The Gunner Girl (24 page)

‘No, I'm fine, dear,' said Edie, pulling away. If she let herself be embraced, she'd only cry, and what use would that be?

‘You can forget about your brew, Gunner Tucker. The CO wants to see you in his office, pronto. And by the look on his face, I'd say you'd better not keep him
waiting.'

‘What is it, Staff?' said Joan.

‘You'll find out quick enough, Gunner. Now look lively.'

Joan ran towards the commanding officer's hut out beyond the gun emplacements. On the way, she passed tubby Billy, leaning out of the back of the Quartermaster's Stores.

‘Better get cracking, Tucker,' he said. ‘You'll be in it even worse if you're late.'

What? thought Joan. What the hell am I supposed to have done? Thud-thud, thud-thud, she went, onwards until the pounding of her heart was faster and louder than her footfalls. Why did he want to
see her? This morning, of all mornings? It was only a hundred yards or so to the CO's hut, but it felt as if she'd just sprinted a mile, and she was sweating like a horse under her
uniform. The CO's door was closed. She hesitated, taking off her cap. She forced herself to knock, twice, gasping to recover her breath, and took off her cap.

‘Come,' said a muffled voice.

She reached for the door handle. Her hands shook and the metal slithered between her fingers. For a moment, she saw another hand, bloodied, with a sapphire ring on it; the smell of burnt
flesh.

‘Come,' said the voice again, louder.

Finally, she managed to get the handle to work, opened the door, marched three paces inside and braced up. The CO was shuffling his paperwork. ‘The door, Gunner Tucker,' he said,
without looking up.

‘Sir,' she breathed, and quickly turned back to close the door. In her haste, she pulled it too hard and it slammed. She turned back and braced up again: chest out, chin up, arms
rigid at her sides and fists tightly balled. Her heart felt as if it was hurling itself at her ribcage and her breath came in uneven bursts. She waited for the ‘at ease' command. It
never came. Instead, the CO got slowly up from behind his desk, picking up a brown manila envelope as he did so. Joan heard the swish of cloth against cloth as he moved round the desk and came to
stand in front of her. Her eyes were on a level with his Adam's apple: red and scratched from where he'd scraped it with the razor this morning. She could smell his talc and hair
oil.

‘It has come to my attention, Gunner, that you are improperly dressed for this morning's royal visit,' he began, sounding a bit like royalty himself. What was he talking
about?

‘But, sir, I—'Joan thought of the hours she'd spent bulling the toes of her brogues, brushing every fleck of dust from her uniform, and polishing the brass badge on her
cap.

‘Don't interrupt,' said the CO. ‘As a result of this infringement, I have been instructed to give you this.' He held out the envelope. ‘You may take
it.'

‘Sir.' She took the envelope. The front was blank. It wasn't addressed to anyone. She looked at it, and looked back up at the CO.

‘You might want to open it,' said the CO, ‘and, by the way, stand easy.' It was only then, as she looked up into his face, that she noticed a faint twitch at the corner
of his mouth. With still-shaking hands, she opened the envelope. Inside were two white-cloth V-shapes, like seagulls on a painting.

‘Congratulations on getting your first stripe, Lance Bombardier Tucker.'

At last, she understood, but she had to be sure. ‘I'm not in trouble then, sir?'

‘Well, you will be if you don't get those sewn on in time for the Queen and Princess Elizabeth, Tucker. Jolly well done.' He reached out to shake her hand. She shifted the
envelope into the one with her cap and grasped his.

‘Thank you, sir. You nearly had me there, sir,' she said.

‘It was Staff Farr's idea of a practical joke,' he said. ‘But surely, you didn't think you were really in trouble? Or have you got a few skeletons in your cupboard
that you're not telling us about?' He chuckled and his shoulders and eyebrows jigged up and down.

‘No, sir, not at all, sir,' she said in a rush.

‘Well, keep up the good work, Bombardier,' he said. ‘Dismissed.'

‘Thank you, sir,' she said, braced up again and turned to go. Outside the door, she put her cap back on and took the stripes out from the envelope. She ran back towards the NAAFI,
clutching the white stripes.

‘Congratulations!' shouted fat Billy from stores as she passed, and she wondered how he knew. She shouted her thanks and ran on. Ahead, Edie and Bea were just draining their mugs.
They rushed forward to meet her.

‘Well done, you!' said Edie.

‘So you knew?' said Joan.

‘Staff just told us,' said Bea. ‘Who would have thought the old bird had such a sense of humour?'

‘Thanks, girls. I feel a bit bad that you two didn't get made up as well.'

‘Learn to take a compliment. You deserve it, dear,' said Edie, kissing her on each cheek as she did so.

‘You don't look very happy about it,' said Bea, giving her a squeeze.

‘Of course I'm happy,' said Joan. ‘Why wouldn't I be?'

But it wasn't happiness that tugged at her insides and cluttered her mind, it was something else: Whose hand had she seen instead of hers when she went to open the CO's door? A
smooth hand with oval-shaped nails and a sapphire ring. Whose hand was that?

The sun was high by the time the royal party arrived. Joan and the girls waited down in the concrete emplacements, which always smelled dank, even on the brightest day. In the
distance she could hear the faint throb and growl of the traffic on the Bayswater Road. Six ducks flew overhead and away, on towards the Serpentine. A dog barked somewhere nearby.

‘They should be here by now,' said Edie, chewing a nail. ‘Golly I'm nervous, but nervous in a good way, like I used to feel when I was little on Christmas Eve. Do you
remember what that was like, and doesn't it seem so long ago now, after everything we've done?'

One of the other girls shushed Edie impatiently. The tension was making them irritable. Joan felt the sweat pricking her underarms, wiped her palms again on her skirt, waiting. At last, there
was the sound of three cars drawing up, the pit-pat of feet on the path and the deferential murmur of voices.

‘Here they come,' said Bea.

‘I can't believe it,' gasped Edie.

Joan waited silently by the entrance to the emplacement and reminded herself what she had to do: first the salute and then the explanation. The footfalls and voices were drawing nearer. There
were figures at the steps, descending slowly. Trip-trap, coming closer, down the concrete steps. There was the second-in-command, his face red and shiny; on the other side, Staff Farr, raisin-eyes
darting around, in one final inspection, and, in between them, the tiny khaki-clad figure of Princess Elizabeth, her smile a little white ‘U' in the centre of her face.

‘So I'll hand you over to one of our junior NCOs, Lance Bombardier Joan Tucker, who can tell you all about it,' said the second-in-command, gesturing towards Joan, who saluted.
Princess Elizabeth returned the salute. She looked smaller and prettier than she did in photographs. Joan showed her the Sperry Predictor and gave her the binoculars so she could have a go at
spotting, not that there would be any bombers flying over at ten-thirty in the morning. The princess asked Joan how big the gun was. Joan said three foot seven inches and the princess said that was
jolly big, wasn't it? After that, she asked Joan how she liked the uniform. Joan hadn't prepared for this question. She had all kinds of technical information in her head about the
equipment and the hit rate statistics, but she hadn't expected to be asked anything like this.

‘I like being in it, ma'am,' she said truthfully, looking into the princess's earnest grey eyes. ‘When I put on the uniform, it feels like I know who I
am.'

‘I see what you mean. Sometimes it's easier, being clothed for the part, like acting a role,' said the princess. The second-in-command was wringing his hands and just about to
open his mouth and usher the princess onwards, when there was a drum roll of shoes on the steps and a man in a pork-pie hat and long raincoat barrelled down towards them.

‘I'm terribly sorry, ma'am,' he said, bowing in a perfunctory way. ‘Would you mind if I just . . .?'

‘Not at all,' said the princess.

‘Can I take a photo of you with the ATS girl?'

‘Of course. Her name is Lance Bombardier Joan Tucker, and we were just having a conversation about how marvellous the new ATS uniforms are, weren't we?' said the princess. They
all laughed politely. The journalist nodded repeatedly and pulled out a notebook, making brief scratchy marks, before lifting his camera.

‘Give me a nice smile for the
Daily Mail
readers please, Bombardier,' he said. As he pointed the camera at them, Joan heard a buzzing inside her head, like a bluebottle
stuck behind glass, and the world seemed to tilt. The camera flashed, Joan turned her head, upwards and away, towards the blue sky.

‘That one won't do, you moved. Would you mind if we took another one, ma'am?' asked the
Daily Mail
man, managing a mix of deference and impatience as he fiddled
with his equipment.

‘Carry on,' said the princess, her U-shaped mouth beginning to droop just a little.

‘Now, you're a pretty girl, Bombardier, let's see a big smile for the papers,' he said, and Joan lifted her lips and showed her teeth and the buzzing got louder and
everything sheared and there was that smell, the acrid burnt smell, as the camera flashed again. The hot sun was like a crushed orange flower, right above her. She felt herself sway. Joan saw the
princess's mouth move, her white teeth, but she couldn't hear what she was saying because of the buzzing noise filling up her skull. The princess looked round and Joan turned her
throbbing head to follow her gaze, and there was the Queen, in lavender silk, with her head on one side and a sugary smile set in place, like a piece of fondant icing among the dense fruit cake of
uniforms and guns. She'd seen this before: the Queen, flickering black-and-white figures on a screen. A newsreel, somewhere. But where? When? Joan rocked backwards on her heels, feeling
nausea rise.

The princess stepped away towards her mother. With her came a phalanx of others: military, press, men in suits, swimming in and out of focus as they approached. The
Daily Mail
man
scuttled sideways. The buzzing in Joan's ears diminished, and the world shifted back into place.

‘Are you all right?' said Edie, her voice muffled, touching Joan on her sleeve.

‘Fine,' said Joan, rubbing her forehead. ‘I'm fine.'

‘You don't seem yourself, dear.'

The royals had been shunted along towards the Bofors gun, further along the emplacement, and Joan followed behind Edie and Bea, joining the rest of the battery. But Joan could still smell that
burnt smell, taste sour bile in her throat.

Some of the other girls showed the royals how they'd track and target an enemy plane during a raid. When the men fired the guns, the Queen said they certainly did make a devil of a racket,
and everybody laughed. The
Daily Mail
man and the rest of the press took more photos, but Joan managed to keep out of the way, sliding behind the tall frame of the CO or the chunky metal
blocks of weaponry. After that, the Queen said how lovely it had been to meet them all and she and her daughter were swept off by some men in suits back to the waiting cars.

When they'd gone, everyone started talking at once:
Wasn't she lovely? They were both marvellous. Prettier than I expected. So tiny. I didn't expect to have a laugh with
them. Didn't think much of that man from the papers. Did I do okay? You were wondeful. They were wondeful. Wait 'til I tell Vi. I still can't believe it!
They fell silent
again as Staff Farr returned.

‘Well done, all of you,' Staff said. ‘Now get back to the hut because there'll be a room inspection in half an hour.'

Bea let out a groan. ‘And extra duties for anyone I hear moaning about it,' added Staff Farr.

‘Yes, Staff,' they all said in unison.

‘Cow,' muttered Sheila Carter, when she was out of earshot.

‘You'd think she'd at least let us have an early lunch break,' Edie sighed.

The rest of the troop, disgruntled, began to trudge back to their hut. Joan followed, at a distance, not joining in with the gossip and griping. Something was wrong, but she couldn't work
out what it was.

Once inside, they quickly checked their bed blocks and lockers. Joan helped Edie with her hospital corners; Bea got the broom out to sweep the floor. The rest of the girls were
folding, polishing and wiping in readiness. There was a knock at the door. ‘This room had better be ready,' came Staff Farr's voice.

‘That was never half an hour!' whispered Bea.

‘It wasn't even half a minute,' said Edie.

The door opened and Staff Farr stalked in, frowning. ‘Your room looks fine, ladies,' she said, her eyes sweeping unseeingly round. She made a chopping motion with her hand,
partitioning the hut. ‘This half will be on duty today and through until sixteen hundred hours Saturday, and the rest of you will take Saturday night until sixteen hundred hours Sunday.
I'd love to knock you all off together, girls, but there simply isn't the cover.'

‘Thank you, Staff,' said Joan.

‘My pleasure, Lance Bombardier,' came the reply, and Staff Farr turned on her heel, and left. As the door closed, the girls looked at each other and burst out laughing:
I
can't believe it! She's never let us off that lightly before. Staff Farr's going soft in her old age. Are we really getting a night off?