The Gunner Girl (30 page)

‘We still would have been late,' said Joan, unscrewing the top of the vinegar bottle and pouring it onto the string dishcloth, making the grey strands slickly acidic. She passed the
bottle onto Bea, who took it and soaked her own cloth.

‘At least we're not being beasted like Billy,' said Joan. They both looked outside to the drill square, where poor Billy was doubling round with his gas mask on, watched by the
sergeant major. All four of them had been late for first parade and all four of them were being punished. Joan felt bad about Billy; she hadn't meant for him to get into trouble. She resolved
to buy him a crate of beer from her next pay packet.

At the window, Edie was running her fingers along the sill, making a repetitive groove in the thick layer of dust and dead flies. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out. Bea and Joan
exchanged looks.

‘I'll start on the outside,' Bea said. Then in a lower voice, as she passed by Joan, she muttered: ‘You try to get her to talk; you might have more luck than me.'
Then she went out through the door. Joan watched her walk along to the far end, saw her begin to rub vigorously on the furthest window with her vinegar-soaked rag.

Joan went over to Edie. ‘How about you wipe and I buff?' she said, holding out the dishcloth. Edie looked up.

‘Oh,' she gasped, as if the reason for them being here in the cookhouse after hours was a total surprise. Edie reached for the cloth and Joan let go. But the moment Edie grasped it,
she dropped it again, with a whispered ‘ow', barely more audible than an exhalation.

Edie stared at the cloth on the floor and Joan stared at Edie. Her face looked brittle, like china. Then she noticed that Edie's fingernails were bitten, right down to the quick, raw
pinky-red at the tips. That vinegar must've stung like anything. Joan bent down to pick up the cloth. She put it on the table behind her, next to the vinegar bottle and the crumpled brown
paper.

‘Edie,' she said, and put out a hand towards her. Edie flinched.

‘We're here for you, Edie,' said Joan. ‘Me and Bea, we can't change what happened, but we can help.' Edie shook her head, a furrow between her brows, her
mouth hard and small. ‘It's important to know,' Joan continued, moving closer, without touching. ‘Did he . . . when it happened, did he finish? Edie, do you understand what
I mean? Because if he did, you might be . . .' here she left a gap. She couldn't say it aloud, not even here, just the two of them, in the empty cookhouse. ‘. . . and if you are,
then we might be able to do something about it, get it sorted. There are people you can go to.' Joan paused, catching her breath. She looked at Edie; her blue eyes were blank and
expressionless. In training they'd been made to watch an awful film about VD and pregnancy, and Edie had just said airily that none of it concerned her because she was saving herself for
marriage. ‘You do understand, don't you Edie? Edie, I wish you'd say something.'

Edie lifted her right hand to her lips and chewed on her already-raw index fingernail, and looked away, out past the footballers and towards the drill square, where the sergeant major was
shouting at Billy.

Joan sighed and turned back to the cleaning stuff. ‘Okay, look, I'll wipe and you buff, just make it shine, like this,' she demonstrated, ‘because Staff Farr will be back
to check.'

Edie nodded and took the brown paper from her. Joan pulled the cloth over the glass, wiping off the accumulated dust and grime. Edie followed, rubbing the glass with small round movements until
the evening sun began to shine strongly through, turning the skin on their arms pale lemon and warming their faces.

As they worked, their heads were close together and their breath came in little pants. Cleaning the windows took a surprising amount of effort. The sunshine fell in pools on the lino and the air
smelled of old gravy and dust, overlaid with the sharpness of the vinegar. Joan's arm began to ache. She moved onto the next window. Bea was moving along, from the outside, in the opposite
direction. Soon they'd meet in the middle. She could see Bea cleaning faster than her and Edie put together, her brown hair roll honey-gilded as the lowering sun touched it.

Billy was gone from the drill square now. Joan was glad the sergeant major hadn't been too hard on him. The other lads were still playing football and as she and Edie wiped away the dirt,
the smudged figures became clearer. A couple of them had taken their shirts off; their torsos looked hard and smooth, like soap. Someone fell and there were jeers and calls of foul play. Edie still
said nothing – she'd been like this since Bea found her outside the 400 Club: silent as the grave.

Bea came in now, cloth in hand, getting another glug of vinegar. She looked questioningly at Joan, who shook her head. ‘You're doing a good job there, girl,' Bea said loudly at
Edie, who didn't respond, just carried on rubbing with the brown paper.

Joan was desperate for chatter and noise, the distraction of gossip. ‘Join us for a bit, Bea,' said Joan, hoping for small talk. Bea soaked her cloth in vinegar and began to rub with
brisk capable movements, her strong arms moving quickly over the glass.

‘You see that lad in goal,' she began, but then stopped. Joan urged her to carry on, but Bea wouldn't. ‘It's nothing important,' she said, lapsing into quiet.
They worked on without talking. Bea was on one side of her, Edie on the other. There was just the faint squeak of wet cloth against glass and the occasional muffled shout from outside. Joan began
to sing, just to break the silence, the first thing that came into her head:

‘Pardon me boys, is this the Chattanooga Choo Choo? Track twenty-nine . . .'

‘. . . boys, you can give me a shine,' Bea joined in.

There was a soft thud and a clatter and suddenly Edie was on the other side of the glass, running past the cookhouse windows and away towards the guns, capless, her red hair flying like a kite
tail behind her. Joan and Bea looked at each other.

‘I'll go,' said Joan. ‘I'm faster.' Bea nodded and Joan was away, sprinting past the whistling footballers and the drill square and the CO's hut and out
towards the emplacements. Edie's figure was a tiny scurrying blur in the distance.

Joan was gaining on her but didn't manage to catch up, and she saw Edie up ahead of her, stumbling down the steps to the guns. When Joan arrived she found Edie curled up by the bottom of
the furthest gun, rocking backwards and forwards. She ran over. Edie had pulled into herself, a wet pebble wedged into a corner, red hair spilling like damp weed.

Joan stretched out her hand to where Edie's hands clasped tight against her knees. Gritty concrete dug into Joan's bare knees as she knelt forward, touching the raw tips of
Edie's fingers. ‘You're not alone, Edie,' she whispered. ‘I'm here, don't worry.'

Edie was making strange noises, a high-pitched keening, as she rocked backwards and forwards on the hard ground. Joan shuffled closer, put her arms round Edie, tried to still her, but Edie
wrenched herself away, lurched on all fours, heaving as the keening was replaced by the guttural choke of vomit. Joan caught her, held her hair off her face as the bile upsurged again and again.
When Edie finally came to a shuddering halt, Joan wiped her face with a clean handkerchief.

‘It's all right. It's all right,' she whispered into the top of Edie's hair. ‘It's all right; you're not alone. I'll look after
you.'

Edie's hair was the colour of crushed chrysanthemums. Joan thought about splintered wood and the smell of burning, broken flowerpots and the sound of sirens. She could smell Edie's
sick, in a puddle on the concrete next to them, and gulped back her own nausea. The blood thudded in her temples.

She held Edie in a tight embrace, not letting go, and stayed like that while the sun slanted lower and the trees cast long shadows that shivered in the rising wind, and the crows returned to
roost in the big oak tree and the footballers finally finished their noisy game. She bit her lip until it bled, swallowing the metallic taste. When the sky began to turn rose-pink over the far away
rooftops, and her knees were numb from the concrete, she helped Edie up to her feet and led her gently by the hand back to their hut.

They got back as Staff Farr was doing her final round. She didn't mention anything about the cookhouse windows – Bea must've had to work like billy-oh to get them done in time
– but her gaze moved round and rested with Joan, who was just taking off her boots.

‘Bombardier Tucker?'

‘Yes, Staff,' she stopped undoing her laces and looked up. Staff Farr's eyes were piercing down at her.

‘You worked hard for that stripe. Don't rest on your laurels. If you or your girls are late for parade a second time, there'll be more than a little light housework as extras.
Is that clear?'

‘Yes, Staff.'

Staff Farr stalked out. Joan thought she heard a couple of the girls stifling giggles across the other side. Bea came over and gave her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and then took charge of
Edie, helping her change and laying out her clothes ready for the morning. When Edie and Bea went to the ablutions block together, Sheila Carter came over to Joan's bed. Joan was just
slipping on her nightie.

‘What's up with your friend?'

‘Nothing,' Joan replied, pushing her arms through the sleeves and emerging from the neck. She wasn't going to share secrets, least of all with rabbit-faced Sheila.

‘She used to yakkety-yak like a blooming Bren gun, but since the royal visit she's been all funny with us,' said Sheila, and then the voices of the other girls chipped in:
Yeah, thinks she's too good to talk to us. She's always been hoity-toity that one. Treats Bea like a servant. We should say something to Staff Farr; she's just not pulling her
weight . . .

‘No,' said Joan. ‘She's not well, that's all.'

‘If she's ill, she should go sick. Get some medicine,' said Sheila, hands on hips, fingers like chipolatas.

‘No, it's not that, it's . . .' Joan tried to think of something both vague and plausible. ‘. . . it's bad news from home. She's in a right state about
it. Sorry if we've been a bit off with you lot, but we're worried about her. She won't talk, or anything.' At that there were a few sympathetic murmurs from the others.

‘So what's up, then?' said Sheila.

‘She won't say. It's like I said; she won't talk. Look, I shouldn't say this, you know I'm not one to gossip, but that morning of the royal visit, there was a
telegram . . .' she let the words hang, knowing that they'd all draw their own conclusions. It was a lie, of course, there had been no telegram, but what was one small lie on top of the
huge messy secret they'd left behind at the 400 Club?

Joan heard the door of the ablutions block bang shut. ‘Please don't say anything,' she said.

‘Course not. We're not gossips, are we girls?' said Sheila, and the other girls shook their heads and looked busy when Edie and Bea walked in.

When Joan asked if Edie wanted a final fag, just before blackout, she shook her head. She hadn't smoked since that night, either. The other girls were in bed, reading or knitting. Joan
went outside with Bea, in the gap between their hut and the ablutions block and they sucked on their cigarettes and watched the summer evening leach away.

‘They were asking about Edie,' said Joan.

‘What did you tell them?'

‘That she had bad news from home, that there was a telegram, and she wouldn't talk about it.'

‘Think they swallowed it?'

‘For now, but what are we going to do about her?'

Bea rolled the cigarette between forefinger and thumb and shrugged.

‘But what if she's . . .' Joan began, but still couldn't say it.

Bea was silent, not answering, turning away.

‘What if she's got VD?' Joan whispered. ‘Or worse. What if she's . . .? What if she's . . .?'

‘Up the duff?'

‘Yes.'

‘Girls have babies all the time,' said Bea, still turned away, so that Joan could only see her three-quarter profile, the soft curve of her cheek and the hard ball of her shoulder.
Her voice was flat and expressionless.

‘But she's not married. I mean, she's on her own, it would be a disaster for her, wouldn't it?'

Bea did not answer or turn back. Joan watched her exhale. In the distance, there were voices, chattering and laughing away up the Bayswater Road. Joan watched the tip of Bea's cigarette
smoulder like a small volcano in the twilight.

‘What was so important about that bloody letter of yours this morning anyway?' Bea said, at last, throwing her still-lit stub away into the night.

‘It was from Rob,' said Joan. ‘He's got a leave pass and he's coming to visit. He says he's got something important to ask me.'

He could see her in the distance, waiting, but she had her back to him. She would be expecting him to be coming from the other direction, but he'd come the other way,
because he'd spent half the day in Hatton Garden, talking to the greasy jewellers, parting with three months' wages. The little silk-covered box in his pocket poked against his thigh as
he walked.

She was just a muddy figurine up ahead, like unglazed pottery, set against the grey-beige muddle of a summer rainstorm. She didn't have an umbrella, but she was holding something above her
head. He broke into a run, shoes splashing in puddles. As he got closer, he could see it was his old flying jacket, held up, sheltering her from the sluicing rain. He thought back to that April
day, when he'd left her alone in the church. He'd had some explaining to do when he'd got back with half his uniform missing.

She turned, hearing his footfalls on the pavement. She came forward towards him, holding the flying jacket higher, and as he got closer, he could see she was smiling. Then he was there, with
her, underneath the sheepskin. And they fell together: her lips, her breath, her hair, the taste of her. The sheepskin dropped as she encircled him with her arms. The raindrops were like soft
tears. Rob could feel rain coursing down the back of his neck as they kissed. The last few months just melted away – the knotted stomach, the upside-down firework displays over faraway German
towns, the biting cold, the nausea, and the endless round of new pals who so quickly disappeared – all of that went away, and none of it mattered. All that mattered was the moment.