Free Rosie Goes to War by Alison Knight Page B

large mugs of tea from a lady with a trolley. I’d rather have a cappuccino, but didn’t dare say so. Instead I drink the tea gratefully. The dust from the cloth, plus the smell of the oil used to grease the machines, has made my throat dry and I’ve got a nasty taste in my mouth. The hot drink, even though it’s that horrible sterilized milk again, makes me feel much better.
    â€˜Everyone, this is Queenie,’ May introduces me.
    â€˜It’s Rosie actually,’ I say.
    There’s a chorus of groans. ‘Not another one.’
    â€˜Yeah, that’s why we’re calling her Queenie,’ says Nelly, and everyone nods.
    â€˜Good idea.’
    I give up. I won’t be able to hear anyone call me Queenie at work anyway as it’s so flipping noisy most of the time.
    I soon lose track of all their names. There’s Daisy, the three Roses I’d already been told about, Elsie, Betty, Eileen, Doris, Ivy, Esther and Sadie, and loads more.
    â€˜You’ll soon get to know everyone,’ says May.
    They’re a nosy lot – they want to know how old I am, where I come from, have I got a boyfriend? I can feel myself blushing as I think about Simon. Not that he’s my boyfriend, but I have fancied him forever, and he was finally starting to notice me – until Jess got her claws into him. I can’t believe she did that, knowing how much I like him.
    In a way, being here in 1940 is what my Gran would call a Blessing in Disguise. I won’t have to see them, no one can phone me, and Facebook hasn’t even been invented yet so I won’t have to face the humiliation of seeing Jess change her status to ‘ in a relationship ’ and post loads of pics of her and Simon snogging. Time travel is a seriously drastic way of escaping all that, but I suppose it’s good to have some breathing space until I can come to terms with my best friend’s betrayal and my broken heart.
    But what if I can never see any of them again? Oh crap, isn’t life confusing enough without all this? Someone coughs. They’re all looking at me.
    â€˜No, I don’t have a boyfriend,’ I say.
    â€˜You can have mine, love,’ says one of the girls. ‘I’ve been trying to get rid of him for ages.’
    â€˜Christ, you don’t want him,’ says someone else. ‘He’s barely house-trained.’ Everyone laughs and suggest different potential boyfriends for me.
    â€˜My son’s house-trained.’
    â€˜Yeah, but he’s only twelve.’
    â€˜Take my brother – soon as he gets married I get his bedroom. I’m sick of sharing with my dozy sister.’
    â€˜I expect you’ve got your eye out for a nice boy in uniform.’
    â€˜Thanks, but I’ll pass,’ I say.
    The girl who smiled at me earlier is Esther, and she’s the only one apart from me who doesn’t have a Cockney accent. She’s one of the quieter ones. She seems nice though, and laughs with the rest of us. I think she’s foreign, but don’t have time to ask before we have to get back to work.
    A couple of hours later we stop for lunch – a revolting sandwich made of bread that tastes like cardboard and an unidentifiable filling. I decide not to complain though as Nelly made it for me. When she gives it to me she says, ‘I don’t suppose it’s what you’re used to, but it’s all you’re gonna get while we have to manage on rations.’
    I can see she’s waiting for me to moan about it so she can have a go at me. Well I won’t give her the satisfaction. Instead I smile and say ‘Thanks Nelly. It was kind of you to make it for me.’
    Nelly narrows her eyes, still not trusting me. I want to laugh, but just keep on smiling. It feels good to confuse her. I remember how the old Nelly – sorry Eleanor – kept staring at me, making me feel uncomfortable. Well, now it’s my turn and even though