Kay Brellend - Rosie’s War

‘You’ve no need to worry, Dad, I’m able to look after myself and Hope now.’ After a short silence Rosie saw her father seemed to have gone into a trance, staring into space. ‘What is it, Dad?’ She sat down opposite him and rested her elbows on the tabletop. ‘You seem odd … thoughtful. Something up?’

‘Nah, just this leg getting me down,’ John lied. He forced a smile. ‘Wish you could meet a nice young man, dear.’ He took Rosie’s hands in his. ‘You need somebody to care for you, ’cos I ain’t always going to be around. Robbie likes you, y’know, and he’s not short of a bob or two … or a couple of pork chops.’

Rosie tutted in mock exasperation at her father’s quip. Robbie Raynham was the local butcher, and at least fifteen years her senior. He was pleasant enough and not bad-looking but Rosie didn’t like him in that way. She didn’t like any man in that way. Rosie knew Doris often sent her to get their meat ration in the hope the smitten butcher might slip a little bit extra in for them in return for the promise of a date.

But Rosie didn’t have any interest in marriage or men. Since she’d been dragged into an alleyway then thrown to the ground and raped, a cold dread had replaced any longing she’d once had for an exciting romance and a husband. Love and affection were saved for her daughter; all she wanted to do was keep Hope safe and make plans for her future.

Rosie took a deep breath and blurted, ‘I’m going to apply to join the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service.’

John gawped at his daughter as though she were mad. ‘Why?’ he eventually asked.

‘Because it’s an important job needs doing.’

‘Being a mother to that little girl’s an important job needs doing,’ John replied pithily. ‘Ambulance work’s too dangerous. You’ll be covered in blood and muck.’

‘I was covered in blood and muck when the Café de Paris got bombed and again on the afternoon our house was wrecked. I’m used to it now.’

John had the grace to blush as he recalled how she’d nursed him and dressed his wounds till they could get help on that dreadful afternoon.

‘Dad, d’you remember how that auxiliary helped you that day?’

‘’Course …’ John muttered. ‘And I was grateful to her, but that don’t mean I want you taking them sort of risks.’ He pointed a finger. ‘She were a lot older than you, for a start …’

‘Her colleague who helped you up the stairs wasn’t. And she was driving the ambulance, if you remember. She looked to be in her twenties, like me …’

‘Don’t want you doing it, Rosie …’ John began shirtily.

‘I’m going to apply,’ Rosie said firmly. ‘Hope’ll be fine in a nursery. I’m going to the WVS tomorrow to see if they can sort out a place for her.’

‘If you’re determined, me ’n’ Doris can see to the little ’un between us.’ John sounded affronted.

‘I’d like her to make some more friends,’ Rosie answered diplomatically. ‘She had a lovely time playing with Gertie’s little girl.’

‘Time enough fer that when she’s older. I’ll mind her.’ John sounded stubborn. He’d always been very protective of his granddaughter but suddenly after Popeye’s visit it seemed more important than ever to keep a close watch on Hope.

‘It’s time for me to get my own place, too, Dad. Now you and Doris are married you deserve some privacy. Besides, I need to learn to stand on my own two feet. So as soon as I’m earning I’ll be able to pay rent.’ Rosie had been planning on saving that blow for another day. But as her father had seemed to accept her work, albeit reluctantly, she had decided that ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ might be the best approach.

‘Leaving home and standing on your own two feet backfired on you once before.’ John pressed his lips into a thin line. He’d not wanted to hark back to that episode. ‘Anyhow, people my age don’t need a lot of fuss. Ain’t as if me and Doris are starry-eyed. Known each other too long for any of that.’ John coughed, recalling Popeye’s dirty talk.

‘Still, it’d be nice for you both to have some peace and quiet.’ Rosie understood her father’s unease about discussing intimate things.

‘I know kids have tantrums, so that don’t bother me one bit. I brought you up, remember,’ he added darkly.

Rosie smiled faintly. Her stepmother wasn’t happy about losing her sleep. The woman had let Rosie know she’d been kept awake by Hope crying as she’d barged out of the bathroom that morning.

Suddenly Rosie was missing her mum with such strong sadness that she felt momentarily unable to speak. Prudence Gardiner had passed away when she was in junior school but Rosie could recall her vividly. She could also remember that her mother’s affair hadn’t lasted, but the bitterness between John and Prudence had. He’d taken her back … for the girl’s sake … the words stuck in Rosie’s mind as the reason he’d bawled at his wife when she’d shown up again, suitcase in hand. Rosie knew that Prudence would have adored her beautiful granddaughter. Had her mother still been alive perhaps Hope might have succeeded in doing what Rosie had yearned to do but had failed at: bring her parents some shared happiness.

She glanced at her father’s lined face, feeling a rush of pity that his second wife was unlikely to bring him any more contentment than his first had. ‘I’m grateful that you’ve taken care of me and Hope till now. But I’ll cope on my own, Dad.’

‘You won’t!’ John’s anxiety had manifested itself in anger. ‘You’re staying right here where I can keep an eye on you both.’

‘Might be that yer daughter’s got a point about being independent and paying her own way,’ Doris said, entering the kitchen. ‘And as your wife, you might like to ask me my opinion on things that concern me.’

Rosie knew that Doris was thoroughly in favour of her moving out, and the sooner the better.

‘Stew’s done.’ John turned his back on his wife, stooping to open the oven door. With a teacloth protecting his hands he drew out a sizzling-hot clay pot.

‘That’s yer answer, is it?’ Doris snorted in disgust. ‘Dinner’s ready!’

‘Let’s eat, then talk about it later.’ Rosie gave her stepmother a smile, signalling a truce. It seemed there was something eating away at her father and she’d no idea what it might be. But she was quite sure it had little to do with her wanting a job and some independence.

‘So you can hear it ’n’ all, can you, Rosie love? I thought me ears were playing tricks on me.’

John was crunching along the cinder path in the back garden dressed in his pyjamas and bedroom slippers. His palms batted against his ears at intervals as though to unblock them.

At the sound of her father’s voice Rosie turned and gave him a quick nod before fixing her eyes again on the moonless sky.

It was a humid June night and Rosie had been restlessly dozing, when the wail of an air-raid siren had brought her swiftly to her feet. She’d glanced at Hope, sound asleep, then padded to the window to stare out. It was just a week away from midsummer and, though not yet dawn, the sky hadn’t fully darkened. She’d been able to see for some distance. She’d heard the ack-ack guns start up and seen bullets tracing the heavens, but a weird noise had made her snatch up her dressing gown and investigate further.

A few months ago the first warning wail would have had Rosie grabbing her daughter and flying downstairs to the safety of the cellar, but there had been a lot of false alarms recently; German reconnaissance planes had skimmed over the capital but there hadn’t been a bombardment since the winter. The Normandy landings had been such a success that nobody was expecting one while the Luftwaffe had their hands full elsewhere. But something was surely closing on London, or why were the defence batteries blasting away?