The Crew (29 page)

Jesus, the cold, the
cold
 . . . If he ever got his hands on that bastard Jerry who'd done this to them, he'd fucking kill him.

He felt like he was falling asleep now, and that was a bad sign. Keep awake, you stupid sod.
Keep awake.
Eyes open, brain ticking. Think of something.
Anything.
Don't let go or you've had it. He thought of Bondi beach. Pictured himself there, walking barefoot along the hot sand. Blazing sun, blue sky, not a cloud, the rollers coming in, surfers riding them . . . a corker of a sheila coming towards him: long legs, blond hair, tanned all over, smiling. The picture faded. Dissolved into Miss Iceberg, frowning at him. Yeah, well, not much help there. That wouldn't warm his cockles. Back to Bondi. Only he'd lost it. It was gone. He couldn't see it any more. Just the flaming North Sea and the waves and the empty sky.

Van kept his eye on Charlie. The kid didn't look like he was going to make it. Hell, none of them were going to if they weren't picked up soon. They were all in real bad shape – teeth chattering like castanets, faces death-white and ominously patched with blue, limbs numb and near-useless, hands swollen. They couldn't last much longer. They'd start sliding into unconsciousness. Slipping away. Got to keep them moving. Keep them talking.

‘Time to bail out again, you guys. Come on, Charlie. You, too, kiddo. Give us a hand.'

They scooped away slowly and painfully, tipping water over the side.

‘Bert, how about another story?'

‘Don't know any more, skipper.'

‘Tell us the others again.'

‘Aw, come on, skip, he'll bore us to death.'

‘OK, Stew, you tell one.'

‘Well . . . there was this bloke went into a bar . . .'

Jock counted as he bailed. One, two, three . . . up to ten to fill his forage cap. Another ten to lift it. Five to empty it. Then back to filling it again. Keep on doing that twenty times. Slow but steady. Move the arms. Never mind the pain. Keep going. One, two three . . . He went on scanning the sky and the sea. By a miracle his service watch was still working. Good old Omega. They'd been in the dinghy over nine hours. Somebody would have chalked
Missing
against their names on the ops board. He'd seen that a good few times. Stared at the names and wondered what had happened.
Missing
 . . . until and unless somebody found them.

At dawn she dressed and went downstairs, unable to bear lying in bed any longer. Outside it was still blowing hard and starting to rain. Inside, the cottage sitting-room was dark and cold as a tomb. She put on her coat and went to let Marigold out of her house and feed her some mashed peelings and stale bread. When she came in again she switched on the wireless and stood staring at the oblong yellow light, waiting for the set to warm up.

This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the news and this is Alvar Liddell reading it. Last night the Royal Air Force attacked the German city of Hamburg, inflicting heavy damage and starting numerous large fires . . . Of the two hundred aircraft, seven failed to return
 . . .

She turned the set off and went and curled up in one of the easy chairs, still wearing her coat, arms wrapped round her shivering body. One of those missing aircraft was from Beningby. When the bombers had come back, she'd counted them: thirty had taken off, only twenty-nine had returned. She'd stayed awake for the rest of the night, listening for the thirtieth.

If it was Charlie's plane that was missing they'd come and tell her – as soon as they were sure. The padre would come down to the cottage, like he'd promised Charlie, and knock on the door and give her the news. She could go and stand at the window, watching the road, or she could stay here in the chair, listening for the knock. If nobody came it would mean that it wasn't his plane after all. She wanted to shut her eyes and stop her ears with her fingers so she couldn't see or hear anything at all, but that would be cowardly. Charlie wouldn't want her to be like that. He'd want her to face up to whatever happened.

She curled up even tighter, waiting.

Piers saw the aircraft first. It was only a small speck in the clouds but he kept his eyes fixed on it, not daring to hope. The speck grew bigger and his hope grew with it as he made out the short fuselage and twin rudders. It looked like a Hudson.

Harry had spotted it too and was trying to get the Very pistol ready, but his hands were so numb he couldn't pull back the firing pin. Piers put his thumbs over Harry's and they struggled desperately with the heavy pin, and then to squeeze the trigger together. His fingers had no life, no feeling, no strength.
Make
them work before it's too late.
Force them. Pull. Harder. Oh, God, we'll never do it
 . . . 
Oh God
 . . .

The pistol went off and a brilliant star burst into the sky.

He watched the Hudson alter course towards them.
Thank God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

‘Have a fag, mate.'

‘Ta.'

The sailor stuck the lighted cigarette between Bert's lips.

What with that and the neat whisky, he was beginning to perk up quite nicely.

Once the Hudson had spotted them, they hadn't had too long to wait; it was the Royal Navy who picked them up. Blimey, had they been glad to see them coming over the horizon! He'd never seen a gladder sight in all his born days. The navy blokes had hauled them on board in a jiffy. Off with the wet togs, on with the blankets and they'd had them thawing out in front of a lovely hot fire. Bloody screaming agony for a bit, but he could move his fingers again now.

‘Drop more whisky, old chap?'

Bert proffered his tin mug. ‘Don't mind if I do, sir.'

‘The Navy found them,' the squadron leader said. ‘Picked them all up, alive and kicking.'

‘All of them, sir?'

‘All
of them.' He looked at her. ‘Pilot Officer VanOlden included.'

‘That's very good news.'

‘Yes, isn't it? Jolly good. They were damn lucky.'

Catherine fumbled blindly for her handkerchief.

‘Here,' he said drily. ‘You'd better borrow mine.'

‘Those bombers kept me awake all night, Miss Frost. I'm going to complain to the RAF.'

‘It's not all night, and they can't help the noise, Mrs Mountjoy. It's not their fault.'

‘Not their fault? Of course it is. Who else is causing it?'

‘They're going on bombing runs to Germany, surely you realize that? We should be extremely grateful to the RAF.'

‘They may well be but there's no call for them to make such a racket about it. Or for you to be impertinent, Miss Frost.'

‘Men are dying on those runs, Mrs Mountjoy.'

‘That has nothing whatever to do with it. I can't think what's come over you lately, Miss Frost. Are you ill?'

‘No, Mrs Mountjoy.'

‘Well, I shall speak to Miss Hargreaves about your manner. It's most unsatisfactory. And by the way, that blackout blind in my room still isn't properly mended.
I can see daylight through the hole. I insist it's done today. Without fail.'

She was still curled up tightly in the easy chair when she heard the click of the garden gate, the sound of heavy footsteps up the path and a loud knock on the cottage door. She couldn't move. Her limbs were frozen, her heart pounding violently. More knocking, louder still. Important knocking. Urgent knocking.
Charlie, oh Charlie
 . . .

She forced herself to stand up and walked slowly towards the door. Opened it.

‘Mornin', Mrs Banks. Bit of a blustery day today. Looks like we'll be getting some heavy rain later.'

‘Mr Stonor . . .'

‘Anythin' the matter? You don't look too good.'

She clung to the doorpost. ‘I'm all right, thank you. Just didn't sleep very well.'

‘Dare say the planes kept you awake. Busy last night again, weren't they?'

She nodded.

The old man dug deep into his pocket. ‘Mrs Dane asked me to give you this. Had a few just come in, she says, and she put one by for you. You can pay her later when you're next passing. She thought you'd like some for your tea. Nice on toast, they are.' He held out a tin. There was a picture of a fish swimming across the red label, one bright yellow eye, mouth open, tail waving merrily. ‘Not worryin' about your boy, are you?'

She swallowed. ‘One of the planes didn't come back last night.'

‘So they say. No need to fret, though. Shouldn't think it was your lad's, but any road they're all safe.
Mrs Dane told me. Came down in the sea, she said, but they were all picked up. All safe and sound.'

She stared at him. ‘Is she
sure
? How can she know?'

‘Told you before. She knows everythin' goes on. Will you be keeping the pilchards, then?'

‘Oh . . . yes, thank you.'

‘Perhaps your lad'll like some too.'

Dorothy managed a weak smile. ‘Perhaps he will.'

Twelve

MARIGOLD WAS SULKING.
She pecked around in the far corner of the run, back turned.

‘It's for your own good,' Dorothy told her through the wire netting. ‘I can't let you out because if I do I can't catch you again and if I don't shut you up at night a fox will get you.'

She often talked to the hen. Whenever Charlie had done another op safely, she went and told her about it. Like people went and told their bees about important things, so she'd heard. Bees were supposed to mind and take an interest. She wasn't so sure about Marigold, who never took much notice.

The front gate latch clicked and she went round the side of the cottage to see who it was. Harry, the wireless operator, was standing there alone on the path and all her fears came rushing back. He must have seen it in her face because he said quickly, ‘Charlie's fine. Got a bit of a cold, that's all, so he's stayin' in bed.'

‘Just a cold?'

‘Aye. Nothin' to worry about. He'll be right as rain in a couple of days. Told me to give you his love.'

He didn't look so good himself, she thought. Very white and weary.

He shifted his feet. ‘We're stood down with the bad weather so I thought I'd bring Sam over again.' He
took the bear out from inside his greatcoat. ‘Needs some more mendin' – if you don't mind.'

‘Of course not.'

‘I'd've done it myself, but, like I told you, I'm no good with a needle.' He handed her the bear. ‘Wondered if there's anythin' I could help with, while I'm here? Anything that needs doin'?'

‘No, thank you, Harry.'

He looked a bit disappointed. ‘How's Marigold gettin' along?'

‘Well, she's not laying much. I think it's because she's sulking.'

‘Sulkin'?'

‘She kept getting out of the run – where she'd scratched a hole under the wire. Then she won't go in when it's time to shut her up at night, so I filled in the hole. She's very put out.'

‘Shall I take a look? Make sure she can't do it again?'

He chopped some pieces of wood from the log pile and sharpened them into stakes, to peg down the netting tight all round. She watched him for a while, but it was too cold to stand about outdoors.

‘Would you like some hot soup when you're done?'

‘If it's not a trouble.'

‘It's on the go. Easy.' She took Sam inside and left him on the armchair while she went to stir the vegetables in the pot on the Rayburn – carrots, potatoes, turnips, swede, onion, all simmering away in the stock she'd made from the marrow bones the butcher had given her. It made a good meal, with some bread. Harry came into the kitchen when she was setting out the plates and bowls on the table.

‘Sit yourself down, Harry.'

He took off his greatcoat and hung it up and then
sat down, hesitantly. ‘I don't think she'll be gettin' out again now. You won't 'ave any more trouble.'

‘I don't suppose Marigold thanks you, but I do.'

‘Aye, she didn't look too pleased about it. Gave me some dirty looks. Still, it's for her own good. She's safer in there.'

‘That's just what I told her.'

‘I chopped up some of the big logs for you,' he went on. ‘Made them a mite easier to 'andle.'

‘You shouldn't have bothered.'

‘Didn't take a moment.'

She ladled the soup into the bowls and cut slices of bread. ‘There's a bit of marg, if you'd like some.'

‘Nay, I wouldn't take any of your ration, thanks all the same.'

The soup wasn't bad, she thought, considering. Anyhow, Harry seemed to like it because he finished the lot and said how good it was.

‘I expect you get much better on the station. Charlie says you're never short.'

‘They feed us enough all right, but it's nothin' like this. Most of the taste's gone out of it, seems to me. Don't know what they do, but whatever it is, it's not right. Not that I know owt about cookin'.'

She wondered how he managed when he went home on leave, without a wife to cook for him. Maybe he lived with his parents? She didn't like to ask.

He helped her with the washing-up afterwards, drying everything very thoroughly with the cloth. She noticed that he needed mending, like Sam: there was a button on his sleeve that was about to fall off any minute.

He hung the cloth up to dry tidily. ‘Anythin' else I can do?'

‘No, thanks, Harry. You sit down while I do Sam.' She picked up the bear and looked him over. His left arm was as loose as Harry's button, and there was a long, jagged tear in his stomach with the stuffing coming out.

‘Goodness, he looks as though he's been in the wars.' She'd spoken lightly without thinking, before she remembered that Sam
had
been in the wars. He went to war every time with them. She went and got her sewing basket and sat down with the bear on her lap. She sucked the end of the cotton, threaded it through the needle and started work on the long tear, poking the stuffing back carefully. ‘He feels all damp inside, Harry.
Soaking.
Whatever happened?'