Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys Read online

  Peggy covered her face with her hand as she felt tears threaten. After a minute she drew her hand down, as if wiping away all trace of weakness.

  ‘That’s it, gel, you’re like me, tough as old boots. You’ll manage. Have you told the feller?’

  Peggy shook her head.

  ‘Well, I don’t know as you’ll get any satisfaction there, love, but if you want to keep him as well as the baby, you’ll have a tussle on your hands with Wide’oh.’

  Granny Byron always referred to George by the name he’d earned growing up.

  ‘He was never no good for you, love, you always give in to him too easily. But you might think twice about going it on your own. Look at me. I might as well not ever been married, for all the help I’ve had from my old man over the years. Still, at least I’ve lived me own life, he don’t get it all his own way.’ She paused, letting the comparison with Peggy’s marriage sink in. ‘I’m not saying it’ll be easy. It’s bloody hard work on your own, but something tells me you’d be better off.’

  She got up, adjusting her wide-brimmed hat. ‘Don’t leave it too long before you tell ’em. It’s only worry making you feel sick.’

  She bent down to kiss her granddaughter, the green plume of her hat falling forward, brushing against Peggy’s cheek.

  ‘Thanks, Nan,’ Peggy said, looking up into her creased old face. ‘I’m glad I’ve got you.’

  *

  Now, as she gazed at herself in the mirror, Peggy realized it was time to heed her grandmother’s advice and tell her parents. She suddenly felt a wave of nausea and dashed for the bathroom. Leaning her arms on the basin, she waited for the sickness to pass. It may have been morning sickness, but she suspected it was more the thought of telling her parents, and afterwards George, that was the cause this time. And yet she couldn’t regret what had happened. She’d lived an entire lifetime in these past months with Harry. She’d felt every emotion from ecstasy to despair, and she knew that her life up until this point had been only half lived. She had not thought of getting rid of the baby; the only question was whether she’d have to bring it up alone. For Harry didn’t know she was expecting his child and there was no guarantee he would want to take them both on when he came home – if he came home. He’d had a couple of brief leaves since going to Southampton and she didn’t know if he’d get another before he sailed for North Africa. For now, all she had left of him were the memory of his bright eyes and the child growing inside her. Fruit of her war, waiting, like an unexploded bomb, to blow her family apart.

  She sighed and pulled on the new frock, which had taken almost all her coupons. A green print, with a blouse collar and a too-tight belt at the waist that would soon have to be let out. She’d made her decision. Today would be the day she told her parents and she would do it before her visit to George this afternoon. She spent the morning at work with a stomach screwed into knots. She’d finally been transferred to real war work, only to find that it consisted of stamping serial numbers on to metal plane parts. What the numbers meant she had no idea, but the works’ manager assured them that those numbers were vital to the war effort. The task was repetitive and far duller than working on cosmetics, and she could have wished for a ladder or two to climb, just to keep her mind off the interview ahead. She knew that if only she had her parents’ support, if only they would stick by her, then she could face George. But without them, she doubted her courage could carry her through. As she stamped another number and then another on to the metal plates, she realized she didn’t fear that George would disown her; what she feared was that he wouldn’t.

  *

  ‘You look pretty, love!’ her mother greeted her at the door. Peggy noticed the little suitcase standing in the passage, packed and ready for her night in the Underground.

  They hadn’t seen a real raid in months, for London’s respite had been other cities’ misfortune as the German bombers turned their attention elsewhere in the country. But that hadn’t made much difference to Mrs Lloyd. Bermondsey still had plenty of false alarms and lightning tip-and-run raids, which gave her mother’s frayed nerves no real chance to heal, and she still insisted on sheltering in the Underground at night.

  ‘I get fed up of seeing you in those trousers all the time!’

  ‘I fancied a change.’ Peggy forced a smile.

  ‘We’ve just finished our dinner. Do you want something?’ Her mother seemed in a brighter mood, and Peggy wished she didn’t have to spoil it.

  ‘Just a cup of tea’ll do me.’

  Her father was sitting in his usual after-dinner chair by the fire. Sleeves rolled up, contentedly puffing away on his pipe, matches to the ready on the arm of his chair, his bright smile when he greeted her was like a knife to the heart. This was the worst part of ‘living your own life’, as Granny Byron had called it, the hurting of those you loved in the process.

  ‘You all right, love? You’re doing too much if you ask me,’ he said, as she kissed him and sat down in the chair opposite. When Mrs Lloyd brought in the tea, Peggy hesitated. It was now or never.

  ‘I’ve got some news to tell you.’

  They lifted eager faces.

  ‘I’m expecting.’

  She saw a flash of joy on her mother’s face, such as she hadn’t seen since before Jack died. And then almost immediately, it faded, replaced by horror. Peggy looked at her father. He’d understood straight away and his expression, robbed of its earlier warmth, hardened. He stood up, without a word, and took down his coat from the hook at the back of the door. He went to walk past her mother, but stopped.

  ‘You’ve broke her heart, what she had left of it,’ he said, placing his hand on his wife’s shoulder, before walking out.

  The two of them sat, in silence. Peggy wished that her father had shouted at her, shown any other emotion but the contempt written on his face. She, who had lived her life to fulfil their expectations, had succeeded only in destroying them in the worst possible way.

  Her mother’s face was blank with shock. ‘Oh, Peg, how could you do this to poor George? He’s been so good to you.’

  ‘I met someone, Mum. It’s not just a fling – he means a lot to me.’

  Her mother let out a small cry of impatience. ‘What’s that got to do with anything? George is your husband!’

  She made it sound so simple, as if Peggy had no choice in the matter. As if there was a ration book for love, and she had exceeded her points in marrying George. To want anything else was not just greedy; it was illegal. Ironic really, as George was the one who’d grown up breaking every rule in the book, especially the one that governed rationing. She smiled grimly. George might have given her the best of furniture, all the latest appliances, but where her own heart was concerned it had been a utility marriage, stamped all the way through with the C41 mark, and now she would pay for wanting more – extra pleats, superfluous material, unnecessary frills. She found herself growing angry. Why shouldn’t she have the choice when it came to love?

  ‘Well, he might be my husband, but he’s not here, is he? And he was the one made the choice to nick the stuff. He never asked me, did he?’

  It wasn’t what she’d meant to say.

  ‘It’s nothing hundreds of others ain’t doing. And look how good he was to us, helping us find our Jack.’

  Peggy couldn’t bear it, that she used this against her. ‘I don’t love him, Mum.’

  ‘He’s not a well man, Peg. This’ll finish him off – have you thought of that?’

  How could she say that she hadn’t thought of anything at all, that it hadn’t been a matter of thought, none of it.

  ‘But what about me?’ Peggy’s voice rose, trying to penetrate the fortress of respectable objections.

  ‘Don’t you raise your voice to me. You’re the one in the wrong here. You better go and see if your husband will forgive you because I don’t think me or your dad ever will.’

  Letting the door click shut behind her, Peggy stood on the front step of her one-time home, panic
tightening her chest. Yet she feared that this was only the smallest of tremors, nothing compared to the direct blast that was to come. There was no turning back; she might as well wish all the bomb damage around her undone. Her life was about to become one of the ruins and she only hoped that, somehow, there would be a way to salvage whatever was precious in it.

  *

  The journey to Brixton this week was straightforward – no unexploded bombs, no delays – which was ironic, as today she wished the journey might go on forever, so that she never had to get off the bus or face George. But all too soon the tall chimneys of the prison rose up, black against a leaden sky, and she filed through the entrance with all the other visitors. She’d witnessed emotional scenes in the visitor room before now and had always looked away, pretended not to see and hear when domestic dramas had played out in full painful view. Today it would be her turn. She had rehearsed a thousand times what she would say, yet sitting opposite him now there seemed only one way, and without preamble she spoke.

  ‘George, I’m sorry, but there’s something I’ve got to tell you – I’m pregnant.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  There it was, the instinctive moment of joy she’d seen on her mother’s face, followed by shock and a look of disgust, as if he’d swallowed bitter aloes and would like to spit her out.

  He lunged at her across the table, only to be hauled back by a quick guard, who perhaps, seeing the signs – she pale and shame-faced, he shocked rigid – was already on the alert.

  ‘Steady on, Flint. No need for that, or your wife will have to leave.’

  ‘Fuckin’ suits me, the slut,’ George said, shrugging off the hand of the guard. ‘She’s no wife to me.’

  George walked out of the visiting room without looking back. He left her there, face burning, hands trembling, as she held her handbag. He had managed to catch her cheek with the back of his hand. She felt its smart and, ducking her head, avoiding the eyes of the other visitors, she ran out of the prison. Outside, she leaned against the smoke-blackened, brick wall, sharp, shallow breaths raking her chest. It was done. She pushed herself off from the wall and walked shakily to the bus stop. Fearing that her legs would give way, she held tight to the stop sign until the bus came into view.

  Once on the bus, she slumped into the nearest seat, closing her eyes and trying to breathe deeply. She’d imagined that she’d have to be brave to face him with the truth, but perhaps she was a coward still, for George’s imprisonment had spared her the full force of his anger, hurt and disappointment. He didn’t deserve such treatment from her, it was true, but didn’t she deserve love?

  She opened her eyes as the bus passed through devastated streets. Gazing at ruined buildings, mere gaunt, blackened skeletons, their eyeless windows staring blindly back at her, she shuddered, wondering what sort of a life she had chosen for herself and her unborn child.

  The following day, she guessed she wouldn’t be welcome at her parents’ for the traditional Sunday family dinner. Instead she went to Granny Byron’s, who was out, having her Sunday lunchtime drink at the Red Cow. Peggy waited in the yard in Dix’s Place, watching as some young girls sang ‘The big ship sailed on the alley, alley-oh’, linking arms in a writhing tangled mass. A ten-year-old, wearing pigtails and a too-small dress, was attempting to attach an unwieldy gas hood over her baby brother in a pram. Peggy went to help. Not many people bothered with gas masks these days. Peggy looked under the hood. The baby was wide awake, chewing on a teething ring.

  ‘Me mum says we’ve got to practise, just in case. But by the time we get it on we’d all be dead anyway.’

  The little girl smiled brightly, as if this were just another street game, like alley-oh.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’

  ‘Up the pub. I was trying to get him off to sleep, but he won’t go.’

  And Peggy wondered who would look after her child while she was at work. There were a million things she hadn’t thought through, but at least the war had meant an increase in nurseries. She knew that the WVS ran kindergartens for women in war work; in fact she’d thought of volunteering for one herself if the mobile canteens hadn’t wanted her. Money would be tight, but there were cheap ‘British Restaurants’ being set up for war workers and there were second-hand clothes coming into the country by the baleful. If anything, the war would be her lifeline, but the only thing the WVS couldn’t supply was a degree of tolerance among her neighbours. She’d be branded a whore, for certain, but even that wasn’t so uncommon an insult as before the war. Even her poor sister May, pure as driven snow compared to Peggy, had been labelled a scrubber by some for the offence of joining the ATS. It didn’t seem fair.

  Peggy was about to give up and leave, when Granny Byron came rolling along with her drinking pals, Troubles trotting along beside her. The women were laughing loudly, Peggy knew, at some rude remark, probably made by her grandmother, and they all seemed a little unsteady.

  ‘Hello, me darlin’!’ Granny Byron opened her arms wide as she walked towards Peggy. ‘It’s me granddaughter!’ she explained to her friends, who all knew her anyway. ‘Beautiful, ain’t she?’

  Peggy smiled. Thank God for Granny Byron.

  *

  She had no contact with her parents for over two weeks. Granny Byron had advised waiting for them to come to her, but Peggy had begun to despair of that ever happening. These days she was even more grateful for her night-time work on the canteen van, which kept her so busy that she had little time to think or regret, and she was so exhausted when she finally got to bed that she never lay awake worrying. One night, towards the end of November, she went home in the early hours, feeling her way along the railings with only the stars and a sickle moon to light the pitch-black street. She was so tired that as she put the key in the lock, her eyes were already closing. The blackout curtains were drawn, and even with eyes open, she had to feel her way. But something made her stop dead. She felt a presence, a stillness in the corner, an area less than black, in the shape of a man sitting in the armchair by the unlit fire. She stood on the threshold of the room, gripping the door jamb, unsure whether to scream or run. Then the ghostly shape stirred, its head rising, so that a thin seam of moonlight penetrating the edge of the curtains caught it, the sliver of light glancing off bright eyes that regarded her intently.

  She threw herself across the room and into his arms. ‘Harry!’

  His name on her lips was smothered by his kisses.

  ‘Oh, Harry.’

  When she finally pulled away she searched his face, wanting to reacquaint herself with all its planes and lines, the curve of his mouth and the long line of his jaw. But most of all, his eyes told her that nothing had changed, that his heart was still hers. She hadn’t seen him since his last leave in August and the letters, no matter how fond, had never been able to say all that his eyes had conveyed in just these brief minutes together. She led him into the bedroom and to the bed, which no longer smelled of George, and as she melted at the merest brush of his fingertips on her skin, Peggy remembered why she was risking everything for the man in her arms.

  It wasn’t until the following morning that she found out how he came to be there, just at the moment she’d needed him. He had received his overseas posting and had been granted what he laughingly called ‘passionate leave’, though Peggy didn’t laugh – it was too near the truth for her. She made him breakfast and, while he ate, feasted on the sight of him sitting opposite her.

  ‘How long have you got?’ she asked.

  ‘Only a forty-eight, darling, and it took me practically all day to get here. I’ll have to leave tonight.’

  ‘Oh no!’ She wanted to cry. ‘I’ve been without you for so long.’ She put out her hand and they linked fingers across the table.

  He stroked his thumb across her hand. ‘It’s better than not seeing you at all.’ And he pulled her round the table, to sit on his lap.

  ‘I’m taking the day off.’ She smoothed strands of his dark blond hair, kissi
ng the top of his head, stroking the back of his neck.

  ‘You’ll get the sack.’

  But he didn’t wait to hear her say that she didn’t care. He lifted her into his arms and took her back to bed. They stayed there as the morning wore on, and once, when she had to get up, he reached his arm towards her, holding on to her hand, till her fingertips slid from his own, and she wondered at how being tethered to him could seem like such a joyous freedom.

  It was only when the afternoon light began to fade and she knew that he must leave, that Peggy told him about the child, and for the first time, she didn’t see that initial light of joy fade to disgust or anger or bitterness. Instead she saw it change to something far more complex. His expression was both tender and sad. ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry I wasn’t here. Why didn’t you write and tell me?’

  ‘I couldn’t, Harry, not in a letter. I needed to see your face… when you heard the news. I needed to know it would all be all right.’

  He gathered her in his arms. ‘It will be all right. I promise, but it’s not going to be easy for you, sweetheart. It’ll be easier for me off in Africa than it will be for you, my love. I’m so sorry.’

  She told him about George and how she wasn’t sorry that he’d washed his hands of her, and she tried to make light of the painful sense of separation she had from her family, all except her one ally, Granny Byron.

  ‘We’ll get married as soon as we can, Peggy, if you’ll have me? We’ll be together, I promise, love, but I don’t know when I’ll get leave again.’

  He was up now, packing kit absent-mindedly, the demands of duty already claiming a part of him. ‘I’ll send you money, whatever I can. But there’s something else you should know.’ He sat down next to her, after strapping up his kitbag.

  ‘Come here, my love. There’s something I haven’t told you.’

  17