Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys Page 29

  Carrie Lloyd hadn’t said a word against him, but the next morning, when she’d asked about the dance and May had mentioned Doug, the look on her mother’s face had told her all she needed to know. It was the sort of look she’d have given to a piece of inferior butcher’s meat, along with the words ‘not much cop’. And although Doug called every day for the rest of that leave, and her mother gave him tea and cakes every time, that look on her face told May he wasn’t truly welcome.

  But May enjoyed his fast, strange ways and the offhand manner in which he spoke about the danger he faced daily. Perhaps if she’d cared more she wouldn’t have wanted to see so much of him, for he made it clear there might be a day when he just didn’t appear. Just the other night, a plane had crash-landed, when almost home, into one of those tranquil hills that May found so comforting. When he asked if he could visit her in Essex on his next leave, she agreed. But when she told her mother as they were packing up May’s kitbag on the night before her return to Barkingside, she shot May that disapproving look again. Mrs Lloyd folded the last of May’s civvie clothes then hung up the dress uniform, ready for the morning.

  ‘What’s the matter with Doug, Mum? Why don’t you like him?’ May asked, exasperated. ‘I’ve waited long enough to find someone. I’d have thought you’d be pleased for me.’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘He won’t make old bones,’ she said, in tones reminiscent of Granny Byron.

  ‘What do you mean? No one’s safe in this war, are they?’ She didn’t want to hurt her mother with a reference to Jack, but the thought was there. Walking home from a party, or flying a Spitfire – both could be equally lethal.

  ‘No, but you don’t have to take chances and I’ve seen the way he drives, and I’ve seen the way he is with you. Careless with other people and careless with himself. I’m telling you, love, don’t get attached. Besides, I’ll bet a pound to a penny he’s handy, ain’t he?’

  May blushed. Mrs Lloyd had guessed rightly, but this was a conversation she never wanted to have with her mother.

  ‘Thought so. If he comes down to visit you at Barkingside, you be careful. You’re a bloody innocent, you are!’

  May didn’t feel this was fair. ‘That might have been true once, before I joined the ATS. But I’ve seen more life in the past year, than I ever have. It’s the education I never had, Mum, and I’m not talking about Goldsmiths.’

  Her mother seemed to relent. ‘All right, love, I’m sorry. It’s just you were always the soft one, happy to be in your home. I can’t get used to you going out in the world, all on your own. Still, I suppose you had to grow up quick when you went away. Gawd knows I wasn’t there to help, was I?’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ May put her arms round her mother. ‘I’m just glad to have you back. Promise not to worry about me, and I’ll promise to be careful, all right?’

  When her mother left her, May turned out the lights and pulled open the blackout curtains. Looking out towards the wood, she remembered the night of the ‘invasion’ and her first view of Doug, coiled around a tree, unconcerned at his plight and laughing at her. She wondered, what if it hadn’t been an exercise, but a landing on enemy soil? And what if she’d been a German, not a frightened girl? How long would he have lasted? Perhaps her mother was right, and it would be better not to learn to care for such a careless person as Doug McKecknie.

  22

  Love On Ration

  Early Summer 1942

  After a week’s bed rest the doctor had said Peggy could do most things, so long as she didn’t spend hours on her feet. The terrifying thought that she might have lost her baby had convinced Peggy that her days of climbing ladders in the powder room were long over, and besides, she was happier to be doing war work, even if it meant sitting for dull hours at the stamping machine, marking anonymous plane parts with serial numbers. She could only hope they would mean something important, to someone, somewhere.

  The hardest thing to give up had been the mobile canteen. But Harry had already nearly lost one child, and she certainly wasn’t going to endanger this one by over-stretching herself. So she took on a job in the WVS clothes depot, where she could sit and sort out donated clothing. Much of it was for children, often from the colonies or from generous Americans in places like Florida, where the climate was reflected in the beautifully made, but thin, cotton shirts and skirts. Her job involved finding suitable clothes for children of bombed-out families. Little girls would eye with undisguised desire the pretty American dresses, and young boys would covet the cowboy-style checked shirts. It made Peggy smile when they looked at themselves in the mirror and saw reflected back a child of the colourful fantasy land of America, instead of their own ash-dusted black-and-white world.

  Her supervisor had said she could choose a layette from the donations for her own baby. It would certainly be a help, for in spite of the extra clothing coupons she received for the coming baby, whatever clothes she bought would have to last a long time. But so far, she’d resisted the romper suits and bonnets coming through the depot. She knew it was foolish, but the scare back in January had unnerved her and revealed a seam of superstition that she’d obviously inherited from Granny Byron. She felt that it would be tempting fate to dress the child too soon. That is, until she saw the dress.

  It came, tissue-wrapped in a pretty box along with a shipment of other exquisite clothes, from a small town in California that she’d never heard of. A handwritten tag declared it: A gift from the folks of over here, to the kids over there. As she held up the dress, extravagant folds of the softest white cotton fell from elaborate pink smocking on the bodice. At the neck was a delicate lace collar, the like of which could no longer be found in the plain utility ranges. The dress would be too large for a newborn, and there were other far more practical items she could have chosen, but at the end of the day she folded the tissue-wrapped dress back into its box and took it home. It wasn’t until she was placing the box at the bottom of her wardrobe that she realized there’d been no doubt in her mind that the baby would be a girl. And there again she’d been influenced by Granny Byron, for her grandmother had begun referring to the baby as ‘she’ almost immediately, and Peggy had followed suit.

  Nevertheless, it was hard making all these preparations for the baby, without Harry. He was in North Africa, which was about all she knew. His uninformative letters had been loving, but his passion did not translate well on to the page, and she dreaded forgetting why she had loved him, so instantaneously and so recklessly, in the first place. She pulled her mind away from visions of tanks rolling over desert sands and went to the kitchen to see what was left of this week’s rations. Food was becoming an obsession, and her child obviously hadn’t heard of austerity because Peggy’s cravings never seemed to be on the ration list. At the moment it was cheese. She could have eaten a pound of the stuff at one sitting; instead her two ounces had gone in a minute. But whatever the privations or the difficulties, she still preferred the freedom of living with her own choices to the prison of submitting to George’s.

  It was undeniable that without George’s regular restocking with brand-new furnishings, her little palace on the Purbrook had begun to look as shabby and down-at-heel as everywhere else did in this war, but that didn’t bother her. As she debated whether to use the last of the cold meat, she heard a knock on the door. It was Granny Byron: she was holding a pot of stew, wrapped up in a towel.

  ‘I’ve brought your tea. You haven’t done nothing yet, have you?’

  Peggy wanted to kiss her, but the pot was in the way. Instead she followed her grandmother into the kitchen, where she took off her broad-brimmed green-feathered hat and placed it carefully on a chair.

  ‘You sit down and let me warm this up. Take the weight off them legs, look at ’em, swollen up like elephants!’

  ‘Thanks, Nan!’ Peggy laughed and gave in; it was comforting to have her grandmother’s flamboyant figure bustling around in the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s your dad?’


  ‘Oh, he’s gone up Southwark Park Road. He’s trying to get a repair crew to do the roof.’

  Her grandmother nodded and grunted, ladling mutton stew into a bowl.

  ‘Good luck to him. He’s been glad to stay here with you, though, ain’t he? Shame you had to break your neck before he come to his senses.’

  The estrangement with her father had been painful, but what was the good in keeping it alive? She’d seen how he’d sobbed when he thought she might have been killed in the accident. But she’d made the mistake of telling Granny Byron that when she’d nearly lost the baby afterwards her father had said it might not be a bad thing after all.

  Her grandmother had been incensed. ‘That’s men all over,’ she’d said. ‘Selfish! Just so long as they’re not inconvenienced, they’re all right. And that’s all it is, love, that poor child you’re carrying’s been nothing but an inconvenience!’

  Peggy hadn’t argued. For Granny Byron had been her tower of strength since they’d shipped her mother off to Moreton-in-Marsh, and she didn’t think she could have managed without her. In fact, her grandmother had seemed to come into her own during this war. She was the one person Peggy knew who would sit at home in an air raid without flinching, or stand in a queue for hours on end and keep everyone entertained with her stream of banter. She never complained and she never worried. Amongst the anxious, pinched faces, and the drab, beleaguered figures peopling the streets, her cheerful, bizarrely dressed, gold-bedecked grandmother was proof that, for a very few, life need not be defined by the war. She was an infusion of colour in a grey world. Her bright shawls and feathered hats were not just pre-war – they were pre-two world wars, a reminder, Peggy thought, that sooner or later, all wars end.

  But it seemed George’s war with Peggy hadn’t, and the day following her grandmother’s visit he sent her a message. She was no longer walking to work, and as she stepped heavily off the back board of the bus she tripped, falling to her knees, one arm instinctively wrapped around her stomach, protecting the baby, the other shooting out to break her fall. She cried out as pain burst up her arm and her knees grazed asphalt. She felt herself being hoisted up from behind by the conductor.

  ‘You all right, love?’ he said, as she rubbed at her bleeding knees.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Peggy said, grateful for his steadying hand, feeling foolish rather than hurt. At least, she thought, she hadn’t been wearing nylons, otherwise they would have been ruined. But nylons, like so many other things, were fast becoming a memory. Once the conductor was reassured, he jumped back on to the running board, ringing the bell, and Peggy turned towards the alley leading to Atkinson’s. She was examining her grazed wrist and so didn’t notice Ronnie Riley until she’d almost bumped into him.

  ‘You wanna be careful, gel,’ he said, his face showing anything but concern.

  She tried to walk round him, but he was a broad man and the alley was narrow. He side-stepped to block her way and she found herself pinned up against the wall. The scent of flowers from the factory mingled with Ronnie Riley’s breath on her cheek. He still smelled of last night’s beer and she instinctively pulled her head away. He had no neck to speak of, so his face above his tight collar turned deep red as he saw her revulsion. His hand tightened on her arm and he pulled her in closer. ‘What, you think you’re too good for me? I could have you, but I wouldn’t do it to George. I’m loyal, see.’

  Peggy finally managed to pull away. ‘Just piss off, Ronnie, and leave me alone.’

  ‘Hold up, I’ve got a message from your husband.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to hear it. Now get out the way. I’m late for work.’

  But as she began to walk towards the factory gate, her ankle gave way. Damn it, there’d been a weakness there since her fall from the ladder. Limping forward, she was determined not to show any vulnerability in front of Ronnie. With pain burning her ankle, she heard him call after her.

  ‘George’s getting released in a fortnight, and he wants you out of his flat by then! Hear me?’

  She didn’t turn round. She’d been frightened this might happen one day and now it had, a cold pit opened in her stomach. The nest that she’d imagined bringing her baby home to had just disappeared and there was little she could do about it. George was the tenant and nothing was in her name.

  She had the bad luck to be clocking in late when Hattie was passing. The woman had shown surprising moments of concern towards her, but she was still a supervisor and could turn on the sour hatchet-face reserved for such misdemeanours when necessary. But now the woman stopped her.

  ‘Gawd, Peg, you’ve been in the wars! What you done to yourself?’

  Peggy was almost glad of her injuries; at least they would explain away her shaky voice. But as she described the trip from the bus, her trembling only increased. Suddenly she didn’t feel up to her newfound independence and wished with all her heart she hadn’t spent half her life letting the men make all the decisions for her. If she hadn’t allowed herself to be so cosseted, she wouldn’t be feeling helpless now and would know what to do. But it looked as if she would have to go cap in hand to her father, and ask him to take her and her child in. The thought of bringing the baby home to the half-ruin of her parents’ house brought on a fit of anxiety. It gripped her throat with its dry, choking hand, and she was annoyed to feel a tear on her cheek.

  ‘Come on, love, don’t get yourself in a two and eight. Sit down here for a bit.’ Hattie helped her over to a bench near the clocking-on machine and Peggy let out a small cry as she put weight on her ankle.

  ‘Thanks, Hat, I don’t think there’s much damage. It’s the old sprain… and me hormones!’ But Peggy’s forced laughter turned into a sob.

  ‘You’re taking the day off. I’ll mark you off in the sick book.’

  ‘I’ll be all right—’

  ‘No arguments!’ Hattie switched to her severe expression. ‘And I’m getting you a lift home!’

  Peggy sat back, resigned. She had no more energy to resist, and she doubted she’d be much use at work today anyway. At least she’d have time to figure out what she was going to do.

  When Hattie came back, she helped Peggy up and whispered, ‘All sorted. You’re going home in style, gel.’

  She led her out to the yard and stopped in front of the office building, where the boss’s uniformed chauffeur was standing.

  ‘He’s standing around all day with sod all to do till they want him. Might as well make yourself useful, eh, Charlie?’ She seemed well acquainted with the chauffeur and from the wink he gave Hattie, Peggy suspected they might know each other very well indeed. She’d have never thought it of Hattie, who’d always seemed such a confirmed spinster.

  Charlie jumped to Peggy’s side as if she were the managing director, helping her gently to the car. ‘Ever been in a roller before?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’ she said, looking at the dark green Rolls Royce, so highly polished she could see her reflection in it. Her eyes travelled to the front grill and headlamps, which were a gleam of silver: she recognized the distinctive mascot, flying on the front.

  ‘I can’t!’ she said. ‘You’ll get in trouble.’

  ‘Let me worry about that, love, I’d rather be in trouble with the bosses than Hattie any day… wouldn’t you?’ He grinned at her and Peggy had to agree. She stepped up into the car and sank into padded, dark green leather seats. She might as well enjoy the ride.

  Her arrival caused a stir on the Purbrook Estate. Even before the war, a Rolls Royce drawing up outside the entrance would have caused comment, but with petrol rationed for private cars, the sight was a rarity that couldn’t be ignored. Peggy heard a boy shout, ‘Roller!’ to invisible friends and soon she was aware of heads peering out of windows. By the time Charlie had helped her out, the car was surrounded by a gang of boys, inspecting every inch of the bodywork.

  ‘Aye, aye, here comes the Princess of Purbrook!’ She looked up to see her neighbour, Sally, calling down from the balcony. ‘Did George ni
ck it for ya?’ The woman’s loud laughter rang round the courtyard. If only she knew, Peggy thought, that the princess was about to become a pauper.

  Once inside the flat she went straight to the sink to wash the grit from her grazed hands and knees. Then, walking from room to room, she took stock of what she might take with her. But looking for evidence of herself in this place was futile, from the glass bowl light fitting in the living room to the bedroom furniture, the whole flat seemed to accuse her of absence. Everything in the place belonged to George – except herself and the child she was carrying.

  She spent the day packing her few clothes into the large cardboard suitcase her parents had given them for a honeymoon present. She’d long since given away the majority of the drab wardrobe from her days with George. After the clothes, there were Harry’s letters, a few photos and some pretty things she’d been given as presents, mainly from her sister May. There was a touching memento of Jack, a strange thing, a carved crocodile that he’d made in woodwork class and presented to her as a present. She remembered he’d been so proud of it and, at the time, she was sure she hadn’t been appreciative enough. Perhaps that’s why she loved it so much now. It was the thought of Jack that steeled her. She was determined to stop feeling sorry for herself. She might feel alone and inadequate; she might feel that she’d messed up her life. But at least she still had a life to live. As she looked at the few possessions she’d collected together in the suitcase, she remembered one other thing. And going to the wardrobe, she drew out the box containing the beautiful baby dress. She allowed herself a peek inside, before placing it on top of the suitcase. She was ready to go. Now all she had to do was tell her father.

  She made Mr Lloyd a shepherd’s pie, using a small tin of spam and a lot of potatoes. Since their reconciliation he’d got into the habit of staying for meals and sleeping over sometimes, while camping out at Southwark Park Road the rest of the time.

  Waiting until he’d finished his meal, she broke the news. ‘Dad, George’s told me he wants me out of the flat when he’s released.’