The Crew (36 page)

She didn't know what the word meant.

‘Well? You must have something to say.'

‘He loves me.'

‘Has he told you that?'

She nodded again.

‘Piers doesn't know what on earth he's talking about. He's taken complete leave of his senses. Behaving like a young fool.' The spectacles came off and were laid on the desk. Underneath, the eyes were like stones. ‘My dear girl, you must see that it's quite impossible for this absurd liaison to continue.'

Another word she didn't know.

‘I love him.'

‘What absolute nonsense! The truth is you simply fancy yourself allied with someone like him. Someone far above your station. If you weren't so young and inexperienced I'd say you were nothing but a common fortune hunter. I'm giving you the benefit of the
doubt. No doubt you were dazzled. Lost your head. Believed what he told you.'

‘He did mean it. He did.'

‘Of course he didn't. It's sheer infatuation. He'll come to his senses soon enough. Piers has a responsibility to his family. Traditions to uphold. Standards to maintain. He knows that perfectly well. He should never have brought you here. And you should never have come. We had no idea of your background or we would have put a stop to it. If you had any real regard for him, you'd leave him alone. I take it you wouldn't wish to ruin his life?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Well, then.' He pulled open a drawer of the desk. ‘Now, I'm going to give you this on one condition – that you promise me never to see Piers again.' He was holding up a brown envelope. ‘There are thirty pound notes inside this for you – if I have your undertaking never to have anything more to do with my son.'

She stood up and he held the envelope out to her. Shook it at her.

‘Well, go on. Take it. Piers will never know.'

‘No, sir.'

‘You mean you want more? You've got some nerve, I must say.'

‘I mean, I don't want your money. None of it. Not a penny.'

‘So you refuse to give him up? You want to wreck his life?'

‘I won't do that, sir. I told you, I love him.'

She turned and walked out of the room. He was calling her back,
shouting
after her, but she took no notice of him at all.

There were some boys playing with a toboggan in Sycamore Avenue, dragging it over the slushy snow by a long rope. As he passed them, Harry saw that the toboggan was made from old planks nailed crudely together. He'd made one himself once, he remembered, years ago, but he'd done a better job than that with proper shaped runners, waxed so they ran smooth. Maybe he'd make one for Paulette – if Rita would ever let her play with it.

He opened the gate to number sixteen and walked up to the front door. There was no sign of life at the windows, no twitch of the net curtains to tell him he'd been observed. When he knocked at the door it was opened by Len in his flash civvy suit, giving his oily smile.

‘Oh, it's you, old boy.'

‘Rita's expectin' me – to see Paulette.'

‘Sorry, she's not here. Neither of them are. You're out of luck.'

‘I wrote Rita I'd got leave and would be comin'.'

‘Had to go and see her mother. The old girl's not well. Rita went this morning and took Paulette with her. They'll be back later. You can come in and wait, if you like.'

Harry hesitated. Rita's mother had the constitution of a ship's boiler, so it was very likely just another excuse of Rita's for not letting him see Paulette. On the other hand, he'd come all this way and he wasn't going to give up that easily. It'd be better waiting inside than out in the cold – even with Len. He followed Len inside.

‘Drink, old boy?' Len was opening up the cocktail cabinet. The lights went on and the mirrors glittered, reflecting the rows of bottles.

‘No, thanks.'

‘I'll have one myself. I could do with it.' Len tipped up the Haig dimple bottle. ‘Bit of bad luck, lately, I don't mind telling you. Nice little deal I'd been counting on went sour on me . . . Still, there's always the next one.'

‘What's your line, then?' He'd never asked and Rita had never told him.

‘Buying and selling. You'd be surprised what you can make – if you've got the right contacts. Know what I mean?'

‘You mean you're a black marketeer?'

‘Steady on, old boy. My business is strictly legit and you won't find anybody to say otherwise. Can I help it if people are willing to pay good prices for what they want? Besides, Rita costs a bit – as you'd know. Got to keep her happy, haven't I?' Len was lighting up a cigar. ‘Go on, sit down and make yourself comfy.'

‘I'd sooner stand, thank you.' He couldn't bring himself to sit down in company with a man who was making dishonest money out of the war. Thousands were giving their lives so that people like Len could line their grubby pockets.

‘Suit yourself.' Len sat down on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other. He was wearing brown and white shoes with a lot of fancy punching and stitching. ‘My feet are killing me. Fallen arches, see. That's why I failed the medical, or I'd be knocking Jerry for six, like you lot.'

He reminded Harry of a lizard: the slickness of him, the smooth hair, the small hands, the natty clothes. ‘Doin' what?'

‘Sorry?'

‘What exactly do you think you'd do – in the Air Force?'

‘Hard to say. Pilot, I suppose. Fighter, not bomber, though. No offence, but your kites are on the slow side, aren't they? What do they do? One-fifty? Just stooging along, aren't you? Sitting ducks. I'd sooner have a bit of speed myself. A Spit, say. Faster than a Hurry. Three-twenty – now
that's
what I call moving.'

He's been listening in on shop talk, Harry thought. One of those know-alls who butt in on conversations in pubs. ‘I doubt they'd 'ave you.'

‘Not with my feet, they wouldn't.' Len tapped his cigar. ‘Frankly, old boy, I can't see what good you bomber blokes are doing. You don't seem to be hitting the
real
targets, do you? The ones that matter. Factories, docks – that sort of thing. What's the use of smashing up a whole lot of houses? Doesn't get you anywhere. Now, take the Yanks. They've got it all sorted out. Go in
daylight
so you can see what you're doing. Hit the proper targets. Precision bombing, they call it. No skulking around in the dark –'

Harry stepped forward. ‘
Skulkin
'?'

‘OK, OK.' Len held up a hand as if he were a policeman stopping traffic. ‘No offence intended. Bit touchy, aren't you? Rita always said you were. Doesn't do in this tough old world we live in. Sure you won't have that drink? Do you the world of good. No? Well, please yourself. You could have a long wait, I'm here to warn you . . .'

They'd played him for a sap, as usual. Rita and Paulette were most likely staying the night with her mother – anything to avoid him. Leave him to me, Len would have said. I'll soon get rid of him. Spin him a story, give him a drink and a bit of a chat and send
him on his way. He'd no choice but to leave. No sense in waiting hours for nothing. And if he tried it, he'd probably end up knocking Len's block off. He couldn't stay in the same room as him much longer.

‘I'll be goin'.'

‘Right you are, Harry. Just as you want. I'll see you out.'

In the hall he caught sight of Paulette's doll's pram by the foot of the stairs. He hadn't noticed it when he came in and he stopped to look now. There was a doll sitting inside it, a big doll, propped upright against the frilly pillow. Her blue glass eyes stared back at him: eyes with thick, black lashes, eyes that opened and shut. Real hair, curled and tied with a pink ribbon.

‘Got it for Paulette for Christmas,' Len was saying. ‘Cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you. Happened to run across a bloke who'd a few boxes of them put by. Pre-war manufacture. Nice quality. She plays with it all the time.'

He didn't need to ask where
his
doll was, or whether she liked it.

Len opened the front door. He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. ‘Sorry you missed them, old boy.'

‘Take your bloody 'and off me.'

‘Easy now, Harry. Easy. No call to be like that.' Len took his hand away and smiled. ‘Better luck next time.'

‘The walls are nearly three miles long. We could walk along them almost all the way round the city, if you like.'

‘Sure. It's a great way to see it.'

The Minster was beautiful in the winter sunlight, seen through bare branches from the narrow walkway on top of the medieval wall. They looked down onto
walled gardens and the backs of Georgian houses. The snow sparkled prettily.

‘Guy Fawkes was born in York, did you know? In a house just by the Minster.'

‘Guy?'

‘Not your sort of guy, Van. Guy Fawkes. Haven't you heard of him?'

‘Guess not. What did he do?'

‘He tried to blow up the king and the Houses of Parliament with gunpowder in sixteen hundred and five.'

‘You don't say. Couldn't have thought much of them. What was his problem?'

He was a fanatical Catholic and the king, James I, was Protestant. They found out about the plot just in time and hanged him. We burn effigies of him on the top of bonfires every year on the fifth of November, and call them guys.'

‘Well, at least nobody's forgotten him. I figure that's worth a hell of a lot.'

She thought of Peter.
Your last letter took so long to reach here, I thought you'd forgotten all about me
 . . .

‘Dick Turpin's buried here too.'

‘Another Englishman I've never heard of.'

‘He was a famous highwayman in the eighteenth century. He used to ride round on a horse called Black Bess, robbing stage coaches. He was imprisoned here and hanged.'

‘We had guys like that. Ever heard of Jesse James? Butch Cassidy?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘They came to a bad end too.'

They walked on along the wall, past the Minster towards Monk Bar. She showed him the old portcullis
still in place above the gate. ‘They could lower it fast if necessary, and it's got spikes on the bottom.'

‘You sure wouldn't want to get in the way.'

Further on he stopped and looked out over the wall away from the city. ‘I guess they could see people coming a long way off.'

‘Well, most of it was forest in those days, so it couldn't have been that easy.'

‘PA's like that still. Forest for miles and miles. Cigarette?'

She shook her head and he lit one for himself, cupping his hand round it against the wind. He still looked tired, she thought. Spent. Like they always did towards the end of a tour. Her mother had told her he'd slept almost solidly for the first two days of his leave. Four more ops to go. Only four.

‘You've never told me why you volunteered, Van.'

‘To get away. To forget.' He stowed the Zippo away in his pocket and leaned on the wall again, head turned from her, smoking the cigarette. ‘That makes me sound like some guy joining the French Foreign Legion. Real dramatic.'

‘A girl?'

‘Yeah. A girl. Only it wasn't to forget her, but what I'd done to her. I killed her.'

She stared at him, shocked.

‘Not on purpose. Nothing like that, but just the same, I killed her.'

‘What happened?'

‘We were college kids, both nineteen. We'd been dating since high school. Known each other since we were small. I'd had pretty good grades that semester and my father gave me a brand new Packard for a birthday present. I thought I was the smoothest guy
around . . . a real swell. I took her to the movies in it and on the way home a truck came straight out of a side road and hit us. Carrie died in the wreck.'

‘
You
didn't kill her, though. It was the truck driver's fault.'

He shook his head. ‘I was driving much too fast. Showing off. One arm round her, finger on the wheel. Not paying attention or I'd've seen the truck in time.'

‘It was still an accident.'

‘That's what everyone kept telling me. Only as far as I was concerned it
was
my fault and I killed her. And that's the way I'll always see it. Putting myself in the line of fire seemed some kind of rough justice – self-administered, since nobody else would do it. So . . . that's why I joined. No heroics, not like the other guys. Just the only way I could deal with it.'

‘Tragedies happen in life, Van.'

‘Sure. I see them happening all the time now.
You
see them, Catherine. Kids of Carrie's age dying like flies. Only I'm not responsible for them, not the way I was for her. I can blame the war for it.' He smoked his cigarette for a moment. ‘I guess it's kind of ironic that I've been flying bombers that have killed God knows how many people, but that doesn't seem to get to me either. I can blame the war for that, too. Blame the Jerries for dropping bombs on us first. Blame Hitler. Blame Butch Harris.'

‘Have you ever thought of the lives you're helping to
save
when you're risking your own? The Germans have murdered thousands of innocent victims. A
million
Jews, it said in the papers. And if they're not defeated, they'll kill thousands more. And they'll murder people here, and people in your own country, if they ever get the chance. You're stopping that
happening. It might help a bit if you thought of that.'

‘I guess so . . .' He turned round and smiled at her. ‘Let's walk on, if we're going to get all the way round.'

When they returned to the house, her mother had gone out, leaving a note.
Gone to do a stint at the canteen. Pie in bottom oven, so help yourselves. Don't wait for me as I may be late.

She wasn't deceived for a moment. Her matchmaking mama would leave them alone for as long as possible, but it wouldn't do any good.
Don't let me down, Cat. You're the only thing that keeps me sane and surviving this hell on earth.