The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  Mrs Mountjoy flapped her napkin at her as though she was scaring crows. ‘Well, take it away, girl. Take it away. And tell him I refuse to eat it. He’ll have to produce something else.’

  Peggy carried the plate into the kitchens. ‘I’m very sorry, but Mrs Mountjoy says she doesn’t like the soup. And could she please have something else?’

  For a moment she thought the chef was going to hit her with his wooden spoon. He shook it at her ever so angrily. ‘Tell her she can go without. If that woman won’t eat what I’ve prepared then she can starve for all I care. I trained in Paris, I’ll have her know. Cooked at the best restaurants in London . . .’ On he went about how he’d cooked for kings and princes and dukes and duchesses and how Mr Churchill had once complimented him on his steak and kidney. Peggy had heard it all before, many times. There’d be no stopping him, so she put down the soup plate and waited politely till he’d finished, before she slipped out of the kitchens. The only thing to do was to go in search of Miss Frost. It took Miss Frost to calm the chef down and butter up old Mrs Mountjoy. To sort out any trouble. She found her in her office, sitting at her desk. She’d just put down the telephone and was looking rather cross, too, but when she told her what had happened, she got up at once.

  Peggy carried on waiting on the other guests, keeping half an eye on Miss Frost. There was a lot of table thumping from Mrs Mountjoy and she could hear her going on about tinned carrots and the garden and the prices. Miss Frost was speaking so softly she couldn’t hear what she was saying, but whatever it was, it must have done the trick because Mrs Mountjoy stopped complaining and started looking all right. Or as all right as she ever could. And when Peggy went into the kitchen later with a trayload of dirty plates, she found the chef opening a tin of cream of mushroom. After he’d heated it up, she carried the fresh soup plate back into the dining-room.

  ‘The chef says he hopes you’ll care for his crème de champignons, madam.’ She had a bit of difficulty getting her tongue round the French words, especially the last one, but she did her best, and Mrs Mountjoy grunted to show she was graciously prepared to try.

  What with Mrs Mountjoy and old Colonel Millis, who had lost his spectacles yet again – they were in his top pocket all the time – and an old RAF officer who kept calling her over and then pinching her bottom whenever he got the chance, Peggy was glad when the dinners were over at last.

  She gave Mavis, the kitchen help, a hand with the washing-up and with mopping the floor and doing the stoves and when everything was clean and tidy she went to take off her cap and apron and put on her cardigan and headscarf. She let herself out of the side door and made her way to her bike against the back yard wall. It was almost dark, even with the double summer time, and when someone spoke suddenly behind her, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  ‘It’s only me, Peggy. Pilot Officer Wentworth-Young. Piers. I’m most terribly sorry if I startled you.’

  Startled her! He’d frightened the living daylights out of her. She’d thought it was Jack the Ripper at least. She leant against the wall, hand clasped to her racing heart. ‘Oh, you, sir . . .’ For a moment that’s all she could find the breath to say. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, waiting for you, actually. I wondered if you’d like a lift home.’

  ‘I’ve got my bike, sir. Thank you all the same.’

  ‘Yes, but it’d be much quicker in the car – and we could put the bike in the boot.’

  It was the sort of thing Mum was always warning her against. Don’t take lifts from strangers. Only he wasn’t a stranger. And he was an officer in the RAF.

  ‘I’ll be quite all right, sir. I always go home on the bike.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Not very. A mile or two.’ It was six miles, in fact, but she didn’t want him to know that.

  He stepped forward closer, all serious. ‘Please let me take you, Peggy. You’ve nothing to fear from me, I swear it.’

  ‘I never thought so, sir. But it’d be an awful bother for you . . .’ She was weakening, though. It was late, and the ride alone along the lanes would be a bit scary, and she was that tired.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t. And I’ll get you there in no time.’

  Well, what harm could there be? And it was ever so kind of him.

  ‘All right, then. If it’s really no trouble.’

  Somehow he managed to get the bike into the boot of his car. One wheel was left sticking out, but he made it safe with some rope. Then he opened the door for her very politely so that she could get into the front seat. Nobody had ever opened any kind of door for her before, and she’d never been in a proper car – only in an old van and once on a charabanc trip to Skegness. It felt as comfortable as sitting in an easy chair.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me the way, Peggy,’ he said when he’d got in beside her. ‘Say where to turn, and so on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He started up the engine and switched on the covered-up headlamps. They drove down Steep Hill and out of the city onto the Skellingthorpe road.

  ‘Could you turn left at the next, please, sir?’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  He laughed. ‘It just means understood.’

  She guided him through the darkening lanes. The car headlights weren’t much better to see by than her bicycle lamp, but then you had to be very careful because the German bombers could see lights from high up; they could even see people striking matches. He’d know all about that most probably.

  ‘Are you in the bombers, sir? Is that what you do?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a navigator.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, I have to tell the pilot which way to go. Just like you’re doing for me tonight. Only it’s a bit more complicated, of course.’

  ‘To Germany, and places like that? To drop the bombs?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’

  She’d overheard the RAF officers talking to each other at the dinner tables in The Angel while she was serving. Bad luck about so-and-so . . . went down in flames . . . not a hope . . . half the kites didn’t get back . . . one in three get the chop, you know . . .

  ‘It sounds ever so dangerous, sir.’

  ‘Gosh, not really. Piece of cake mostly.’

  She’d heard them saying that, too, and knew it meant easy, but she didn’t believe him. How could it be easy to fly all the way to Germany and back in the pitch dark, and with the Germans shooting at them as well? Still, he probably didn’t want to talk about it and answer silly questions. She sat silent beside him, except to say when to turn.

  ‘I live on the right down here, sir. The last one of those cottages.’

  He stopped the car outside her gate and came round to open the door for her again.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said to what she could see of him, as it was quite dark now. ‘It’s been very kind of you.’

  ‘I’ll see you again . . . at The Angel.’

  ‘I expect so, sir.’

  ‘The thing is, I’m going on leave soon.’ He didn’t sound all that happy about it. ‘I have to go home to see my parents. But it’s only for a week. I was wondering . . . well, if you’d changed your mind about coming out with me some time – when I get back? To the cinema one evening?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it, sir.’ That was a lie – she had, a lot.

  ‘So you might change it? Your mind?’

  ‘But, it wouldn’t be right, would it?’

  ‘I honestly don’t see why not. Unless you really hate the whole idea. That’d be different, of course. I say, do you hate it?’

  ‘No, of course not, sir. It’s not that at all.’

  ‘So there’d really be nothing against it. If you didn’t mind.’

  She was getting a bit muddled. There couldn’t be anything wrong in just going to the pictures, could there? He must be lonely. Away from his home and fighting this horrible war for people like herself. Doin
g those terrible, dangerous journeys. One in three get the chop.

  ‘Well . . . if you’d like it, sir.’

  ‘Like it? I should say so. Gosh, Peggy. Do you really mean it? That’s absolutely wizard!’

  He sounded thrilled to pieces. It didn’t make any sense to her, him being what he was.

  ‘I ought to go in now.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘My bike . . .’

  ‘Golly, I almost forgot. Frightfully sorry.’ He untied the rope and lifted the bike out for her.

  ‘See you when I get back from leave, then?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Super. I’ll come here and fetch you on your day off. Wednesdays, isn’t it? That’s if I’m not flying.’

  ‘However will you find the way back now, sir?’

  He laughed in the darkness. ‘I’m a navigator, remember.’

  She waited until he had driven away and then wheeled the bike round to the shed at the back. Mum had gone to bed but Dad was still up, though he’d fallen sound asleep in his armchair. She knew he’d been waiting for her to get safe home. She touched his shoulder.

  ‘I’m back, Dad.’

  He opened his eyes and smiled up at her. ‘Hallo there, Peggy, lass. Good day?’

  ‘Not so bad.’

  He wouldn’t have heard the car and she didn’t tell him anything about the lift. He might not have understood that it was quite all right with someone like Pilot Officer Wentworth-Young.

  Lying in bed later, she remembered his other name. Piers. That’s what he’d said. She’d never heard the name before, and it suited him. Piers. A real gentleman’s name. Fancy him wanting to take her out.

  They were half-way to Munich when Bert realized he’d brought Victor by mistake. He’d clean forgotten he was still in his left-hand breast pocket. Emerald’s bra and knickers were stuffed in the right-hand one – her latest good-luck present to go with the silk stocking round his neck. What with Victor on one side and those on the other, he must look like Mae West even without his Mae West. He groped beneath the life jacket and his flying suit, and felt for the snake. He seemed OK, though he wasn’t too lively. Probably a bit woozy from lack of oxygen. Harry’s carrier pigeon spent the time on ops with its head under its wing, fast asleep. Lucky sods, both of them. Wake up when it was all over. That would be just the ticket. Suit him no end.

  ‘Skipper to mid-upper. OK, Bert?’

  He clicked his mike switch on. ‘OK, skipper.’

  No chance of a kip for him. No peace for the wicked. Got to keep lively and looking round the whole bloody time. He rotated the turret slowly, scanning the night sky. The moon would make it easier for the Jerries to spot them. On the other hand, he’d be able to see them easier too. Since getting those six rabbits, he’d been feeling a whole lot better about himself. Nice neat deflection shots, just like he’d been taught in gunnery training. Same as if they’d been Jerry fighters zipping past his turret. Stew had been flabbergasted. Mouth wide open when he’d seen them all. Well, he’d flabbered his own gast, to tell the truth. Though he hadn’t told it. Acted like it was nothing special to him at all.

  The Lane droned on through the darkness. On and on and on. Drone, drone, drone. Bloody miles to go to the target. Bloody miles back again. Still, shouldn’t be too dicey by the sound of it, and the Pathfinder blokes would be marking it with flares before they got there. Not half the pissing around since they’d got in on the act. Piece of cake for Stew. They’d be in and out like a dose of bloody salts.

  Speaking of doses of salts, maybe he should have taken one. Must’ve eaten something that’d given him the collywobbles. His guts were bloody killing him. He pressed the mike switch on again.

  ‘Mid-upper to skipper.’

  ‘What is it, Bert?’

  ‘Permission to leave the turret?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Elsan, skipper.’

  ‘Sorry, mid-upper. Not now. Too many night fighters around looking for us.’

  ‘Put a cork in it, Bert.’ That was from Stew, of course.

  Bert sat and suffered. Well, it was the last op before they went on leave. Six days with Emerald in a nice little place in Cleethorpes. Forget about the bloody war. Forget about everything but him and Emerald. He couldn’t wait. He patted the right side of his chest directly over the pocket that held the bra and knickers, and then the other side too, just in case Victor was feeling left out of things. Not that he’d take him, of course. Emerald wouldn’t put up with that. Poor old Victor would have to stay behind in his shoe box.

  Six whole wonderful bloody days.

  ‘You’re going to London, then, Van?’

  ‘That’s what I figured. Take in a show or two. See the sights. Why?’

  ‘It seems a bit lonely. Of course, you haven’t got a home to go to over here, like us. That’s so sad.’

  ‘What do you suggest then, Catherine?’

  ‘Well . . . I’ve got a few days leave due, too. As it so happens.’

  ‘No kidding?’ he said politely, hiding his amazement.

  ‘And I live in York. Or rather, my mother does. It’s not too far away. Easy by train. And it’s rather a beautiful old city.’

  ‘We have the new version.’

  ‘So you do. I’d never thought of that.’

  ‘I’d sure like to see the old one.’

  ‘I think you’d enjoy it. And my mother’s always been fascinated by America. I know she’d love to meet you.’

  ‘I’d love to meet her. How about your father?’

  ‘He was killed in France, serving in the army. At Dunkirk.’

  ‘Hell, I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She spoke calmly but he saw the sadness in her eyes. She wasn’t going to talk about it, though. Nobody over here did. He’d never seen open grief.

  ‘Would you like me to ask my mother, then?’

  ‘I guess that rather depends on you.’

  ‘On me?’

  ‘Whether you want me there.’

  A pause. Rather too long for his liking. ‘It’s the very least we can do. Unless, of course, you’d rather go to London . . .’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d much rather go to York.’

  Ten

  ‘I’VE BROUGHT YOU some chocolate, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie, you shouldn’t have.’

  He swung his kit-bag off his shoulder, set it down and took the paper bag out of the top. ‘There’s some boiled sweets, too.’

  She peered into the paper bag. ‘Wherever did you get all this?’

  ‘We’re given it when we go on ops.’

  ‘But why don’t you eat them?’

  ‘I forget.’ He’d saved them all up for her specially, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  ‘Charlie, I don’t want them – really I don’t. I’ve got my ration if I want any sweets.’

  ‘Not much is it, though? Half-a-pound a month. I just thought you’d like some extra.’ He could tell she was ready to give it all back and added quickly, ‘I’ll help you eat them, if you like. Seeing as I’m here for a while.’

  She smiled at him. ‘All right then. We’ll share them. But don’t you dare bring me any more. In future, I want you to eat them yourself, like they’re meant for.’

  She’d done a good bit more to the garden, he saw, when he went out and wandered around. There were lots of flowers blooming in the front, all different kinds and colours jumbled up together and looking as pretty as a picture postcard. He told her so when she came out to join him.

  ‘I’ve picked some of the beans for your supper. And dug up some potatoes. There’re hardly any peas though. Something ate most of the plants. Mr Stonor says it was probably slugs.’

  ‘How’s Marigold?’

  ‘Blooming. She’s been laying every day. I’ve saved the eggs for your leave.’

  ‘You oughtn’t to have done that, Mum.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t need them.’

  We�
��ve both been saving things up, he thought, and going without. And neither of us would want the other to do it. Funny, really . . .

  ‘Harry came and mended the gutter for me,’ she said, pointing up at the roof. ‘It doesn’t leak any more. It was very good of him.’

  People often did things for Mum – he’d noticed that. They liked her and wanted to help, with her being all on her own. He had a feeling, though, that Harry liked Mum more than the usual amount, though he’d never said a word and wasn’t going to.

  ‘Does the wireless still work OK?’

  ‘Oh yes, and it’s wonderful. I sit and listen to it in the evenings. It’s lovely.’

  He was glad of that. Glad of anything that made it less lonely for her and stopped her worrying. ‘I almost forgot – I brought someone with me. Someone you know well.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Charlie?’

  He fetched Sam from the kit-bag and handed him over. ‘He’s come home on leave too.’

  Harry stood in the train corridor, feet planted wide apart, back pressed up against the compartment behind him. No empty seats in third-class, as usual, so he’d probably be standing all the way to London. His present for Paulette lay in the kit-bag propped beside him, wrapped up ready to give her: a luminous china rabbit that he’d found in a shop in Lincoln. He’d seen it in the window and thought it looked the sort of thing a little girl might like, with its one ear up and one ear down. And she’d be able to see it in the dark when she was in bed.

  He was longing to see her, though he dreaded the sort of greeting he’d probably get. And maybe she wouldn’t even remember him, after all this time. Maybe she wouldn’t even be there. It didn’t mean a thing that he’d written ahead. Rita would suit herself. They might go out for the day on purpose to avoid him. He wouldn’t put anything past her. He didn’t hate her – he didn’t hate anybody – but if it hadn’t been for Paulette, he’d never have wanted to set eyes on Rita again.

  When the war was over he’d got to find himself a place of his own so Paulette could come and stay with him when she was older, and they could get to know each other. Rita wouldn’t be able to stop that; the court had given him the right. He’d look for a small flat, same as he’d had before – with two bedrooms, if possible, or he could sleep on the settee when Paulette came to stay. What he’d really like, though, would be a cottage like the one Charlie’s mother was renting. All the better if it needed some work doing to it. He’d enjoy that. He was good with his hands. He could mend things and put up shelves and paint walls, do pretty well anything round a house. He pictured it in his mind’s eye: a little house with a blue door and a front garden full of flowers. He was standing at the gate, looking at it and, as he did so, the door opened and Dorothy was there, smiling at him.