The Gunner Girl by Clare Harvey Read Free Book Online

paused. ‘Go on, I’ve got plenty,’ he said.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Knitting?’ said the soldier. Why did he have to keep asking questions? She told him it was crochet.
    â€˜My ma does that,’ he said. ‘Makes all these little squares and stitches them together to make blankets.’
    â€˜Oh! Yes, a blanket, of course!’ she said, and flushed a little at her outburst.
    â€˜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.
    The fields and empty roads were gradually being replaced by terraced houses, churches and mounds of rubble. The housing got denser, the roads filling with buses and bicycles, and the train
rattled on. She’d made six crocheted squares by the time they reached the station. As the train drew in, she gathered her crochet work and put it back into her coat pocket. She got up and
caught the soldier’s eye.
    â€˜It was nice to meet you,’ she said.
    He grinned. ‘May I know your name? I was wondering if you’d like to be pen pals?’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t think so,’ she replied, brushing the dust off her coat. ‘I have someone . . .’
    â€˜I didn’t mean – I just meant to write to,’ he said. It was his turn to blush.
    â€˜Yes, but, even so . . .’ she shrugged apologetically.
    â€˜Well, my name’s Bill Franks – Corporal Franks – and I’m with 32 Armoured Engineers. Just in case you change your mind.’ He reached out through the