Ruby Jackson - On a Wing and a Prayer

‘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.’