The Crew

by Margaret Mayhew

  He saw Catherine in the Mess when she came off duty. ‘Christ, I was worried about you.’

  ‘I was much more worried about you. They got four Lanes, you know.’

  ‘We were OK. Vamoosed like scared rabbits. I guess they’ll be trying it on again. Sneaking in just when everyone thinks they’re home and dry. Catching us with our pants down.’

  ‘They did several other dromes, too, apparently. Pretty successfully.’

  ‘I wish you weren’t here. How about putting in for a transfer?’

  ‘You know I couldn’t.’

  ‘Stupid of me to suggest it, I guess. England expects . . . even the women.’

  ‘This is our war as well, isn’t it? Everyone’s. Men, women and children.’

  He looked at her. ‘Meantime, how about us?’

  ‘We’ve been through all that, Van. I told you, I can’t write a “dear John” letter. I just can’t.’

  ‘You also told me you loved me. As I remember. And you know I love you. Sooner or later you’ll have to tell Peter.’

  ‘But not now. Not yet. Not while he’s a POW.’

  ‘The war could go on for years. Are you going to go on keeping it from him? He’s a grown-up man. It’s not as if you’re married to him. You’re not even engaged to him, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I can’t tell him, Van. You don’t understand. His letters are awful. He’s desperate. Suicidal. If I wrote and told him about us, I don’t know what he’d do. I think it would finish him.’

  ‘He’s writing like that on purpose, Catherine. Trying to scare you. Hang on to you, that way. Any way he can. And he’s been playing that sort of game for a good while, far as I can tell. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I can’t. I see that he’s a prisoner-of-war in Germany. Shut up like an animal in a cage.’

  ‘So are thousands of other men.’

  ‘Well, how would you like it?’

  ‘I’d hate it. But that’s not the point—’

  ‘It is the point. If you were in his shoes would you like to get a letter like that? How would it make you feel?’

  ‘Hell, I’d sooner have the truth than some girl stringing me along. Just to spare my feelings. It’s plain crazy.’

  She said angrily, ‘I’m not stringing Peter along.’

  ‘Sure seems like that to me.’ He was angry now, too. Resentful. ‘Or is it me you’re kidding?’

  ‘There’s absolutely no sense in us discussing this any further, Van.’

  He watched her walking away from him.

  ‘Can I have a word with you, lad? If you’ve got a moment.’

  ‘’Course you can, Harry.’ Charlie halted on the concrete pathway outside the station cinema. He was still galloping across the Wild West with John Wayne, six-shooters blazing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Look, could we go somewhere a bit private like?’

  There wasn’t such a place on the camp, not that Charlie knew of. ‘How about we just walk about a bit?’ It was dark and cold as charity, but he could tell it was important to Harry.

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘’Course not.’ Anything for old Harry. He was the best. Charlie turned up his collar and thrust his hands into his pockets. They went along another path, away from the cinema crowd, feet crunching across left-over patches of frozen snow. Crikey, it was cold. He waited hopefully for Harry to speak up.

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ Harry said after they’d walked a good bit.

  ‘Yes?’

  They walked on. Come on Harry, spit it out. Whatever it is.

  ‘It’s about your mum.’

  Aha, so that was it. He might have guessed. Still, it would be best to pretend he hadn’t noticed anything. More tactful. ‘What about her?’ He could swear he heard Harry gulp.

  ‘The thing is, lad, I’ve – well, I’ve come to have a great regard for her . . . if you understand me.’

  Charlie smiled in the darkness. ‘I understand, Harry. You don’t have to explain any more.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘’Course not. Why should I?’

  ‘But – but how about if I asked her to marry me? Would you mind then?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  ‘You really mean that? Because I wouldn’t want to do anythin’ to upset you or your mum. Not in any way.’

  Charlie stopped walking. ‘I’d be chuffed as anything if you asked her, and she said yes. You go ahead. Far as I’m concerned, I wish you all the luck in the world.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie.’ But Harry still sounded anxious. ‘Do you think she’d have me?’

  He wasn’t sure of the answer to that one. ‘I don’t know, Harry, but I certainly hope she does.’

  Seventeen

  HEAVY CLOUD AND torrential rain put paid to flying for a week. The frozen ground turned to thick mud with puddles like small duck ponds. Tin roofs leaked, gutters blocked, stoves smouldered, spirits sagged.

  Jock wandered about restlessly, peering out of windows and drumming his fingers on panes, willing the weather to lift. Cursing it under his breath. Only one more op, but they couldn’t get it decently over and done with. He wanted the tour finished. To get away from Beningby. To find Ruth. He’d been over to the farm soon after he’d got back from leave, and found out that Ruth had gone. Mrs Gibbs had been upset.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jock. She’s left to work on another farm down south. She went to see the local Land Army person and got herself transferred. Just like that. I don’t know what story she told them but I don’t mind telling you Dick and I were quite put out about it at first. But then I said to Dick, there’s more to this than we know. Ruth’s not the sort to let us down without some good reason. And we wondered if it was something to do with you, Jock?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Mrs Gibbs. I’ve never understood Ruth.’

  ‘Well, if it was to get away from you, then she’s a very silly girl in my opinion.’

  ‘Do you know where she’s gone? Her address?’

  ‘She made us promise not to give it to anyone.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But I can tell you that it’s down in Devon. She’s on a farm near a place called Hatherleigh. That’s all I’d better say.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Gibbs.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Jock. You’ll be near the end of your tour, then?’

  ‘Aye. Just one trip more to do.’

  ‘Good luck for it. God bless you and take care of you. And I hope you find Ruth.’

  No sign of the cloud lifting. If anything it was getting worse, hanging low over the drome and no wind to shift it. Jock went on cursing and drumming his fingers.

  ‘No, Freda, that’s not how you do it. Look, I’ll show you. The smaller knives and forks go on the inside, with the dessert spoon in between the two knives and the soup spoon on the outside. You work inwards with the courses. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Frost.’

  But she could tell by the new waitress’s face that she didn’t, and, worse, that she didn’t care. Peggy had always wanted to learn but this one wasn’t remotely interested.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to re-lay all the places and you’ll have to hurry. There’s only twenty minutes until lunch.’

  The girl pulled a face. She was going to be hopeless, Honor thought. She looked as though she’d modelled herself on some Hollywood film star, with her dyed blond hair all swept up, and her bright red lipstick. She’d done something to her uniform, too – shortened the skirt to her knees and nipped in the waist. She started to lay another place carelessly – knives in the wrong place. ‘I’ll bet you get the Yanks coming in here, don’t you?’

  It was becoming clearer why Freda had taken the job.

  ‘Sometimes. It’s mainly RAF, though.’

  ‘Raff?’ Freda’s face brightened. ‘Some of them are all right. You don’t happen to know if a bloke called Stew Brenner ever comes in, do you? He’s an Aussie.’

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’<
br />
  The girl patted her hair. ‘Hope he does. I met him in The Saracen’s a while back. Picked me up, he did. Fastest worker I ever met.’

  ‘Those knives should go the other way round.’

  ‘What? Oh?’ Freda picked one up and put it down again crooked, leaving a thumb print on the blade. ‘Smashing, he was. A real heart-throb. And ever so good with women . . . if you know what I mean. ’Course, I didn’t believe half of what he said. You don’t want to take a bloke like that seriously, do you? Bound to get lots of girls, isn’t he? All he wants. He had my friend, Betty, too, matter of fact. I didn’t find that out till after. Still, he was gorgeous—’

  ‘You’d better get on with the other tables.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  ‘And don’t forget to ring the gong on time.’

  ‘Gawd . . .’

  Honor went back to her office. She sat down in front of her typewriter, staring at a half-finished letter.

  Dear Sir, Thank you for your letter of the 14th instant. I have pleasure in enclosing our tariff, as requested.

  She’d been a fool. A gullible, pathetic fool.

  Strewth, Honor, I’ve never felt like this before about any girl . . . my oath, I haven’t.

  Oh, Stew . . . I love you. I love you.

  A girl like Freda wasn’t so stupid. ’Course, I didn’t believe half of what he said. You don’t want to take a bloke like that seriously . . . he had my friend Betty, too . . .

  She put her face in her hands. Fool, fool, fool.

  After a while, she pulled herself together and got on with her typing. She was in the middle of another letter when she heard the reception bell ring. When she went out of the office, Pilot Officer Wentworth-Young was standing by the desk. And Stew was with him.

  The pilot officer said very politely, ‘I’m frightfully sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I could possibly have a word with Peggy?’

  ‘I’m very sorry but she’s not here.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked crestfallen. ‘I thought she would be. She hasn’t changed her day off, has she?’

  Oh dear, she thought, he doesn’t know. Peggy didn’t tell him. ‘As a matter of fact, she doesn’t work here any longer. She left her job last week.’

  The grandfather clock was striking, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Freda coming along, hips swinging, to ring the gong.

  He stared at her. ‘But she couldn’t have done.’

  Freda had gone straight up to Stew and she could hear Stew saying something to her and Freda giggling.

  ‘I’m afraid she did.’ She tried to soften the blow. ‘It was all rather sudden. I think she’d decided she wanted to do something else. Some kind of war work.’

  ‘I see.’ He was looking utterly baffled.

  ‘I should think you might find her at home.’

  His brow cleared. ‘Yes, of course. Jolly good idea.’

  The dark, squat shape of Mrs Mountjoy was looming behind the Residents’ Lounge glass doors. Mercifully she seemed to be having trouble with the handle.

  ‘Freda, the gong! Quickly.’

  ‘I’m just going to.’

  As the girl sauntered over to the brass gong, Mrs Mountjoy burst forth like a grizzly from its lair.

  ‘You’re late, girl. Two minutes late.’

  ‘No, I’m not. The clock’s only just struck.’

  ‘Are you arguing with me?’

  ‘Well, see for yourself,’ Freda said cheekily.

  Stew came up to the desk. ‘Aren’t you going to say hallo to me?’

  ‘I’m rather busy at the moment.’

  ‘Come on, Honor, you won’t even look at me.’

  ‘I’m busy, I told you.’

  ‘That’s a load of rubbish.’ He put his hand on her arm. ‘What’s up?’

  She took her eyes off his hand. Stepped back away from it, out of reach. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. What’s bitten you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said again.

  He said quietly, ‘You forgotten Newquay?’

  ‘Surely you didn’t expect me to take that seriously?’

  Freda started banging the gong, drowning his answer and as the booming died away, Mrs Mountjoy waddled up to the desk, elbowed Stew aside and rapped her stick on the counter.

  ‘Miss Frost, I demand that you fetch Miss Hargreaves this instant. That new creature has just been grossly impertinent to me. I won’t stand for it.’

  Stew rounded on her. ‘I’ll be more than that, lady, if you don’t shut up. Go and put your nosebag on.’

  Freda clapped her hand over her mouth and let out a loud snort of laughter. Mrs Mountjoy turned a livid red.

  ‘How dare you! Miss Frost, are you going to just stand there and let this oaf insult me?’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Mountjoy, Sergeant Brenner is leaving.’

  ‘Hell, no I’m not—’

  ‘Please go, Stew. You’ve done quite enough damage.’

  He looked at her. ‘You really want me to go? You mean that?’

  ‘Yes. Now, please. At once.’

  He went on looking at her for a moment longer, and then shrugged. ‘OK. If that’s the way you want it. Come on, Piers, let’s get out of here.’

  The revolving door went on racketing round and round and round after them. Mrs Mountjoy’s bosom swelled.

  ‘That’s what comes of letting riff-raff in.’

  Piers left Stew, still fuming, in the car outside Peggy’s house.

  The door was answered by a man dressed in labourer’s clothes who looked him up and down.

  ‘You’ll be Pilot Officer Wentworth-Young, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘Yes, actually—’

  ‘I’m Peggy’s dad. I dare say you’ve come lookin’ for her, then.’

  ‘Well, yes—’

  ‘Sorry, sir, but she won’t see you.’

  ‘But I don’t understand—’

  ‘No, I can tell you don’t. And I don’t think you ever have. She’s a good girl, our Peggy. Just lost her head for a bit, that’s all. Got too fond of you, sir. Nothin’ to be ashamed of, so long as it didn’t go no further.’

  He said, dismayed, ‘I want to marry Peggy, Mr Barton. I was going to ask your permission.’

  ‘I know. She told me that. But I’d never’ve given it. I knew she’d come to her senses in the end. You’ll have to forget all about her, sir. Peggy’s goin’ away to live in a hostel. She’s goin’ to get work in a factory. I’m not against that. A sight more useful’n waiting tables, to my way of thinkin’. She’s written you a letter. Asked me to give it to you.’ He tugged a crumpled envelope out of his pocket. ‘Here you are, sir.’

  She’d written his name on it in pencil. Pilat Officer Peers Wentwerth-Young.

  ‘Not your fault,’ Peggy’s father was saying. ‘You meant well, I’m sure. But it’d never have done. Not for her, and not for you.’

  ‘Could I see her? Just for a moment, at least.’

  ‘Sorry. Much better for you both if you don’t.’ Mr Barton looked at him quite kindly. ‘Goodbye, lad.’

  The door shut in his face. He put the letter away in his pocket and walked down the path.

  ‘Flaming bloody women,’ Stew growled as he opened the car door. ‘Let’s go and get soused.’

  ‘I gave him the letter, Peggy.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  ‘It was for the best.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘He’s a nice lad, I can tell that, but it’d never’ve done.’

  ‘I know.’ She peered round the edge of the window. The car was just going and she caught a glimpse of Piers and another RAF gentleman with him. Only a glimpse. She’d scarcely been able to see him at all really – just the back of his head and the cap – and now she would never see him again. Tears started trickling down her cheeks and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. The letter had taken her hours to do. She wasn’t sure how to spell some words and her writing wasn’t very good, but the h
ardest part was saying it right. She’d begun it over and over again and kept tearing up sheets out of the pad, wasting paper.

  Dear Peers,

  I’m very sorry but I do not want to see you agane. It’s my fait, because I never ought to have come out with you. I knew from the begining that it was not right.

  I could never marry you because we are to diferent and so we would not be happy together.

  Please do not try to come and see me any more.

  I hope you finish your tour safly and have a happy life.

  from,

  Peggy.

  The car was a black blur through her tears. She watched it moving away down the lane until it went round the corner out of sight.

  ‘I’d like to give notice, Miss Hargreaves.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m leaving your employment.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can, Miss Hargreaves. I’ll stay and work for the two weeks notice required, of course.’

  ‘You’re deserting me? Just like that? I call that extremely inconsiderate of you, Miss Frost. Most ungrateful.’

  ‘I rather feel it’s you who should be grateful to me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. You’ve had a free rein. Every latitude. Excellent conditions and pay. You won’t find it easy to find another post as good, you know.’

  ‘I shan’t be looking for a post anything like this. I’m going to do some kind of war work.’

  ‘The Services won’t have you – you realize that? You’d never pass the medical with your crippled leg.’

  ‘I know that perfectly well.’

  ‘They’ll put you in a factory. Munitions work.’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘Well, don’t expect my blessing. Or a good reference. You’ve let me down, Miss Frost. I’m most displeased.’

  Dorothy was standing in the rain feeding stale bread crusts to Marigold. She was a picky old thing all right; didn’t seem to think much of them at all.

  ‘You’ll just have to make do. There’s no corn left. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ She emptied the bowl and hurried back to the cottage, head bent against the rain, and ran slap into Harry.

  ‘Sorry, Dorothy. Didn’t mean to startle you. I’ve been knockin’ at front door.’ He looked soaked, like a big dog that had just been for a swim.