Rosie’s War. Kay Brellend

gossip; in fact he could see now that it had just provided more grist for the mill. But they couldn’t backpedal on it now or it would make matters worse.

      Rosie felt frustrated with her father’s attitude but she didn’t want an argument with him so tried a different tack: ‘Look, I’ve been shirking conscription for years, pretending I’m a married woman.’

      ‘Ain’t shirking. Women with kids – legitimate or not – ain’t breaking the rules in staying home and caring for them,’ John returned. ‘Anyhow, you’ve been fire watching plenty of times.’

      Rosie gave up trying to put her point across and headed for the front door.

      ‘It’ll come out you’re an unmarried mother,’ John called out after her. ‘Then when they’re all talking about you behind yer back you’ll wish you’d done things differently.’

      The deputy station officer of Robley Road Auxiliary Ambulance Station in Hackney – or Station 97 as it was better known – was seated behind a battered wooden desk. Having studied the notes in front of her she inspected the young woman perched on a chair opposite.

      Rosie neatly crossed her ankles, nervously clasping her hands in her lap. She was wearing a smart blue two-piece suit purchased years ago when she was flush from working at the Windmill Theatre. It was a bit loose because she’d lost a few pounds running round after her toddling daughter, but was still in pristine condition. And the colour suited her. Her pale blonde hair had been styled into a sleek chin-length bob rather than jazzy waves, and she’d applied her make-up sparingly: just a slick of coral lipstick and some powder to cool the colour of her peachy complexion.

      ‘Your references are very good.’

      Since leaving her job at the Windmill Theatre Rosie hadn’t had much to deposit in her bank account but the elderly manager of the Barclays Bank in the High Street had agreed to give her a character. And so had the retired draper who’d employed Rosie as a youngster, winding wool for pocket money on Saturdays. Rosie had carefully chosen her referees from people who were unaware she was a mother and had always known her as Miss Gardiner. She might be withholding personal information, but it wasn’t the same as lying in Rosie’s opinion.

      ‘Do you consider yourself to be strong and healthy?’

      ‘Oh, yes, I’m fit as a fiddle,’ Rosie immediately returned.

      ‘You’ll need to be,’ Stella Phipps emphasised. ‘It’s surprising what a severed limb weighs. Then there are the stretchers to lug about. Lifting those to the upper position in an ambulance can put a person’s back out.’ Stella cocked her head, examining Rosie’s figure dubiously. She looked soft and petite, whereas most of the female recruits were strapping individuals.

      ‘Oh, I’m used to lifting …’ Rosie’s voice tailed off. She’d been on the point of adding that she’d got a chubby two-year-old who liked to be carried about but stopped herself in time. She was Rosemary Gardiner, spinster, no dependants. ‘My dad’s got a bad leg injury so I’ve lugged him up and down the cellar steps in the past, amongst other things.’

      ‘That’s the sort of stuff that comes in useful, but you do seem a bit weedy, dear, if you don’t mind me saying so.’ Stella took off her glasses to polish them. ‘Of course, you’re very attractive so no offence meant.’

      ‘I’m very capable,’ Rosie returned stoutly. ‘And I’ll prove it.’

      ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best, Miss Gardiner. It’s just that I feel obliged to impress on you that the work is arduous … and gruelling.’ Stella sighed. ‘Apart from physical sturdiness you need to be prepared for some harrowing sights. Have you had any medical training?’

      ‘No, but I’d quickly learn,’ Rosie said eagerly. ‘And the sight of a bit of blood doesn’t bother me. I tended to my dad when he got badly injured.’

      ‘The sight of “a bit of blood” is what you might encounter here when the sanitary bin in the ladies’ convenience overflows.’ Stella replaced her spectacles and gazed grimly at her interviewee, ignoring the girl’s blushing. If Miss Gardiner were serious about getting a job with the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service she’d better be prepared for some plain speaking. ‘If you’re accepted and your experience follows mine you’ll encounter rat-eaten bodies and scraps of terry towelling nappies containing burned flesh … all that remains of what was once a human baby.’ In the silence that followed Stella stabbed her pen nib repeatedly on the blotter, eyes lowered. ‘I’d been in the job just a fortnight when I observed a parachute descending and in the dark I thought it might be a German who’d bailed out. It was something far deadlier … a landmine. It exploded in Brick Lane about a hundred yards from where we’d just been called to another incident. That was during the winter of 1940 at the height of the Blitz.’ Stella paused. ‘We lost two of our ambulance crew that night.’

      Rosie swallowed, hoping she didn’t look too green about the gills. She knew the deputy station officer wasn’t being deliberately cruel. In fact, she was being very kind. ‘I understand … I’m prepared for the worst,’ Rosie vowed in a quavering yet resolute tone.

      ‘You’re a better person than I then, Miss Gardiner,’ Stella replied. ‘I wasn’t up to it at all; I brought my heart up the first time I had to deliver a man’s leg to the fridge at Billingsgate Market.’ She saw Rosie shoot her a horrified glance from beneath her thick lashes. ‘Oh, that’s sometimes the first stop for odds and ends before they make it to the mortuary, you see. We’re not cannibals in England … not yet, anyhow, despite the paltry rations.’

      Rosie smothered a giggle. Stella Phipps might be a fierce-looking dragon but she had a sense of humour. Rosie realised that it was probably an essential requirement for working in the LAAS, the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service. Having heard those stomach-churning anecdotes, she relaxed and decided she liked the woman who might soon be her boss.

      ‘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