The Gunner Girl (25 page)

‘What a day!' said Edie.

‘We'll have to make sure we get a copy of the Mail tomorrow,' said Bea.

‘Oh, goodness, yes, I'll have to resurrect my scrapbook, with a special page for the picture of our Joanie with Princess Elizabeth. How marvellous, I can't wait to tell Mummy,
she'll be thrilled,' said Edie, throwing herself backwards onto her little bed so that the dust puffed out of the blanket.

The other girls began to get changed into their work clothes: trousers and boots, ready for their shift. Sheila said loudly that she preferred Saturday nights off anyway because there was more
chance of seeing a new reel at the flicks. Bea was humming to herself and unbuttoning her jacket. Edie was smiling and drumming her legs on the bed. Some of the others were already beginning to
disappear out towards the cookhouse.

Joan's head was still aching. She looked outside, through the little window, where the sky was as blue as sapphires and the sun was a golden circle. She imagined her face in the paper,
next to the princess. Princess Elizabeth meets Lance Bombardier Joan Tucker at the Hyde Park Battery, that's what it would say, underneath. She heard again an echo of the buzzing in her ears,
and for a moment it felt like the room was contracting, as if she was trapped inside a dolls' house. The sensation only lasted seconds, and then everything went back to normal, leaving just a
hollowness in her chest and the clench of a frown. How many people read the
Daily Mail
, she wondered.

‘Stop moping, dear,' said Edie, looking across at her. ‘I don't know what you've got to be down in the mouth about; your Robin will see you in the paper and
he'll be so proud of his pretty, successful girl.'

‘You're right,' she said, unable to smile.

‘ We should be bally well celebrating,' said Edie.

Maybe Edie was right. She should just have a good time and forget about the nagging sensation in the pit of her stomach. Today's paper was tomorrow's chip wrapper: nobody would
notice her picture there, and anyway, why would it matter?

Edie felt the childish urge to skip. A night off, with her pals, after all they'd been through together so far. Inside, she thanked God for all His blessings: for
Joan's promotion, for the Royal visit, for the glorious sunshine, and for a Friday in town with her friends. What could possibly be more perfect?

‘Carpe diem!'
she said.

‘What's that when it's at home?' said Joan.

‘It means seize the day, in Latin,' she replied.

‘Oh, give over, Edie, I don't understand half the English words you use, without you bringing Latin into it,' said Bea, but she was smiling.

‘Sorry, it's just – I feel guilty for feeling it, what with everything that's going on – but I do just feel really happy.'

‘I'll give you something to be happy about, take a look at the lad on the opposite bank, three o'clock,' said Joan, smirking. ‘And don't make it obvious,
Edie!'

‘Why do you always do this, it's embarrassing,' said Edie, but she couldn't help but look. Just off to the right, across the lake by the lido, a young man was stretching
up for a dive. He had on royal-blue trunks and his torso was tanned from the sun and glinting with splashes of water. A lock of blond hair fell across his eyes and he paused to brush it out of the
way. Then he reached up again with his arms, pulling all the muscles taut across his chest. For a moment, he waited, arms upstretched, and the light on his hard, young body made him look as if he
were carved from sunshine. Then, with a perfect arc and a milky splash, he disappeared under the dark green water of the Serpentine.

‘What did I tell you?' said Joan, laughing.

Edie said nothing. She wasn't thinking about the diver, who'd come up for air now and was making a noisy front crawl back to the bank. She was thinking about Kenneth; that last
summer, when they'd all been together, before he was MIA. That was how he looked then, just the epitome of youth and health. She couldn't bear to think what might have happened to his
perfect body – or where whatever was left of it had ended up.

‘What's your verdict?' said Joan.

‘Nine out of ten,' said Bea. ‘It would have been a ten, but he looked a bit skinny to me.'

‘Oh, you like a bit of meat, do you?' said Joan.

‘Girls, will you stop it now?' said Edie, suddenly irritated.

‘Oh, come on Edie, you must have an opinion. I'm giving him an eight, because I prefer them dark, but you like fair hair, don't you?'

‘I'm not doing this. It's – it's cheap.'

‘It's only a bit of fun,' said Bea.

‘It doesn't seem right. How would we like it if they looked at us like that?' said Edie.

‘They do look at us like that,' said Joan.

Edie suddenly stopped walking, forcing the other two into a halt as well. She couldn't bear the way Joan talked about boys. It was all about, well, the sex thing, whatever that was. And
Edie thought that there ought to be more to it than that. The way Joan spoke, it just diminished everything, somehow. They should be waiting for the right man, for marriage, shouldn't
they?

‘Come on girls, let's not row, not tonight, when we've got the whole evening ahead of us,' said Bea, tugging at her arm.

The lad was back up on the bank again now, shaking his wet hair like a dog and reaching for a towel.

‘I'm sorry,' said Edie, frowning. ‘It's just—'

‘No, I'm sorry,' said Joan. ‘I was only larking about. You're so pretty, Edie, lots of boys like you, but you always give them the cold shoulder. Don't you
want to have fun?'

‘Of course I do, but . . .'

‘It's that boy from home; Kenneth, isn't it?' said Bea, as they began to walk on. ‘You can't forget, can you?'

‘Well, you have to,' Joan said, so fiercely that Edie's arm jolted apart from hers. ‘You have to leave the past where it belongs – in the past. There's no
point mooning about with regrets. You said it yourself:
Carpe
whatsit.'

In the distance, the strains of ‘We'll Meet Again' began from the bandstand and filtered through the watery yellow sunshine to where they stood. A dog barked, and a lonely bus
chugged along Park Lane.

‘You're right, Joan,' Edie said brightly. ‘And in the spirit of that, I'm taking you all to tea at the Ritz.'

‘Blimey!' said Bea.

‘But we're not paid until next week,' said Joan.

‘Pop sent me a cheque,' said Edie.

‘What for?' said Bea, incredulous.

‘I don't know. It's months until my birthday,' said Edie, exchanging glances with Joan, remembering the day they'd bumped into Pop and Mrs Cowie in Kensington
Gardens.

Edie started to walk again, pulling the other two along with her, then, she gave into her whim and began to skip. The others, laughing, joined in.

‘What are you like, you silly mare?' said Bea.

‘I'm taking you for tea at the Ritz, cocktails at the Savoy, and then we're all going on to a nightclub,' she yelled, breaking into a run as they reached the boathouse.
And as they pell-melled towards Hyde Park Corner, Edie clung onto her happiness as if it were a fluttering kite, running with them, high in the blue sky, and threatening to fly away into the summer
evening.

‘I'm not sure, Edie; this might be the sort of place you like to go to, but it's a bit posh,' said Bea, stalling as they reached the hotel steps.

‘Nonsense. We're all in uniform and our money is as good as anyone else's, dear,' said Edie, straightening up.

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Bea.

‘Come on, don't be wet,' said Joan and they all marched into the lobby. It was just as Edie remembered it: the hush, the opulence; it was almost like entering a church.

‘Through there, past the columns,' said Edie. ‘Ladies, we shall be taking tea in the Palm Court!'

The maitre d' stood in the doorway to the tearoom, grave as a vicar. Edie thought she recognised his greying side burns and impassive face from when she'd been here before, with
Marjorie and Kenneth.

‘A table for three, please,' she said and he led them across the polished floor to a small round marble table next to a golden statue of a nymph. The Palm Court was quite busy, with
lots of couples in uniform, and a smattering of older women in tweed. There was a buzz of chatter. Above them the huge frosted glass skylight let in the sunshine, and the pink-tipped chandeliers
made the air rose-tinted and shimmery. Aspidistras waved as they passed. In the middle of the table was a vase of pink and white roses. The maitre d' held out the little cream plush and gilt
Louis XVI chairs and they all sat down, gas masks clanking against the wrought-iron table legs.

‘This is a bit better than national loaf,' said Joan, when the cucumber sandwiches arrived, tiny white triangles with the crusts cut off.

‘Shall I be mother?' said Edie, lifting the silver teapot.

‘You do come out with some funny things, Edie,' said Bea, cramming two sandwiches into her mouth at once.

At the next table, an officer and a young woman in civvies were bent across so that their foreheads almost touched. He was whispering something to her, and all of a sudden she sprang back, in
gales of laughter, tossing her chestnut curls.

The maitre d' glided past. ‘Could we please have some scones and eclairs as well?' Edie said, catching his eye. He nodded and disappeared behind an aspidistra.

Edie poured the tea, watching it swirl and steam in the cups.

‘Sugar?' said Joan, fiddling with the tongs.

‘Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea,' said Edie.

‘Who said that?' said Joan.

‘Oh, I don't know, dear, some writer or other,' said Edie. She didn't want them to think she was showing off. In any case, it didn't matter who'd made up the
quote, what mattered was who'd said it to her – Kenneth, right here in the Palm Court, all those months ago.

The couple at the next table got up and left. Edie caught sight of them entering the lift together in the lobby. She whispered to Bea and Joan, wondering if the couple had got a room. Bea said
of course they had, did you see the way his hand was on her behind as they walked out. Joan said she must be one of those Windmill girls. Edie, scandalised, said that the woman hadn't been
wearing a wedding ring. Joan and Bea both looked at her, then looked at each other and burst out laughing. When they had almost reached the end of the pot, Bea poured the last of the tea into
Edie's cup without using the strainer.

‘Well, thank you, very much!' said Edie.

‘It's not for drinking, it's for reading,' said Bea. ‘My ma's got gypsy blood. She taught me.'

‘Oh, go on then,' said Edie.

Bea swilled the leaves around, squinting her eyes at the cup. The tip of her tongue protruded ever so slightly from the side of her mouth, as if she was concentrating very hard.
‘There's a young man, and water—' she began.

‘I knew it,' Joan interrupted. ‘I knew that lad at the Serpentine was her type!'

Bea ignored her. ‘There's a place with music and dancing, but then there's water, and . . . oh, no, not that.' She put the cup down abruptly. ‘I'm sorry,
I'm sure I wasn't doing that right. Just ignore it. Are there any eclairs left?'

‘It's nonsense,' said Joan. ‘It's all nonsense. You were just making it up, weren't you, Bea?'

Bea shrugged a little sadly, and reached for the last éclair. ‘I'm sorry, Edie,' she said.

‘Oh, don't worry about it. It's nothing. It's just a bit of fun. Let's settle up here and go on to the Savoy. I'm in the mood for a proper drink.'

She paid the bill for them all and they tumbled out of the huge glass doors and onto Piccadilly. The sun was lower now and their shadows fell like long strips of ticker tape as their shoes
tip-tapped along the grey pavements towards the Strand.

Joan stopped en route to get her lipstick out of her gas-mask case, and reapplied it, right there, in the middle of the street where everyone could see. A group of soldiers spilled out from a
side street just in front of them. Their voices were loud, out-of-place, and their uniforms more green than khaki.

‘Yanks!' gasped Bea.

‘Just keep walking,' said Joan.

There was laughter as they approached, and Edie heard the word ‘dames'. ‘Say, ladies,' said a voice as they drew level. Joan and Bea pretended not to hear, but Edie felt
that it was simply bad manners to ignore them. She stopped. The one who'd spoken was a little taller than her, with corrugated brown hair and a long nose.

‘Can I help you, gentlemen?' she said, ignoring Bea's insistent tugging of her arm.

‘We're looking for a hotel – what's the name of it, Art?' the corrugated hair said to his friend. The friend, tall, with blonde eyebrows, held a piece of paper up
to his eyes. There was a third man, quite short and plump, who said nothing, but grinned at them all with a wide innocent face.

‘Savvy?' he said.

‘Savoy?' said Edie.

‘Could be,' he replied, squinting at the scrap. Edie asked if she could look. On the crumpled sheet,
Moira, 7 p.m., Savoy
was written in a round, girlish hand.

‘Yes, it's the Savoy you're looking for. We're headed there, too. We could show you the way, if you'd like?' said Edie. The men agreed, saying they were
‘much obliged, ma'am,' and Edie said nonsense, call me Edie, and introduced Bea and Joan as well.

A quick flick over their uniforms told her that they were officers. So the six of them sauntered along the pavement together. The men were only a little drunk, Edie thought, and really quite
pleasant when one could understand what they were saying. Honestly, she didn't know why everyone seemed to have such a low impression of the GIs, and she said as much to Art, who was the tall
flaxen-haired one with the piece of paper. Edie glanced across at Joan, who was being eagerly questioned by the corrugated-hair one, whose name was Ron. Joan was feigning disinterest, but a
tell-tale finger kept playing with a strand of hair. The short plump one, Hal, was telling Bea about Chicago. Well, why not, thought Edie. It wasn't as if they'd gone out to pick these
boys up, they were merely showing them directions, being polite. And they were all in uniform – practically colleagues, for goodness' sakes. All the same, she couldn't help but
imagine what her mother would say: going out, on your own in London at night, and picking up Americans! There was something deliciously rebellious about it.