Pastoral (9 page)

They came to the top of the rise, and the track ran down before them through the woods. In front of them, through the bare trees, there was the glint of water. Marshall said: “I say, there’s a lake or something.”

Gervase nodded. “There is a lake here,” she said. “I saw it on the map. There’s a house somewhere near.”

The pilot said: “I wonder if there’s anything in it?”

They went on briskly to the water’s edge. Across the lake, no more than a hundred yards in width, there was a mown lawn fringed with rhododendrons, and at the head of this there was a house, low, long, and covered in creeper. “That’s Kingslake House,” said Gervase. “I remember that. The drive runs from the other side of it back on to the road where we left the bikes.”

Marshall said: “Nice place. Do you know who lives there?”

She shook her head. “I suppose the wood belongs to the house.”

They turned to examine the lake. It was artificial and very shallow, created by a concrete and timber dam across a little stream that ran down through the trees. With one eye on the house they made their way towards the dam and the deep water by it, and walked out upon it, fascinated by the tinkle of running water at the overflow. Gervase looked out over the small sheet of water and smiled. “I suppose this is the King’s Lake,” she said. “He must have been a very little King.”

The pilot grinned. “Because it’s a very little lake?”

She nodded, laughing up at him. “Boy’s size.”

They walked on round it presently, being careful to keep out of sight of the house as much as possible. “I bet there are some fish in it,” Marshall said thoughtfully. “It’s been dammed up so as to hold them.”

Gervase agreed with him. “I’ve seen places like it,” she said. “You buy trout and put them in—stock it. Then you have a lot of fun getting them out again.”

He was interested. “How much do trout cost?”

“About a shilling each, I think.”

They came to the stream that ran in at the top end and stood looking at the water. “There’s a fish!” said the pilot suddenly. He touched her on the arm and pointed. “By that bit of weed.”

She saw a grey shadow moving slowly over the bottom. “That’s a trout,” she observed. “I said there’d be trout here.”

“How do you know it’s a trout?” the pilot asked.

She stared at him. “Well—it’s a trout. Haven’t you ever seen one?”

He shook his head. “I come from High Holborn, lady. I’ve only fished for roach and pike so far.”

She said: “It looks grey now, but if it was to turn suddenly you’d see it was a sort of goldy colour underneath. It’s got spots on it, too. They’re much brighter when they’re out of the water.”

“How do you know all that?” he asked. “Have you fished for them?”

She said: “I go out with my uncle sometimes, when I’m staying up at Twistleton. He’s the rector. He fishes up and down a little river between Twistleton and Helmsley.”

“Fly fishing?” She nodded. “Have you ever done it?”

She said: “The line always catches up in trees and things with me. I never caught anything.” She glanced around them. “It would be different here,” she said. “There’s plenty of room behind. I expect they arranged the trees like that on purpose.”

He stared down at her with new admiration and respect. “I never fished with fly,” he said. “I don’t know how to.”

She was still staring at the fish. “He’s awfully sluggish,” she said. “I suppose it’s early in the season, and cold. Let’s get a stick and tickle him up a bit.”

They got a long stick and thrust it very quietly down into the water at the fish. Before they reached it it flicked round and shot off into deeper water.

The pilot said: “See it flash? Sort of bronze colour. Let’s see if we can find another.”

They walked all round the little lake, stick in hand. They saw one or two more fish, but well out of reach of their stick. Over their heads the light began to fade and a little chill wind of March blew through the leafless trees. Presently, regretfully, they left the lake and the long house beyond the lawn and walked back over the rise, down past the badger’s earth towards their bicycles.

At the gate Gervase said awkwardly: “I think we’d better go back independently …”

The pilot nodded. “It’ll be all over the station in ten minutes if we don’t.” He grinned at her.

She turned to him. “I have enjoyed this afternoon,” she said. “It’s been like old times at home. Thank you so much for letting me come.”

Marshall said: “Thank you for coming.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering how to put what he wanted to say. She stood waiting for him. “If I could find another badger, or something,” he said, “would you like to do it again?”

The afternoon had shown her that he was simple and honest. He had promised to show her a badger’s earth and he had shown her just that; he had not tried to kiss her or do any of those things. He had helped her to pick primroses.

She said: “I’d like to, some afternoon when you’re not fishing.”

She smiled at him, got on her bicycle, and rode off down the lane towards the station. She went very happily. The wind was behind her; the evening was fine and blue. For the first time since she arrived at Hartley Magna she felt a mitigation of the bleak ugliness of life upon the station; her world was no longer made up solely of defaulting airwomen, grey wooden huts, anxiety, and grief, and death. She had had an afternoon with a young man that she liked and respected; a carefree afternoon. She knew quite well that the young man was getting to be very much interested in her, and she liked that, too. There might be difficulties ahead, but she shut her mind to those.

She got back to her quarters in the last glimmer of daylight, parked her bicycle, and went indoors to the sitting-room. Section Officer Ford was there, a fair-haired girl who was second-in-command to Flight Officer Stevens. She said: “Two pilot officers and two sergeant pilots came in this afternoon from the Pool.”

Gervase rang the bell and ordered herself a cup of tea. “What are the officers like?”

“One’s a South African called Harkness. He calls you ‘my dear’ every time he speaks. The other’s a boy called Drummond.”

“Do you know who they’ll be put with?”

Jane Ford said: “They’ll get crews of their own before very long, now that they don’t carry second pilots. They might be put with Davy or Marshall or Johnson for a trip or two.”

Gervase said: “Marshall has a second pilot—a Dane.”

“Only because he’s a Dane and they don’t feel like giving him a crew of his own. They’ve regraded him as navigator. You mean Gunnar Franck.”

Peter Marshall got back to the ante-room about the same time and ordered a pint of beer. Pat Johnson was there. He said: “Been fishing?”

Marshall shook his head. “Rode out on the bike to look at a pond,” he said. “I don’t know that it’s any good to me.” He paused and then said: “Did you go round to-day?”

Mr. Johnson said: “I did a lovely fifth in four.”

“What did you do the thirteenth in?” That was the hole with the stream.

“Eleven,” said Mr. Johnson.

“You’re coming on. Have a beer.”

The beer came presently. Johnson said: “I’ve got to have a prune with me next trip.”

“Have I?”

“Not that I know of. Lines has got the other one.”

“What’s yours called?”

“Drummond.”

Pilot Officer Drummond came into the ante-room soon after that; Johnson called him over and introduced him to Marshall and Davy. Pilot Officer Drummond was young, about nineteen; he was small and dark-haired and pale-faced, with a keen, lively manner. “I say,” he said to Johnson, “I found a razor in my room. What had I better do with it?”

Johnson said equably: “Give it to Flight Officer Stevens, officer in charge of W.A.A.F.s. She’ll post it on.”

They gave him a can of beer. “I’m awfully glad they sent me here,” he said. “They were going to send me to Coastal, but I asked for Bomber Command, and they let me change.” He had been for a few weeks at an operational training station.

Marshall said: “What’s wrong with Coastal? You can have a damn good time at one of those places.”

The boy said: “Spend all day out over the sea and see nothing but a lot of mouldy ships. No, thanks.” If he had been honest he would have said that he wanted above everything to drop bombs on Germans, but he was not quite so young as that.

Presently he asked: “When’s the next operation?”

“Give us a bloody chance,” said Mr. Johnson. “We had one last night. If they take my advice they’ll have the next one about three months from now.”

“No, seriously. You’ve been doing one every three or four days, haven’t you?”

Marshall said: “We have for the last fortnight, but we can’t keep that up. All the machines are running out their time. We’ll be laying off for a bit pretty soon.”

“I hope we have another first,” the boy said.

“Ruddy little fire-eater,” said Davy. “Don’t let Winco hear him, or he’ll get us into trouble.”

Presently they went and dined, and afterwards they walked down in the quiet of the moonlit night to the “Black Horse.” Marshall met Mr. Ellison in the lounge bar. “Sorry about last night,” he said. “We had to go out on a job. What’s it to be?”

The tractor salesman said: “Pint, please. It said on the wireless to-night we raided Dortmund.” He raised an eyebrow enquiringly.

The pilot nodded slightly. It was not to talk about Dortmund that he had come to the “Black Horse,” but to forget it. He said: “Take you on at bar billiards. Loser buys a round.”

“All right.” They put in sixpence and began to play as the table started ticking. “I saw Jack Barton about those pigeons, by the way. He said, go right ahead, any time you like.”

“Fine. You got a gun?”

Mr. Ellison said: “Sure.”

“We’ve got a two-two rifle, and I think I can borrow a twelve-bore. What about to-morrow afternoon? A hundred and sixty-six.”

The other marked it up. “All right.”

“I’ll have Gunnar Franck and Phillips with me. Nice work—pretty to watch.”

“ ’Bout three o’clock? Two hundred and forty.”

“Make it half-past two. It gets dark so early.”

“Okay. If we have any luck we’ll take a brace along to Jack after. Maybe he’ll give us some tea.”

“There’ll be four of us.”

“Ninety. I’ll let him know we’re going out to-morrow afternoon. Maybe he’ll come and join us.”

Marshall left at closing-time and walked back to the station and went to bed. He lay in bed for some time before sleep, deeply happy about Gervase Robertson. He felt that she was a kind, generous girl; she was physically very attractive, almost unbearably so at times. Moreover, she was interested in the things that he was interested in, and talked sense about them. He wondered very much what he could ask her to do next. He knew that her position as an officer upon the station must inevitably constrain their meetings; if she got talked about too much she might be transferred away. What they did must be done discreetly, and well away from the station.

He drifted off to sleep, his problem still unsolved, thinking
about her smile, the poise of her head, the slim line of her figure.

He told Gunnar Franck and Phillips about the pigeon-shoot next morning. Sergeant Phillips said he could produce an air-rifle, guaranteed to kill a rat at fifty yards, and to give it a great fright at a hundred. He promised to bring that along. Marshall went back to the ante-room before lunch and asked the Wing Commander if he could borrow his gun.

The Wing Commander was a man about thirty years old called Dobbie; he came from Scotland and had been in the regular Air Force before the war. He said: “All right. Got any cartridges?”

Cartridges at that stage of the war were in short supply. They argued for a little time about replacement; finally Marshall sealed the loan of ten cartridges with a pint of beer.

Dobbie asked: “What other guns have you got?”

Marshall said: “The tractor chap’s got a gun, and Sergeant Pilot Franck’s got a two-two, and Sergeant Phillips an air-rifle. He wanted to bring along the turret, but I said I thought you wouldn’t like that, sir.”

“Where are you going to do this?”

“Coldstone Mill. Up the river.”

Section Officer Robertson was near them, listening; Marshall was very conscious of her. The Wing Commander said: “Darned if I don’t come out to see the fun myself, if I can make it.”

The pilot said carefully: “We’d love to see you, sir, if you bring another ten cartridges. Better bring the box, perhaps.”

There was a laugh. Section Officer Robertson drew near. “Is this your pigeon-shoot?” she said. “May I come too?” It seemed to be developing into a public party, making it possible for her.

Marshall said: “Fine. I’ll race around and see if I can get one or two more guns.”

There was a Jeep upon the station, acquired mysteriously by Wing Commander Dobbie and retained by him for his personal use. Gervase rode out to Coldstone Mill in this with him; as they went he justified to her the expenditure of Service petrol by a dissertation on the weight of pigeons (food) that would require to be transported back to camp. They reached complete agreement that the use of motor transport for this purpose was not only justifiable, but wise and prudent.

They got to Coldstone Mill a little late, in time for the first
fusillade, which they witnessed from the bridge. A cloud of pigeons shot out from the trees with a great clatter of wings, a blue-grey cloud of birds against a pale blue sky. The sharp crack of Flying Officer Davy’s Service revolver was unmistakable. One pigeon came down with a solid thump, and two more fluttered down wounded.

“I hope nobody’s brought out a Sten gun,” said the Wing Commander. “I’d have to take notice of that.”

They shot all afternoon under the direction of Jack Barton, moving about the farm from clump to clump. They finished up with sixteen pigeons and a cup of tea at the farm in the fading light of evening.

Gervase had shot a pigeon with Gunnar Franck’s borrowed rifle. She went up to him at tea. “It was terribly nice of you to let me shoot,” she said. “It has been fun.”

The broad, red-faced young man went redder than ever. “You shoot ver’ well,” he said. “How did you learn?”