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 slanted a smile over a shoulder. ‘I’ll call you Rosie then, and I’m Hazel to my friends. Most of the others here address us by our surnames. But I don’t go for being formal with people I like.’
It was a typical canteen set with uncomfortable-looking chairs pushed under Spartan rectangular tables. Hazel led the way into the kitchen at the back and filled the kettle at a deep china sink. Having rummaged in a cupboard for some cups and saucers she turned to give Rosie a searching stare.
‘Got a man in your life?’
Rosie shook her head, having noticed that Hazel was glancing at her fingers, probably searching for a ring of some sort. Her mother’s wedding ring was wrapped in tissue in her handbag. ‘You got a boyfriend?’ Rosie always turned a leading question on its head. Her home life wasn’t up for discussion.
‘Mmm … he’s a sailor. Chuck’s due back on leave soon.’
‘Lucky you,’ Rosie said with a friendly smile.
‘Lucky him … if you know what I mean,’ Hazel winked a weighty eyelid, lewdly puckering up her scarlet lips. She cocked her head. ‘Can’t believe you’ve not got a feller.’ She tutted. ‘Sorry, that was a bloody stupid thing to say, all things considered. There’ve been so many casualties in this damned war.’
‘No, it’s all right; I’ve not lost anybody over there or here. Just not got anybody special in my life … a man that is …’
Rosie’s private smile as she thought of Hope went unnoticed by Hazel.
Hazel spooned tea into a small enamel pot. ‘Best get this down us before the hordes descend. Teatime at four thirty.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh, got half an hour to spare.’ She poured boiling water onto the leaves and stirred. ‘Come on, while that brews I’ll show you a bit more of the set-up.’
Hazel was tall and solidly built. From the young woman’s forthrightness Rosie reckoned Hazel was no shrinking violet when it came to cleaning up the human wreckage left behind after Hitler had dropped his calling cards.
‘This is the common room.’ Hazel waved at a young fellow who was filling some hurricane lamps ranged in front of him on a table. In response he called out a cheery hello.
‘New recruit, Tom,’ Hazel informed. ‘Tell Miss Rosie Gardiner she’s barmy; go on, she won’t believe me.’
‘Listen to Hazel,’ Tom called with a rather effeminate wave. ‘Scarper while you still can.’ He then turned his attention to the funnel he was using to drip oil into the lamps.
‘Tom Anderson is a conchie,’ Hazel said quietly. On seeing Rosie’s bemusement she explained, ‘Conscientious objector. We’ve had a few of those sent here. He might not want to fight but he’s a bloody godsend with the ambulances. He’s a driver and knows a thing or two about mechanics. He used to drive a tractor on his dad’s farm.’
Rosie hoped Tom was unaware that Hazel had been gossiping about him. His boiler-suit-style uniform made him look more like a plumber than an ambulance driver.
‘Table