The Crew (19 page)

The girl finally got down to a small circle of standing corn and a rabbit came out much slower than the rest. Stew raised the shotgun yet again, fired as it loped past and saw it fall to the ground. He went over and picked it up by the hind legs. There was a grizzled look to the fur, a rheumy look to the open eyes. Poor old grandad, left behind when the rest were deserting the sinking ship.

He met Bert half way across the field and, stone the crows, he was carrying several of the little sods, dangling from each hand. Six, when he counted them –
six
to his one. And Bert was grinning all over his face, pleased as bloody punch with himself. Well, he knew when it was the time to be gracious, give credit
where credit was due. Besides, it was nice to know their mid-upper could hit
something.

At the farmhouse spread – and Jock hadn't lied about that – he made sure he sat next to the girl. Beat Jock to the empty chair by a short head. With the cap off, he thought she looked even cuter.

‘When do land-girls get time off?'

‘We don't during the harvest.'

‘How about after?'

‘We get a week's holiday a year, Sundays and a half day. Sometimes we get a long weekend, but not often. There's too much to do.'

‘Sounds like slave labour.'

‘It may be for some,' she said. ‘But I like the work. And they treat me like family.'

‘Where's your real family?'

‘I don't have one,' she said. ‘I come from an orphanage. And, by the way, Aussie, you're wasting your time. Just thought I'd tell you that now, so's you'd know.' She picked up a plate and shoved it under his nose. ‘Have another scone.'

It wasn't his day, Stew decided. You win some, you lose some. Rabbits, sheilas . . . what the hell!

The tea had been a real blow-out, and the old girl gave them each half a dozen eggs when they were leaving. Like the others, he tucked his into his jacket breast pockets. It might have been an accident, though he bloody well doubted it, when Jock ran into his rear wheel, biking back to the station. Tipped him off so that he smashed every single flaming one.

It didn't finish there, though. There was a letter from Doreen waiting for him.

Dear Stew, Sorry I won't be able to come next weekend after
all. My mum's not well and I have to take care of her
 . . .

For mum, read Yank, he thought sourly. Or anybody with enough bait on the line. He went to phone The Angel and Miss Iceberg answered.

‘Sergeant Brenner speaking. About those two single rooms I booked – I've got to cancel.'

‘Sergeant who?'

‘Stew Brenner.' She knew bloody well who it was. ‘Miss Roberts can't make it.'

‘That doesn't give us much notice.'

‘Well, she can't get here. Someone's ill.' His temper was short after everything, and she'd no call to sound so flaming disapproving. Miss Roberts could be his maiden aunt for all she knew. Unlikely, it was true, but possible.

‘I suppose you'll be wanting to cancel both rooms, then?'

‘Not necessarily.'

‘Well, yes or no, Sergeant? I can't keep the booking open.'

He considered the situation. What the hell was he going to do with his leave, anyway? There was nowhere to go except London and he was getting tired of it on his own. Besides, you could spend a bloody fortune down there, if you weren't careful. Maybe he could stay at The Angel for the weekend – take it easy for a bit, be waited on hand and foot, and see what he could find in Lincoln? That still left time to head off to London if he felt like it.

‘Sergeant? I haven't got all day . . .'

‘I'll keep one room,' he said.

‘For
you?
'

‘That's right, sweetheart. For me. See you soon.' He hooked the receiver back and grinned.

Mrs Mountjoy was making a big to-do over the soup again. She'd pushed it away from her, hardly touched, spoon plonked down in the middle.

‘This is
exactly
the same soup that I complained about yesterday, Peggy.'

‘I don't think so, madam. Yesterday's was pea soup. It's
potage au jardin
today.'

‘There you are! All that man has done is add some tinned carrots and given it a different name. Never been
near
the garden. It was uneatable yesterday and it's even more so today. It's scandalous with the prices they charge here.'

‘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. Doing 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.