The Crew (24 page)

‘How're you guys doing back there?'

Harry dared not let go to turn on his mike switch and answer the skipper. Stew had inched even further through – almost as far as his waist.

‘Pilot to navigator. Go take a look, Piers.'

‘Right, skipper.'

Harry turned his head as Piers came crouching across the bomb bay roofing towards him, eyes widening above his mask at all that was visible of Stew. He nodded back as though everything was going all right. Piers disappeared again and a moment later he heard his report.

‘Navigator to pilot. I think Stew's reached it through the hole. Harry couldn't answer you because he's holding on to him.'

‘Thanks, Piers. Harry, let me know what's
happening soon as you can. Gunners keep a good look-out.'

He went on kneeling there, gripping the straps with his frozen fingers, unable to see what
was
happening. If an enemy fighter turned up the skipper would have to corkscrew fast, and he couldn't see how Stew'd get back out of the hole quick enough, or how he'd be able to go on holding on to him when they dived. Stew would have had it – if he wasn't already dead from the cold.

Then U-Uncle gave a sudden lurch and Stew started to wriggle backwards out of the hole. He stuck up his thumb and flicked his mike switch.

‘She's gone, skip. Managed to free her. You can close the doors.'

‘Well done, bomb aimer. They ought to give you a gong for that.'

A few moments later Charlie spoke up croakily from the tail. ‘Rear gunner to skipper. Big explosion directly below. Must've been our cookie. Hope it hit something.'

‘I felt bad about that hang-up,' Stew told Harry afterwards. ‘Thought at first it could've been all my fault. But the bomb blokes told me it was a ball-bearing got gummed up with paint in the factory. Got stuck in its socket and cocked up the circuit. The bastard that did that could've got us all killed.'

It wasn't that he begrudged Stew the glory. It'd been right brave of him to do what he did, but Harry couldn't help wishing he'd had the chance of being the hero. Charlie might have told his mother about it and, well, she might've seen him in a different sort of light. When it came down to it, though – down to the nuts and bolts, as you might say – it was Stew who'd looked after Charlie, and not him at all.

‘Looks proper dodgy this morning, sir. I don't think you'll be bothered tonight.'

The WAAF batwoman handed Piers his cup of tea and went over to take down the blackout from the window. ‘Nice 'n nasty it is. Heavy rain and low cloud – set in till tomorrow at least, I'd say.' She turned round and beamed at him. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.'

She had spoken in a loud whisper. Van groaned in the other bed and dragged the covers over his head.

‘He won't be wanting a cup, will he, sir?'

‘No, he won't, thanks all the same.'

She was always hoping against hope that Van would change his mind. ‘He ought to have something hot first thing, but still, I suppose they're different Over There. Takes all sorts to make the world go round, that's what I say. Live and let live. Except the Germans, of course, and those Japanese.'

Her name was Mabel and she came from Huddersfield. She was older than most of the WAAFs and fussed like a mother hen. He'd seen her crying when chaps bought it. Van wouldn't let her fuss over him too much but Piers rather enjoyed it. She reminded him of Matron at prep school who used to bring them cocoa at bedtime and tuck them in and be decent to new boys when they were homesick.

Mabel stopped by the end of his bed and made a hospital corner with the covers. She patted the blanket. ‘You get a nice bit of rest, sir. Take my word for it, nobody's going flying anywhere today.'

She was usually right about the weather. In fact, she was a better forecaster than most of the met lot.
Sometimes he thought they ought to get Mabel to do the ops briefings.

She watched him drink his tea. ‘I put an extra bit of sugar in for you this morning, sir.'

‘Oh, thanks awfully.'

‘Well, it gives you energy, doesn't it? You young gentlemen ought to have as much as you like.' She gave a final pat to the blanket and tiptoed out of the room on the toes of her heavy lace-ups, making more noise than if she'd walked normally.

Van groaned again.

When he'd finished the tea, Piers lay back and shut his eyes, listening happily to the rain drumming on the hut roof. Bliss to think of not having to worry about ops. No sinking feeling as he biked over to see if they were on the Battle Order pinned up in the Flight Commander's office. No flying test. No ghastly jitters hanging around. No worrying about which target. And today was Wednesday – Peggy's day off. Since he'd been back from leave there hadn't been a Wednesday when he'd been able to get away from the station, but it looked as though he might manage it today. He could drive over and take her out. Hang on, supposing she'd changed her mind? No, she wouldn't do that. Not when she'd pretty well promised.

He'd thought about her all the time during his leave – could hardly think of anything else. Mama had noticed, of course, and told Papa to give him that lecture. God, as though that sort of thing mattered any more! Everything was different now. The war was changing all that class rot, and a good thing too. Everybody mixed with everybody. He'd jolly nearly said so, only he hadn't really had the chance.

It wasn't easy standing up to the parents but he'd
somehow stuck to his guns over joining the RAF. Made a bit of a stand over it, for once. Just as well. If he'd gone into the Army he'd probably have been killed already in France, or a POW at least. Not that he'd got much chance of surviving his tour. Chaps were going down like ninepins. You got hardened to it. Jolly well had to.
Did you hear old Dusty went for a Burton over Cologne? Bad show. Can you pass the marmalade, please?

He wondered if Mama would cry, like Mabel. He'd never seen her cry and couldn't imagine it. He could imagine Peggy crying, though. See her blue eyes filling with tears if she were very sad about something. He pictured her hearing the news of him getting the old chop and weeping buckets.

Mabel was quite right about the weather and the stand-down. In the afternoon Piers gave Stew and five chaps from another crew a lift into Lincoln, all squashed into the Wolseley, and when he'd dropped them off he drove out on the Skellingthorpe road, following the route he remembered to Peggy's home. It was still pouring buckets and the windscreen wiper wasn't doing too good a job, so he almost missed the row of cottages. He hadn't seen them properly in the dark last time and in the light of day, he was dismayed that Peggy should have to live in such a rundown place. The tenants' cottages at home were much better kept.

Someone was watching him from next door as he walked up to the end cottage. He could see a face pressed close to the window glass, peering out. There was no doorbell or knocker, so he rapped timidly with his knuckles. Nobody came and after a moment he knocked again, a little louder. Perhaps he ought to have asked Peggy's parents first for permission to take
her out? They might slam the door in his face. He fingered his tie nervously.

The door was opened by a woman wearing an apron and carrying a small boy on her hip. She looked astonished to see him standing there. ‘Are you lost, sir? Looking for one of the aerodromes?'

Another child, a larger boy, squeezed into the gap between the woman and the door-post and fixed him with an unwinking stare.

Piers cleared his throat. ‘Actually, I was looking for Peggy.'

‘Peggy?' She still seemed surprised.

‘Gosh, I'm most awfully sorry, I must have got the house wrong. I thought this was where she lived.'

‘It is, sir.'

He could feel himself blushing. ‘Oh, jolly good. Actually, I'm a friend of hers – Piers Wentworth-Young. I wonder if I could possibly see her?'

The woman hesitated and then stood back from the doorway. ‘You'd better come in, sir. Mind out of the gentleman's way, Billy.'

The boy moved aside reluctantly and Piers took off his cap and stepped over the threshold into a tiny front room. The furniture was frightfully shabby, the floor covered with brown linoleum. There was a cut-out colour photograph of the King and Queen pinned to one wall and a framed picture of Lincoln Cathedral hanging on another. A china plate over the fireplace said
Bless this House.

‘Peggy's out in the shed, if you'll wait a moment, sir.'

She left the room carrying the child. Billy stayed behind, still staring hard. The eyes, Piers realized, were exactly the same blue as Peggy's.

‘You must be Peggy's brother?' he said awkwardly, wishing he had some chocolate or chewing gum to offer.

The boy nodded. ‘You a pilot, mister?'

‘No. I'm a navigator, actually.'

His face fell. ‘Oh.'

He tried to explain. ‘I sort of map read for the pilot.'

He looked even more disappointed. ‘Is that all?'

‘I'm afraid so. Sorry.'

‘That's
boring.
'

‘Billy, don't be so rude! Say you're sorry to the gentleman.'

He turned to see Peggy standing in the doorway.

‘He doesn't understand about crews, sir. He thinks everyone in the RAF is a pilot.
Billy.
Go on.'

The boy muttered something and ran out of the room.

‘He said he was sorry.'

‘Honestly, I don't mind. Not a bit.' He couldn't help staring at her. She looked even prettier than he remembered. ‘I would have come sooner but I couldn't get away before. We're on stand-down today and . . . well, Wednesday's your day off, isn't it? I thought we might go to the cinema. If you'd still like to, that is.'

‘I've been cleaning the bike,' she said, holding out her hands. There was an oily smudge on one cheek. ‘I'm all dirty.'

‘Heavens, that doesn't matter.' Was she going to refuse, after all? Make excuses.

‘I'd have to get tidy. I couldn't go like this.'

He smiled at her. ‘I'll wait in the car.'

‘You'll be stood-down with the bad weather, then, Jock?'

‘Aye, Mrs Gibbs. Thought I'd come over and give the Fordson's engine a bit of a going-over – if you'd like?'

‘That'd be kind. It's gone so well since you've been looking after it.'

‘Right.'

She looked at him sideways. ‘Ruth's out in the barn. I expect you'll want to say hallo to her.'

He squelched across the muddy yard and stepped in through the small door at the end of the barn. She was dragging a sack of grain across the floor.

‘Ruth . . .'

She whirled round. ‘What're you doing here, Jock?'

‘We're stood-down. I came to do a bit of work on the Fordson.' And to see you, he added to himself, looking at her. As well you know.

The couple of times he'd been over since his last leave, he'd never got to see her alone. Somehow she'd contrived things so it never happened. He couldn't understand why.

‘Let me give you a hand.'

‘I can manage.'

He took hold of the sack firmly. ‘Just tell me where you want it to go.'

‘There.' She pointed. ‘It's the hen feed. I can get at it easily then.'

He hefted it over. ‘Any more to move?'

‘No, thanks.' She tugged her cap brim down still further. She was wearing some kind of cast-off man's jacket over her Land Army sweater and an old plaid scarf wrapped round her neck. Her hair looked as though she'd been at it again with the shears.

‘The Fordson's in the shed.'

‘I know where it is. What I want to know is what's the matter with you?'

‘I don't know what you mean.'

‘Aye, you know, all right. You weren't like this before.'

‘Before what?'

‘Don't play games with me, Ruth.'

‘Games?'

He looked hard at what he could see of her face. ‘I thought it was different – with us. Like you wanted. Like you hoped.'

She moved away and started dumping things into a wheelbarrow. ‘I wish I hadn't told you about that.'

‘I'm glad you did. So there wouldna be anything between us.'

She swung round again suddenly. ‘You're a fool, Jock. You don't know me at all. I'm not your sort of woman. I'd never live up to your standards.'

‘What do you mean,
my
standards?'

‘I know what you'd expect. The kind of man you are. And I didn't tell you the half of it. About me. Oh, the first part was true, but it wasn't the
whole
truth, see. There were other men – after that one in London. I was just leading you on for fun, like I did with them. I've done it lots of times. Men always fall for it. They can't wait to show you they're God's gift. How different they are from all the rest. Only they're not. You're all the same.'

He stared at her. ‘What in God's name are you saying? That it was all play-acting with you, then? Some sort of trick?'

‘That's it. It was a trick. A joke. On you.'

‘I don't believe you,' he said slowly. ‘I don't believe any woman could pretend like that.'

‘Then you've got a lot to learn about women. It's easy to pretend.'

‘You weren't pretending.'

‘I'm busy, Jock. I haven't the time to argue with you.'

She turned her back on him and after a moment he went away to work on the tractor. There was a terrible bitterness in his heart.

It had been a disastrous morning. The rain was coming in through one of the ceilings, the chambermaid was off sick, the boiler had broken down, Cedric had found an old bottle of sherry in a cupboard and was dead drunk. A guest had complained about the lunch and refused to pay his bill, the chef had taken umbrage and threatened to leave, the colonel had lost his spectacles yet again, and, on top of it all, Mrs Mountjoy had sent for her after lunch to look at the blackout blind in her room.