Rosie’s War. Kay Brellend

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      ‘I can book you on a first-aid course with the St John Ambulance if you pass the interview.’ Stella closed the manila folder in front of her. ‘Any driving experience? We could do with drivers.’ She sighed. ‘Most of the men we had in the service have gone off on active duty, you see.’

      ‘I used to drive my dad’s car,’ Rosie burst out. She was determined to be taken on; and if that meant embellishing the truth a little, she’d do it. The only driving she’d ever done had been at the age of fifteen when her father had taken her for a day trip to Clacton and after much badgering had allowed her to get behind the wheel in a country lane. It was the first and last time, though; Rosie had scraped the paintwork of John’s pride and joy after swerving into a hawthorn hedge while fighting with the stiff gears.

      ‘Do you still drive a car?’ Stella asked optimistically.

      ‘Um … no,’ Rosie owned up. ‘Since Dad got injured he’s sold the Austin. And I never actually passed a test.’

      ‘At least you’ve a head start, dear. An RAC course might be all that’s required to bring you up to scratch.’

      Rosie nodded, feeling a fraud. None the less she added stoutly, ‘I’m sure I’ll do fine so long as I can remember where the brake is.’

      Stella chuckled, then looked thoughtfully at the new recruit. The volunteers were usually keen, eager to be of service. Some lasted just a few weeks before they took fright. Others, like herself and her friend Thora Norris, had been serving since the start of the Blitz. In those days they’d turned up for work dressed in their civilian clothes without even a pair of sensible shoes between them. As the war dragged on the service had become a lot more organised and efficient.

      ‘Following the landings in Normandy it seemed as though we might wind down when victory seemed finally within reach,’ Stella said. ‘The routine here had become quite mundane. Oh, we still got called out, but on the whole we were dealing with domestic incidents or road accidents.’ She shook her head in despair. ‘You’d be surprised at how many dreadful injuries have been caused by the blackout. It’s as lethal as any Jerry bomb.’

      ‘But if the damage done by that bloody rocket coming over and causing havoc is anything to go by, you might need more volunteers …’ Rosie had anticipated what Stella Phipps was about to say and blurted it out, rather bluntly. She blushed, mumbled, ‘Sorry … language …’

      Stella smiled. ‘You’ll hear worse … say worse … than that, dear, if you join our little team at Station 97. Letting off steam is essential in this line of work. So no apology required.’

      Rosie smiled sheepishly.

      The recent explosion in Bethnal Green had everybody talking fearfully about a fiendish new weapon, although Whitehall was doing its best to keep the details under wraps to avoid a panic. But rumours were already spreading that the blazing plane Rosie and her father had watched speeding across the sky was a bomb shaped like a rocket and there had been whispers of others falling across London.

      ‘I saw that first one come over; the noise it made was deafening and very eerie,’ Rosie said. When she noted Stella’s interest she rushed on, ‘Dad and I watched it from the garden. Dad thought it was a miniature Messerschmitt and wondered whether the pilot might bale out and land on our roof because it seemed to be on fire.’

      ‘Let’s hope the rumours are just that,’ Stella said. ‘We don’t want a return to the Blitz.’

      Stella’s concern reminded Rosie of her stepmother fretting about London being heavily bombarded again. Doris had moaned constantly whilst they’d waited for the all clear to sound that night.

      ‘I’ll get one of my colleagues to show you around our station, though you might be posted to another one. Have you any preference where you’d like to be sent?’

      ‘As close to home as possible,’ Rosie answered quickly, following the older woman out into the corridor. ‘Here at Station 97 would be just fine.’

      ‘Righto …’ Stella said, striding along at quite a pace. ‘Of course when we get called out it’s not always to local incidents. If a Deptford crew for example are engaged on a major incident we might be required to cover for them on their patch.’

      ‘I understand,’ Rosie said, trotting to keep up with the older woman.

      ‘Have you seen Thora Norris?’

      Stella’s question was directed at a brunette who was propped on an elbow against the wall, smoking. She turned about, flicking her dog end out through an open door into the courtyard. ‘I think she’s gone shopping with the new mess manager, ma’am. We’re low in the cupboards, by all accounts.’

      ‘I’m hoping there are no petrol cans stored out there, Scott.’ Stella Phipps angrily eyed the stub smouldering on concrete.

      ‘Sorry … didn’t think.’ The young woman trotted outside to grind the butt out with a toe, looking apologetic.

      ‘Mmm … and not the first time, is it?’

      The young auxiliary was dressed in a uniform of navy-blue safari-style jacket and matching trousers. The letters ‘LAAS’ were picked out in gold embroidery at the top of a sleeve. She turned to look Rosie up and down. ‘How do? You mad enough to want to join us, then?’ She stuck out a hand and gave Rosie’s small fingers a thorough pump.

      ‘Nice to meet you, and yes, hope I’ve got the job.’ Rosie sent a peeking glance at the deputy station manager.

      ‘I think you’ll fit in,’ Stella said with a severe smile. ‘I’ll leave you in Hazel Scott’s capable hands.’ Her eyebrows hiked dubiously. ‘She’ll show you round the place and even if you’re not posted here, you’ll get a feel for things, Miss Gardiner. The auxiliary ambulance stations are all much of a muchness.’

      ‘Only ours is best.’ Hazel said sweetly, earning a smile from her superior.

      ‘Don’t mind her,’ Hazel hissed as Stella’s rigid back disappeared round a corner. ‘Bark’s worse than her bite and all that. I’ve worked in three different stations now and some of the DSOs – that’s deputy station officers to the uninitiated – well, they’re worse than the top dog.’ Hazel stuck her hands in her jacket pockets and chuckled. ‘Got something to prove, I suppose.’

      ‘She seemed very nice, I thought.’ Rosie managed to get a word in edgeways. She was glad to have any information about ambulance station life. She realised that there had been no need to turn up looking so demure: Hazel’s eyelashes were laden with mascara and crimson lipstick outlined her wide mouth.

      ‘Nice? Really?’ Hazel rolled her eyes in a show of surprise. She drew out her pack of Players and offered it to Rosie. ‘Don’t smoke?’ she snorted when Rosie declined with a shake of the head.

      ‘Used to … gave it up.’

      ‘Not for long in this place, you won’t. Couldn’t get by without a fag an hour, me.’ Hazel’s cockney accent seemed to have become more pronounced. She took a long drag on the cigarette then pointed with it. ‘Fancy a cuppa? Canteen’s just down this way.’

      ‘I’m Rosemary Gardiner, by the way. Rosie, friends call me.’

      Hazel СКАЧАТЬ