The Crew (15 page)

‘She hasn't even laid a single egg yet – at least I haven't found one.'

‘She will,' he told her. ‘For you.'

They had a cup of tea and some home-made biscuits in the cottage. The inside was a lot better than he'd expected, but he could see that was because of her. Everything was clean and bright, and there were little homely touches – flowers put round in jam jars, a pretty cloth on the table, the smell of fresh baking.

As she poured the tea, she asked Jock what he did in the crew. It was funny to see Jock, usually so curt, explaining it all to her nicely so's she could understand. He felt a bit left out, though, until she turned to him and asked what
he
did.

‘I'm the wireless operator,' he told her. But when he talked about fixes and codes and signal strengths it sounded right dull compared with Jock. The fact was that he was jack-of-all-trades in the aircraft, not just the W/Op. He was look-out in the astrodome and in charge of the Very pistol and knowing the colours of the day. He was the one who had to check for hang-ups in the bomb bay and inspect the flare chute to make sure the photo-flash had gone all right, and the one who had to remember to switch on the Identification Friend or Foe going out and coming home to show they weren't Jerries, and to wind out and wind in the trailing aerial by hand, which meant crawling on his stomach to reach it. He was supposed to understand the intercom system and how the navigator's equipment worked and to help him with the Gee fixes. And it was his job to look after the bloody carrier pigeon. On top of all that, they expected him to be able to give first aid.

He'd like to have told her about all that, and about how hard he had to concentrate to hear the signals with all the engine noise and the interference and the static, and how his station was called the sweatshop because it was the hottest place in the Lane, right beside the warm air outlet, and how everyone else always wanted the heat turned full on, so he always roasted. And how he'd done six weeks at gunnery school as well as his wireless op training, so he was a gunner too, not just a knob twiddler. He didn't tell
her any of this, though. Instead he went on drinking his tea in silence while the others talked.

Jock had finished work on the bike and Charlie's mother rode it up and down the road to make sure the chain was working properly. Then Jock adjusted the saddle height and the handlebars so that they were more comfortable for her. Harry watched, wishing there was something else he could do to help. Before they left, he asked her if there was.

She hesitated. ‘Well, there
is
one thing . . . but you've already done so much.'

‘I meant what I said, Mrs Banks.' He waited hopefully.

‘Well, the wireless here doesn't work,' she said at last. ‘But I don't suppose anything can be done with it. It's just that it'd be nice having something to listen to in the evenings . . . and maybe with you being what you are, you might know what's wrong.'

‘I'll take a look,' he told her, ‘but I'm not a wireless mechanic. That's a different thing.'

‘I'm sorry.' She blushed. ‘How stupid of me!'

He cursed his own stupidity. ‘Why don't I take it with me? If
I
can't make it work I can get one of our lads to see to it. I'll bring it back soon as it's done.'

It was a heavy old thing, all dark brown varnish and brass trim. He had to walk all the way back to the station, balancing it on the handlebars of his bike while Jock and Charlie zoomed on ahead. But he didn't mind a scrap.

Stew had cadged a lift with Piers into Lincoln, though he got the feeling Piers wasn't that keen on taking him. Probably had some sheila lined up and didn't
want him around. Fair enough. He'd make himself scarce once they got into town. He wondered what she was like. Some snooty English rose, most likely. He couldn't see Piers with anything else. Personally, he couldn't stand the type, though he'd heard some of them weren't half so goody-goody as they pretended, not once you got past the thorns. Only he didn't have the patience.

‘Drop me off at The Angel, would you, old boy? If it's on your jolly old way.'

‘Actually, I'm going there myself.'

Are you now, Stew thought. Maybe I'll get a squint at her.

They drove into the city through the old gateway. It slayed Stew to think that the Romans would have gone under the very same arch in their chariots, or whatever they nipped about in. He looked up at the cathedral as they went past. He usually got a bird's-eye view of it, the other way round, looking down through the bomb aimer's window.

Piers said casually – too bloody casually, ‘I thought I'd have some dinner there.'

‘Frightfully good idea, old chap.'

‘I suppose you wouldn't like to join me?'

Now that was a surprise. Three's a bloody crowd. Perhaps he'd got the whole thing wrong, after all. ‘Can't afford it, sport.'

Piers went a bit red round the gills. ‘I could lend you some money.'

Stew hesitated. He wouldn't have said no to a free meal but it went against the grain with him to borrow. Never did unless he was in a real jam. Besides, Piers had probably only offered because he was too polite to tell him to piss off. No, he'd nip into the hotel and
find out about the room, then he'd toddle on down to The Saracen's Head for a couple of beers.

He shook his head. ‘Thanks all the same. I'm only going in to ask about their rooms – for someone I know.' No point explaining Doreen to Piers.

They parked the car and went through the squeaky revolving door into the hotel foyer. Piers went off to the dining-room and Stew sauntered over to the reception desk. He could hear the typewriter clattering away and see through the glass door into the inner office. The same girl was sitting at the desk, pounding at the keys. She went on typing without looking round, so he picked up the brass bell on the counter and shook it. No response. No sign that she'd heard or noticed and yet he had a feeling she knew damn well that he was there. He picked up the bell again and rang it louder and longer. She stopped typing then and came out to the desk, but she didn't hurry or look like she was overjoyed to see him. He kept his cap on.

‘Did you want something?'

No ‘sir' like with Piers, he noted. ‘Yeah. If you can spare the time.' He injected a dose of sarcasm into it. ‘I'd like to know the price of your rooms.'

‘Double or single?'

‘Single.' He leaned an arm on the counter and she moved further along, well away from him.

‘That would be fifteen shillings per night, breakfast included.'

‘Bit steep, isn't it?'

‘Perhaps you'd prefer to look elsewhere.'

‘Before I make up my mind about that, I'd like to see some rooms.'

She frowned. ‘Only one of the singles is unoccupied at the moment.'

‘I'll see that, then.'

‘It might not be available for you.'

‘Doesn't matter. It'll give me a clue what the rest're like, won't it?'

She shrugged and took down a key from the row of hooks on the wall behind her. ‘If you'll come this way, then.'

He followed her up the stairs. She had quite a bit of trouble getting up them with that foot of hers, he noticed, though she tried hard not to show it. Too bad. The legs were pretty good otherwise. Better than he remembered.

They went along a corridor. Good grief, it was gloomy! Dried blood carpet, porridge wallpaper, more pictures of cattle in fog and a couple of stuffed foxes' heads snarling down. The room, though, was a lot nicer than he had expected. It overlooked a garden at the back of the hotel, and the evening sun was coming in through the window, cheering things up no end. And the bed looked comfortable. He went and sat on the edge of it and bounced up and down.

She was standing over by the wardrobe, as far away as possible, acting as though there was a bad smell in the room. Just to annoy her, he swung his feet up onto the bed and lay there at ease, hands linked behind his head.

‘Would you mind not putting your shoes on the counterpane.'

He turned his head to look at her. Yes, she was annoyed, all right. Good.

‘Have to test it properly, don't I? Where's that door in the wall go?'

‘It connects to the next room.'

‘Another single?'

‘Yes. Occupied.' She jangled the key in her hand. ‘Did you wish to book this one, then?'

‘I'll let you know.'

His next leave was still four weeks away and first he'd need to find out from Doreen for sure if she could get away. If she could, he'd book the two connecting singles, if possible. No chance of getting away with a double and the Mr and Mrs Smith routine here. He put his feet to the floor and stood up, the springs twanging.

‘I suggest you do so as soon as possible. We get very booked up, especially at weekends.'

She moved towards the door but he was nearer to it and he blocked her way, standing close – just to annoy her some more. She'd got a beautiful skin: he'd never seen one as good. On second thoughts, maybe she didn't need a load of make-up like most girls. ‘What's your name?'

‘I don't see—'

‘I might want to ring about the booking. You're in charge, aren't you?'

‘It's Miss Frost.' She hissed it at him.

‘I already told you mine.'

‘I'm afraid I don't remember.'

‘Stewart Brenner. Everyone calls me Stew.'

‘Really? Well, if you'll excuse me, Mr Brenner, I've got a lot of work to do.'

‘Sergeant.' He tapped the stripes on his arm.

‘If you'll excuse me,
Sergeant
Brenner . . .'

He moved away from the door and she limped past him as fast as she could. After you, Miss Iceberg, he muttered under his breath. He followed her downstairs, determined not to let it rest there, but there was some doddery old codger waiting at the
reception desk and she started fussing all over him, sweet as pie.

‘Yes, of
course
, Colonel. Don't worry, Colonel, I'll see to it right away.'

He decided to go and take a gander at what Piers was up to in the dining-room, and she called after him, ‘That's not the way out, Sergeant.'

‘I'm not leaving yet.'

He peered through the glass panels in the doors and caught sight of Piers sitting at a table, drinking his soup, all alone. No sheila in sight. Bloody odd.

‘I say, do you think I could possibly have some more water, Peggy?'

‘Certainly, sir.' She smiled at him as she stopped by his table, and Piers watched her go off towards the kitchens, carrying the empty jug. After a while she came back with it refilled.

‘Shall I put some in your glass for you, sir?'

‘Oh, thanks awfully.'

‘Are you finished with your soup, then?'

‘Gosh, yes, thanks.'

‘Was it all right, sir?'

‘Oh yes, frightfully good.' He couldn't even remember what it had been supposed to be . . . some kind of vegetable thing.

She smiled at him again – but then he'd noticed that she smiled at everybody as she went round the tables, even at that appalling old woman in the corner who kept grumbling in a loud voice. ‘I'll bring you your chicken, then, sir. If you're ready.'

‘Jolly good.'

She bent a little closer and whispered. ‘It's rabbit
really, sir . . . but don't say I said so or I'll get into trouble.'

‘Oh, I won't,' he promised. Wild horses couldn't have dragged it out of him.

He followed her with his eyes as she went off again. After the chicken there'd be the pudding and she'd have to come and see what he'd decided to have. That was going to be his chance. He could ask her then – if he could get up the courage. He'd rehearsed what he was going to say.
I was wondering if you'd care to come out with me, one evening, Peggy? I thought perhaps we might go to the cinema, or to the theatre?
There was actually quite a decent little theatre in Lincoln. Or dinner somewhere? Whatever she wanted.
If
she wanted at all. She'd probably turn him down flat. Probably had lots of boyfriends taking her out all the time. Bound to.

Driving in, he'd felt so nervous about asking her that he'd gone and asked Stew to join him so he'd have the excuse of putting it off till another time. But Stew was up to something else so there was nothing to stop him jolly well speaking up.

She was back with the chicken – or rabbit, rather. It was smothered in a white sauce so he couldn't see it properly, anyway. Well-disguised. She winked at him as she set the plate before him, together with a dish of carrots and boiled potatoes. ‘There's your
chicken
, sir.'

He wasn't very hungry, but he ate his way through it doggedly. In spite of the sauce, he would have known it wasn't chicken; they'd had rabbit enough times in the Mess to be able to recognize the taste. When he'd finished he had to wait for a while before she came back to his table. The dining-room was full and she was scurrying here and there, attending to
everybody. The old waiter didn't seem to do anything – just stand around, snapping his fingers at her. At last she came over, looking hot and bothered.

‘I'm very sorry to be so long, sir. We're ever so busy this evening. I've been rushed off my feet.'

‘It doesn't matter at all,' he said quickly. ‘I'm not in any hurry.'

‘Thank goodness for that.' She took the pencil from behind her ear and held up the little notepad that hung on the end of a chain from her waist. ‘What would you like for sweet, then, sir?'

It was stewed apples and custard, or sultana roll and custard, or gooseberry tart and custard.

‘Gosh, which do you recommend?'

‘The gooseberry tart,' she said, without hesitation. ‘They're from the garden here.'

‘Right . . .' He took a gulp of water.