The Gunner Girl (40 page)

‘Well, here we are then,' said Edie. Bea looked up. In front of her were a massive set of wrought-iron gates, beyond them a gravel drive, rose bushes and the vast cream façade
of a house with more windows than she could count.
‘Allons-y,'
said Edie, lifting the latch and striding up the drive. Bea, last through, clicked the gates carefully shut
behind them, bringing up the rear. She looked at Edie, leading her gaggle of Frenchies up the drive. She looks like a troop commander taking her men into battle, Bea thought.

Edie rang the bell and said something in French and all the girls laughed and then Lady Lightwater appeared in the front doorway, and there was cheek-kissing and introductions, and Bea hung
back, looking at the unweeded flowerbeds and the spiders' webs on the window ledges. She stood on the bottom step as all the palaver went on beyond her and looked down at her feet and noticed
that the steps were filthy, really filthy. The first thing I'll do, she thought, looking down at the mud and the mould, the very first thing I'll do if it all turns out, is to give
these steps a right good scrubbing.

There was never going to be a good time to broach the subject, thought Edie, pulling cups and saucers out of the cupboard.

‘I don't know why you didn't phone first,' Mummy was saying, and Edie replied that if she'd phoned it would have spoiled the surprise. The truth was, she
hadn't been quite sure what to say on the phone: I'm bringing my friend Bea to see you because . . . no, it was much better to ask in person. She pulled the last cup from the cupboard.
It looked a bit dusty inside, so she gave it a rinse under the tap and asked Mummy for a tea towel.

‘They're all dirty,' she replied. ‘I had such a bother getting the sheets aired and ironed for this French onslaught, and I've been helping out almost every day
with the mobile canteen, and doing the Red Cross POW parcels with Mrs Carson when I have a spare moment and there just never seems to be the time. And your father's never home. Never. His
work seems to keep him in London all the time these days. Not that he'd help with the laundry, I'm not saying that, but you know . . .' she trailed off as she lifted the kettle
off the hob. She'd overfilled it, and it spilled scalding water down the front of her dress. ‘Damnation!' she thumped the kettle down on the work surface.

Edie put the wet cup down on the draining board and went over to where her mother stood, glaring at the kettle as if it were an SS guard.

‘Poor Mummy,' said Edie, patting her on the shoulder. ‘You're lonely and you need help.'

‘And where, pray, is one supposed to get help these days? The world and his wife are conscripted!'

Edith let her hand stay, lightly touching her mother's jutting shoulder. ‘I've got an idea,' she said, ‘if you'll just hear me out.'

‘There's no time for ideas now, Edith Elizabeth. We've got an army of free French to feed and water, not to mention your ATS chum. Where's she sleeping?'

‘Oh, we're not staying, Mummy. We've got to go on to Kent this afternoon. We just dropped by.' Edie let her hand fall, and went back to the table, laying out the cups and
saucers ready.

‘You just dropped by?' said Mummy. Edie nodded. ‘Well,
they're
here for three weeks. Three weeks! And there's another lot coming along after that. I
couldn't really say no, could I? I've said they'll have to do their own cooking. Only no horse. I will not have horse eaten in my house,' said Mummy, and sighed. She pulled
the tea caddy off the shelf. ‘I am remiss, Edith. I'm sorry, I haven't even asked how you are?' She began to scoop leaves from the Twinings' tea caddy into the big
cream teapot, the one they used for the beaters when it was shooting season. Her lips moved as she silently counted the scoops.

‘Fine,' said Edie. ‘I'm fine, Mummy.'

‘You look peaky. Are you eating properly?'

‘I have been a little off-colour,' said Edie.

‘And one for the pot,' said Mummy, putting in the last scoop and lifting the kettle. ‘What's been the matter?'

Edie paused, as the water from the kettle began to sluice into the teapot. Honesty, that's what she'd said to the other two. It was important to be honest.

‘Well, I got myself into a bit of trouble.'

‘What do you mean, trouble?' said Mummy, concentrating on the stream of boiling water.

‘You know,
trouble
,' said Edie. Her mother stopped pouring, put the kettle down; she was facing the wall, but did not turn. Her spine looked like a knife-edge under the
tight dress.

‘And the trouble – are you better now?' she said at last.

‘Yes, I'm fine.' Edith cleared her throat. ‘Pop helped.'

Mummy picked up the kettle and began to pour again. The steam swept up, clouding her. She finished pouring and put the kettle down. She did not turn to look at Edie.

‘Your father didn't say . . .'

‘We didn't want to worry you.'

‘I see.' She still hadn't turned round.

Out with it, Edie thought. Truth will out. Don't flunk it now. ‘Mrs Cowie was very kind, too.' Edie thought she heard a sharp intake of breath.

‘Meredith?'

‘Yes.'

There was silence. Mummy's hand fluttered up and smoothed her hair. Then she leant forward with her hands on the work surface, as if exhausted. Edie waited. At last, her mother
straightened up and turned round. Her face was as blank and smooth as the side of the teapot.

‘I must thank her, next time I see her.' Edie nodded. It was done. ‘Well, then, better get on with this, I suppose. I wish I had some coffee to offer them,' said Mummy,
looking angrily at the teapot.

‘I'm sure they'll be fine with tea,' said Edie.

‘And I don't have any lemon, either. The Continentals don't take milk with tea – they have lemon. I can't remember the last time I even saw a lemon.'

‘Mummy there's a war on. They won't mind.'

‘I know full well there's a war on, young lady. But that's no reason whatsoever to let standards slip,' said Mummy. And they both knew she wasn't talking about the
lack of coffee or lemon for the tea.

At that point, Bea came into the kitchen, rubbing her palms on the sides of her skirt. She bobbed her head to Mummy and smiled a little nervously.

‘Do you have a dustpan?' she said.

‘Whatever do you need a dustpan for?' asked Mummy.

‘Sorry to mention it – it's only that I found a dead mouse in the fireplace and I thought that . . .'

‘A mouse? Oh, dear God, get rid of it at once. I'll find the dustpan. Where is the blasted dustpan? For heaven's sake!' She began banging cupboard doors. Bea walked over
to the sink and looked underneath.

‘I've found it, Lady Lightwater, don't trouble yourself,' said Bea. She also found a basin and a scrubbing brush. She filled the basin with the rest of the hot water from
the kettle and added some soda crystals, and then disappeared with them and the dustpan.

‘Thank you so much, Bea, you are a dear,' Edie called after her.

‘Was she in service, before?' said Mummy.

‘I think she was a cleaner for someone,' said Edie. ‘Oh, did I mention she's leaving the ATS? She's getting married as soon as her fiancé gets home –
he's got a shrapnel wound and they're sending him back. They've got a baby girl. Her mother has been looking after the baby for them. Anyway, she's looking for work and a
place to stay.'

‘Is she?' said Mummy. Her face gave nothing away. They looked at each other over the pile of teacups.

‘Yes. And you said you needed help.'

Mummy pursed her lips and ran her index finger over one eyebrow, smoothing it down. ‘She seems like a very competent young woman, but I couldn't possibly have a baby in the
house.'

‘You had those evacuees, before they decided to go back.'

‘That was different. And anyway, those children weren't born out of wedlock.'

‘She would be married before she came here. She'd stay in the ATS until her wedding. So the baby wouldn't be, you know.'

‘But even so . . .' her mother began.

‘She's very quiet, and a really hard worker, honestly Mummy, you'd hardly know she was here. Just until the end of the war. Please.' Her mother looked down and away, and
Edie thought she'd flunked it. To her, it had seemed such a straightforward plan. Mummy needed help. Bea would need a place to stay. A perfect match. But Mummy didn't seem to think so.
‘You can't carry on like this,' said Edie, giving it one last try. The sweep of her gesture took in the streaked window-panes; sink full of unwashed dishes, crumbs on the work
surfaces and footprints on the flagstones. ‘Can you?'

Her mother looked up, finally looked directly at her and shook her head. It was a tiny, controlled movement. ‘No, Edith,' she said. ‘I can't carry on like
this.'

‘Well?'

‘We'll need to clear it with your father,' she said at last.

‘I'm sure he'll agree,' said Edie. ‘He'll do anything to keep you happy, Mummy.' Her mother shot her a look, but nothing was said, sucking in a breath,
as if she were inhaling an invisible cigarette.

‘I'm sure he will,' she said on the exhalation. ‘Now, where are those buns? I bought buns this morning, but where have they all gone?'

‘I've got them,' said Edie. ‘I've already plated them up for you.'

‘Well, you seem to have everything under control, Edith Elizabeth,' said her mother.

Yes, Edie thought to herself; yes, I think I do. But there were still a couple of things left to get sorted by close of play.

‘Business or pleasure?' said the gate guard as she showed her ID card. Without his thin ginger moustache he would have looked about twelve years old.

‘Business,' she said. She wasn't going to take any of his cheek. Unfinished business, she thought to herself, walking past the barrier. The white control tower was an art deco
wedding cake in the distance, at the far end of the RAF camp. She turned back towards the pubescent guard. ‘Where's the sergeants' mess?' she said.

‘You won't be allowed in,' he replied, looking her up and down. ‘It's senior NCOs, men only.' He reminded her of someone, from before. Something about that
skinny swagger, and the way he talked to her tits instead of her face.

‘Can you direct me to the sergeants' mess, please, Aircraftman?' she said, emphasising his rank. She might be in a different branch of the armed forces, but she knew full well
that a bombardier outranked and aircraftman, and so did he.

‘Over there, by the parade ground,' he muttered. She nodded her thanks.

It was just off the main road into camp: a new-looking brick building, rust-coloured under the blanket of grey cloud. The camp was bigger than Hyde Park Battery, almost like a small town.
Figures scurried in and out of buildings, like wisps of smoke. In the distance, aircraft engines purred. The air was thick with humidity and the tarmac road glistened wetly as she crossed over to
the parade square. She looked up at the ranks of blank windows, all blacked out to daylight. Of course, they'd all be asleep, if they'd been out on a night sortie.

She walked across the empty parade square, looking up. The windows looked back, unblinking. Which one was his? If she'd known, she could have chucked gravel up to wake him, like the boys
from school used to do at hers, until Dad came out with his belt unbuckled and threatened them with a thrashing. How she'd laughed, peeping out of the curtains as Frank Otterwell and Larry
Parsons went high-tailing down Western Way with Dad roaring after them in his vest and braces. She remembered that, now, after everything that had happened with Fred, in the hotel. She remembered
other things, too: she used to work at the cinema; her dad was in the police; people whispered about her and George, the grocer's boy, because of what happened that time up at the allotments.
Her name used to be Vanessa. Used to be?

She was at the bottom of the steps now, and she felt dizzy looking up. Maybe it was the clouds moving behind the rooftop, but the mess looked as if it was swooping, and there was a buzzing hum.
Probably just the planes on the runway, she told herself. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. She had no expectations. She owed Rob the truth, that was all. And she wanted to see him,
even if it was the last time.

‘Can I help you?' – a voice at her elbow. She opened her eyes. The voice belonged to a woman in a WAAF uniform, brunette hair showing underneath her cap. Her lips were very
pink. Was that lipstick? Did the air force allow women to wear lipstick at work?

‘I'm looking for Flight Sergeant Nelson,' said Joan.

‘Is it really urgent?' said the woman, frowning. ‘Only, I don't want to send someone barging in there to wake him up after the night they've just had, not unless
it's, you know, life or death stuff. Is it?'

‘Is it what?'

‘Life or death stuff?' The woman was looking at her, her slanty grey eyes glowering.

‘No, but . . .' Joan began.

‘Thought not. You can wait, if you want. There's a NAAFI just over there,' she gestured up the road, in the direction of the control tower.

But I've come all this way to tell him. It's important he knows, because then he'll understand, and even though it won't change anything, he should know the truth. He
deserves the truth, she thought, looking past the woman and back up at the blackened windows.

‘But I'm his . . .' Joan began, moving forwards. The woman caught her arm, just above the elbow, and she held tight, fingers like little claws.

‘His what?'

What was she? Not his fiancée, not even anyone he knew. He thought he knew Joan; he didn't even know Vanessa existed. ‘Nothing,' she replied.