The Gunner Girl (21 page)

‘We need to get you out of the cold,' he said. He tried the brass door handle, tarnished brown in the dark wood. It turned and he gave the door a shove with his shoulder and the door
opened. He stood to one side for her: ‘Ladies first.'

Joan stepped inside, ahead of him, walking up the aisle, shoes tapping on the flagstones. He watched her, watched the way her uniform caught the shape of her body as she moved into the dark
church. He could hear the rain on the slates and the wind making the timbers strain, but inside was calm: the air was stilled liquid; it had a milky weight to it. There was a soft thud as he closed
the door behind them. She waited for him by the front pews, opposite the little altar.

He looked around. It was how he remembered from Harper's wedding. The windows like portholes showing the rain-lashed sky. The altar covered in a cream cloth with a wrought-iron cross on
top and burgundy velvet folded next to a pile of hymn books below the carved pulpit. There was a tiny stained-glass window behind the altar: circular, with a leaded red rose.

He caught up with her, stood beside her, sensed her breathing. She didn't turn. Neither of them spoke. The air was like a musty embrace, holding them and silencing them. They were alone,
together. After a while he asked if she wanted a smoke.

‘Why not?' she said.

He had some in his pocket, but they were damp from the rain. She had dry ones in her gas-mask case. There was something else in her gas-mask case, too.

‘You did get my postcard then?'

She nodded, but that was all, and clicked the case shut. ‘Player's all right? I've got no matches, though,' she held out the packet.

He took out his lighter, flicked the top open and leant across. She had to move in close. He watched the yellow flame lick the tip of her cigarette, as she sucked the life into it, grey to
amber, her lips parting as she inhaled. He felt himself harden. He pulled away, lighting his own fag, telling himself to calm down. They were in a church, for Christ's sake. When he looked
back, she was still shivering, soaked through.

‘Cold?' he said.

‘I'll be fine.'

‘Here. . .' He started to take off his flight jacket, jamming the fag in his mouth as he pulled his arms from the sleeves.

‘You're very kind,' she said. He came round behind her, wrapped the jacket over her shoulders like a shawl, thought about how it would feel to kiss the nape of her neck, just
there.

‘But won't you get cold now?' She looked at him as he came back round to face her. Those eyes.

‘I'm used to the cold,' he said.

They stood looking at each other, not touching. They both brought the cigarettes to their lips at the same time: touch lips, suck, inhale, pause, exhale. Their smoke rose up to meet the
shadows.

‘My pal got married here,' he said. ‘I was best man.'

Suddenly, he wanted to tell her. To tell her everything: about Harper, and Harper's wedding, about the empty chairs in the mess at breakfast times, about the fear that never really went
away, about the panic that he crumpled and stuffed into a choking hole in his consciousness every single bloody time he set foot on the runway.

He wanted to tell her, so he did, not caring if she thought him a sissy. The words fell like footfalls on tarmac, one after another, until the end of the road. It felt important to say it all,
out loud, because he wanted her to know all of him, without secrets. And here was the right place, in this church, where he'd watched his best friend get married, and where he came to pray
every Sunday, even though he knew the futility of it, even though he knew it was all just chance in the end.

She listened, saying nothing, but her gaze never left his. When he finished, the air between them was taut and full.

She parted her lips and held out her arms. He put both hands round her waist, pulling her towards him. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. She was right up against him; he could
feel her breasts, her thighs, her breath against his neck. His lips moved across her cheek, and the flight jacket slithered to the floor. His mouth met hers. They were suddenly greedy for each
other, gorging on tongues. He could feel her nipples hard under the roughness of her uniform and she pressed herself against him and pulled him closer in and his hands were there and there,
underneath now, catching on buttons and the warmth of her flesh and the smell of her and the softness and sweet wetness of her.

‘Are you sure?' he said.

‘Yes,' she said. And he knew she meant it, because this might be their only chance. Because tomorrow might not happen, for either of them.

He lifted her leg so one foot rested on the pew and pushed up her skirt and her mouth was on his, open and wet, and she was tugging at his belt and her hand was on his cock and his thumb was
pushing the thin fabric aside and she was so wet and he held himself ready to push into her and she let out a moan and then the rush, the rush of it. No, too soon. He groaned, slumped forward onto
her, cock wet and spent already.

‘What is it?'

‘I'm sorry.'

And he pulled away, did up his fly, burning with shame. She looked at him and he couldn't meet her eye and he thought, no, this is not how it goes. This is not how it ends.

So he slid down, face against the rough khaki, down, underneath her skirt, until his face was there, right there, and he kissed her there, and licked the warm wetness, and she gasped. He carried
on until she was shaking so much that she had to lie, on top of the flying jacket, on the cold stone flags as he knelt between her legs, licking and sucking at the sweetness of her until her back
arched and she shuddered and her cries echoed out into the empty church. Then he kissed her and held her and didn't let her go.

Afterwards, she fell asleep and he lay watching her, tracing her features with his gaze and committing them to memory: curled lashes, parted lips, damp hair curling as it dried. Her bare legs
goose pimpled and her knickers were wet between her thighs. He took off his jumper, covered her legs as best he could. It hadn't been like that with Pammie. They had always been drunk, and it
had been quick and furtive, as if he was stealing something. This was different, like a gift.

He took out another cigarette. The lighter flared up in the half-dark. He was cold without his jacket or jumper, but the smoke was warming. Rob blew smoke rings and watched them disintegrate and
disappear above the darkened pews. It was silent in the church now. Even the rain and wind had ceased – the storm had blown over. Light suddenly filtered in though the tiny windows: streams
of sunshine casting a metallic filigree over the scene. Rob sat still, finishing his smoke, feeling as if he were caged in a net of gold, wishing he could stay there for ever.

Joan was alone at the bus stop. Behind were RAF West Malling and an achingly beautiful sky: high and blue and cloudless, the pale sun just beginning to dip towards the horizon.
She wrapped the flying jacket closely to her, turning away and focusing on the knot of lanes that would take her away. He'd gone by the time she woke up, and the sun was streaming in through
the stained glass, like boiled sweets in a jar. Her head was cushioned on his flying jacket, his jumper covering her legs. His scent. The taste of him, the feel of him – she shivered, but not
from the cold.

The lanes were empty. She shifted from foot to foot, her stockinged toes rubbing against the still-wet leather. Starlings flocked and swirled overhead. In the late-afternoon sunshine, the fields
and trees were vivid green, the shadows endless and black. She heard the choke and growl as each of the plane's engines started up on the distant runway behind her. She took a sharp breath
in. Rob would be there now; he had flight checks in the afternoon, another sortie tonight. She was alone at the bus stop, but the bus was just rounding the corner and coming to a halt in front of
her. It was the same driver from the morning: lardy jowls and brown teeth.

‘You've changed,' he said, as she stepped on.

‘Yes,' she said, feeling the warm sheepskin against her neck, ‘West Malling station, please,' she handed over her money.

‘Try not to worry, love,' he said, passing the change in his fat paw. ‘Crying won't help him.'

‘I'm not crying,' she said. She threw herself onto the threadbare plush seat and opened her gas mask. There were still two cigarettes, but no matches. She'd forgotten she
had no matches. But there, a lighter: Rob had left his lighter in her case. No note, but she had his jacket, his lighter. It was silver and it had his initials etched on the front: ran. She
wondered what the A stood for, and stroked the smooth metal with her fingertip. Then she clicked the lighter open and lit her fag, touching her top lip with her tongue, remembering the feel of him,
what happened in the church. It had never been like that before, with a boy – with a man. As the bus pulled away and drove on, she watched the RAF base dwindle to a dot, and the engine sounds
become fainter and fainter until it was all just a memory. The rain clouds had gone and the sky was clear ahead, eastwards. She wondered if the storm clouds had cleared over Germany, too.

Bea had arrived home at the same time as the postman. She saw him beetling down from the other end of the street, lanky legs like a stick insect, worrying the too-small
bicycle. She was still smiling to herself about Joan, the silly mare. What a state she was in. Lor', she couldn't take her drink, that one: flirting and falling all over the place and
telling everyone to call her by a different name. What was it? Vivian? No, not that: Vanessa. Yes, Vanessa, that was it. Still, at least she'd finally got her to get back in touch with her
sweetheart. It was too good a chance to miss, what with his airbase being nearby. Bea couldn't understand why Joan messed him about so much. He sounded lovely, her Rob. He was an airman, and
she got letters from him almost every day. Not like—

‘Someone's popular,' said the lanky postman, as she met him at the front step. He handed her a pile of envelopes. He wasn't so much a postman as a postboy, she thought,
noticing the spots on his chin and the bobbing Adam's apple. ‘Vi about?' he added, with studied nonchalance.

‘Depends who's asking,' said Bea. The postie looked down at her, blinking. ‘She'll be behind the bar later – why don't you catch her then?' she
added, wondering whether he was even old enough to go in the pub. Come to that, neither was Vi, not that anyone bothered to check. The boy cleared his throat and glanced hopefully to the upstairs
window. Bea didn't have the heart to tell him that he was directing his lust towards the room her mother shared with the four little ones. Bea shuffled through the letters in the pile: two
envelopes, a postcard and an aerogramme. Who'd send an aerogramme? Pa's unit was still on the east coast somewhere, wasn't it?

‘Well, I'd better finish me round,' said the postie, not moving.

‘Yes, you better had,' said Bea, wanting to give him a shove. ‘I'll tell her you asked after her. What's your name?'

‘Oh, no, don't say anything,' said the postie, getting back onto his tiny bike. ‘I'll – I'll see her in the pub,' he called out, as he wobbled off
the kerb and away. Not if she sees you first, thought Bea, turning her attention back to the pile of post: a bill – overdue, with ‘final reminder' stamped on the front in red; Ma
would curse her for bringing that into the house. Bea shoved it through the letterbox; let someone else be the bearer of bad news. Next was a postcard from a cousin who'd been conscripted
into the Land Army and sent off to Northumberland. It didn't say ‘wish you were here' but instead said, ‘wish I wasn't here, it's bloody awful I can tell
you' – she pushed that through the letterbox, too. There was a fat cream envelope next. She saw Pa's looping script. He'd have enclosed funny cartoons for the twins, most
likely. That one went through the letterbox and she heard it land with a plop inside. And then all that was left was the air letter. It was dirty and crumpled, the colour of sand. She recognised
the handwriting, slanting to the left, falling back on itself. On the reverse was printed in green ‘I certify that the contents of this envelope refer to nothing but private and family
matters' and a space for a signature. She looked at the signature: J McBride.

Jock? She held the aerogramme in front of her and turned it back over. The writing seemed to dance about, but then she realised it was her shaking hands, so she rolled it up, small, and tucked
it inside her fist. Her Jock. He hadn't forgotten her.

The postie was nearly out of sight, now. Across the street, a ginger tom picked its way over the rubble where the Laverys' house had stood. The sun made feeble attempts to break through
the clouds. The whistling fishmonger was undoing his shutters up the other end of the street. Everything was as it should be. Nothing had changed, except this. She tightened her hand on the scrap
of paper, holding it safe. I knew it, she thought. I knew he hadn't deserted me. Not my Jock. She could hear the sound of her own breathing: rushing in and out like waves.

Bea walked across the empty early-morning street to the bombsite. Then she scuffed and tripped across the rubble to the place at the back where the Laverys' old outhouse was still half
standing, a wall and a mound of slippery bricks. She slid round behind it, in the space where the weak sunshine hit the remaining brickwork. She found a large slab and sat down, with her back to
the lukewarm wall and uncurled her fist. Carefully, she unpeeled the gritty edges of the aerogramme. And then there it was, lying open on her lap. She rubbed away the pricking hot tears that came
unbidden. She couldn't see to read if she was crying. What did he say?