On a Wing and a Prayer. Ruby Jackson

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       SIX

      Rose had never visited York but was familiar with it from photographs in magazines and on calendars. She had looked forward to her first glimpse of the historic city. She knew that York had been bombed in April but was still stunned by how much the picture in her head differed from the new reality. The station and the railway lines had suffered, and evidence of destruction and repair were everywhere. The only building she recognised was York Minster, still standing unchallenged among ruins of houses, churches and schools.

      She had travelled with an older woman, Gladys Archer, a lance corporal, who had come north from London. On the way to the camp, the drive through the old city had sickened both of them. The devastation of war was everywhere. There were huge craters in several streets, together with piles of broken glass and rubble, still uncollected. Skeletons of homes and businesses stood out against the lovely summer sky. Rose was relieved to reach the camp.

      Less than an hour later, she was meeting her roommates and unpacking her kitbag.

      ‘Well, Petrie, still delighted to be in the Auxiliary Territorial Service?’ asked a very pretty young woman, smiling brightly at Rose out of beautiful, very dark eyes as she handed her a mug of hot sweet Camp coffee. ‘I’m Francesca Rossi, and I do prefer Francesca, but call me Fran if it’s easier.’

      ‘Yes, Francesca, I’m still delighted,’ answered Rose, and all the young women in the Nissen hut laughed. ‘I’m Rose and, believe it or not, I even like that coffee.’

      ‘Real coffee’s fearfully expensive, but the bottled mixture does make a pleasant change from the terrible tea,’ said Francesca.

      Gladys, who confessed to a headache after all the travelling, glared at the pretty young woman. ‘What would an Italian know about tea?’

      ‘I know all about tea,’ Rose said hurriedly as she saw what appeared to be the beginning of an unpleasant scene, ‘and quite a lot about coffee.’

      Francesca smiled her beautiful smile. ‘I can answer Gladys, Rose,’ she said. ‘I am sure her bark is, as you might say, worse than her bite. Firstly, Gladys, I am not Italian. My grandparents were Italians who were happy and grateful to come to England many years ago. My father, Giuseppe, was born in England and was a British citizen and that made him very proud. He fought for his country – this country – in the Great War and was gassed. His lungs were so badly injured that he lived only until 1921. I was born three weeks after his death and so I too am British, but of English and Italian descent. And yes, we have an ice-cream shop…’

      ‘Best ice cream in the whole of Yorkshire,’ another girl put in.

      Francesca laughed. ‘Yes, it is, thank you, and in the café Nonno makes the best lunches.’

      ‘Sold,’ said Rose. ‘When are we free to go? And what does Nonno mean?’

      ‘Italy is still on Jerry’s side.’ Gladys seemed not to want to let go.

      ‘Grampa,’ Francesca answered the second question. ‘But very soon Italy will join the Allies because most Italians are unhappy with Il Duce, Benito Mussolini. Unfortunately some people here are very angry with Italians, even those whose families have lived in this country for many years. This is unfair. We are loyal British citizens whose ancestors came from Italy and, even after what happened to Nonno, we pray for the day when Italy and England will be allies.’

      ‘Can’t come soon enough,’ Gladys conceded, sitting down on an empty chair.

      Rose looked at Francesca and saw her lovely dark Italian eyes were sparkling with tears she was trying hard not to shed. ‘Francesca, can you tell us what happened to your grandfather?’

      ‘Everything is well now, Rose, but we will never forget it. We prefer not to speak of it, but the very day that Italy declared war against Britain, Nonno was arrested and interned. All the years he has lived and worked here and they called him “of hostile origin”…For him, thankfully, imprisonment lasted only a few months.’

      Both Rose and Gladys gasped. ‘How awful for you, Fran,’ said Gladys. ‘I’m sorry I was grumpy.’

      Francesca seemed determined to remain calm and friendly. ‘I have been in this camp several months, and I’m very happy – with everything,’ she added, looking over mischievously at Gladys. ‘And, Rose, you will be happy with the appalling engine the transport officer will find for you to work on, no?’

      She means yes, thought Rose, but she smiled. Apart from the fact that Francesca was very friendly and determined to remain polite, even when others were being rather churlish, she was an Italian – no, she was British of Italian descent.

      ‘No, Francesca, I was looking forward to actually driving a truck or a car or even a Jeep; instead you say I’ll be in overalls, as usual, and covered in oil and gunge.’

      ‘The driving will come, Rose. The maintenance is as important, if not even more important, than being able to drive whatever one is asked to drive. What if you are taking a politician or a general to an important meeting and the car goes phut two miles from the venue? What do you do?’

      ‘Fix it, I hope.’ Rose smiled at Francesca. ‘I see your point, but everything seems to take so long.’

      Francesca offered her a box of biscuits. ‘Have some. They’re Italian.’

      ‘And quite delicious,’ said Gladys, determined to show her better nature. ‘Forgive my bad mood.’

      ‘I think everyone in the world has a bad mood sometimes, Gladys, and, believe me, you’re an amateur. An Italian, like Nonno, in a bad mood is a force of nature. Maybe we can all go to my nonno’s café for lunch when we next have time off. I’ll tell him, cook as for Italians: that way, we don’t get chicken and chips.’

      ‘But what about his bad mood?’

      ‘You’ll see a good mood – a beautiful sight. Maybe he’ll sing. A force of nature, remember? You’ll tremble and say, “What does he do with all this energy when he’s angry?”’

      ‘He uses as much energy being angry as he does when he’s happy?’ Gladys was laughing.

      ‘Exactly. Now who has an afternoon off soon?’

      Rose smiled. She would miss her friends from Preston, just as she had missed the friends she had made at Guildford, but she knew she would like most of these hard-working, dedicated women just as much.

      ‘There’s a very pretty girl here called Francesca,’ she wrote to Stan later.

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