The Crew (37 page)

‘We ought to eat that pie before it gets too dried up.'

‘OK by me.' He followed her into the kitchen. ‘Anything I can do?'

‘Well, you could get some plates out of the cupboard over there.'

‘Sure thing.'

When she turned round from the oven he was hunting in the wrong cupboard. ‘Sorry, I meant the other one.' She put down the pie and went to show him. He came to stand behind her as she opened the door.

‘These blue and white ones in here. Look—'

But when she turned round he wasn't looking at the plates at all. He was looking at her. She should have moved away at once, not gone on standing there like an idiot. Letting it happen.

‘This is Sergeant Brenner, Auntie Barbara.'

He stepped forward and shook the aunt's hand. Not bad, and a damn sight better than her sister. A widow, Honor had said. She didn't look like most widows he
knew. He smiled at her – his best-behaved smile, the one he used to charm older ladies. ‘Stew's the name.'

‘How do you do, Stew? Welcome to Newquay.'

Yep, she was a definite improvement on the mother, he decided, and so was her home. Nice little house with everything bright and cheery. No antimacassars or gloomy old furniture. And not a stag's head in sight. The sitting-room had a large window, and he went over and took a squint out. No snow down here, thank Christ. He'd had enough of that. To think he'd ever got excited at first seeing the flaming stuff. The house was part way up a hill with a good view of a beach. He looked approvingly at the wide stretch of sand – not as good as Bondi or Manly or Whalebeach, of course, but not bad. He frowned.

‘Strewth, what's happened to the sea?' He could see the line of it bloody miles off in the distance.

The aunt laughed. ‘The tide goes out a long way here, Stew. Don't worry, it will come right in at high tide.'

‘That so? Never seen that much of a drop before.'

‘I'm afraid it will be much too cold to swim at this time of year. In fact, I expect you'd find the Atlantic a bit chilly, even in summer.'

He could have told her the North Sea wasn't so hot either.

‘Come upstairs and I'll show you your room.' The aunt led the way. ‘Honor always sleeps in here.' She opened a door and he took a mental note of which one. ‘And this is yours. I thought you'd like to have the view.'

It was the same view as from the sitting-room, only higher up, and he could see the sea better now. Grey, not blue: he'd never seen the sea over here properly
blue. He stood, staring out of the window, when suddenly the homesickness got to him. It was like being socked hard in the guts. Jesus, it was midsummer back home. Probably up in the nineties. They'd be out on the beaches, soaking up the sun, fooling about . . . Indigo sea, golden sand, white surf, cold beers, big steaks . . . my word, it didn't do to think about it and that he might never see it again. He'd get all choked up like some kid. Must be because he was so bloody tired. He turned away from the window.

‘It's bonza. Thanks a lot, Mrs – sorry, Honor never told me your other name.'

‘It's Rowan, but just call me Barbara.' She smiled at him. ‘I want you to enjoy your leave, Stew. Rest and recuperation, isn't that what leave's supposed to be about? I promise I'll do my best to see you get plenty of both. We owe you brave young Aussies an awful lot, coming from the other side of the world to help us. I think you're pretty special.'

That got him choked all right. He couldn't answer her for the life of him. Had to turn away quickly and take another dekko out of the window in case she noticed.

It was dark before the tide came in, so he didn't see it until the next day. The aunt brought him a cup of tea in bed.

‘We left you to sleep as much as you could.'

He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘Thanks, Barbara. Must have needed it. Where's Honor?'

‘Downstairs. She thought you might like to go for a walk later. Take a closer look at the sea.'

‘Too right.'

As soon as he'd finished the tea he got up and padded over to the window. Just like she'd said, the
sea had come right in and there was a good surf breaking a couple of hundred yards out. He watched the rollers sweeping in, curling over and crashing onto the shore. Not bad. Not bad at all.

He got dressed and went downstairs and found that the aunt had gone out shopping and Honor was in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. He liked the jumper and skirt she had on – a lot better than the old maid clothes she wore at the hotel. Her hair wasn't rolled up all tight either, just tied with a ribbon.

She gave him a bit of a smile over her shoulder. Things were really looking up. ‘Did you sleep well?'

‘Like a log.'

‘I've made some porridge, and there's a sausage and an egg. Would that do?'

‘An egg? I wouldn't want to take that.'

‘Don't worry, my aunt keeps hens.'

While he started on the porridge, she fried the egg and sausage for him in a pan, together with some bread. She did a nice job, he reckoned. Funny to eat an egg without having to fly to Germany and back for it.

‘Barbara said you're planning a walk.'

‘Well, I thought you'd like to go along by the beach. That's what you came for, isn't it? To see the surf.'

‘Yeah . . .' As he ate, he watched her washing up at the sink. No doubt about it, he fancied her. Hell, it was more than fancying her. He fancied women all the time. But this one was different. Everything was different. For a start, you didn't mess around with a sheila like Honor, same as you could with the Doreens. There were different rules, but he wasn't too sure how to play the game.

They took a road leading down to the beach and, as usual, he matched his pace to her much slower one. He breathed in the salty air. It made him feel good. Like a new man. And having her walking along beside him made him feel good, too. And a different sort of man. He wasn't sure what sort – yet.

The lameness didn't worry him but he reckoned it worried her a lot. She acted like she thought it was something ugly, something to be ashamed of. Some time he'd tell her she was all wrong about that.

They stood and watched the rollers coming in with a booming noise like ack-ack guns; the seagulls were screaming and wheeling about overhead same as a pack of Jerry fighters. He glanced at Honor. She'd got a scarf tied round her head, but the wind was blowing a lock of hair across her face. He liked that.

‘Mind if we walk along a bit?'

‘Fine.'

‘Sure you're up to it?'

‘Of course.'

It was too cold to go far anyway and they turned towards the town and found a café open. Steamed-up windows, grubby glass-topped tables, some old slag behind the counter. But it was warmer inside.

‘My shout,' he told Honor.

The woman slopped the tea into the saucers as she poured.

‘Got any biscuits, or something?'

She nodded towards a plate of curling sandwiches under a dome. ‘Only them there.'

‘That the best you can do?'

She glared at him indignantly. ‘There's a war on, you know.'

‘You don't say.' He carried the teas over to the table. ‘Thanks for showing me the beach.'

‘There are more of them along the coast. We could take a bus tomorrow . . . if you'd like.'

‘Too right, I'd like.'

‘It's a pity you won't see it in summer, but I expect you'll have gone back to Australia by then.'

‘Doubt it.' Probably another bloody tour, he thought, stirring his tea. Forget about going home. Don't even think about it.

‘What will you do when the war's over, Stew?'

No harm in dreaming. ‘I know what I'd
like
to do.'

‘What's that?'

‘Have a vineyard. Grow grapes. Make wine.'

‘In
Australia.
I thought that was only in Europe.'

He shook his head. ‘Not any more. We've got the climate, see. I once worked for a man who'd planted a whole lot of vines – up north of Sydney. Beaut place. They were doing well. Making good wine. I reckon I'd like to have a shot at that some day. See if I can make a go of it. What do you think of the idea?'

‘I really don't know anything about it, but it sounds exciting. Rather wonderful, to do something like that.' She was drawing circles with her finger on the table top, round and round on the glass. Hardly ever looked at him direct now, he'd noticed. Wouldn't meet his eyes. Was that a good sign or a bad one?

He wondered what she'd say if he told her straight out how much he fancied her, about all those sinful things he'd been thinking? How much he was building his dreams round her? And he wondered what she really thought of him, beneath the Pommie smokescreen she put up. Sooner or later he was going to find out.

It rained solidly for the next three days. Jesus, he thought, staring out of the sitting-room window, what a sodding awful climate it is.

They went to the cinema in Newquay twice and walked some more in the rain and went to a couple of pubs where he knew he could have picked up any one of the girls hanging round the bar, easy as anything. With Honor, he bided his time, waiting for a chink to show in the armour. No luck. She was freezing him off. Keeping a safe distance. Making bloody sure he never got any chances. Doing a real Miss Iceberg.

The rain stopped so they took the bus along the coast and walked down to one of the other beaches. The surf was even better there. My word, he thought, it's almost as bloody good as Bondi.

When it started to rain again they took refuge in a bus shelter. It was littered with empty packets of Smith's crisps and fish and chip newspaper, and a used French letter that he kicked tactfully out of sight.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘The weather's been awful for you.'

‘Well, it's winter, isn't it?' He was trying to get his lighter to work and, as usual, the bloody thing was playing up.

‘I've got some matches.' She took a box out of her handbag. ‘You really ought to get another lighter.'

‘It's my lucky mascot. Can't chuck it away yet. Not till the war's over.'

She struck the match and held it up close for him. Now
that
was a good sign, he thought, but don't count on it. Instead of putting his cigarette to the flame he stepped forward and blew it out slowly, giving her a long look over the match.

As soon as he kissed her he knew nobody'd been there before. Not even Postman's Knock. She hadn't a clue. Not the foggiest. She didn't push him away, though – not at first. When she finally did, just as things were getting going nicely, he stopped at once.

‘Please, Stew . . .'

‘Sorry.' He steadied his breathing. ‘Got carried away there.'

‘I don't want you to think—'

He retrieved the fag he'd dropped in the clinch. ‘I don't think anything, Honor. Not a thing. Mind lighting me another match?' But he knew he was in with a chance.

After supper that evening – the last evening – she made some excuse and went off to bed early. She'd spent the whole time since the bus shelter not looking at him, but that didn't worry him. He knew now that she fancied him too.

The aunt got out a bottle of brandy, hidden away in a cupboard, and poured him a stiff tot. She was a great old girl, he thought. Must have been a real good-looker in her day. Still got nice legs and kept her figure. He might have gone for her himself when she was young. What was she now? Must be at least forty. Old enough to be his mother. Tough on her being a widow. He nodded towards a framed photo of a man in army uniform on her desk.

‘Hope you don't mind my asking, but is that your husband?'

‘Yes, that's David. He was killed in the First World War. In the trenches.'

‘Sorry about that.'

‘I was, too. Distraught. We hardly had any time together after we were married – only a few months.
One thing I learned was that in wartime people should make the very most of life while they can. Live every single day to the full.'

‘I'll go along with that.'

She smiled at him. ‘I thought you would, Stew. I wish Honor felt the same. She's in love with you, you know.'

‘She tell you that?'

‘No, but I know my niece well enough. She's had a dreary sort of life up to now. Very narrow. Very repressed. I expect you realize that.'

‘Yeah, I met her parents.'

‘It's not just them. It's her disability as well. She's convinced it sets her apart. Puts men off. So she puts them off first, herself. You're like a shining knight riding up on a white charger, hacking away the brambles to get to her.'

‘Strewth!'

‘A bit fanciful, I agree, but that's how it strikes me. Have some more brandy?'

‘Thanks.'

She poured him another bloody great dollop. ‘I'm off to bed now. Will you turn the lights out?'

‘No fail.'

At the door she turned. ‘Don't bother about disturbing me when you come up, Stew. I sleep very deeply and never hear a sound.'

He stared after her. Well, stone the bloody crows . . .

When he tapped on Honor's bedroom door it opened after a moment. She was standing there in a thin nightie and bare feet with her hair all loose. Nothing like Miss Iceberg at all. No point messing around. He remembered about being a flaming
shining knight and scooped her up in his arms. He kicked the door shut behind him.

‘Stew, I haven't ever—'

‘Yeah, I know,' he whispered in her ear. ‘No worries, sweetheart. I have.'

Sixteen

‘
THE TARGET FOR
tonight, gentlemen, is Essen.'

Bert's stomach looped-the-loop. Not
again.
Back to the bloody Happy Valley. He stared disconsolately at the map. There were groans and mutters going on all around him in the briefing room. He looked at the nasty red patches of flak along the coast and the great big red splodge of the heavily defended Ruhr. The Jerries didn't like you going anywhere near there, and they had vays of making you stop.