The Gunner Girl (12 page)

The pain came again, swifter this time: gnawing, biting. When she opened her eyes Ma was sat opposite, looking at her. ‘It'll get worse before it gets better,' she said.
‘Now let's have a look at your leaves.'

Ma poured a little spurt of tea into the chipped china cup with the rose on the front. She swilled it round, concentrating. Bea looked at her. The lamplight threw her features into relief: white
and grey shadows – hooded eyes, sharp nose, mouth a tight line of back-stitch, hair like brick dust above her sparse features. Before Ma had Charlie and married Pa, she was a ‘canary
girl', working down the munitions factory. She said it was the stuff they put in the shells that turned her hair orangey-coloured, and it never went back to normal afterwards. That's
what she said.

The aeroplane sounds were closer, louder, like giant bluebottles. Bea heard a soft thud-thud, like a giant's footsteps. Ma's face went blurry as the pain came again. Closer, deeper
in. Bea almost gasped. Then the pain lessened and Ma came back into focus, still concentrating on the teacup.

‘Well, my girl, it looks like you're going on a journey . . .' Ma began, her voice rising above the engines' drone. There was an almighty thump and the cups rocked in
their saucers.

‘Jesus, that was close,' said Bea.

‘Don't blaspheme, girl,' said Ma, looking down at the cup. ‘Oh, that's ruined the lie of them; they're all wrong now – blasted Hitler.'

Ma reached for the tea strainer and poured out the tea properly into the cups. The planes were still loud overhead, but the sound was swerving. They were starting to move away, Bea could tell.
She wondered where that last bomb had hit. It was somewhere nearby.

‘D'you think we should take a look, Ma? See if we could help?'

‘And what? Start digging people out of the rubble? You want to have your baby in a bombsite? Don't be soft, girl. Drink your tea.'

Ma put in two sugars and loads of milk, but when Bea protested, she said that Bea would need her strength. In any case, there would be more in the morning – extra rations for nursing
mothers. Bea hadn't thought of that. The sound of the planes was beginning to fade. Bea prayed there wouldn't be more.

The pain came again. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt her stomach heave as she looked down the slope to the bottom of the snow-covered hill. Someone had come off. There were faraway yells and
a splash of red across the whiteness. Black figures clustering like flies around strawberry jam. When she opened her eyes again Ma was gone and Bea was left alone in the half-dark. She wiped the
beads of sweat off her upper lip and took a gulp of tea.

The sky was quiet now, but out in the street she could hear the sounds of vehicles in the distance: fire engines, ambulances, someone screaming. Above the cacophony the clock tower chimed. Bea
counted: eleven chimes. She took another gulp of tea, draining the cup in one. The corners of the kitchen were dark. The pain came again. And again. Ma came back.

She tried counting in between the pains, but she ran out of numbers. So then she judged it by watching Ma: each time she closed and opened her eyes with the pain Ma had moved. There was a pain
as she started to sweep the floor and then another as she was emptying the dustpan, pain as she heaved the water-filled copper over the flames. Another pain came and Ma had disappeared, only to
re-appear from the stairwell after the next one, carrying a torn yellow bed sheet and a pair of scissors. She'd rolled up her sleeves and her bony arms looked pale and stringy in the sickly
light.

‘Here, rip these up and I'll rinse the pots,' said Ma, handing her the torn yellow bed sheet and scissors.

Bea stood up and nicked the hem of the fabric with the scissors, just enough, and then pulled the two sides, tearing them apart with a rush. Suddenly, it felt as if someone had thumped her,
hard, right up underneath her ribcage. She doubled over, gasping for breath.

‘Knocked the stuffing out of me, that did!' she said, when she could breathe again.

‘It does,' said Ma, taking the sheet from her and finishing it off. ‘You want to lie down, girl?'

She shook her head. Instead, she stood up. She knew how it would go. She had seven younger brothers and sisters, for heaven's sakes. She'd helped out with the twins. The midwife came
that time, and Mrs Lavery: blood everywhere and Ma laid up for a week afterwards, and not enough money for Pa to go to the pub to wet the baby's head until after the next payday.

Then it came again: another gut-punch and then another. The copper was boiling and Ma threw in the torn squares of sheeting and took it off the heat. She pushed the kitchen table to one side and
put the big brown blanket on the floor, with a pair of old towels on top.

Bea could only watch, she was up and pacing round and round the tiny kitchen, like a caged bear, pausing only for the next thump of pain to pass. Somehow, if she kept moving in between, it
wasn't so bad, but she had to stop and shut her eyes when the pain came, winding her, wringing her out. She heard the fire engine and ambulance drive away. The air was hot. Ma kept moving in
and out of her peripheral vision: busy, busy. Even between the punches there was now an underlying twisting pull inside and the pain never left.

She thought about Ma's last one. Late last summer. They'd even called the midwife, but it was no good. A little girl, choked on the cord. Not meant for this world, the midwife said,
and Bea remembered the sound Ma had made, and the look on the midwife's face. Ma said there'd be another one, after Pa's leave. But there wasn't.

The clock tower chimed, just once this time. Ma kept moving. She kept slipping in and out of focus with each contraction. Bea saw her bleach the kitchen tabletop, clean the insides of the
windows with a rag dipped in vinegar, swimming like a fish in the shadows.

Bea slid in between the frozen white hilltop and the roasting dark kitchen, steam from the copper and Ma skittering round the edges of her vision. The pains got worse, longer, deeper, twisting
inwards and making her groan. The next time she noticed the clock tower it chimed four times. Underneath the sound of the bells she heard a faint far away thrum as more planes crossed the white
cliffs and spewed up bomb alley towards them.

‘Ma, I'm scared.'

‘Good strong girl like you? Nothing to it,' said Ma, loudly above the increasing volume of the next wave of bombers. But Bea saw her eyes flick briefly skywards, and her mouth was
like a bad hemline: puckered, too-tight stitches.

‘Ma, I need the lavvy.'

‘No you don't, girl.'

Another agonising shot of pain broke through and a strange sound like a dying animal came from her lips and the pain was all around and inside and like a huge wall she couldn't climb. When
it subsided a little, she was left with a shaky ache and said again that she needed the lavvy.

The noise of the planes was loud now. Through the side of the blackout blind, Bea could see little orange flashes and feel the corresponding judder as each shell hit. The cupboards shook. There
was a smash as something fell off the shelf in the larder. Ma kneeled down in front of her and swiftly removed her shoes and got her to step out of her skirt and knickers and told her to lie on the
towels. The planes were roaring all around and it felt like the whole house was shaking as Ma gently put her fingers up there and felt.

‘It's time to push. ‘ Ma shouted over the bomber's roar. The hurt was bigger and angrier, enveloping her with a rush of pure agony. On it went, the swelling pain all
around, a pushing twisting hurt engulfing her and this time it wouldn't stop and Ma said push. She helped Bea onto her heels and she crouched and pushed and screamed and the pain kept hurling
itself at her and all around her and it wouldn't stop; it wouldn't stop.

‘Push, for Christ's sake!'

‘I can't, Ma!' As she said it, her knees began to shake and give way. The thrum of the planes mingled with the buzz inside her head, right inside, as her body began to
jerk.

‘You bloody well have to, girl. You are not giving up, is that clear?'

Then Ma came round behind her and hooked her arms underneath Bea's. Bea felt them tight and hard, holding her up. She smelled Ma's smell: sweat and soapsuds. She could feel
Ma's taut body against her spine.

‘Don't give up on me now, girl. I am not going to lose you and I am not going to lose my baby, you hear? So bloody well push.'

And she pushed and the pain was so high that she couldn't claw her way out and it kept getting worse but she kept on pushing into the pain because her ma was shouting at her not to stop.
And the planes were roaring and she was inside the vibrations and the wind was rushing through her as she was off on the tray down Bluebell Hill with the terrifying skyballing downward, pelting
onwards faster and faster and louder and louder and the spinning empty jarring pain ripping through as she flew into nothingness.

‘Good girl,' yelled Ma, and Bea opened her eyes, and there, between her legs was the sideways head of a little baby, glistening mauve, smooth as a boiled egg with the shell off. Ma
loosened her grip from underneath Bea's arms and pushed her down slowly into a sitting position, knees bent upwards, on the towels. Then she went round and sat in front of Bea. The sound of
the bombers began to lessen a little.

‘Come on now, nearly there,' said Ma, taking hold of the baby's head and shoulders as Bea pushed again and the little body slithered out purple-blue and slimy in the light from
the lamp. Now the planes were a droning hum.

‘We've got a little girl,' said Ma, holding the baby up by her ankles and slapping it hard on the behind. The baby began to cry. Her quivering little mouth made an enraged
‘O' of surprise as she mewled like a lost cat.

‘One last push and you're done, girl.'

Bea grunted, bearing down, and the afterbirth slithered out. Ma singed the kitchen shears with a candle until they were black and cut the cord. Then she wiped the still-crying baby with the
boiled, ripped sheets until all the blood had gone, and she wrapped the baby in an old shawl and passed her over to Bea. Bea opened the buttons on her blouse and pulled the little body towards her.
The head nodded and nuzzled, searching blindly for her nipple. And then the crying stopped as Bea felt the tiny mouth begin to suckle.

Outside were the sounds of the raid's aftermath: the emergency vehicles; the crackle of fire; the hiss of water; the shouts of the rescue crews. The air smelled like burnt toast. Ma lifted
the side of the blackout blind, letting in a flicker of light.

‘The Laverys caught it. Pray to God they were in the shelter tonight.'

Bea's legs were splayed and wet. The cupboard doorknobs were pressing hard into her back. Ma began to get busy with water and rags, wiping and wringing and scrubbing. She looked down at
the little bald head on her breast and felt an exquisite joy course through her veins. Suddenly, everything seemed like it would be all right. She made a silent promise to the baby: you will be
loved, and your father will come home, and we'll all be just fine, a proper family, the three of us together.

Her ma was saying something to her, something about an ill wind that blows nobody any good. Something about everyone being so caught up in their own problems that they wouldn't poke their
noses in. But Bea wasn't listening. She was looking down at Baby and feeling like she could stay here for ever, on the hard floor, with the bloody rip between her thighs and this little girl
tucked at her breast, so tiny, so perfect: evidence of Jock; evidence of his love.

The all-clear sounded, keening and endless. Ma washed her hands and put the kettle on. The clock tower chimed five times. The door banged open and Vi rushed in, wide-eyed and screeching.
‘You're still bloody here, thank Christ. I left the others down there in case you was . . . I didn't want them to see – we thought you was hit, but you're all right,
you're . . .' She stopped, taking in the scene. ‘Bea!' She looked down and Bea looked up: black-haired Vi, with the tear in the lace edge of her nightie and her curlers
falling out.

‘It's a girl. And as far as you or anyone else is concerned, that baby is your little sister, got it?' said Ma, looking up from her scrubbing. She was taking charge, taking
over, daring anyone to disagree. Bea opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a sigh. Vi nodded.

‘I said, got it?'

‘Yes, Ma.'

‘You tell the others; if anyone asks, Bea has got flu and you lot have got a new little sister. Are we clear?'

‘Clear, Ma,' said Vi, coming over and kneeling down next to Bea. She stroked a strand of hair away from Bea's forehead and leant in so close that Bea could see her eyes begin
to moisten as she looked down at the baby.

‘She's beautiful, Bea,' said Vi. ‘What are you going to call her?'

Bea thought about that night now, as she watched the sunshine splash across the scene in front of her: Ma, Pa, Baby and the vicar.

Ma was in her only decent dress – it was black and old-fashioned and hung loose on her skinny form. Pa was in his uniform; his three white sergeant's stripes stood out importantly
against the khaki. They both looked serious, shushing Baby and nodding at what the vicar was saying. Baby had on an outfit that Bea made from an old net curtain. Her monkey face with its tufts of
black hair glared out angrily from the wispy white folds of cloth as if accusing them all of something.

When it was finished, they all filed out of the church. Ma and Pa thanked the vicar and put some money in the collection box and then they were all outside in the white-grey winter air. Baby
started to cry again.

‘Sounds like she's cold,' said May.

‘Course she is, the little mite,' said Ma, cuddling her close.

They walked quickly up the street, the younger ones griping and trailing at the back until Pa shouted at them to get a bloody move on or he'd give them what-for. The sunshine was a thin
and hopeless smear, too high up to make any difference.