The Gunner Girl by Clare Harvey Read Free Book Online Page B

voice.
    The pillar felt hard and strong against her back. She was able to focus on the posh girl now: she had coppery hair and an emerald-green hat with a serge coat in the same colour.
    â€˜Two teas, please,’ the girl said brightly to the dishevelled tea-stall lady.
    â€˜That’s eightpence, duckie,’ said the stallholder, wisps of grey hair escaping from her blue headscarf.
    Eightpence for two teas, she thought, daylight robbery. She took the cup as it was handed to her. She clutched it with both hands, wishing they’d stop shaking. The peach-brown liquid
trembled as she lifted it to her lips. She felt it run hot and sweet down her throat.
    â€˜I put two sugars in yours,’ said the voice. ‘You look like you need it. I put two in mine as well. I don’t normally, but I skipped breakfast this morning. There, is that
better? You’re starting to get some colour back in your cheeks.’ The posh girl was smiling, talking, drinking. She didn’t seem to need any response. She talked about the weather,
the food rationing, the war – the usual.
    Vanessa tried to listen, but the station was full of noise: the chug of trains, the screech of whistles, the clink of china, the hiss of steam, waves upon waves of echoing voices, and inside her
head the crash of a bomb exploding again and again. She drained her cup. Her hands had stopped shaking now. The posh girl was still talking, eyebrows jumping up into her pale forehead at every
exclamation.
    â€˜. . . and poor old Marjorie! He’s missing in action, and I said that maybe he’s not dead, but they’re all assuming the worst and perhaps they’re right to do so. I
mean, better that than spend months in limbo. But I suppose they must be hoping, secretly – I know I am . . . but, anyway, that’s why she couldn’t make it to the party, which was
a bally shame because, honestly, she was the only person I really wanted to come! Do you know Glenn Miller?’
    Vanessa wondered what on earth the posh girl could be talking about. Who was Glenn Miller, and why would this girl think they’d have friends in common?
    â€˜No, I’m sorry, I don’t. But thank you for the tea. Now I really think I should go,’ she said.
    â€˜Must you?’ said the posh girl. ‘It’s just that I’ve got an age to wait until my connection, and, frankly, I could use the company.’
    Vanessa closed her eyes and saw clouds of powdery dust, and red hair, fanned out on shattered floorboards, sticky and matted with blood and grit. She opened her eyes.
    â€˜Let me at least get you a refill,’ the posh girl continued. ‘One for the road, as they say. Or should it be one for the tracks?’ She added, and laughed.
    Vanessa felt as if her mouth was going to crack with the effort of trying to smile, but she let her cup be taken and refilled. The posh girl passed it back and she said thank you.
    The girl clinked her cup. ‘Cheers!’ she said. ‘Shame we haven’t anything a bit stronger to put in it. I deserve to get a bit tipsy today. After all, it’s not every
day you join the ATS!’
    Vanessa choked on the too-hot tea.
    â€˜Steady on, dear.’ The girl patted her on the back.
    â€˜Good for you,’ she managed, once she’d stopped coughing.
    â€˜Thank you. It’s all rather hush-hush, actually. Mummy and Pop don’t even know I’m here,’ she said, winking.
    â€˜Where do they think you are?’
    â€˜Oh, I’m sure they think I’m at home, sitting next to the radio and knitting, or something equally dull. But I’m eighteen now, and I wanted to do something for my
country, just like Mary Churchill. Don’t you see?’
    Vanessa nodded. She shifted position. Her head was pounding, and all the station noises were crashing waves of sound. Her feet still hurt in her stupid shoes, and her legs were aching and cold.
And she was so