The Crew (20 page)

Lying in bed later, she remembered his other name. Piers. That's what he'd said. She'd never heard the name before, and it suited him.
Piers.
A real gentleman's name. Fancy him wanting to take her out.

They were half-way to Munich when Bert realized he'd brought Victor by mistake. He'd clean forgotten he was still in his left-hand breast pocket. Emerald's bra and knickers were stuffed in the right-hand one – her latest good-luck present to go with the silk stocking round his neck. What with Victor on one side and those on the other, he must look like Mae West even without his Mae West. He groped beneath the life jacket and his flying suit, and felt for the snake. He seemed OK, though he wasn't too lively. Probably a bit woozy from lack of oxygen. Harry's carrier pigeon spent the time on ops with its head under its wing, fast asleep. Lucky sods, both of them. Wake up when it was all over. That would be just the ticket. Suit him no end.

‘Skipper to mid-upper. OK, Bert?'

He clicked his mike switch on. ‘OK, skipper.'

No chance of a kip for him. No peace for the wicked. Got to keep lively and looking round the whole bloody time. He rotated the turret slowly, scanning the night sky. The moon would make it easier for the Jerries to spot them. On the other hand, he'd be able to see
them
easier too. Since getting those six rabbits, he'd been feeling a whole lot better about himself. Nice neat deflection shots, just like he'd been taught in gunnery training. Same as if they'd been Jerry fighters zipping past his turret. Stew had been flabbergasted. Mouth wide open when he'd seen them all. Well, he'd flabbered his own gast, to tell the truth. Though he hadn't told it. Acted like it was nothing special to him at all.

The Lane droned on through the darkness. On and on and on. Drone, drone, drone. Bloody miles to go to the target. Bloody miles back again. Still, shouldn't be too dicey by the sound of it, and the Pathfinder blokes would be marking it with flares before they got there. Not half the pissing around since
they'd
got in on the act. Piece of cake for Stew. They'd be in and out like a dose of bloody salts.

Speaking of doses of salts, maybe he should have taken one. Must've eaten something that'd given him the collywobbles. His guts were bloody killing him. He pressed the mike switch on again.

‘Mid-upper to skipper.'

‘What is it, Bert?'

‘Permission to leave the turret?'

‘What for?'

‘Elsan, skipper.'

‘Sorry, mid-upper. Not now. Too many night fighters around looking for us.'

‘Put a cork in it, Bert.' That was from Stew, of course.

Bert sat and suffered. Well, it was the last op before they went on leave. Six days with Emerald in a nice little place in Cleethorpes. Forget about the bloody war. Forget about everything but him and Emerald. He couldn't wait. He patted the right side of his chest directly over the pocket that held the bra and knickers, and then the other side too, just in case Victor was feeling left out of things. Not that he'd take him, of course. Emerald wouldn't put up with that. Poor old Victor would have to stay behind in his shoe box.

Six whole wonderful bloody days.

‘You're going to London, then, Van?'

‘That's what I figured. Take in a show or two. See the sights. Why?'

‘It seems a bit lonely. Of course, you haven't got a home to go to over here, like us. That's so sad.'

‘What do you suggest then, Catherine?'

‘Well . . . I've got a few days leave due, too. As it so happens.'

‘No kidding?' he said politely, hiding his amazement.

‘And I live in York. Or rather, my mother does. It's not too far away. Easy by train. And it's rather a beautiful old city.'

‘We have the new version.'

‘So you do. I'd never thought of that.'

‘I'd sure like to see the old one.'

‘I think you'd enjoy it. And my mother's always been fascinated by America. I know she'd love to meet you.'

‘I'd love to meet her. How about your father?'

‘He was killed in France, serving in the army. At Dunkirk.'

‘Hell, I'm sorry . . .'

‘Thank you.'

She spoke calmly but he saw the sadness in her eyes. She wasn't going to talk about it, though. Nobody over here did. He'd never seen open grief.

‘Would you like me to ask my mother, then?'

‘I guess that rather depends on you.'

‘On me?'

‘Whether
you
want me there.'

A pause. Rather too long for his liking. ‘It's the very least we can do. Unless, of course, you'd rather go to London . . .'

‘No,' he said. ‘I'd much rather go to York.'

Ten

‘
I'VE BROUGHT YOU
some chocolate, Mum.'

‘Oh, Charlie, you shouldn't have.'

He swung his kit-bag off his shoulder, set it down and took the paper bag out of the top. ‘There's some boiled sweets, too.'

She peered into the paper bag. ‘Wherever did you get all this?'

‘We're given it when we go on ops.'

‘But why don't you eat them?'

‘I forget.' He'd saved them all up for her specially, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

‘Charlie, I don't want them – really I don't. I've got my ration if I want any sweets.'

‘Not much is it, though? Half-a-pound a month. I just thought you'd like some extra.' He could tell she was ready to give it all back and added quickly, ‘I'll help you eat them, if you like. Seeing as I'm here for a while.'

She smiled at him. ‘All right then. We'll share them. But don't you dare bring me any more. In future, I want you to eat them yourself, like they're meant for.'

She'd done a good bit more to the garden, he saw, when he went out and wandered around. There were lots of flowers blooming in the front, all different kinds and colours jumbled up together and looking
as pretty as a picture postcard. He told her so when she came out to join him.

‘I've picked some of the beans for your supper. And dug up some potatoes. There're hardly any peas though. Something ate most of the plants. Mr Stonor says it was probably slugs.'

‘How's Marigold?'

‘Blooming. She's been laying every day. I've saved the eggs for your leave.'

‘You oughtn't to have done that, Mum.'

‘Oh, I didn't need them.'

We've both been saving things up, he thought, and going without. And neither of us would want the other to do it. Funny, really . . .

‘Harry came and mended the gutter for me,' she said, pointing up at the roof. ‘It doesn't leak any more. It was very good of him.'

People often did things for Mum – he'd noticed that. They liked her and wanted to help, with her being all on her own. He had a feeling, though, that Harry liked Mum more than the usual amount, though he'd never said a word and wasn't going to.

‘Does the wireless still work OK?'

‘Oh yes, and it's wonderful. I sit and listen to it in the evenings. It's lovely.'

He was glad of that. Glad of anything that made it less lonely for her and stopped her worrying. ‘I almost forgot – I brought someone with me. Someone you know well.'

‘Whatever do you mean, Charlie?'

He fetched Sam from the kit-bag and handed him over. ‘He's come home on leave too.'

Harry stood in the train corridor, feet planted wide apart, back pressed up against the compartment behind him. No empty seats in third-class, as usual, so he'd probably be standing all the way to London. His present for Paulette lay in the kit-bag propped beside him, wrapped up ready to give her: a luminous china rabbit that he'd found in a shop in Lincoln. He'd seen it in the window and thought it looked the sort of thing a little girl might like, with its one ear up and one ear down. And she'd be able to see it in the dark when she was in bed.

He was longing to see her, though he dreaded the sort of greeting he'd probably get. And maybe she wouldn't even remember him, after all this time. Maybe she wouldn't even be there. It didn't mean a thing that he'd written ahead. Rita would suit herself. They might go out for the day on purpose to avoid him. He wouldn't put anything past her. He didn't hate her – he didn't hate anybody – but if it hadn't been for Paulette, he'd never have wanted to set eyes on Rita again.

When the war was over he'd got to find himself a place of his own so Paulette could come and stay with him when she was older, and they could get to know each other. Rita wouldn't be able to stop that; the court had given him the right. He'd look for a small flat, same as he'd had before – with two bedrooms, if possible, or he could sleep on the settee when Paulette came to stay. What he'd really like, though, would be a cottage like the one Charlie's mother was renting. All the better if it needed some work doing to it. He'd enjoy that. He was good with his hands. He could mend things and put up shelves and paint walls, do pretty well anything round a house. He pictured it in
his mind's eye: a little house with a blue door and a front garden full of flowers. He was standing at the gate, looking at it and, as he did so, the door opened and Dorothy was there, smiling at him.

The train jolted him out of his dream. They were coming into a station and a five-deep crowd of army blokes, kit-bags on shoulders, elbows up at the ready like battering rams, lined the platform. He braced himself for the scrum.

In London he took the tube out to Rickmansworth and walked from the station to Sycamore Avenue. As he opened the gate to number sixteen, he caught a glimpse of a child's face at one of the upstairs windows. It was gone in a flash but it must have been Paulette. He went up the crazy-paving path and rang the bell. He felt hot and grubby after the long journey and knew he must look it. When Rita opened the door he could tell she was pretending to be surprised to see him.

‘Harry! We weren't expecting you.'

‘I wrote I'd be coming. I'm on leave.'

She was still pretty, he thought. Still all dolled-up in smart clothes and make-up in spite of the coupons and the prices and the shortages. He wondered how she managed it.

‘Well, we didn't get the letter.'

He knew she was lying but there was no point arguing. ‘Anyway, I'm here. To see Paulette.'

‘She's out for the day, I'm afraid. She's gone to a friend's.'

He looked at her steadily, at her hard, painted face. ‘No, she's not, Rita. I saw her just now at an upstairs window.' She opened her mouth to deny it, but he cut her short. ‘I'd like to see her, please – just for a while.
And I'll remind you that I'm her father and the law says I've a right to do so. It was agreed in the court.'

‘It always upsets her. She's a very sensitive child.'

‘She's my daughter, Rita, as well as yours. And I've come a long way to see her.'

She shrugged. ‘All right, if you must. I suppose you'd better come inside. I don't want you taking her off somewhere – it only tires her.'

He'd never been into the house before, always collected Paulette from the front door. It hadn't been built that long, he guessed, probably only a few years before the war had started. The hall floor was made of varnished wood blocks, fitted together in a herringbone pattern, and there was a solid oak staircase and nicely moulded doors. Must have cost a bob or two, he reckoned, looking around.

‘I'll go and fetch her,' Rita said. ‘You can wait in the lounge.' She opened one of the doors. ‘Len's in there.'

He stepped into a long room with french windows facing onto a back garden. More wood-block flooring and a patterned rug, and pictures on the walls with lights over them. The furniture must have cost a bit, too: a blue moquette three-piece suite, a swanky standard lamp, a set of side tables that fitted inside each other, and some sort of big cabinet in the corner with mirrors all over the front.

The man sitting in one of the armchairs got to his feet, newspaper in one hand, cigar in the other.

‘You must be Harry. I'm Len.'

He'd never met Rita's second husband before and now that he saw him he could understand why she'd gone for him. He was good-looking, no doubt about it, in his flash civvy suit with smooth black hair no
Service barber had ever got his hands on and a little moustache like Ronald Coleman.

‘Have a drink, old boy?'

‘No, thanks.'

‘Think I will, if you don't mind.'

The mirrored thing in the corner turned out to be a cocktail cabinet. A light went on when the doors were opened to show more mirrors inside and a dozen or more bottles of spirits – unless he was seeing double with the reflection.

Len held up a dimple bottle of Haig. ‘Sure you won't join me?'

He refused again, though he could have done with it. He'd never fancied drinking with people he didn't like, and he didn't like Len. Never mind about him and Rita; he wouldn't have liked him anyway.

‘Busy lot, you Raff, bombing the Jerries night after night,' Len was saying through his cigar, pouring himself a stiff one.

‘Aye.' He wasn't seeing double with the bottles – there were at least twenty. Must be black market.

‘Give 'em hell, that's what I say. That's the ticket. Smash 'em to smithereens.' Len waved the big cigar. ‘Wish I could do the same myself. Failed the medical though. Believe me, I envy you, Harry.'

He didn't believe him. He'd heard that before from other men like Len, and from men that really meant it. And he knew the difference. Len looked as though he'd done very nicely, thank you, safe out of it all. Doing whatever business he did.

‘Here she is, then.'

Rita was standing in the doorway, holding Paulette by the hand. He hardly recognized his daughter, she'd grown so much. And changed. He could see now what
she was going to look like when she was grown up – just like Rita. There wasn't a trace of him, or of his side of the family, not that he'd've wished that on her. The frock she was wearing looked like a party frock to him, made of some shiny pink material with puffed sleeves and bows and a ribbon in her hair to match. All dressed up, just like her mother.