The Crew (43 page)

He shut the boot. ‘Right, chaps. That's it.' He drove out of the station gates for the last time. It was raining hard, the cathedral a hazy blob on the horizon. Bert told one of his stories to entertain them on the journey – something about the Pope and a Mother Superior. Piers hardly listened.

They dropped Stew off at The Angel. ‘Well, so long you jokers. See you around.'

As he walked away, Bert wound down the car window and called out something rude. Stew must have heard because he turned and grinned.

At the station Piers hung about. ‘I'll come and wave you chaps off.'

‘Och, no,' Jock said. ‘You'll be wanting to get on home.'

‘No, honestly, I've got lots of time.' He hated the thought of saying goodbye to them. Wanted to put it off as long as possible, though naturally he couldn't possibly say so.

They went onto the crowded platform. Among the khaki and the RAF blue he caught sight of a girl, back turned, wearing a scarf exactly the same colour as Peggy's. For a second or two he thought it
was
her and then she turned round and he saw that it was somebody else, a much older woman, nothing like Peggy at all.

As the train came in, Jock shook his hand. ‘Well, good luck, laddie.'

‘Good luck to you, Jock. Good luck, Bert.'

‘Same to you, mate. Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do.'

He waited, watching them get on board and fight their way down the corridor. The whistle blew and he raised his hand in farewell as the train carried them off. There was a last glimpse of Jock giving him a casual salute and Bert holding up Victor to wave. Then they were gone. He went on standing there long after the train was out of sight.

‘Excuse me, was that the London train?'

She came running down the platform, one hand clamped to her WAAF officer's cap, a suitcase in the other.

‘I'm afraid it was.'

‘Oh,
lord
I've gone and missed it. And I suppose the next one won't be for simply
hours.
' She put down
the case and straightened her cap, panting hard.

‘Have you got far to go?'

‘To Peterborough and then I'm getting a bus from there. A place called Woodthorpe. I'm going home on leave.'

‘How extraordinary! I live frightfully near there. Only about five miles away.'

‘Gosh . . . amazing!'

‘I say, I don't suppose you'd like a lift, would you? I mean, I've got a car here and I'm just going home on leave myself. If it isn't the most frightful cheek of me . . .'

‘Are you
sure
?'

‘Absolutely.'

She smiled at him. He'd never seen eyes quite that colour grey before – sort of like storm clouds. Awfully attractive.

‘Well, that's terribly kind of you. Thanks.'

‘The Wolseley's just outside. My name's Piers, by the way. Piers Wentworth-Young.' He picked up her suitcase. ‘There's masses of room in the boot.'

She heard the revolving door squeaking and looked up to see him striding in, kit-bag across his shoulder. He came straight over to the desk, dumped the bag down and leaned an arm on the counter. ‘I'd like a room, please.'

She opened the book. Her heart was hammering away, her knees weak, but she was blowed if she'd let him see it. ‘Single or double?'

‘Double.'

Double.
Well, what else would she expect? Get a grip on yourself, Honor. Show him that it's fine by you whoever he's with. ‘How long for?'

‘Tonight. Maybe longer. It depends.'

On the girl in question, presumably.

‘Number twelve is available.'

‘Good-oh. I'll sign in.' He scratched away with the pen. ‘When're you going to get that door oiled?'

‘I really couldn't say. Anyway, it's not up to me any more. I'm leaving soon.'

‘What happened? You get the sack?'

She said stiffly, ‘I handed in my notice, that's all.'

He grunted. ‘About time. What're you going to do next?'

‘Whatever the Labour Exchange tell me's needed.'

He stuck the pen back in the holder. ‘I'm off, too. Finished my tour.'

‘Congratulations.'

‘Two weeks' lovely leave and then I'll be teaching sprogs. Then maybe another tour.'

Another tour?
She wanted him to live, not die.

‘Here's the key to number twelve.'

‘I'll never find it.'

‘Upstairs. Turn right. Third on the left down the corridor. You can't miss it.'

‘That's what you Poms always say. I miss it every time. You'll have to show me.'

She went up the stairs ahead of him, moving as quickly as possible. She still had her pride, after all. As they reached the top Mrs Mountjoy came out of the Residents' Lounge below.

‘Miss Frost, Miss Frost . . . where are you? The coal scuttle is empty and the fire's going out. Miss Frost . . .'

He leaned over the banisters. ‘Get it yourself, lady. She's busy.'

She unlocked the door to number twelve.

‘After you,' he said, with a bow and a sweeping gesture.

The blackout blind was still in place, so she went over to raise it, revealing the room in all its shabby gentility. She couldn't imagine why he wanted to bring some girl to The Angel. Surely a hotel in London would have suited his purpose better? Something ritzy and glamorous.

He shut the door and set down his kit-bag, took off his greatcoat and cap and tossed them on the bed. ‘This'll do.'

There was a striped ribbon sewn above the left breast pocket of his tunic. They'd given him a medal. She had no doubt he'd earned it.

She handed over the key. ‘I must go down and see to Mrs Mountjoy.'

‘The old girl can wait. We've got things to discuss, us two. You and I. Here, in private.'

‘What things?'

‘I've been doing a spot of thinking, wondering what the hell you were playing at last time I was here. Know what I came up with?'

‘No.'

‘I reckon you got the idea I was messing you around. Giving you a whole lot of boloney, like I've given other sheilas. That so?'

She looked away.

‘Yeah, I can see you did. Can't you tell when a bloke's serious?'

‘How could I, with someone like you?'

‘Well, why the hell d'you think I'm here now?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘To see you. Why else would I come back to this dump?'

She said slowly, ‘You really meant it, Stew? Everything you said about Australia after the war . . . and the vineyard . . . and us?'

‘Every flaming word. Dinkey-die.'

‘But this double room . . . I thought . . . someone else . . .'

‘You and me, sweetheart. You and me.'

She could hear Mrs Mountjoy screeching away below like an angry parrot.
Miss Frost, Miss Frost, Miss Frost.

‘Stew, I really ought to go and see to her.'

‘No, you didn't.' He locked the door and dropped the key into his pocket. ‘You're not leaving. We haven't finished yet, see. Not by a long chalk. Matter of fact, we've only just begun.'

At Exeter Jock hitched a lift with an empty army lorry and when the driver heard that he'd just finished a tour with Bomber Command he went out of his way to drop him within a few miles of Hatherleigh.

‘Don't mention it, mate. Anything we can do for you blokes.'

He walked into the village and found a small post office and stores. He waited his turn in the queue at the counter beside a small pyramid of tinned spam, baked beans and beetroot slices in vinegar.

The old woman serving was impatient. ‘There's farms all over. If you don't know the name I can't help you.'

‘I'm looking for one with a land-girl working on it.'

She gave him a disapproving look. ‘Land-girls are all over, too. And if you want my opinion, we'd be better off without them.'

As he walked out of the shop another woman called after him. ‘Try Pennyman Farm – that way. They've a
land-girl there. Seen her out in the field.' She was old, too, and gave him a near toothless smile in a wizened face. Looked him up and down. ‘RAF, eh? Brave lads.'

He thanked her and set off. It was raining. Not the hard, cold, driving rain of Lincolnshire but a soft drizzle he could barely feel. Everything was gentler down here: gentle slopes, sheltered fields, enclosed skies.

He heard the tractor in the distance but because of the high hedge he couldn't see it until he reached a gap where there was a gate. He leaned on the wooden gate, watching the tractor ploughing steadily to and fro, making good, straight furrows in the red earth. A V of white gulls streamed out behind like a ship's wake. He could hear their cries. The field was more than half done when the engine suddenly faltered and choked to a stop. He watched as the driver got down and started fiddling about with it. After a while, he climbed over the gate and walked across the un-ploughed ground. A few yards away he stopped and called out.

‘D'you need some help?'

She swung round. She wasn't showing it, but he knew damn well she was glad to see him. ‘How the hell did you find me, Jock?'

‘Why the hell did you go?'

She shrugged. ‘That's my business. Can you mend this bloody thing?'

‘Mebbe.'

‘What do you think's the matter with it?'

‘Dirt in the fuel, most probably. Same as before. I told you not to let it run low.'

‘I don't need a lecture, thanks. Just
do
something.
You're supposed to know all about engines, aren't you?'

He stood there, not moving. Staying exactly where he was. ‘I'll give it another try, Ruth. But not unless you really want it to work. To give it a proper chance. If you don't, I'm leaving right now. And I'll never be back.'

She stared at him. Under the cap's brim her mouth twitched into a grin. Another shrug.

‘May as well, Jock,' she said. ‘Since you're here.'

Mr Stonor stopped by the cottage on his way home.

‘How's that boy of yours?'

‘Mending well, thank you.'

‘Finished his thirty, didn't he? Expect you'll be goin' home, then?'

‘As soon as Charlie's out of hospital and fit to travel. I'll return your bike before we leave.'

‘No rush. No rush. How about the hen? Will I wring her neck for you? Wouldn't take a moment.'

‘No, thank you, Mr Stonor. I'll be taking her with us.'

‘An old thing like that? Not much use to you.'

‘I'm fond of her and she still lays eggs sometimes.'

He shook his head. ‘Well, you can always put her in the pot.' He went on his way in the dusk.

Dorothy fetched her coat and went to shut Marigold up for the night. She fancied the hen looked at her anxiously. ‘Don't worry. I'd never do anything like that to you,' she told her. ‘You can stay with me always.'

She could make her a new run at the end of the garden in Bromley. Copy the same sort of thing Harry had done for her. Maybe even get some more hens as company.

As she wired up the henhouse door, she heard an engine start up suddenly out on the drome. A Merlin. She knew the sound as well as anything: could have told it easily from any other engine. Another one started. And another. And another. Four of them roaring away. The sound of a Lancaster. She stood still, listening. Presently more engines started. And then more. They were going.

Charlie was safe, for the time being at least, but other young men were risking their lives and some of them would never come back. It would go on and on – men replacing men, crews replacing crews – with no end to it. Not until the war was over.

She waited to hear the bombers take off, one after the other, and to watch them climb into the evening sky and turn towards the east. When the last one had gone and it was all quiet again she went inside and closed the cottage door.

THE END

About the Author

Margaret Mayhew was born in London and her earliest childhood memories were of the London Blitz. She began writing in her mid-thirties and had her first novel published in 1976. She is married to American aviation author, Philip Kaplan, and lives on the borders of Wales. Her highly successful novel,
Bluebirds
, is also published by Corgi.

Also by Margaret Mayhew

BLUEBIRDS

and published by Corgi Books

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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THE CREW

A CORGI BOOK: 9780552144926
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781448109357

First publication in Great Britain
Corgi edition published 1997

Copyright © Margaret Mayhew 1997

The ITMA catchphrases, created by the late Ted Kavanagh, are reproduced by kind permission of Patrick Kavanagh and of April Young Ltd.

The right of Margaret Mayhew to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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