The Gunner Girl (4 page)

Her shoes clopped on the pavement. Buses and taxis zoomed past. Her breath made smoke clouds in the wintry air. Across the road, Grosvenor Gardens park was a slice of dusty green amid the
greyness. A few brown leaves clung awkwardly to tree branches, fluttering madly, desperate to escape. A woman with a fur coat and a sausage dog on a red lead was walking in the other direction.
Edie caught her eye and asked the way to the recruitment office. The dog snuffled at her feet and Edie bent over to ruffle its ears. The woman said the recruitment office was just up the street on
the right and smiled. ‘Good luck, dear!' she said, before yanking the little dog and walking on. She must think I'm joining up, thought Edie, feeling a mixture of pride and guilt:
pride that she should look like the sort of girl who would want to do her patriotic duty, and guilt that she wasn't. I'm just a Mary Churchill tourist, she thought, and then laughed a
little to herself, because it sounded a bit ridiculous. She thought about how she'd describe the day to Marjorie, afterwards, when Marjorie was in the mood for company again, and how they
could laugh together about the way she'd spent her eighteenth birthday as a ‘Mary Churchill tourist'.

She walked briskly, with purpose, spine straight, chin up, chest out, just as she'd been taught in deportment classes – all those afternoons in the dusty studio with a book balanced
on her head, trying not to catch Marjorie's eye and giggle. She had always been very good at deportment, although French was the only thing she'd excelled at; she'd won the French
prize for her year. Mary Churchill had won the Queen's College French prize the previous year, she remembered. They had that in common, didn't they? Edie sucked in a sigh. Down the
curb, across the junction, just missing a grocer's boy with his huge basket on the front of his bike (‘Watch your step, lady!' he shouted, veering round her), and up again,
alongside the high brick terrace with its important-looking balustrades. Pigeons passed in the pewter sky like tossed handkerchiefs and she worried that her hat would fly off in the stiff
breeze.

Finally, she was there. Stone steps led up to the double-doors with
AUXILIARY TERRITORIAL SERVICE RECRUITMENT
on a discreet painted sign to the right-hand side. So this
was it; this was where Mary came to join up. She wondered if Winston or Clementine came with her, or if she came all alone, trotting along from Victoria Station, just like Edie had done?

Edie wondered what it was like inside? Would it be full of barrel-chested sergeant majors shouting at everyone? Or would it just be a case of signing a form and leaving? She paused at the bottom
of the steps, looking up at the large wooden doors with the polished brass knocker. As she looked, the door opened to reveal the sturdy form of a woman dressed head to foot in khaki.

‘Come in, come in, we're about to begin!' The woman bellowed, gesturing to Edie, who started to climb up the stairs. She could explain once she got there that she was only
looking, couldn't she?

At the top, the large woman stepped aside and Edie was ushered into the hallway, eyes adjusting to the half-gloom. The woman closed the door behind her and looked her up and down, as if
appraising her lung capacity and general state of health, and finding her wanting.

‘If you go to the desk, Sergeant Noakes will take down your details – you are here to join up, aren't you?'

‘Yes, of course,' said Edie – it just came out – and made her way across the marble floor to the wooden desk where another woman in khaki was shuffling papers.

Sergeant Noakes, a sharp-nosed brunette, raised her eyebrows when Edie gave her date of birth. ‘Happy Birthday,' she said, and then continued ticking items off on a checklist. Then
she had to sit on a hard chair next to some other girls and wait for the medical. There was a pasty-faced one called Moira and a mousey one who spoke so softly that Edie never caught her name and a
fat girl who chuckled a lot and smelled of chip fat.

In the end, it was quite a lark. She had her medical and her eyesight test. The girl called Moira told her to put her hair up into a high bun just before they did the height measurements. The
piled-up hair made her just about tall enough – she didn't need to stand on tiptoes – and was passed ‘A1: fit for all duties'. After the medical, they were allowed tea
from the urn and a plate of biscuits was passed round, and the girls let her have the last-remaining biscuit as well, on account of it being her birthday. Everyone was very sweet.

Sergeant Noakes told her it would take around three weeks to get her call-up papers and rail warrant. Edie said she couldn't wait.

The train took an age. Something about an unexploded bomb near Clapham Junction. But she had her Bible to read – it was always a comfort. By the time she got home, it was
nearing nightfall. Edie walked slowly up the road, dallying, despite the wind-chill, thinking of how she'd break the news to Mummy and Pop. They would be so proud of her, wouldn't they?
They would be as proud as Winston and Clementine were of Mary.

Her house looked discouraging under the darkening sky: the rows of blank windows, two smokeless chimneys and all those thrashing beech trees. For a moment, she wasn't so sure. Maybe she
shouldn't break it to Mummy straight away. After supper might be best. Perhaps she should wait until there was that contented pause before the rest of the evening began?

As she pushed open the wrought-iron gates, she imagined Mummy telling Mrs Carson about it: ‘Oh, didn't I mention? Edie's joining the ATS. Yes, just like the Prime
Minister's daughter. Such a brave thing to do – we are terribly proud.'

She walked up to the front door. There was a light on in the hallway, so Mummy must be home already. In fact, Edie could hear her voice. She opened the front door and went inside and there was
Mummy, talking on the telephone, clutching the receiver as if it were a dying kitten that she was trying to revive. At the sound of the front door she looked up.

‘Edie! Thank goodness!' She spoke back into the phone: ‘Officer, I'm so sorry, but that's her now. Yes, she's just walked in. I'm so sorry to trouble
you. Thank you so much. Thank you.' She replaced the receiver back in the cradle as Edie began to unbutton her coat. It was barely five and her mother had already phoned the police to report
her missing.

‘Where in heaven's name have you been, Edith?'

‘Out,' said Edie.

‘With whom?'

‘With . . .' Edie cast around for ideas, but she was a terrible liar. ‘On my own.'

‘Where?'

‘Just up to town, Mummy.'

‘Up to town? On your own?
Mon Dieu!
' A vein appeared in Mummy's neck and the frown deepened between her brows. ‘You went all the way to London on your
own?'

‘Yes,' said Edie. ‘I am eighteen, Mummy.'

‘I know you're eighteen, for heaven sakes. But you can't just go gadding about and not tell me. You know you should always take a friend, and leave a note, so we know
you're safe. You didn't even mention it to Cook. How could you be so thoughtless? Just wait 'til your father hears about this!'

Edie looked at her mother's pained expression and felt a familiar mix of guilt and defiance.

‘I'm sorry, Mummy,' she said. Her mother's face began to soften. ‘But you go out alone all the time,' she added, watching her mother's features harden
again.

‘That's different and you know it. You're a young girl and it's not safe and there's a war on, Edith.'

‘I know there's a war on,' Edie replied, slipping out of her coat.

‘Don't take that tone with me, young lady. What on earth were you doing alone in London anyway?'

‘I went to . . .' she looked at her mother's face, chalk-white with anger and worry, and all the love Edie knew she ought to feel was overlaid with a thick layer of resentment.
‘. . . to Grosvenor Gardens,' she replied as truthfully as she felt she could.

‘Well, why on earth would you want to do that?'

Edie shrugged, swinging her coat from one finger. Her mother tutted, sighed and ran a hand over her face.

‘Your father spent a lot of money on your party yesterday and I put a lot of effort into organising it, and this is how you thank us? If you wanted to get out of the house you could have
come with me. Mrs Carson was asking after you.'

Edie said nothing. Her mother sighed again.

‘Well, run upstairs and get changed for dinner.'

Edie did as she was told. When she came back downstairs the curtains had been drawn and there was a fire in the drawing room. She sat close to the fire, hugging her knees and leafing through the
new copy of
Harper's Bazaar.
On the cover was a glamorous black-haired woman wearing a red-and-black-patchwork dress, draped over a red chaise longue. She had red lipstick and she
was reading a letter. Edie imagined it to be a love letter, like the letter she never got from Kenneth.

Supper was a largely silent affair. The carriage clock ticked away the minutes on the mantelpiece. Mummy talked a little about the cookery lessons she was getting in anticipation of Cook leaving
in the New Year. She said that Edie should take some cookery classes, too. Edie played with her rice pudding, making patterns in the goo with the raspberry jam. She was thinking about how to tell
her mother about joining up.

‘Did you see your father when you were in town?' said her mother suddenly. Edie replied that she hadn't gone anywhere near his club, or his office.

‘I just wondered – I thought you might have . . .' her mother's voice trailed off and she took a large gulp of wine.

‘I told you. I only went to Grosvenor Gardens,' said Edie.

‘I was so worried, Edie. And I thought . . .'

‘It won't happen again,' said Edie, quite truthfully.

‘That's a good girl,' said Mummy.

After supper they went back through to the drawing room. The fire had burnt down low, so Edie put on an extra log. It was damp and smoked and hissed in the grate. She put up the fireguard and
sat down on the hearth rug, leaning her back up against her father's empty armchair. Mummy turned on the wireless and picked up her knitting. Edie idly leafed through the pages of
Harper's Bazaar
once more.

‘Did you hear about Mary Churchill?' Edie said in what she hoped was a casual voice.

‘What's that, dear?' Mummy had her good ear turned towards the wireless.

‘Mary Churchill has finished her basic training with the ATS. She's really helping the war effort, isn't she? It said in the paper that she might even work alongside the men
soldiers, on the anti-aircraft guns. Doesn't that sound thrilling?'

‘Well, I think it's a scandal,' said Mummy, looking up from the blue wool scarf she was knitting. ‘Young women should not be put in that kind of position. Manning the
guns, whatever next? It's not right! And have you heard some of the names those girls get called?'

‘But not Mary Churchill, Mummy.'

‘No, of course not, she's the Prime Minister's daughter and nobody would ever suggest that she . . . but even so . . . and the uniform is shockingly unflattering, that dreadful
khaki.'

‘But if Winston Churchill is happy to let Mary do her bit for King and country—' Edie began.

‘Well, we all know that Winnie is a law unto himself, darling, but I have to say, there are far more ladylike ways of supporting the war effort. We're making bandages for the Red
Cross tomorrow. Why don't you come along?'

‘Yes, Mummy,' said Edie dutifully.

It was no good. She couldn't possibly tell Mummy anything.

On the wireless, Tommy Handley made a joke and the studio audience laughed loudly and endlessly. It felt like they'd never stop. Mummy smiled a thin smile and returned to her knitting. The
fire crackled and spat. Edie realised that there would never be a good time to tell Mummy and Pop. She imagined the palaver, all the ‘no daughter of mine' and ‘over my dead
body' and realised the sheer futility of telling them at all. She would just have to keep quiet, tell nobody – just for the next three weeks.

The sound of crying followed Beatrice Smith down the street. Her skin prickled, but she tightened her jaw and continued to look ahead. She kept on walking. It was too late to
turn back now. She caught sight of her reflection in the fishmonger's window as she passed. I look like any other young woman, she thought. I could be anyone, anyone at all. Nobody would know
the truth. She could still hear the baby. The fishmonger came out in his stripy apron and slapped half a dozen gurnards on the trestle table in front of the shop. He nodded at her.

‘Fresh from Brixham today!' he said, loud enough for the people on the other side of the street to hear. A queue quickly began to form in front of the shop. Bea moved on. The scent
of fish wafted up the pavement. A truck rumbled past, briefly drowning out the sound of the mewling child. At least it's not raining, she thought.

It had rained all day on her birthday, and almost every day since. Mrs Morley, the postmistress, came over for tea and brought lardy cake. By the time Bea had shared it out with them all, there
was only a small piece left for her. She told herself she didn't mind; she wasn't hungry anyway. The sticky bread caught in her throat and made her cough and cough, until Ma hit her
hard between her shoulders and brought her a cup of water. Her eyes stung as they all sang ‘Happy Birthday', and Ma gave her the letter from Pa she'd kept hidden.
My little
girl, all grown up!
it said,
Enjoy your birthday. All my love, Pa x
and there was a drawing of a bunch of flowers and a big cake and
Sorry it's not the real thing
with
an arrow pointing to them. Her eyes were still watering.

‘Come on now, girl,' said Ma. ‘Your pa wouldn't want to think of you crying on your birthday, would he?'