Helena Schrader's Historical Fiction: "A Rose in November"

"A Rose in November" is the second novella of the "Grounded Eagles" Trilogy. It is a love story for the not-so-young in that it describes the romantic attraction between two middle-aged people from very different backgrounds. Hattie Fitzsimmons was introduced last week. Rhys Jenkins is the man she falls in love with at 45.

Excerpt 1:

Rhys Jenkins was torn from a deep sleep and grunted audibly when the alarm woke him. It was still pitch dark beyond the black-out blinds. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and switched on the light so he could wash and dress quickly and quietly without disturbing the kids. He had been dreaming vividly, and he tried to bring the dream back to his consciousness, as he let water into the basin from the two taps. Plunging his hands in to the lukewarm water, he flung water over his face and wiped it dry with the towel hanging beside the sink. The dream eluded him, but it had taken him back in time — so much so that as he went to shave, he found himself asking when his hair had gone so grey? Could he really be an ageing man when he felt like he hadn’t yet started to live?

Wasn’t he still the same young man who had scrambled up from a trench in late 1916 to give a downed pilot a hand restarting his engine? That too had been on a cold and dark November day. The mud of no man’s land had been frosted in the first glimmer of dawn. They had heard the aircraft sputtering overhead and looked up in astonishment as it banked and set itself down on the rough stretch of mud. They were even more astonished still when the pilot clambered out and ran around to open the cowling of his engine. “Must have some kind of engine trouble”, someone surmised as they all stood there staring.

Rhys had glanced towards the rising sun and reckoned the German artillery spotters would soon find the downed plane and start taking potshots at it. He handed his tin mug filled with lukewarm tea to one of his mates and scrambled out of the trench to jog over to the pilot. “Can I help, sir?”

The young man who looked over at him in evident astonishment was about his age. He had pushed his goggles onto his forehead, but they left huge, red rings around his eyes, making him look frightened and vulnerable. He was bundled up against the cold, but his hands were so numb and stiff they were practically useless. “Do you know anything about aircraft engines?” he asked in an accent Rhys had only heard from very senior officers — the ones who came and went and never said much anyway.

“No, sir, but I’ve tinkered with the odd car engine. If you tell me what to do….”

Somehow together they got the thing going again. He and the pilot turned the fragile crate around by the wing tips so it faced the longest stretch of more-or-less level ground they could find, and then the pilot started to climb back into the cockpit. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder, “I say, what is your name?”

“Lance Corporal Jenkins, sir. Royal Welsh Fusiliers.”

“Ever think of joining the RFC?” That was the Royal Flying Corps.

“No, sir. Do you think they’d take someone like me?”

“They would if they had any brains, but you never can be sure with the blimps, can you? Thanks again and cheerio!” The pilot and aircraft disappeared in the misty November morning, never to be seen or heard again. The idea of joining the RFC, on the other hand, wouldn't leave me alone.

Rhys is the son of a Welsh miner and never expected to do anything more than "go down the pit" until the First World War broke out. With the wisdom of hindsight, we know that WWI was a nightmare, but for youths like Rhys Jenkins it was a huge opportunity -- an opportunity to leave the parish where he'd be born. It was an opportunity to travel not just to London, but to Paris, too. It was an opportunity to meet men from other parts of the country, with different backgrounds, different religious views, and different goals. It was also an opportunity to learn a trade other than mining.

It doesn't take long for Rhys to realize he doesn't want to return to Wales and spent the rest of his life in the mines. He opts for the RFC and trains as an aircraft mechanic, a fitter. But before he left home he'd "walked out" with a girl and they had an "understanding." He feels he's made a commitment and when the war is over they marry. Gladys is an upright, honest, and hard-working woman, who abhors sex and only endures it for the sake of children. She is also a strict disciplinarian, who finds it hard to show emotion. She doesn't make Rhys happy, but his own strict upbringing makes it impossible for him to break with her or even cheat on her. She's a "good" woman and he has no cause for complaint. He seeks his happiness at work rather than at home.

Then, in 1937 she dies leaving him with two children, the 14-year-old Ellen and the 11-year old Owain. He tries to be a father to them, but he has a demanding job -- that in the spring of 1940 becomes a 24/7 kind of job. Rhys is on the front-line of the Battle of Britain, keeping the aircraft of "the Few" armed, serviced and repaired.

When "A Rose in November" opens, the Battle of Britain is over but the Blitz continues. Rhys is now an experienced crew chief and his career is just about to take off when he gets posted to a front-line fighter squadron being re-equipped with Spitfires. Meanwhile, however, his Owain, now 14, increasingly skips school and is rude and insolent, while 17-year-old Ellen has dropped out of school to run his household. Solemnly she tries to replace her mother at the price of her own future. That's not what Rhys wants, he just doesn't have much time or aptitude for dealing with his teenagers.

The move to his new station, entails a short separation from the kids until he can find suitable housing off the station. Help is offered by a woman from the Salvation Army, Hattie Fitzsimmons. Before he knows what is happening, he finds himself attracted to her. Not only that: she returns his affection and soon a romance is blooming. But their class differences, the kids, and his job all threaten the relationship.

Excerpt 2:

The formation was changing overhead, and Rhys enjoyed the sight of one after another Spitfires flick rolling. He was annoyed when a WAAF tugged at his sleeve. “Flight Sergeant, there is an urgent phone call for you — from the police.”

“The police?” Rhys couldn’t make sense of that. What could the police want with him? An accident! Hattie! The way she drove, she’d probably had a car crash. He started running across the field towards the mess. By the time he got to reception, he was almost completely out of breath. “There’s a—"

The WAAF at reception pointed him towards the phone booth.

“Jenkins!” He gasped into the receiver.

“One moment.”

He sobbed for breath, his pulse racing.

“Flight Sergeant Jenkins?”

“Yes.”

“This is Chief Constable Kilian of the Salisbury Metropolitan Police. I regret to inform you that your son, Owain Jenkins, was arrested this afternoon for shoplifting. Your daughter, Miss Ellen Jenkins, asked us to inform you. Bail has been set at £5.”

“Shoplifting?” Rhys asked, dazed, still trying to get his bearings. Hattie was all right, but Owain had been arrested? In Salisbury? “What did he steal? Is it certain?”

“Very. He was observed by a customer and a sales assistant and when arrested he was still in possession of the stolen goods, namely four batteries, two packets of cigarettes and a camera. Furthermore, he resisted arrest, using foul language and attempting to inflict physical harm on the arresting officers. He broke Constable Walker’s glasses in the process.”

“He’s only thirteen,” Rhys stammered.

“Yes, and his sister is only seventeen.” The chief constable left him in no doubt as to what he thought of Rhys leaving his under-aged children to fend for themselves. “We strongly suggest that you take custody of your own children, Mr Jenkins, at the earliest opportunity.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll come right away. I’ll be there….” He looked helplessly at his watch, feeling vaguely sick. He would have to take leave, hitch a ride to Chichester, get the next train, and where was he supposed to come up with the bail? He’d just paid the estate agent the required three months advance on the cottage, not to mention that he’d been living a bit beyond his means to take Hattie out as often as he did. He wouldn’t draw his pay for another week. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning. I don’t know when exactly with trains and all, but I’ll be there before noon.”

“We look forward to meeting you, Mr Jenkins,” the constable told him primly and hung up.

Disfiguring injuries, class prejudice and PTSD are the focus of three tales set in WWII by award-winning novelist Helena P. Schrader. Find out more at: https://crossseaspress.com/grounded-eagles

Riding the icy, moonlit sky,

they took the war to Hitler.

Their chances of survival were less than fifty percent.

Their average age was 21.

This is the story of just one bomber pilot, his crew and the woman he loved.

It is intended as a tribute to them all.

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"This is the best book on the life of us fighter pilots in the Battle of Britain that I have ever seen.... I couldn't put it down."-- RAF Battle of Britain ace, Wing Commander Bob Doe.