Pastoral (26 page)

She stared at him. “Oh, Peter, I never thought of that. Does that mean you’ll be leaving Hartley?” He nodded. “After five more trips.”

“How long for?”

He said: “I was grounded for three months after the first one; they sent me to Stamford. But I don’t think I’ll be coming back to Hartley at all.” He was fingering her hand. “They don’t make us go on for a third tour in Bomber Command, unless we volunteer,” he said. “I’m not so keen on Germany as that. I want to get back to Coastal for a change, and fly a
Liberator in daylight.”

She said: “So you’ll be leaving altogether.”

He nodded. “After five more trips.”

“You could get through those in a fortnight,” Gervase said. “Then you’d be going.”

“I know.” He glanced at her, and they were now both deadly serious. “The one thing we haven’t got is time. I wanted you to know that—in case it might make a difference.”

She said: “I’ll remember that, Peter. Thank you for telling me.”

“I was wondering about next Sunday,” he said. “If I came back to the camp on Saturday, could you arrange to get Sunday off, all day, so that we could try the fishing before the crew come back?”

“I could if there isn’t an operation on,” she said. She smiled at him. “People will pull your leg if you get back before your leave is up.”

He laughed. “I can wear it. Will they pull yours?”

She said: “It’s different with us. We get asked if our intentions are strictly honourable.”

They laughed together, and presently they got up, and he took her back to Paddington by bus and train.

In the station they retrieved her bag from the cloak-room. And then, because the train was likely to be full of Air Force going back to Hartley or the Group off week-end leave, they went nosing round the outskirts of the station for a quiet corner, and presently found one, dim-lit, between a deserted mail-van and a pile of fish-boxes, with nobody about. And here they put the suitcase down and he kissed her, and they stood quietly together for a while, enjoying the last minutes.

“I’ve had a lovely time,” Gervase said softly. “Thank you for everything, Peter.”

He kissed her again, and presently they broke it up and she went off alone to catch the Oxford train. He stood among the fish-boxes and watched her through the crowd till she was out of sight.

Gervase got back to Hartley four hours later, happy enough, but tired to death. She went straight up to bed without waiting to have supper; as she undressed she ate a few of the sandwiches that they had put into her suitcase earlier in the day. She was so sleepy that she went to bed with a half-eaten sandwich still in her hand.

In the few minutes before sleep came to her she thought of
Marshall and his work. She was very glad his time in bombers was drawing to a close; he was a good bomber pilot, but she knew he would be happier in Coastal. No man, she thought, could really be happy in the risks and hazards of night bombing; you could be used to it and do it as a function of the war, but it was as unpleasant as riding in a tank. When he had done his second tour he would deserve to have a job that was fun; he wanted to fly a Liberator in Scotland, and he deserved to get what he wanted. She wondered, half asleep, if she would like Scotland. But that, she reflected, was quite premature, because she hadn’t made up her mind if she even liked Peter Marshall. Not nearly yet. She was smiling as she drifted into sleep.

She got a letter from him punctually by the first post on Tuesday morning, and read it in the privacy of her room. She answered it on Tuesday afternoon, when she was supposed to be resting for the coming operation, which was Dusseldorf. She spent the night on duty out at the Group W/T station. That night twenty-two machines left Hartley Magna. Sixteen came back, one landed in Essex, the crew of one baled out near Guildford, and four failed to return altogether.

She got another letter from him on Thursday, and on Thursday night the Wing went to Essen. Twenty-six machines took off, one of which hit a tree a mile away and crashed in a great sheet of flame that lit up the whole aerodrome. Twenty-one landed back at Hartley, one put down in Kent, and three failed to return. In the short space of two days the Wing had lost eight machines.

At Group Headquarters the next day Wing Commander Dobbie had a long talk with the Air Commodore. Dobbie was looking drawn and tired; he had flown all night in L for London with Sergeant Pilot Hogg, but instead of sleeping he had come to Group to talk about his casualties. “There’s no reason to make any change,” he said. “It’s just the luck of the game—two months ago we did six ops right off and never lost a machine. We’ve just had bad luck on these two. There was nothing in last night’s show that was at all unusual.”

The Air Commodore nodded. “I think that’s right. Charwick lost nobody at all last night. Wittington lost one. How are your crews taking it?”

The Wing Commander made a slight grimace. “Not quite so good,” he said. “They’re all so young.… I was going to ask if you could rest us for a week, and let me get them
up on the top line before the next one.”

“I’ll try.”

“Another thing, sir. I’ve got very few old stagers with me now. Johnson and Davy, Marshall and Lines, Nutter … really, you can count them on one hand. I wish you’d remember that in the drafting. It makes a big difference.”

“I know it does. I’ll see what I can do.” There was a pause. “You’ve got an E.N.S.A. concert to-morrow night, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir. That’ll help—if it’s a good one.”

“It’s quite a good show,” said Air Commodore Baxter. “I saw it the night before last at Wittington. I laughed a lot.”

Dobbie thought for a moment. “I shan’t do anything tonight,” he said. “It’s too soon. They’ll have the E.N.S.A. show to-morrow, and then on Sunday I’ll give them a surprise and we’ll have a dance. Can you square the Padre to let us have a dance on Sunday, sir.”

“I’ll fix him.”

“A surprise dance always goes down well,” said Dobbie. He paused for a minute, thoughtful. “It makes a lot of difference having all these W.A.A.F.s upon the station, when the crews are a bit down,” he said. “They recover much quicker.”

“I know. They talk it over with the girls and get it off their minds.”

Dobbie went back to Hartley, worked in his office for an hour, and then went back to his house for lunch, and to spend the afternoon in sleep. He was on the telephone at tea time mustering all his ground officers with a summons to dine in the mess that night, and to Flight Officer Stevens inviting the W.A.A.F. officers. He made similar arrangements for the sergeants’ mess; by six o’clock he was playing billiards in the lounge himself with Flight Lieutenant Davy and a couple of moody pilot officers.

Section Officer Robertson came in while he was playing, and stood watching the game for a minute. Dobbie ordered her a gin and Italian. “I wanted to see you,” he said. “This concert to-morrow night. What was the name of that tractor chap that we said we’d invite?”

“Ellison, sir.”

“I remember. And there was the farmer, too—Jack Barton. I want to ask them both to come and dine in the mess tomorrow night before the concert. Can you get hold of them?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Pity Marshall isn’t here,” said Dobbie. “He knows them both.”

Gervase said: “Flight Lieutenant Marshall will be back to-morrow night.” Immediately she wished she hadn’t said that.

“His leave isn’t up till Monday,” said the Wing Commander. He glanced at her, and a slow smile spread over his face. “Okay,” he said. “If he’s going to be here he can help entertain them.”

Everybody dined together in the mess that night, brightly cheerful, and afterwards they played snooker and darts and shove-halfpenny and poker and bridge. They made a great deal of noise and everybody very nearly had a marvellous time, and only two or three young men went creeping quietly to their rooms because they couldn’t bear it any longer.

Marshall arrived back in time for tea next day, to find the Wing Commander taking tea in the ante-room; at times like that Mrs. Dobbie saw little of her husband. Dobbie noticed him with satisfaction; he wanted all the old stagers on the station for the next few days to steady the young men. He said: “You’re back early.”

“The trains aren’t very good on Sunday,” said the pilot lamely. He had not expected to meet Dobbie before Monday. “Besides, I wanted to be here for the E.N.S.A. concert.”

There was a brazen quality about that statement that won Dobbie’s respect; a man who could say that he had come back early from his leave to listen to an E.N.S.A. concert was a man to be reckoned with. “Look,” he said quietly, “do what you can to make the party go to-night. I dare say you’ve heard about our luck.”

Marshall nodded. “I heard. You’re having the W.A.A.F.s in for dinner again?”

The Wing Commander nodded. “I asked your pal Ellison and Jack Barton. I’ll have Barton at the end table with me. You take Ellison down among the boys and get one or two of the W.A.A.F.s to help you whoop it up a bit.”

“Okay,” said Marshall.

“We’ll see if we can get Jack Barton to stage a rabbit hunt, or something, one afternoon next week,” said Dobbie. He went off to meet the E.N.S.A. party, who were fixing up their stage in the canteen, and to prime them with local jokes.

Marshall met Gervase in the lounge before dinner. He reintroduced her to Mr. Ellison, and they collected Section
Officer Ford, and Pat Johnson, and a dry little man in civilian clothes who was something to do with the E.N.S.A. party and whom they discovered later in the evening, to their cost, to be the chief comedian. They dined at the far end of the room from Winco and managed to drag into their party most of the table, driving back the shadows for a while. Three pilot officers, newly arrived that afternoon from operational training, quietly enquired about the two flight lieutenants, and were impressed to hear that one of them had fifty-four operations to his credit and the other fifty-five. Their first impression was that Hartley was a place where pilots lived long and had fun.

They moved on to the concert, Gervase sitting close by Marshall, with Ellison on her other side. There was a trick cyclist, and a lady with a piano-accordian, and a burlesque or two. And then their dinner guest came on and in long, rambling monologue told them about a flight lieutenant at a station he was visiting last week who went out fishing—“very fond of fishing, he was, and all his crew”—and caught an awful, ugly fish—“fair give you the cold shivers to look at that fish”—and brought it back upon his handle-bars. He spun it out for a good ten minutes and had the hall in fits of laughter all the time, which seemed to Marshall to be in poor taste. But after that a middle-aged young woman came on and sang about a nightingale in Berkeley Square, a song that both Gervase and Marshall admired very much. They contrived to rub knees while she was singing it without anybody noticing.

As they were leaving the hall in the crowd after the show they managed to exchange a few words in the privacy of the unheeding crowd. “All right for to-morrow?” Marshall said.

She nodded. “What time?”

“Shall we meet out there?”

“No, let’s ride out together. It doesn’t matter.” His heart warmed to her. “Half-past ten, outside Headquarters.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll get Mollie to cut some sandwiches.”

Marshall lay awake in bed for some time that night, reading
The Fisherman’s Vade Mecum
, and thinking about Gervase. He had achieved a good deal of purely theoretical knowledge of wet fly fishing by intensive study during the week, though not so much as might have been the case if his mind had not been occupied with his young woman.

It was sunny and bright next morning; they met outside Headquarters with their bicycles and rode out of the camp
together. They reached Kingslake an hour later, rode up to the front door and rang the bell. Gervase said: “Is Mrs. Carter-Hayes at home. We’ve come about the fishing.”

The maid said: “Mrs. Carter-Hayes is in her room, madam. But that will be quite all right.” She took them through the hall and opened the gun-room and left them to it.

Gervase and Marshall spent the next half-hour poking about among the fishing tackle. They found one cast already made up with three flies, and made up another with March Brown, Peter Ross, and Butcher. They found lines and wound them on the reels; presently they left the house and went down to the lake carrying rods, tackle, and a landing-net.

They fished for an hour; occasionally their flies were in the water, more often in a tree or bush. Even the unsophisticated trout in the little private lake shrank back from the resounding splash that their lines made in falling on the water; by lunch-time they were looking at each other ruefully. “Let’s have a sandwich and look at the book,” said Marshall.

“It’s difficult,” said Gervase. “It was like this when I used to try before.”

The pilot said: “It must be good fun when you can do it, though.”

They began to eat their sandwiches, sitting very close together by the lake and reading the same part of the book. “Well, that’s just what I’ve been doing,” said Gervase. Sitting as she was, sandwich in her left hand, she picked up the rod with her right, with a rod length of line hanging down. “It says you come back smartly, pause to let the line straighten out behind, and then cast forward.”

She suited the action to her words idly, sitting as she was. The line, carried by a puff of wind from behind, went forward and fell lightly on the water; they watched it ruefully. “Why can’t it do that when I’m trying properly?” she said.

There was a sudden boil at the tail fly, a pluck, and a little scream from the reel. She dropped her sandwich and grasped the butt of the rod with both hands; the little rod was bent like a bow and the taut line was still running from the reel. She said: “Oh, Peter!”

He scrambled to his feet urgently. “You’ve got a fish,” he said. “Keep the butt upright—that’s what it says in the book.”

She laughed, excited and triumphant. “You and your book! I know what to do now—I’ve seen my uncle doing it.”

She let the fish run, reeled him in a little, and let him run
again. The rod that she was using was very light; it took her ten minutes to wear him out. Finally she drew him to the bank exhausted; he made one more run when he saw the net, then Marshall slipped the net under him and they got him on shore. He was a nice big trout, about a pound and a quarter.