The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  He gave Mrs Gibbs a hand with the clearing away and the washing-up. Ruth had disappeared outside again.

  ‘I’ll be getting back to the station, Mrs Gibbs.’

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘I wish you wouldn’t. I wish you’d talk to Ruth. Knock some sense into her.’

  It sounded painfully like something his father might really do. ‘I don’t think she wants to listen to me.’

  ‘Well, don’t go without saying goodbye to her. Give it a try, Jock. Please. We’re fond of Ruth, Dick and I. It’s been like having a daughter of our own.’

  He knew the beer had taken effect because otherwise he’d have collected his cap and greatcoat, left without a word to her and never come back, no matter what Mrs Gibbs asked. Instead, he went out into the yard, his anger still smouldering away inside him.

  He found her in one of the byres, laying down fresh straw, with a pitchfork. ‘I’m off then.’

  ‘Fine. Goodbye.’ She tossed straw about, back turned.

  The anger erupted. ‘If you wanted to be rid of me, then you’ve succeeded, so you can stop your games now. It’s nothing to me. What I don’t care for is what you said about the RAF. Say what you like about me, but don’t ever say things like that again. If you were a man I’d’ve knocked you down.’

  She turned, pitchfork raised as though he really meant to. ‘Go on, then. What’s stopping you, Jock? You’re like your father, aren’t you?’

  He wrenched the fork out of her hands and hurled it into a corner. Took hold of her and shook her so hard that her cap fell off.

  ‘Just like your father!’

  ‘That’s enough, Ruth. You’ve said more than enough. I’m not going to hit you. I’d never do that – no matter how angry you try to make me.’ He’d backed her up against the byre wall, still gripping her shoulders; her face was inches from his, mocking him. Daring him.

  ‘So, what are you going to do, Jock?’

  Maybe she was making a fool of him again; maybe it was another of her games. He couldn’t help himself and he didn’t give a damn.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Harry.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Dorothy.’ He stepped over the cottage threshold and produced Sam from inside his greatcoat. ‘Didn’t like to leave him behind. People’ll pinch anything.’

  ‘Take off your coat, Harry, and make yourself at home. Charlie’s just getting some logs in.’

  If only it was his home, he thought. The room was looking a picture. She’d decorated it with holly and ivy all along the mantlepiece and over the door lintels – must have gone out and gathered it – and there was a nice fire blazing away in the grate. Table laid all ready, and more holly with bright red berries in a jar in the middle. He could see she’d taken a lot of trouble.

  He said awkwardly, ‘I’ve brought you somethin’. It’s not much, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, Harry . . . that’s so nice of you.’ She took the package from him. ‘Shall I open it now?’

  ‘If you like.’ He watched as she undid it and wished he’d been able to get some fancy paper and ribbon to make it look nicer, like you could before the war. When she saw the vase inside she gave a cry of pleasure.

  ‘It’s lovely! You really shouldn’t have. Wherever did you find it?’

  ‘Oh, in a shop.’

  It had been the same shop where he’d found the doll for Paulette. He’d spotted the green glass vase on a shelf, all dusty and dull, but he’d seen it was a pretty shape and would clean up well. And he’d noticed she liked having flowers about the place. ‘Hope you like it.’

  ‘Oh, I do. I really do and it’ll come in ever so useful. All I’ve got here is jam jars. Thank you, Harry. I’ve something for you, too, but you’re to open it after we’ve eaten. I don’t want the meal to spoil.’

  She went off into the kitchen as Charlie staggered in with a big basket of logs and he gave him a hand with them. The lad had filled out a bit, but sitting cramped up in a gun turret for hours on end wasn’t the way for a growing lad to build up his strength.

  Dorothy called out from the kitchen that it was ready and he went to help her carry in the roast chicken and vegetables. A real treat.

  ‘Will you carve, Harry? If you don’t mind.’

  Of course he didn’t mind. He was proud to have been asked. It made him feel a part of the family, like the real head of it – though that was just stupid daydreaming. Still, he could pretend, just for today. He picked up the carving knife and fork. The chicken looked golden brown, done to perfection. Dorothy was a wonderful cook, and no mistake. He prepared to make the first cut and then stopped, knife in mid-air.

  ‘This isn’t . . . it isn’t . . . Marigold?’

  She laughed at that. So did Charlie. ‘Goodness, no, Harry. We couldn’t ever eat her. It’s one Mr Stonor brought me from the farm. Just an old one, he said, so I expect it’ll be tough as anything.’

  The bird didn’t seem tough at all. Anything but. He guessed that Dorothy had really been given a nice young one, though she didn’t know it.

  She’d made a plum pie for the pudding – from plums off the tree at the back of the cottage that she’d bottled in the autumn. He thought it was the best pudding he’d ever tasted. The best dinner he’d ever had. The best Christmas.

  Afterwards, when they’d cleared up everything – Dorothy washing-up, him drying and Charlie putting away – they sat down to listen to the King’s speech on the wireless. His Majesty stumbled a bit over his words – well it must be a bit of a worry to think that millions of people were listening to you all over the country, taking heart from what you had to say. His Majesty wasn’t allowed to fight in battles, like kings in the old days, but he was still their leader. He hadn’t gone away to Canada to be safe from the Nazis. He and the Queen had stayed to face the music with everybody else. So had the Princesses. God bless them.

  When they played God Save the King at the end of the speech, they got to their feet, and he and Charlie stood at attention. He felt a bit weepy, but he hid it.

  ‘This is for you, Charlie,’ Dorothy said, handing out her presents. ‘And this is yours, Harry.’

  He took the flat package uncertainly. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been given a present. Charlie was unwrapping his and he saw that it was a book of poems. He looked right pleased with it and sat down by the fire and started reading it straight away.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open yours, Harry?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Sorry.’ He fumbled clumsily with the string and opened up the brown paper. Inside was a woollen scarf in RAF blue. He unfolded it to its full length.

  ‘I hope you like it.’

  ‘It’s – well, it’s just wonderful. Thank you, Dorothy. Did you . . . did you knit it yourself?’

  ‘Yes. It’s just like the one I did for Charlie, except I made it a bit longer for you because you’re so much bigger. He says his keeps him nice and warm when he’s flying so I thought you might do with one too.’

  She’d knitted it for him; her hands had formed every stitch.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again. ‘It’s a grand present.’

  ‘Well, let’s see how it looks on you.’

  He put the scarf around his neck and she came over and stretched up on tiptoe to adjust it. He stood still as a rock while she looped one end of the scarf over the other to make it lie neatly on his chest. She smiled up at him. ‘There. It looks very smart on you.’

  He tried to smile back, all natural and easy, too, but he couldn’t manage it. Couldn’t speak either for fear his voice would give him away. And his heart was thudding away so loud he thought she was bound to hear it.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Charlie said from his chair by the fire, and started to read out one of the poems from his book. It was all about bugles blowing and castle walls and lakes and glens, but Harry only half-listened. The other half of him was reliving the touch of Dorothy’s fingers and allowing himself to hope. Just a bit.

  It was Piers’ idea that they should all go to the pantom
ime at the theatre in Lincoln. He’d been shocked to hear that Van had never seen one. ‘Don’t you have them in America?’

  ‘I guess not. What are they?’

  ‘Well, they’re sort of Christmas plays, based on children’s fairy stories. Things like Jack and the Beanstalk and so on. This one’s Cinderella.’

  ‘Jeez . . .’

  ‘Actually, they’re meant for grown-ups as well. They work on both levels. Jolly good fun sometimes. You’ll enjoy it.’

  Van doubted it, but Piers was so enthusiastic, he reckoned he ought to go along quietly. Do the decent thing. Stew, who had never seen a pantomime either, wasn’t quite so gracious.

  ‘My bloody oath, Piers, I’m not sitting through some kids’ rubbish.’

  ‘I told you, Stew, it’s not just for children. They always put in jokes for grown-ups as well.’

  ‘Blue ones, you mean?’

  ‘Well, doubles entendres.’

  ‘For Pete’s sake, talk English.’

  ‘You know, double-meaning ones. So the children don’t understand but the adults do.’

  ‘Still sounds bloody awful to me.’

  ‘It’s all tradition, you see. The Ugly Sisters will be played by men, dressed up as women, and Prince Charming will be played by a girl.’

  ‘You sure this is for kids?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. The principal boy – who’s a girl, of course – always has awfully good legs and there’ll be Dandini, too, the prince’s servant. He’ll be played by a girl, as well.’

  ‘With good legs?’

  ‘Rather!’

  ‘Hmm. OK, I’m on, then. Jolly good show!’

  They squashed into Piers’s car and drove into Lincoln for the afternoon performance. Van prepared himself for a boring experience. When the curtain went up, though, he found he was rather enjoying it all: the wobbly scenery, the simpering village maidens capering about to the gutsy little orchestra. And Piers had been right about the legs. There were piercing whistles from all the service men in the audience as Prince Charming came on and strode down to the footlights, dressed in a short gold tunic, fishnet tights and high-heeled shoes. She was flanked by half-a-dozen old guys in green, carrying long-bows, who looked like they’d strayed from Sherwood Forest. The orchestra struck up some bouncy tune.

  Here we go, on our way,

  Heads held high and hearts afire.

  Forward men, so good and true

  On we go together.

  Prince Charming slapped her thigh and marched from one side of the stage to the other, tracked by a wavering spotlight.

  Here we go, on our way,

  Off to fight and face the foe.

  Never daunted, never weary,

  On we go together.

  The spotlight was having a tough job keeping up with her and so were the old-timers. A bit of on-the-spot marching, centre stage, another slap of the fishnetted thigh and she was off again, relentlessly to and fro.

  Here we go, on our way,

  Spirits soar and sinews stiffen,

  Forward men, so strong and brave

  On we go together.

  More piercing whistles and frenzied applause as she marched away, waving and smiling, her faithful band scrambling after her. Stew said something unprintable in his left ear.

  The guys dressed up as the Ugly Sisters were funny and it was clever the way the old hag changed into a glittering fairy godmother, and Cinderella from her rags into a ballgown.

  The crazy irony of it all struck Van as he watched Cinderella trying on her glass slipper. One night they were over Germany, flying through hellfire to bomb the crap out of the enemy, the next they were sitting here solemnly watching fairies and golden coaches and tinsel make-believe. Crazy.

  Stew noticed the bunch of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling as soon as he walked into The Angel. Well, now . . . who’d’ve thought it? There were some coloured paper chains strung across and a Christmas tree in the corner decorated with glass ornaments and lights. Somebody’d given it a go. Nobody at reception. Or in the office either. He took a peek in the Lounge and saw the old colonel fast asleep in a chair by the fire, head lolling on his chest. Or maybe he’d snuffed it and nobody’d noticed yet. As he closed the door again, Peggy came out of the dining-room.

  ‘Hallo, there.’

  ‘Hallo, sir.’ She looked at him with her big blue eyes – all innocence. He could see why Piers fancied her.

  ‘Where’s Miss Frost, d’you know?’

  ‘No, sir. Shall I see if I can find her for you?’

  ‘No, that’s OK. I’ll wait around.’

  She hesitated. ‘If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do, sir?’

  ‘Yeah, you can come over here for a second.’

  ‘What for, sir?’

  ‘There’s something on this carpet,’ he pointed downwards. ‘Just here. Take a look.’

  She fell for it hook, line and sinker. As soon as she was standing under the mistletoe he caught hold of her in his arms and kissed her. He let her go soon, though. Well, she was only a kid. She ran off giggling.

  ‘The bar isn’t open until six.’ He turned round. Honor was half-way down the stairs and he knew she must have seen him with Peggy. No chance now of pulling the same trick with her or he might have given it a try. Too right. He waved an arm round the hall. ‘You do all this? The Christmas stuff?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Good on you. Cheers things up.’ He nodded at the mistletoe. ‘Specially that. Just been to the pantomime. Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Blokes dressed up as women. Sheilas dressed up as men—’

  ‘It’s traditional.’

  ‘So they tell me. I thought you Poms were supposed to be civilized.’

  ‘We are.’ She came down the rest of the stairs and limped over to the reception desk, giving him and the mistletoe a wide berth. ‘Did you want something?’

  He followed her over. ‘I came to see you. Wanted to know if you ever wrote to that aunt of yours in Newquay? I’ve got six days leave coming up soon and I’d like to go there, if I can.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Well, what did she say?’

  ‘I had a letter from her yesterday. It would be quite all right for you to stay there.’

  ‘That’s bonza,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘What about me?’ She could be a bloody irritating sheila, no question.

  ‘You know what I mean. Are you coming too? Like we arranged.’

  ‘We didn’t arrange anything of the kind.’

  ‘Yeah, but she’d like to see you, wouldn’t she? I bet she asked if you’d be showing up as well.’

  She’d opened the registration book and was going through the pages like it was life or death. He’d got her rattled, he could see that. ‘What’s the matter? Got cold feet? Scared to come with me? Frightened I’ll make a pass at you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I might – if I thought I’d get anywhere.’

  She turned another page, running a finger down the entries, frowning. ‘My aunt did ask me to visit her, as a matter of fact. I haven’t been there for a long time . . .’

  He leaned both forearms on the desk. ‘So?’

  ‘I really ought to go and see her.’

  ‘Yeah, you really ought.’

  ‘If I can get the time off work. Miss Hargreaves won’t like it.’

  ‘Say your aunt’s ill. At death’s door. And she wants to see you.’

  ‘Lie, you mean?’

  ‘Don’t look so shocked. Don’t you ever tell lies?’

  ‘No, I don’t, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Time you started. For your own good.’ He leaned across and closed the registration book firmly. ‘Right now. This minute.’

  ‘I’ve had a letter from my mother, Van.’

  ‘She OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine. She wanted to know if you’d like to spend some of your next leave in York. Nothing exciting, she says, but if you’ve nothing else planned she
’d be glad to have you.’

  ‘That’s real nice of her, Catherine, I’d be glad to go. Will you be there too?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve got a forty-eight due. I might get up there for that – if I can.’

  He said levelly, ‘I won’t count on it.’

  Fourteen

  ‘I WOULDN’T WORRY about flying today, sir.’ Mabel handed him his cup of tea and went over to undo the blackout. ‘It’s snowed. Nice and deep it is.’ She came back and stood at the end of Piers’ bed. ‘You drink that up while it’s hot.’

  He did as he was told, just like he’d always done what Matron said. And Nanny too. Eat up your crusts, Master Piers, they’re good for your hair; sit up straight or you’ll grow up with a hunched back; spinach will make you a strong man.

  When the batwoman had gone, he hopped out of bed to take a look out of the window. Yes, there it was – deep and crisp and even. A wonderful thick white blanket over the drome, barbed wire all white too – rather pretty, actually; everything stopped and silent. Three rousing cheers! He got back into bed and pulled up the covers round his neck. Bliss. He could stay here, curled up like an animal safe in its burrow, and he could think about Peggy.

  God, it was absolutely amazing that she felt the same about him. Fantastic! He couldn’t believe his luck. She’d let him kiss her and even began to kiss him back – once she’d got the hang of things. Not that he was any great shakes at it himself, it had to be said. He’d only kissed two other girls in his life and he hadn’t even liked one of them all that much.

  The best thing was that Peggy had finally agreed to let him take her home on his next leave. It had taken a lot of persuasion on his part. She’d kept repeating all that nonsense about not being good enough for him, how his parents wouldn’t like her. Absolute rubbish, of course. You couldn’t not like Peggy, and it didn’t matter a jot that she was a waitress. His parents would just have to lump that. In any case, as he’d said to Peggy, there was no need to tell them if she didn’t want to, if it worried her so much. She wouldn’t go on being a waitress after they were married. He was going to take care of her so she’d never need to do work like that again.

  He’d had to promise not to say anything about them being engaged, and she wanted it kept secret from her parents as well. From everybody.