The Crew (32 page)

The hut door opened, letting in a blast of cold wind.

‘Take-off in thirty minutes, chaps.'

Harry let his hand fall on Charlie's shoulder. ‘Not to worry, lad. It's another one chalked up for us. 'Appen we'll be stood down tomorrow for Christmas.'

‘Come on in, Jock.'

‘Guid of you to ask me, Mrs Gibbs.'

‘Well, we thought you could do with a nice Christmas
meal, though I'm sure they do you very well at the camp.'

He took off his cap and greatcoat and followed her into the kitchen. It smelled of roasting meat and pastry cooking. All the comforts of home, he thought: good food, warmth, hot water, dry bedding. Everything they lacked at Beningby. Things he'd lacked for most of his life.

‘Ruth's outside somewhere, but she'll be in in a minute. Unless you want to go and fetch her.'

‘No,' he said. ‘I doubt she'd appreciate that.'

‘You don't want to take any notice of the way she is sometimes, Jock. She really likes you, you know.'

‘Then she's a funny way o' showing it.'

He'd been to the farm once or twice before in the past month and each time Ruth had more or less ignored him. Well, he could take a hint. She'd meant just what she'd said: it'd all been a game with her. He should have believed her the first time and not gone on trying, and making a bloody fool of himself.

He helped Mrs Gibbs set the table and fetched her home-brewed beer from the larder.

‘We've killed a goose,' she told him, busy at the range, ‘for a nice treat. I hope you like goose.'

‘I've never eaten it.'

‘Well, you'll soon find out. Dick'll be in to carve directly. Ah, here's Ruth.'

He turned round to see her standing in the open doorway. Same old tweed cap. Same old ragged hair. Same man's jacket and plaid scarf over her jersey and breeches. If she was trying to make herself look as plain as possible, it didn't work. Not with him.

‘Happy Christmas, Ruth.'

She came into the kitchen, shutting the door
behind her. ‘I didn't know you were going to be here, Jock.'

‘Sorry,' he said tersely.

The meal was the best he'd ever eaten: roast goose, apple sauce, brussels sprouts, roast potatoes, with Mrs Gibbs' apple pie to follow.

‘Must try some of the wife's beer,' Mr Gibbs had insisted. ‘Seeing it's Christmas.'

He drank several glasses recklessly, one after the other. Why not? This was probably his last Christmas. The hell with everything.

‘I see your lads are giving the Jerries a big dose of their own medicine,' Mr Gibbs told him. ‘Saw some photos in the newspaper. They're getting it good and proper.'

‘Aye. We're doing our best.'

Ruth put down her knife. ‘I've heard they don't hit the target half the time. Don't even get near it. It's all pointless.'

He flushed angrily. ‘That was at the beginning. It's different now. The photos prove it.'

‘You can fake photographs.'

‘Mebbe so. But we've no need to. The RAF's doing a grand job. At the cost of a great many men's lives.'

‘I'd say it's wasting them.'

‘I'd say differently. I'd say men are dying willingly in the cause of freedom. Your freedom.'

He gave Mrs Gibbs a hand with the clearing away and the washing-up. Ruth had disappeared outside again.

‘I'll be getting back to the station, Mrs Gibbs.'

She put her hand on his arm. ‘I wish you wouldn't. I wish you'd talk to Ruth. Knock some sense into her.'

It sounded painfully like something his father might really do. ‘I don't think she wants to listen to me.'

‘Well, don't go without saying goodbye to her. Give it a try, Jock. Please. We're fond of Ruth, Dick and I. It's been like having a daughter of our own.'

He knew the beer had taken effect because otherwise he'd have collected his cap and greatcoat, left without a word to her and never come back, no matter what Mrs Gibbs asked. Instead, he went out into the yard, his anger still smouldering away inside him.

He found her in one of the byres, laying down fresh straw, with a pitchfork. ‘I'm off then.'

‘Fine. Goodbye.' She tossed straw about, back turned.

The anger erupted. ‘If you wanted to be rid of me, then you've succeeded, so you can stop your games now. It's nothing to me. What I don't care for is what you said about the RAF. Say what you like about me, but don't ever say things like that again. If you were a man I'd've knocked you down.'

She turned, pitchfork raised as though he really meant to. ‘Go on, then. What's stopping you, Jock? You're like your father, aren't you?'

He wrenched the fork out of her hands and hurled it into a corner. Took hold of her and shook her so hard that her cap fell off.

‘Just
like your father!'

‘That's enough, Ruth. You've said more than enough. I'm not going to hit you. I'd never do that – no matter how angry you try to make me.' He'd backed her up against the byre wall, still gripping her shoulders; her face was inches from his, mocking him. Daring him.

‘So, what
are
you going to do, Jock?'

Maybe she was making a fool of him again; maybe it was another of her games. He couldn't help himself and he didn't give a damn.

‘Happy Christmas, Harry.'

‘Happy Christmas, Dorothy.' He stepped over the cottage threshold and produced Sam from inside his greatcoat. ‘Didn't like to leave him behind. People'll pinch anything.'

‘Take off your coat, Harry, and make yourself at home. Charlie's just getting some logs in.'

If only it
was
his home, he thought. The room was looking a picture. She'd decorated it with holly and ivy all along the mantlepiece and over the door lintels – must have gone out and gathered it – and there was a nice fire blazing away in the grate. Table laid all ready, and more holly with bright red berries in a jar in the middle. He could see she'd taken a lot of trouble.

He said awkwardly, ‘I've brought you somethin'. It's not much, I'm afraid.'

‘Oh, Harry . . . that's so nice of you.' She took the package from him. ‘Shall I open it now?'

‘If you like.' He watched as she undid it and wished he'd been able to get some fancy paper and ribbon to make it look nicer, like you could before the war. When she saw the vase inside she gave a cry of pleasure.

‘It's lovely! You really shouldn't have. Wherever did you find it?'

‘Oh, in a shop.'

It had been the same shop where he'd found the doll for Paulette. He'd spotted the green glass vase on a shelf, all dusty and dull, but he'd seen it was a pretty
shape and would clean up well. And he'd noticed she liked having flowers about the place. ‘Hope you like it.'

‘Oh, I do. I really do and it'll come in ever so useful. All I've got here is jam jars. Thank you, Harry. I've something for you, too, but you're to open it after we've eaten. I don't want the meal to spoil.'

She went off into the kitchen as Charlie staggered in with a big basket of logs and he gave him a hand with them. The lad had filled out a bit, but sitting cramped up in a gun turret for hours on end wasn't the way for a growing lad to build up his strength.

Dorothy called out from the kitchen that it was ready and he went to help her carry in the roast chicken and vegetables. A real treat.

‘Will you carve, Harry? If you don't mind.'

Of course he didn't mind. He was proud to have been asked. It made him feel a part of the family, like the real head of it – though that was just stupid daydreaming. Still, he could pretend, just for today. He picked up the carving knife and fork. The chicken looked golden brown, done to perfection. Dorothy was a wonderful cook, and no mistake. He prepared to make the first cut and then stopped, knife in mid-air.

‘This isn't . . . it isn't . . . 
Marigold?'

She laughed at that. So did Charlie. ‘Goodness, no, Harry. We couldn't ever eat her. It's one Mr Stonor brought me from the farm. Just an old one, he said, so I expect it'll be tough as anything.'

The bird didn't seem tough at all. Anything but. He guessed that Dorothy had really been given a nice young one, though she didn't know it.

She'd made a plum pie for the pudding – from plums off the tree at the back of the cottage that she'd
bottled in the autumn. He thought it was the best pudding he'd ever tasted. The best dinner he'd ever had. The best Christmas.

Afterwards, when they'd cleared up everything – Dorothy washing-up, him drying and Charlie putting away – they sat down to listen to the King's speech on the wireless. His Majesty stumbled a bit over his words – well it must be a bit of a worry to think that millions of people were listening to you all over the country, taking heart from what you had to say. His Majesty wasn't allowed to fight in battles, like kings in the old days, but he was still their leader. He hadn't gone away to Canada to be safe from the Nazis. He and the Queen had stayed to face the music with everybody else. So had the Princesses. God bless them.

When they played God Save the King at the end of the speech, they got to their feet, and he and Charlie stood at attention. He felt a bit weepy, but he hid it.

‘This is for you, Charlie,' Dorothy said, handing out her presents. ‘And this is yours, Harry.'

He took the flat package uncertainly. He couldn't remember when he'd last been given a present. Charlie was unwrapping his and he saw that it was a book of poems. He looked right pleased with it and sat down by the fire and started reading it straight away.

‘Aren't you going to open yours, Harry?'

‘Oh, aye. Sorry.' He fumbled clumsily with the string and opened up the brown paper. Inside was a woollen scarf in RAF blue. He unfolded it to its full length.

‘I hope you like it.'

‘It's – well, it's just wonderful. Thank you, Dorothy. Did you . . . did you knit it yourself?'

‘Yes. It's just like the one I did for Charlie, except
I made it a bit longer for you because you're so much bigger. He says his keeps him nice and warm when he's flying so I thought you might do with one too.'

She'd knitted it for him; her hands had formed every stitch.

‘Thank you,' he said again. ‘It's a grand present.'

‘Well, let's see how it looks on you.'

He put the scarf around his neck and she came over and stretched up on tiptoe to adjust it. He stood still as a rock while she looped one end of the scarf over the other to make it lie neatly on his chest. She smiled up at him. ‘There. It looks very smart on you.'

He tried to smile back, all natural and easy, too, but he couldn't manage it. Couldn't speak either for fear his voice would give him away. And his heart was thudding away so loud he thought she was bound to hear it.

‘Listen to this,' Charlie said from his chair by the fire, and started to read out one of the poems from his book. It was all about bugles blowing and castle walls and lakes and glens, but Harry only half-listened. The other half of him was reliving the touch of Dorothy's fingers and allowing himself to hope. Just a bit.

It was Piers' idea that they should all go to the pantomime at the theatre in Lincoln. He'd been shocked to hear that Van had never seen one. ‘Don't you have them in America?'

‘I guess not. What are they?'

‘Well, they're sort of Christmas plays, based on children's fairy stories. Things like Jack and the Beanstalk and so on. This one's Cinderella.'

‘Jeez . . .'

‘Actually, they're meant for grown-ups as well. They work on both levels. Jolly good fun sometimes. You'll enjoy it.'

Van doubted it, but Piers was so enthusiastic, he reckoned he ought to go along quietly. Do the decent thing. Stew, who had never seen a pantomime either, wasn't quite so gracious.

‘My bloody oath, Piers, I'm not sitting through some kids' rubbish.'

‘I told you, Stew, it's not just for children. They always put in jokes for grown-ups as well.'

‘Blue ones, you mean?'

‘Well,
doubles entendres.'

‘For Pete's sake, talk English.'

‘You know, double-meaning ones. So the children don't understand but the adults do.'

‘Still sounds bloody awful to me.'

‘It's all tradition, you see. The Ugly Sisters will be played by men, dressed up as women, and Prince Charming will be played by a girl.'

‘You
sure
this is for kids?'

‘Yes, absolutely. The principal boy – who's a girl, of course – always has awfully good legs and there'll be Dandini, too, the prince's servant. He'll be played by a girl, as well.'

‘With good legs?'

‘Rather!'

‘Hmm. OK, I'm on, then. Jolly good show!'

They squashed into Piers's car and drove into Lincoln for the afternoon performance. Van prepared himself for a boring experience. When the curtain went up, though, he found he was rather enjoying it all: the wobbly scenery, the simpering village maidens capering about to the gutsy little orchestra. And Piers
had been right about the legs. There were piercing whistles from all the service men in the audience as Prince Charming came on and strode down to the footlights, dressed in a short gold tunic, fishnet tights and high-heeled shoes. She was flanked by half-a-dozen old guys in green, carrying long-bows, who looked like they'd strayed from Sherwood Forest. The orchestra struck up some bouncy tune.

Prince Charming slapped her thigh and marched from one side of the stage to the other, tracked by a wavering spotlight.