On a Wing and a Prayer. Ruby Jackson
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