The Crew (17 page)

‘Oh, yes. Definitely. I could see it clearly in the
searchlights. They'd coned it. Then I saw it burst into flames.'

‘You're sure it went down?'

That's right. It went down fast.'

‘But you only saw
one
parachute?'

‘There might have been more later,' the rear gunner said. ‘But I couldn't keep watching. Sorry.' He looked upset.

‘No, of course you couldn't.' She bent her head over the form and went on with the questions. They'd bombed right on target – the Aussie bomb aimer gave her his customarily fierce look for that one – the flak had been heavy and a chunk of shrapnel had sliced through the fuselage and severed the navigator's oxygen supply, but they hadn't encountered any enemy night fighters. She let them go as soon as humanly possible and stayed at her table, watching the clock on the wall and waiting, even though she knew it was pointless.
They'd coned it . . . I saw it burst into flames.

O-Orange was the only Lane that hadn't yet returned from Düsseldorf: Peter's.

Nine

WHENEVER THEY HAD
a stand-down, Jock got off camp and rode around the countryside on his bike. He'd got used to living cheek by jowl with a crowd of others since the day he'd left home at fifteen, but, given the chance, he liked some time on his own. He did the circuit of the drome boundary, past Charlie's mother's cottage. Charlie's bike was propped against the hedge by the gate, and the front door was open, but he'd no intention of intruding. She'd want Charlie to herself as much as possible. Every moment would be precious when time might be running out. He felt very sorry for her, seeing how close she and Charlie were, but he also envied them. They understood and cared about each other – he'd seen that with his own two eyes. That's how a family should be. Charlie was a lucky lad.

Farther on, by the farm on the northern side of the drome, he heard the sound of a tractor working in the field on the other side of the hedge. He slowed to a stop by a gateway, balancing the bike with one foot on the ground, and watched the tractor chugging to and fro in the distance, towing a reaper-binder. It was a fine sight to see a good crop being harvested, going down cleanly before the knives, falling in neat, golden swathes. He admired the tractor going up and down a few more times, gradually working its way
closer to him. And frowned. His eyes approved the sight, but his ears told him that there was something wrong with the tractor's engine. It had started to miss badly and the sound offended him. What sort of a farmhand could go on driving it like that? He followed the machine's jerky progress and wasn't a bit surprised when the engine finally petered out and stopped. The figure in the driver's seat climbed down and stood, hands on hips, staring at the engine. He waited for a while longer, watching the man poking and prodding about and he could tell he hadn't a clue. When he could stand it no more, he leaned the bike against the hedge, padlocked it and climbed over the gate.

He strode round the edge of the standing corn and, as he drew near, he shouted out. ‘D'you need some help, mebbe?'

The figure turned round and, with a shock, he realized that it wasn't a man at all. It was a girl. The clothes had had him fooled at a distance. Women shouldn't wear those sort of things, he thought. It wasn't . . . well,
womanly.
Breeches like a man's and a flat tweed cap. No wonder he'd been mistaken.

‘Where did
you
spring from?'

‘I was passing – on my bike.' He jerked a thumb towards the road. ‘I could see you were in trouble.'

She took off the cap and scratched her head; her hair was almost as short as a man's and looked as though it had been cut with sheep shears. It stuck out raggedly round a thin face burned brown by the sun. He'd never seen a lass look so unfeminine.

‘It just stopped. I don't know what's the matter with it.'

‘It's missing. Couldna you tell?'

‘Well, I could tell
something
was wrong by the sound of it, that's all. Can you mend it?'

‘Aye, I should think so. Probably dirt in the fuel. I'll take a look.' He took off his battledress jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. They shouldn't let females drive the things anyway. Tractors were dangerous. You could tip them over and get crushed, easy as anything.

There was a tool box on the tractor, but half of what should have been in it was missing, which didn't help the job. He found he was right about the dirt. Most likely muck from the bottom of a rusty fuel tank. She'd let it run too low and that had done the damage. He soon had it cleared and while he was at it, he checked over the rest of the engine, making adjustments here and there. He wouldn't have been surprised to find a bird's nest; it didn't look as though anyone had touched it for months. The girl watched him in silence, thumbs stuck in her breeches' front pockets, chewing on a piece of straw. He went round to the front of the tractor to swing the handle. The engine started up on the third swing, running smooth and true.

‘She'll be all right now.'

‘Thanks a lot.' She raised her voice above the din. ‘What was wrong?'

‘Dirt in the fuel, just like I said. Rust particles on the bottom of the tank. Don't let her run low or she could do it again.'

She peered out at him from under the peak of her cap. ‘You look as though you know about engines. Are you a mechanic or something?'

‘I'm a flight engineer,' he said stiffly. ‘On Lancasters.'

‘I'm a land-girl.'

‘Aye, I thought you must be something like that – by the clothes.'

She laughed. ‘The cap's the farmer's. I like it better than the uniform one we're supposed to wear. Well, I'd better get back to work. Thanks again.' She hopped up into the driver's seat and looked down at him. ‘I could do with a hand stooking, if you've nothing better to do.'

He glanced towards the long trail of sheaves left lying in the stubble. ‘All that?'

She grinned. ‘And the rest. Don't blame you if you don't fancy the job. If it's too much for you.'

He yanked his tie undone. ‘Get going, then.'

He toiled under the hot sun for the rest of the afternoon, propping the sheaves of corn up against each other in rows of stooks across the field. As soon as she had finished the reaping, the girl stopped the tractor and came to help him and they worked together. She was strong, he saw, in spite of being thin, and she could almost match him for speed. It was a while since he'd done any PT and it showed. Getting soft, he thought ruefully, wiping his forehead. Too much sitting on his backside in a bomber.

With the last stook done, she took off her tweed cap and fanned herself. ‘Tea-time. Come back to the house for a bite. They'd want you to. They're nice.'

He hesitated but she was already walking away from him and, after a moment, he collected his battledress jacket and tie and followed. He rode down to the farmhouse, standing behind her on the tractor and she took him into the kitchen where the table was loaded with the kind of spread he'd never seen before in his life: home-baked scones, butter, jam, cream, honey, cake, ham, eggs . . . The farmer's wife, wielding
a huge brown teapot, refilled his cup again and again and pressed him to eat until he could eat no more. He noticed that the girl ate plenty, too. No dainty picking at her food.

‘Come over again for tea, whenever you want, Jock,' Mrs Gibbs told him. ‘And bring some of the other lads from the station. We'd like to have you.'

As he was leaving she pressed a clutch of warm eggs into his hands. ‘Wages – for all that work in the five-acre. Helping Ruth.'

The land-girl came to see him off. ‘She meant that, you know – about coming again. For tea.'

‘Och, well—'

‘They could do with a hand with the harvest – if you get any time spare. There's only me and an old man.'

‘I'll try,' he said. ‘But we never know.'

She looked at him from under the cap brim, arms folded across her thin chest and nodded. ‘If you can.'

He walked back to where he'd left his bike, the eggs tucked carefully in his battledress jacket pockets.

The faint memory of a bible story came back to him from a school scripture class of long ago – something about Ruth in a corn field.

‘I've brought it back.'

When Dorothy opened the front door she found Harry standing on the path in the evening sunshine. He was cradling the old wireless in his arms.

‘I got it going,' he went on. ‘Well, with a bit of help from one of our mechanics. It needed some parts.'

‘I'm ever so grateful.'

‘Will I bring it in?'

‘Thank you.' She stood back to let him enter and he carried the wireless through to the sitting-room
and set it down on its shelf. ‘Shall I turn it on – just to make sure it's all right?'

She nodded. ‘If you've got a moment.'

He switched on the knob and the yellow light glowed on the dial. ‘Give it a moment to warm up, then we'll try it,' he said. ‘What would you like? Home or Light?'

‘The Light, please.'

He turned the tuning knob and there was a lot of crackling until, suddenly, clear as a bell, Mrs Mopp shrieked out in her corncrake voice, ‘Can I do you now, sir?'

She clasped her hands, delighted. ‘Oh, I love ITMA. It's my favourite programme.'

‘Mine, too,' Harry said.

‘Would you like to stay and listen to it?'

‘Only if you don't mind?'

‘Of course I don't.'

He took off his cap and they sat down in the easy chairs. Mrs Mopp was giving His Washout the Mayor, Tommy Handley, a jar of carrot jelly . . . ‘strained through me own jumper' she told him proudly, and the audience in the studio roared with laughter. So did Dorothy, and Harry joined in. They laughed at Ali Oop, the pedlar: ‘I go – I come back', Claud and Cecil, the brokers' men: ‘After you Claud. No, after
you
, Cecil.' Funf, the German spy with his sauerkraut feet: ‘This is Funf speaking.' And the Diver, who always said, ‘Don't forget the diver, gents. Don't forget the diver. I'm going down now.'

At the end of the programme Harry stood up – a bit reluctantly, she thought. ‘Well, I'd best be off, Mrs Banks. Thank you for letting me listen.'

‘Goodness, it's me should be thanking
you
, Harry.
You've been so kind. It'll be lovely having the wireless to listen to.'

‘Must get a bit lonely here sometimes. All on your own.'

‘Not really. Not with Charlie so near. And then I've got my work at the army camp. That keeps me busy.' She didn't enjoy it much. It was mostly washing-up and peeling vegetables and not really cooking at all, like they'd made out. Just skivvying, really. Still it was doing something useful. Her bit. She turned off the wireless. ‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go?'

‘If it's not a bother.' He was all consideration. So polite and never pushing himself forward. He came to stand in the kitchen doorway and watched her setting the cups out on the tray, seeming to fill the space, with his head nearly touching the lintel – such a big man compared with Charlie.

‘If you don't mind my sayin' so, Mrs Banks, you must've been married very young.'

He said ‘moost', not ‘must' and she thought how the Yorkshire accent suited him. He spoke as he looked: not a man to rush anything – deliberate and dependable.

‘I was sixteen. Charlie was born a year later.' She could see him doing sums in his head. ‘Charlie lied about his age at the recruiting office, but I expect you know that.'

He smiled slowly. ‘Matter of fact, I lied about mine, too. Only t'other way round. Said I was much younger, so they'd take me. I'm really thirty-four.'

‘Then we're exactly the same age.'

He nodded. ‘So we are.'

She made the tea and he carried the tray through to the sitting-room for her. When they were sitting
down, drinking it, he said awkwardly, ‘You mustn't worry about Charlie.'

‘I try not to.'

‘We'll take good care of him.'

‘I know you'll do your best. Thank you.'

‘Sam comes with us on every op, did you know?'

‘Charlie told me. When I watch the bombers take off I think of Sam, up there, going with you. Bringing you luck.' She put her cup down in the saucer carefully. ‘The rear turret – where Charlie sits – it looks a very dangerous place to be.'

‘Nay, no more than anywhere else,' he said. ‘And he's got the guns. He's very good with the guns, is Charlie.'

But she went on, unable to stop herself, ‘When I went into the village shop the other day, they were talking about a rear gunner at Beningby who'd been killed on a raid. Hit by a shell. They said he'd had to be hosed out of the turret. Those were their very words. It's been on my mind ever since. I can't stop thinking about it.'

Two women, hair curlers under their headscarves, shopping baskets hooked over their arms, had been gossiping at the post office counter in the corner. They hadn't noticed her come in, and when Mrs Dane had caught sight of her standing by the door, she'd shushed the other two at once.

‘You don't want to take no notice of them,' she'd said to her later, snipping the sugar coupons out of her ration book with the points of her big scissors. Snip, snip, snip. ‘It's all made up.'

Of course, she
had
taken notice, had pictured it very clearly.
Hosed out.
She could see the swooshing jet of water, the red blood swirling, shreds of mangled flesh,
splintered white bone, bits of blue uniform . . . If that ever happened to Charlie she'd want to die herself.

The wireless operator was looking red in the face and angry. ‘That's a load of rubbish. Some folks like nothing better than to spread gory tales like that. It's just a pack of lies.'