The Gunner Girl (34 page)

‘What's that?' said Joan, pointing. They paused. A dark car was parked at the battery entrance, figures scurrying like ants. Nobody answered Joan. There was a beat, and then,
without speaking, they all set off again: left-right, left-right, towards the battery, towards the waiting police.

‘Tucker!'

‘Yes ma'am.'

‘You're in next.'

The door opened and Bea came out. She walked straight past, without so much as catching Joan's eye.

‘Bombardier Tucker,' came the voice from behind the door. She got up and took two steps towards the door, pausing and turning to look at Edie, who was still sat waiting her turn.
Face white and eyes huge. Joan gave her the tiniest nod.

Inside, three men were ranged around the big desk in front of the window. One, a crooked silhouette against the light, was busy scribbling on a notepad and barely looked up. Another larger man
motioned for her to sit down on the small chair that had been placed in front, and at a distance from, the desk. The third man sat in the middle, his fingertips just touching, so that his hands
made an empty triangle above the blotter. The caustic afternoon light glared through the window behind them; their faces were in partial shadow, like smudges on a copybook.

‘Good afternoon, Bombardier,' said the man in the middle. His voice sounded matter-of-fact to the point of boredom. ‘We've just been talking to Gunner Smith about the
events of last Friday, and we'd like to hear your version. You've heard about the dead GI?'

Joan nodded.

‘There were other fatalities during that raid, of course, but the Americans seem to think there are some – how shall I put it – inconsistencies with the GI's death.
We're putting together a full investigation for their military police.'

He coughed. Joan shifted in her seat. She tried to see his eyes, but they were in shadow. She couldn't tell his expression. Had Bea remembered what they'd said to the gate guard,
that night? The scribbling man looked up from his notebook, pen poised. The sun was striking in, right at her. She squinted, waiting.

‘So, Bombardier, can you tell me everything that happened to you from the time you left the battery in the afternoon, until you arrived back in the morning. In your own time.'

Joan nodded. Her chest felt tight, and her breath came in little gulps. She forced herself to breathe deeply. ‘I left the battery with Gunner Smith and Gunner Lightwater,' she began.
The man at the desk folded his arms and sat back in his chair. The man with the notebook began to scribble. The larger man breathed audibly and fiddled with a fountain pen. ‘We went together
for tea at the Ritz, and then on for cocktails at the Savoy – we were celebrating because I'd just been made up, promoted, you know, and there'd been a visit from the Queen and
Princess Elizabeth earlier that day.'

She stopped. The man in the middle nodded at her to continue. She rubbed her eyes. She could feel perspiration pricking under her arms, down her back, sticking her skin to her shirt, between her
thighs. She uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them. The silence hung like a blanket.

The man nodded again, lifting his eyebrows. ‘And?' he said.

‘And we met three American officers on the way to the Savoy. We had drinks with them at the Savoy. And then we left, just before blackout; it must have been about ten thirty.'

‘You left with the Americans and went onto the 400 Club?'

‘No.' She felt her face flush.

‘No, you didn't leave with them, or no, you didn't go onto the 400 Club?'

‘We went to see Gunner Lightwater's father at his club.' She said the name of the club. The lie was hot in her mouth. It felt like an air raid siren, loud and warped. After
that, the rest followed easily. ‘To be honest, Officer, I was quite tipsy. My memory of the evening isn't as clear as it could be. If you need to know more, why don't you ask
Gunner Lightwater's father?' Let him lie. Sir or not, she knew his type. He was used to lying, wasn't he?

‘Her father's name?'

‘Sir Neville Lightwater. You can contact him through the Prime Minister's office, if it's urgent,' she said. The three men exchanged glances.

‘Thank you, Bombardier. That will be all.'

She steadied herself on the chair back as she got up. The door looked further away than it should be. It seemed to retreat away from her. But it was only a couple of steps, wasn't it? Two
steps and she'd be out of here: left-right. Her hand was already on the door handle.

‘Oh, one more thing, Bombardier.'

She turned back, fingertips still on the doorknob. ‘Sir?'

‘What size shoe do you take?'

‘A five,' she said. ‘I take a size five.'

‘Thank you, Gunner. Write that down, will you, Fanshaw. Bombardier Tucker takes a size five shoe.' He took a large handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead with it.
‘You may go, Bombardier.'

As she opened the door, she saw Edie still shrunken in the chair. Staff Farr barked at her to get up. There wasn't a moment to say anything as she was ushered past, out into the aching
sunshine. She heard the door close as Edie went inside. And Joan could only hope she'd done enough to protect her friend.

Bea was thinking about Jock again as she came past the back of the ablutions block. Her eyes were sandy with lack of sleep, but there was something she needed to do before she
could rest. Some hand washing: the type you didn't send to the laundry with your uniform – a little blue bag with blood-stained bloomers inside. The army-issue pads were all right
– better than the rags she'd used back home – but what if you came on halfway through your shift, on the gun emplacement, in the middle of the night? You couldn't exactly
tell those old Home Guard lags that you had to go AWOL to get your sanitary protection sorted. So she had to wait, feeling the blood seeping warmly, slowly into her bloomers. And when the shift was
over, wash everything out, before the stain set permanently.

She was trying to remember Jock's face when she told him about the baby. She remembered how she noticed she hadn't had the curse for a few weeks, longer than usual. But even though
she knew what that meant, it felt as if she didn't say anything about it then it wouldn't be true. When Ma asked, straight up, why she hadn't been boiling her rags, and whether
she was up the duff, Bea just said yes, because she'd known all along, really. And Ma slapped her so hard she fell over, bashing her cheek against the hearth. It was too late to get Jock to
marry her, because he was sailing that day, but Bea wasn't worried. She knew how Jock felt about her; the wedding could wait until his return.

Down at the docks, before he left, she whispered it in his ear, and he'd looked surprised, but pleased. She tried to remember his face now, how he'd looked when she told him, and
they said goodbye: his freckles, his little sparky eyes and sandy hair. The blink of surprise when she told him about the baby. But she couldn't capture his image properly. It was like when
someone moved in a photo: smudged and unclear. Still no letter; was she stupid to hope? She stood and watched from the docks as his ship sailed, and she saw him on deck, waving. And she waved back,
feeling like she was a piece of tissue being slowly torn in half, as the ship sailed away up the estuary.

As she turned the corner, she saw two figures spring apart: Billy – fat little Billy from stores – and Joan. She looked at Joan, and Joan looked back, chin up, as if daring her to
say anything. Billy tipped her a wink. Bea looked away and hurried on. It really wasn't any of her business.

The water was tepid, which was good. About blood temperature was right, otherwise it would only set the stain. If only she had some salt. Still, a good scrub with carbolic soap should do it. Oh,
Joan. What about poor Rob?

All the other girls who'd been on duty with them last night were already in bed, including Edie, who was scrunched up under the covers, despite the heat. Edie had been late for duty that
night, missed her tea and all. They'd covered for her, and she'd turned up looking washed out, saying she'd just stayed in church too long. She didn't seem right, though.
But then, she hadn't been right since that night. At least she was talking again, now. Bea heard the ablutions door open and looked in the mirror above the sink. It was Joan.

‘It's not what you think,' said Joan, before Bea even opened her mouth.

‘I never said anything,' said Bea, rubbing soap on the stain.

‘Edie said the police asked about her shoe size, and we can't risk it, that's why.'

‘Do you think the police called her pa?' said Bea.

‘They've got nothing on us.'

‘No, but have they? Why were they here if they didn't think . . .' Bea's voice trailed off. Just seeing a copper made her feel guilty, even if she hadn't done
anything.

‘If they had anything definite, they wouldn't be round here asking questions, sniffing about and – don't look at me like that, Bea.'

As Joan was talking, Bea couldn't help thinking of what she'd just seen her doing with Billy. What was she playing at? ‘But why Billy, Joan?'

‘Like I said, the shoes. We can't have them finding out about the shoes.'

‘And Rob?'

‘What about Rob?'

Bea thought, if I had what you have, Joan, I wouldn't treat it like it was nothing. I wouldn't throw it all away on fat Billy from stores. If I had what you had I wouldn't even
be here; I'd be in my own home, with my own little girl and a good man who loved me.

‘Is it because you worry that if you say yes to Rob and admit you love him, then he'll get killed, too?' Bea's words came out before she thought. She was too tired to
remember to keep it buttoned. Joan just looked at her.

Bea looked away, down the sink, where the blood was seeping slowly from her underwear: pink clouds, sunset. She found the gusset and rubbed some more of the yellow carbolic soap into it, then
she picked up either side and began to rub it against itself, quick and hard, until the soap bubbled through the fabric and the bloodstain began to fade. After a while, her hands got tired, and she
dipped the bloomers back into the water. She looked up and Joan was still there, staring at herself in the tiny mottled mirror.

‘He's got nothing on me,' Joan muttered.

‘Who?'

Joan blinked, and quickly licked her lips.

‘Nobody. I mean, the police. He's got nothing on us. They've got nothing on us,' she corrected herself.

But Bea could tell she wasn't talking about Edie. There was something else, wasn't there? And then she thought about Edie, late for duty, pale and strained. And now, huddled up under
the covers, despite the heat. There was something up with her, and all.

‘What about the other thing?' said Bea, as if Joan could read her thoughts.

‘What other thing?' said Joan abruptly. ‘I don't know what the hell you're on about. There is no other thing!' And she turned away then, so Bea couldn't
see her face in the mirror any more.

‘What are you doing here, Joan?' said Bea, at the reflection of the back of her head.

Joan held up her wash kit. ‘I came on just before duty, didn't I? Lucky I had a pad in, just in case, I knew we were due, but I still need a wash.'

‘You said “we”.'

‘Of course I said “we” because we always come on at the same time, don't we, you, me and Edie.'

‘But Edie's asleep, isn't she?' Bea looked at Joan's reflection, saw her eyebrows shoot up.

‘Oh. You mean—' Joan began. Bea nodded. ‘Oh, heck. Do you think she knows?'

Bea shrugged. ‘Give it a couple more days; she might just be late.' But Bea didn't believe it. Like Joan said, they always came on at the same time, ever since basic training.
And in any case, there was something different about Edie, she could tell.

Joan went into the bathroom with her wash kit. Bea heard her turn on the taps. Bea sighed, thinking that it would take more than Joan copping a grope from fat Billy to sort this mess out. She
wrung out the bloomers and pulled the plug. The pink scummy water gurgled and hissed down the plughole. Then she rinsed the bloomers under the tap until the water ran clear. She would hang them up
on the stove in the hut. It wasn't lit, this time of year, but they'd dry quick enough in this heat.

She went back to the hut and found Edie, curled up small, like a knot under the covers. Bea thought about how she'd helped Edie after that night, undressing her and washing her. That
bird-like body wasn't big enough to fit a baby in; it would break her. Poor Edie; poor little rich girl. Bea hung up her bloomers. They dripped onto the wooden floor making a pat-pat sound.
Then she quickly stripped and fell into her own bed. All around were the sighs and creaks of half a dozen sleeping soldiers, exhausted after their night staring into the darkness.

As Bea pulled the covers up under her chin, she was thinking about hot baths and cheap gin and wire coat hangers that had been straightened out, blunted at one end and blackened at the tip. She
thought of the gurgling sound as the blooded pink water eddied and sucked down the drain.

‘We need your help,' said Joan, as soon as the secretary closed the door behind them. There was no point beating about the bush, was there? Sir Neville unfolded
himself behind the rosewood desk and walked round to meet them halfway across the vast wood-panelled room.

‘Half Pint!' he said, bending down to embrace his daughter. She stayed rigid as a china doll in his embrace. He straightened up and kissed Joan on the cheek. ‘How lovely to see
you, Jeanie,' he said. He smelled of cologne and pipe smoke. ‘And you, too,' he said kissing Bea. She flushed. ‘To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?' he
said.