by Nevil Shute
Quite a pretty girl. He wondered how he could find out her Christian name without calling attention to his curiosity.
He slept.
He was out next morning at dispersal soon after nine. Gunnar was there already, preparing to start up; the ground crew were plugging-in the battery. Marshall walked up and inspected the fabric patches on the fuselage, still red with dope. His rear-gunner joined him.
“Come up nice and tight, haven’t they?” he said. “It’s the dry weather does it.”
Marshall straightened up. “They want a lick of paint now. We don’t want to go around like that.” He liked things to be neat and tidy and good-looking, like that Section Officer.
Sergeant Phillips said: “I’ll get hold of some paint and give them a lick this afternoon, after we come in.”
His captain said: “Hear about my pike?”
The sergeant grinned: “Aye. The young lady I took out last night, she saw you riding into camp with it. How much did it weigh?”
“Eleven and a quarter pounds.”
“My young lady, she was just coming off duty in the signals office. She said they didn’t half have a good laugh to see you riding with it on your handle-bars.”
“They’d laugh louder if you did that with a roach,” said the pilot.
Sergeant Pilot Franck came up to them. “I have been thinking about what you say yesterday,” he said. “It is I that should tell you how to weave. Right weave … Left weave … So. If every time you weave exactly in the same way, then we run up for ver’ short time.”
“All right if I could weave the same each time. I think you’ll find I go thirty degrees one way and fifty the other.”
“If you were German,” said the Dane severely, “you would always weave the same.”
“If I was a German,” said the pilot equably, “I’d be flying a Heinkel and kicking your bloody arse because you didn’t say ‘Heil Hitler’ before you spoke. All right, let’s have a crack at it that way, and see how it goes.” He turned round to the crew of four, gathered around him in their flying kit. “We’re going to practise a few run-ups this morning, taking the gasometer at Princes Risborough as the target. Eight thousand feet.” He turned to the wireless operator, a pale lad from Stockton-on-Tees. “Leech, you can do the navigation, and Phillips, you can help him if he gets it wrong.” He did all he could to ensure that everybody understood the wireless and the navigation and the guns.
They took off presently, and went climbing away into the distance. It was nearly two hours later when they landed back again, taxied in, and wheeled round into wind at the dispersal point with a grinding squeal of brakes. In turn the engines died and came to rest.
Marshall stood up beside Gunnar, who had landed the machine, with Sergeant Phillips’ notebook in his hand. “Take out runs three and seven, when you weren’t on,” he said. “The rest go fifty-two seconds, fifty-four, forty-four, forty-four, forty-one, forty-five, thirty-nine, forty-two, thirty-nine. It’s not bad.”
They discussed their practice for a few minutes, standing crouched and cramped beside the pilot’s seat. Then they got out of the machine down on to the concrete beneath the nose, slipped off their harness, and stretched cramped limbs. The corporal fitter went into a huddle with Sergeant Pilot Franck over the engine temperatures and pressures. Marshall turned to the fuselage and had another look at the patches. Sergeant Phillips walked up and joined him.
“Nice and tight,” the sergeant said. “I’ll get a drop of paint this afternoon.”
The pilot nodded. “When you spoke of your young lady, that saw me with that fish—did you say she was a signaller?”
“Telephonist,” the other said. “Works on the board all day.”
“Does she come under that Section Officer Robertson?”
“That’s right. A new Section Officer with black hair.”
Marshall said carefully: “I knew a Flying Officer called Robertson at my last station, who had a sister called Sheila who was a W.A.A.F. Section Officer. I was wondering if this was her. Ask your young lady if she knows her Christian name, will you?” He spoke with elaborate carelessness that did not deceive the sergeant for one moment.
Phillips said: “Oh aye, I’ll find that out for you.”
The pilot said: “Thanks. It was just an idea I had.” He left the machine and, carrying his parachute and harness, walked down to the control office.
Half an hour later he was in the mess with a pint of beer. The ante-room gradually filled before lunch. The Wing Commander came in, and Marshall crossed the room to him, beer can in hand.
“May I go off the station at four o’clock to-morrow morning, sir?” he said. “I’ll be back before breakfast.”
“What for?”
Marshall grinned. “I met a chap in the ‘Black Horse’ last night who said he’d take me to see a fox. A fox and a badger, both within a quarter of an hour. I’ve got a bet on that he can’t.”
The Squadron Leader (Admin.), a grey-haired man called Chesterton with wings from the last war, laughed sharply. “Lady into fox?” he said.
The pilot flushed a little. “No, sir. Honest-to-god fox—beast what smells.” There was general laughter in the group.
The C.O. said: “Smell him when he comes back, Chesterton; let me know if it’s fox or Coty.”
The laugh grew loud. Section Officer Robertson turned to see what it was all about. She saw Marshall talking to the Wing Commander in the centre of a laughing group. She thought that it was something to do with the pike, the pike that she was to have a bit of for her lunch. She drew near, smiling at their mirth without understanding it, wanting to know what was going on.
The C.O. said: “A badger and a fox? Where are you going for that?”
“I don’t know—somewhere in the woods. It’s got to be before dawn. I said I’d meet him in Hartley at four o’clock—if that’s all right with you, sir.”
The Squadron Leader said: “I don’t believe there are any badgers here. Plenty of foxes. But it’s too close to London for a badger.”
The C.O. said: “It’s all right with me. Better go to bed early, or else get in some sleep to-morrow. We may be on the job to-morrow night.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Chesterton said: “I’ll have the guard warned that you’ll be going out.”
The pilot turned away, and found himself face to face with Miss Robertson. She said: “Did you say you were going to see a badger?” There was a quality of breathless interest in her voice.
Marshall grinned. “I don’t know,” he said. “Chap in the ‘Black Horse’ said he’d show me a badger and a fox both within a quarter of an hour, and I bet him ten bob that he couldn’t.”
“They don’t come out in daylight, do they? Badgers, I mean.”
“I don’t think so. I think they stooge around all night.”
“Where are you going for it?”
The pilot glanced down at her face turned up to his. In one fleeting moment in the crowded ante-room he saw the colour in her cheeks, her parted lips, her eyes bright and sparkling. He withdrew his glance quickly, because of the crowd about them. He had not known before that she was beautiful.
“I don’t know,” he said casually. “Somewhere in the woods.”
“Oh.” She thought for a minute. “Will there be a moon?”
Marshall said: “Yes, if it’s a fine night. The moon rises about two o’clock.”
She said: “I think it will be fine. Three-tenths cloud or something. We got the message in this morning.”
There was a little pause; slowly the animation died out of her face. “It’ll be awfully interesting,” she said. Queerly, it seemed to Marshall that she was disappointed about something, or depressed. Perhaps her boy friend was giving her the run around. If that were so, it was a shame; she was a nice kid.
“I didn’t forget about that bit of pike,” he said kindly. “I told them in the kitchen, and I told them to give Ma Stevens a bit, too.”
She said:
“You’re sure you can spare it?”
He said: “Lady, I eats hearty, but not eleven and a quarter pounds.”
She laughed. “I suppose not.”
He moved away from her, though he would rather have stayed talking to her and have taken her in to lunch, in the hope of seeing her look again as she had looked when he was telling her about the badger. He had lived in a mess too long to risk being seen to talk much with one W.A.A.F. officer. In a society predominantly masculine with just a few young women, gossip ran rife; Marshall had caused embarrassment to too many young men from time to time to risk himself as target. He went in to lunch with Pat Johnson, choosing strategically a seat that gave him a view of Section Officer Robertson eating pike, twenty feet away.
He was relieved to notice that she ate it all, in happy distinction to Mr. Johnson, who took one mouthful, put it out again, said a rude word, and went and fetched himself a plate of beef.
Marshall watched Section Officer Robertson covertly all through the meal, timing the progress of his lunch to synchronise with hers while talking to Humphries about accelerated take-offs. He followed her out into the ante-room for coffee. He asked her how she had liked the pike.
“I liked it,” she replied. “It’s different to most other fish.”
“So Pat thought,” he said. “He told the maid to give it to the cat, if the cat would have it.”
“What a shame!”
“I’ll go out this afternoon and try and get another,” Marshall said.
She turned to him. “Mr. Marshall, do let me know what happens about your badger. You must be awfully well in with the country people here, to get a chance like that.”
He shook his head. “This chap sells motors in Great Portland Street.”
She wrinkled up her forehead in perplexity. “Sells motors? But you have to know the country frightfully well to find a badger.”
“I know that.” He paused. “Anyway, it should be rather fun.”
It was the second time that he had spoken to her about fun at Hartley aerodrome. She dropped her eyes. “Tell me about it when you come back,” she said quietly.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll give you all the lowdown on the sordid side of country life, lunch time to-morrow.”
She took her coffee and the Daily Express, and crossed the room to a chair. Presently she got up, and went out to the signals office, and sat down at her bare deal table garnished with messages and signal forms in bulldog clips.
She was deeply disappointed. She was a country girl from the North Riding; her father was an auctioneer in Thirsk. Her uncle was rector of Thistleton, a little village in the hills near Helmsley; she knew country matters very well. She had a considerable knowledge of foxes; she had followed the hunt on various farm ponies, and she had crept out several times into the woods to stalk a vixen playing with her cubs before the earth; for one of these expeditions she had a blurred Brownie photograph to show. In all her experience of the country she had never seen a badger. This expedition in the moonlight night before the dawn was in her line exactly; she ached to be going out with Marshall in the morning. The very suggestion had been like a breath of fresh air to her, a reminder of a sane, decent, country world that she had left behind her in the north.
That was not possible, of course. A good W.A.A.F. officer, mindful of the honour of the Service, did not get out of bed at four o’clock in the morning to go roaming in the moonlit woods with an officer from her station. She spent an appreciable portion of her time endeavouring to restrain her aircraft-women from that sort of thing, though it was true that none of them had ever thought to plead that they had a date with a badger.
She stared disconsolately at the signal pad before her. The fault, she felt, in some way lay within herself. Hartley was a rotten station to be in, but there was fun to be got there, good country fun, if you knew your way about and had the wit to find it. Peter Marshall seemed to have a lovely time; the pike yesterday, and now this “fox and badger in a quarter of an hour” business. All she had managed so far was to go for rides upon her bicycle and, since the country was flat and she came from the hills, she didn’t think much of that.
It was a very quiet afternoon, with little flying in progress and nothing in particular happening. She took a little walk around her duties; passing the main telephone switchboard she looked in to see how L.A.W. Smeed was getting on. L.A.W. Smeed was sitting with headphones on her hair and microphone upon her chest eating her black-market sweets and knitting a jumper for her next leave. She slipped the knitting down beside her chair when her officer appeared in the doorway.
“Afternoon, Elsie,” said Miss Robertson. “Let’s see your book.”
The girl handed her the log-book, written in pencil between ruled pencil columns; there were not many calls upon it. “Not very busy,” said Miss Robertson.
“No, ma’am. Real slack it’s been to-day.”
They chatted for a few minutes about the work. Then L.A.W. Smeed said: “Mind if I ask a question, ma’am?”
“What is it?” said Miss Robertson. She knew what it was likely to be: something to do with late leave, an attempt to short-circuit Flight Officer Stevens.
Elsie said: “Your name’s a funny one, isn’t it, Miss Robertson? Some of the girls were having an argument.”
The Section Officer said: “Gervase. It’s not a very common one.”
“Gervase. I never knew anyone called that before. I think it’s ever so nice. What’s the other one, Miss Robertson—the L?”
“Laura. There are plenty of those about.”
“I know ever so many Lauras,” said the telephonist, “but I never met a Gervase before. I do think that’s pretty. Are there many girls called Gervase where you come from?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s a Yorkshire name particularly.”
“Is that where your home is, Miss Robertson? I live in Clapham, just by Clapham South Underground.”
The officer said: “I come from a little place called Thirsk, in Yorkshire. But I don’t think Gervase is a Yorkshire name at all. Mother got it out of a book—Tennyson, or something.”
The telephone buzzed, and put an end to further confidences. Miss Robertson went on with her round.
Out in the country, by the river below Coldstone Mill, Marshall was assembling his little rod. He worked more absently than on the previous day, his mind equally divided between fishing and Section Officer Robertson. He wondered if the red plug would do the trick again or whether he should use a narrow-bodied thing that simulated a little alcoholic fish, unable to swim very well. He wondered if Section Officer Robertson really had a boy friend who was doing her dirt. It was quite possible that she had got mixed up with somebody at her last station; indeed, it would be rather queer if she had not, being as attractive as she was. Anyway, she was going to get mixed up with somebody on this one; he knew that very well already.
He wondered whether it was any good casting to the same place in the millpool for another pike, and he wondered very much what her name was. He had already discovered her initials from the file of postings to the station. He wondered how old she was; he was twenty-two himself and he was pretty sure that she was younger than that. If he could find out how long she had been a Section Officer, that might give him a line. But he could ask her that.
He began casting in a desultory way over the running water, but soon gave it up, and sat down on a stone and lit his pipe. Over his head the pigeons flapped and fluttered in and out of the trees, small clouds sailed slowly past on a blue sky, and once an early bee flew past his ear. Presently he got up and, smoking still, began to walk down the river, rod in hand. It was no good flogging the same place two days running, he thought.
He passed a couple of aircraftmen fishing where Gunnar had been on the previous day, and went on towards a pool at the next weir. Just above the pool he came on Sergeant Phillips sitting on a little stool, his float between the weed beds in mid-stream. The pilot paused beside him.
“Done any good?” he asked.
The sergeant shook his head. “Don’t seem to be nowt stirring. I reckon Gunnar must ha’ caught them all yesterday.”
“How many did he get?”
“Four.”
The pilot glanced back up the river. “I told Gunnar to see if he could borrow Sergeant Pilot Nutter’s little rifle, and we’d have a crack at those pigeons up by the mill.”
“Aye, he was talking about that. He’s got the gun.”
“We’ll have a crack at them one day.”
The sergeant nodded. “Make a change to get a pigeon for tea.”
Marshall left him, and went on to the weir. He cast for an hour above it and below but rose nothing; either there were no pike there or it was an off day when they would not feed. Presently he walked slowly back up-stream towards the mill, casting here and there as he went. At the mill he took down his rod, got on his bicycle, and rode back to the station.
He had packed up early with a vague hope that if he got back to the mess by half-past four he might, quite accidentally, see Section Officer Robertson drinking a cup of tea. He did not find her there; either she was having tea in her office or else in her own quarters. He lingered for some little time until hope died; then he went up to his room to write his weekly letter to his mother.
He got out his pad, squared his shoulders at the deal table at the end of his bed, and began to write. He never knew what to say. His mother, he knew, lived each day in an agony of fear for him, a gnawing pain that she had suffered and concealed for nearly two years now. He could not write to her about the difficult raids, the ones that had not been so good, and he had long ago exhausted all that could be said about the uneventful ones. He wrote:
My darling mother,
We had a lovely flight the night before last, over to Turin and back. The moon got up as we were getting to the Alps and it was frightfully pretty with snow on the mountains and lakes and everything. They don’t have any black-out there and you could see the street lamps in the towns, and cars going along the road and everything. We went up to seventeen thousand and it was frightfully cold, but it was dry and there wasn’t any icing. I wore your leather waistcoat under everything else, and it was fine.