On a Wing and a Prayer. Ruby Jackson
‘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.
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