The Gunner Girl (20 page)

‘I'll sort her. You do the tea,' said Bea's mum, walking over to the waking baby. She picked it up out of the nest of covers and brought it over to Joan.

‘This is our youngest, Bea's little sister, Valerie,' she said, holding the wailing child.

‘She's adorable,' said Joan, looking at the fierce-eyed girl with the wild black curls. When baby Valerie saw Joan, she stopped crying and thrust out a plump paw. Joan took it,
felt the little fingers curl like shrimps. Val's face was red from tears. Bea's mum reached down to where an open packet of chips lay on the kitchen table and took one out. The baby
abruptly dropped Joan's finger and reached for the chip. Bea's mum broke it in half, blew on it and gave it to Val, who shoved it straight into her wet little mouth.

‘She's a good eater,' said Bea's mum. Joan nodded. Then, not knowing what else to do, she sat down at the kitchen table. Bea finished making the tea and brought it over.
She passed a cup to Joan but put her own down on the table next to the chips. Then she turned to her mum, holding out her arms.

‘I'll take her for a bit, Ma. Give you a break,' she said.

‘Not while she's eating,' said her mum, turning away and reaching down for another chip for the baby.

Joan saw how Bea touched the baby's cheek with the edge of her forefinger and stroked it, quickly, while her mum was turned away, and she saw a look of longing flit over her face. Then,
Bea sat down opposite Joan and pulled a packet of chips towards her. The fat and vinegar had bled into the type, but Joan could still read what was printed on the crumpled chip paper:
GUNNER GIRL DEAD IN PORTSMOUTH RAID
, said the blurred headline, the ink bleeding onto the chips.

‘Look at that,' she said, pointing. Bea turned the packet of chips round, read the words. She looked across at Joan, but neither of them spoke. Then she cleared her throat and licked
the inky grease off her fingertips.

‘Let's get down the pub after this,' Bea said. ‘Vi's behind the bar tonight, and I could murder a beer.'

When Joan opened her eyes, she couldn't remember where she was. The colours were all wrong; nothing was in the right place. It wasn't the grey-khaki of the Nissen
hut or the cool yellow of Edie's spare room, either. Here everything was dark red and brown – she was somewhere else.

She closed her eyes, feeling sick-dizzy, but there in her mind's eye were clouds of powdery dust, and red hair, fanned out on shattered floorboards, sticky and matted with blood and grit.
She opened her eyes again, a pain stabbing her temple, and there was a mantelpiece with a broken teapot and a faded print of a vase of flowers, and bare brick walls. She felt nausea rise up her
throat. Her head was thumping and she had a raging thirst. It felt like someone was poking her in the behind with an umbrella handle. Thuds and muffled shouts came from overhead. Why was her cheek
so cold? And what was that thing poking her? She moved her face away from the chill and saw ox-blood-coloured tiles and an empty hearth. She felt down behind her. It was an umbrella, an unfurled
umbrella, still damp with raindrops. She was so thirsty; her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes wouldn't focus properly – everything looked as if it were covered in
Vaseline. She pulled her throbbing head up and saw that she was still fully clothed, in her greatcoat, with a blanket of crocheted squares half-covering her legs, one of which was wedged under the
armchair. What was that smell? She heard the thump of footfalls on the stairs and pushed herself up quickly – too quickly – everything lurched, including her stomach.

‘Lor' what a night! You all right, girl?' It was Bea. Joan shook her head. She appeared to have lost the ability to speak. ‘Get yourself out in the lav before the others.
I'll get the kettle on,' said Bea, pushing her in the direction of the back door. ‘Oh, and give us your coat. I'll scrub it and iron it dry before you get the bus. No one
will be able to tell, don't worry.'

No one will be able to tell what? thought Joan, stumbling down the back steps towards the outside toilet.

Maybe this was a bad idea, thought Joan, as the bus swung round. The driver honked his horn at the stray donkey that appeared on the corner. Joan heard it braying over the
noise of the engine and watched it clatter off towards an open orchard gate into the green-tipped rows of apple trees. She was late, and she was hung over and she hadn't wanted it to be like
this. Last night came back to her in jagged pieces:

And a gin and lime for the little lady,' the barman calling out.

A gin and lime for the lady!' Bea mimicking, Ain't I a lady,
Alfie?'

‘Not much of one, from what I've heard.' Vi, behind the bar, nudging the barman, and raucous laughter all round.

‘You can shut your cakehole, Violet Mary Smith!' Bea hollering, and Vi blowing a kiss from behind the bar. More laughter, and the sour taste of the gin in her throat.

She remembered that, at least.

Joan was thrown to one side again as the bus hurled around another country chicane. Were there no straight roads in Kent? She swallowed and pulled out one of the humbugs that Bea had given her
before she left.

Bea saying: ‘Whatever happened to port and lemon?'

‘I'm not that type.'

‘Like hell you're not.' Bea, crossing her arms. ‘Since you dumped Rob you've had a different lad every week, almost.'

‘Have not. Anyway, I didn't dump him; he stood me up.'

‘You think I'm stupid, girl?'

The bus was half full, mostly with middle-aged ladies with baskets, but there were a few airmen, too. The women were gossiping noisily, but the airmen were all silent, staring vacantly out over
the countryside. Joan rubbed her temple, where it throbbed, trying to remember exactly how she came to be here, on this bus. What else had happened in the pub?

Warm and humid, horse brasses on the dark wood and sawdust on the floor. A man in brown lurching past, knocking her elbow – ‘Sorry darlin', – eyes swivelling,
red-rimmed. ‘Lemme get y'another.'

‘I'm fine, really.' Her dabbing at the wet patch on her chest, the man looking down at where the drink had spilled. ‘No, no, no, I insist, Alfie, get a double for the
laydee!' And her laughing and letting him, her head starting to swim, tipping her head back and letting the laughter rip out, as if the vast black skies overhead really didn't
exist.

The bus swerved and growled on, until at last they reached West Malling, where all the ladies got off, waddling and clucking up the High Street. The bus carried on. The worn seats had once been
plush but were now threadbare and brownish, with circular cigarette burns. Her coat was still damp, but at least the smell had gone. Joan fumbled with her gas mask and found her packet of
cigarettes. She went to light one but there were no matches. What had she done with her matches?

‘Knees up Muvver Braaaahn!' Spittle flecking against her cheek and the tuneless blaring of the man and linking arms with him and Bea and kicking out her legs in time to the
piano. A chair kicked over, the crash of a glass, yelp of a dog. Then the piano plink-plonking the intro to ‘When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob Bobbing Along' and everyone joining
in, and her gaze in an unsteady tunnel vision, like a searchlight, wavering round the room, looking for the missing piece of jigsaw puzzle.

Some of the silent airmen got off when the bus stopped in a lane and the driver called out ‘Douce's Manor'. Out of the window, Joan glimpsed a butter-coloured mansion house
amid some trees. Now there was just her and a couple of airmen left. The bus rumbled on.

Dropping her arm out of Bea's, not dancing any more, a kind of clench-ache inside: Robin. ‘Oh, for God's sake, girl, why don't you phone him? There's a phone
box on the corner' – Bea reading her thoughts. ‘Because he won't be there, will he? He'll be somewhere over bloody Germany,' spitting the words out, picking her
half-empty glass off the table and downing the last of the drink: the sour taste of gin in her mouth. ‘There's a bus to West Malling first thing. Phone the camp, tell them to let him
know, come on.'

She took out her lipstick. There was almost nothing left in the little gold tube. It was like an empty shell casing. She had to wipe her little finger right inside the gilt case to find a smear
of lipstick. She rubbed it onto her lips and pouted, hoping it was evenly spread – she didn't have a mirror. Joan wished she'd had more time to sort herself out at Bea's,
but there'd only been that outside toilet, and then she'd had to run for the bus. She felt like death. She probably looked like death. Even if Robin were there, he'd probably take
one look at her and regret it. Joan clicked the lid back on the lipstick and put it away.

Out into the cold night. The phone box smelling of wee. A lit match to try to find the coin slot, the coin falling again and again on the wet concrete floor. Bea holding the match, guiding
her hand. Different voices, tinny and far away, asking questions: Robin Nelson. Tell him I'll be there in the morning. May I ask who's calling? Vanessa. Tell him it's Vanessa. Bea
snatching the phone off her. Joan. Her name's Joan Tucker and she'll be on the first bus from town in the morning. If you could let him know. Thank you.

There were no road signs but the remaining airmen were starting to stir, grabbing kit bags from under their seats. She was thrown forward as the bus lurched to a halt, banging her forehead on
the seat in front.

Out of the phone box and into the windy night. The stars swirling and twirling like sparklers and a churning down in her stomach. And Bea asking, Who the hell is Vanessa? And Joan saying I
don't know, I don't know, but I think I'm going to be sick.

‘Yer 'ere!' yelled the driver. She looked out of the window, rubbing her bruised forehead. The bus stop was crowded with a huge grey-blue mass of jostling airmen. Was one of
them Rob? ‘You getting off or not, love?' bellowed the driver.

‘Yes,' she said, getting up and pulling her bag out from under the seat. As she got off the bus, the crowd of waiting airmen funnelled in like a bole tide. Then the bus sped off and
she was left alone at the bus stop outside RAF West Malling. All the airmen had gone. Robin wasn't there. She still felt sick and had a headache and now she was stuck out here in the middle
of bloody nowhere. The camp gates were just behind her and she could see the boxy accommodation blocks and the white two-storey control tower. The clouds still hung low, blocking out the
sunshine.

I knew this was a bad idea, she thought, looking round. She checked the bus timetable. The next bus was in two hours. She could walk back to West Malling in that time. Well, if Robin
wasn't here, that's just what she'd have to do. After all, she'd been on longer route marches in training. She'd be able to get lunch in West Malling and then get the
bus back to Bea's. If any cars passed she might be able to thumb a lift. Joan reached a junction and was just trying to remember which way the bus went when she heard footfalls on the tarmac.
She turned and saw an airman running towards her, arms outstretched, just like before. Only this time, he didn't shout, ‘Get down!' and rugby-tackle her to the ground, he shouted,
‘Joan, Joan!'

They were halfway across the field when the rain started. The first drops were like soft tears, but it soon began to chuck it down. Rob could feel the rivulets running down the
nape of his neck and between his shoulder blades as he bent forward and pushed his legs onwards up the slope. They were still hand in hand, but her fingers, wet, slithered from his and they carried
on alone, trudging up the muddy hill. They had already been walking for half an hour. Rob thought about cross-country runs at school. The path was beginning to turn slippery underfoot, the brown
mud sliding under his boots. He regretted suggesting the walk, but what else could they do? They only had a couple of hours – flight checks started at three. If only he'd known she was
coming. He didn't get the message until NAAFI break, and even then, all he was told was that some woman was turning up on the bus, no name. He thought it might be Pammie. That was why he
hadn't rushed to the bus stop, had waited to see who got off.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘It's all right,' she replied, turning towards him, her hair flattened wetly against her forehead. ‘It's not your fault it's raining.' Then she looked
beyond him, into the grey-green countryside. A crow flew past, battling the weather, looking like an ink splatter across the blurred watercolour landscape.

‘Over there,' he said, pointing at the smudged outline of a building, and they both broke into a run. It was the chapel where Harper got married. They reached it together: dripping
granite, a tiny spire like a smokestack and a gravel path winding round to the front door. They paused, panting, in the dry space in front of the oak doorway.

‘I'm sorry, too,' she said, pushing her wet hair away from her face. ‘I'm sorry about just turning up like this. You must think – I don't know what you
must think of me.'

‘I think you're the sort of girl who deserves more than this. I wanted our first date to be somewhere decent: I wanted to take you somewhere nice in London, that time. But now
you're here, and all you get is a trudge through the rain.'

‘Well, it's all your fault then, isn't it?' said Joan. ‘What are we going to do, put you on a charge?' She looked sideways at him, a half-smile on her lips,
and he remembered the feel of her as he'd held her, after the bomb at Western Way.

They were piled in so close to the door that their uniforms were touching all down one side, khaki against blue, damp cloth against damp cloth. He could smell the rain and the mud, but overlaid
was the smell of her, the same as it had been that November night. She was soaked through. She started to shiver. Rob put an arm around her shoulders. She didn't say anything; she let it rest
there. He felt her lean into him and let his head drop a little, chin against her wet cheek. They stood looking out at the sheeting grey rain, and he could feel the warmth of her against him.