The Gunner Girl (35 page)

Joan and Bea looked at Edie, stood between them, but she simply stood there, eyes fixed on a vase of lilies on the windowsill, as if they were the most fascinating things in the world. Joan
nudged her bony ribs. Edie blinked, inhaled as if to speak, but then stopped.

‘Well, well, well. Tongue-tied, Half Pint?' he said, smiling. Sir Neville picked up his pipe from the desk and stooped down to empty it into the waste-paper basket. Joan shifted
uneasily. It wasn't meant to be like this. They'd come to give Edie some support, that was all. She had to be the one to tell him. But it was like she'd gone back to the state
she'd been right after that night at the 400 Club.

He opened a tin of Golden Virginia and began to fill the pipe bowl. Joan caught Bea's eye above Edie's head and raised her eyebrows. Bea frowned and pursed her lips. What now? Edie
was looking at the flowers again. Outside the window, the row of houses opposite were yellow-grey in the morning sunshine and there was a tiny triangle of blue sky wedged above a roof edge.

It was already uncomfortably hot. The sash windows were all open, but not a breath of air stirred the leaves of the lilies in the vase. There had been flowers like that at the Ritz: urns of
lilies, pots of aspidistra. And roses on the teacups, she remembered, when Rob had asked her to marry him. She still hadn't given him a response, couldn't find the words. She twisted
the gold ring on her finger. She should tell him. She would tell him, just as soon as they'd sorted Edie out. But tell him what?

Edie's father finished filling his pipe. He tamped down the tobacco and got out his Swan Vestas. He lit the pipe, chewing on the stem and exhaling clouds of thick, bluish smoke. ‘Is
it about cash, Half Pint?' he said at last. ‘You girls spent all your wages on gin and lipstick already this month and need a bit of a loan, hmm?' He was stooping over slightly
and looking into Edie's face. Edie coughed but stayed stood rigid, as if to attention.

‘No, it's not that, it's—' Joan began.

‘I'm talking to my daughter, not to you,' he said. There was something hard in his tone. It made Joan think of the sound of boots on a parade square. He'd stopped smiling
now. Joan felt her cheeks redden at the rebuke.

‘Come on, Half Pint, out with it. There's got to be some reason for you to turn up at my office at ten past nine on a Monday morning, and clearly you haven't come here for a
spot of chit-chat.' But Edie showed no sign of even hearing him.

He straightened up and puffed at the pipe some more. The phone rang in the outer office and Joan could hear the clipped tones of his secretary telling someone on the line that Sir Neville was
unavailable just now. He paced in front of them, like a decorated officer inspecting the enlisted filth. Joan's feet felt damp in the thick lisle stockings. The edges of her brogues were
beginning to dig in. She swayed slightly on the balls of her feet. He paced past and turned on his heel. She saw one side of his face pass them, and then the other, and she noticed how he had a
wavy line, a vein snaking up into his temple on one side. And Joan thought about that merchant-navy man: Fred, he'd called himself. She thought about his face, one side livid red, burnt away.
He'd called her Vanessa. He'd said he was Joan's fiancé. And when she'd told him she was Joan, he'd got angry, whispered threats, called her a fraud. But
she'd got rid of him, hadn't she?

Sir Neville stopped in front of Edie. He was frowning, now. ‘I haven't got all bloody morning. You girl soldiers might not have much more to think about than where your next pair of
silk stockings is coming from, but some of us have more pressing things to attend to. Now, come on, let's get this over with. How much? Cash or cheque?' Joan saw a solitary tear begin
to well up in Edie's right eye, but she didn't even blink it away. Slowly it ran down her pale cheek and lodged in the corner of her lips. ‘Oh, I don't have time for
this,' barked her father, and stalked back to his desk and sat down. ‘Come back when you have something to say for yourself. Pat will show you out,' and he had his palm over the
bell that he used to summon his secretary.

‘No!' said Joan.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘We need your help. She's in trouble,' said Joan.

He snorted, his hand still hovering over the bell. ‘What kind of trouble?' There was silence inside the room. From outside came the cough of a motorbike engine starting up. Inside,
the air was hot and thick. Joan opened her mouth to speak, but Edie's father put up a hand to silence her. He puffed on his pipe. ‘What is it, Half Pint?' The pipe smoke hung in
the air between them.

Edie finally stopped looking at the flowers and turned her gaze onto her father. She shook her head and then looked down at her feet. Bea watched as two tears fell, one-two, down onto the
Persian rug.

‘What kind of trouble?' said Sir Neville, leaning forwards across the desk. Bea gave Joan a panicky glance. ‘Not
that
kind of trouble. Tell me I've got the wrong
end of the bloody stick. Not that kind of trouble?'

Edie raised her head and then inclined it slightly, a half-nod, an acknowledgement. Sir Neville stood up abruptly and strode over to Joan. ‘You let her get into trouble.' His face
was up close, sudden purplish-red, and Joan thought again of Fred, breathing vitriol into her face: ‘Who the hell do you think you are?'

Joan flushed, opened her mouth to reply, but Sir Neville stopped her before she had the chance. ‘Oh, stow it, Bombardier. I couldn't be less interested in your petty excuses.'
He took another puff of his pipe and glared at Bea. ‘And you. I hold you just as much responsible as her,' he said. Joan saw that Edie's shoulders were shaking and she moved to
put an arm round her, just as Bea did the same, and they stood, arms around her quaking little form as her father fumed in front of them. He went back to the desk and picked up the phone, asking to
be put through to Mrs Cowie. There was a pause.

‘Ah, Meredith, so sorry to trouble you this early. Ungodly, yes . . . well, some of us have to work, I suppose, to keep the rest of you in Molyneux frocks and so forth . . . Yes, yes, of
course, but listen, I have a small favour to ask . . . No, I'd love to, of course, but not that; it's actually rather serious. It's Edith. She's in trouble . . . No, what I
mean is she's got herself into trouble . . . Yes,
that
kind of trouble . . . Christ knows, but of course I can't be seen to . . . Surely you can get your hair done another day?
Meredith, this is my daughter, not some port-and-lemon-swilling officer's groundsheet, for Christ's sake.' At this, he looked pointedly over at Joan. ‘The Mount Royal is
perfectly decent. But for heaven's sakes, not Vitane. I don't want her going the same way as the Pickwoad woman . . . Yes, ghastly business. Well, thank you, Meredith. I do appreciate
this, old girl.' He hung up.

‘Right then, Half Pint, you can say goodbye to your pals now. Mrs Cowie is on her way here. She'll sort you out.' Edith looked at him.

‘Mrs Cowie?' said Joan.

‘Yes, Meredith Cowie. This is woman's business. I can't possibly be involved. Not in my position. I've already had the police asking questions about the night of that
raid—Oh, don't worry, I didn't breathe a word to those self-important little oiks. But I can't have anything else, you understand?'

‘But what about Edie's mum?' said Joan.

‘Her who?'

‘Her mother. Your wife?'

‘Oh, we needn't bother Maud with this. Better that we don't tell Mummy, eh, Half Pint?'

Edie was still shaking. Joan gave her a squeeze. She thought about the little baby fluttering in Edie's belly, the baby that was about to be sucked out in some hotel bedroom. ‘Can we
stay with her?' said Joan.

‘Certainly not. It will only arouse suspicion. In any case, shouldn't you be getting back to your unit?'

‘But she'll be all alone,' said Joan.

‘Not at all. Mrs Cowie will be there. Now, come along, girls. Say your goodbyes.' He talked like it was the end of a tea party. Joan looked at Bea above Edie's head.

‘But what will we tell our OC?' said Joan. ‘We're all on duty again tonight.'

‘Oh, isn't it obvious?' said Edie's father. ‘I thought all you girls knew the score. She's got acute appendicitis, of course: emergency hospital admission.
I'll ask Pat to sort you out with something official.' And Joan remembered Scottish Nancy, that time, in training: blood all over the bed sheets and the midnight flee to hospital.
Appendicitis, they'd said, then.

They dislodged themselves from Edie as he picked up the phone and issued instructions to his secretary. As his secretary ushered them out, Joan turned back and caught a glimpse of Sir Neville
walking back over to Edie, his arms outstretched. ‘Chin up, Half Pint,' he said. ‘Pop will sort this all out, you'll see.'

And she heard Edie's voice, suddenly crisp and clear. ‘I do wish you'd stop calling me Half Pint.'

Mrs Cowie tutted and checked the little gold wristwatch again. Her lips made a moue of irritation.

‘You can go, if you want,' said Edie.

‘No, I promised your father,' said Mrs Cowie.

Edie was sitting on the end of the bed. The bedstead was iron, with knobs at the corners. There was a claret-coloured bedcover that matched the carpet. Opposite the bed the window was open, to
let in some air, but it was still too hot, oppressive in the high-up hotel suite. She could hear the whine of traffic from far below, and see the top of the spire from the nearby church. Mrs Cowie
started to pace, muttering something about how the least one could expect was for people to turn up on time when you were paying that kind of money for their services. Her black bobbed hair shook
as she walked, and Edie was suddenly reminded of Wallis Simpson – ‘that American hussy who stole our king' as Mummy put it.

‘Why did Pop ask you to come?' said Edie.

Mrs Cowie looked up sharply. ‘Your father is a very dear friend,' she said.

‘And my mother? Is she a dear friend, too?'

‘Well, that goes without saying.'

Does it, thought Edie. She could feel the bedsprings underneath her. It would not be a very comfortable bed to sleep on. But then, she wasn't here to sleep, was she?

Outside, the pale green church spire speared the chalky sky, and inside, Meredith paced. She paused. ‘Try not to worry,' she said. It was the first acknowledgement since they met up
at Pop's office earlier of what was actually going on. ‘It's really quite straightforward, in the right hands,' she added.

How would you know, thought Edie, and then she remembered those hushed telephone conversations about ‘work' that she'd overheard when she was home on leave. Edie watched Mrs
Cowie, trotting backwards and forwards between the cheval mirror and the door.

‘Did you come here for yours, too?' said Edie.

‘I don't know what you're talking about!' said Mrs Cowie, flushing and speeding up.

Edie thought about how she'd ended up here, in one of the furthest rooms from reception, in this second-rate hotel in Bryanston Street, waiting, with her father's mistress, for the
illegal abortionist to arrive. It was Bea who'd noticed that she hadn't got her curse this month, and Joan who'd made them go and see her father about it. She'd felt stupid,
that she hadn't even known – but nobody ever told you these things. How was one supposed to know? Mrs Cowie had been summoned to whisk her off, as if they were going to nothing more
important than a trip to Harrods. They took a taxi to the Mount Royal Hotel. The ancient moustachioed receptionist showed studied disinterest as Mrs Cowie booked Edie in under the name of Mrs
Lionel Jones.

Edie watched as Mrs Cowie paused in her pacing to regard herself in the cheval, smoothing her skirt and hooking a stray hair behind her ear. Then she checked her watch again. Edie wanted to ask
her what was going to happen. How did they get the baby out? Would it hurt? But it was another one of those things that it was impossible to ask.

She thought it strange that a baby could be growing inside her. She knew it wouldn't look anything like a baby now. She thought about the baby dolly in her old dolls' house in the
nursery – it was just a china face sewed onto a rectangular little cushion thing, wrapped in cloth, like a pin cushion with a face. She thought of the baby inside her like a pincushion, to be
stuffed with pins until it deflated and disappeared. Would the doctor have to cut her open? Or did they just suck it out somehow? Anyway, it wasn't a baby, was it? It was a situation; it was
that
kind of trouble, something that had to be
sorted out
, at great expense.

Edie sighed. The room was too hot and perspiration pricked at her armpits, under her heavy army shirt. But she could feel gooseflesh on her forearms, and she shivered a little. I must be scared,
she thought, acknowledging the fear without actually feeling it. Still Mrs Cowie paced. Outside, the sky was duck-egg blue, the church spire verdigris. Inside was stuffy, the low ceilings capturing
every drop of moisture, and the air was thick with humidity.

At last, there was a knock at the door. Mrs Cowie almost ran to open it. Edith stood up as Dr Bloomberg came in. He wasn't at all as she'd expected. She had imagined someone with a
severe expression and a white coat and stethoscope, but Dr Bloomberg was a middle-aged man with a pink cheeks and a grey suit, carrying a Gladstone bag. He took off his hat and placed it on the
occasional table and put down his bag and shook Mrs Cowie's hand. Mrs Cowie introduced him to Edith, but not by name. She said, ‘And this is the young lady I told you about,' and
the doctor put out his hand. Edith took it; it was warm and clammy, with pudgy fingers.

‘I do apologise for the delay,' he said, but gave no reason for his lateness. His face was blank, clean-shaven and expressionless, like blancmange. There were little dark pink lines
where the rim of his trilby had been, but underneath his bald head was peach-coloured and shiny. ‘Please arrange for hot water and fresh towels while I prepare,' he said, and went
through to the ensuite bathroom. Edie heard him turning on the taps. Mrs Cowie called room service.