The Gunner Girl (28 page)

‘You're all right, girl,' she said. ‘We're going to get you home.' But Edie didn't answer and the ripples of water continued to splash up against the
man's pale features. Bea recognised him: the bulk, the blond hair. In this light, his uniform was more grey than green, blotted full of water and darkness.

‘Come on,' said Bea, but Edie didn't even lift her face. The night was warm, but she was shivering as if they were out in a snowstorm. Bea looked up at Joan, about to ask for
help, when there were footfalls from outside, walking along the street towards them. Joan stiffened and put her finger to her lips. Bea held her breath and tried to keep Edie still. The outhouse
roof was half caved-in and Bea could see a torch beam playing overhead. The footfalls began to retreat, and Bea breathed out. Her mind was working fast. They had to get Edie back to the battery.
They had to get her in and safe without anybody noticing. Suddenly, the retreating footfalls changed direction, returning, getting louder. Then they began to descend the steps down from the street:
one-two-three steps down. Bea looked at Joan in desperation. Joan opened the shed door and walked out to meet whomever the footsteps belonged to. She pulled the door shut behind her.

‘Good evening, officer,' Bea heard her say. The answering voice was deep, Bea couldn't hear it properly, but she could hear Joan saying that she'd checked the outhouse
and everything was fine. The man shifted over towards the shed door, he couldn't have been more than three feet away from where she sat with Edie in the water. He was just the other side of
the broken door. Bea clamped her jaw tight shut and hung on tight to Edie's bony shoulders. The man said good job about that burst main or the whole street would be blazing away like
Piccadilly. He and Joan talked about the raid – unusual, it had been so quiet lately – and then the man (was it a police officer or an ARP warden? Bea wasn't sure) noticed
Joan's rank, and they talked about her promotion. Stop talking and get rid of him, Bea thought. Then, she realised: Joan was flirting. And the chattier Joan was, the less likely the man was
to actually open the shed door. She heard Joan saying something about blue being far more flattering on a man than khaki. Finally, there was the splash-scuff as he moved away from the outhouse door
and he thanked her for checking the shed, saying that public-spirited people like her made his life a whole lot easier.

‘Not at all, Officer,' Bea heard Joan reply. ‘We've all got to do our bit, haven't we?' And the deep voice replied that if the rest of the army were anything
like her then maybe the war really would be over by Christmas. Bea listened, astounded. That Joan, she thought, she's got some neck, I'll give her that – lies as easily as
breathing. The footfalls went back up the steps and she listened to them echoing further and further away along the street. At last, Joan pushed the door open, and Bea exhaled heavily.

‘Good work, girl,' Bea said. Joan shrugged.

‘Now we've just got to get her home.'

‘But she's got no shoes,' Joan said. Bea hadn't even noticed, but now she looked down. Edie's feet were bare, blue-white under the rising water, which was seeping
into Bea's skirt, making the material cold and heavy.

‘I'll get her up and you find her shoes then,' said Bea, but Joan didn't answer. Bea looked up. ‘Joan?' Joan didn't respond. She was staring down at
something. Bea followed her gaze, right down, to where a shaft of moonlight caught the GI's left hand, loose and flaccid under water. A gold band winked on his ring finger.

‘Joan,' she said as loudly as she thought was safe, ‘we've got no time, we've got to get Edie out of here.' But Joan continued gazing down at the ring on the
dead hand. The water moved the fingers and it looked as if they were idling on piano keys.

‘Okay, you look after Edie, get her up, and I'll look for the shoes,' Bea said, but still Joan didn't move. Someone will come, Bea thought. Any second now, someone will
come and we'll all be for it. She let go of Edie's shoulders and got up.

‘Joan!' she said, and reached over and slapped her smartly on the cheek. The swiftness of Joan's response caught her by surprise, a deft punch, hard, just under her right
shoulder. Almost as strong as one of Ma's. She staggered backwards, tripped on something and almost fell on Edie.

‘That's better, you're back in the land of the living, at least. Now will you stop gawping at that poor chap and bloody well help.' Joan nodded and knelt down next to
Edie, while Bea felt about in the dirty water for Edie's shoes. They have to be here somewhere, she thought, fingers paddling in the gloom. All she could feel was the mass of wet cloth and
cold flesh of the GI's body, lying still under the wreckage. Bea looked frantically around, but she saw nothing but splintered wood and broken tiles and the body lolling like a sandbag in the
water.

‘We have to get her out of here; she's going into shock,' whispered Joan.

‘I can't find her ruddy shoes, though.'

‘Leave them. We'll think of something.'

She heard Joan urging Edie up, and the shuffle-lurch as they made their way outside. The door was pushed shut and it was dark again. She tried one last feel around. The shoes had to be here
somewhere, maybe right underneath? As she slid her fingers along the gritty space, underneath the wet cloth and cold flesh of the dead man, she felt something slice her flesh: a shard of glass or
metal.

‘Sweet Jesus!' she hissed, pulling her hand back and sucking her index finger. The blood tasted warm and metallic. From outside came the sound of a door banging open and the sudden
blurt of the orchestra. Joan was out there with Edie, wasn't she? She heard Joan: ‘My friend's a little the worse for wear, I'm afraid,' and she laughed. There was an
answering murmur and the door banged shut. Bea stood up. Joan was right, they'd just have to leave without the shoes. She pushed the shed door open to leave and the moonlight shone in again
on the dead soldier. Bea took one last look at him. Poor sod, she thought, nobody deserves to die so far away from home, whatever they've done. And she thought of Jock. He must have got her
letter by now, but he still hadn't replied. How would she ever find out if something had happened to him, thousands of miles away and alone?

It was a long way back from Leicester Square to Hyde Park in the dark. They got lost twice – neither Joan nor Bea knew London as well as Edie, and Edie wouldn't
talk, she just hung between them, like a tired child. On the occasions where they bumped into police or ARP wardens, Bea just let Joan do the talking. ‘Our friend's not feeling quite
herself, Officer,' was the usual line, said with a grin and a wink. By the time they got back to camp, the black sky was already beginning to leach into pale blue in the east, and the moon
was just a stern, faraway pebble. The birdsong was sudden and harsh as they staggered up the path towards the entrance, where a Home Guard private was on duty.

‘Busy night to be stagging on?' said Joan chattily, as they approached.

‘Not as busy as yours, by the looks of it,' said the old soldier, staring at Edie through his wire-rimmed spectacles.

‘Our friend's not feeling quite herself,' said Joan, reaching out nonchalantly and patting him on the arm, just beyond the muzzle of his weapon.

‘Too many port and lemons, eh?' He chuckled.

‘Not at all. She doesn't drink port and lemon; she's not that kind of a girl,' said Joan. ‘We were just spending the evening with her father at his club, and she
came over a little dizzy, that's all.' The soldier looked as if he was about to ask for their passes, but Joan carried on. ‘We would have been back sooner, but her father said it
would be madness to come in halfway through a raid.' She smiled, fingering a stray lock of hair at her neck. The soldier grunted, unconvinced, but waved them through.

‘What did you say that for?' said Bea, as they were out of earshot.

‘What?'

‘About meeting her father.'

‘We might need an alibi.'

‘But why her father? How do you know he'd go along with it?'

‘You've met Edie's father, haven't you?' said Joan. Bea nodded. ‘Well, then,' said Joan, as if that answered it. ‘Blimey, my neck's aching
now. For such a slip of a thing, you're a dead weight, Edith Elizabeth,' she said. Edie didn't respond.

Sheila and the other girls were still out on the guns. It would have been a busy night for them – nobody was there to notice Joan and Bea slide in, half carrying their friend between
them.

‘Come on then, girl,' Bea said as they levelled with the ablutions block. They got her through the doorway and deposited her on the rickety chair next to the bath. Bea put the plug
in and turned on the taps. When she turned back, she noticed Edie's feet; they were dirty and covered with little red scratches and blisters from the long walk back. Edie's chin drooped
to her chest.

‘Look at the state of her,' she said to Joan. ‘We need something decent to wash her with.'

‘Sheila's got some Lux flakes. I saw them in her locker.'

‘She'll never part with them,' said Bea. Joan shrugged and disappeared out into the pale grey dewfall of the pre-dawn. The door clicked shut behind her. Bea drew the bolt.

‘Let's get you out of these wet things then,' she said to Edie, but Edie didn't stir. She just sat on the chair, under the harsh yellow light from the bare bulb. Her hair
was matted and tangled like seaweed. The sound of the tap running was like the rushing sound of water from the broken main outside the 400 Club. Bea shook her head and sucked her teeth.

‘Listen, girl, I'm going to have to undress you if you're not going to do it yourself.' Edie pushed herself up out of the chair, but made no further move.

‘Do you want me to do it for you, then?' said Bea. Edie inclined her head slightly, which Bea took to be an assent. With tentative fingertips she reached forwards and began to undo
the remaining buttons on Edie's blouse. They caught the cut on her fingertip, making her swear under her breath. They'd need to find spare buttons for this, as soon as, Bea thought, and
the shirt itself would need a boil wash. She pulled Edie's arms out of the sleeves and hung the shirt up on a nail in the wall.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Only me,' Bea heard Joan's whisper, and slid open the bolt. Joan came in with a cup of white soap flakes, which she threw into the rising bathwater. On the chair she laid two
dark green army towels and Edie's striped army pyjamas. Bea reached into the scalding water and swirled the flakes up into bubbles. She decided not to ask Joan how she got hold of
Sheila's precious Lux flakes.

Joan looked at Edie, stood shivering still, with her blouse undone. ‘Shall I help you?' she began.

‘No, you go,' said Bea, whisking the bathwater into creamy bubbles. ‘Hop it. Get some shut-eye while you still can. We're on duty in three hours, don't
forget.'

‘But what about—' Joan looked at Edie and failed to finish the sentence. Edie, standing in the ugly army brassiere, was blinking into the steam.

‘I'll deal with her,' Bea said. ‘And if anyone asks, she's got flu. Is that clear?'

‘Clear,' said Joan. ‘But are you sure—'

‘Skedaddle,' said Bea, same as she'd said to the twins when they hung about on washing days, trying to ‘help'. Joan left and Bea pulled the bolt behind her and
turned off the taps. Then she turned her attention back to Edie, who was still shivering, despite the heat from the steam. Her lips were turning blue-ish at the edges, like someone who's been
swimming too long.

‘I'll take off the rest of your clothes and then we'll get you in a nice hot tub and wash it all away,' she said, touching Edie's arm, where the fine golden hairs
were standing on end. ‘Let's do your skirt,' she said, and undid the clasp. The skirt almost fell down, barely catching on Edie's tiny, jutting hips. Bea held her hand and
helped her step out of it and then hung it up on the nail with the shirt. ‘Now, just your underthings,' she said, putting her hands on Edie's hard shoulders and spinning her round
so that she could undo the brassiere clasp. It was hard to undo without cutting into the wound on her finger again. She winced, but got it undone and hung it up on the nail with the rest. Then it
was the suspender belt, loose on Edie's concave waist. That too, went up on the nail.

Now, Edie was almost naked, her bee-stung breasts and skinny ribs on show. She's just like a little girl, thought Bea, trying not to look. All that was left were her knickers. They were
beautiful French satin camis in pale apricot with a cream lace trim. The gusset was ripped. Bea paused.

‘Would you like to take them off yourself ?' she said, hesitating. But Edie didn't move, or answer, so she knelt down in front and gently pulled down the slippery satin. She
was so close she could smell Edie's skin, peppery and floral mixed, and something else, overlaid, dank and salty. There was a smear of blood on Edie's inner thigh. Bea helped Edie step
out of the torn knickers and into the bath.

‘You can wash yourself, can't you?' she said, but Edie just sat there, so Bea carefully picked up one foot at a time and wiped the dirt away. Edie didn't flinch as Bea
picked grit out from a blister. Bea washed each toe at a time, thinking, ‘This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed at home . . . and this little piggy was a naughty little
piggy . . .' until Edie's feet were all clean. Then she concentrated on Edie's arms, lifting one up and then the other, wiping soapsuds all the way up and under her arms. She
scrubbed the back of Edie's neck with a flannel, and wiped behind her ears, just like she'd always done with the twins at home, once a week in the tin tub in front of the fire. Bath
times at home she'd always been last. Age order it went, youngest first, every Saturday night. By the time she got her turn in the water, it was always tepid, with a grey soap-sud scum on the
surface. Still, she made the best of it, she thought, picking up the empty cup that had held the soap flakes and using it to pour streams of hot water down Edie's angular back. She watched it
sluice down like a river between Edie's sharp shoulder blades.