Free Gunner Girls and Fighter Boys by Mary Gibson Page A

happened to him… for definite. I’ll come back with you now, if you like.’
    Her sister slipped her coat on and glanced quickly in the mirror. She was an attractive woman, but since marrying George her look had become far more sedate, almost old-fashioned. Once she’d loved to wear make-up and fashionable clothes, but now she looked almost middle-aged and her wardrobe, though of the best quality, was muted and plain. Perhaps that’s what happened when you got married, but May couldn’t help blaming George for the change and she was sad that the glamorous older sister, who she’d always admired, had faded as she settled into domestic life.
    It was pointless waiting for a bus – so many roads were impassable because of bomb damage or unexploded bombs. So they walked to Southwark Park Road, taking the back streets and bypassing the bombed arch. On the way they caught sight of George, touting for bets, and he gave them a wave.
    ‘George says business is booming,’ Peggy said, waving back. ‘Do you know, he told me they’re even betting on who’ll get bombed out next.’
    May shook her head. ‘That’s disgusting.’
    ‘Some people will bet on anything and George says if he didn’t take the bets, someone else would.’
    May was about to voice her disagreement, when they heard a scuffling behind them. They turned to see Flo’s grandson, Terry, dashing up at full pelt.
    ‘Coppers! Wide’oh’s doin’ a runner!’ he puffed. The local kids acted as lookouts for George, who was forever being hounded down by the local police for his illegal bookmaking.
    They whirled round to see a row of front doors all flung open at the same time. A chorus of ‘Wide’oh, in ’ere!’ came from several houses and George disappeared through the nearest one. No sooner had the door slammed behind him than a constable hurtled round the corner, blowing his whistle. Children, most of whom were George’s runners, scattered as he stopped short, looking around for his quarry. Peggy hissed at May, ‘Keep walking!’ They quickened their steps, while May glanced at a worried-looking Peggy.
    ‘I keep telling him to knock it on the head. He’s in no state to be legging it over the rooftops any more, not with his breathing.’
    George, afflicted as he was with a bad wheeze, was sometimes unable to finish a sentence without stopping for a few gasps. It gave him a very odd, clipped way of speaking, as if he resented wasting his breath on unnecessary words. Not being the fittest of men, he usually enlisted plenty of help from the punters. Anyone who heard the policeman’s whistle would fling open their doors, so that George could duck inside and nip over the garden fences, to emerge out of another house at the end of the street. If there were no gardens, he’d use the rooftops. It seemed likely he’d evade the police once more.
    When they arrived home, Flo was there keeping Mrs Lloyd company. She met them in the passage. ‘Your mum’s up in the bedroom, been crying all morning. Shall I get her?’
    ‘Thanks, Flo. Can you tell her Peggy’s here?’
    Just then they heard a crash from the backyard and May rushed to the kitchen, in time to see George bursting through the back door. He flopped down on a chair, chest heaving, sweat pouring from his red face. Fanning himself with his brown trilby, he gasped, ‘Too old … this lark.’ A wheezing rattle ended in a coughing fit and May ran to the sink to get him water.
    ‘For gawd’s sake, George, you’ll kill yourself one day!’ Peggy said, loosening his tie.
    ‘Don’t fuss! Just need… catch me breath. Ta, darl,’ he said, taking the cup from May. ‘Where’s your mum?’
    But the noise of George’s arrival had already reached Mrs Lloyd, who came downstairs, white-faced, with red-rimmed eyes and flattened hair.
    ‘What was all the commotion?’ she asked, after Flo had said her goodbyes.
    ‘Just my husband, flinging himself over the garden wall!’
    Mrs Lloyd frowned. ‘You