The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Oh. Very important, then. You’ve got to get it right, haven’t you? Hit the target.’

  ‘Yeah . . . they like it that way. The RAF, that is. Not the Germans.’

  ‘Sergeant Brenner is from Australia, Father. From Sydney.’

  ‘Australia . . . goodness me! That’s a long way away.’

  ‘Twelve thousand miles, sir.’

  ‘Good gracious . . . that far?’

  She went into the kitchen, where her mother was pouring boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. There was an extra cup and saucer on the tray, and a clean cloth.

  ‘You ought to have warned us you were bringing a stranger back, Honor. We’d like to have known in advance.’

  ‘He’s not a stranger, Mother.’

  ‘He is to us, dear. We don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘He walked me home in the fog and I thought it would be polite to ask him in.’

  Her mother fitted the cosy over the teapot. ‘However did you meet him?’

  ‘He’s been to the hotel a few times. He gave me those tins of food, remember?’

  ‘The ones that I had to throw away?’

  ‘You didn’t need to. There was nothing wrong with them.’

  ‘Well, you can’t be too careful, that’s what I always say. Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘The sergeant is from Australia, dear,’ her father said to her mother when they had gone back into the sitting-room and the tea had been poured and handed round.

  ‘Really? That’s a very long way away, Sergeant.’

  ‘So people keep telling me.’

  ‘I expect Australians think England is a long way from them, Mother.’

  ‘That’s not quite the same thing, Honor. Australia is a colony. They look to England as the mother country. That way round. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?’

  She held her breath but he said pleasantly, ‘Well, we call it Home even if we’ve never set foot over here, so I’d say you have a point there, Mrs Frost. Myself, though, I look to Australia. That’s my home.’

  ‘Then I wonder what you’re doing here, Sergeant.’

  ‘Yeah, I often wonder that, too.’

  ‘I expect you find England very different.’

  ‘Too right I do.’

  ‘You have no real history or tradition in Australia, do you? Not like us.’

  Honor held her breath again.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he answered slowly. ‘We go back a fair number of years and we’ve got quite a few traditions. Matter of fact we got most of them from this country.’

  ‘But that would be from the convicts, wouldn’t it? Not quite the kind I meant.’

  She saw his face darken. He opened his mouth, caught her anxious eye on him, and shut it again.

  She changed the subject quickly and talked about the fog and anything else she could think of: inane, empty, safe conversation. After a while he drained his cup and stood up. ‘I’ll be off, then. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Frost.’

  In the dark hallway she fumbled for his greatcoat and cap on the hooks and handed them to him. ‘I’m so sorry about what my mother said. She didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘No worries. I’m used to it by now. Convicts, kangaroos, upside down . . . I reckon I’m immune.’ He was buttoning his RAF greatcoat, turning up the collar round his neck. ‘Don’t forget to ask your aunt in Newquay – about my staying with her.’

  ‘I’ll write to her tomorrow.’ She was anxious to make amends.

  ‘Ask her if she’ll have you as well.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You heard. You could do with a holiday, I reckon. And you could show me the way.’

  ‘You know where Newquay is.’

  ‘That was from the air. Besides, I bet she’d like to see you. I’ll bet you’re her favourite niece.’

  ‘I couldn’t take the time off work.’

  ‘Always excuses. Why not? Don’t they give holidays?’

  ‘Only in the summer.’

  He put on his forage cap, tugging it down on his forehead. ‘Tell them you’re going with an Aussie and it is summer where he comes from.’

  She closed the door after him and went back into the sitting-room. Her father was turning on the wireless; her mother looked up from her knitting.

  ‘Has he gone? That’s good. What a brusque young man! And that peculiar accent . . . Come and sit down, dear. It’s time for the news.’

  She’d been five minutes late ringing the gong, and Mrs Mountjoy had created a real fuss.

  ‘Dinner is supposed to be at seven o’clock, girl. Sharp. I don’t like being kept waiting.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, madam.’

  A big sniff as Mrs Mountjoy picked up the menu. ‘Well, what is that man going to poison us with this evening?’

  ‘It’s cottage pie, madam.’

  ‘Cottage pie! All the leftovers, you mean. Is that the best he can do?’

  ‘There’s spam fritters, if you prefer, madam.’

  Mrs Mountjoy sniffed again. ‘And this place calls itself a hotel. I might as well be staying in a boarding house.’

  I wish you were, Peggy thought as she wrote down the order on her pad. I wish Hitler would drop a bomb on you. I really do.

  She hurried with the clearing up as fast as she could, but the chef was in an even worse mood than usual and kept finding fault and more things for her to do, and poor Mavis had got a terrible cold and was feeling dreadful, so she helped her with all the washing up and putting away. When she finally went to put on her coat and scarf she was sure Piers would have given her up.

  It was so foggy outside that she couldn’t see a thing until a fuzzy beam of light came towards her.

  ‘Is that you, Peggy? It’s me, Piers.’

  She made out the shape of him behind the torch. ‘I’m sorry to be so late, sir. I couldn’t get away sooner.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter a bit. You’re here now . . . ’ He took hold of her arm. ‘The car’s over here.’

  ‘My bike—’

  ‘Lord, I’d forgotten all about it. I’ll put it in the boot, same as last time. You wait in the car.’

  She slid onto the soft leather seat. He made her feel a real lady – just as important as someone like old Mrs Mountjoy.

  ‘All done.’ He got into the car beside her and started up the engine. ‘The fog’s pretty bad so we’ll have to go jolly slowly.’

  They crawled down Steep Hill and she opened the side window so she could see the edge of the pavement for him.

  ‘You’d make a good navigator, Peggy,’ he told her. ‘Much better than me.’

  He was teasing her, of course. She’d never be able to do anything clever like that.

  Out of the city he had to go even slower because there was nothing to guide them and once they almost went into the ditch. Luckily, she saw it just in time. He stopped the car a little way from the house and turned off the engine.

  ‘I wanted to talk to you, Peggy. While I’ve got the chance. To tell you something.’

  ‘Did you, sir?’

  ‘The thing is . . . well, what I want to say is . . . what I mean is . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ She waited, wondering what on earth it was.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Actually, I wanted to tell you I love you – most terribly. I think you’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever met. Absolutely terrific. Do you think you could ever possibly marry me . . . when my tour’s over, of course . . . that’s if I come through it all right. Do you think you could . . . possibly?’

  She couldn’t believe what he was saying. He was asking her to marry him. Her, Peggy Barton. Waitress at The Angel. People like her didn’t ever marry people like him. Or if they did, she’d never heard of it. Things like that only happened in fairy stories. Or in films.

  ‘Peggy? Won’t you say something? I know it’s the most awful cheek of me. You probably hate the whole idea . . . think I’m the most frightful chap—’

  She found her voice at last. ‘Of cours
e I don’t think that, sir. I think you’re ever so nice.’

  ‘Do you really? Honestly?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘I don’t suppose that actually means you love me? I mean, liking someone’s different, isn’t it? Do you think, by any chance, you could ever come to love me? I mean, when you get to know me better?’

  I love you now, she wanted to say. I love you ever so much. I know I do because of the way I feel inside whenever I see you.

  ‘Peggy?’

  ‘There couldn’t ever be anything like that between us,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘Well, you being what you are . . . and me being what I am.’

  ‘But you’re absolutely wonderful, Peggy. And I’m a frightfully ordinary sort of chap.’

  ‘You’re not a bit ordinary,’ she said. ‘And I’m not a bit wonderful.’ She felt like crying now; her throat was going tight and she could hardly speak. ‘I knew I never ought to’ve gone out with you to begin with. I wish this had never happened.’ The tears had started though she tried hard to stop them.

  He put his arm round her. ‘Gosh, please don’t cry. I wouldn’t have upset you for anything in the world. Please forgive me.’

  ‘It’s all right, really it is, sir.’

  ‘The thing is, I thought you did care for me a bit. Jolly conceited of me to say so. I must have got it all wrong.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, sir. That’s the trouble. You didn’t.’

  ‘Gosh, Peggy . . .’

  Thirteen

  Hark! the herald angels sing,

  Christ, we’ve lost a bloody wing . . .

  BERT EYED THE group surrounding the Sergeants’ Mess piano sourly. ‘Dunno what they’ve got to be so cheerful about.’

  Stew glanced over his shoulder from the bar. ‘What’s eating you, sport? Not like you to be down in the mouth.’

  ‘Well, for one thing, I can’t afford a beer.’

  ‘Cripes, that’s bad. I’ll stand you one.’

  ‘Wouldn’t say no.’

  He felt better with a pint in one hand and a Players – also thanks to Stew – on the go in the other. He lifted both to Stew. ‘Cheers, mate. Up the Aussies.’

  ‘Same to you. What’s the other thing, then?’

  ‘What other thing?’

  ‘Yeah. You said “for one thing”. So, what’s the other?’

  Bert hesitated. ‘Well, since you ask, it’s Emerald.’

  ‘Dumped you?’

  ‘No, wish she had. She’s up the spout. In the family way.’

  ‘Oh, my word. She sure about that?’

  ‘I s’pose so. She says she thinks she is.’

  ‘Thinking’s not the same as being.’ Stew took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I knew a sheila once spun me the same yarn and in the end it turned out to be a false alarm.’

  ‘Well, Emerald’s in a real old stew about it. She says she’ll be kicked out of the WAAF in disgrace. Says I’ve got to do the decent thing and marry her.’

  ‘You don’t look like you fancy the idea too much.’

  ‘I bloody don’t, chum.’

  ‘Thought you told us she was flaming marvellous.’

  ‘To tell the truth, I’ve gone right off her lately. Well, see, she doesn’t like Victor – hates his guts. Wants me to get rid of him, an’ I don’t reckon that’s reasonable, do you?’

  ‘Too right. Every woman ought to like having snakes around the place.’

  ‘Come on, Stew, it’s no joke. You know what I mean. He’s only a little grass snake, after all.’

  ‘Yeah, wonder what she’d have to say about a boa constrictor.’

  ‘I told you, it’s not funny, so you can take that grin off your face. An’ it’s not just Victor, neither. She’s costin’ me a fortune. Best seats at the pictures, chocolates, meals out an’ all. I’m skint till next pay day, and then most of that’s already owed to ‘arry. Not even the price of a drink, at bloody Christmas.’

  ‘Cheer up, sport. We’ll soon be dead, anyway.’

  ‘S’posing we’re not? What the ’ell am I goin’ to do then?’

  ‘Not panic. That’s what you’re going to do. Wait till she’s certain – one way or the other. And next time you dip your wick take more care. Strewth, haven’t you learned that yet?’

  All bloody fine for Stew, Bert thought miserably. He must’ve had more women than I’ve had hot dinners. He wouldn’t go and get nabbed like this. There’d only been one before Emerald. Well, one and a half if he counted that time with that girl in the one and nines, and he wasn’t sure it did.

  Joyful all ye Lanes arise,

  Join the Jerries in the skies . . .

  He didn’t want to go and marry Emerald – not a bit. It’d be a fate worse than death. How could he ever have thought she was such a bloomin’ smasher? Victor was better looking, and a lot better company – not to mention a whole lot cheaper to run. If he had to choose between spending the rest of his life with Emerald or Victor, he’d pick Victor any day. Straight off, he would. Well, maybe he’d get the chop soon, like Stew said, and that’d solve the whole problem. Right now, he almost wished he would.

  Hark! the herald Angels sing

  Christ, we’ve lost the other wing.

  Bloody racket!

  ‘Think it’ll be a scrub, Harry?’ Charlie was looking hopefully up at him.

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised, lad.’

  They’d been hanging around at dispersal, watching the weather out of the hut window for what seemed like hours. Trouble was, they were all dog-tired before they even started. Ops on two nights in a row and both of them shaky dos. He was getting too old for this sort of lark.

  ‘Don’t forget you’re coming over next time we get off. Mum’s cooking a chicken for Christmas.’

  As if he’d go and forget that! ‘Bring Harry,’ she’d said, so Charlie had told him. ‘If he’d like to come.’

  He’d sent Paulette’s present off a week ago – posted it good and early to make sure she’d get it in time for Christmas Day. She’d like the doll a lot better than the luminous rabbit. Bit of luck the way he’d caught sight of it, tucked away behind a lot of junk in the shop. It was only second-hand, of course, but then you couldn’t get brand new toys easily now, with the shortages. Everyone had to make do.

  It was a nice looking doll, with a dress and bonnet you could take off, as the woman in the shop had shown him. She didn’t have proper hair, just brown painted plaster waves on her head, and her eyes were only painted, too, and didn’t open, but otherwise he thought that Paulette would surely be pleased with her. Maybe Rita would leave the present at the end of her bed – if Paulette still believed in Father Christmas. When she was two years old he’d dressed up in an old red blanket and a home-made cotton wool beard. He could still remember her face when she’d woken up and seen him standing there at the foot of her cot. She’d never guessed it was him.

  The hut door opened, letting in a blast of cold wind.

  ‘Take-off in thirty minutes, chaps.’

  Harry let his hand fall on Charlie’s shoulder. ‘Not to worry, lad. It’s another one chalked up for us. ’Appen we’ll be stood down tomorrow for Christmas.’

  ‘Come on in, Jock.’

  ‘Guid of you to ask me, Mrs Gibbs.’

  ‘Well, we thought you could do with a nice Christmas meal, though I’m sure they do you very well at the camp.’

  He took off his cap and greatcoat and followed her into the kitchen. It smelled of roasting meat and pastry cooking. All the comforts of home, he thought: good food, warmth, hot water, dry bedding. Everything they lacked at Beningby. Things he’d lacked for most of his life.

  ‘Ruth’s outside somewhere, but she’ll be in in a minute. Unless you want to go and fetch her.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I doubt she’d appreciate that.’

  ‘You don’t want to take any notice of the way she is sometimes, Jock. She really likes you, you know.’
r />   ‘Then she’s a funny way o’ showing it.’

  He’d been to the farm once or twice before in the past month and each time Ruth had more or less ignored him. Well, he could take a hint. She’d meant just what she’d said: it’d all been a game with her. He should have believed her the first time and not gone on trying, and making a bloody fool of himself.

  He helped Mrs Gibbs set the table and fetched her home-brewed beer from the larder.

  ‘We’ve killed a goose,’ she told him, busy at the range, ‘for a nice treat. I hope you like goose.’

  ‘I’ve never eaten it.’

  ‘Well, you’ll soon find out. Dick’ll be in to carve directly. Ah, here’s Ruth.’

  He turned round to see her standing in the open doorway. Same old tweed cap. Same old ragged hair. Same man’s jacket and plaid scarf over her jersey and breeches. If she was trying to make herself look as plain as possible, it didn’t work. Not with him.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Ruth.’

  She came into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. ‘I didn’t know you were going to be here, Jock.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said tersely.

  The meal was the best he’d ever eaten: roast goose, apple sauce, brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, with Mrs Gibbs’ apple pie to follow.

  ‘Must try some of the wife’s beer,’ Mr Gibbs had insisted. ‘Seeing it’s Christmas.’

  He drank several glasses recklessly, one after the other. Why not? This was probably his last Christmas. The hell with everything.

  ‘I see your lads are giving the Jerries a big dose of their own medicine,’ Mr Gibbs told him. ‘Saw some photos in the newspaper. They’re getting it good and proper.’

  ‘Aye. We’re doing our best.’

  Ruth put down her knife. ‘I’ve heard they don’t hit the target half the time. Don’t even get near it. It’s all pointless.’

  He flushed angrily. ‘That was at the beginning. It’s different now. The photos prove it.’

  ‘You can fake photographs.’

  ‘Mebbe so. But we’ve no need to. The RAF’s doing a grand job. At the cost of a great many men’s lives.’

  ‘I’d say it’s wasting them.’

  ‘I’d say differently. I’d say men are dying willingly in the cause of freedom. Your freedom.’