Rosie’s War. Kay Brellend

eat, then talk about it later.’ Rosie gave her stepmother a smile, signalling a truce. It seemed there was something eating away at her father and she’d no idea what it might be. But she was quite sure it had little to do with her wanting a job and some independence.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘So you can hear it ’n’ all, can you, Rosie love? I thought me ears were playing tricks on me.’

      John was crunching along the cinder path in the back garden dressed in his pyjamas and bedroom slippers. His palms batted against his ears at intervals as though to unblock them.

      At the sound of her father’s voice Rosie turned and gave him a quick nod before fixing her eyes again on the moonless sky.

      It was a humid June night and Rosie had been restlessly dozing, when the wail of an air-raid siren had brought her swiftly to her feet. She’d glanced at Hope, sound asleep, then padded to the window to stare out. It was just a week away from midsummer and, though not yet dawn, the sky hadn’t fully darkened. She’d been able to see for some distance. She’d heard the ack-ack guns start up and seen bullets tracing the heavens, but a weird noise had made her snatch up her dressing gown and investigate further.

      A few months ago the first warning wail would have had Rosie grabbing her daughter and flying downstairs to the safety of the cellar, but there had been a lot of false alarms recently; German reconnaissance planes had skimmed over the capital but there hadn’t been a bombardment since the winter. The Normandy landings had been such a success that nobody was expecting one while the Luftwaffe had their hands full elsewhere. But something was surely closing on London, or why were the defence batteries blasting away?

      The drone of approaching bombers was terrifyingly familiar to East Enders, whereas whatever was up there tonight was making an odd roaring noise as though a mechanic’s giant blowtorch had taken flight. The searchlights were in full swing yet Rosie hadn’t had a glimpse of a plane’s silhouette. She rubbed the back of her stretched neck, wondering if the eerie throb was coming not from above but from some new-fangled machinery down on the Pool of London, where supply ships heading for Normandy were being loaded up.

      Suddenly the sky directly overhead was striped by a searchlight, making Rosie anxiously blurt out, ‘Not taking any chances, Dad. I’m getting Hope and going to the cellar. Come on … don’t care if it is another false alarm. Never heard anything like that before and it can’t be one of ours or the guns would have stopped.’

      ‘What the bloody hell is that?’ John yelled, pointing towards the south. ‘’S’all right, love. Look, it’s not a bomber. It’s much smaller … a fighter plane, I reckon, and the Jerry bugger’s taken a hit. Look!’ He wagged his finger at the sky.

      Rosie halted by the back door, again gazing heavenwards.

      There, caught in a crosshair of searchlights, was the outline of a plane; and it did, indeed, have a plume of brilliant fire spurting from its tail.

      ‘It’ll crash, Dad,’ Rosie shouted. ‘Get inside.’

      ‘It’s gonna crash all right,’ John said in awe, watching the fast-moving object. ‘Blimey! Wonder if the pilot’s ejected. Keep an eye out for a parachute, love. Don’t want no Kraut landing on me roof.’ Suddenly he went quiet, as did the V1 rocket, but the weapon glided on silently before its nose dipped …

      ‘Come on, Dad!’ Rosie was already inside the back door, holding it ajar for him. ‘Quick! Let’s get in the cellar!’

      ‘What in God’s name’s going on?’ Doris had shuffled into view, belting her dressing gown. ‘We got a proper raid?’

      ‘Is that Jerry? Taken a hit, has he?’ a fellow bawled across fences. ‘Bailed out, has he? See anything, did yer, John?’

      ‘Dunno what the hell it is, mate,’ John yelled back at Dick Price. Peg’s husband was yawning and scratching his pot-belly beneath a grimy vest. John had noticed that the trail of flames had disappeared at about the same time that the aircraft’s engine cut out. He didn’t reckon that the pilot would’ve managed to extinguish that fire. As the thing had got closer he’d also noticed that it had the Luftwaffe cross on it but it wasn’t even big enough to be a Messerschmitt.

      ‘Reckon it might be wise to get under cover.’ Finally John’s fear overtook his amazement. He waved his arms in warning at his neighbour before limping into the house and following Doris down the cellar stairs. Rosie joined them seconds later with Hope clinging sleepily around her neck.

      When the explosion came a few minutes later Rosie instinctively curled her body protectively over her small daughter until the mortar that had been loosened from the bare brick walls had finished coating them in fine dust.

      ‘Reckon that was over Bethnal Green,’ John said after a short silence. ‘Bet Jerry sent over some sort of Kamikaze pilot in a toy plane. ‘I ain’t never seen the like of that before.’

      ‘If you’re right, I hope there’s just the one of them.’ Rosie cradled Hope, soothing her whimpering daughter with gentle murmurs.

      ‘Don’t reckon Hitler’ll get many volunteers. Jerry ain’t like the Nips when it comes to that sort of thing.’ Doris picked up the knitting she kept in the cellar to while away the time during air raids. ‘If this is a sign the Blitz is starting all over again then I’m getting out of London. I was living on me nerves last time, never knowing which way to run to the nearest shelter.’ Doris threw down the needles, unable to concentrate on counting stitches. ‘D’you reckon there’ll be more of those blighters tonight?’ She gazed at her husband for a response but John was still shaking his head to himself in disbelief at what he’d seen and heard out in the garden. ‘Well, I ain’t having it,’ Doris said shrilly. ‘I’m off to me son’s place in Kent for some peace and quiet. Already been invited to stay so I’m taking me daughter-in-law up on it.’ Still John sat rubbing his bad leg and gazing at the ceiling. With an agitated tut, Doris picked up the cardigan sleeve and started knitting a row of pearl.

      As soon as Rosie’s father had shouted out that there was a letter for her it had been a relief to give up the pretence of rest and hurry downstairs. They’d all trooped up to bed when the all clear sounded but Rosie had found it impossible to get back to sleep. The sinister chugging that had first woken her had continued to pound through her brain. She’d buried her head in the pillow to try to block it out but by then the sun had been filtering through the curtains.

      Her father was obviously not in the mood to share any news about her forthcoming job interview so with a sigh Rosie returned to her bedroom with her letter. Within half an hour she had got dressed, neatly filled in the Form of Application for National Service, and put on her mac as it was drizzling outside.

      ‘Just off to the post box. Will you mind Hope for a few minutes?’ Rosie poked her head round the kitchen door to ask her dad. ‘She’s still asleep so shouldn’t be any trouble.’

      ‘What name you going under then?’ John asked, pointing at the envelope in his daughter’s hand.

      ‘My real name. I’m Rosemary Gardiner, aged twenty-two, spinster, born and bred in Shoreditch.’

      ‘So your daughter doesn’t exist then?’

      ‘Oh, she does!’ Rosie vehemently declared. ‘But Hope’s my private business and there’s no reason to bring her into it.’

      ‘Well I say there is!’ John retorted. ‘Round here you’re Mrs Deane now and that’s the way it should be. Using two different names’ll brew up trouble.’

      ‘Answering questions about my poor dead “husband” will brew up trouble,’ Rosie replied flatly. ‘I don’t want to start off in a new job telling a pack of lies about myself; they always trip you up in the end.’

      John muttered beneath his breath but he