Pastoral (21 page)

“I do. I’ve had further to come.”

They laughed together, and the tension was reduced. She said: “Have you done anything about a transfer yet?”

“Not yet. I was going to write about it in a day or two.”

“I do think it’d be an awful pity to break up your crew.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s what you said in your letter. I don’t think that matters a bit; as a crew we aren’t so hot just now. And you said something about the dear old war, too. I don’t care two hoots about the bloody war.”

She stared across the room, feeling that he wasn’t in a very easy mood. It occurred to her that possibly he had a point of view that she had not appreciated, that she did not completely understand. She said:

“If you put in for a transfer, what would you do?”

“I’d ask to be put back on Coastal. I was there to start with, so I know the work.”

“Would they let you do that?”

“I think so. I’ve done a good long spell in Bomber Command, and with a lousy show behind me like this last one I could say my nerve had gone. I think they’d let me go.”

There was a pause.

Gervase said: “We should miss you frightfully at Hartley.”

“Who do you mean by ‘we’?”

She turned to him: “Everybody, Peter. I don’t mean me
especially. We’ll talk about that later, if you want to. I mean everybody else upon the station. Everybody would miss you terribly—I mean, all the flying crews.”

He stared at her. “Why would they miss me? There are lots of other pilots.”

“But, Peter, not with your experience.” She struggled to express herself. “I mean, all these raw young men who come in, when they’re too young to know what it’s all about, before they’ve got real confidence in themselves, all pimples and pink cheeks. They see people like you and Pat Johnson, and half a dozen others who have been on scores of raids, and they hear the way you talk amongst yourselves. You don’t know what it means to them. It gives them confidence.”

He thought about it for a minute. “That might be an argument for keeping me in Bomber Command,” he said at last. “But it’s no reason why I should stay on at Hartley.”

“Your own crew would be lost without you, Peter.”

He said bitterly: “My own crew would be glad to see my back.”

She said hotly: “That’s not true, and you know it.”

He grinned, and pushed forward a plate of highly-coloured pastries. “Have a bun.”

She stared at him, laughed and relaxed. She chose a pale éclair, and transferred it to her plate. She said: “Do you want to leave Hartley, Peter? Is that it?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said, irresolute. “I used to like it there, but it’s gone ropey in the last few weeks.”

She said in a low tone: “Is that because of us?”

He nodded without speaking.

“I am sorry, Peter. I’ve given you a lousy time.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s just the way things have happened. But I think a change might be a good thing, in a way.”

She took a mouthful of her éclair, and stared across the room, avoiding his eyes. “I feel I’ve been frightfully clumsy over this,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you miserable, Peter, when I said we oughtn’t to meet any more. If I’d known that it was going to do all this to your work I—I’d have thought of something different, perhaps.”

“Because of the dear old war?” he said gently.

The suggestion confused her. “Not altogether,” she said uncertainly.

“I’d like to think it was because of the dear old me,” he said.

“I know you would,” she replied. “But you mustn’t.”

“All right,” he said quietly.

She turned to him. “When I said we oughtn’t to meet at all, I thought it was the best thing for you, Peter. Honestly, that’s what I was thinking. It’s not that I don’t like coming out with you—I do. But I thought it would be better for you if we didn’t.”

“Pat Johnson says,” he remarked, “that all maidens are mutts or they wouldn’t be maidens.”

“I didn’t come here to listen to what Pat Johnson says.”

“No. But I’ve told you what I think. I think we ought to try it for a bit and see how we get on.”

“You mean, try going about and doing things together?”

He nodded. “See how we get on.”

“I don’t want to keep you dangling on a string, Peter.”

He said gently: “I wish to God you’d stop worrying about me. I like a dangle now and then. I’ll drop off if I get fed-up with it—you see.”

There was a little pause. At last she said: “My way hasn’t panned out quite so well. If you really want it, Peter, we’ll try yours for a bit. But you do realise I’m not in love with you?”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t know about a thing like that. Pat Johnson says you are.”

She checked an angry impulse to say what she thought of Mr. Johnson. “Well, I say I’m not.”

“All right, you’re not. Have another bun.”

“No, thanks.”

They sat in awkward silence for a minute or two, each wondering what to say next; the tension mounted till it grew unbearable.

At last he said: “Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you’ll try it my way for a month we’ll know by then whether there’s anything in it for us, or not. I won’t bother you longer than that if it’s not going to work, Gervase. But if we chuck it then, I think I really had better go away. We don’t want this all over again.”

She smiled faintly. “I agree with that.”

He said: “You want me to come back to Hartley because of the dear old war, which you think can’t get on without me. I want to come back to Hartley because I want to be with you, to see you, and to hear you talk.”

He paused. She did not speak.

“When I come back,” he said, “I’ll try and work things so
that if I have a leave after the month my crew will settle down with someone else and be as good with him as they have been with me. I’ll try and work it so that there’s a first-class chap to take them over when I go. But if we find it doesn’t work out, and we have to chuck it, I shall want to go.”

She said: “All right, Peter.” She was growing exhausted by the tension of their scene; she was shocked at the depth of feeling she had roused, the things that she had done to this young man. She was a factor in his life, whether she liked it or not; her whim could turn the entire current of his work. She was unhappily aware of the responsibility of an attractive woman, for the first time in her life.

Marshall sat up briskly and bit into a doughnut. “Okay,” he said. “Now we’ve got to work fast.” He glanced at her, and poured her out another cup of tea; she took it from him mechanically. “Will you come to the pictures with me?”

“Now?”

“Now. We’ve only got a month.”

She smiled. “What’s on?”

“I don’t know. We’ll walk round and see.”

“All right.”

“Will you come up to Town and do a show with me on Saturday, and go on to the Savoy and dance?”

She sipped her tea; it was then Tuesday. “I suppose I could put in for week-end leave,” she said. “I’d have to stay with Aunt Ethel at Hampstead.”

“If you’re going to put in for week-end leave,” he said, “you could get off on Friday night and come up to London, and we could do something on Saturday morning.”

“I’m not going to work as hard as that,” she said. “I’ll come up on Saturday morning and have lunch with you.”

“All right. But don’t think you aren’t going to work hard. When I get home I’m going to write you a nice letter—you’ll get it on Thursday morning. Will you answer it?”

She protested: “But, Peter, I shall be seeing you on Saturday.”

“I’m thinking about Friday, when I’m going to get an answer to my letter in the morning post—if you’ve written it. Will you?”

She hesitated. She had promised to try it for a month in his way and she felt that she must stick to her promise, but she had not visualised all this. “All right,” she said at last. “Don’t make the pace too hot.”

He glanced down at her, suddenly compunctuous. “Would you like to be let off that one?” he asked gently.

“No—I’ll answer it.” She put down her cup of tea.

He grinned at her. “Okay. Let’s put a sock in the emotion now and get on to the pictures. Want to powder your nose?”

She said: “Er—yes, perhaps I’d better.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you downstairs at the cash desk.”

They walked out presently into the crowded street; in the throng of people on the pavements he took her arm and piloted her through the crowd. In the warm darkness of the Regal, in the middle of the Gaumont News, hand crept experimentally into hand; it was dark, Gervase reflected, and nobody could see. In any case, everybody else seemed to be doing it. His hand pleased her; it was firm, but gentle, and warm, and comforting.

The afternoon had tired her; she was new to that sort of strain. She lay back in her seat leaning a little towards him, letting him caress her hand. She was content with the decision they had made, content to let things rip for a month. At the end of that time there might be more trouble for them, but that would not be her fault. She could do no more to help him than to do what he wanted; if in the end trouble came to them, well, trouble came to everybody in the world.

He took her to the George restaurant for dinner, before putting her upon the bus to go back to Hartley. Over the meal they talked about the arrangements for their week-end; they decided that it would be nice to go and see “Arsenic and Old Lace.” She said: “You’d like me to bring a dance frock, Peter?”

He nodded. “I’ve never seen you out of uniform.”

She said: “All right, I’ll bring one up. That means you’ll have to let me go back to Hampstead to change, during the afternoon.” She was not quite sure in her own mind that this dance frock was a very good idea. The fire, she thought, was hot enough already without fanning it; she felt no urge to drag out feminine allure. The severe, business-like lines of uniform gave her confidence. But if he was taking her to the Savoy to dance, she couldn’t go in uniform as if it was a N.A.A.F.I. dance. Dance frock it would have to be—the pastel blue one with the silver slippers.

They sat for a time over coffee; then they left the restaurant. In the black streets he took her arm and piloted her to the
bus station in the market; they stopped by a wall in the darkness to say good-bye.

She said: “Are you happier about things now, Peter?”

He was holding both her hands. “Of course I am,” he said. “Are you?”

She said slowly: “I know you’re going to be frightfully nice to me, Peter, and that we’ll have a lovely month. But I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you terribly when it’s all over.”

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes. In the meantime we’ll have the lovely month.”

She wondered if he was going to kiss her; she would have let him if he had demanded it. But he was put off by her last words and did not press that one, and presently they said good night, and he put her in the bus.

Gervase travelled back to Hartley tired to death, but not unhappy. She felt queerly that things were on the right track now, that she had managed to undo some of the damage she had done. She was quite sure in her reason that a mass of trouble lay ahead of them that they would run into sooner or later; she was too tired to bother about that. She went to bed immediately she got back to the station, and slept for ten hours solidly in a deep, dreamless slumber.

Marshall went down to the railway station, walking upon air. He waited an hour and three-quarters for a train to London, arriving at Paddington a little after three in the morning. At four-thirty he got into an empty train for Northwood, and walked into his father’s house at half-past five, as the grey dawn was just beginning to show above the trees. He went to bed and drifted off to sleep, utterly content.

That morning Wing Commander Dobbie got an answer to the letter he had written to Corporal Leech in hospital. It ran:

Wing Commander Dobbie glanced this over thoughtfully; it did not help him in his problem. Still holding it in his hand he went through into the next office. He said to Chesterton: “You might come in when you’re free.”

The Adjutant came in a few minutes later and found Dobbie sitting at his desk, the letter still in his hand. Dobbie said:

“Shut the door behind you. Have a chair.” And when that was done he said: “I say, what am I going to do about Marshall’s crew—R for Robert?”

The older man said: “They’re all fighting, aren’t they?”

“Not exactly,” said the Wing Commander. “There’s some friction, but it all seems to come from Marshall. He’s riding them too hard, but at the same time he’s got slack and casual himself. You know.”

“Is that why they went roaring off to Whitsand?”

The Wing Commander nodded. “Marshall set the wrong course on the compass, and his navigator was afraid to go and check it. He’s been pretty rough with them. He’s got a good navigator, too—that Dane.”

“Gunnar Franck—the one who was a sergeant pilot?”

“That’s the one.”

The older man said: “You’ll have to split them up. Once they start quarrelling like that they hardly ever get back as a team again. It’s too bad to let them go on?”

“I think it is. Well, look at last time.”

Chesterton took out a cigarette, tapped it upon his thumbnail, and lit up. “It’s a great pity,” he said slowly. “A great pity to break up a crew like that.”

“What’s more,” said Dobbie dryly, “it’s not so easy. I had them all in one by one before they went on leave and asked them if they’d like a change. They all said that they wanted to stay where they were.”