The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  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.

  ‘It’s torn. A great big hole there . . .’ She jabbed upwards with her walking stick. ‘Surely you noticed? The whole thing is falling to pieces. It must be mended at once, Miss Frost.’

  ‘I’ll see to it before it gets dark, Mrs Mountjoy.’

  ‘I should hope so unless you want every enemy bomber dropping their bombs on this hotel.’

  It didn’t seem such a bad idea, Honor thought, if they aimed at Mrs Mountjoy’s bedroom. She left the old woman to her afternoon rest and, as she crossed the upstairs landing, heard the reception desk bell being rung loudly below. She started down the stairs and then stopped. The Australian serge
ant was standing in the hall below.

  ‘My word, I thought everyone in this place must’ve dropped dead.’

  ‘I was busy upstairs.’ She went down a step or two and stopped again. ‘Did you want something?’

  ‘Yeah. You to come down here.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come on and you’ll find out.’

  She limped slowly down the rest of the stairs. ‘Well?’

  He held out a brown paper parcel. ‘Something for you, Honor.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Strewth, you don’t need to look so worried. It’s not a bomb.’ He had taken off his forage cap and was slapping it to and fro against his greatcoat sleeve. Droplets of rainwater flew about. ‘Open it and you’ll find out.’

  She carried the parcel over to the reception desk. The paper was tied up roughly with knotted string.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t make too good a job of it.’

  She undid the string. ‘Do you want this back?’

  ‘Cripes, no. You keep it.’

  She saved everything like that – string, paper bags, brown paper – everybody did. Her mother had a big hoard kept neatly wound or folded in separate piles in the bottom drawer of the kitchen dresser.

  When she opened up the brown paper she found four large tins of food: ham, chicken, condensed milk and pineapples.

  ‘It’s part of a thank you,’ he said off-handedly. ‘For looking after me when I was crook. Letting me stay the extra days for free.’

  ‘How on earth did you get these?’

  ‘Didn’t pinch them, if that’s what you’re thinking. My family send stuff from home. I would’ve given you more but I always share things around with the other blokes too.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly take them.’

  ‘Well, I’m not carrying them all the way back, that’s for sure.’

  It would be useless to argue with him, she could see. ‘I’ll take them home to my mother. Thank you.’

  ‘So long as you get to eat some.’

  ‘Do you want the paper back?’

  ‘No thanks. Give it to your mother too.’

  The telephone shrilled suddenly in the office and she went to answer it. When she came out he was still there, leaning against the reception desk.

  ‘What time d’you finish today?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how much there is to do. If I’m needed.’

  ‘Don’t you have hours? You know, a set time to start and stop?’

  ‘It never works like that.’

  ‘Oh, my word, that’s not right. All work and no play. What time’re you meant to get off tonight, then?’

  ‘Six o’clock. But—’

  He levered himself away from the desk, heading for the door. ‘Right. I’ll come back at six and take you for a grog. The other part of the “thank you”. See you later.’

  He was gone before she could tell him that it was quite impossible, and she was left staring at the revolving door squeaking round and round.

  She mended Mrs Mountjoy’s blackout blind with sticky tape, found Colonel Millis’s spectacles down the side of his armchair and dealt with table reservations for dinner. Ron had just arrived to open up the Oak Bar – on time for once – when the Australian returned. He came into the hall, slapping the rain off his cap again.

  ‘You ready?’

  ‘I can’t leave now. There’d be nobody on the desk.’

  The grandfather clock started striking in its corner as she spoke. He leaned both forearms on the desk. Looked at her. ‘You said six o’clock’s your knocking-off time, right? That’s what it is now. The old tick-tock just told us.’ He pushed back his sleeve. ‘And my watch agrees. So, how about getting your coat?’

  She said lamely, ‘I’d have to ask Miss Hargreaves.’

  ‘Fair enough. Ask her, whoever she is. I’ll wait.’

  Miss Hargreaves was listening to the wireless in her upstairs sitting-room. ‘Go? Now?’

  ‘It’s six o’clock, Miss Hargreaves. That’s the time I’m supposed to leave.’

  ‘But there will be nobody on Reception.’

  ‘Ron will keep an eye on the desk if I ask him.’

  ‘That won’t do at all, Miss Frost. Why must you go so early all of a sudden?’

  ‘I’m extremely tired,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working overtime every single evening since I started here. I stay hours late sometimes – without any extra pay. I think I’m more than entitled to leave on time tonight.’

  Miss Hargreaves looked at her as though she’d gone mad. Perhaps she had. ‘Oh well, if you insist, I suppose I shall have to come down and take over myself.’

  She found the sergeant waiting at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’ll just get my coat.’

  He grinned. ‘Easy, wasn’t it?’

  Piers had parked the car near the cinema. It was still pouring with rain but luckily he’d got an old umbrella in the car and he held it over Peggy while they waited in the queue. He was left half-out in the wet, himself, with cold drops dripping down the back of his neck, but he didn’t care. Nor did he care what the film was, though Peggy seemed to know all about it.

  ‘Mavis told me. She went on Monday.’

  He tugged up the collar of his greatcoat with his free hand. ‘Mavis?’

  ‘She does the washing-up at The Angel. She said it was ever so good, but then she likes anything with Errol Flynn in it. Anything American, really. She talks with an American accent sometimes – just like them. She copies it from the films, see. She’s never met a real American. Nor’ve I.’

  ‘Our pilot’s American, actually, so you have. He came to my birthday dinner, remember? The tall one with the wings on his chest.’

  ‘Oh, I thought he was Canadian. We get quite a lot of Canadians in the hotel and they sound like that. Mavis likes them too, but not as much as Americans.’

  The cinema doors opened and they started to shuffle forward with the queue. When it came to their turn at the kiosk, Peggy tugged a little brown purse out of her coat pocket and tried to pay for her own ticket. He stopped her, of course.

  ‘I’ve never sat up here,’ she said as they took their places in the circle. ‘I always sit downstairs. It’s much cheaper there.’

  He’d never sat in the pit. ‘But you can see better from up here.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ she agreed. ‘People’s heads don’t get in the way. But I didn’t want you to spend all that money on me.’

  The lights went down and the ‘B’ feature started, followed by a cartoon and the Gaumont British News. There was a film of grinning Tommies advancing in Africa, thrusting thumbs up at the camera, and of pack-laden American soldiers disembarking down a gangplank at some port in England, not looking quite so happy. Piers scarcely saw any of it. He kept sneaking looks at Peggy, sitting close beside him with her eyes fixed on the screen. He didn’t think much of the Errol Flynn picture about spies in occupied Europe. It was pretty far-fetched, but Peggy seemed to enjoy it. He went on watching her surreptitiously.

  When they left the cinema it was dark and still raining hard. He found his torch in his greatcoat pocket and took her arm quite firmly. ‘We’ll go and get something to eat.’

  ‘Oh no, if you’d just take me home, sir.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry? I jolly well am. I could eat a horse.’

  She giggled. ‘You probably would at The Angel, sir.’

  ‘Well, we won’t go there.’

  He took her to The Saracen’s Head. It was still early and there were plenty of empty tables in the dining-room. Peggy seemed awfully nervous.

  ‘Is anything the matter, Peggy? Don’t you like it here? We could go somewhere else.’

  ‘It’s just that I’m not used to this, sir. I’ve only ever done the waitressing.’

  ‘Gosh, well it’s your turn to be sitting down now.’ He picked up the menu quickly. ‘What would you like to eat? It says there’s chicken fricassée, or do
you think that’s really rabbit?’

  It was a feeble joke but it made her smile a bit. ‘I expect so, sir. It usually is.’

  ‘I say, do you think you could possibly call me Piers?’

  ‘Not really, sir.’ She was looking quite upset. Perched on the very edge of her chair as though she’d make a bolt for it if he wasn’t very careful.

  He racked his brains for a safe topic of conversation. ‘How old is your brother, Billy?’

  ‘He’s five. And I’m sorry he was so rude to you. He’s a good boy really.’

  ‘I’m sure he is,’ he said hurriedly. ‘And your other brother? The smaller one?’

  ‘He’s only two. Well, nearly two-and-a-half.’

  ‘Do you have any other brothers, or sisters?’ He couldn’t imagine there could be room for more in that tiny cottage.

  ‘I did have another brother – Eddie. He was two years younger than me but he died when he was seven. From the measles.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ Just his rotten luck to go and ask that.

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind talking about it. Not now. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got one sister, Pamela.’

  ‘That’s a beautiful name.’

  ‘She’s in the WRNS. The women’s navy, you know.’

  ‘I expect she’s an officer. Like you.’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact she is.’

  She was still sitting on the edge of her chair, bolt upright, hands clasped tightly in her lap. He tried again.

  ‘I’m jolly glad you enjoyed the film.’

  ‘It was lovely. I like Errol Flynn. Not as much as Mavis, though. I really like Lesley Howard better.’

  That sounded promising. Lesley Howard was fair, like himself. Not that he could compete with a film star.

  ‘I hope you’ll come out with me again? We could go and see another film. As soon as I can manage to get away again. They keep us pretty busy, that’s the trouble.’

  She looked at him. ‘Don’t your mum and dad worry about you a lot, being in the bombers?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said honestly. ‘They don’t say anything, but I suppose they do.’

  ‘I bet they do. Bound to. Mum and Dad worry about me going to Lincoln and back on the bike, and you go all the way to Germany and get shot at. Yours must worry a lot.’