The Crew (34 page)

Good old K-King made it all right. She staggered a bit under the weight but up she went; the flarepath lights fell away below him. Mum was down there. She'd be listening to them taking off, standing at the cottage window or maybe out in the garden by the front gate – he knew she did that sometimes, even in the cold. But the good thing was that she never knew if it was him. For all she knew he was at the station, safe and sound. When they got back from Essen he'd try and get down to the cottage and make sure everything was OK with all the snow. No frozen pipes, or anything like that. He'd take Harry too. Play Cupid.

He'd watched Harry on Christmas day, standing there stiff as a statue and red as a beetroot while Mum had tied the scarf for him. The penny didn't seem to have dropped with Mum at all, but she liked Harry all right, and with a bit of luck things might work out between them. No sense in rushing it. Not in wartime.

The drome lights had vanished and there was only
blackness around him; no stars yet. He strained his eyes for other aircraft, keeping a constant watch.

They were up to fifteen thousand when they crossed the Lincolnshire coast and started the long trek across the North Sea – miles and miles of it ahead before they reached any land again. It made Charlie feel colder than he already was, just to think of it. Made him remember what it had been like down there in the dinghy. The heating in his suit must be on the blink because his legs and feet felt like blocks of ice, and so did his hands, and he wasn't too warm in the middle either. Trouble was, they'd taken out the centre Perspex panel which was always getting misted or frosted up. You could see better, but it made it a bit nippy in the turret, even with the heated flying suit working full blast, which it wasn't.

He could see the stars up above him now, keeping him company, like the cushion: Spica, Vega, Rigel, Polaris . . . Piers' helpers. Clear and bright as anything. Crikey, but he was cold. And another seven hours of this. One thing, it would warm up over Essen – in a manner of speaking. He listened to them talking to each other up front – the skipper and Jock and Piers and Harry and Stew. Nothing for him to do at the moment except keep on looking out for trouble. Bert would be doing the same, whizzing round in his turret on top of the fuselage. He and Bert didn't have to worry about their position or courses, wind, air speeds or marker flares, or anything like that, but they had to stay wide awake just the same. Keep their eyes peeled all the time.

Something was bothering Bert lately. He wasn't telling any of his stories or making any of his jokes. Women trouble, most likely. That WAAF he went
about with looked like she could mean a whole lot of it. He didn't fancy women like that himself. Not that they'd fancy him either, though his spots had been a bit better lately. Not quite so many. That WAAF in Equipment had smiled at him the other day.

He heaved a sigh of relief when they crossed the Dutch coast, though that was a bit stupid because the really dangerous part was in front of them. Still, he felt easier, knowing they were over dry land.

‘Nav from bomb aimer. Red marker flares ahead.'

‘Thank you, Stew. Would you let me know when we're overhead, please.'

Funny to listen to those two talking to each other. Piers was always so polite. Lots of thank yous and would yous and pleases. Stew never bothered with all that. Just gave it to you straight. Charlie reckoned it didn't much matter how you said it so long as you'd got it right. When he came to think of it, it was funny, too, how they all got on so well. It didn't seem to matter how different they were. The seven of them had stuck together through thick and thin, and that's what counted. He reckoned the others knew him better than Mum did, really. And he probably knew them better than their mums did.

As they got nearer the target, K-King started to rock about in someone else's slipstream and the skipper took her up to clear it. You stooged along alone for hours and then all of a sudden the others were all around, heading for the target with you. It might have been a bit of a comfort if you didn't have to worry about colliding with them.

Flak was coming up and tossing them about all over the shop. The open panel in front of him let in the stink of cordite and made him feel sick. He peered
out. Bloody bedlam down there by the look of it. Flames and smoke, flares burning, gun flashes, lines of bomb bursts in fours and the brilliant single woomphs of exploding cookies. They were giving it to them tonight all right. He wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of that lot. There was another explosion nearby in the sky, so bright it blinded his vision. When he could see properly again, the explosion had turned into a gigantic firework shooting out stars of flame. He stared at them falling slowly to earth and fading. It didn't look like a bomber copping it. Maybe it was some new weapon Jerry had dreamed up. Whatever it was, it was scary.

Their turn now. Stew getting ready to pull the plug. ‘Left, left. Steady, skip. Steady . . .'

They dropped their bomb load and the skipper got them out of there fast. Never wasted any time over that. They always headed straight for the dark, away from trouble quick as possible. Charlie reckoned that was one reason why they hadn't bought it long ago. Anybody who hung about was asking for it.

‘Rear gunner to pilot. See that big explosion to port when we were over the target, skipper? I couldn't make it out.'

‘I reckon it was one of those scarecrow flares they've been warning us about, Charlie. To frighten the pants off us.'

As if they needed to.

Stew spotted more flak ahead on the Dutch coast near Rotterdam but the skipper slipped round north of it and out across the North Sea. Now that they were on the home straight, so to speak, Charlie started to feel the cold again. The skipper and Piers were talking to each other about the bad head-wind that K-King
was having to battle against. They were crawling along, it seemed to him, and it looked like it was going to take hours to get home. Hours squashed up in his Perspex prison in the bitter cold. Just got to put up with it, hadn't he? No use feeling sorry for himself. Only this time it was worse than it'd ever been. He found he was sobbing with the cold and the cramp and stopped himself quickly. That wouldn't do at all.

When they landed back at Beningby it was still pitch dark and snowing again. Charlie was so stiff that he could hardly crawl out of the turret; his body and limbs felt like they'd locked solid.

Harry helped him up onto the back of the crew lorry. ‘You look done-in, lad.'

‘Bit cold, that's all. The wiring in my suit's conked out, I think.'

Harry was shocked. ‘We'll get that fixed, no danger.'

He thought he was going to fall asleep at debriefing and he was too tired to eat more than a few mouthfuls of his bacon and eggs afterwards. Three crews were missing – twenty-one empty places at the tables in the Mess.

He stumbled back to the hut and fell into bed. The sheets were icy cold and so damp they felt wet, but all he cared about was lying down. The last thing he saw was Harry leaning over him, laying his greatcoat over the top of the blankets, before he closed his eyes and slid into blessed oblivion.

PART IV

Fifteen

JOCK FOUND AN
empty seat in a Third Class Smoking. He hoisted his kit-bag up onto the rack and sat down, wedged between two army blokes who weren't fussy about taking up most of the room or about keeping themselves clean. It wasn't easy in a bit of tepid water, as he well knew, but these two couldn't have washed for weeks. Months, maybe. As well as that, the compartment reeked with cigarette smoke, but it was still a lot better than standing. The train jerked forward and steam clouded the windows. He was tired. So tired he'd probably sleep most of the way, bolt upright. He folded his arms and closed his eyes, ready to drop off. Instead, he started thinking about Ruth. No surprise in that. She was on his mind most of the time, except when he was flying. He didn't allow himself to think about anything else but the job in hand, then. Down on the ground, he thought about Ruth. He knew he was in love with her. Couldn't get her out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Or how hard she tried to put him off. Either she hated him, or what had happened to her had made her hate all men, never mind who they were. He didn't know the answer.

He wasn't too proud of what had happened at Christmas. She'd made him so angry he'd lost control of himself. It'd been close as anything to rape, except that she hadn't tried to stop him. Not that that made
it any better or was any excuse. He'd behaved like a drunken lout.
Just like your father.
Aye, she'd been right about that, and that was the worst of it.

There'd been no chance to say he was sorry. To try to tell her how he felt about her. Mr Gibbs had come out into the yard and they'd had to scramble about with clothes and buttons and make out they were busy with the chicken feed. He was never alone with her after that until he left – Ruth had made sure of it.

One of the Brown Jobs had lit up yet another cigarette and the atmosphere was getting like pea soup. If it hadn't been so cold in the compartment already, he'd've reached across to the window strap and let some fresh air in, whatever anybody else said. He watched the countryside going by. Plenty of snow about still. He'd always reckoned he was pretty tough – inured to the bitterest weather – but it had been terrible at the station lately. The cold had got into everything: their clothes, their bedding, their very bones. They'd looted coke for the stove and when that had run out they'd chopped up chairs and shelves and used those instead. At night they wore flying clothing to bed and piled greatcoats on top of the blankets. Anything to get warm.

There was snow in Glasgow, too, and a wind that cut into him like a knife as he walked the blacked-out streets from the railway station to the tenement. When he knocked on the door his mother opened it a crack.

‘Who is it?'

‘It's Jock.'

‘
Jock
 . . .' She gave a sob and opened the door wide, heedless of the blackout. He went inside quickly and shut it behind him. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling showed him her face streaked with tears, eyes
swollen and red, and a dark bruise on her cheek. He could feel his fists bunching. God help me, I'll kill that bastard.
Kill him.
She gave another sob and threw herself into his arms. He cradled her gently against him. He wouldn't let her stay in this place another day. He'd take her back with him. Find somewhere for her to live. His mind raced ahead. Maybe Charlie's mum might have her for a while . . . Then, as soon as his tour was over he'd find her somewhere to live, wherever they posted him next.

‘I'll look after you, Mother. I'm taking you away from here.'

She stopped crying and lifted her head. ‘It's your father, Jock.'

‘Aye,' he said grimly. ‘I know it's him.'

‘No, you dinna understand . . . He's
ill.
They took him to hospital. It's bad. Very bad.'

That was why she'd been crying, why she was so upset. Not because the brute had been bashing her about but because he'd been taken sick. He stared at his mother.

‘What's the matter with him?'

‘They didna tell me. It was yesterday evening . . . he fell down – here in the kitchen.'

‘Nothing unusual in that.'

‘It wasna the drink.' She looked at him with anguish. ‘He lay there moaning and moaning. I didna know what to do at first. Then I went next door and they went round for the doctor. And they took him away by ambulance. Oh, Jock . . .'

He held her again while she cried some more. ‘Have you been to see him?'

‘No. I had to go to work. I was waiting for you . . .'

‘I'll take you,' he said. ‘We'll go together.'

His father was lying in a long, green-tiled ward. The place smelled of Jeyes Fluid and the decrepit flesh of sick old men. It nauseated him, even more than the smell, to see the way his mother bent to kiss his father and to stroke his forehead tenderly. How could she, after the way he'd treated her? How could she care what happened to the pig?

‘Come to gloat, then, have you?' His father's eyes had opened and focused blearily on him. His face was unshaven and a dirty yellow.

‘No. I've brought Mother to see ye.'

‘You'll no be sorry to find me like this.'

He wasn't, but he said nothing – for his mother's sake. Her hand went on with the stroking and he could scarcely bear to watch it: hardly stop himself thrusting it away.

‘I'll leave you with him,' he said. ‘I'll be back in a wee while.' He found the ward sister by the door: a starched Gorgon, with thin lips and a complexion like dried putty.

‘Can you tell me anything about my father's condition? Donald McIntyre, last bed on the right.'

‘He's as ill as he deserves to be.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It's the drink. But I dare say you'd know that well enough.'

‘Is he going to die?'

‘It's not for me to say.' She nodded towards the corridor. ‘Here's the doctor now. You'd better ask him.'

The doctor was in a hurry. ‘Mr McIntyre? Yes, well it's not good news, I'm afraid. He must have been drinking a great deal over a great many years. In the end the body can't take it. His liver's destroyed. We'll
do the best we can and he may go on for a while, if he's lucky, but the damage is done and can't be undone.'

‘How long will he last?'

‘Impossible to predict precisely – hours, days, a week. Not more. I'm sorry. Now, if you'll excuse me—'

He waited around in the grim and draughty corridor, unable to bring himself to go back to his father's bedside. Nurses passed by and one or two of them smiled at him; it was the RAF uniform that did it, he supposed. He didn't envy them with that old battle-axe of a ward sister. Or working in such a place. After what seemed a very long time, his mother came out. She was weeping again, handkerchief pressed to her face. He put his arm around her and led her away.