The Gunner Girl (39 page)

Eventually, her head began to clear. She got up to go to the loo; the water in the bowl was pink, afterwards. She'd been left spare pads, so she changed them, wondered if it would be safe
to have a bath. Then she went back to bed and leafed through the old magazine, but the glossy photographs of smiling women held no interest. Next to her half-empty water glass was a copy of the
Bible, bound in dark red leather, with gold embossed lettering on the cover. She picked it up. The pages were tissue-thin, the typescript small and cluttered: sinners who begat sinners who begat
and begat and a furious God who spat fire and seemed to delight in suffering. There was a tugging pain in her abdomen. She looked up. Outside, the church spire was a dull lichen colour, probing the
pregnant clouds. Was that thunder?

‘Buck up, Edith,' she said aloud, pushing back the bedcovers. She ran a bath, as hot as she could bear – well, it could hardly make things worse, could it? Her skin prickled,
mottled pink in the scalding water. There was a red swirl in between her thighs, like the wool Bea crocheted with. She thought of crochet hooks, and probing fingers, and listened to the storm
brewing outside. The skies had darkened, the church spire a burnt spike against clouds of ash, and a gust of wind rattled the sash window.

There was an immense flash, she saw the bright streak hit the spire, and then a deafening boom, like the bomb strike at the 400 Club. Just like the bomb that night.

She hadn't meant to cry, but there it suddenly was: strange guttural gulping sounds, and saline splashes into the pinky bathwater. There was a kind of choking heat, that rose up from
inside her chest, coming out as tears and mucus, and that wounded-animal yelping noise. At the next thunderclap, she gave way completely, letting out a yell – not of pain this time –
but of rage, and beat her fists again and again against the sides of the bathtub. Outside, the storm slammed, and rain battered the windowpanes and Edie screamed and hit out, hating them all, and
hating herself.

As the storm died down, her tears slowly ceased. She got out of the bathtub and dried herself on the sandpapery hotel towel. She washed her face in cool water from the tap, not looking at her
reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was a dull, twisting ache in her lower stomach. She put her clothes back on, wishing she had something clean to change into. She went back into the bedroom,
wondering what the hell to do now.

And then there was a knock at the door. She hadn't ordered room service, but she opened it anyway – and there were Joan and Bea.

‘Come in,' said Edie, ushering them both inside. She quickly smoothed down the eiderdown, thinking about blood spatters on the sheets underneath. She motioned for them to sit.
Outside, the thunder was a fading sigh. Inside, the air lukewarm, empty.

Bea was red-faced and worried-looking. Joan had a button missing from her blouse, and mussed-up hair. Her lips were pale and puffy, without their customary slick of red. Bea guided Joan in, sat
her down on the bed and brushed the hair from her eyes. Everyone seemed to be avoiding looking at each other, or saying anything. Edie could hardly bear it.

‘Tea?' she said. ‘I think we could all do with a cup of tea, don't you?' She dialled zero on the black Bakelite telephone next to the bed and asked for a pot of tea
for three please. Then she sat down on the bed next to Bea. The springs creaked. They were all facing the window, staring out onto the pale green isosceles of church spire set against the clearing
clouds. Raindrops still dawdled down the windowpane. ‘Shouldn't be too long until they bring it,' she said, thinking about how quick room service had been with the hot water and
towels, earlier.

Edie began to worry at what was left of the nail on her right index finger. Bea swatted her hand away: ‘You'll only make it worse, girl.' After that, nobody spoke. They just
sat, staring at the retreating storm clouds, waiting for room service to arrive.

At last there was a knock at the door. Edie got up to open in. She took the tray from the little rat-faced girl and brought it in, putting it down on the occasional table, where Dr Bloomberg had
put his equipment. It hurt when she bent over to put the tray down. It still hurt, deep inside her abdomen. She straightened up and closed the door.

When the tea had brewed, she was Mother, like she'd been at the Ritz. Only nobody suggested reading the leaves, this time. The teacups had scarlet roses on them, with thorny stems. Edie
thought of blood clots and sharp needles. She handed out the cups and sat back down on the bed next to Bea. She felt a clench in her stomach and held the warm teacup there, letting the heat of it
ease the spasm.

It wasn't that they didn't care about each other, or that they didn't know what to say; it was the reverse of that, Edie thought. They knew too much, cared too much. There was
this enormity of unspoken sentiment, filling every corner of the tiny hotel room.

‘Looks like your pa did a good job with the coppers, girl.' It was Bea who finally broke the silence. ‘Staff told us the inquiry's over.'

Edie nodded, sipping her tea. So nobody would ever know the truth about what happened outside the 400 Club. Nobody except the three of them here, in this room, bound by silence. There was a
rapid clink of china against china. Edie looked across at Joan. Her hands were shaking, cup rattling, splashing tea into the saucer. The air still smelled faintly of surgical spirit.

‘Joan, are you all right, dear?' said Edie. But Joan did not respond until Bea touched her on the arm.

‘Joan,' said Bea. ‘Edie asked you a question.'

Joan started, as if stung, and more tea spilled into her saucer. ‘Pardon?'

‘Edie asked if you was all right, girl.'

‘I'm fine,' said Joan. But she was still trembling.

‘Is it Robin?' said Edie.

‘Who?'

‘Your fiancé?'

‘He's gone,' said Joan, dully.

Edie went round to the other end of the bed to sit next to Joan, putting her cup down on the bedside table, next to the Bible. She put an arm round her friend. ‘Is it because of that Fred
chap?' she said.

‘How do you know about Fred?' said Bea.

‘Same as you, I shouldn't wonder,' said Edie. ‘He seemed like a nasty piece of work to me.' She looked at Bea, who still had that harassed expression. Then she
looked at Joan, who turned away, eyes glazed, saying nothing. Enough, thought Edie. We simply can't carry on like this.

She withdrew her arm from Joan and sat down on the threadbare burgundy carpet, turning her back on the stupid church spire and facing her two best friends. She shifted until she was comfortable,
reached for her teacup, took a sip and then began again. ‘Very well,' said Edie, looking at Bea. ‘What about you? What are you going to do about your baby?'

‘Your what?' said Joan, blinking.

‘Her baby. Oh, come on, Joan. Surely you knew, dear?'

‘Baby Val?' said Joan, slowly. And Bea nodded, mouth puckering, like she'd just swallowed some foul-tasting medicine.

Edie took another sip of tea, little finger outstretched, just as she'd been taught. ‘I've been doing some thinking, while I've been incarcerated here,' she said.
‘Nanny always said things would all come out in the wash. Well, girls, I have a feeling that today is laundry day.' She put down her cup on the carpet and knelt up, quite close, so that
she could see each of their faces, eyes on a level with her own. Bea drained her cup. Joan bit her lip.

‘It strikes me that the time for secrecy is over,' she said. ‘We owe each other a debt of honesty, at the very least. What is said today stays inside these four walls, but here
it is.' She took a deep breath, before continuing. ‘I've watched a man drown, and I did nothing to try to save him. I've had an illegal abortion, right here in this
room.' At this, Bea started forward, reaching out. ‘No, I'm fine. Let me finish.' Edie waved Bea's comforting arms away. ‘You, Bea, have an illegitimate child
who you've been forced to pretend is your sister. And you, Joan – you're not really Joan at all. Your real name is Vanessa.'

As the words spilled out, a sense of calm washed over her. There it was, out, and the ceiling hadn't come crashing down. The other two sat on the bed, with their teacups and their taut
expressions, and Edie said: ‘Well, what have you two got to say for yourselves?' They both stared at her.

‘Ma's sick and I've had a letter from Jock,' said Bea at last.

Bea felt nervous, she had to admit. Edie's idea was good; it made sense. But the thought of meeting Lady Lightwater again made her palms sweat. It would all be posh, and
she wouldn't know the right things to say or anything.

‘What did he say, again?' said Edie, as they traipsed along the village High Street, past the baker's and the post office. Bea didn't need to take out the air letter and
re-read it. She already knew it by heart.

‘He says he's got a shrapnel wound. They've patched him up and they're going to send him home. He says we can get married as soon as his ship docks,' she said.

‘Well, that's splendid. Isn't that splendid? You always said he'd write; you never gave up hope, and now this. Shall I tell Mummy that you're engaged?'

‘You can say what you want,' said Bea. She didn't care. Nothing mattered, because her Jock was on his way home.

‘Well, then, I'll just tell the truth. Honesty is the best policy,' she said.

They carried on walking, and they passed a village green, with a pub called the Barley Mow, and the shops fell away to houses, and the further they walked, the larger the houses became, and the
longer the driveways, and the higher the front gates. Edie was almost like the old Edie again, chattering away, pointing things out, waving at village acquaintances. But there was something
different about her, Bea thought. She was harder, somehow. It was like gobstoppers: when you suck them, there's layers and layers of lovely sweetness, and then, right in the middle
there's the aniseed. It was like that with Edie, Bea thought, the layers of sugar had been all-but stripped away, leaving behind this hard little seed.

It began to mizzle. The sky was grey all the way down to the treetops and a fine mist drenched them as they walked. From the opposite direction a vicar came, hunched and black on his bicycle.
‘Good morning, Miss Lightwater,' he called out. His bicycle wobbled as he lifted his hat. Edie returned the greeting, but when he'd passed she frowned a little, and walked on
faster.

‘Blast this weather,' Edie said.

But Bea didn't care about her damp clothes or the way the weighed-down tree branches dripped on them as they passed. She wasn't thinking about the weather. Shrapnel, Jock wrote.
Bloody hurt and all, he'd said. She imagined him, laid out in a gritty tent, air like an oven and the sand blowing in and the sting of iodine. Bloody hurt and all. He said they'd get
him on a ship as soon as. He had a bit of a fever, so they were waiting for that to clear up. He said don't you worry; the buggers missed me meat-and-two-veg so I can still give you a wedding
night to remember. He asked, did she know anyone with any parachute silk for a dress? They'd sort it just as soon as he was able to walk again. He said he wanted to walk her up the aisle and
out of the church and to meet his baby girl. He said leave the ATS, I'll take care of you now. That's what he said. The air letter would be getting wet in her breast pocket. It
didn't matter. Nothing mattered, now he was on his way home.

From behind them came the growl of an engine. It sounded like a truck, and Bea automatically stuck out her thumb. The noise grew louder, and in her peripheral vision she noticed a dark green
shape. There was the honk of a horn. She looked up.

‘Where to, ladies?' The conker-haired driver poked his head out of the cab. He had a harelip, and it made his voice sound fuzzy.

‘Oh, only about half a mile up the road, before the hill to Old Windsor,' said Edie.

The driver said he was dropping off some girls up that way anyway and gestured at them to get in. The back of the truck was covered with green canvas. A hand reached out and flung away a
cigarette end. They walked down and inside was a group of faces, pale blobs under the canvas.

Edie got in first, reaching her foot up high onto the tow bar and swinging her other leg over the tailgate in one swift movement, as if she were getting on a horse. As Bea began to follow her,
the truck started up again. There was a scramble and she almost lost her footing, but hands grabbed and clung and she was pulled inside as they jolted away.

Bea sat on the truck bed, against the tailgate; she looked up for a seat, but there wasn't room anywhere. Young women in funny uniforms were perched all over piles of canvas-covered
equipment, reminding Bea of the way pigeons clustered in Trafalgar Square. There wasn't an inch of spare space. Edie was wedged in next to her, already chatting and smiling, but Bea
couldn't understand a word she said. They were all speaking French. The truck lumbered on.

Edie turned to translate: they were all French soldiers from the Down Street Barracks in London. They had leave, but obviously couldn't go home, so were sent instead to visit various
friendly British families. ‘One of which is mine –
quelle coïncidence!
' she finished off, patting a blonde French girl on the knee. Then Edie went back to speaking
French. Bea didn't mind. She was thinking.

How would Jock feel about the plan that Edie had come up with? Edie said they should just present it as a
‘fait accompli'
, whatever that meant. It would be nice to settle
down away from the town, with grass and flowers, for Baby. Surely Jock would be all right about it? But Edie still had to talk to Lady Lightwater . . . Bea felt her palms sweat again.

They would have rolled into each other as the truck came to a halt, but they were already so tightly packed that there was no room for movement. Edie got out first, still chattering in French,
and five of the girl soldiers followed her, stepping right over Bea. Bea got out last, heaving herself over the tailgate and dropping down onto the road. The driver beeped his horn and they waved
their thanks as the truck rumbled away up the wooded lane.