Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys Read online

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ he said, his cup of tea halfway to his lips. ‘George? He wouldn’t do that! Doesn’t he know I’ve been stopping here too?’

  ‘I should think Ronnie must have told him. I haven’t seen him, since…’

  ‘How long’s he given you?

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘What? Well, blow me… what a mean git!’

  Peggy suspected that her father was really more shocked that his beloved George could do this to him, than that he should do it to her.

  ‘Drink your tea, Dad,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the brimming hot liquid his shaking hand threatened to spill down his trousers.

  He banged down the cup, slopping tea into the saucer, and got up, looking angrier than she’d ever seen him. Even his reaction to her pregnancy hadn’t been as vehement.

  ‘Well, this takes the cake. You think you know people…’ He shook his head, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, pulling at his braces. ‘It takes a war to show you who your friends are, love. It takes a war.’

  And he sat down to fill his pipe, vigorously picking at it and poking, yet never lighting it, till she almost felt sorrier for him than she did for herself.

  ‘So can I come home then?’ she asked, and the reality of her situation seemed to dawn on him.

  ‘To Southwark Park Road? What, and bring the baby?’

  ‘Yes, Dad, I’ll be bringing my baby,’ she said, wondering what else he thought she would do with it.

  She moved out the following week. Peggy closed the door on her one-time palace without regret and posted the key to George in prison. He was welcome to the place, and it was better to leave like this. She would be well out of the way before he came home. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of turfing her out personally. But when she entered the half-ruined house in Southwark Park Road, her heart sank. She walked into the kitchen, where her father had his base camp. He’d managed to keep it relatively dry over the winter months and had got the gas back on, so at least the cooker was working. The chimney hadn’t been damaged in the blast, so they would be able to keep a fire going until the weather warmed up. He had a camp bed, which at the moment was stored under the kitchen table. She supposed she should be grateful that he’d been vigilant enough to keep the looters out, so the kitchen at least was still well-stocked. But when he took her upstairs she could have cried. The rooms were unusable. There were no beds; they’d all been either burned or water damaged. The cosy bedroom she’d shared with her sister was now a mouldy, damp home for sparrows, which fluttered in alarm up into the attic through a hole in the corner of the ceiling. She looked up at a patch of pale sky, visible through the shattered roof above.

  ‘I’ll have another try at getting a repair crew this week,’ her father said apologetically.

  She nodded. ‘I’ll go to the WVS depot today and see about a bed for me. Dad, I never realized it was still so bad…’ she said, with a fleeting regret for the Purbrook front-door key, now on its way to George. ‘But we’ll make it more homely.’

  She had to be positive, but it was only now that she realized how impossible it was to think of bringing a tiny baby into this damp shell of a house. Even with a roof on, it would still take months to dry out and clean up. She could put up with it for herself, but not for her child. And besides, however much he’d mellowed, she knew that her father would find it hard to have the result of ‘her disgrace’ actually living with him, gurgling and screaming its presence into his life.

  After her fall from the hopper, she’d feared she might have to give up work altogether. It wasn’t an idea she relished. She wanted to carry on earning her own money, for more than anything she feared reverting to a previous self she had begun to despise. She decided to spend the rest of the day making the house as habitable as possible. Her father went back to work at the docks and she set off for the WVS depot.

  The large storeroom was full of an odd assortment of donated furniture and salvage from bombed houses. One of the volunteers showed her a bed that would do for herself, and a cot for the baby. For a small charge, they would deliver them later that day, along with a bundle of bedding. Her job done, she made her way to the clothes exchange. It was time to throw off her superstitions and find clothes for her baby. Her friends at the exchange stuffed a large bag full of everything her child could need: bibs, booties and bonnets overflowed. While she was there she bumped into Babs, who was still driving the mobile canteen.

  ‘Oh good, I’m glad I’ve seen you before the baby’s born!’ Babs greeted her with a smile. ‘Hang on!’ She disappeared into the cloakroom and came back with a parcel. ‘Here, a present for the baby. We’ve no children in our family, and I’m not likely to have one.’

  ‘Oh, Babs, it’s beautiful!’ Peggy exclaimed with delight as she drew out an ivory lace christening shawl.

  ‘It’s our family shawl, but the line ends with yours truly, so I thought it should go to a good home.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure, but I expect an invitation to the christening!’ she said, returning to her clipped efficiency.

  Peggy was moved by the woman’s gesture. She was normally such a brusque, no-nonsense type that it was a surprise to discover this maternal side. Babs must have realized, along with all the other girls, that this baby was not her husband’s, but people had surprised her. Perhaps it was the war, but she’d received far more sympathy than she’d expected. Wartime romances and the resultant war babies were no longer a rarity, and if the father was in uniform there was a reason to be indulgent.

  ***

  When the brief spring ended, ushering in a dull and wet summer, they fitted up the front parlour as Peggy’s bedroom. Sofa and chairs were moved aside to make room for the bed and cot, and a chest of drawers, salvaged from her parents’ bedroom, was brought downstairs. They kept a fire going to dry the room out, but in spite of her best efforts the place was still a travesty of home. It was an unending task to keep the dust at bay, for it blew up from the hundreds of surrounding bomb sites, sifting down through the roof, blowing through ill-fitting casements and swirling in gritty eddies every time the front door was opened. The midwife had visited the place once and declared she couldn’t possibly have the baby there, so she would go into Guy’s Hospital for the birth.

  The time came when she had to admit that her working days were over. Her stomach was so big that it was preventing her even reaching the stamping machine as she sat at her bench. She had left it till the last possible minute, but now she was sitting outside the office, waiting to give in her notice. She was gratefully easing her swollen feet out of her shoes, when the door opened and a young woman emerged. The dark hair, hooded lids and pale colouring looked familiar, but she couldn’t place her, and it was only after the girl had disappeared down the corridor that it came to Peggy where she’d seen her before. She was sure it was at the Gilbies’ house, one Sunday teatime; the girl had been there when Peggy was visiting Jack. It was Bill’s fiancée!

  Iris had walked past as if she didn’t know her, and perhaps all she’d seen was a heavily pregnant woman in a turban. Peggy was aware that much of her accrued glamour had disappeared with the weight she’d gained. But as Iris walked away, Peggy felt a stab of envy for the svelte figure and the unsuitably high heels, and the nylons. Nylons! What she wouldn’t give for a pair of those, and she wondered fleetingly how Iris had got her hands on them.

  It wasn’t until her last week at the factory that she found out the answer from Ada. Her young friend had been transferred to perfume after her near-fatal failure in the powder room, but Peggy couldn’t blame the girl and remained friends with her. They met in the canteen most dinner times. Ada reminded her of May. Inexperienced and naïve, she came to Peggy for boyfriend advice, which although she was ready to give, sometimes made her feel a fraud. After all, she was hardly an advertisement for good judgement of men.

  Peggy was already sitting at a table waiting for Ada. The canteen was packed
today and she’d saved the girl a seat. As rationing intensified, eating in the canteen had become more popular. The prices were regulated now and the food, unrationed, was not bad. She could get a steak-and-kidney pie and a rice pudding, all for ninepence. The ramshackle kitchen in Southwark Park Road didn’t allow her to do much cooking, and her father preferred to eat during the day at a British restaurant near the docks. Besides, he was still in camping-out mode. Always on high alert, never settled, he came home in the evenings, washed and changed into his ARP uniform, and went straight out on duty. Sometimes she felt he was avoiding her, and without her WVS evenings she’d begun to feel lonely in the old place. She would miss these lunchtimes in the canteen, with their packed life and chatter and the music of Worker’s Playtime being piped through the tannoy. Vera Lynn was singing ‘Tomorrow is a Lovely Day’, which, in spite of its sad tune, always managed to lift her heart. As Vera reached the verse, ‘If today your heart is weary, If ev’ry little thing looks grey, Just forget your troubles and learn to say, Tomorrow is a lovely day,’ Peggy saw Ada walking towards her, tray in hand. She waved the girl over to the seat she’d saved.

  ‘You’re late, where have you been?’ Peggy asked.

  Ada was all smiles and stuck out her shapely leg, showing off her nylon stockings.

  ‘Where did you get those? I must be the only girl in the factory who can’t get hold of any!’ Peggy said. ‘Not that they could improve my pins now, look at them.’ She pointed to her own bare swollen ankles.

  ‘They’re not too bad,’ Ada lied. ‘I can get you some nylons, though, if you want. That new girl Iris has come in with handfuls of them this week!’

  ‘Iris has?’

  ‘Yes, she’s livened things up a bit.’ Ada lowered her voice. ‘She can get anything apparently – chocolate, cigarettes. She comes in of a Monday with a new stock.’

  Then Ada lowered her voice even further so that May had to lean forward to hear.

  ‘She goes over the other side, gets the stuff from GIs.’ The last initials were mouthed rather than spoken. ‘She’s brazen with it, though, don’t mind letting you know what she has to do for it!’

  Ada had obviously been getting an education in the perfume department. A few months ago she wouldn’t have understood that there was any other payment method but hard cash. But Peggy was so shocked by what she’d heard, her face must have betrayed her, for Ada put her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Have I put me foot in it? I didn’t think you’d mind about black market, you know, what with your husband…’

  Peggy shook her head. ‘It’s not the nylons I’m worried about, love, it’s the GIs. I don’t think her fiancé would be too happy about them.’

  ‘Noo! She’s not engaged! She never said.’

  Peggy was about to join in with Ada’s indignation, when she realized that however outraged she felt for Bill Gilbie, she had done exactly the same thing to George. And hadn’t she been grateful for those people who could turn a blind eye to her indiscretions?

  ‘Well, who am I to judge. Don’t say anything, will you, Ada, it’s her business.’

  And as she drew her syrup pudding towards her, Ada nodded dutifully. ‘No, won’t say a word.’

  But the encounter had left Peggy facing a dilemma. She knew that May had given up on Bill, but Peggy had made a friend of Nell Gilbie, and she hated the idea of keeping this secret. Surely the woman would want to know something that could affect her son’s happiness. Bill’s mother had made it clear Peggy was welcome to see Jack whenever she wished and it had become something she looked forward to. Today she’d been invited for Sunday tea, but once they were all seated round the table she found it difficult to look Mrs Gilbie in the eye. She’d asked herself over and over how she would have felt if someone had told George about Harry before she’d done it herself. She might well have been able to sit on her secret if Mrs Gilbie hadn’t turned to the subject of May.

  ‘How’s your sister? She remembered Jack’s birthday, sent him a little present. I shouldn’t think she gets five minutes to herself where she is.’ Mrs Gilbie looked thoughtful. ‘She’s a lovely girl. I shouldn’t say it, but I used to think her and my Bill… well, it wasn’t to be, but I think they would have been happy. What, don’t you agree?’

  Peggy’s guilty secret must have translated to an expression of doubt. ‘No! No, I do agree… It’s just that, well, I heard something about Iris, and I probably shouldn’t say anything.’

  But Nell Gilbie was not the sort of woman to be put off and as Peggy told her about Iris she listened quietly. Then she nodded and said, ‘It’s no more than I guessed. But leave it to me. Don’t say anything to anyone else, will you?’

  And Peggy promised, glad for the distraction of Jack who had become very voluble and began holding court, impressing them with his vocabulary as Mrs Gilbie looked on with delight every time he produced a new word.

  ‘If your’n ends up with as much bunny as this one, you’d better make the most of it before she learns to talk. He’s got more rabbit than the butcher’s down the Blue!’

  Mrs Gilbie jumped up to help Jack with a piece of bread and jam that had fallen face down on the clean tablecloth.

  ‘Made mess!’ he said proudly, drawing on the tablecloth with a jammy finger.

  ‘You think it’s a girl?’ Peggy asked, unconsciously laying a hand on her stomach.

  ‘Well, you’re carrying high.’

  ‘My nan thinks so too.’

  Perhaps Peggy’s face had revealed more anxiety than pleasure at the birth, which was now overdue, for when Mr Gilbie walked in his wife handed Jack to him. ‘Sam, will you wash his hands and face for me, love?’ she asked.

  Mr Gilbie took the boy with a grimace. ‘Who’s a mucky pup, eh?’

  He was nothing like her own father, whose role at home had been strictly defined. She couldn’t ever remember him helping out with washing and dressing them as children. But Sam Gilbie was a quiet man, with a reticent warmth that Peggy appreciated. She expected to be shunned by many, but she knew that in this house at least, she was unjudged and welcome. It was just as well Mr Gilbie seemed to love children, for the Gilbies now had another two charges living with them. Sitting at the table were the copper-haired orphaned children of neighbours killed in a bombing raid. Stan, a boy of about eleven, now jumped down from his chair. ‘I’ll help Uncle Sam!’ He seemed glad to be let off the leash and Sarah, the little girl, soon followed. Peggy thought perhaps this was her cue to go.

  ‘Stay for another cup of tea!’ Mrs Gilbie began pouring before she could answer. ‘You haven’t got to rush off anywhere, have you?’

  ‘No, I gave up the clothes exchange two weeks ago. This baby doesn’t want to come.’

  ‘Well, she’ll come when she’s ready. But you look a bit weary, love. Is it your legs?’

  There was no disguising the swelling of her ankles, but her hormones betrayed her, and she found herself tearfully unable to answer. Nell Gilbie stretched out her hand across the table. ‘What is it, Peggy? What’s worrying you, is it the birth?’

  She shook her head, and waited till she had swallowed her tears.

  ‘It’s just that George’s chucked me out of the flat. Wanted me gone by the time he gets released next month.’

  ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry. Can you go and live with your nan?’

  ‘No, there’s barely enough room for her and her hats. I’m back with my dad at Southwark Park Road.’

  ‘But you can’t take a tiny baby into a bombed-out house!’

  ‘I know. Me and Dad can manage there all right, but not a baby. The only thing I can think of doing is sending her to Moreton-in-Marsh. Mum seems a lot better, and I think she’s well enough to cope. But the truth is, Mrs Gilbie, I don’t want to send my baby away…’ Now the sobs returned and Peggy’s shoulders shook as she held her head in her hands. Mrs Gilbie came to her side, putting her arms round her till the shaking subsided.

  ‘You let it out,’ the woman said softly. ‘It’s not easy
, making all the decisions on your own. I know what it’s like. I had to bring up my brothers and sisters on me own, but you learn to cope – you have to.’

  Peggy sniffed and sat up, knowing she would have to be stronger than this, once the child was here.

  ‘I’m not on my own really. Nan’s been so good and Dad… in his way.’

  Nevertheless, it was true, she’d never felt so isolated. But the loneliness was specific. She wanted Harry. Yet he, like everything else in her life, was on ration, and no one else could appease that hunger.

  ‘It’s just I can’t bear the thought of sending Harry’s baby away. She’s all I’ve got of him… and little Jack, of course. I’m just being selfish, I know. There’s thousands of mothers had to let their children go…’

  ‘Oh, love, I wish I could offer to look after your baby, but now I’ve taken on the other two…’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that… you’ve got enough on your plate. No, I’ll get used to the idea.’

  ‘But if you can’t bear to send her to your mum, what about a day nursery? They’ve opened a new one for working mothers up by Spa Road. They’re taking all ages. Why don’t you go there and put your name down?’

  Peggy wished she hadn’t made Mrs Gilbie feel guilty. She was the sort of woman who would have taken in the world if she had enough bedrooms. But she was right, there were nurseries popping up everywhere, and only last week she’d seen a campaign poster to encourage married women back to work, proclaiming: Nurseries for kids, war work for mothers. If the baby could spend most of the time in a clean, warm nursery, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so bad about keeping her in Bermondsey.

  She relaxed and sank back into her chair, and only now realized how rigidly she’d been holding her body. She’d been so tensed for a future parting from her child that perhaps she’d fooled her body into not giving birth.

  ‘Don’t worry about the baby being late, love,’ Mrs Gilbie said, reaching out to pat her hand. ‘She’ll come when she’s ready.’