The Light Over London(82)

On the fourth day, before Charlie and Vera awoke, she rose from her bunk. Gathering up her wash bag, she made the long trek to the basement, where the showers stood. It wasn’t her day to bathe, but when the orderly saw her, the girl just ducked her head. Everyone knew that she, Gunner Louise Bolton, was a new widow. No one would question her wanting something as simple as a shower.

The odd hours of a gunner girl meant that she had the showers to herself between shifts. Louise turned the spray up as hot as it would go and stepped under it. The hard stream of water beat on her back, stinging her scalp and scraping her skin raw. She scrubbed at herself, soaping her hair and her body longer than was necessary. She needed to be clean again, to let the purity of water wash away even the deepest hurt.

When she came back to the room, Vera and Charlie were dressed. They spun around, their eyes wide at the sight of her.

“We thought—” “You were—” they said at the same time, falling silent when she shut the door behind her and went to her bed as though nothing had happened.

Act as though nothing has happened. If they hadn’t been deep into the war, she might have been able to give full purchase to her grief, but she was a gunner girl, and the longer she stayed locked up in this room, the harder it would be to remember that.

Her friends gave her space while she dressed. They were due in two debriefings that afternoon, so she pulled on her underthings, garters, skirt, shirt, tunic, and shoes. She checked that her buttons and shoes shone and pinned her quick-drying hair up in a simple roll that didn’t rely on complicated pin curls slept in overnight. Settling her cap on her head, she took a deep breath.

“I’m ready.”

Her friends followed as she opened the door. Mary, Nigella, and Lizzie waited there for her. How they knew she’d arisen when neither Vera nor Charlie had left the room, she didn’t know, but she didn’t question it. They formed a semicircle around her as they walked, protecting her in the only way she’d let them.

Their drills were conducted by Bombardier Silhour, a tiny, thin woman with a lemon-sucking face. Silhour was unrelenting at the best of times, refusing to give quarter to any girls’ complaints. The only acknowledgment she gave Louise was the briefest nod, and then she was shouting commands, drilling them as hard as ever.

The rest of the day was far from normal with all of the stares Louise earned as she walked through the teaching halls. Every time she caught someone’s eye, she refused to flinch. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it no matter what had happened to her. Clinging to that, she just might survive.

However, her plan faltered when, leaving a debriefing on a new detection technology, she found Captain Jones waiting for her.

“Gunner Bolton,” he said, his hands clasped behind his back.

She saluted him crisply. “Sir.”

“It’s good to see you back.

“Yes, sir.”

His jaw worked as he searched her face. This was not a mere courtesy, she realized. He wanted something from her.

“Is something the matter, sir?” she asked, even though it felt like a silly question. Everything was the matter. Paul was dead. Her life, the one she’d hoped they would plan together, was gone.

“Come with me,” said Captain Jones, turning hard on the heel of his boot and marching down the corridor.

He led her through a series of doors, deep into a part of the building in which she’d never been before. The offices of high-ranking officials lined the corridor, and through open doors she could see uniform-clad secretaries answering phones and typing up notes. No one laughed or jested. Everything here felt weightier, more important.

At last, Captain Jones stopped in front of a nondescript door and knocked. A moment later, a tall, slender man with a staff sergeant’s badge opened it.

“You’re expected, sir,” said the man.

Captain Jones nodded to Louise.

“Through that door,” said the staff sergeant, as she walked into the tiny reception space.

She hesitated and the man said, “It’s all right. You can let yourself in. He knows you’re here.”

The question of who knew she was there leaped to her lips, but one look from Captain Jones stifled it.

Louise opened the door and found herself standing in the middle of a modest room, embellished only by a large map of Europe pinned to a wall. In the center stood a man with his back to her, so that all she could see was that he had perfect carriage and brutally scraped-back gray hair. It surprised her then that when he turned around, she found him to be in his early sixties with features carved by fatigue and worry. Still, he wore a major general’s stars, and that made her stand up a little straighter.

“Sir,” said Captain Jones. “This is Gunner Louise Keene.”

She slid a glance at Captain Jones, wondering at him dropping her married name, but the major general cleared his throat. “Thank you, Captain. What I have to say to Gunner Keene is a delicate matter.”

Captain Jones saluted and retreated before Louise could even think to protest.

The door shut, and she was alone with the major general. He sighed and leaned a hip on the desk he stood in front of. “Do you know who I am?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him. “Major General Garson,” she said after a moment. “Vera’s uncle.”

“That’s right,” he said, pulling out a cigarette and tapping it on the packet. Then, as though remembering himself, he offered one to her.