear and she was embarrassed.

‘Why did I ever leave Dartford?’ she said aloud. The uniform looked so unprofessional and, although she was at a base in Surrey, which was not too far from home, the new intake had been told not to expect leave for some time. Were she to post the absolutely necessary items home, it could take weeks for them to get there, be altered and be sent back.

‘Don’t worry, Rose.’ Another girl, whose name she had not yet learned, came over from her bed. ‘I’ll take the skirt in for you after tea, and they’ll all be here to admire the stunning new khaki issue, so try to take it in your stride. With those blue eyes and that glorious golden hair, the colours will suit. And as for modesty, three months at a boarding school and you wouldn’t have an inhibition left. That’s about all I learned, apart from a bit of sewing – both skills equally useful in the ATS.’

‘You’re very kind. I can sew on buttons, jobs like that, but—’

‘Always better to leave it to the professional. I’m Cleo Fitzpatrick, by the way, which is, believe it or not, short for Cleopatra. My father was stationed in Egypt when I was born; I still haven’t discovered a really good way of paying him back.’

Rose, who had a very happy home life, looked at Cleo’s face and relaxed as she saw that the girl was joking. She was obviously as fond of her parents as Rose was of hers. ‘My twin sister and I always hated being called after flowers.’

Cleo looked up at Rose. ‘But you suit your name, and what about your sister? Are you identical?’

Before replying, Rose reached for her shoulder bag, took out her purse and retrieved a small black-and-white snapshot taken on the beach at Dover before the war. ‘I’m obviously the giant looming over two of the others, but which one d’you think is Daisy?’

Cleo examined the picture for some time. ‘None of them even has the same eyes or hair. That one maybe, the taller one.’

‘That gorgeous creature is our friend Sally. The sweet little one in gingham is my twin sister.’

‘No, you’re not serious.’

‘Cross my heart. She’s in the ATA, believe it or not, and a pilot. Been in since ’41.’

There was no time for further chat as several other girls poured in. ‘Quick, you two, the boiler’s on in the washhouse. First come first served.’

The accommodation on this training base was basic. It consisted of huts of all shapes and sizes. The toilet block was a long rectangle built over a pit. A slight wall separated each toilet, but at this time there were no doors. Girls like Cleo who had spent years in boarding schools and were used to dressing and undressing in front of other girls were much more relaxed about this situation than those who had been raised to keep all matters of personal hygiene private. Rose hated it and longed for the day when her induction period was finished and she would be transferred, she hoped, to more comfortable living quarters. There was only one washhouse for the group and a limited supply of hot water was available, and only in the evenings. The new auxiliaries soon worked out a rota system – ‘another thing boarding school taught,’ said Cleo.

The oldest auxiliary in Rose’s hut was a thirty-eight-year-old widow from Derby, who told the others that she had joined up when her twenty-year-old son had insisted on joining the army.

‘“Join the army and see the world, Mum,” he said, and I, tears streaming down my face, begged him to reconsider. He’s all I got in the world, see, but – “I got a chance to do something grand, Mum,” he said, “and, just think, I’ll be able to give you a bit of a hand. All my food’s provided, and my uniform, plus I get paid. You’ll see, we’ll be able to put a bit aside for that cottage you’ve always wanted. The war’s an opportunity for them as is willing to take it.”’

Chrissy Wade explained her situation to the girls during a welcome break. ‘An opportunity to get killed is what I told him, so what could I do but join up? Had a cleaning job afore the war and a lot of opportunity there was there, I don’t think. Hope this lot don’t give me all the cleaning to do in the ATS.’ She had laughed then, and the younger women laughed with her, already liking her spirit.

The others were, like Rose, in their twenties. They included waitresses, beauticians, seamstresses, shop assistants, factory workers like Rose, and even two university students: Cleo, and a shy, rather intense girl from Poole named Phyllis.

‘You two will be officers in no time,’ said Chrissy, ‘that’s what my lad said. Ten lads signed up with him and one went straight for training to be an officer.’

‘I hope not,’ said Cleo.

‘You couldn’t be an officer, Cleo,’ Rose teased her. ‘How embarrassing for the ATS to have an officer with two left feet.’

‘Don’t officers just stand looking rather splendid while the others march?’ Phyllis, who hardly spoke, surprised them all by joining in.

It was obvious to Rose that Phyllis was joking, but most of the others seemed to take her remark seriously. Except Cleo.

‘That lets you out too, Phyllis. You’re too small to be splendid.’

‘Thanks very much. I’ll remind you that Queen Victoria was small.’

‘Like a little Christmas pudding,’ Rose surprised herself by suggesting. Everyone laughed.

The trainees were up by seven o’clock, their sleep having been somewhat disturbed by the almost constant droning of aircraft. Rose, like thousands of other people living in the south of England, had become used to the sound of planes flying overhead night after night, and she could recognise the sound of enemy aircraft.

‘They’re ours,’ she mumbled several times during the night. ‘Go back to sleep.’

They slept and woke, dozed and woke again, and by eight o’clock were washed, dressed, beds made, room tidied, and in the canteen for breakfast. Rose, who had shared the cleaning of their little shop and their homely flat above it, had hoped that cleaning would not be on her list of daily tasks.

‘I don’t mind keeping my own area clean, and I’ll clean up after myself, but I didn’t join the ATS for domestic duties.’

After breakfast came the dreaded drill. Learning to march certainly woke them up every morning. Cleo complained loudly that her boarding school had not included marching in its comprehensive syllabus. ‘Honestly, Rose, it looks so bleep-bleep simple when we see regular soldiers on the parade ground, but it’s far from easy. And that drill sergeant yelling in my ear only makes me mix up my feet. I’d do better if you were teaching it. Why do we always have to be bullied by men? Makes something in me rebel. But right now I’m thinking of drawing a great big R on one of these ghastly, clumpy shoes.’

‘Just make sure it’s on the right, right shoe,’ teased Rose.

In a way, however, Rose agreed. Would they ever learn to keep in line, stay in place, to use the correct foot or the proper stride, especially since they were of varying heights? Could they possibly master standing to attention, standing at ease, halting smartly when on the march, and would they ever learn to salute properly? Rose, with brothers in the Forces, found herself wishing she had paid attention when they had wanted to show her.

She was quietly glad that at school she had been on the very successful athletics team and so set herself to rapidly mastering the drills.

Aptitude tests – or trade tests, as the girls called them – came after all the marching and drilling. Scores attained in these tests would be used to decide where each ATS auxiliary would work. Rose worried that, as a working-class girl who left school at fourteen, she might be sent to work in the kitchens.

‘What do you think, Cleo? You went to a posh boarding school till you were seventeen. Some of the others have had secretarial training. You girls will get the best jobs. Girls like me will end up peeling potatoes or waiting tables.’

‘Rubbish, Rose. You have more experience in driving and in looking after cars than anyone – in our hut, at least. I learned to drive but I’ve never even put in petrol, and as for oil and keeping the blinking thing chugging along – that is all far beyond me.’

Rose laughed. ‘Don’t you have any brothers? Mine were always taking engines apart—’

Cleo interrupted. ‘And putting them back together.’

‘Exactly.’

Rose wrote to her parents during her first week of training.

If the King himself, God bless him, was to come into the camp, I would not be ashamed of my salute. But if Mr Churchill comes, and Sergeant Glover says as how he often has a quick visit somewhere, do we salute him? He’s not in the army and he’s not a royal. I’m not going to worry. Sergeant Glover knows everything.

Last night, as in two o’clock in the morning!!!!, we had a practice of what to do in an air raid. It was just an alert but it frightened the life out of most of us. We have to wear these uncomfortable steel helmets – can you imagine, steel? They’re really heavy but Sergeant Glover says they can be the difference between life and death. Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll wear mine.

Would you believe we had a talk on obeying orders? ‘Orders must be obeyed immediately and without question. Your life could depend on your ability to master this simple skill.’ Never thought I’d be grateful to have had the Dartford Dragon as my teacher in elementary school. I’ve already made a friend, although everyone in our hut is friendly. Some is quite posh and some in between, like Cleo, my new chum, who has done a lovely job of altering my uniform. You’d have cried if you’d seen me before she fixed it. I could have wrapped the skirt round me twice. The underwear is awful, can’t think why they gave it to us, unless some girls is so poor they hasn’t got changes – isn’t that a shame? – and we’ve got this huge furry coat-like thing that reaches almost to my ankles. Cleo’s trailed on the ground till she had time to fix it. She did look funny – a bit like Charlie Chaplin waddling along like a duck – but Sergeant Glover says we’ll be glad of our Teddy Bear coats in the winter.

Cleo had indeed made a beautiful job of tailoring Rose’s uniform and, as her appearance improved, so did her confidence. When she had worked in the Vickers munitions factory in Dartford, she had become expert at keeping her long hair safe inside a net; now she made one thick plait, wound it into a tight ring and fastened it with kirby grips. No matter how active she was, it stayed inside her cap.

Somehow, knowing that she looked professional made it easier for her to believe that she would succeed. Once or twice she had felt that she was struggling in the aptitude tests but consoled herself with the knowledge that she had done her best. Her ambition was to be a driver; surely the men in charge would see that she had years of experience, not only of driving but also of vehicle maintenance. She knew that driving the Prime Minister was probably an impossible dream. People say that dreams can come true but, in the meantime, decided Private Petrie, any driving would do.

She managed to go home twice during her time in Guildford. Once she took Cleo with her, worrying all the time about Flora’s nervousness around people she did not know. Her worries were for nothing. Cleo might have a retired army officer for a father and might have been educated at boarding school, two possible reasons for Flora to feel anxious, but Cleo endeared herself to Fred and Flora immediately.

‘Boarding school and then the ATS,’ sighed Flora. ‘You’ll need a good tea, pet.’

Rose and Fred exchanged an affectionate smile over Flora’s head. The much-loved wife and mother had found another lost lamb. The first one, young George, arrived home from Old Manor Farm, which was tenanted by the Petries’ long-time friend Alf Humble, in time for the ‘good tea’, and was immediately fascinated by this exciting creature with the exotic name.

‘Do you know all about the real Cleopatra?’ he asked Cleo immediately, as he munched happily into his sugarless carrot cake.

Cleo thought quickly. It was obvious to her that the boy was anxious to show his knowledge.

‘Well, I was born in Egypt and my dad said she was an Egyptian queen; I don’t know much about her except that someone rolled her up in a carpet.’

George was delighted to show her the difference between historical fact and fiction. ‘Miss Partridge told me all about Cleopatra and Julius Caesar. Do you know who Caesar was?’

Cleo had a sinking feeling that she might be doomed to spend her entire forty-eight hours’ leave reliving her secondary education. It was obvious that the boy remembered every word spoken by the wonderful Miss Partridge. ‘I do indeed, George,’ she said, ignoring the disappointed look on his thin face. ‘We could talk about Roman history but isn’t Sergeant Petrie coming tonight? He’ll want to talk to his sister, won’t he?’

Flora’s face had worn an enormous smile when she had told the girls that, hearing of Rose’s expected visit, Sam had requested – and been given – a twenty-four-hour pass. ‘He’ll be here soon,’ she said, ‘and he’ll have news of Grace and of Daisy.’

So it proved.

Sam arrived just as his father was on his way out to do his usual fire-watching shift. Fred had time only to hug his son, and say, ‘I’ll catch you at breakfast, lad,’ before hurrying off.

Cleo looked somewhat shocked as Flora brought out yet another tin. ‘Doesn’t rationing affect grocers?’ she asked, and was immediately ashamed of herself. ‘Oh gosh, Mrs Petrie, I didn’t mean that the way it came out.’

Rose laughed. ‘My parents are as honest as the day is long, Cleo, but Mum has made stretching rations into a science. In other words, when she’s expecting one of us, she and Dad do without and all rations are saved.’ She looked across at her mother, who was pretending not to hear. ‘They think we don’t know but we do.’

‘My mother’s housekeeper was exactly like that, Mrs Petrie,’ said Cleo, anxious to make reparation for her insensitive remark. ‘Probably mothers all over the country are doing without so that their children can have everything they need. Are meals still good in the army, Sam?’

Sam smiled at her. ‘Depends on where the army is. It wasn’t too good in the POW camps, except when we got Red Cross parcels. We got them from the Yanks, the Canadians, and our own. Camp I was in, we had some trouble with guards; they sometimes pinched our stuff. Mind you, I don’t think the poor beggars got much more to eat than we did. We traded with them sometimes. Everybody got cigarettes and I exchanged mine for other things – vitamin C tablets, writing paper.’

‘You got parcels from America? But they weren’t in the war then, Sam. They only joined after the Japs bombed them at Pearl Harbor just before Christmas last year.’

‘They still gave aid. Every country in sympathy with the Allies did a bit. The parcels went to a Red Cross centre in Geneva, I think, and the Swiss distributed them to every camp. Nobody cared where the parcels came from. The notes inside were in several languages: Yugoslav, French, English, Polish – a lot more. We’ll never forget the Red Cross or the St John. And you’ll see, now that the Yanks are in, they’ll come to Britain and they’ll fight with us in Europe.’

Cleo was deeply moved. ‘I’ve been a bit sheltered, Sam, I’m afraid. I didn’t know any of that about the Red Cross parcels. Good people everywhere. Makes me proud to have joined up.’

‘We’ve got a friend in the Land Army, Cleo,’ put in George. ‘She’s Sam’s sweetheart, isn’t she, Sam?’

Sam stood up and looked at his mother. ‘Isn’t it time for little boys to go to bed, Mum?’

‘I was just saying about Grace so you could tell Cleo about farm food,’ said the aggrieved George.

‘Well, actually—’ began Cleo, but before she could say another word they heard the doorbell.

‘I’ll get it, Mum,’ called Rose, already running quickly down the wooden stairs to the back door.

‘Sally Brewer, I don’t believe it.’ Rose’s excited voice rang out on the staircase. ‘Mum, Sam, George, you’ll never guess who’s here.’

George jumped up. ‘Sally’s a film star,’ he boasted somewhat erroneously, going to meet her. He stopped before running down the stairs and called back, ‘A real one.’

It was a lovely reunion: Rose, Sally and Sam actually there in the familiar, comfortable living room, with Grace and Daisy present in spirit. Phil was at sea. The family was conscious, as always, that since Ron had been killed it could never be complete again, but they did not burden others with their personal sorrows. They welcomed Sally, who had come down from London, where she had had the smallest of small parts in an actual West End play. Her news, which she had hoped would excite Rose, was that she was going to be in a musical – in Guildford.

Rose, and Cleo, who was almost as star-struck as George, groaned. ‘We’ve finished training. We’re leaving Guildford.’

They cheered up when Sally told them all manner of stories connected with her time in the theatre, actors and actresses she had met, screen tests she had had for film-makers and the, admittedly, tiny parts she had had in propaganda films. ‘I actually stood beside Noël Coward for three whole minutes in a film.’

‘The real Noël Coward. Wow.’ Cleo breathed out the word in awe.

Sally added Cleo to her list of ‘suitable friends to be invited’, and then organised the group into writing round-robin letters to Daisy, Grace and Phil. ‘Everyone writes a sentence about anything and signs it, and we’ll keep going till everyone has written at least one sentence on each letter.’

‘But I don’t know them, Sally,’ Cleo pointed out.

‘They won’t mind, and besides, you’re bound to meet them one day. Seems to me the whole world wants to be looked after by the Petries, and Flora and Fred want to look after everyone. Relax and enjoy!’

Much later than ten o’clock George, grudgingly, went off to bed, as did Flora, and Sam walked Sally back to her home.

‘We always thought Sam was sweet on Sally,’ Rose told Cleo as they brushed their hair before turning off the very dim bedroom light. ‘But you couldn’t doubt where his heart really is when you see him with Grace. Funny old thing, love.’

‘Hysterical,’ agreed Cleo.

They were asleep in minutes.

The great day came. The intensive study and hard work of just three weeks – which somehow seemed to have been much longer – were behind them.

With the exception of Chrissy, the occupants of Rose’s hut were wide awake by five-thirty; few of them had been able to sleep at all.

Would anyone be told that she just did not measure up? They had been together for such a short time but they were a team, a family, supporting one another, and today they would be parted and perhaps would never see each other again. It was a sobering thought for all but the two ‘boarding school girls’, who were quite used to meeting and parting.

‘Royal Mail, girls, fabulous invention, and there is the telephone,’ said Cleo. ‘Let’s make a pact to meet somewhere every year. All suggestions for suitable venues gladly received.’

‘Officer material if ever I saw it,’ said Avril Hunter. ‘Were you head girl, by any chance, Cleo?’

‘God, no,’ said Cleo, adjusting her beautifully tailored skirt. ‘For some obscure reason I did become a prefect and possibly became the teeniest bit bossy; it was that lovely magenta stripe on my grey blazer – went to my head, it did.’ She waited till the laughter died down before continuing, ‘Rose is definitely head girl material: popular, bright, attractive, and, to top it all, she’s an athlete. Bet they make her an officer.’

‘All my brains are in my legs,’ said Rose, blushing furiously. She was moved to hear that she was popular – Daisy was always the instantly popular twin. She really did not want to be selected for officer training. She could hear Stan’s voice – Stan who had not answered what she thought of as her ‘apologetic little letter’. ‘Not in your league, Rose.’ Despite her churning stomach, she pulled herself together. Whatever happened today was the beginning of something, and if army recruits worked half as hard as ATS recruits, he probably had no time for writing letters.

Everyone in the new intake confessed to a churning tummy. Would a girl be selected for cooking, cleaning, waiting tables in mess halls, as a storekeeper or a telephonist? Would the two university students be asked to train as translators – both had studied at least one foreign language – or might something even more secret and necessary be their lot? Who might become a lorry driver, a motorbike messenger, a mechanic or perhaps even an engineer or electrician? And those were not the only jobs available. With the necessary skills, a woman might be trained in wireless telegraphy, to use the newly developed radar systems. Yes, the opportunities were there.

The early morning hours seemed to crawl by. Would it ever be ten o’clock? But, of course, ten o’clock came, as usual.

By lunchtime, with many of them in a state almost of euphoria, they trooped into the canteen. Chrissy could scarcely contain herself and had tried to avoid lunch so that she could sit down and write to her son. ‘Can you imagine, girls?’ she asked them several times. ‘They don’t want me to clean. They think I’m secretarial material. What will my lad say when I tell him his mum’s going to be a secretary?’

No one was unkind enough to tell her that, since she could not type and knew nothing about shorthand, she had a long way to go.

‘You’ll get there, Chrissy, and secretaries make lots more money than cleaners. That cottage with roses round the door is just a matter of time.’

No one from Rose’s group had been selected for officer training.

Cleo had been selected for driver training. At the most, she could drive and, thanks to Rose, she now knew where to put petrol; Phyllis had been chosen for reasons even she could not begin to understand to join an anti-aircraft crew, looking out for enemy aircraft with the help of radar and searchlights.

‘Please don’t do any firing until you can recognise every type of plane in existence,’ Rose warned her, half seriously. ‘Don’t want you shooting down my sister.’

‘Only men fire guns.’

‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence,’ retorted Rose, and again everyone laughed.

Next they turned on Rose. ‘Come on, Rose, why so quiet and modest? What job have they given you? Chauffeur to the American general?’

Rose smiled and tried gamely to hide her bitter disappointment as she said, ‘No, very sensibly they’ve put me down as a mechanic – trainee, that is; it’s usually a man’s job. What’s your betting they still give me a woman’s wages?’

Each of the young women had been told that her wages would be two-thirds of that earned by the men. For Chrissy, it was still better than she had earned as a cleaner, and was, in her eyes, a definite step up.

Cleo hugged Rose. ‘I’m so sorry, Rose. They should have made you a driver. Probably there’s been a mistake. They’ll discover that and change your posting.’

‘I’ll be a good mechanic, Cleo. Honestly, I’m delighted; I was always afraid they’d throw me out altogether. Pity we won’t be together, though. It’s been fun.’

Promising to keep in touch, they continued to walk back towards their hut, where already packing-up was going on.

Cleo stopped. ‘I’m going to make a bet that by this time next year you’ll be a driver.’

Rose tried to smile. ‘For Mr Churchill, naturally.’

‘Of course. Just wait and see.’

Two days later, the newly ‘embodied’ auxiliaries boarded a bus heading for the station, the first step to their new posts where each one would have the rank of private. Cleo, in the window seat, noticed as the bus drove out that there was some unusual activity at the toilet block.

‘Goodness me. Don’t look, Rose; it’ll just upset you.’

Naturally Rose had to look. She sighed. ‘Let’s be charitable and say we’re glad for the next lot of trainees.’

The girls turned their heads again, looking towards the exciting future. Behind them auxiliary staff were – after many requests – hanging curtains on the fronts of the toilet cubicles.

FOUR

Preston, Lancashire, July 1942

It could have been worse. She might have been sent to Scotland. Not, thought Rose, that there was anything wrong with Scotland, but it was just so very far away from Dartford.

Preston was not too far really, and what she had seen from the train looked almost familiar. They were not stationed in the town itself but a few miles out. There was a river, the Ribble. Rose liked the sound of water flowing, jumping over stones on its way to the sea. She thought it would be pleasant to walk, run or cycle in the area around the base. It was mainly moorland and there was a high point called a fell not too far away. It was called Beacon Fell, possibly because beacons were lit on it on special days or to warn nearby inhabitants that trouble was coming.

She wondered if the beacon would be lit to warn of an air raid, then scolded herself for being silly. If she ever got time off she could get a train from Preston to London, and then another from London to Dartford. Cleo was in a place called Arundel. She’d have to look that up, but niggles in her brain hinted that Arundel was a lot closer to Dartford than it was to Preston. A really bright spot, however, was that Chrissy was here with her. To arrive at a new base and know not one person there would have been awful.

‘Pity we’re not in the same billet, Rose, but for me it’s lovely to know at least one person.’

They were sitting in the canteen enjoying their dinner of corned beef, potatoes and carrots – at least Rose was. Chrissy was merely pushing her carrots around.

‘I’m delighted you’re here too,’ said Rose, ‘but you don’t look too happy, Chrissy. I’ll fetch us a nice cup of tea and you can tell me what’s bothering you…if you want to, that is.’

She walked across to the tea trolley and poured two cups of tea. ‘Good heavens,’ she said aloud. ‘It’s too weak to run out of the pot.’

‘Very funny, Petrie. We’re lucky to be getting any tea at all. Kitchen does its best, but with rationing—’

‘Rationing? When was tea rationed?’

‘You been in outer space, girl?’ asked the irate cook. ‘At least two years.’

‘Since 1940? I was working in a munitions factory in ’40, but my parents sell tea, high-end market as well as the housewife’s choice, and I don’t remember a word about it.’

‘Parents don’t tell their offspring everything.’

Rose thanked the cook, apologised for complaining and then walked back to her table, remembering recent conversations about parents and the sacrifices they were prepared to make for their children.

‘Here you go, Chrissy, can’t exactly stand a spoon up in it, but it’s hot, wet and sweet enough!’

‘Just the way I like it,’ said Chrissy with an attempt at a smile.

Rose sat down beside her. ‘What is it? You can tell me and I’ll help if I can.’

Chrissy looked at Rose for a long moment. ‘It’s my Alan,’ she said at last, ‘my son. I haven’t had a word from him in weeks and I’m worried sick.’

‘Where is he?’

‘That’s it. I don’t know. He said in his last letter as he might be going overseas. Really excited, he was, and I pretended I were, an’ all. See the world: Paris, France, the mysterious East.’

‘Letters from overseas take much longer than from – where was he stationed?’

‘Aldershot.’

‘That must have been nice, not an awful long way from Guildford. Did he write to you in Guildford?’

‘Yes, but he won’t know this address if he didn’t get my letter telling him.’

‘That won’t matter, Chrissy. If he sends a letter to Guildford it’ll be sent on to you. Happens every day of the week, but try not to worry.’

Rose knew all about worrying over absent loved ones. They had waited for letters from Ron, and Flora would always treasure the few he had written before his death in action. Rose could not speak of her brother’s death to anyone, and especially not to a woman who was worried about her only son.

‘My brother Phil’s at sea, Chrissy. Sometimes it’s months between letters and then five or six arrive at the same time. He numbers them now and so Mum knows if one’s missing. Sometimes they do get lost and sometimes the lost one turns up months later. And when my brother Sam was on active service, Mum got letters every week and then it was months between…It doesn’t mean he’s not writing, Chrissy, just that there’s a hold-up somewhere. You have to stay positive.’

‘I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Rose. I’m trying to concentrate on the typing and the shorthand but then I start worrying about Alan and I can’t see the keys or the symbols – all I can see is Alan’s face.’

That was what it must have been like for Mum and Dad with the boys. Did I give them half the sympathy I’m giving Chrissy? I hope so.

‘You haven’t touched your tea. Don’t blame you really. Doesn’t even smell like tea. We lived above the shop and if we weren’t smelling Mum’s baking, we were smelling tea leaves – lovely. Some of them’s really exotic, you know, from China and places like that.’ She picked up Chrissy’s cup. ‘I’ll fetch you another cuppa.’

‘No, this is fine, Rose. You’ve been a grand help.’

‘Haven’t done anything but, Chrissy, maybe if you try to concentrate on how proud of his mum, the secretary, Alan’s going to be…’

‘I will, and thanks.’

‘Nice of you to join us, Petrie.’

The senior mechanic was not pleased to see Rose walk in after he had started talking. She had been late leaving Chrissy and then her attention had been caught by the sight of a long line of army vehicles, each obviously in dire need of care and attention. Her heart had leaped with anticipation as she saw some vehicles that she recognised: an Austin light utility with its spare wheel anchored neatly on top of the driver’s cabin; a Bedford fifteen-hundredweight general service lorry. Each vehicle bore a large red L, and each one was surrounded by trainees and, surprisingly, soldiers. Everyone stood gazing hopefully into the engines, as if by merely looking they would understand all the mysteries inside.

‘Sorry, Sergeant, won’t happen again, sir.’

‘Better not, or you’re out on your ear. Keeping our vehicles moving is about as important a job as there is. What do you know about motorcycles?’

For a second Rose felt faint as she saw again the young man pinned under the motorcycle, and heard his voice: ‘Urgent, please.’

‘Very little, sir.’ She thought quickly. ‘I’d recognise a Harley-Davidson. If you can’t lift it, you can’t ride it.’

The sergeant’s face, red with anger, stared into Rose’s. ‘Is that a girly attempt at humour?’

‘No, sir. I heard it somewhere.’

‘Right, you’re a big girl, let’s see how many of them you can lift.’

He led the way across the machine shop to where motorcycles in various stages of disrepair were lying. ‘Pick them up, Petrie, and if you value your skin, don’t drop any.’

‘I hardly think that’s a sensible use of Private Petrie’s abilities, Sergeant Norris.’ Neither Rose nor the sergeant had heard Junior Commander Strong enter. ‘As far as possible, I hope she will never need to lift a motorcycle but, in the meantime, a working knowledge of the engine would be helpful.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Good. Petrie, do try not to be late. The machines won’t repair themselves.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

The officer turned and walked out of the workroom, leaving Rose and Sergeant Norris looking at each other while everyone else determined to look anywhere but at them.

‘Get to it then, girl.’

To Rose the smell of oil was almost as pleasant as that of exotic tea leaves from ‘the mysterious East’; she almost revelled in it. Soon her hands were oil- and grease-marked. As a qualified mechanic, Corporal Church instructed her painstakingly.

‘What have you worked on before, Rose?’ Corporal Church asked.

‘My dad’s van and the occasional old banger some of the lads had.’

‘This is your first bike, then?’

Again Rose pictured the crashed motorcycle. ‘Yes, Corporal.’

The corporal smiled, and her rather plain face seemed to light up with an inner glow. ‘Good start. We’ll take this one apart and put it back together again.’

It sounded simple.

‘Bit fiddly,’ said Rose, an hour or so later as she handed over the unfinished job.

‘Maybe so, but you’re well on the way, Rose.’ Once more the mechanic surprised Rose with her friendly smile. ‘I’ll finish this off. While I’m doing that, you can clean those parts lying over there. Keep them in exactly the order you find them; in other words, pick up a part, clean said part, put it down exactly where it was to start with. Got it?’

‘Yes, Corporal.’

For the rest of the afternoon, Rose scarcely lifted her head as she examined and cleaned the motorcycle parts. She found minor and, unfortunately, major dents in some pieces, but was pleased that she was able to repair them. Sally’s fingernails wouldn’t handle this little lot, she thought with a smile as she remembered her actress friend. She looked at her own long and very dirty fingers with their short blunt nails.

‘Better get used to it, Rose.’

Rose smiled at the mechanic. ‘I’m admiring them, Corporal. These dirty hands bring me one step closer.’ She stopped, embarrassed.

‘Closer to what?’

It was impossible to tell the exact truth, which was to be a driver, although, since she had not passed into the unit for drivers, Rose felt deep down that her dream was further away than ever. ‘To be a fully qualified mechanic,’ she said, crossing her fingers behind her back as she spoke.

Corporal Church stood up and stretched to her full height – which was considerably less than Rose’s. ‘A few weeks on bikes, Private Petrie. Do well and I’ll give you an ambulance. Get that going for us and I might just be able to find a staff car that needs a little tender care.’

In spite of what she thought of as a bad start, Rose returned to her billet, a long and fairly wide Nissen hut, in a happy frame of mind. She had started to learn and had achieved a little. She had been reprimanded by the senior mechanic but admitted that she had been careless about time-keeping. He was right to tell me off, she told herself, and he took it on the chin when he caught it from the junior commander. And Corporal Church is a superb mechanic. I like her. There’s something about her, nice and calm and competent. I get the feeling that she’s very fair too.

Dear Mum and Dad,

If you’re planning on putting a packet of tea in my sock at Christmas, could I please have it a little early, like now? Food’s not bad; we had some decent gravy today, which covered up the smell of the corned beef very well, and hid the taste and all. I told you about Chrissy as trained with me. She’s here too, which is lovely because she’s a nice woman, but she’s worried sick about her son. A really good cuppa would make quite a difference, I think. He’s not long shipped out and she hasn’t had a letter since he left. Have you had a letter from our Phil?

Rose stopped for a moment and shouted, ‘I wish this blasted war was over.’ Feeling slightly better, she returned to her letter.

Has Daisy said anything about Tomas, about where his family is? That was another horror story when we were catching up with the news. A whole village in Bohemia, which I’m told is part of Czechoslovakia, was burned down and everybody killed. It’s called Lidice, the village that is. Really awful. I hope Tomas’s family isn’t from there. Good news is the Americans have defeated the Japanese at a place called Midway, which I think is an island in the Pacific Ocean. All our senior officers were cheering so it must be something special. It was Mr Fischer who used to explain all the news to Daisy, wasn’t it? Daisy said she bumped into him somewhere, didn’t she? Wonder where he is because I would really like someone to explain all this.

I miss you. Today I got started on engines but they were motorcycle engines and I never worked on one before. The chief mechanic is pretty grumpy. No, actually that’s not fair, I was late and he was angry. Afraid I didn’t cover myself with glory as I just could not get the hang of what he was trying to explain and he got more and more impatient. I met a really nice mechanic though, a corporal, so we can’t be friends since I’m just a private, but there’s something about her, Mum, you know. You get a feeling sometimes, doesn’t matter if they’re rich or poor, but something in the face or the eyes tells you this is a good person. Well, that’s Corporal Church and she was ever so supportive.

Say hello to everybody in your letters and remind our Daisy she’s got a twin sister in case she’s forgotten. Ha-ha.

Love to all,

Rose

Rose finished her letter, put it in an envelope, which she addressed and sealed before looking around the room, aware for the first time in several minutes that other girls had entered the hut while she had been writing and were now making themselves comfortable on beds or chairs.

‘How you can concentrate, Rose?’ said Vera Harding, who was about the same age as Rose. ‘Who were you writing to, Laurence Olivier or Clark Gable?’

‘Top secret.’

‘If I’d annoyed the chief mechanic the way you did today, Rose,’ a second girl entered the conversation, ‘I’d have been studying the manual.’

Immediately several voices joined in, some siding with Rose. ‘She’s wet behind the ear, Ella. Don’t worry, Rose, most of us cried for days the first time we had to work on an engine.’

‘Why did they accept you if you know nothing about motorcycles? I take it you have some experience with machines?’ Ella Barker went on.

‘Yes, I can drive and I—’

‘We can all drive.’ It was Ella again, like a dog after a bone.

Rose looked at her for a time before replying. ‘I am so pleased for you,’ she said coldly, and smiled a little as Ella blushed.

Several of the young women in the billet began to laugh.

‘Oh, Rose, oh, lovely English rose. At last someone who can give as good as she gets,’ said Vera. ‘Our Ella, Barker by name and barker by nature.’ She ignored Ella’s mutterings and continued, ‘Now, do come and tell us all about yourself, and all about the handsome soldier you were writing to.’

‘Sorry, Vera, I was writing home, and now I will study the manual.’

But for some time she was not allowed to return to her studies as various young women introduced themselves. By the time they all crowded around the wireless to listen to their favourite programmes, it seemed to Rose that she had known everyone in the billet, even the formidable Ella, for much longer than the short while she had been in Preston.

Having worked very hard all day, the girls were quite happy to get into bed at lights out. Rose lay for some time going over the events of the day and the evening. I miss Mum and Dad and George, she thought to herself, but these women are all in the same boat as I am, and they’re making an effort – well, most of them – to get on with everyone else. I’ll learn all about motorbikes – if our Daisy can go from driving cars to flying a blooming great plane, I can learn about bikes. Again the image of the dispatch rider pinned under his bike came into her head. I’ll learn for you, she decided, and maybe I’ll even be brave enough to ride one of them…

‘I’m not promising,’ she whispered as she fell asleep.

Next morning she joined several of her roommates for breakfast. From across the room she saw Chrissy, seemingly quite happily chatting to the women at her table. Rose waved and was delighted when Chrissy too raised her hand in greeting. Letters were delivered every day; maybe today she would hear from her son and maybe Rose Petrie would get a delivery of tea leaves.

By the end of the first week, Rose was thoroughly enjoying the work and the companionship of all the other women. Work was going well, and Sergeant Norris had even congratulated her on her aptitude and application.

‘Well, well, teacher’s pet,’ laughed Vera as they walked back to their billet one evening after the last class. ‘Aptitude and application. He’ll have you a motorcycle dispatch rider before you can shake a stick.’

‘I sincerely hope not. It’s cars I want to drive, although ambulance drivers are needed, aren’t they?’

‘Every kind of driver is needed, Rose. Drivers have accidents; they get strafed or bombed just like any other soldier. There’s risks everywhere.’

Vera had looked and sounded rather tense as she spoke, and Rose had the feeling that there was something on her mind. She decided to wait until her new friend was prepared to share it and so she decided to change the subject. ‘What are you wearing to the dance on Saturday night? I’ve only got one suitable frock with me and everyone will be tired of it after a while.’

‘I don’t dance.’

Rose was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then she made up her mind. ‘I went to lots of dances at our local church hall and at the Palais,’ she said. ‘I bet there was a Palais in your town too, Vera, but could I just say that if you have religious reasons for not dancing then, of course, I’ll respect that, but…’ She stopped, wondering how best to carry on now that she had started. ‘But if you haven’t had time or opportunity to learn how to dance, I think I could teach you.’

They had reached their hut. ‘We could have some tea and a listen to the wireless if no one’s having a lie-down,’ suggested Vera without answering Rose’s question.

‘Just time to have a shower and wash my hair.’ Ella, who also shared the billet, was on her way out as Rose and Vera went in.

‘We’ll save you some tea,’ Vera called after her, but Ella waved a hand as if to say, ‘No, thanks.’

‘Hello, ladies, anyone for a cuppa?’ Vera addressed the women inside.

‘It’s made already, girls, and Susan’s mum sent a bar of chocolate,’ Ada Plumtree, the oldest ATS member in their hut, called to them. She counted quickly. ‘Two squares each if we eat quickly. Now, who’s going to the dance on Saturday? There’s rumours of Yanks in the area.’

‘Not Yanks, Poles,’ Susan argued, ‘but who cares, they’ll be as tall as the Yanks.’

‘But, unfortunately, a helluva lot poorer,’ Vera said, and everyone laughed.

‘You’re a married woman, Ada. You shouldn’t be interested in other men.’

‘I’m married, love, not dead. You going, Rose? There’s bound to be at least one taller than you.’

The happy chattering went on as they relaxed after a full day of hard work.

Ella came back from the shower room to join them. ‘Anyone got a spare towel? I dropped mine and it’s too wet to dry my hair. I can’t go into the lecture room with water dripping down my neck.’

A dry towel was produced and Ella sat vigorously rubbing her short fair hair while the others talked of the various nationalities that might turn up at the base’s Saturday night dance. For many of them this dance would be the first frivolous evening they had spent in some time.

‘Any POWs coming?’ one of the girls asked, stunning her companions into silence.

‘Prisoners? My mother would have a fit. They’re the enemy.’

‘They’re human beings,’ said Rose. ‘My brother was a POW in Germany,’ and then she laughed.

‘What’s funny, Rose? Being a prisoner anywhere isn’t funny.’

‘Sorry, Ada, I was about to say my brother would have loved to go to a dance. He’s a good dancer. Then I remembered there weren’t any women in the camps and he wouldn’t have danced with a man for all the tea in China.’

‘Funny things, men,’ said Ada. ‘God bless them every one.’

‘My hair’ll do, girls. We’d better get off to the canteen or we won’t have time to have a decent meal before the lecture.’

The lecture turned out to be three short films on the care and maintenance of military vehicles, including motorcycles and Churchill tanks.

‘Good Lord,’ said Ella, as they walked home in the gathering darkness, ‘from the sublime to the ridiculous. You take it all in, Rose?’

‘Absolutely. I would love to drive one of those giants. The Churchill must be named after the Prime Minister, don’t you think? I’ll ask if I can work on one of them.’

‘You’re going to be lucky to get to work on a beaten-up old ambulance. Got any idea of the cost of one of them tanks?’

Ada joined Ella in teasing Rose. ‘You joined the wrong branch of the service, chum, if you’re set on driving. Maintenance only gets to keep them running.’

‘I can hope.’

They stopped walking so suddenly that they bumped into one another. ‘Didn’t you ask to be a mechanic, Rose?’

‘No, when I was joining I did ask about being a driver but when we took the tests the marks I got showed that maintenance is where I’m best suited. Aptitude, they call it.’

‘But you can drive?’

‘I told you that already, Vera. I’ve been driving since I was ten – tall for my age – but our dad and my brothers – had three of them – taught my sister and me how to repair and maintain.’ She stopped talking, wondering if it would be thought boastful to show her pride in her twin sister. In for a penny? No, another time.

The women walked on without speaking, quite happy to be tired and to know that they had done their best all day and had, perhaps, improved their skills. They reached their Nissen hut and Ella startled Rose by breaking the silence.

‘Any of these gorgeous brothers of yours available?’

‘For what?’ Rose asked without thinking.

The others laughed; when she realised what Ella meant, Rose laughed too. ‘Sam’s spoken for,’ she said. ‘No wedding yet, but soon, we hope. Phil’s available but he’s a sailor and you’ll have to catch up with him. We never know where he is until he’s been – if you know what I mean.’

‘Hope he’s nowhere near Malta. It’s really getting a battering. You don’t believe the Germans would really try to starve a whole island to death, do you?’

‘Awful things happen in wars – on every side,’ said Vera in the voice of someone who has seen and heard everything.

‘Put the kettle on, somebody,’ called a voice from a bed near the door, ‘and come in or stay out, but make up your minds.’

Calling out apologies, they hurried inside, closing the door behind them. A few girls appeared to be asleep; others were sitting up in bed, reading magazines or writing letters.

‘Last one in makes the cocoa,’ called out the first voice, and soon the hut was quiet as some busied themselves with ironing uniforms, polishing shoes, or putting in curlers, making and serving cocoa to their roommates, just a few of the tasks that had to be done every night before sleep claimed them.

Rose was drifting off when she heard a voice from a bed near her. ‘You told us about two of your brothers, Rose. Is the third one available?’

The question brought back all the grief and sorrow caused by Ron’s death. How to answer? Pretend to be asleep? Would the question be asked again in the morning?

‘Afraid not, Ella. He’s unavailable.’

‘Shame, but who knows, maybe the answer to a maiden’s prayer will be at the dance on Saturday.’

‘Shut up and let people sleep or you’ll be unable to walk, never mind dance.’

Rose did not recognise that harsh voice but she did agree with her sentiments. Happily so did Ella.

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.’

‘Yes, Francesca, I’m still delighted,’ answered Rose, and all the young women in the Nissen hut laughed. ‘I’m Rose and, believe it or not, I even like that coffee.’

‘Real coffee’s fearfully expensive, but the bottled mixture does make a pleasant change from the terrible tea,’ said Francesca.

Gladys, who confessed to a headache after all the travelling, glared at the pretty young woman. ‘What would an Italian know about tea?’

‘I know all about tea,’ Rose said hurriedly as she saw what appeared to be the beginning of an unpleasant scene, ‘and quite a lot about coffee.’

Francesca smiled her beautiful smile. ‘I can answer Gladys, Rose,’ she said. ‘I am sure her bark is, as you might say, worse than her bite. Firstly, Gladys, I am not Italian. My grandparents were Italians who were happy and grateful to come to England many years ago. My father, Giuseppe, was born in England and was a British citizen and that made him very proud. He fought for his country – this country – in the Great War and was gassed. His lungs were so badly injured that he lived only until 1921. I was born three weeks after his death and so I too am British, but of English and Italian descent. And yes, we have an ice-cream shop…’

‘Best ice cream in the whole of Yorkshire,’ another girl put in.

Francesca laughed. ‘Yes, it is, thank you, and in the café Nonno makes the best lunches.’

‘Sold,’ said Rose. ‘When are we free to go? And what does Nonno mean?’

‘Italy is still on Jerry’s side.’ Gladys seemed not to want to let go.

‘Grampa,’ Francesca answered the second question. ‘But very soon Italy will join the Allies because most Italians are unhappy with Il Duce, Benito Mussolini. Unfortunately some people here are very angry with Italians, even those whose families have lived in this country for many years. This is unfair. We are loyal British citizens whose ancestors came from Italy and, even after what happened to Nonno, we pray for the day when Italy and England will be allies.’

‘Can’t come soon enough,’ Gladys conceded, sitting down on an empty chair.

Rose looked at Francesca and saw her lovely dark Italian eyes were sparkling with tears she was trying hard not to shed. ‘Francesca, can you tell us what happened to your grandfather?’

‘Everything is well now, Rose, but we will never forget it. We prefer not to speak of it, but the very day that Italy declared war against Britain, Nonno was arrested and interned. All the years he has lived and worked here and they called him “of hostile origin”…For him, thankfully, imprisonment lasted only a few months.’

Both Rose and Gladys gasped. ‘How awful for you, Fran,’ said Gladys. ‘I’m sorry I was grumpy.’

Francesca seemed determined to remain calm and friendly. ‘I have been in this camp several months, and I’m very happy – with everything,’ she added, looking over mischievously at Gladys. ‘And, Rose, you will be happy with the appalling engine the transport officer will find for you to work on, no?’

She means yes, thought Rose, but she smiled. Apart from the fact that Francesca was very friendly and determined to remain polite, even when others were being rather churlish, she was an Italian – no, she was British of Italian descent.

‘No, Francesca, I was looking forward to actually driving a truck or a car or even a Jeep; instead you say I’ll be in overalls, as usual, and covered in oil and gunge.’

‘The driving will come, Rose. The maintenance is as important, if not even more important, than being able to drive whatever one is asked to drive. What if you are taking a politician or a general to an important meeting and the car goes phut two miles from the venue? What do you do?’

‘Fix it, I hope.’ Rose smiled at Francesca. ‘I see your point, but everything seems to take so long.’

Francesca offered her a box of biscuits. ‘Have some. They’re Italian.’

‘And quite delicious,’ said Gladys, determined to show her better nature. ‘Forgive my bad mood.’

‘I think everyone in the world has a bad mood sometimes, Gladys, and, believe me, you’re an amateur. An Italian, like Nonno, in a bad mood is a force of nature. Maybe we can all go to my nonno’s café for lunch when we next have time off. I’ll tell him, cook as for Italians: that way, we don’t get chicken and chips.’

‘But what about his bad mood?’

‘You’ll see a good mood – a beautiful sight. Maybe he’ll sing. A force of nature, remember? You’ll tremble and say, “What does he do with all this energy when he’s angry?”’

‘He uses as much energy being angry as he does when he’s happy?’ Gladys was laughing.

‘Exactly. Now who has an afternoon off soon?’

Rose smiled. She would miss her friends from Preston, just as she had missed the friends she had made at Guildford, but she knew she would like most of these hard-working, dedicated women just as much.

‘There’s a very pretty girl here called Francesca,’ she wrote to Stan later.

She’s about twenty-one, I think. And then there’s a woman, Gladys, who must be about thirty; she can be touchy but maybe that’s because she’s a lance corporal in a billet with several privates. Bit of a shame we have to move around so much. We say we’re going to keep up but it’s almost impossible to find time to write home, never mind write letters to all the lovely people I’ve met. I remember Grace Paterson telling us she’d made a really good friend at her training farm, but when she did get around to writing the friend had moved. Maybe Grace’s letter is travelling all over England looking for her. Who knows?

She was going to add that Grace had Sam to write to now but that seemed a little insensitive. After all, Grace and Sam were in love. Stan and Rose were not. We’re best friends, she decided, and always will be.

‘I’m off duty on Sunday afternoon, Francesca,’ she said later that evening when she met Francesca in the washroom, a place where the girls seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time. Many of them liked washing small items of clothing every night and hanging them up to dry in the warm, damp atmosphere rather than sending them to the efficient but often time-consuming laundry service.

‘Lovely.’ Francesca smiled broadly. ‘I am too. We’ll sweet-talk someone at the stables to take us in. Maybe Gladys will come too.’ She looked at Rose who had the strangest expression on her face. ‘Is there is a problem, Rose?’

‘Stables? I didn’t know we had stables and, even if I did, I think my riding skills aren’t up to riding a horse all the way to York. And what on earth would we do with them once we got to your granddad’s café?’

To Rose’s surprise Francesca burst out laughing. The fact that even her laughter was attractive and highly contagious did not, in that moment, actually endear her new friend to Rose.

‘My riding is limited to hanging onto the mane of a great carthorse; lovely animal, but I prefer car seats.’

Francesca patted her gently as if she was a small child. ‘We’re not going to ride in, Rose, although I must admit it would be quite lovely. No, no horses. The only mode of transport in our stables is on four or more wheels – well, there could be a bicycle or two…’

‘Before I pick you up and—’ began Rose.

‘Cavalry officers refer to “the stables” when they are talking about vehicle storage. I have a chum in the Blues and Royals. One picks up their jargon.’

‘Does one indeed?’ asked Rose.

‘There’s the loveliest MTWO,’ began Francesca with a worried look at her new friend.

‘I understand our own jargon, thank you: motorised transport warrant officer.’

‘He’s become rather a close family friend, Rose. Indeed, after a slice or two of Nonno’s lasagne, he is putty in my hands. I’m sure if anyone is going into York on Sunday, we’ll be offered a lift.’

And so it proved. Warrant Officer Starling himself had to visit the town and would be pleased to drop the girls off at the café and pick them up later.

Immediately after the all-ranks church service on Sunday, the three young women hurried to change out of their uniforms. The prospect of a few hours with no heavy stockings, no shirt and tie was delightful. Rose and Francesca, who were slender, laughed to see that they were both wearing almost identical dresses. The dresses had been fashioned taking into account the new austerity. They were A-line and reached just below the knee; material was in short supply and so there was very little swing to the skirts. Francesca, with her dark colouring, had chosen the shirtwaist in red and white, whereas Rose, a blonde, was wearing a very similar dress in light green, but with white cuffs on the short sleeves, and a white collar. The buttons on her bodice were dark green while those on Francesca’s were white. Gladys, slightly more mature in age and figure, had chosen to wear a floral skirt and a simple white blouse with a blue cardigan thrown around her shoulders.

‘Wish I was a bit skinnier, like you two,’ she grumbled.

‘Well, they do say Bile Beans are the answer, Gladys. At least, according to an advertisement in one of Dad’s catalogues, they’re all you need “for radiant health and a lovely figure”,’ Rose said mock-seriously. Gladys looked at her questioningly. ‘Is a word of that true? Bile Beans?’

‘She’s teasing, Gladys. You don’t need to be thinner; you look very nice.’

The opinion of the warrant officer was the same. ‘And very nice too,’ he said as he looked at his passengers. He himself was in uniform as he really did have a delivery to make in York.

Rose and Gladys enjoyed their second glimpse of the famous city. They saw the spires of the fabled minster rising up into the skyline, long before they reached the outskirts.

‘Will we have time to see it, Fran?’ asked Gladys. ‘I’d love to get a postcard for my mum.’

‘Great idea,’ echoed Rose. Propaganda was already reminding the populace to keep in mind members of the Forces in their Christmas mailings and, although Rose felt it too early to even think of Christmas, she knew her family would love postcards. ‘My sister was here, before the bombing.’

‘Then she is one of the lucky ones,’ said Francesca with a heavy sigh. ‘For some reason they didn’t bomb the minster and fires never reached it, but thousands of houses were destroyed. It will take years to replace them or repair the damage.’

Rose felt cold. ‘All those homes. It’s ghastly. There must have been so much loss of life.’

‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? The raiders came at night when most people were sound asleep in bed. We were. But somehow, can you believe it, only about three hundred people died. Have you ever been bombed?’ Francesca looked at her two friends.

Gladys had never experienced an air raid in her home town, but Rose, of course, had lived through many, as Dartford lay directly in the path of enemy aircraft heading for London from Berlin. ‘Dartford’s had some bad times, hospital wards destroyed, some houses, but apart from in London, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s frightening.’

‘’Course, I’m not telling you anything you shouldn’t know,’ Warrant Officer Starling piped up suddenly, ‘but they say as some Luftwaffe general thought it was a good idea to destroy all the cities in England that featured in a German guidebook: Bath, York, Norwich, Canterbury and others. They made a right mess of Canterbury, missed the cathedral but destroyed the medieval centre. We can build new houses but we can’t rebuild our past, our history.’ He stopped, as if suddenly embarrassed by his own eloquence.

‘You’re so right, sir,’ said Rose, ‘but we can make certain that we remember it.’

‘Come on. We’ve gone all doomy and gloomy,’ complained Gladys. ‘We’re off base, we’re going out to a delicious lunch and every girl in the unit will be jealous when we report back. Where are you dropping us, Officer?’

‘Right here,’ said Warrant Officer Starling as he drew up close to a shining café window over which hung a very pretty blue-and-white awning.

‘We used to have the Italian colours,’ said Francesca sadly, ‘but after…Nonno decided it was better to change.’

‘It looks lovely,’ the girls agreed and, after thanking their driver, walked with Francesca into the little café.

Mrs Rossi, Francesca’s mother, hurried out to meet them. Rose had assumed that middle-aged Italian matrons were usually of average height and rather round, but Francesca’s mother was an older edition of her daughter, slender and very beautiful, with dark sparkling eyes and the longest eyelashes Rose had ever seen.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ she called out, her accent not Italian but Yorkshire. ‘Papa has the lasagne ready and he has saved a little of his own wine for you.’ She waved at Warrant Officer Starling, who was returning to his lorry, and Rose was surprised to see how different, even tender, he looked as he waved back. ‘We are saving lunch for you, Enrico, whenever you come.’

Once again he raised his hand in farewell as he returned to his vehicle.

‘Enrico?’ said Gladys.

‘Italian for Henry. It’s very nice,’ said Francesca, with a slight note of pride or concern in her voice. ‘Mamma has been alone for too many years. Come and meet Nonno.’

‘Very nice indeed,’ Gladys whispered to Rose as they followed mother and daughter towards the exquisite, mouth-watering smells that were coming from the back of the building.

Francesca’s grandfather was tall and broad-shouldered, but very thin – as if, perhaps, he did not eat his own cooking, or perhaps as a result of his imprisonment. He welcomed them as warmly as any Italian Rose had ever seen in the Hollywood films she had enjoyed as she grew up. In no time at all, it was as if they had known one another always. They sat at a large round table and ate lasagne, but only after they had eaten all the other delicious dishes he had prepared for them. When they told him how incredibly wonderful it all was, he sighed deeply.

‘Ah, before the war, before the war I could make such dishes and I will again. This is very humble food,’ he shrugged, dismissing the feast he had just served, ‘but I am glad you like it. Only the best is good enough for friends of our little Francesca.’

‘Ice cream, Nonno, please. Many on the base say your ice cream is the best anywhere, don’t they, Rose, Gladys – and the café too?’

‘Yes, and some were surprised that you’re open on a Sunday afternoon,’ said Rose, who had been wondering if she had enough money in her purse to pay for such a lovely meal.

Signor Rossi laughed, a laugh as hearty as his lasagne. ‘Open? The café is not open; this is the house kitchen. I cook today only for family,’ he gestured towards his daughter-in-law and his granddaughter, ‘and welcome friends.’

Rose blushed to the roots of her hair. She was feeling quite stupid. As far as she could remember, she had not been invited to join the Rossis for lunch. They had talked about visiting the café but surely only as customers. She could just imagine her mother’s reaction if she thought her daughter had gone to lunch with friends and had not taken flowers, chocolates, or even a packet of special tea.

‘You are hot, Rose. I fetch the gelato and that will cool you down.’

Francesca and her grandfather got up from the table, collected the plates, cutlery and serving dishes and turned to go into the scullery behind them, flashing breathtaking smiles as they did so. Rose looked at Gladys, who did not seem to be worrying as she was. She was surprised when Mrs Rossi reached over and patted her hand gently. ‘They’re Italian, Rose, and everything is perfect. Now, I’m almost pure Yorkshire and know you’re squirming with embarrassment. But that’s my Francesca and I wouldn’t have her any other way. Since she could walk she has been bringing people home. “Come,” she would say, holding out her little hand to reassure them. “Come.” Nonno has always encouraged her; she is the light of his life.’

‘You’re very kind, Mrs Rossi.’

Before Francesca’s mother could reply, there was a knock on the door of the café. ‘That will be Enrico. Excuse me.’

‘Let’s walk around York while the WO eats,’ suggested Francesca, and Rose and Gladys were absolutely delighted to leave Mrs Rossi and the warrant officer alone.

Francesca took them to York Minster and they enjoyed visiting the glorious building. Then they wandered among the surrounding streets, gazing in awe as Francesca pointed out one interesting site after another, and buying postcards. ‘They say that house has been there for hundreds of years,’ she said, pointing. ‘And there’s a room dedicated to each period during which it’s been standing. So there’s a Jacobean room and an Elizabethan, and a Georgian and a Victorian and whatever else. You must come back when we have more time. And we should explore the Shambles, the street where all the butchers had their shops in the Middle Ages, and Parliament Street and Fossgate…’ Francesca spoke at length about her home town and Rose wondered what there was in Dartford that she could show off with such pride.

The ancient Holy Trinity Church, of course.

Gladys was not, by inclination, a sightseer and was glad to return to the Rossi café where they found Warrant Officer Starling waiting for them.

‘Almost had to leave you three. Come on, Fran, shout cheerio and get in the lorry; you two, an’ all.’

*

Rose thought wistfully of that pleasant family-centred afternoon quite often in the week that followed. Prior to joining the ATS she had believed that she knew almost everything there was to know about driving and the care and maintenance of smaller engines. She soon realised that this was very far from the case. Her initial feeling on first seeing the engine of a thirty-hundredweight lorry – small by military standards – was one of excitement.

‘Magnificent,’ she breathed.

The more she gazed in awe, the more terrified she became. This monster wasn’t remotely like the shop’s van. That engine she could take apart and put together again. Would she ever master this great beast and its bigger relatives? Simply changing a wheel would be a problem. She remembered struggling to lift the motorcycle from the dispatch rider. That had taken time and the cycle weighed a lot less than this lorry.

But I was extra careful because I was afraid of injuring him. That made a difference.

‘Come on, Rose,’ she instructed herself, ‘this is just another step on the road you want to take. So get cracking.’

She determined to think positively. She had stripped the engine of her dad’s van before she was twelve. Surely, not ten years later, she could learn how to get the best out of this one and others like it.

It was with renewed vigour that she attended to instructions and demonstrations.

She received a quick note from Daisy telling her how, initially, Daisy had found some of the planes she was asked to fly rather frightening.

And just with a little notebook full of instructions, Rose. I like to think that our generation is smoothing a path for women in the future. The outlook for women is changing for the better. Just such a pity that it’s taking a world war to do it. I look forward to seeing you cruising down the high street in a three-tonner – unless you prefer to show off in an armoured Daimler with Mr Churchill. Pity you won’t ever be asked to drive the King. Nearest I’ve ever got to him is a signed picture in an office.

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