The Crew (30 page)

‘Got a bit wet in the rain while we were waitin' for the crew bus. Sorry about that. There's nowhere to get things dry at the camp – only if you put them right by the stove, and I didn't want him to get singed.'

She didn't believe him. Charlie had told her Harry was in charge of Sam and carried him to and fro, tucked safe inside his jacket. The others joked about how he fussed over him. It must have been them that had come down in the sea. Charlie's plane
had
been the one missing. She'd felt that all along.
Known
it somehow, deep inside herself. No good asking Harry about it, though, because he wouldn't tell her a thing – any more than Charlie would.

She did another stitch. ‘Not to worry. I'll soon have him mended and we'll dry him off by the Rayburn. And I'll sew that loose button on your sleeve for you, if you like – while you're here.'

‘I wouldn't want to trouble you, Dorothy.'

She smiled at him calmly. ‘It's no trouble, Harry. None at all.'

The American Air Force Flying Fortress flew into Beningby, badly shot up. Catherine watched it make a shaky touch-down and skid at breakneck speed along the runway, fire engines and ambulances in hot pursuit. Eventually it slewed to a stop on the grass, mercifully without bursting into flames.

‘They're learning it's not quite as easy as they thought,' someone said behind her. ‘Maybe they won't be so cocky in future.'

Later, when she went into the Officers' Mess two of the B17 crew were standing at the bar, still in their leather jackets and flying boots. They had the same sort of stunned expression that she'd seen so often on the faces of RAF sprog crews returning from their first op. Van was talking to them, buying them drinks, and after a while they were joined by other RAF. She watched the Americans relax a little – even laugh at some joke, but half-heartedly. Poor things, she thought. Thousands of miles from home, come to fight a war in a foreign country that must seem a wretched sort of place to them: battle-scarred and dreary, cold and uncomfortable. And sometimes ungrateful, too.

Van came over to her. ‘Can I stand you a shandy?'

‘No, thanks. I'm fine.'

‘I'd like to.'

She didn't want to sound ungracious. ‘All right, then. Thank you.'

He never seemed to be short of money, and it couldn't be on RAF pay. He must come from a well-off family, back in Philadelphia. That bloody Yank, Peter had always called him. Still did.

Promise me you'll wait for me, Cat. Swear it. Don't let
anybody else take you away from me – especially that bloody Yank. He'll be sniffing round now I can't see him off. Tell him to go take a running jump. I'm counting on you. I couldn't bear it if you let me down
 . . .

The bloody Yank came back, carrying two glasses.

‘Thanks.'

‘You're welcome.'

‘Those Americans look pretty shaken up,' she said.

‘Yeah. They got jumped by a pack of 109s. Only just made it back on a wing and a prayer. Both waist gunners were killed, and their bombardier's in bad shape.'

‘How horrible for them! Was it their first op?'

‘Third. The first two were a breeze. This one kind've took them by surprise. They'll soon get used to it. Cigarette?'

He always had plenty of those, too. American Chesterfields.

‘Do your family send you these?'

‘Regular as clockwork.'

‘They must worry about you a lot.'

‘Guess so.'

‘Your last op,' she said, but tentatively in case he didn't want to talk about it. ‘When you had to ditch. It must have been pretty awful.'

‘Well, the North Sea's kind of cool for a dip at this time of the year. I sure don't recommend it.' The throwaway line was typical RAF. Catching.

‘I'll remember that.'

He eyed her through the cigarette smoke. ‘I'll bet you thought we'd bought it.'

‘I was rather worried for a while – till we got the news that you'd been picked up.' She sounded as casual about it as he'd been. They might have
been chatting about some day trip. ‘Thank God you were.'

‘Yeah, we were kind of lucky. I'm glad you were rather worried.' He smiled at her and she looked away.

‘I've had another letter from Peter.'

‘How's he making out?'

‘He sounds absolutely desperate. I'm afraid he'll go and
do
something desperate – try and escape.'

‘I'd probably do the same in his shoes. Not much fun being a POW.'

‘He's depending on me. Totally. I can't possibly let him down.'

‘Yep, I know, Catherine,' he said. ‘I read you loud and clear. I've got a question for you, though. Are you in love with the guy? Were you
ever?'

Before she could speak someone called to him from the bar.

‘Hey, Van! How about tickling the old ivories? Cheering up these chaps of yours.'

He went over to the piano and sat down. She'd heard him play in the Mess before – jazz and swing – very well. This time it was neither. He played
The Star Spangled Banner
, slowly and quietly. When she glanced across at the two young Americans, one of them was brushing his hand across his eyes.

‘It's after six o'clock, Miss Frost.' The colonel had shuffled past the reception desk a few moments ago en route to the Oak Bar and then shuffled back again. He was blinking at his hunter watch in the palm of his hand. ‘Time for my gin and tonic.'

Ron was late again and there would be yet another of his made-up excuses.

‘I'm so sorry, Colonel. I'll see to it for you.'

He cupped a hand behind his ear. ‘What? What's that you said?'

She raised her voice. ‘I said I'll come and open the bar for you at once.'

He followed her eagerly, like an old dog at mealtime, and she unlocked the bar, poured out his gin and tonic and settled him in his usual corner chair.

‘There you are, Colonel.'

Thank you, my dear. Your very good health.'

More people came into the bar – guests staying in the hotel. She was serving them their drinks when she caught sight of Stew Brenner, standing in the doorway. He strolled over.

‘Do everything round here, don't you?'

The barman's late, that's all. What can I get you, Sergeant?'

‘Stew, remember? We've met before. I'll have a pint of bitter, please.' He unbuttoned his tunic breast pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes, knocked one out and tapped its end against the counter. ‘How've you been, then?'

She set the pint in front of him. ‘Quite all right, thank you.'

He'd put the cigarette in his mouth and was flicking the wheel of his lighter with his thumb. ‘I'm still alive, as you see. In our line of business that's considered pretty good. No cause for complaint. This flaming thing . . . got any matches?'

She sold him a box of Bryant and May, and he lit his cigarette and tossed the dead match into the ashtray on the counter. What on earth was he doing here again? The Angel wasn't his sort of place at all.

‘Are your friends joining you? Your crew?'

‘Nope. I got a ride in with our navigator, the one who's sweet on your Peggy. He's come to see her.'

‘Peggy's working this evening.'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe he'll wait around till she's finished. I reckon he's nuts about her.'

Pilot Officer Wentworth-Young seemed very nice but, of course, that could never work. Maybe she ought to have a word with Peggy, because she might get hurt. Only it was really none of her business. She went to serve another customer further along the bar. There was still no sign of Ron, and more and more people were coming in. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that the sergeant was taking his time over his drink, leaning one elbow on the counter, smoking and watching her. When she came near him again he leaned across.

‘Want a hand? I know that side of the bar as well as I know this. Used to help Dad at the hotel in Sydney.'

She was about to refuse when she heard the telephone ringing in her office. It went on ringing and ringing because there was nobody to answer it.

He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Better get that, hadn't you?'

‘I'm most frightfully sorry to barge in here like this, Peggy. Only . . . well, I just couldn't wait until next Wednesday to see you. And I might not even see you then.'

She could feel herself going all red in the face. What if Miss Hargreaves came in and found him there in the dining-room when she was supposed to be finishing the tables? She could lose her job. ‘I'm a bit busy, sir—'

‘I know. I'm sorry. The thing is, I wondered if I could see you when you've finished? This evening?'

She said doubtfully, ‘I won't be done until after ten.'

‘I'll wait for you. In the car – outside at the back. I'll drive you home.'

She couldn't really refuse, could she? Not with him being so kind. ‘All right, then.'

‘Gosh, that's super.' He went on standing there, staring at her.

‘I have to finish the tables before I ring the gong at seven.'

‘Yes, yes, of course – terribly sorry. I'll see you later, then.'

She hurried through the rest of the laying. Imagine someone like him being interested in someone like her. She still couldn't understand it.

‘It's nearly seven, Peggy,' Miss Frost called to her round the dining-room door. ‘Don't be late with the gong, for goodness sake. Mrs Mountjoy's waiting.'

‘I'm seeing you home in this fog,' Stew Brenner told Honor. ‘And you can save your breath arguing.' He switched on the torch but it was hard to see more than a foot or two ahead. ‘I used to think England was always like this,' he said. ‘Always foggy. Now I know it's only half the year. The other half it rains.'

They followed the white edge of the kerb. The fog was clammily cold, muffling every sound – even her dragging foot.

‘Thank you for helping out this evening.'

‘Don't mention it. I reckon he's no good, that little runt you've got in the bar.'

Ron had turned up an hour late with some story about losing the key to his bike padlock.

‘It's not easy to get staff these days. All the men are called up or doing war work.'

‘Why isn't he?'

‘He's got knock-knees, or something.'

‘Oh, my word. He ought to come along with us some time. That'd make his knees knock all right.'

‘I should think he'd die of fright.'

‘Yeah, save the Jerries the trouble of killing him. By the by, Honor, there's something I wanted to ask you. A while back we got diverted over Cornwall and I saw a real bonza-looking beach – just like back home. Had a good surf rolling in. Our nav said it was a place called Newquay. Know anything about it?'

‘I do, as a matter of fact. My aunt lives there. She runs a bed and breakfast.'

‘Well, stone the crows,' he sounded pleased. ‘Think she'd have me to stay, next time I get some leave? I want to take a closer look at that surf.'

‘I expect she would. But it would be much too cold to swim.'

‘I know that.' He chuckled. ‘Last trip we ended up in the drink.'

‘Drink?'

‘Not grog. The sea. We had to ditch.'

She said, shocked, ‘That must have been dreadful!'

‘Well, it was no picnic, I'll tell you. We were lucky, though. Got picked up in time. Could've been a lot worse.'

Could have been dead. Frozen to death, or drowned. Not walking along here beside her.

‘I'll write to my aunt and ask her, if you like.'

‘Thanks. I'd just like to see that place. Maybe I'll still be around over here when the summer comes. Or what you call summer.'

They turned down her street and followed the kerb as far as her house.

‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?'

‘You mean that?'

‘Yes, of course.' She wasn't quite sure whether she did or not but it seemed rude not to make the offer. She fumbled for her key in her handbag and unlocked the front door. The hall light was switched off but the door to the sitting-room was ajar. She opened it further. ‘This is Sergeant Brenner. Of the RAF. I asked him in for a cup of tea.'

Her mother's knitting needles halted in mid-stitch; her father's jaw dropped over the top of his newspaper. She'd never brought any man into the house before, and guests – apart from relatives – were never invited. Her mother had always remarked that they preferred to keep themselves to themselves.

‘Well, I'll make the tea, then,' her mother said, recovering. ‘Though it's twenty minutes earlier than usual.'

Her father took off his spectacles and laid aside his newspaper, prepared to make an effort. ‘RAF, eh? What branch exactly?'

‘Bomber Command, sir. Stationed at Beningby.'

‘Oh yes . . . Beningby. They fly those Wellingtons, don't they?'

‘It's all Lancasters now.'

‘Lancasters . . . yes, of course. Two engines.'

‘Four, sir.'

‘Yes, indeed, four. And you . . . you do what?'

‘I'm a bomb aimer. I aim the bombs at the target.'

‘Oh. Very important, then. You've got to get it right, haven't you? Hit the target.'

‘Yeah . . . they like it that way. The RAF, that is. Not the Germans.'

‘Sergeant Brenner is from Australia, Father. From Sydney.'

‘Australia
 . . . goodness me! That's a long way away.'

‘Twelve thousand miles, sir.'

‘Good gracious . . . 
that
far?'

She went into the kitchen, where her mother was pouring boiling water from the kettle into the teapot. There was an extra cup and saucer on the tray, and a clean cloth.

‘You ought to have warned us you were bringing a stranger back, Honor. We'd like to have known in advance.'