Rosie's War E-Book

Linda Priestley

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Historical Romance
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 194

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

"Rosie's War" is a poignant story set during and after World War II, revolving around Rosie, who navigates the challenges of love, loss, and resilience. The narrative unfolds with Rosie grappling with the complexities of her relationships, particularly with Tom and Bert. Rosie's life is marked by the heartache of delayed letters, misunderstandings, and the brutal realities of war. Amidst these trials, she receives a shocking letter from Bert, presumed dead, which brings a whirlwind of emotions and questions. The story captures the emotional turbulence of wartime and the enduring hope for reunion and peace​​.

Leseprobe

Rosie’s War

Author: Linda Priestley

Illustrator: Sarah Holliday

The Threat Of War

November 1938

Rosie threw the last of the stale bread to the chickens that were crowding round her ankles.

“Get on with you, that’s your lot. Shoo.” One hen grabbed a large crust and fled, the others in hot pursuit. Rosie laughed.

“That’s a nice laugh. What’s the joke?” a voice came from behind the hedge. There was the sound of scrambling, a shaking of the hedge between the garden and the lane, then a face and shoulders appeared over the top. Merry blue eyes, tousled hair under a workman’s cap which was a little too large, a once-white shirt with no collar, a tatty work jacket and the loveliest smile.

“Hello! Who are you?” Rosie said, taking a step back in surprise. “What are you doing in the lane?”

“I’m helping Mr Drayton, the hedge-layer. I work on the Home Farm.” The cheeky grin appeared again, dimpling his cheeks, which looked as if they were only just getting used to the attentions of a razor.

“I expect you’ll know Father, then.”

“Who’s he?”

“Mr Canning.” Rosie expected the lad to be impressed, but his face fell.

“Oh, yes. The tractor driver.” The lad scowled. “You’ve got two brothers, Jack and Dick, haven’t you?” he added.

“Yes, both older than me. They work with Father.”

The lad’s scowl deepened, and Rosie thought he was going to vanish, which seemed a shame. And why was he so hostile to her lovely brothers?

“You don’t seem to be doing much hedge-laying – more like laying about in hedges,” Rosie said with a laugh.

“It’s my break, that’s what, saucy minx.” The hedge shook again as he stepped back down into the lane, so Rosie went up to the hedge and looked over. He slung a knapsack over his shoulder and started walking along the lane.

Rosie kept pace with him along the inside of the hedge towards the front gate.

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Tom. Tom Flitney.” Tom walked on stiffly, as if irritated with her, but Rosie couldn’t think why. He joined Mr Drayton, and set to work, apparently deliberately ignoring her.

She didn’t dare go out of the garden gate or Mother would be vexed with her for neglecting her duties, so she climbed on to the bottom rung and leaned over.

Mr Drayton was laying the hedge on the other side of the lane. Tom seemed to be fetching and carrying for him, handing him staves of hazel, picking up waste twigs and piling them in a heap.

Rosie dallied, chores forgotten, watching them. Mr Drayton was using a billhook to half-cut through the saplings, then, with a neat twist of his wrist, split them downwards before bending them over with a splintering twist, weaving them between the hazel staves to make a solid, living hedge. He trimmed off excess twigs while Tom cleared them out of his way.

The air was rich with a smell of cut wood and bruised bark.

“Mmm, that smells wonderful,” Rosie said appreciatively.

Mr Drayton took off his cap and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

“What’re you looking at?” he asked Rosie, somewhat crossly.

“It’s interesting. I wish I could do that.”

“Why aren’t you in school?”

“I’m fifteen. I’ve left.”

“Well, then, haven’t you got work to do? Girl your age ought to be in service or summat, not hanging over gates watching good, honest work being done.”

“I might when I’m older. Edith, my sister, is in service at the Big House, but Mother says she needs help here.”

“So, go and help her then, instead of gawping at us. Or here – be useful and ask you ma if she’ll boil us a kettle up for some tea.” Mr Drayton handed her a heavy, sooty kettle which looked as if it was usually boiled on a camp fire.

Rosie took it into Mother, who, wrinkling her nose, filled it and put it on the range to boil, then sent Rosie to the well to draw up more water. Mother had a secret, amused smile that Rosie didn’t understand, but loved anyway because it made Mother look younger and less care-worn.

All that afternoon Rosie found herself drawn to the hedge-laying between chores. She cheeked both men until the sun sunk westwards and the wind turned chilly.

Mr Drayton packed up his tools, bid Tom carry the broom and the kettle, and they disappeared down the lane. Rosie was gratified when Tom glanced back over his shoulder and winked at her.

When Father and her elder brothers, Jack and Dick, came home from their day’s labour on the Home Farm, Father helped himself to hedge trimmings for pea sticks next year, then tended to his garden while Rosie and Mother made their supper.

Mother said that Mr Drayton might be vexed about the sticks and that he might need the pea sticks for the gardeners at the Big House, but Father laughed and said if she’d boiled his kettle, then fair exchange was no robbery.

“Do you know a Tom Flitney at the Home Farm?” Rosie asked. “Seems he knows you.”

“Him!” Jack snarled. “He’s trouble, that one. Nasty piece of work.”

“You stay away from him, missy. He gave Jack here a black eye over nothing,” Father said. “His dad was no good, neither – died a few years back, drunken oaf.

“His mother runs the tobacconist’s in the village. What kind of a job is that for a woman? I reckon his dad drank the profits next door in the Shoulder of Mutton and it was a relief to her when he died. That’s what Jack told that Tom when Tom was being all high and mighty, then Tom lammed him one. Bad blood, I reckon.”

Rosie said nothing. Jack probably deserved all he got, she thought. That was an unkind thing to say about Tom’s dad, even if it were true. Tom had a lovely smile and couldn’t be that bad. She hoped she wouldn’t have too many jobs the following day and could spend more time chatting to Tom as he worked.

* * * *

The next morning Mother told Rosie to make her brothers’ beds as usual, help tidy the house, and feed the chickens.

By the time Rosie had done all this, Mr Drayton and Tom were busy at work, and had laid the hedge well beyond their gate, such that she had to go into the back garden to talk to them over the hedge.

Tom was sawing up the waste wood into kindling and logs.

“Is that for us?” Rosie asked innocently.

“Not likely,” Mr Drayton snorted. “I’ll be fetching it in the cart later when there’s a decent load. It’s used to heat the gardeners’ bothies and the glasshouses at the Big House – though I might spare you some if you fill that kettle for us.” He handed her the kettle with a wink.

Mother gave her secret smile when Rosie asked if she might bake some biscuits for Mr Drayton and Tom, and said that yes, she could, but to save some for her dad and the boys.

When Rosie took them out on a plate, Mr Drayton nodded his approval.

“I can see you’ll make someone a good wife some day.”

Rosie twirled and preened, casting a look at Tom, which he didn’t seem to notice. Soon they were back at work, and Mother told Rosie to come and help indoors, though she kept sneaking out when the opportunity arose.

“I like you, you’re funny,” Tom said, as he was sweeping up at the end of the day. “And thanks for the biscuits. They were great.”

“Will you take me out? To the cinema in Oxenbury?” Rosie’s words came out in such a rush it was a miracle they made any sense.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you to say please?”

“Please.”

“You’re very forward, miss. You’re too young to be walking out.”

Rosie pouted.

“I’m not that young. You can’t be that much older than me.”

“I’m seventeen, nearly a man.”

“You’re just a lad yet, Tom,” Mr Drayton interjected. “And it’s home time.”

“Are you coming back tomorrow?” Rosie asked.

“I’ll be back later with the cart for the wood, but we’ve finished this stretch.”

“Oh, but I want Tom to take me out. Please, Tom, promise you will. I never go anywhere except church on a Sunday and to the village for the shop.”

“You’re just a little girl. Tell you what, I’ll take you to the cinema when you’re sixteen, that’s a promise,” Tom said.

He smiled in that wonderful way which made Rosie feel strange inside, all exhilarated and brave, her heart thumping with her own boldness. If you don’t ask, you don’t get, she told herself.

* * * *

The sun had set when Father and her brothers came home. They helped Mr Drayton and Tom load up the cart in the gathering darkness, swiftly because there wasn’t much daylight left, so Rosie wasn’t able to speak to Tom again. Then she and Mother helped Father, Jack and Dick fetch any overlooked wood into the back garden because it might come in handy.

The rest of the evening was spent listening to the wireless. Rosie was knitting, and her mother was doing some mending, squinting in the lamp light. The talk was all about Hitler and the threat of war, and whether Neville Chamberlain was right about it being peace for their time, but Rosie wasn’t really listening.

She was daydreaming about Tom the master hedge-layer, a small cottage with roses and honeysuckle growing either side of the front door, and half a dozen children tumbling round the garden.

* * * *

That Sunday Rosie craned her neck and looked round the congregation. She couldn’t see Tom anywhere. Father kept giving her stern looks, his Sunday best collar tight under his chin.

Bert Hadleigh, the gamekeeper’s son, saw her looking round and gave her a smile, which she ignored. She settled back on the pew, and only half listened to the sermon.

Maybe Tom didn’t attend this church. Maybe he was a Catholic, which might explain Father’s hostility. Thinking about it, she didn’t remember seeing Tom before.

She was sure she’d have noticed him, those lovely eyes and cheeky smile. She stood and sang, and joined in the prayers, but her mind was far away.

Best not ask Father or the boys about Tom, since they obviously didn’t like him, but Mother might know something because she bought Father two ounces of tobacco for his pipe every week from the village tobacconist’s, so she would know Tom’s mother.

* * * *

The next day was washday. Father’s collars were soaking in soapy water in jam jars in the washhouse, but they always needed a good scrub, a job Rosie detested.

Soon she and Mother were dripping with perspiration as they washed and scrubbed everything, Rosie twisting the dollypeg to and fro in the tub when Mother grew weary.

They wrung everything out between them and pegged it all on the line. Mother muttered about needing more pegs from the gypsies the next time they came round.

“Mother, can I come with you to the village tomorrow? Help you with the shopping?”

“I’d welcome a bit of help lugging the shopping back,” Mother agreed.

It was a fair old walk to the village, down their long lane, past the church, the school, then into the village, and Rosie was glad when they got there.

As they passed the school she suddenly realised that she did know Tom, after all. He’d been in the big class when she was in the little class, and in the boys’ playground at break times, so she hadn’t seen him to speak to, though her brothers had.

She remembered him now as a quiet, studious type who could have gone on to better himself, had his father not died. This made Tom head of the household, and he needed to work to help support his mother.

At the butcher’s Mother bought tripe for dinner the next day, and some bacon. Father and her brothers did like their bacon, saying it set them up for the day. Rosie asked her mother if they could have shop-bought cakes for tea. Mother looked scandalised and said no, they were only for high days and holidays.

They went into Flitney’s, the tobacconist. Rosie sniffed in the heady smell of tobacco and the tantalising scent of sweets, while her mother asked Mrs Flitney to measure out two ounces of tobacco. The brown shreds fell into the pan, then Mrs Flitney slid them into a brown paper bag, sealing it with a practised twist.

Rosie eyed the jars of sweets and yearned. She didn’t dare ask, though, because money was always short.

That Friday there was a knock at the back door. Rosie opened it. Bert Hadleigh, the gamekeeper’s son, was standing on the doorstep, cap in hand.

“Hello,” he said with a grin. “Father sends his regards and asks if Jack and Dick would act as beaters tomorrow for the shoot. We’re down a couple of men.”

“You’d best come in and sit down a while. They’re not back from the fields yet,” Rosie said.

Bert stepped into the kitchen and sat at the table.

“Mmm, something smells good.” His voice had fully broken since Rosie had seen him last and it looked as if he’d started shaving. He took off his jacket, laid it on his lap and smiled at her. He was good-looking in his way, but not a patch on Tom.

Rosie put the kettle to boil.

“You’ll have a cup of tea,” she told him. “Mother’s in the yard fetching the eggs and shutting the hens up.”

“Aye, we’ve had some trouble with foxes, pesky vermin.” Bert’s eyes followed her round the kitchen as she fetched the teapot, set it on the range to warm, then made some tea when the kettle boiled. She took the cloth off the milk jug, sniffed it to check that it was still good, then poured Bert a cup of tea. There was a clatter on the doorstep, and Father walked in with Jack and Dick. Mother followed with a few eggs in a basket.

“They’re going off lay,” she grumbled. “Oh, hello, Bert. I didn’t know you were here.”

Bert stood up.

“I’ve only just come, Mrs Canning. I was after Jack and Dick. Father needs some help with the shoot tomorrow . . . ”

The men folk greeted Bert enthusiastically and made arrangements for the next day. Mother insisted that Bert stay for supper, which was stewed mutton.

“He’s a good lad with a good, solid future ahead of him,” Mother remarked after Bert had gone.

“That’s true,” Father said. “He’ll be a gamekeeper like his father, no doubt.” He looked appraisingly at Rosie. “And Dick and Jack think he’s all right, don’t you, lads?”

* * * *

After that, Bert became a regular visitor, teasing Rosie, and bringing the occasional rabbit for the pot. The talk always came round to the war and whether it would happen or not. Hitler had taken Austria and demanded part of Czechoslovakia, places Rosie only vaguely remembered on the map of the world at school.

The Prime Minister had visited Munich a couple of months previously to confront Hitler about it, and had come back and told the nation they could sleep safe. Rosie believed him, but Father grumbled about it, saying the Hun were never contented with what they had.

He sometimes stared into the fire in the parlour, his face falling. Mother told Rosie he was remembering the last war with Germany, when he’d fought in the trenches, and she, too, looked sad and worried.

A Special Birthday

Saturday, July 29th, 1939

Rosie was washing up the breakfast things after the men had left for work. Mother reached up into a jar on the mantelpiece and pulled out a few coins.

“Rosie, as it’s your birthday tomorrow, will you go into the village and buy some cakes from the bakery?”

Rosie smiled broadly, rushed to Mother and hugged her.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, child, your hands are wet. And what’s wrong with my own baking, I really don’t know.”

“Mother, your baking is lovely, but shop-bought cakes are different. Special.”

Rosie grabbed the basket and walked rapidly down the lane. She intended to get to the village swiftly, so she could dawdle whilst there. She was on her own and felt very grown up. Above her, the skylarks were trilling, and around her the bees were busy in the fireweed.

Rosie took a long time deciding what to have in the baker’s. She had a penny left over so went into the tobacconist’s for some sweets. Rosie was disappointed that Tom wasn’t there, but he’d be working, most likely.

Rosie opened her mouth to ask Mrs Flitney to remind Tom of his promise, but the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, her heart galloped into her mouth and a couple of tears threatened to fall. She turned and blundered out of the shop, straight into someone. A pair of strong hands steadied her.

“Now then.” It was Tom.

“I thought you’d be at work,” she blurted out.

“I am, I’m tidying up the churchyard. It’s dinner-time.”

“Not laying hedges?”

“Oh, you silly goose – that’s winter work. Don’t you know anything?”

“I know one thing – you made me a promise.”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“You promised to take me to the pictures on my sixteenth birthday. Well, that’s tomorrow.”

Tom looked contrite.

“Oh my, so I did. I’d clean forgotten. I can’t take you tomorrow, it’ll have to be a Saturday matinee because we need to get the bus to town. I’ll ask for next Saturday off and take you then, if that’s all right with you. A promise is a promise, after all.” He smiled, but it wasn’t his warm, cheeky grin.

Rosie said nothing to Father or Mother when she got back. She didn’t want a scene to spoil her birthday. Mother had picked bunches of flowers and decorated the parlour with them. There was a new dress half made on the kitchen table.

“I want to make sure this fits,” she told Rosie. “It’s your birthday present.”

Rosie stood on a chair while Mother made the final adjustments. A new dress. Perfect. Just right for next Saturday.

Sunday passed blissfully, with a special birthday tea, including the shop-bought cakes. Dick and Jack were especially attentive because a new law had been passed which meant they would be leaving soon to do military training in case there was a war after all.

For all Mr Chamberlain told the nation it was peace, there seemed to be a lot of preparations for war. The threat seemed much more real now her brothers might have to fight.

Monday dawned, and Rosie didn’t feel any more grown up.

“Not surprising,” Mother said. “You’re still a child for a few years yet.”

The linen was drying on the lines. Rosie turned to her mother.

“Mother, you remember that Tom who was laying hedges? He promised to take me to the pictures when I’m sixteen, and he wants to take me on Saturday.”

Mother compressed her lips crossly.

“And how long has this been going on?” she asked.

“What?”

“You’ve been seeing him,” Mother said accusingly.

“No. He promised when he was doing the hedge. I saw him on Saturday and reminded him.”

Mother scrutinised her for a whole minute before sighing.

“I expect Father will say you may, if it’s the matinee and you’re back before it’s late – though I can’t help wishing Bert had asked you. He’s a nice young man and your brothers get on so well with him.

“The only thing I know about Tom is his father was a wastrel and Tom thumped our Jack that time. I’ll cook your father his favourite supper and tell him when he’s mellow.”

* * * *

Tom arrived at Rosie’s house very early that Saturday. Rosie was waiting for him in the garden. When he approached, she ran out of the gate to greet him. He was wearing what Rosie assumed was his Sunday best, which perversely made him look younger than when he was in his working clothes.

“Oh, my, you look great,” he said in a surprised tone.

“Father wants a word.” Rosie’s throat was so tight, the words sounded terribly ominous.

Tom’s face fell.

“Oh.” He followed Rosie into the kitchen where Dick and Jack eyed him up unsmilingly from the breakfast table. Mother was at the sink, washing up. Rosie showed Tom into the parlour where Father was waiting.

“Close the door on your way out, Rosie,” he said. “Wait in the kitchen.”

Rosie sat down at the kitchen table.

“I don’t know what you want to waste your time with him for,” Jack said. “He’s no good.”

“I want to go to the cinema. I’ve never been.”

“More fool him for taking you, losing a day’s pay like that.”

“Oh.” Rosie hadn’t considered the possibility of lost wages. She felt very contrite.

Tom came into the kitchen looking slightly pale, followed by her scowling father.

“Have you got your coat?” Tom asked. Rosie nodded and picked it up off the back of a chair and Tom helped her on with it. She could feel her heart thundering inside her, excited and scared.

Mother hugged her.

“Take care and be good,” she said, slipping Rosie a half crown, unseen by anyone else.

Rosie and Tom walked the two miles into the village in shy silence. As they went past the church, Rosie plucked up the courage to speak.

“What did Father say to you? He can be right scary when he’s angry.”

“See here, Rosie, you can’t ask a fellow that sort of question. He just told me to take care of you, that’s all.” Tom had a red flush creeping up his neck.

They waited for the bus to Oxenbury. Though it was early yet, there was a smell of bread from the baker’s. The sun slanted between the trees, warming a mongrel which was scratching itself and looking speculatively at the butcher’s shop. Rosie knew it was going to be the most perfect day. She sighed, smiling. More people joined them in the queue.

The bus arrived, and Rosie was first on. Tom paid for two returns to Oxenbury. Rosie felt a pang of conscience. She’d had a right cheek to ask him, that’s what. She fingered the money in her pocket. Perhaps she should pay him back? She suddenly realised the depth of her ignorance and felt herself blushing.

Tom kept casting her looks, averting his eyes whenever they clashed with hers. She looked out of the window as the bus wended its way down the lanes, stopping every five minutes. Soon the bus was full, and Tom stood up for a lady.

“What a nice young man you have there,” the lady said as she sat down next to Rosie.

“There’s plenty of time before the film,” Tom said when they reached Oxenbury. “Why don’t we have a look round and I’ll stand you a spot of lunch.”

“I’ll pay for my cinema ticket. Here,” Rosie said in a rush, pushing the half crown at Tom.