The Crew (26 page)

Charlie was sitting on his bed in the little upstairs room in the cottage and going through his poetry book. There hadn't been much spare time for a while and he didn't like to bring the book out in the hut too often. Stew would be bound to look over his shoulder and make one of his remarks.
Strewth, Charlie! Bloody rainbows again?
He'd slipped the book into his pocket today and brought it back with him, knowing he'd get the chance of a quiet moment to himself.

He turned the pages slowly, re-reading old favourites.

Instead of thinking of soldiers and horses, he thought of bombers and airmen – just the same as when he changed
The Soldier
poem in his mind. Six hundred bombers charging into the Ruhr Valley and into a barrage of flak and fighters.
Was there a man dismayed?
Well, yes, there was. Himself, for one. And he wouldn't mind betting nearly everybody else as well, even though nobody showed it.

That was true enough. You didn't ask why. They told you at briefings.
Maximum effort required tonight, gentlemen. War factory . . . railway centre . . . important port . . . ship-building . . . submarine pens . . . vital target . . . England expects you to do your duty
 . . . You did, and a whole lot of you died. Say twenty aircraft didn't get back, like on that last Cologne op. Multiply twenty by seven – if they were Lanes. One hundred and forty men.

Crikey, it sounded just like an op.

Just like the big raids. You'd think Lord Tennyson had been on one if you didn't know he couldn't have.

The rain was beating against the window panes but inside the cottage it was nice and cosy. The fire was lit downstairs and the smell of supper cocking drifted up to him. Something tasty. He could hear the wireless on in the sitting-room and Mum talking to Harry in the kitchen – hear her say something and Harry's low, slow rumble in reply. Charlie smiled to himself. She didn't have a clue that Harry was sweet on her but
he
could see which way the wind was blowing, plain as anything, and he didn't mind the idea of Harry as a stepfather. He was a good bloke: kind and decent, and he'd look after Mum. She needed somebody about the place. Someone to take care of her.

When they'd been stood down with the bad weather, Harry had come over to him, all casual, and asked if he'd be going to see his mum because he thought he ought to take a look at the wireless and see it was working properly. They'd biked over together and Harry had brought Sam because his one ear was starting to come off.

Of course there was nothing wrong with the wireless but Harry had spent a good bit of time fiddling about with it, while Mum had got out her sewing basket and sat down to mend Sam. When she'd finished putting the ear back on, Harry had said he wished he could sew neatly like that. If he sewed on a button it fell
straight off, he'd said. And he always pricked his finger and got blood over everything. Then Mum had told him to bring over any sewing he needed done and she'd take care of it. Harry had gone all red, from his collar up, and said he couldn't do that, but Mum had insisted. It was to be in return for the wireless. And she'd asked him to stay for supper, too. Charlie grinned again.

He fingered a new pimple coming up on his chin – a great big lump of a pimple. He wished he wasn't always getting them. Covered with them, he was sometimes. More pimple than skin. There was a nice WAAF in Equipment, about his own age, that he'd kept noticing, and Bert was always going on at him to try his luck, but she'd never look at him with a face like his.

He'd never taken a girl out. Never kissed one. Let alone the rest of it. Maybe he never would. Maybe he'd never ever know what
that
was like.

‘Charlie! Supper's ready.'

He closed the book and went downstairs.

The barmaid at The Saracen's Head seemed to know Sergeant Brenner well. He leaned across the counter and chucked her under the chin.

‘The usual, sweetheart. And a lemonade for the lady.'

He'd been appalled when she'd asked for lemonade. ‘Oh my word, that's not going to do you much good. Have a beer.'

‘No, thank you.'

She found somewhere to sit and hooked her walking stick over the back of the chair, as out of sight as possible. She hated using a stick – it made her feel
like old Mrs Mountjoy. Indoors she managed without it but outdoors, on uneven ground and in the blackout, it was too hard. Getting down Steep Hill had been tricky but she'd hidden that quite well and he'd carried the parcel.

He sat down opposite and raised his pint to her. ‘Mud in your eye, Honor.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘Old Aussie saying. Good health.'

‘Oh . . .' She lifted her own glass. ‘Good health.'

‘Cigarette?'

‘No, thank you.'

He stuck one in his mouth, groped in his pocket for his lighter and flicked the flint wheel hard with his thumb. ‘Well, what d'you know, it's working. Wonders never cease.'

As he bent his head to the flame she noticed his lashes in its glow – long for a man, especially a man like him. He kept the cigarette between his lips while he put the lighter away, talking through it. ‘Seems to me they take advantage of you at that place. Give you the run-around. You ought to look for another job. Somewhere they treat you better.'

‘I'm perfectly happy there.'

‘Not from what I've seen.'

‘Well, I don't suppose
you
enjoy what you do very much – whatever that is.'

He tapped the ‘B' on his chest. ‘I'm a bomb aimer. Can't say I
enjoy
dropping bombs on people but I'm willing to do it, since it's the Jerries. And I don't have any nightmares about it, if that's what you're thinking. They're
all
the enemy, far as I'm concerned: civilians, old people, the whole damn lot. They're in it together. Every man jack of them.'

‘That sounds rather hard.'

‘Yeah, well, we can't afford to be softies. Not the way I see it. They're not fussy who they kill over here, are they? Or anywhere else. I bet we don't know the half of what they've been up to in Europe . . . We've got to finish 'em off good and proper. Stop them getting up to any more of their nasty little tricks.' He muttered darkly into his beer. ‘And I reckon some of us blokes're paying a pretty high price for having to do it.'

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean—'

‘Forget it. Let's talk about something else.'

She thought rapidly. ‘How about Australia?'

‘What about it?' He was still frowning.

‘Well, do you miss it?'

‘Too right. Sun, surfing, decent food to eat . . . all kinds of things. Hated it here at first but you sort of get used to it. In spite of everything. God knows why.' He waved to a girl who was standing by the bar. She waved back, scarlet mouth smiling. ‘Friend of mine.' He was smiling too.

‘What about your family?' she said. ‘You must miss them too.'

‘Well, I've been away from home a good bit since I was eighteen. Took off for a couple of years, working my way round Australia – sheep-shearing, gold-mining, cane-cutting . . . Dad wanted me to get stuck into the family hotel business, but I wasn't too keen.'

‘Your father runs a hotel?' She was very surprised. The background didn't seem to fit him at all.

‘Yep. In Sydney. With my ma. Both of them run it, together. Like my grandparents did. They were Swiss, my grandparents. Emigrated to Australia from Berne
and started a hotel in King's Cross. Then Dad and Ma took over and made it bigger. Built another twenty rooms. You should see it. It's a bonza place. I've a big brother who works with them, too, but he's different. Settled down. Wife and a kid already. When I got back home from travelling around, the war had started so I joined up and took off again.'

‘How did you get over here?'

‘In an old cargo ship from Sydney. There were two hundred of us RAAF on board. We went to Christ-church, picked up some Air Force Kiwis and more supplies – oh, my word, she was loaded. One more thing and she'd've sunk. We sailed across the Pacific, through the Panama Canal, then up to Halifax and across the North Atlantic in a big convoy, dodging the U-boats.' He wove his hand, eel-like. ‘Took us three months. We landed at Liverpool, just after the Luftwaffe had clobbered it the night before, so the first thing I saw of dear old England was piles of rubble.' He drew on his cigarette and flicked away the ash. ‘That's one good reason why I'm not worried about giving it back to the Jerries.'

‘I wanted to join up,' she said. ‘To go into one of the Services. But they wouldn't have me . . . with my . . . my disability.'

‘Yeah, what's wrong with your foot? You have an accident, or something?'

He didn't mince words. At home it was never discussed. Never even mentioned. Outside home, people looked away or pretended they hadn't noticed. ‘I was born with it like that.'

‘Bad luck. Still, you get around OK, don't you? Could be a lot worse.'

All very well for him to talk. To be so matter-of-fact
about it. Easy for him. She said stiffly, ‘Yes, I suppose it could be a lot worse.'

‘Couldn't the medics do something about it?'

‘No.'

‘Never go near them if I can help it, myself, but seems to me it'd be worth a try.'

‘I did see a doctor – a few years ago.'

Too late, I'm afraid, Miss Frost. If your parents had only sought help when you were a child
 . . .

‘No go?'

She shook her head.

‘Still, you never know. I wouldn't give up, if I were you. They can do all sorts of things these days.'

She didn't want to discuss it with him. With anybody. She put down her glass and looked at her watch. ‘I really must be going.'

‘Hang on, you've only just got here.'

‘My parents will be wondering where I am.'

‘No, they won't. They're used to you being late. Besides you're over twenty-one, aren't you? You've got the key of the door.'

She was nearly twenty-two but she wasn't going to tell him that. ‘I'm rather tired.'

‘OK. Fair enough.' He lifted his mug. ‘Soon as I've finished this I'll take you back. See you home.'

‘I'd much sooner you didn't.'

‘Yeah, but that's what I'm doing. And I'll carry the parcel. You forgotten about that?' He started to drink and then stopped, staring. ‘Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle . . . Isn't that your little waitress at The Angel over there? Peggy.'

She followed his stare. ‘And isn't that—'

‘Our nav.' He grinned. ‘Oh, my word. Wonder what his family'd have to say about that.'

Going back up the hill proved much harder for her than going down. She could only move at a snail's pace, dragging herself upwards with her stick while he dawdled along beside her.

‘How about holding on to my arm?'

‘I can manage, thank you.'

‘Come on, it'd help.'

‘No,
thank
you.'

‘Suit yourself.'

Thank God for the dark, she thought, struggling on. He can't see what a crippled creature I really am.

At the top of the hill, she picked up as much speed as she could.

‘Where's the fire?' he said. ‘No need to be in such a rush.'

She turned down her road, shone her torch on the gate. ‘This is where I live.' She clicked the latch open. ‘Goodnight.'

‘You're forgetting the parcel.'

‘Oh . . .' She wedged it awkwardly under one arm, walking stick in the other hand. ‘Thank you.'

‘Sure you can manage?'

‘Perfectly
well.'

‘I'll see you around, then. G'night.'

His footsteps rang sharply and quickly on the pavement. She listened to them fading away down the street. Normal footsteps.

She let herself in with her key and found her mother and father in the sitting-room – her mother knitting, her father reading the newspaper. It was always the same, every evening. Later, her mother would put down her knitting on the arm of her chair and go to make a pot of tea. At nine o'clock they would switch
on the wireless to listen to the news. At ten o'clock they would go to bed.

She showed them the parcel and the tins of food.

‘What an odd thing for a stranger to do,' her mother said, finishing another row. Her father peered over the top of his newspaper.

‘He's not exactly a stranger. He stayed at the hotel.'

Her mother picked up the tin of ham.

‘Good gracious, all the way from Australia. It's bound to have gone bad. We'd better throw it away.' She took the brown paper on her knee, smoothing out all the creases carefully. ‘This will come in very handy, though. And the string, too.'