The Gunner Girl (5 page)

‘I'm not – it's just the lardy cake went down the wrong way,' she lied. She wasn't thinking of Pa; she was thinking of Jock. Maybe Jock's letter was
still in the post?

‘Come and give the baby a cuddle,' said her sister, Vi. ‘That'll cheer you up.'

‘I'm not crying,' said Bea, allowing herself to be led in the direction of the playpen, where Baby was sitting up, gnawing on her little fist. She put her arms out to be
lifted, and Bea bent over, pulling up the soft bundle of warmth into her arms, smelling her plump newness.

Later, when the others had all had their faces washed and gone to bed, she sat in the kitchen with Ma, sharing a Woodbine. Ma had just bleached the tabletop and the acrid fumes mixed with
cigarette smoke as she inhaled.

‘Ma, tell me what your eighteenth birthday was like,' she said.

‘When I was eighteen, you was a toddler and Charlie was on the way.'

Charlie was the one who'd died from Scarlet Fever before he turned one. Bea couldn't even remember him, even though her ma sometimes talked about him. But then the others came:
Violet, May, then John and David, Rita, and after her the twins. Bea had carried and scrubbed and run errands and been responsible for as long as she could remember.

Except for that one time.

She passed the cigarette to Ma.

‘Sorry I couldn't get you a present,' said Ma.

‘It doesn't matter, really, I know there's no money.'

Bea felt guilty for even having a birthday, knowing it was just something else in the long list of things her ma thought she should do properly, but failed to do at all.

‘Here, you finish it,' said Ma, passing over the butt. Bea took a deep drag and watched the tip of the cigarette smoulder like hot coals.

‘You still haven't heard from Jock, have you?' said Ma.

Bea shook her head and stubbed the cigarette out into the cracked saucer. She couldn't look at Ma, but she heard her sigh and start talking in a low voice about how Jock probably
wouldn't come back, about how whatever he'd promised meant nothing unless Bea had a ring on her finger, about what Pa thought.

Bea looked down at the tabletop, brown-grey and pitted. She looked at the peeling varnish and the dried-out wood showing through and scuffed it with her fingernail and tried not to hear what Ma
was saying.

‘We've been so careful, everyone thinks Baby is mine,' said Ma at last.

Bea looked up. ‘She's not yours, Ma, she's mine.'

‘Ssh, Bea. Quiet now.'

‘Nobody's listening, Ma.'

Her ma's voice lowered to a whisper as she continued. ‘Nobody must ever know,' she said. ‘Your pa thinks it's for the best,' she said.

‘Jock said he'd marry me when he came back,' Bea said, her voice sounding loud in the silent kitchen.

Ma reached out her hand and cupped it over Bea's. ‘He's not coming back,' she said. Bea looked down. The skin on her ma's hands felt rough. It was chapped and raw
from peeling potatoes, putting washing through the mangle, scrubbing the front step. Bea pulled her hand away.

‘He is. He promised,' she said.

‘Listen to me, girl,' said her ma. ‘He is not coming back.'

Bea shook her head, biting her lip. ‘But he said—'

‘Lads say all sorts of things, girl.'

‘Not him, not Jock. He's coming back, I know it. He loves me. He will love Baby. He wants us all to be together as a family. He's a good man, Ma.'

‘Bea, you have to face it, he's not coming back. It's been months. I'm not saying he doesn't care, but he might be—'

‘He's not dead. I would know, I would have felt it. He is not dead. He's coming back. He loves me and he's going to love Baby and he is coming back!' Bea ended with
a shout.

She knew it was coming. Nobody shouted at Ma and got away with it in this family. She waited for the slap, watched as Ma leant across, lurched towards her. It was harder than she expected and
Bea reeled backwards, cheek stinging.

‘You shut your mouth, you little slut. Do you want the whole neighbourhood to know?' Ma hissed.

‘I don't bloody care who knows,' said Bea.

‘Shh, keep your voice down. You won't get another man if you let on she's yours.'

‘I don't want another man. I want Jock. And he wants me, he said so.'

Ma said nothing, just shook her head, frowning. Rain spattered against the kitchen window. They stared at each other across the table.

‘People are going to start asking about the christening. They're going to expect us to get Baby christened when your pa's home at Christmas. Baby is only six years younger than
the twins, and everyone seems to know about my last one,' said Ma. There was barely a quiver in her voice as she referred to the stillborn baby she'd had less than a year ago. Bea had
helped then, seen the slithery cord wrapped tight, watched as the grim-faced midwife shook her head and said, ‘Sorry so sorry for your loss, Mrs Smith.'

‘I'm not yet forty, so who's to know any different?' said Ma.

I'll know, Bea thought. I'll know that Baby is mine, mine and Jock's. I'll know that she's my daughter, not my little sister and that my whole life is a lie.

‘Look at Pa,' her ma continued. ‘This war hasn't been all bad. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good – he's a sergeant now. A sergeant, think of
that, Bea. What I'm trying to say is, don't throw your life away before it's even bloody started; don't end up like me.'

‘What's so wrong with your life?' said Bea.

Ma pushed herself out of the chair and stood up. Above the fireplace was an old brown teapot with a broken spout. Inside were ration coupons, elastic bands and change for the gas meter. Ma
dipped in her hand and brought something out, then passed it to Bea. Bea took the small square of card and looked at it. It was a photo, yellowed with age, of a young woman with a garland of
flowers in her hair. The woman had wide eyes, full lips and a beautiful smile.

‘That was me,' said Ma. ‘That's how I was when I met your pa. He loves me and I love him, but you could say we loved each other a bit too much, and now here I am, like
this.'

Bea looked at her mother. She was just Ma, wasn't she? Ma, with the torn apron and capable hands. But now she looked again, and saw the tired eyes, greying hair and the cheeks hollowed out
from years of going without so that the children could have their fill. There was nothing left of the smiling girl in the sepia photograph.

‘But Baby is mine,' said Bea, holding the photo out for her ma to take. Ma put out her hand and for a moment they both froze: Ma standing, Bea sitting, their only point of connection
the old picture caught between their fingertips.

‘It's your eighteenth birthday. I'm giving you a better future,' said Ma.

That was three weeks ago. Now Bea turned left into Station Road and quickened her pace. On the wall next to the post office was a billboard with a red-and-blue picture of a
woman's face, looking up expectantly, a smile on her glossy lips. There was a big arrow underneath the woman's face.
ATS
, it said: the women's Auxiliary
Territorial Service, recruiting now. Ma had told her the ATS was for good girls, better than working in a munitions factory, like she'd had to. And when Mrs Morley had said something about
Bea getting ideas above her station, Ma had silenced her with a look.

The rain-washed streets looked clean in the morning sunshine. Bea suddenly noticed that the sound of the baby crying had stopped and all she could hear was the rush of the London train coming
into the station. She shifted the cardboard suitcase into her other hand and broke into a run. She almost didn't make it. The guard was about to blow his whistle, just raising his arm with
the red flag, and she thought, well, maybe it's just not meant to be, but then a carriage door opened, right next to the guard and a voice yelled, ‘Come on in, we've got room for
a little one!'

The guard stopped, his cheeks already puffed, ready to blow, as Bea staggered across the platform, her little cardboard case banging against her leg. The guard, frowning, offered no help. She
lugged it up the step and it was caught and pulled inside the carriage. The door slammed behind her. She was met by scores of faces, a wedge of khaki, the train rammed with soldiers.

‘Got yourself a live one, Taff!' called a Cockney voice, snickering.

‘Take no notice of him. Come over here, love. We know how to treat a girl, don't we, boys?' A different accent: more laughter. Bea looked hurriedly about her.

‘Make some space for the lady, will you?' came a calmer voice from nearby. ‘Why don't you just perch here for now?' She looked up at the face that matched the
voice: a long nose, droopy eyes. He was shoving her case up against the window. ‘You're lucky we saw you coming. This is the last train to London today,' he said. His voice was
surprisingly low, as if it bubbled up right from the pit of his stomach. Bea nodded and smiled her thanks – she was still too out of breath to talk – and sat on the top of the case,
pulling in all her limbs to keep them from touching any of the mass of green surrounding her.

With a screech and a heave the train pulled away from the station. She watched through the window as the town slowly shrank and disappeared, until all that was left were the littered railway
sidings and the empty sky. She thought of Baby and tried not to cry. Was she really doing the right thing?

A better future, Ma said. A better future for her would mean a better future for Baby. And of course, there was the money. You'll get her back, said her little sister, Vi. Lots of mothers
sent their children away to be evacuated. What's the difference? In a way this is better; at least she'll be with family – she'll be safe here with us. Vi's words went
over and over in her head, endlessly repeating themselves to the rhythm of the train: clickety-clack, you'll get her back, clickety-clack, you'll get her back.

Bea swayed and bumped against the side of the carriage corridor. The air was dense with the smell of sweat, smoke and the scent of wet clothes. She looked across through the glass windows into
the compartment. Inside, men were sprawled like toddlers, lolling heads and rubber limbs, faces flushed with sleep.

‘On your way to London then?' asked the soldier who'd helped her with her case. She looked at him. He didn't look at all like Jock. Jock was shorter, stockier. This man
was all gangly and dishevelled, like a daddy-long-legs stuck behind a window pane.

She agreed that she was on her way to London. She knew that he was just trying to make conversation, but chit-chat was the last thing on her mind.

‘Sorry about my pals, earlier,' he continued. ‘They didn't mean anything. It's just that pretty girls are a bit thin on the ground where we've just
been.'

She smiled up at him. She didn't want to hurt his feelings. God only knew where or what he was on his way back from. She knew better than to ask.

‘Cigarette?' he held out an open packet of Player's. She leant forward, then paused. ‘Go on, I've got plenty,' he said.

‘Well, I don't mind if I do,' she said, pulling one from the packet. He struck a match and she breathed in, savouring the warm rush of the first drag. Outside, telegraph poles
swooped past and the sun streamed in through the dusty windows. She thought idly how what they needed was a good scrub with strong vinegar and a chammy. In the middle of a ploughed wheat field was
a crater the size of a bus, a giant pock mark on the stubbled landscape. She let the smoke curl out slowly between her parted lips, comforted a little by the rush of nicotine and the motion of the
train.

It was cold and draughty in the corridor, despite the heaving mass of passengers, and she huddled up, pulling her coat closer around her. It was tight under the arms, and threadbare at the
cuffs. She'd bought it with her first wage packet when she left school and took the pub-cleaning job. It was too small; she'd grown since she turned fourteen. But it still looked
serviceable, from a distance. She stroked the pale grey fabric with the ball of her thumb as she held the cigarette between her fingers. She'd worn this coat the first time she went to the
flicks with Jock: Donald Duck, Pathé News and
Gone with the Wind
, an ice in the intermission and a kiss in the back seat, before the lights came up.

She inhaled again, and flicked the ash onto the floor, then stopped. A thought suddenly occurred to her. This was the coat they put over Baby's cot every night, to keep her warm. Baby
would be cold tonight. She'd be cold and it would all be her fault and Ma wouldn't have enough money to buy a blanket, would she? She opened the window a crack and then pushed the
remains of the cigarette outside, where it was grabbed by the wind and flung away. The air was icy, biting her fingers. She quickly closed the window, then dug into the depths of her coat pocket to
find her wool and crochet hook. The wool was tangled, unravelled from one of the twin's old tank tops, a nasty mustard colour. But it would be warm, she thought. She wondered what to start
with: bootees or a matinee jacket? Baby would need to be kept warm.

‘Knitting?' said the soldier. Why did he have to keep asking questions? She told him it was crochet.

‘My ma does that,' he said. ‘Makes all these little squares and stitches them together to make blankets.'

‘Oh! Yes, a blanket, of course!' she said, and flushed a little at her outburst.

‘You look pretty when you blush,' said the soldier, and she blushed some more, as her crochet hook worked furiously at the looping yellow wool.

She might not be there for Baby, but she could still be a good mother, couldn't she? She could crochet a blanket and send money for food and shoes and, maybe, after the war, when Jock came
home, they could all be together, like a real family should.