by Nevil Shute
He brooded over his problem for the next two days, rehearsing various openings, considering all the angles. When Friday came he was still unprepared, but set himself grimly to his task. He went up to Gervase in the ante-room before lunch. “Come along to my office this afternoon, will you?” he said. “I’ve got one or two things to talk over. About three?”
Gervase said: “Yes, sir,” and wondered what signals had to do with Chesterton, and whether something frightful had happened over one of her girls. She presented herself at his office at three o’clock with some misgivings. He greeted her with forced heartiness, made her sit down, and gave her a cigarette.
He plunged straight into the matter without beating about the bush; it was better, he thought, to get it over quickly. “We’ve had a long talk about one of the crews,” he said, “Wing Commander Dobbie and I. We’re a bit worried about R for Robert. They used to be a very good, reliable crew. But last time they went out they got lost and landed up at Whitsand, just like a pack of boys straight in from the training school.”
Gervase sat motionless, her heart right up in the middle of her throat. This wasn’t something frightful about one of her girls. This was something frightful about herself.
The Squadron Leader went on: “When a crew goes off colour in that way, Wing Commander Dobbie always tries to find out what’s the matter, so that we can put it right if possible. In this case we found that there had been some friction, and there didn’t seem to be much reason for it. The crew all seem to like their captain, Flight Lieutenant Marshall.”
Gervase raised her eyes. “I think they do,” she said. “I was talking to the rear-gunner about it the other night.”
Chesterton smiled; the way seemed easier. “I thought perhaps you might be able to help us,” he said. “I don’t really know what this trouble is about, but, so far as I can see, the captain is to blame for most of it.” He paused, expectantly.
A man of fifty is seldom a match for a young girl. He had talked too much and too slowly, and thereby made a tactical mistake. He had given Gervase ample time to recover her self-possession after the first shock of realising that she herself was on the carpet. Now she was ready to parry any thrust.
She smiled at him with innocent candour. “It is funny, isn’t it?” she said. “We were all talking about it in our mess the other night. We couldn’t understand why such an experienced crew should start making mistakes. But then I met the rear-gunner and heard all about it. I don’t think you need worry about them now. I think they’ll be all right when they go out next time.”
There was a momentary pause. “What makes you think that?” he asked gravely.
She said: “I’ve got them some fishing.”
Chapter Six
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade;
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
W. E. HENLEY
The old Squadron Leader blinked in surprise, trying to focus his mind upon this new aspect of the matter. “I beg your pardon?” he enquired.
Gervase looked up at him in starry-eyed innocence. “The rear-gunner told me,” she said. “You see, they’re all such keen fishermen in that crew, and they used to do it all together. But after the coarse-fishing season ended in the middle of March things started to go wrong, and they got on each other’s nerves a bit, because they were all so bored with having nothing to do. I know it sounds silly, sir, but that’s what he said.”
She paused. “So I got permission for them to go fishing in a lake near here. It’s nothing to do with me, of course, but I thought it might help. I hope I’ve not done wrong.”
“But if the fishing season is over, how can they go fishing?” he asked in perplexity. It sounded to him to be a fishy sort of story altogether.
Gervase smiled tolerantly at him. “Trout-fishing starts in March, when the coarse-fishing ends,” she said. “I got them some trout-fishing.”
Chesterton thought of the flat country around Hartley, and the slow, muddy streams. “I didn’t know there was any round here,” he said. “Tell me, how did you get hold of it?”
She had lain awake in bed for half an hour on the Wednesday morning, after a long night’s sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling in a dream, thinking of Peter Marshall and of the warm pressure of his hand on hers, thinking of all the problems of their relationship, thinking with scared delight of the week-end which was going to plunge her deeper into trouble. From that she came to think about the crew and Sergeant Phillips, and their fishing, and his phrase: “It’s weary when you don’t know what to do.”
And suddenly she thought: “This is ridiculous.” Trout-fishing at that time of year was in full swing, and there were trout in Kingslake Woods; she had seen them herself and poked at them with a stick. She had no idea who they belonged to, but that she could find out. Fired with the enthusiasm of youth she got up and had a bath.
She rang up Mr. Ellison at the tractor depot in the middle of the morning. She said: “This is Section Officer Robertson speaking, from the aerodrome. Do you remember me, Mr. Ellison? I came to your pigeon-shoot with Wing Commander Dobbie in the Jeep.”
He said: “I remember. Miss Robertson, is it?”
“That’s right. Mr. Ellison, you know everybody round here. Who lives in Kingslake House, over by Chipping Hinton?”
“Blowed if I know. I could find out for you.”
“Could you? I want to know this morning, if I can.” She hesitated. “I’ll tell you what it’s about. There’s a lake there, with a lot of trout in it. Some of us were wondering if the owner of the house would let us go fishing there.”
“I get you,” he said. “Give you a ring back in half an hour.”
She went on with her work; he came through on the telephone later in the morning. “About those trout you want to fish,” he said. “You haven’t got a hope. Nobody’s allowed near them.”
She said: “Who does the house belong to?”
“Well, there’s a Brigadier Carter-Hayes, who lives there with his mother, Mrs. Carter-Hayes. They’re county people, all frightfully toffee-nosed and Poona. Brigadier Carter-Hayes is away, out somewhere in the Middle East. There’s only the old lady there now, and she won’t let anybody near those fish. Seems like they’re a sacred trust she’s keeping for him.”
It did not sound too promising. “She must be pretty old if she’s got a son who’s a brigadier,” said Gervase.
“Getting on for eighty. Runs the house with three maids, all over sixty. The tweeny is a child of sixty-three.”
Gervase thanked him, and rang off, and sat for a time slightly damped. Her beautiful idea now did not seem so good; at least, it would be difficult to realise. And then she thought that nothing would be lost by trying; if she went out to visit this old lady and to ask for permission for the crew of Robert to go fishing in the lake, the worst that could occur would be a smart rebuff, which wouldn’t hurt for long.
She rode out that afternoon upon her bicycle. She rode on past the point where they had gone into the woods to find the badger, crossed a little stream that was the outlet from the lake up in the woods, and so came to the drive that led up to the house.
It was a long drive, leading through a park studded with beech trees. There were a few sheep grazing, and some of them had lambs; she turned her head to watch them as she rode. She would have liked to have got off and sit upon the fence to study them for a little; it was sunny and bright, and pretty in the wooded park. But she had business to attend to; she had not come out there to look at lambs.
She rode on, and came out in front of the house. It was sheltered and peaceful, surrounded in the front with beech trees and a wide mown lawn, and many rhododendron bushes. There was prunus in bloom, and currant; the house lay quiet in the sun in an atmosphere of old security.
Gervase leaned her bicycle against the wall, went up to the front door and rang the bell. The oak door opened presently,
and she saw a grey-haired maid, very neat in servant’s costume of the last century, black dress, starched apron, and starched cap on the grey hair.
Gervase said: “Good afternoon. Can I see Mrs. Carter-Hayes?”
The old maid said deferentially: “I am sorry, madam. Mrs. Carter-Hayes is not at home.”
The girl stared nonplussed. “I don’t want to be a nuisance,” she said. “But I’ve come a long way. Is Mrs. Carter-Hayes away?”
The maid said severely: “Mrs. Carter-Hayes is not at home to anybody to-day, madam.”
Gervase said: “Please, don’t you think she could see me just for a moment? I’ve bicycled seven miles from Hartley Magna because I wanted to see her, and if I can’t I’ll have to ride back and come out another day, and it’s fourteen miles each time.”
The old maid said: “Oh madam, that is a long way.”
“It is,” said Gervase feelingly. “Couldn’t you ask her if she’d see me just for a minute?”
“Mrs. Carter-Hayes is not very well to-day. I could ask her, madam, seeing that you have come so far. May I have the card?”
Gervase said: “I’m sorry, but I haven’t got a card. Would you tell her that Miss Robertson would like to see her for a moment? I won’t stay.”
“Does she know you, madam?”
“No she doesn’t, I’m afraid.”
“Would you step inside, madam?” Gervase went forward into the hall, and the old maid closed the door carefully. “The wind is still cold, isn’t it?” she said. She beamed at Gervase like a mother. “Now if you would wait for just one minute, madam, I will see if Mrs. Carter-Hayes will see you, seeing that you’ve come all that way.” She bustled off down the hall.
Gervase stood looking around. There was a great smell of camphor and floor polish and old leather, the smell of an old country house maintained in the old manner. There was a silver salver on a table with a couple of cards on it; beside it three brass polished candlesticks with candles and matchboxes ready for use. There was a very large Burmese gong upon a stand, brilliantly polished; there was a bright fire burning in the hearth. Upon the walls were a few old, faded sporting prints; upon a bracket there was a little glass case containing a round shot half-buried in an ancient piece of timber. Gervase knew houses of that sort fairly well; there were many of them in the North Riding near her home.
The old maid reappeared. “Would you kindly step this way, madam?”
She went forward with the maid, and was shown into a long drawing-room. Through the window at the far end of the room she saw a wide mown lawn; beyond that there were the woods and the little lake that she had visited with Peter, the first day of all. The sight of it gave her courage.
She looked for her hostess. She saw a formidable old lady sitting very upright in a chair before the fire, gazing towards her; she wore a black dress unadorned except with a little white frill at the collar. Her thin grey hair was parted in the middle and drawn straight and severely back over her head; she had rather bushy black eyebrows and a white face.
The door closed quietly behind Gervase. She said shyly: “Mrs. Carter-Hayes? My name is Robertson. It’s awfully good of you to see me.”
The old lady said testily: “Well, come on in, child, and don’t stand over by the door. What’s your other name?”
“Gervase—Gervase Laura.” She moved forward to the fire.
“I suppose your mother had been reading Tennyson. Bless me, what sort of costume have you got on? Is that a uniform?”
“Yes—it’s Royal Air Force uniform. I’m a section officer.”
“Well, turn round and let me see the back of it.”
Gervase rotated slowly, hoping that by doing so she was achieving trout-fishing. “I think it’s very ugly and unwomanly,” said the old lady decidedly, “but you look quite pretty in it. I suppose you must be a good-looking girl in decent clothes. You must be very young.”
“I’m twenty-one, Mrs. Carter-Hayes.”
“Do you have to polish all those buttons yourself every day?”
“No—the batwoman does that for me. I used to have to when I was an airwoman.”
“What’s an airwoman?”
“Like a private soldier. You have to start off in the ranks.”
“But you’re a lady. Do you mean that you have to live with a lot of factory girls?”
“Everybody has to start like that,” said Gervase. “It’s rather a good thing.”
“It sounds to me to be a very bad thing, and most unsuitable for a young girl like you. I suppose you learned all sorts of language. And now do you have to look after the factory girls and try and stop them having babies?”
Gervase said: “I’m not on the welfare side. I’m a signals officer. That means I look after the girls who work the wireless station and the radio telephone and the ordinary telephones. Somebody else takes care of their welfare, but of course I have to help them all I can.”
“Dale told me that you had bicycled from Hartley Magna. Is that where all the aeroplanes come from, that keep flying over in the middle of the night?”
“Probably—or they may come from the aerodrome at Charwick. I think the Charwick ones may be the ones you hear. They’d pass right over here on their way out to the Ruhr.”
“You don’t go with them?”
“No—I stay on the ground and run the wireless.”
“Well, what is it you wanted to see me about?”
Gervase hesitated, wondering how to put the matter of the trout-fishing to this formidable old woman.
“Well, sit down if it’s going to take you a long time. Sit down there. Will you stay and have a cup of tea with me?”
Startled, Gervase said: “I’d like to awfully.” And then she turned to the old lady. “It is going to take me a long time,” she said. “It’s such a funny thing to ask.”
“Ring that bell beside you.” Gervase got up and rotated the old handle; a wire scraped in the wall and a bell sounded faintly in the house. “Well, tell me what it is.”
Gervase said: “It’s about one of our bomber crews. The men who fly one of the bombers over Germany. They’re all keen fishermen in that crew, and they’ve been all at sixes and sevens since the coarse-fishing season stopped. I was wondering perhaps if they could come and fish in your lake when they’re off duty.”
The door opened behind her quietly. The old lady said: “Dale, bring some tea for this young lady.”
The door closed softly. She turned to Gervase. “My son had that lake stocked with little trout two years ago, before he went overseas, in order that there might be good fishing when he came home,” she said severely. “I have never allowed it to be fished, for that reason.”
Gervase thought, that was that. It was just as Ellison had told her; she might have saved her journey. But the old lady’s case was reasonable according to her standards; Gervase felt that she might talk all night, and do no good.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know it was like that. This crew need fishing very badly, and I thought perhaps this might be an opportunity.”
The old lady said: “My dear, you keep on talking about a crew, and I don’t know in the least what you mean. Is it the crew of a ship?”
Gervase said patiently: “No, it’s the crew of an aeroplane. We call the men who go in the bombers the crew. There are five in these aeroplanes.”
“Five men?”
“Yes.”
“And do they fly the bomber over the Ruhr, and drop the bombs? Are those the men you call the crew?”
“Yes.”
“They must be very brave men to fly all that way over Germany at night.”
The thought was a new one to Gervase. She had been so intimately associated with them that she had never seen them in that light. “I think they are,” she said slowly. “I think they’re very brave men.”
“And this bomber crew that you say are all at sixes and sevens. What do you mean by that?”
Gervase said: “It’s a frightful strai
n on them, going out like that night after night.” The door opened quietly behind her, and the old maid pushed in a rubber-tyred trolley with a silver teapot, delicate china, cake and bread and butter; she arranged this quietly between them as they talked. “Each night, some of them don’t come back; they just get—killed. But some of them go on, night after night and month after month. And the crews who do that are usually all great friends who know each other very well, because then they get to work together as a team.”
The old lady nodded. “My son always says that a good polo team is best made up of friends,” she said. “That is what you mean?”
Gervase knew nothing about polo whatsoever, but she thought it safe to say: “That’s it.”
“Well? What’s all this got to do with fishing? Do you take sugar with your tea?”
“Please.” She thought for a moment, and then said: “They all used to go fishing together until the coarse-fishing season ended in March. It was their one big interest, and they all did it. Then when the season ended they hadn’t got anything to do, and they began sort of snapping at each other. It’s a frightful strain.” She paused. “And then they began to make mistakes, and last time they were very nearly killed.”
The old lady gazed at her quizzically. “And so you thought if they could come and fish my lake they might get together again.”
Gervase turned to her, surprised at so much understanding. “That’s exactly what I did think.”
“Who are these men? Has the crew got a captain?”
The girl nodded. “Flight Lieutenant Marshall. All the rest are sergeants, except the wireless operator, who is a corporal.”
“But do you mean to tell me that they all go out fishing together? The officer with the sergeants and the corporal?”