The Gunner Girl (37 page)

‘Explosion?' said Rob.

The man nodded. ‘Convoys – Archangel.'

‘Bad luck.'

‘Could've been worse. At least I made it back. I made it back to my girl.'

But Rob didn't respond, because he was thinking about Joan; thinking about what he was going to say to her. The two men got off together at Queensway and began to walk through Hyde Park,
along towards Speaker's Corner. The air was hot; desiccated leaves hung limply. Clouds were beginning to pile up like lumpen sandbags.

‘What's your girl like?' said the merchant-navy chap. And Rob was forced to describe Joan, her pale blonde hair, and the gap in her front teeth.

‘You got a photo?' and Rob said no. She'd never sent a photo. She'd never sent a photo and it was too late now. After that, neither of them spoke, and there was a kind of
uneasy comradeship as they strode together towards the battery. At the gate, Rob was waved through – no one ever questioned bomber command these days – but the other bloke was stopped,
his documents checked. Rob walked on ahead.

Now, he looked back, to say something to the navy bloke, but he'd disappeared. Not that it mattered. He could do without an audience for what he needed to say. There she was. He swallowed,
throat dry.

He was always seeing her in the distance: waiting in the summer rain for him outside the Ritz; at the bus stop at West Malling in the spring; halfway down Western Way on a cold autumn evening.
He was always running to get close, to catch her. But not this time. This time he walked. He could see her more clearly as he got closer, the outline of her against the edge of the hut. Jesus, but
he still wanted her, even now. He thought of that time in the church: her lips, her flesh, the scent of her hair.

She'd seen him too, now. She took a step forward, faltered, held her ground. He kept walking. If she ran to him, then what? If she ran to him, covered him with kisses, begged for
forgiveness, said yes, and yes and yes. Would he change his mind? He thought of the first letter, with the lipstick kiss on the back. And all the times he'd crossed the channel back home and
it was her face, pulling him like a magnet, back home, back to Blighty. No. No, it was too late.

She stood and waited. As he got closer he could see her hair curling out from underneath her cap, the pout of her lower lip. He thought about the big pile of letters from her in his locker,
still smelling of the scent she sprayed them with. He thought about taking them with him on his next sortie, opening the hatch over Germany, letting them scatter like snow on the enemy.

There were girls at the next emplacement, gathering their things up. There was nudging and pointing at his approach. He walked slowly down the steps. Closer still and he made eye contact with
her. He almost hesitated. It wasn't too late, was it? Yes, it was, he told himself; it was too late the moment in the Ritz where she paused when he proposed. It was too late when she
couldn't bring herself to say yes. The last few steps were like walking through sinking sand. He forced his legs forward. All he wanted to do was hold her, catch her up feel her lips on
his.

‘Rob?' she said. She bit her lip, looked at him.

‘Who did you think it was? Another one of your fancy men?'

‘No. I knew it was you.'

‘I've come for the ring,' he said.

She nodded. ‘Of course,' she began to pull it off the finger of her right hand. He watched her hand twist and pull, her face sideways so he could see the smooth curve of her cheek,
the escaping lock of blonde hair. His throat ached, battened-down grief stabbing his jaws.

‘Here,' she held it out. He put his hand out to take it. Their fingertips touched, he fumbled. It dropped onto the ground and they both bent down, heads touching as they grappled for
it. She found it first, wiped it on her skirt, and gave it back to him. He hated himself for wanting to clutch at her fingers as the ring passed between them. He wanted to catch her hand and hold
it and hold it. He stuffed the ring in his pocket, cleared his throat.

‘I'm sorry, Rob,' she said in a small voice.

He hadn't meant to question or whine. He was trying to be a man about it. ‘Why, Joan?' He couldn't help himself.

‘I didn't say “no”,' she said.

‘Don't toy with me.'

‘I'm not – I didn't mean to.'

‘You didn't even bother to phone or write.'

‘It wasn't like that. It's complicated,' she said, but she didn't continue, did nothing to explain.

‘What makes you think you can just lead a chap on like that and drop him?' She opened her mouth to respond but he cut in. ‘I know you better than you know yourself. I would
have done anything for you, Joan, anything. You'll regret this. You'll regret this for the rest of your life, because I'm the only one who really cares, who really knows
you.'

‘But you don't know me,' she began.

He ignored the crack in her voice, clenched his fists and let his humiliation fly Three months' wages for the ring, a week's wages on that stupid uneaten posh tea, and a humiliating
journey back to Kent in the rain. And for what? Enough. No more being wrapped around her little finger.

‘I think I understand all too well. Got yourself a nice ring and hoped I would bugger off and die somewhere before you'd have to go through with it, didn't you?' Anger
ripped out, making him shout. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Joan Tucker?' She didn't respond.

He thought he'd feel better, once he'd said it, but he couldn't look her in the eye. He was dimly aware of the girls by the table, silently gawking as he turned and left. This
is what I set out to do, he thought. I've lost Joan, but I've kept my self-respect. Plenty more fish in the sea, that's what his old dad would have said. He trudged out towards
the gate. There was no sign of that odd naval bloke. Plenty more fish in the sea and pebbles on the beach. The ring clinked against the small change in his pocket. He thought about Harper's
widow, and Pammie up in Blackpool, and the new brunette in the typing pool in headquarters, but Joan's face kept swimming into his consciousness, saying sorry in that small voice. A cloud
passed over the sun, turning the path from gold to grey at a stroke.

He'd done the right thing, hadn't he?

It was over. Goodbye, Joan Tucker.

The darkness pressed in on Bea's eyeballs, a stark contrast to the vivid outdoors. It was hot as the kitchen on a boil-wash day and the air was still and thick. It
smelled sweetly pungent: sweat and bodies and soap and talc. One girl sighed and muttered in her sleep, turning on the creaking springs. At the far end, someone snored.

Bea's mind went over everything again: Staff Farr beckoning her away from the guns to take the call, dust puffing away from her footfalls and the air dry in her throat. Staff had held the
office door open for her. ‘It's your sister Vi on the line,' she gestured to the telephone on the desk. ‘I'll let you have some privacy.'

Vi's voice had been crackled and small: ‘Oh, Bea, thank the Lord, she took her time finding you, didn't she? I haven't got much change. It's Ma, Bea, she's
really sick this time and it looks like hospital. I can't get through to Pa, but they said they'd tell him. It's her breathing. She can't seem to get enough air in, and the
doctor said . . .' The pips went and then the line went dead. Bea replaced the receiver back in its cradle. It clicked. And then there was stillness. The air was thick and dense. Bea stood
still in the quiet hut. Ma sick. Pa uncontactable. Vi on her own with the others, and her job in the pub. Who'd be looking after Baby?

Staff said she'd see what she could do to help. She said don't worry about going back to the guns, just go and get some rest.

Now Bea needed to sleep. They were on duty again later – the stupid new eight-hours on–off routine. Her lids were heavy and there was a throbbing ache at her temple, but her thoughts
whirled and shoved. Even with eyes closed in the blacked-out hut, sleep refused to come. What about Baby? Who's going to take care of Baby? Vi would be busy with her job, Rita was all right,
but she'd be back in school any day now, and so would the others.

Then, from outside, footsteps, a voice: ‘You'll come over here if you know what's good for you. Vanessa, I'm warning you.' Vanessa – that was what Joan called
herself, that night when they went drinking, wasn't it?

‘Sod off, Fred.' A voice, thick and sullen – but it sounded like Joan.

‘You can't get rid of me that easily, Vanessa.'

‘I've told you. I'm Joan.' So it was Joan. But who was the bloke? Why was he calling her Vanessa?

‘You still haven't told them?'

‘Why should I?'

‘Didn't you listen to a word I said, last time? No, you never were one for listening, or for knowing what's good for you, Vanessa.'

‘It's Joan.'

‘Joan, then. But if you're Joan, then we're engaged, and you won't mind me doing this.' There was a scuffle and something thudded against the side of the hut. Bea
sat up in bed. What the hell was going on? The voices continued.

‘You little bitch.'

‘Like I said, sod off, Fred.'

‘I'll sod off then, but you're coming with me.'

‘Why would I do that?'

‘Because of what I'll do if you don't.'

‘What can you do, Fred? You've got nothing on me.' And Bea remembered what Joan had said in the ablutions block: he's got nothing on me. Then she'd corrected
herself, said she was talking about the police. Was she talking about this Fred chap? But who was he?

‘If you're Joan Tucker, then you're my girl, and you'll come with me. But if you're Vanessa, then you shouldn't be here at all. You're just seventeen.
And I think your commanding officer would be very interested to hear that. So what's it to be?'

‘You wouldn't.'

‘Wouldn't I? Think about it. What have I got to lose? I've booked us a room in the Mount Royal. It's only over the road, just past Marble Arch. Posh. Just the kind of
place you'd like, Joan.'

‘What do you think I am? Bugger off and get yourself a Piccadilly Commando.'

‘I don't need one. I've got a fiancée. I've got you, Joan.'

‘I'm not . . .'

‘Just now you said you were.'

‘For God's sake, Fred. I'm not your tart.'

‘No, you're my fiancée, aren't you, Joan Tucker? That's what it says on your ID papers, doesn't it?'

‘I'm engaged to someone else.'

‘No, you're not. You're engaged to me. And you promised me if I got back home safe from Archangel you'd do this. I've got it in writing. I've kept all your
letters, kept them safe, Joan.'

That lad's not right in the head, thought Bea. There was more scuffling. A muffled grunt. ‘I'm not going with you. You can't make me,' said Joan.

‘I think I can. And you know why. We'll walk out arm-inarm, like lovebirds, and I'll have you back in time for your duty. Just do your duty to me, first. Come on; don't
make a fuss, Joan. We're engaged, remember?'

There was silence for a moment, and then footfalls moving away into the distance. Bea tried to process what she'd heard. ‘Joan?' said Bea. ‘Joan, are you all
right?' But Joan didn't answer.

Bea pushed herself up, scrambled out of bed and to the hut door. There was a rush of sunlight as she pushed it open. ‘Joan?' Bea repeated, looking round, but her friend had already
gone. There was birdsong from the tree, and the distant shouts from the other gunner girls, practising their drills on the emplacement.

‘Shouldn't you be getting some rest?' came a voice from beyond the end of the hut. ‘You're on duty again later.' It was Staff Farr, on the path passing the
hut entrance.

‘Yes, Staff,' said Bea.

‘But while I'm here . . .' Staff Farr crossed the dusty grass and came over to her. ‘I've sorted out that administrative matter with the pay office,' she
said, holding out a manila envelope. ‘Here, an advance, so you can help out your family. But no leave yet, I'm afraid, we're a man down as it is, what with your friend's
appendicitis
.' She raised an eyebrow at the last word. ‘Well, I'd better be off, due to meet the new Junior Commander,' said Staff Farr, turning to go. ‘Oh,
and,' she reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, ‘this came for you just now in the second post.' She held out a small crumpled air letter towards Bea,
and Bea reached out to take it. She recognised the handwriting.

At Marble Arch, Joan stopped. As they walked out of the battery, she'd caught sight of Billy, tried to show with her eyes that she needed help, but he just looked
deliberately away. A black car ground past, sending choking petrol fumes. Fred still had her arm twisted up behind her back.

‘I can't do this,' she said. Above Marble Arch, the sky was grey, furrowed clouds, like a headache in the sky. ‘It's not right,' she said. She looked at Fred.
She could only see the one side of his face – the good side. ‘You understand, don't you, Fred?' she appealed.

He let go of her arm, turned, faced her full on, so she could see the join where the burnt flesh met the saved: tentacles of red, clawing at clear, cream flesh across his cheek, his nose.
‘Of course,' he said. ‘I'll walk you back now. I'll walk you right back to your CO's office and we'll tell him that it's all a mistake, you're
not my fiancée; you're not Joan Tucker.'

The traffic swirled and buzzed. She felt herself rock on the balls of her feet. ‘No, we can't do that.'

‘No?' only the good side of his face showed any expression.

The world was spinning, blurring. She stumbled. He caught her, held her elbow. ‘Have it your way,' she said.