The Gunner Girl (18 page)

When she woke, the dinner gong was sounding and the sky was pinky-blue outside. She rolled out of bed and tumbled down the corridor to Joan's room, knocking on her door: ‘Joan dear,
they've just rung the gong,' she called through the keyhole. Downstairs, the fire was lit in the dining room and the vast table was laid for four.

‘Can't get any decent claret for love nor money these days,' said Pop, ‘so we'll have to make do with gin and lime. If that's all right with you?'

Edie and Joan helped her mother bring the food through. There were boiled potatoes and carrots and a deflated cheese soufflé, along with parsley sauce. The food was warm but withered.

‘No steak?' said Edie's father.

‘I will not have horse eaten in this house,' said her mother.

‘It's very nice, Mummy,' said Edie, taking a mouthful, her eyes flicking between her parents.

‘Horse is not nice, Edith Elizabeth. I can't think where you've been eating with your soldier friends, but we won't be having it in this house, thank you.'

‘No, I didn't mean that, I meant the cheese soufflé,' said Edie.

‘Well, it would have been far nicer at lunchtime, when I made it,' Mummy retorted. Then, turning to Joan, ‘I'm very sorry about this, but waste not, want not, you
know.'

‘It's very tasty, Mrs Lightwater,' said Joan, washing down the rubbery soufflé with a swig of gin and lime.

‘Lady Lightwater, actually,' Mummy said, and Edie cringed. Why did she have to draw attention to it?

‘Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know.' Joan flushed, and Edie felt terrible. She should have mentioned – but she didn't want to seem big-headed about it.

‘It's quite all right. You can call me Maud, if that's easier,' said Mummy, sipping her drink and making a face.

‘I'd still prefer a bit of meat,' said Pop, putting down his fork and reaching for his copy of
The Times.

‘Not at the supper table, Neville!' snapped her mother. Joan and Edie exchanged glances. Edie's father sighed and withdrew his hand.

‘So, where was it you said you were from?' he asked, turning to Joan.

‘Near Finchley,' she said.

He nodded. ‘And do they ride much, in Finchley?'

‘Of course they don't ride in Finchley,' her mother interrupted.

Edie saw Joan looking from Pop to Mummy, a withered piece of soufflé hanging like ectoplasm from her fork. Edie's father cleared his throat.

‘Yes, well, nobody's riding much these days, what with the war and . . .'

‘Everyone's eating the horses,' said Edie's mother, spearing a carrot.

‘Oh, don't be like that, old girl. It's only the old nags that end up in the knacker's yard, the ones that are all worn out and half-dead anyway. No harm in wasting good
meat. Not when there's a war on, eh?'

Everyone looked at their plates and concentrated on their food, until at last it was done and Edie suggested clearing the plates while her mother got the pudding.

‘I'll help you,' said Joan, shooting up and knocking over her drink as she did so. Joan apologised at least three times, until Edie's father said, ‘Do be quiet, it
was an accident, you silly filly, and for God's sake, sit down.'

‘Don't worry, I'll get a cloth,' said Edie, rushing out to the kitchen. She helped Mummy with the pudding dishes for spotted dick. The custard was only a little lumpy.
Afterwards, Pop brought out the port.

‘Pass it to the left,' he said. ‘Don't lift the decanter off the table.'

Mummy rolled her eyes, and Edie explained to Joan that the whole port ritual was a legacy of his time in the army, last time round. Pop wanted to know what happened to those after-dinner sweets
they used to have and her mother replied crisply that they hadn't been available since 1940. Then he lurched to his feet and proposed a toast to the King, so they all dutifully raised their
glasses before drinking.

Joan took a sip. ‘I've never had it without lemonade before,' she said. ‘But it's quite nice on its own, too.'

Mummy gave Edie a funny look, and Edie knew exactly what she was thinking. ‘Oh, Mummy, lots of the ATS girls drink port and lemon,' said Edie.

‘I'll bet they do,' said her father, downing his glass and looking across the table at Joan.

‘I think your friend seems jolly nice, Half Pint,' said Pop when the last of the supper plates were cleared and they moved into the drawing room. He reached for the
whisky decanter. ‘Anyone else for a tot?'

‘I think we've all had enough, Neville,' said Mummy, sitting down in her chair next to the fire and picking up her knitting. Pop shrugged and poured himself a generous two
fingers' worth. Edie asked Joan to sit next to her on the sofa, while Pop leant against the mantelpiece, swilling the whisky around in his tumbler.

‘I suppose you girls get chatted up all the time at work?' he said. He was facing them both, but looking at Joan.

‘Not especially,' said Joan. ‘We're really too busy for that kind of thing.'

‘Oho, that's as maybe, but no red-blooded male is too busy for that kind of thing,' said Pop, taking a gulp of whisky. He smacked his lips. ‘Ah, single malt, nothing like
it.'

Edie watched her mother's knitting needles. The more Pop talked, the faster they went: stab-stab-stabbing at the moss-green wool. Outside, the light was fading; there was just a livid gash
of pink along the treetops.

‘Edith, be a dear and pull down the blackouts,' said Mummy, frowning at the woolly loops in her lap.

‘Yes, do, Half Pint, or that Carson fellow will be on our backs – frightful little oik,' said Pop.

‘Oh, Pop, he's only doing his job. He is the ARP warden, after all,' said Edie. Joan got up to help her with the blinds and Edie noticed how Pop looked at Joan – looked
at all of her. He never looked at Mummy like that.

‘His job? I dare say it is, but I know his sort. Give 'em a uniform and they turn into little Hitlers, the lot of them.'

‘Neville,' said Mummy sharply, looking up from her wool.

Edie and Joan pulled down the blinds in the drawing room and Edie asked if they should do upstairs. Mummy said, would they be so kind? It was just that she did find it such a chore doing it on
her own every day. So up they went, and on the way round all the bedrooms on the first and second floors, they talked about Bea, and Joan's planned visit to see her. Joan didn't seem to
have any family to visit on leave. But when Edie asked her about it, Joan just clammed up, and she didn't want to pry.

Edie could hear Mummy and Pop's voices, even from the landing, so they must have been talking quite loudly, but she couldn't catch their words. Then, as she and Joan were halfway
down the front staircase, there was an abrupt silence. When they went back into the drawing room, Pop was wiping his face with his handkerchief. There were splash marks on his cravat, too, and his
whisky tumbler was empty, lying sideways on the rug. Mummy was standing up, her knitting a tangled heap on the floor next to the whisky glass. Her face was very white and hard-looking. Edie paused
in the doorway and looked at Joan. Joan coughed, at which Mummy and Pop looked up.

‘Spilled my drink, what a prize clot,' said Pop, finishing mopping his face and picking up the tumbler. Mummy sat down and stared at her knitting.

‘You girls want the wireless on? It'll be light music at this time, I shouldn't wonder,' said Pop. Without waiting for an answer he turned on the radio and the strains of
the BBC Orchestra filtered into the room. Edie didn't recognise the tune. Pop had turned it up too loud and it sounded scratchy and distorted, but nobody asked him to turn it down.

‘Do have a seat, Joan,' said Edie, remembering her manners.

‘No, don't sit down, dance! Dance with me,' said Pop, grabbing Joan round the waist. ‘All you young fillies like to dance, isn't that right?' he added,
pulling Joan in closer. ‘I say, you don't get many of those to the pound, eh?' he said, looking down at her chest as he waltzed her away from the chairs and into the space beyond
the davenport. ‘Your friend is a jolly good sport, isn't she, Half Pint?' he said, raising his voice over the rough blare of music. ‘You are a jolly good sport, aren't
you, Jeanie?' he said, looking down at Joan.

‘It's Joan,' said Joan, but he didn't appear to hear her, just waltzed her faster, round by the sideboard and the French windows. ‘My name is Joan!' she
repeated, using the same voice she used when calling out bearings on the predictor during raids.

‘Yes, that's what I said,' he replied, spinning her over the leopard skin and towards the trophy cabinet. They were going even faster now, and Edie worried that they'd
trip. Her father's heel grazed the Wedgwood urn. She saw his hand moving down Joan's back as they whirled past. Mummy continued to sit, staring at the mess of wool and knitting needles
as if picking them up was a harder task than she could possibly contemplate. The music was soaring, up-tempo, loud and fuzzy. As Pop and Joan passed by again, she saw, with horror, that her
father's hand was on Joan's behind. She saw Joan's face, pink and unsmiling before Pop swooped her away.

Edie walked over to the radio and reached out for the dial. She turned the knob and it clicked and suddenly everything was silent. As she did so, Joan slid away from Pop's embrace. For a
moment, nobody said a word. Then Joan took a sharp intake of breath and smiled at Pop. ‘It was very kind indeed of you to ask me to dance,' she said, placing her hand lightly on his
upper arm. ‘But I'm terribly tired. We have had a shocker of a week, haven't we, Edie?' Edie nodded vigorously. ‘Would you mind dreadfully if we called it a
night?'

‘Not at all,' said Pop, scratching his nose. He was red in the face, panting slightly.

Joan turned and walked over to where Mummy sat. ‘Thank you, Lady Lightwater – Maud – for the lovely meal,' she said. Mummy merely inclined her head to show that
she'd heard.

‘Well, goodnight everyone,' said Joan, still smiling, then she left the room. Edie could hear her footsteps racing upstairs.

‘I think I'll turn in, too,' said Edie, following her friend. She paused in the doorway. Mummy and Pop were like statues, frozen in position, far apart. ‘Goodnight
then,' she said. ‘And Pop, if you're so keen on dancing, maybe you should dance with Mummy once in a while,' she added, and quickly shut the door and followed Joan upstairs
before either of them could respond.

She ran towards the yellow room, not even bothering to knock. ‘I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!' she said. Joan was already sitting at the dressing table. Edie saw her
reflection, her face covered white with cold cream, like a clown.

‘Don't be.' Joan shrugged, starting to wipe the cream off her face with cotton wool. Edie slumped down on the bed. She'd always liked the yellow room. It was nicer than
her own room: cosier. If she'd had the choice, she would have chosen this room as her bedroom. But the choice had been made for her, as it always was, at home.

‘Sometimes I wish I was an orphan!' she said. She caught Joan looking at her, through the glass. But Joan didn't say anything; she just carried on wiping off her make up with
the cotton wool, until the white cold-cream mask was all gone. ‘I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry,' she said.

But Joan didn't respond straight away. First, she took off her shoes and lay them carefully beside the bed. ‘Has it always been like this at home?' she then asked, beginning to
roll down her stockings.

‘Like what?' said Edie.

‘Oh, you know, like it was just now.'

Edie tried to think. ‘Well, I suppose I just can't remember the last time Mummy was happy,' she said. ‘She's always unhappy and it feels as if her unhappiness is my
fault, somehow. I don't know.'

Joan was pulling off her clothes and getting into her striped army-issue pyjamas.

‘I can lend you one of my nightdresses if you want?' said Edie.

‘That's kind, but I don't think I'd fit, do you?' said Joan, grinning. She's right, Edie thought, bosoms like that would never squeeze into one of my
nighties. She looked at the way they pushed up against the front of Joan's pyjamas, straining the middle button. Was that why Pop had been like that with Joan? And the men at the barracks,
too? The phrase ‘bees round a honey pot' came to mind.

‘Well, I suppose I'd better say goodnight,' said Edie, pushing herself up.

‘Oh, don't,' said Joan. ‘I'm not really tired at all – I was asleep for most of the afternoon – I only said that because . . .'

‘I know,' Edie interrupted. ‘Tell you what, shall I make us some cocoa?'

Edie ran down to her room and quickly splashed some water onto her face and changed into her old nightie and dressing gown. Her woolly rabbit was still on her pillow; she
picked it up and put it on the shelf inside the wardrobe, next to the hatbox. Then she pattered downstairs.

The drawing-room door was closed and the wireless was on again. She could smell Pop's cigar smoke as she passed. The kitchen was cold. The supper dishes lay discarded on the side, along
with the empty gin bottle. She found the powdered milk and cocoa, but not sugar, so she used some of the breakfast honey instead. When she went back through to the hallway, Pop was at the telephone
table, holding up the receiver. He had his back to her. The drawing-room door was open, Mummy's chair was empty, and the wireless had been switched off.

‘I can't possibly,' he was saying. ‘She's already confronted me, and this will blow the whole thing sky high, darling.' He turned, as she passed, put a hand
over the receiver. ‘Shouldn't you be in bed, Half Pint?' he said, frowning. Then, ‘Work,' he added, sighing and rolling his eyes, pointing at the telephone. She
nodded, hurried past into the darkness. Who could Pop be calling at this time of night? It certainly wasn't anything remotely to do with his work, whatever he'd said.