The Crew (33 page)

The spotlight was having a tough job keeping up with her and so were the old-timers. A bit of on-the-spot marching, centre stage, another slap of the fishnetted thigh and she was off again, relentlessly to and fro.

More piercing whistles and frenzied applause as she marched away, waving and smiling, her faithful band scrambling after her. Stew said something unprintable in his left ear.

The guys dressed up as the Ugly Sisters were funny and it was clever the way the old hag changed into a glittering fairy godmother, and Cinderella from her rags into a ballgown.

The crazy irony of it all struck Van as he watched Cinderella trying on her glass slipper. One night they were over Germany, flying through hellfire to bomb the crap out of the enemy, the next they were sitting here solemnly watching fairies and golden coaches and tinsel make-believe.
Crazy.

Stew noticed the bunch of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling as soon as he walked into The Angel. Well, now . . . who'd've thought it? There were some coloured paper chains strung across and a Christmas tree in the corner decorated with glass ornaments and lights. Somebody'd given it a go. Nobody at reception. Or in the office either. He took a peek in the Lounge and saw the old colonel fast asleep in a chair by the fire, head lolling on his chest. Or maybe he'd snuffed it and nobody'd noticed yet. As he closed the door again, Peggy came out of the dining-room.

‘Hallo, there.'

‘Hallo, sir.' She looked at him with her big blue eyes – all innocence. He could see why Piers fancied her.

‘Where's Miss Frost, d'you know?'

‘No, sir. Shall I see if I can find her for you?'

‘No, that's OK. I'll wait around.'

She hesitated. ‘If you're sure there's nothing I can do, sir?'

‘Yeah, you can come over here for a second.'

‘What for, sir?'

‘There's something on this carpet,' he pointed downwards. ‘Just here. Take a look.'

She fell for it hook, line and sinker. As soon as she was standing under the mistletoe he caught hold of her in his arms and kissed her. He let her go soon, though. Well, she was only a kid. She ran off giggling.

‘The bar isn't open until six.' He turned round. Honor was half-way down the stairs and he knew she must have seen him with Peggy. No chance now of pulling the same trick with her or he might have given it a try. Too right. He waved an arm round the hall. ‘You do all this? The Christmas stuff?'

She nodded.

‘Good on you. Cheers things up.' He nodded at the mistletoe. ‘Specially that. Just been to the pantomime. Weirdest thing I've ever seen. Blokes dressed up as women. Sheilas dressed up as men—'

‘It's traditional.'

‘So they tell me. I thought you Poms were supposed to be civilized.'

‘We are.' She came down the rest of the stairs and limped over to the reception desk, giving him and the mistletoe a wide berth. ‘Did you want something?'

He followed her over. ‘I came to see you. Wanted to know if you ever wrote to that aunt of yours in Newquay? I've got six days leave coming up soon and I'd like to go there, if I can.'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘Well, what did she say?'

‘I had a letter from her yesterday. It would be quite all right for you to stay there.'

‘That's bonza,' he said. ‘How about you?'

‘What about me?' She could be a bloody irritating sheila, no question.

‘You know what I mean. Are you coming too? Like we arranged.'

‘We didn't arrange anything of the kind.'

‘Yeah, but she'd like to see you, wouldn't she? I bet she asked if you'd be showing up as well.'

She'd opened the registration book and was going through the pages like it was life or death. He'd got her rattled, he could see that. ‘What's the matter? Got cold feet? Scared to come with me? Frightened I'll make a pass at you?'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘I might – if I thought I'd get anywhere.'

She turned another page, running a finger down the entries, frowning. ‘My aunt did ask me to visit her, as a matter of fact. I haven't been there for a long time . . .'

He leaned both forearms on the desk. ‘So?'

‘I really
ought
to go and see her.'

‘Yeah, you really ought.'

‘If I can get the time off work. Miss Hargreaves won't like it.'

‘Say your aunt's ill. At death's door. And she wants to see you.'

‘Lie
, you mean?'

‘Don't look so shocked. Don't you ever tell lies?'

‘No, I don't, as a matter of fact.'

‘Time you started. For your own good.' He leaned across and closed the registration book firmly. ‘Right now. This minute.'

‘I've had a letter from my mother, Van.'

‘She OK?'

‘Yes, fine. She wanted to know if you'd like to spend some of your next leave in York. Nothing exciting, she says, but if you've nothing else planned she'd be glad to have you.'

‘That's real nice of her, Catherine, I'd be glad to go. Will you be there too?'

‘I'm not sure. I've got a forty-eight due. I might get up there for that – if I can.'

He said levelly, ‘I won't count on it.'

Fourteen

‘
I WOULDN'T WORRY
about flying today, sir.' Mabel handed him his cup of tea and went over to undo the blackout. ‘It's snowed. Nice and deep it is.' She came back and stood at the end of Piers' bed. ‘You drink that up while it's hot.'

He did as he was told, just like he'd always done what Matron said. And Nanny too.
Eat up your crusts, Master Piers, they're good for your hair; sit up straight or you'll grow up with a hunched back; spinach will make you a strong man.

When the batwoman had gone, he hopped out of bed to take a look out of the window. Yes, there it was – deep and crisp and even. A wonderful thick white blanket over the drome, barbed wire all white too – rather pretty, actually; everything stopped and silent. Three rousing cheers! He got back into bed and pulled up the covers round his neck. Bliss. He could stay here, curled up like an animal safe in its burrow, and he could think about Peggy.

God, it was absolutely amazing that she felt the same about him. Fantastic! He couldn't believe his luck. She'd let him kiss her and even began to kiss him back – once she'd got the hang of things. Not that he was any great shakes at it himself, it had to be said. He'd only kissed two other girls in his life and he hadn't even liked one of them all that much.

The best thing was that Peggy had finally agreed to let him take her home on his next leave. It had taken a lot of persuasion on his part. She'd kept repeating all that nonsense about not being good enough for him, how his parents wouldn't like her. Absolute rubbish, of course. You couldn't
not
like Peggy, and it didn't matter a jot that she was a waitress. His parents would just have to lump that. In any case, as he'd said to Peggy, there was no need to tell them if she didn't want to, if it worried her so much. She wouldn't go on being a waitress after they were married. He was going to take care of her so she'd never need to do work like that again.

He'd had to promise not to say anything about them being engaged, and she wanted it kept secret from her parents as well. From everybody.

‘But I ought to ask your father's permission, Peggy. I'm supposed to do that.'

‘You can ask him later,' she'd said jolly stubbornly. ‘But not yet.'

Anyway, she was coming home with him and that was that. And he didn't care what his parents thought. He didn't want to marry the sort of girl they wanted him to marry. He wanted to marry Peggy.

Piers drifted off into a happy doze, imagining the future. He came into his trust fund from the grandparents at twenty-five and that was quite a bit, so there was nothing his parents could do, like cut him off without a penny. He'd be able to buy a decent house somewhere nice . . . in the country, perhaps, if Peggy liked the idea. He wouldn't go to Cambridge, as planned – no point in that if he was a married man. He'd get a job in the City, or something, and go up and down by train every day. He could picture himself
coming back to Peggy in the evening. She'd be waiting for him with the children. A boy and a girl – maybe more, if she didn't mind – he'd quite like a big family, and they could get a good nanny, if there were any nannies left when the war was over. He opened his eyes. None of this could happen until the war had finished, until they'd beaten the Huns. It might be years before they managed that, at the rate things were going. He might have bought it long before. So he couldn't possibly marry Peggy yet: it simply wouldn't be fair on her.

Van stirred, groaned and came out from under his blankets. ‘What's the weather like?'

‘It's snowed. Pretty deep.'

‘Thank Christ for that. Maybe we'll be left in peace.'

But they weren't. The station commander ordered everyone – desk-fliers and WAAFs included – out onto the runway with spades and shovels and brooms. By mid-afternoon the runway was cleared enough for ops to be on. And it was Essen.

Trust them to give us a stinker just before we go on leave, Charlie said to himself. Why couldn't we have a nice ice-cream op? Milan or Genoa, with the Eyeties waving a few searchlights around and not much else. Or an easy bit of gardening. Plant the vegetables off some coast and scarper.

He swivelled the rear turret and moved his guns up and down. There we were, all looking forward to a nice, well-earned rest, feeling quite bright and breezy for once, and they dump the Happy Valley on us.
Essen.
Sounded a bit like a snake hissing when you said it. Not Victor, though, he never made a sound. Just lay coiled up in his shoe box, nice and warm in his hay
bed, with regular room service. The life of Riley, he lived. Bert thought he was the cat's whiskers, though he couldn't really see it himself.

He shifted around a bit, making himself as comfortable as he could. His cushion had got to be like an old friend. They'd flown together since the third op. It'd been to Duisburg, Bremen, Stuttgart, Cologne, Frankfurt, Kassel, Kiel . . . all over the place, and now it was coming with him to Essen. If Two-Ton-Tessie didn't want it back when the tour was over, he'd like to keep it as a souvenir.

All four engines were roaring away, and K-King was shaking about like she was doing the hokey-cokey. They sounded good and healthy. The Merlins didn't usually let you down. They went on and on, whatever the weather – sun, rain, cloud, ice, sleet, snow. Mr Rolls and Mr Royce were clever blokes.

The Lane was moving off now and turning out onto the peri track. The tail bumped along the concrete and he watched the amber and blue lights flicking past. He could see the lights on the opposite peri track where other Lanes were heading towards the control cabin from the other side of the drome. Pitch dark on a freezing cold snowy January night, taking-off for Germany! The things you did for England!

Bump, bump, bump . . . it was a fair way round to the start of the main runway. Plenty of time for the jitters to play you up if you let yourself think this might be your last few hours alive. He stopped himself thinking about that and thought about his new book of poems instead. Good for Mum, finding it for him at the jumble sale. It'd been printed in 1926, but it was in nice condition with brown leather like a shiny conker and gold lettering on the spine.
A Selection of
English Verses.
A bloke he'd never heard of had chosen his favourites and put them all together. He didn't think much of some, but there were others he liked a lot.

He spoke the lines aloud. Nobody could hear, so long as his mike wasn't switched on, so it didn't matter. He couldn't even hear himself for the noise of the engines, but he knew what he was saying. He might be afraid, but he didn't think he was a coward. You were only a coward if you ran away from doing your duty because you were frightened. None of them were cowards. He'd never seen anybody refuse to go on ops, even though they knew they were probably going to get the chop. They went off to their deaths and that was that. They even joked about it. Charlie wasn't sure whether they were armed from fear by Heaven's glories – couldn't see Stew thinking like that, for one. Most likely what kept them going was knowing they were on the right side, fighting for their country.
We must be free or die that speak the tongue that Shakespeare spake.

The Lanc had stopped and they were waiting their turn to move onto the runway. The skipper and Jock were doing their final checks; Harry would be on the look-out in the astrodome, watching for the green light from the caravan, Bert in the mid-upper turret, Stew another pair of eyes in the front, Piers ready with his charts. Any minute now.

‘Green, skipper,' Harry's voice crackled over the intercom.

K-King rumbled onto the runway, turning slowly for the take-off, swinging Charlie round in his goldfish bowl.

‘Pilot to rear gunner. All clear behind?'

‘All clear, skipper.'

A sudden bellow from the Merlins and K-King leaped forward. The flarepath lights zipped past and he could see great piles of dirty snow lining the runway. Then the tail went up, floating along with him, airborne, and he waited, breath held as per usual, for the rest of the laden Lanc to unstick and haul herself up into the night sky.