Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys (37 page)

‘Where’s your dad?’

‘Oh, he’s gone up Southwark Park Road. He’s trying to get a repair crew to do the roof.’

Her grandmother nodded and grunted, ladling mutton stew into a bowl.

‘Good luck to him. He’s been glad to stay here with you, though, ain’t he? Shame you had to break your neck before he come to his senses.’

The estrangement with her father had been painful, but what was the good in keeping it alive? She’d seen how he’d sobbed when he thought she might have been killed in the accident. But she’d made the mistake of telling Granny Byron that when she’d nearly lost the baby afterwards her father had said it might not be a bad thing after all.

Her grandmother had been incensed. ‘That’s men all over,’ she’d said. ‘Selfish! Just so long as they’re not inconvenienced, they’re all right. And that’s all it is, love, that poor child you’re carrying’s been nothing but an inconvenience!’

Peggy hadn’t argued. For Granny Byron had been her tower of strength since they’d shipped her mother off to Moreton-in-Marsh, and she didn’t think she could have managed without her. In fact, her grandmother had seemed to come into her own during this war. She was the one person Peggy knew who would sit at home in an air raid without flinching, or stand in a queue for hours on end and keep everyone entertained with her stream of banter. She never complained and she never worried. Amongst the anxious, pinched faces, and the drab, beleaguered figures peopling the streets, her cheerful, bizarrely dressed, gold-bedecked grandmother was proof that, for a very few, life need not be defined by the war. She was an infusion of colour in a grey world. Her bright shawls and feathered hats were not just pre-war – they were pre-two world wars, a reminder, Peggy thought, that sooner or later, all wars end.

But it seemed George’s war with Peggy hadn’t, and the day following her grandmother’s visit he sent her a message. She was no longer walking to work, and as she stepped heavily off the back board of the bus she tripped, falling to her knees, one arm instinctively wrapped around her stomach, protecting the baby, the other shooting out to break her fall. She cried out as pain burst up her arm and her knees grazed asphalt. She felt herself being hoisted up from behind by the conductor.

‘You all right, love?’ he said, as she rubbed at her bleeding knees.

‘I’m fine,’ Peggy said, grateful for his steadying hand, feeling foolish rather than hurt. At least, she thought, she hadn’t been wearing nylons, otherwise they would have been ruined. But nylons, like so many other things, were fast becoming a memory. Once the conductor was reassured, he jumped back on to the running board, ringing the bell, and Peggy turned towards the alley leading to Atkinson’s. She was examining her grazed wrist and so didn’t notice Ronnie Riley until she’d almost bumped into him.

‘You wanna be careful, gel,’ he said, his face showing anything but concern.

She tried to walk round him, but he was a broad man and the alley was narrow. He side-stepped to block her way and she found herself pinned up against the wall. The scent of flowers from the factory mingled with Ronnie Riley’s breath on her cheek. He still smelled of last night’s beer and she instinctively pulled her head away. He had no neck to speak of, so his face above his tight collar turned deep red as he saw her revulsion. His hand tightened on her arm and he pulled her in closer. ‘What, you think you’re too good for me? I could have you, but I wouldn’t do it to George. I’m
loyal
, see.’

Peggy finally managed to pull away. ‘Just piss off, Ronnie, and leave me alone.’

‘Hold up, I’ve got a message from your husband.’

‘Well, I don’t want to hear it. Now get out the way. I’m late for work.’

But as she began to walk towards the factory gate, her ankle gave way. Damn it, there’d been a weakness there since her fall from the ladder. Limping forward, she was determined not to show any vulnerability in front of Ronnie. With pain burning her ankle, she heard him call after her.

‘George’s getting released in a fortnight, and he wants you out of his flat by then! Hear me?’

She didn’t turn round. She’d been frightened this might happen one day and now it had, a cold pit opened in her stomach. The nest that she’d imagined bringing her baby home to had just disappeared and there was little she could do about it. George was the tenant and nothing was in her name.

She had the bad luck to be clocking in late when Hattie was passing. The woman had shown surprising moments of concern towards her, but she was still a supervisor and could turn on the sour hatchet-face reserved for such misdemeanours when necessary. But now the woman stopped her.

‘Gawd, Peg, you’ve been in the wars! What you done to yourself?’

Peggy was almost glad of her injuries; at least they would explain away her shaky voice. But as she described the trip from the bus, her trembling only increased. Suddenly she didn’t feel up to her newfound independence and wished with all her heart she hadn’t spent half her life letting the men make all the decisions for her. If she hadn’t allowed herself to be so cosseted, she wouldn’t be feeling helpless now and would know what to do. But it looked as if she would have to go cap in hand to her father, and ask him to take her and her child in. The thought of bringing the baby home to the half-ruin of her parents’ house brought on a fit of anxiety. It gripped her throat with its dry, choking hand, and she was annoyed to feel a tear on her cheek.

‘Come on, love, don’t get yourself in a two and eight. Sit down here for a bit.’ Hattie helped her over to a bench near the clocking-on machine and Peggy let out a small cry as she put weight on her ankle.

‘Thanks, Hat, I don’t think there’s much damage. It’s the old sprain… and me hormones!’ But Peggy’s forced laughter turned into a sob.

‘You’re taking the day off. I’ll mark you off in the sick book.’

‘I’ll be all right—’

‘No arguments!’ Hattie switched to her severe expression. ‘And I’m getting you a lift home!’

Peggy sat back, resigned. She had no more energy to resist, and she doubted she’d be much use at work today anyway. At least she’d have time to figure out what she was going to do.

When Hattie came back, she helped Peggy up and whispered, ‘All sorted. You’re going home in style, gel.’

She led her out to the yard and stopped in front of the office building, where the boss’s uniformed chauffeur was standing.

‘He’s standing around all day with sod all to do till they want him. Might as well make yourself useful, eh, Charlie?’ She seemed well acquainted with the chauffeur and from the wink he gave Hattie, Peggy suspected they might know each other very well indeed. She’d have never thought it of Hattie, who’d always seemed such a confirmed spinster.

Charlie jumped to Peggy’s side as if she were the managing director, helping her gently to the car. ‘Ever been in a roller before?’ he asked.

‘No!’ she said, looking at the dark green Rolls Royce, so highly polished she could see her reflection in it. Her eyes travelled to the front grill and headlamps, which were a gleam of silver: she recognized the distinctive mascot, flying on the front.

‘I can’t!’ she said. ‘You’ll get in trouble.’

‘Let me worry about that, love, I’d rather be in trouble with the bosses than Hattie any day… wouldn’t you?’ He grinned at her and Peggy had to agree. She stepped up into the car and sank into padded, dark green leather seats. She might as well enjoy the ride.

Her arrival caused a stir on the Purbrook Estate. Even before the war, a Rolls Royce drawing up outside the entrance would have caused comment, but with petrol rationed for private cars, the sight was a rarity that couldn’t be ignored. Peggy heard a boy shout, ‘Roller!’ to invisible friends and soon she was aware of heads peering out of windows. By the time Charlie had helped her out, the car was surrounded by a gang of boys, inspecting every inch of the bodywork.

‘Aye, aye, here comes the Princess of Purbrook!’ She looked up to see her neighbour, Sally, calling down from the balcony. ‘Did George nick it for ya?’ The woman’s loud laughter rang round the courtyard. If only she knew, Peggy thought, that the princess was about to become a pauper.

Once inside the flat she went straight to the sink to wash the grit from her grazed hands and knees. Then, walking from room to room, she took stock of what she might take with her. But looking for evidence of herself in this place was futile, from the glass bowl light fitting in the living room to the bedroom furniture, the whole flat seemed to accuse her of absence. Everything in the place belonged to George – except herself and the child she was carrying.

She spent the day packing her few clothes into the large cardboard suitcase her parents had given them for a honeymoon present. She’d long since given away the majority of the drab wardrobe from her days with George. After the clothes, there were Harry’s letters, a few photos and some pretty things she’d been given as presents, mainly from her sister May. There was a touching memento of Jack, a strange thing, a carved crocodile that he’d made in woodwork class and presented to her as a present. She remembered he’d been so proud of it and, at the time, she was sure she hadn’t been appreciative enough. Perhaps that’s why she loved it so much now. It was the thought of Jack that steeled her. She was determined to stop feeling sorry for herself. She might feel alone and inadequate; she might feel that she’d messed up her life. But at least she still had a life to live. As she looked at the few possessions she’d collected together in the suitcase, she remembered one other thing. And going to the wardrobe, she drew out the box containing the beautiful baby dress. She allowed herself a peek inside, before placing it on top of the suitcase. She was ready to go. Now all she had to do was tell her father.

She made Mr Lloyd a shepherd’s pie, using a small tin of spam and a lot of potatoes. Since their reconciliation he’d got into the habit of staying for meals and sleeping over sometimes, while camping out at Southwark Park Road the rest of the time.

Waiting until he’d finished his meal, she broke the news. ‘Dad, George’s told me he wants me out of the flat when he’s released.’

‘I don’t believe it!’ he said, his cup of tea halfway to his lips. ‘George? He wouldn’t do that! Doesn’t he know I’ve been stopping here too?’

‘I should think Ronnie must have told him. I haven’t seen him, since…’

‘How long’s he given you?

‘Two weeks.’

‘What? Well, blow me… what a mean git!’

Peggy suspected that her father was really more shocked that his beloved George could do this to him, than that he should do it to her.

‘Drink your tea, Dad,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the brimming hot liquid his shaking hand threatened to spill down his trousers.

He banged down the cup, slopping tea into the saucer, and got up, looking angrier than she’d ever seen him. Even his reaction to her pregnancy hadn’t been as vehement.

‘Well, this takes the cake. You think you know people…’ He shook his head, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, pulling at his braces. ‘It takes a war to show you who your friends are, love. It takes a war.’

And he sat down to fill his pipe, vigorously picking at it and poking, yet never lighting it, till she almost felt sorrier for him than she did for herself.

‘So can I come home then?’ she asked, and the reality of her situation seemed to dawn on him.

‘To Southwark Park Road? What, and bring the baby?’

‘Yes, Dad, I’ll be bringing my baby,’ she said, wondering what else he thought she would do with it.

She moved out the following week. Peggy closed the door on her one-time palace without regret and posted the key to George in prison. He was welcome to the place, and it was better to leave like this. She would be well out of the way before he came home. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of turfing her out personally. But when she entered the half-ruined house in Southwark Park Road, her heart sank. She walked into the kitchen, where her father had his base camp. He’d managed to keep it relatively dry over the winter months and had got the gas back on, so at least the cooker was working. The chimney hadn’t been damaged in the blast, so they would be able to keep a fire going until the weather warmed up. He had a camp bed, which at the moment was stored under the kitchen table. She supposed she should be grateful that he’d been vigilant enough to keep the looters out, so the kitchen at least was still well-stocked. But when he took her upstairs she could have cried. The rooms were unusable. There were no beds; they’d all been either burned or water damaged. The cosy bedroom she’d shared with her sister was now a mouldy, damp home for sparrows, which fluttered in alarm up into the attic through a hole in the corner of the ceiling. She looked up at a patch of pale sky, visible through the shattered roof above.

‘I’ll have another try at getting a repair crew this week,’ her father said apologetically.

She nodded. ‘I’ll go to the WVS depot today and see about a bed for me. Dad, I never realized it was still so bad…’ she said, with a fleeting regret for the Purbrook front-door key, now on its way to George. ‘But we’ll make it more homely.’

She had to be positive, but it was only now that she realized how impossible it was to think of bringing a tiny baby into this damp shell of a house. Even with a roof on, it would still take months to dry out and clean up. She could put up with it for herself, but not for her child. And besides, however much he’d mellowed, she knew that her father would find it hard to have the result of ‘her disgrace’ actually living with him, gurgling and screaming its presence into his life.

After her fall from the hopper, she’d feared she might have to give up work altogether. It wasn’t an idea she relished. She wanted to carry on earning her own money, for more than anything she feared reverting to a previous self she had begun to despise. She decided to spend the rest of the day making the house as habitable as possible. Her father went back to work at the docks and she set off for the WVS depot.

The large storeroom was full of an odd assortment of donated furniture and salvage from bombed houses. One of the volunteers showed her a bed that would do for herself, and a cot for the baby. For a small charge, they would deliver them later that day, along with a bundle of bedding. Her job done, she made her way to the clothes exchange. It was time to throw off her superstitions and find clothes for her baby. Her friends at the exchange stuffed a large bag full of everything her child could need: bibs, booties and bonnets overflowed. While she was there she bumped into Babs, who was still driving the mobile canteen.