The Gunner Girl (8 page)

‘More than worried. I was frantic. Anything could have happened. We had no idea where you were and you didn't even leave a message. How could you be so thoughtless?'

Then her mother abruptly let go and lifted her hands to her face. Her shoulders were jerking, but no sound came out. Edie heard the soft click of the door and sensed the CSM coming in behind
her. Pop enfolded Mummy in a stiff embrace, looking awkwardly over the top of her head at Edie. His hair looked very white under the electric bulb. ‘All right, old girl,' he said,
giving Mummy a pat. The CSM cleared his throat and sat down behind his desk.

‘Good set-up you've got here,' said Pop to the CSM. ‘Busy?' He was still patting Mummy's back. Her shoulder blades made sharp triangles under her fur
coat.

‘Very busy,' said the CSM, picking up a fat fountain pen. ‘There's conscription for the girls soon – we'll be even busier then.'

‘And their training, is it similar to the men's?' Pop continued, as Mummy sniffed and fished in a pocket for a lace-edged hankie.

‘Fairly similar. It's modelled on the men's – no weapons training, obviously.'

‘Oh, quite. I was an adjutant last time round and I remember . . .'

Pop and the CSM began talking about the military, and the differences with this war. Mummy disengaged herself and looked angrily about. Edie watched, feeling detached, as if the scene was being
played out in a cinema and she was just in the front row.

The CSM's desk had a big sheaf of papers and a green-shaded lamp, which illuminated his large hands. He made some comment about junior officers that made Pop throw his head back and laugh.
Mummy glowered, searching in her handbag for her silver cigarette case. Edie rubbed her hand where the skin was chafed and raw from scrubbing. One of the other girls would have some Vaseline
somewhere, wouldn't they?

‘So how's she been getting on?' said Pop, nodding in Edie's direction.

‘Apart from the insubordination?' said the CSM.

Pop laughed again. ‘Oh, that's in the blood, I'm afraid, old man. When I was in training . . .' and he was off again with another anecdote, while her mother smoked,
greedily, her eyes flicking between Edie and the men.

‘I'm sorry to interrupt,' said Mummy, eventually, not looking sorry at all, ‘but I really think we ought to get Edith home. It's hours back to Surrey.'

‘It's all right, old girl, we're staying at the Cowies' country place tonight. Didn't I mention?'

‘No, you didn't.' Her mother's voice was like chipped china. ‘Meredith didn't say that she and George . . .'

‘George is up at Chequers. Something on, apparently. Meredith's about, though,' Pop said.

‘How did you know that Meredith . . .?'

‘Bumped into her in town,' said Pop, his face bland and open. He reached up and scratched the side of his nose with a long forefinger.

‘I see,' said Mummy, sucking in the last of her cigarette.

I may as well not be here, thought Edie. This isn't really about me at all.

‘Come on then, Edith, let's get you out of this place,' said Mummy, stubbing the cigarette out in the large brass ashtray on the CSM's desk. ‘Do we need to sign
anything?'

The CSM cleared his throat again. ‘I've checked with the CO, and if Private Lightwater could just sign here and here, then she'll be free to leave,' he said, pointing
with his stubby fingers at a piece of paper he was holding towards her across the desk. Edie took two paces towards the desk, within the circle of light that held the three other people in the
room. She thought about her connection with each of them: her father, absentmindedly indulgent; her mother with her suffocating, tight-lipped love; and the CSM, who she'd only spoken to for
the first time today. Edie hesitated. If she signed now, she'd get into the back seat of the Bentley with Mummy and Pop and that would be it. No more being shouted at. No more
six-o'clock starts. No more pointless scrubbing. No more horrible food. No more being humiliated until she wanted to cry. The CSM put the papers down and took the lid off his fountain pen,
holding it out for her.

‘Edith, will you please stop dawdling and do as the man says,' said Mummy. She was leaning forwards and frowning.

It was hard to see the look on the CSM's face, because the desk light made a triangular patch of light, illuminating the brass buttons on his jacket and the papers on his desk, but leaving
his face in shadow. Edith thought about what he'd said in the cookhouse. He'd been in the army over twenty years. He had a son in North Africa. Wasn't that where Bea said her
boyfriend had been sent?

‘Edith!' her mother hissed. ‘We haven't got all night.'

‘I'd rather not sign,' said Edie at last.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'd rather not sign, Mummy. I think I'd prefer to stay.'

‘Oh, don't be ridiculous,' her mother snorted. ‘Stop playing games, Edith Elizabeth. Sign the paper and get in the car.'

‘No,' said Edie.

‘Tell her, Neville.' Edie's mother turned to her father.

‘Do as your mother says, Half Pint,' said Pop.

‘I think I'd rather stay, actually,' said Edie.

‘You can't! We've come all this way to get you, and the petrol . . .' Her father made a shushing sound as her mother continued: ‘No, Neville, she needs to know what
we've been through this last week. How can she not come home with us after all this? Get her to sign the papers now. She's just being selfish.'

‘Selfish enough to want to do her bit for King and country?' the CSM said, clicking the lid back on the fountain pen and shuffling the papers.

‘Pardon me?' said Edie's mother, as if she hadn't heard. But she had; they all had. The CSM didn't repeat himself. He put the discharge paperwork in a drawer and
placed the pen next to the blotter. Edie's mother fumbled with her handbag. ‘Where is my cigarette case? I had it just now. Damn!'

‘I think maybe we should be getting off, old girl,' said Pop, placing a hand on her arm.

‘I'm sorry for your wasted journey,' said Edie. ‘And I'm sorry I didn't write – there hasn't been any time, it's all been so busy, but I
will try, from now on, I promise. I hope you both have a nice time with Mrs Cowie – do send her my love,' she added. Edie walked over to Mummy and Pop. Her mother was angry, she knew
that, but when she looked in her eyes to say goodbye, what she saw wasn't anger, it was panic. She kissed her mother's downy cheek, smelled the Dior and the soap.

‘I'll be fine, Mummy,' she said. Her mother blinked and looked away. Then Pop bent down and she kissed him, too. His cheek was stubbly and he smelled of Imperial Leather and
hair oil. ‘I'll write and tell you when we get leave,' she said. ‘Jolly good show,' he said, and gave her an extra squeeze. Finally, she turned to the CSM, and braced
up. He stood to acknowledge the salute.

‘Dismissed, Private,' he said, and she moved to the door.

‘Well, goodbye then,' she said, pausing in the doorway.

‘Goodbye, Half Pint,' said Pop. Mummy said nothing, but her face crumpled, and Edie couldn't look at her, so she went out and closed the door behind her.

Outside, the wind was blowing stray leaves and the clouds were scudding across the scrawny moon. Where to now? Back to the block, to hurl herself on her hard bed and regret her decision, or into
the NAAFI with the rest of the squad?

The NAAFI was packed, so full of recruits it was almost impossible to get through the crush to the counter. At last, she got a cup of hot chocolate and a KitKat. The hot drink spilled on her
hand as she turned. She felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Bea, asking her if she was okay. She said she was fine. She gulped down the cocoa, enjoying the sticky hotness as it slid down her throat.
At the sound of her voice, some other girls turned round, asked her what made her backchat the CSM like that.

‘I don't know. It was silly,' she began. Then, seeing more faces turn to look, she continued: ‘Well, he was being a bully. And I don't think bullies should be
allowed to get away with it, do you? That's what we're fighting this war for, isn't it? To stop being bullied by Hitler. And anyway, I had a prefect just like the CSM at school
– Mabel Price she was called – always giving people a hard time for no reason. Honestly, she was just like him, moustache and all.'

The girls laughed, and she realised she was surrounded by smiling faces. She was right in the centre of a group of friends who cared about her, who liked her, and she wasn't alone. Then
she saw Joan, her friend from the railway station, swinging towards her group.

‘Have you heard the news?' said Bea, as Edie drained her mug and Joan shoved her way in.

‘What news?'

‘They've changed their minds. After that last drill session this afternoon, they decided that we were good enough for church parade, and we'll be getting evening passes next
week.'

‘How thrilling!' said Edie. ‘And what a surprise.'

‘Oh, I'm not surprised at all,' said Joan, who was now next to Edie. ‘I bet they use the same tactic on all the new recruits. It's just a game, Edie.'

Just a game, Edie thought, breaking into a grin. Of course it was. All the swearing and shouting and drilling and scrubbing. It was a game. Play up and play the game! All she needed to do was
learn the rules, and she'd be fine, wouldn't she?

Joan dipped the rag back into the little tin of polish and rubbed it into the brown leather. It slid and stuck, but she kept rubbing until it gleamed. She could smell the wax,
feel the soft hide and see how, over the weeks, it had moulded into shape, fitting her feet perfectly now. Nobody took better care of their army brogues than Gunner Joan Tucker.

The first shoe was almost done. She checked her watch: still time to finish off before lights out. She put the shoe carefully under her bunk and picked up the other one. The girl in the bunk
above her, Scottish Nancy, had already gone to bed. Both the little coal stoves were lit, making the air smoky, even though the fumes ought to have been carried up the stovepipes and out into the
winter night. Washing lines looped round the hut, draped in wet underwear, like bunting. There was condensation on the windows, which would freeze overnight, sticking the blackout blinds down fast.
One girl was bathing her feet in a tin bath of salty water, scrunching up her eyes with the sting of it; another was combing her wet hair in front of one of the stoves, hoping to get it dry before
the Last Post. It was dripping all over the wooden floorboards. Someone turned up the wireless in the corner when Vera Lynn came on, warbling away.

Joan began to polish the other shoe, dipping, rubbing, carefully buffing, listening to Vera Lynn singing ‘We'll Meet Again'. She pushed the rag back into the brown wax,
burrowing it right down. The polish was the colour of dried blood.

There was an ache in her temple, and a faint buzzing in her head. It came on like this, sometimes, suddenly, and she'd feel sick and dizzy and forget where she was.

‘Joan,' said a voice.

‘Joan, do you have any cold cream? I've run out. Joan?'

She looked up. The voice was calling Joan. Was that her?

‘Sorry, I wasn't myself for a moment there. What is it, Bea?'

‘Do you have any cold cream? I don't like to ask but the NAAFI is already shut.'

‘Yes, I've got a ton of it. I stocked up after payday. Hang on a mo.'

She put down the shoe and scrabbled underneath her bed to find the hinged storage box that contained her civvie clothes and her spare jar of Pond's. She passed it up. Bea took it. She was
wearing an old brown dressing gown that looked like a man's. Her hair was scraped back under a grey turban. Bea said she'd bring it back, but Joan told her to keep it, repeatedly that
she'd got loads more, which wasn't true – but Joan knew that Bea didn't have any money left for toiletries. She sent all her money home. Bea hesitated, standing above her
with the cold cream. Joan pushed herself back up onto her bunk.

‘Keep it,' Joan repeated. ‘You can just owe me a good turn for it.'

‘Thank you,' said Bea. ‘I'll remember that.' And she went back to her bunk.

Joan went back to her polishing, her head clear again now. From the bed above, Scottish Nancy said she'd heard that the village shop was due to get some cosmetics in. She'd been on
kitchen duty and heard it from the woman who delivered the eggs. Suddenly, the whole room was talking about how to engineer a pass to get to the shop before everything had sold out. Joan said she
thought the post orderly had a bike and he might let her borrow it.

‘Oh, he most definitely will,' said Edie, from the bunk opposite, placing a bookmark between the pages of her Bible. ‘I've seen the way he looks at you, Joanie –
sheep's eyes across the cookhouse, my goodness. You can be our secret weapon in the battle for glamour, dear!'

Joan laughed and said she'd see what she could do. Then the corporal came round and said lights out in five and there was the general scurry to be ready in time. Edie put away her diary
and knelt down to say her prayers. Joan gave her shoes one last caress and put them away.

The Last Post sounded and Joan slipped under the covers, feeling sorry for the bugler, outside in this weather. It was icy even under the mound of scratchy blankets, and there was a draught at
the head of the bed where it was flush with the hut wall. The bugler finished and the lights went out and everyone said their muffled goodnights. She put her head underneath the pillow. Then she
lay on her hands and pulled her knees right up. She would warm up eventually and sleep would come, and with luck there would be no dreams tonight. Or at least, not that particular dream.

As she closed her eyes, her mind whirled with the shapes of enemy planes, and angles of elevation and her ears seemed to hum with the sound of imaginary aircraft. It was good, being selected for
anti-aircraft training. Her head was crammed full of technical information, her body tired from PT and drill. There was no time to stop and think. At nights she was exhausted.