Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys (12 page)

She pulled on her coat, picked up her knitting and torch, lifted the gas mask from the hook, and after checking every light was off, hurried down to the public shelter at the bottom of the flats. By the time she got there it was full to bursting. She would have to try for the nearest railway arch shelter. She started running. Since the John Bull and Stainer Street bombings, she’d been wary of sheltering beneath the arches, but there simply weren’t enough public shelters, and sometimes there was no choice. People staked out their places early on in the evenings, not even waiting for the sirens to sound. Searchlights criss-crossed the night sky, lighting her way forward, and looking up, she saw tiny black dashes, stitching the beams together. Hundreds of bombs, falling like sleet. Suddenly she heard the unmistakable whistle of a bomb descending. Hurling herself on to the cobbled street, she covered her head. The explosion sent the stones rippling beneath her and windows from a nearby parade of shops shattered like a thousand chandeliers. Before the next bomb could fall, she leaped to her feet and ran, never stopping till she reached the railway arch. Not a moment too soon, she joined the crush of people inside, as the shock of another explosion ripped the night apart.

Families and couples were already settled into little encampments. Some had placed makeshift mattresses on to the rough wooden sleeping benches; others were bedded down on the floor. Children covered in blankets slumbered, in spite of the chatter and laughter that reverberated around the brick vault. But adults had less chance of sleep. Some were knitting, others reading by the light of paraffin lamps, and in one corner someone with a piano accordion had started up a sing-song. Peggy pushed her way through, looking for an empty corner.

‘Come over ’ere, love.’ A woman surrounded by six children, lying top-and-tailed on the floor beneath a striped blanket, shuffled over, patting a corner of the blanket. ‘Plenty of room,’ she said, grinning.

All night Peggy lay wakeful, curled on the edge of the woman’s blanket, listening to the alien snores and the fretful whimpering around her. It wasn’t fear of the bombs falling that kept her awake, nor the thought of George, locked up only a few streets away in Tower Bridge nick, though she did wonder if they would have a shelter there. What had really shaken her was the exhilaration she’d felt as she ran through the raid, which had far outweighed the fear. She was no fonder of bombs than the next person, so the only other explanation for it was that she was facing it alone. She had felt free.

When daylight broke and the all-clear sounded, she stirred gratefully. Two smiling WVS canteen women entered the shelter with trays of buns and cups of tea.

‘How about this for five-star service? Tea in bed!’ one of them said, bending down to an elderly couple who were just sitting up and reaching for their dentures.

‘Oh, look at this, love.’ The husband shook his wife. ‘Better’n the Savoy in here.’

Peggy thanked the woman whose blanket she’d shared and stepped round people packing up their bedding as she made her way outside, thick-headed, her mouth like sandpaper and her bones aching. A crowd of shelterers huddled round the WVS mobile canteen, while the woman serving struggled to keep up with the orders. After a night in the cold damp shelter, people’s faces brightened as they sipped from the steaming cups, warmed equally by the tea and the smile of the woman serving. Peggy joined the queue and when the woman handed her the tea, she asked, ‘Do you still need volunteers for these canteens?’

The girl in the green overall raised her eyes. ‘Are you free to start now?’ she asked, laughing.

After drinking down the hot tea, Peggy went straight to Southwark Park Road, without first going home. Her father received the news of George’s arrest with an expression of determined calm.

‘Well, he’s been good to us and we’ll stand by him,’ he said.

But her mother was distraught. ‘Of course we will, but what about our Peggy, what’s she going to do without him?’

They were talking about her as though she wasn’t there.

‘There’s cash in the house,’ she interrupted. ‘George’s got a bit tucked away, and he’s always told me to go to his mates if I ever get in trouble. You know George, everyone loves him.’

‘Well, if you find you can’t manage, you’ll just have to come home, love,’ her mother said.

But Peggy doubted she would ever go home again. Besides, her sister wouldn’t thank her for crowding her out in the bedroom.

‘He’ll be out in no time,’ her father said, patting her hand but avoiding her gaze. They both knew it would be much longer than that.

*

George was sentenced to two years. It might have been less if it had just been the clocks. The police had found jars of Hartley’s jam and packets of tea and sugar in the lock-up, and they were clamping down on black marketeering of rationed goods. But worst of all they had found stolen ration books and identity cards. When she heard that part of the charge Peggy went cold. Her parents must never find out about it, for it was far too close to the crime that had robbed them of their last few days with Jack, and she doubted that their fondness for George would survive that knowledge.

Peggy was allowed to go to his holding cell, before he was sent down. She hadn’t seen him since his arrest and she was shocked at the change in him. He sat, grey-faced and white-lipped, at a little table, a policeman standing behind him. When he saw her, he attempted the old cheery smile, but his eyes told her the truth. George was frightened.

‘Princess, I’m sorry,’ he said, reaching out for her hand. ‘Suppose I should be grateful – it could have been longer. You’ll be all right, though. Just go to Ronnie Riley if you’re ever short. Ronnie’ll look after you.’

‘I’ll be fine, George, don’t worry about me. I can always go back to work.’

‘No! There’s no need for that,’ George protested, but he knew as well as Peggy that the £500 fine which came with the sentence meant that her life as the queen of the Purbrook Estate was at an end. She wouldn’t argue with him, not now.

‘Well, look after yourself in there, and if your breathing gets bad make sure you see a prison doctor.’

She heard the constable give a small snort and looked up to see him smirking.

‘You’re entitled to see a doctor,’ she said firmly.

George looked uncomfortable, but managed a smile. ‘Yes, darl, I expect we get sent up Harley Street for our annual checkups an’ all.’

When she left him, she felt an odd mixture of guilt and relief. Guilt for all the times she’d balked at his controlling ways, relief at the sudden expansion she felt as the cell door snapped shut behind her. It was as if a confining corset had been released and finally she could breathe. It struck her as odd that just as George was beginning his prison sentence, she was being freed from hers.

The next day she went to the labour exchange and signed up for war work. She filled in countless forms, name, age, marital status, husband’s occupation. And Peggy felt herself blushing. Although it hadn’t been her crime, she realized all at once that she would feel the stigma of George’s.

‘In prison,’ she whispered, hoping that the people waiting to be seen couldn’t hear. The woman filling in the form paused for an instant. ‘Previous experience?’ she asked, not looking up.

‘Atkinson’s.’

‘Ah yes, they’re looking for experienced women. They’ve started making cream for burn victims, very important work, or plane parts. Do you have any experience of soldering?’

‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I’ve done soldering on the talcum powder tins.’

The woman looked up, suddenly interested. ‘That should come in handy. Women usually have to be sent on training courses. I’ll recommend you for Atkinson’s.’

Peggy’s one fear had been that with her husband in prison she’d be considered a ‘mobile woman’ and shipped off to the other end of the country. At least now she could stay near her family.

After the labour exchange she went to the local WVS office. It was buzzing with activity. In one corner, overalled women were sorting piles of second-hand clothing. The unmistakable fusty smell of unwashed clothes hit her and she hurried past to the kitchen, where, through a serving hatch, she could see women bending over deep sinks, washing cups and saucers. An elderly woman, in WVS green, greeted her at a reception desk and asked what hours she could do.

‘I’ll be doing war work at Atkinson’s, but I can volunteer around my shifts. I don’t mind night work,’ she said, thinking of the long nights ahead without George.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ The woman smiled and looked down at a rota. ‘We’re desperately in need of help on the mobile canteens’ night shift. So many women have to get home for their children, you see.’

Again came the list of questions ending in ‘husband’s occupation?’ And for some reason, this time her courage failed and she said, ‘Forces.’

She was disappointed that she couldn’t start right away, but in this, as in every other service, it seemed there was a uniform to be got. As she was being kitted out at the depot, with green frock and felt hat, along with a green woollen overcoat, she couldn’t help feel that there was nothing here that George could object to. She looked the picture of respectability. The thing that gave her greatest pleasure, however, was the tin helmet. With that on her head, she began to believe that she really was part of the war effort.

She had to share her excitement with someone and decided that May would be the one to really appreciate why she needed to get involved. Her sister had changed since they’d lost Jack, surprising Peggy with her own campaign to be allowed to join up. May had always been the predictable homebody, and sometimes Peggy felt envious of her sister, for escaping all the expectations that their parents had piled upon her as the firstborn. Peggy, the pretty one, the one who had to marry and give them grandchildren and make them proud. She’d already failed. After four years, there were no grandchildren, and perhaps never would be. But her sister of late had begun to do the unexpected, and now it felt that she was beginning to surge ahead, leaving Peggy hurrying to keep up.

She waited in The Grange, opposite the factory gates, and finally saw May walking towards her, chatting to a young man. Peggy didn’t recognize him but this looked like another first for May, who’d been so boy-shy for all her teenage years and had never had a chap. He was dressed smartly in a jacket and tie and had one hand in his trouser pocket. Though his face was turned aside, she saw he had a strong profile, with a head of thick wavy hair, which he pushed back from his forehead every now and then. As he walked he didn’t look straight ahead, but kept his gaze on May. They were so intent on their conversation that neither of them had noticed her waiting.

‘Peggy, what are you doing here?’ May gave her a look which forbade comment.

Peggy slipped her arm through May’s and said to him, ‘Excuse my sister, she’d never think to introduce us!’

She felt May’s nails digging into her arm. He laughed, a pleasant, deep laugh, and put out his hand. ‘Oh, she doesn’t need to – you’re Peggy, she’s told me all about you! Bill Gilbie, pleased to meet you.’

He might know all about her, but she knew nothing of him. It was just like May to keep him hidden away. He fell into step with them and seemed as easy and relaxed as May was awkward. It was a mystery to the whole family why one of the local chaps hadn’t snapped her up, but Peggy thought this one looked keen enough. She was intrigued.

When they reached Grange House, he stopped. ‘This is where I live,’ he said, waving towards the block of flats, and Peggy saw a look of disappointment cross May’s face.

‘Oh, see you tonight, Bill!’ she said, stopping dead, as he paused at the block entrance.

‘Yes, see you tonight, “Happy Days”!’ He walked backwards, smiling at May, seeming to mime at playing an invisible piano. ‘And lonely nights!’ May pulled a sad face and laughed at what was obviously a private joke, so that Peggy felt like a spare part. As soon as he was out of earshot, May said, ‘Trust you to embarrass me!’

‘Oh, don’t be daft. I had to say something to break the ice, you’re so bloody tongue- tied. Anyway, you never told me you’d got a chap! Good-looking too!’

‘He’s not my chap.’

‘Well, how come you’re going on a date with him then?’

‘It’s not just me – all the Garner’s girls go there. He’s the piano player at the Red Cow.’

May blushed furiously and Peggy felt sorry for teasing her.

‘Well, I didn’t mean to break anything up. It’s just I had to tell someone my news. I’ve got a job
and
I’ve joined the WVS!’

‘Peggy! Blimey, you didn’t lose any time, did you?’ May said, and Peggy thought she saw a flash of admiration in her sister’s eyes.

*

For the time being she was free to work both day and night shifts on the mobile canteen, at least until her job at Atkinson’s was settled. She couldn’t drive, so was paired with another woman who could. The next morning she reported for the early shift. After filling the urn with boiling water and stocking up the van with trays of cups, saucers, buns, cigarettes, matches and a hundred other things bombed-out families or volunteer workers might need, they set off. Her partner, whose name was Babs, was a middle-aged woman with a brisk, friendly manner. She was single, a bank clerk by day, and seemed a good driver, explaining to Peggy that she’d trained on ambulances in the last war. She’d moved here all the way from Devon, just so she could help in the worst of the Blitzed areas. She chatted non-stop, as they followed their set route around the bombed docks and streets of Bermondsey. They served tea, buns and sundries to whoever seemed most in need along the way. First stop was for some homeless families in a bombed street without a house left standing. Covered in a uniform white dust, whole families sat on the remains of their bedding, piled up on rubble mounds – all that was left of their homes. Most of them had escaped with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

At the sight of the tea van, the little groups stirred, children coming to life first, running over for pies and sandwiches. There was no time to worry about what she didn’t know. She just followed Babs’s lead and soon was hooking down cigarettes and ferreting out aspirin from all the clever cubby-holes built into the van.