Still Waters (51 page)

‘I’ll go,’ Mal said, getting to his feet whilst the man called Shorty – who must be all of six and a half foot tall – protested that he was wedged into his place like a cork in a bottle. ‘Where’s the mess?’

They pointed it out to him and he began to walk across the concrete, then stopped as a WAAF came towards him, waving him back.

‘It’s all right, I’m on my way,’ she said crisply. ‘Got held up – sorry. But you know what officers can be . . . oh, sorry, sir!’

She sketched a salute, looking pointedly at the single stripe of a pilot officer on Mal’s sleeve, then hurried round to the front of the truck whilst Mal climbed into the back and took his seat once more.

‘All set?’ the WAAF called over her shoulder. ‘Hold tight then – Norwich, here we come!’

It was a beautiful city, even allowing for the bomb damage, which was everywhere. In narrow side-streets gaps in rows of terraced houses, in the city itself missing shops, boarded-off areas with danger notices, told their own story. When he had first seen damaged buildings, bomb craters, Mal had wondered why they didn’t put such things right. Now he knew. There were too many of them and there simply weren’t enough materials to rebuild, not whilst the whole nation, backs against the wall, was desperately fighting a war.

The liberty truck dropped them off at a place which they were told was called Castle Meadow, a wide and gracious street with a great castle built of light-grey stone on a grass-covered mound on one side, and ordinary shops and offices on the other.

‘We pick you up on the Cattle Market; it’s over there,’ the driver said, waving a vague hand. ‘Sort of behind the castle. Be back there by eleven-thirty, chaps, because if you miss the truck a taxi will cost you. Have a good time.’

Mal stood still for a moment, staring around him, then a hand plucked his sleeve. ‘You want to come with us, Skip? We’re going to a dance later, but first we thought we’d get us a meal. Lyons is on Gentleman’s Walk – go down Davey Place and you’ll come out on the Walk – it’s pretty good. A change from the cookhouse, anyway.’

It was Percy Parrott, Mal’s navigator, a small, dark, square man with satanic eyebrows which belied his easy-going, friendly personality.

‘Sure; thanks, Perce,’ Mal said at once. ‘But I’d like to take a look at that castle; suppose you tell me how to find Lyons and I’ll join you there in half an hour?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Percy said. ‘Come down from the castle, cross the wide road – it’s called Castle Meadow – and dive down Davey Steps. That’ll bring you out into Davey Place, which in its turn comes out on what they call Gentleman’s Walk. Once you’re there, you can’t miss Lyons.’ Percy turned to the rest of the crew. ‘Split up, shall we? Get more done that way. The skipper wants a look at the castle – anyone else interested?’

But most of them had seen the castle many times before, for Mal was the only new boy in the crew. They had been flying together for some months, and Mal had only inherited his crew because the previous pilot had been seriously wounded on a raid earlier in the year, whilst Mal was still in Rhodesia.

‘Random shot got him through the side of the neck, but he got us down all right,’ the bomb aimer, Fred Milne, told Mal. ‘He’s still in hospital and they reckon he won’t fly again when he gets out. The muscles of his neck have tightened on the side of the bullet hole so he’s skew-whiff. Nice bloke, though. And a good pilot.’

He didn’t say ‘Hope you’re as good’, but it was there, in the long glance, the slightly cautious air with which they had treated him, at first.

But it had dissipated as soon as they’d flown with him. The raid hadn’t been particularly successful, though they’d laid their eggs more or less on target, but he had shown his ability in weaving and ducking as they were chased by an ME 109 on their return flight across the channel. The hun had sprayed their wing with bullets, but Mal had managed to shake him off and had felt, not only his crew’s relief, but their silent approbation as he brought the Lancaster smoothly in to land.

He had great faith in the Lanc – they all did. He had trained on other aircraft – Hurricanes first, then Manchesters, Wellingtons – but the Lancaster got his vote for ease in flying and instant response. And he soon began to have faith in his crew, too. They wouldn’t let him down.

Indeed, soon they became good cobbers, all of them. Fred and Percy were stolid Brits with a daft sense of humour and a tremendous thirst for the thin, bitter beer which was all they seemed to brew in the pubs around the airfield. Geoff Webb, his engineer, was an Australian like himself, a tall man with a prominent adam’s apple and large ears. He was the only member of the crew older than Mal, being twenty-eight years old, but he was first-rate at his job and an easy man with whom to get along.

The mid-upper gunner, Paul Medlicott, was a New Zealand farmer with a wife and twin sons back home and the rear gunner was Dave Betts, a Hebridean Scot with a sly sense of humour.

Lastly there was Sidney Clayton, the wireless operator. Young, with frizzy fair hair and freckles, he was only nervous around women and officers, he said. Once they were airborne he had no qualms and enjoyed his job, even seeming to get pleasure from teasing a response out of the sometimes fractious radio set.

So that was his crew, at this moment discovering the joys of freedom in the city. I’ll just take a look at the castle, then I’ll join them, Mal told himself, climbing a small path which led up to the top of the mound. This place must be old – but old!

They didn’t charge admittance for the castle, which was also a museum, so he went in, of course. He wandered across a huge room which must once have been the castle keep. Now, Egyptian mummies and glass cases containing the burial goods from a hundred tombs thronged it, a far cry from the huge feasts, the dancing bears and the jesters of middle England who had once thronged this great room, Mal thought ruefully. Still, the Egyptian stuff was interesting, even to one who had actually climbed a pyramid, for Mal had done his share of sightseeing as he crossed half the world.

From the keep Mal made his way through galleries lined with pictures, rooms stuffed with stuffed birds, and the minutiae of some collector called Fitch who had acquired everything, from early books to fossils, pottery and Roman antiquities, and had then given them to the museum. Fascinated by the hoard, Mal slowed, examining everything, wondering about the donor. But he had to get a move on, or he would still be in here when the pubs shut! Accordingly, he began to walk faster.

It was in the Norfolk Room that he first noticed the girl. Slim, with dark hair tied up in a bunch on top of her head, she was wearing a light-coloured shirt, a short, practical-looking grey skirt, and brogues. He could only see her backview though, and that not distinctly, because the Norfolk Room was in darkness. It consisted of a number of brilliantly lit dioramas depicting the flora and fauna of the country actually in its characteristic habitats, or so it said on a notice near the door which Mal had studiously read whilst trying to get a better look at his companion, for they were, so far as he could tell, the only two people in this part of the museum. But now the girl had finished looking at whatever she was examining and was moving on, so Mal moved on as well; to Breydon Water, the notice said.

It was fascinating to see a whole scene set out before him, life-size and life-style, too, for it was three-dimensional. There was the curve of the horizon, the reeds and flowers, the water, beautifully depicted by someone who knew how to paint, a punt, and seabirds – you expected to hear them cry, so real was the scene before him.

But even more than the dioramas, the girl herself fascinated him; he loved the way she walked, even the turn of her head seemed to hold a special significance, and she had moved one further down, so Mal followed, keeping well back. She might hurry ahead if she thought he was watching her. It was a lonely place, the Norfolk Room.

By a dint of only half reading the explanations of each scene, however, Mal kept up with the girl, though he never really saw her properly in the semi-darkness. But he thought she had dark eyes and he was sure that she was slightly built and of medium height and she carried herself beautifully, as he imagined a dancer would. Was she a dancer? She moved with such completely unselfconscious grace, surely she must have learned to do that?

But they had reached another scene now, an autumn one, with rabbits, a little hedgehog, the scarlet of hips and haws, the various browns and golds of autumn leaves. How did they do it? How could they preserve everything the way they did, as though it really were autumn and he was peeping through a window into a woodland scene?

Mal was peering, fascinated, when he realised that the girl seemed to have lost interest. He saw her glance at her wrist and then she began to walk quickly out of the Norfolk Room. He followed, naturally. He thought her beautiful and intriguing – he wanted to catch her up, talk to her, suggest that they might perhaps have a cup of tea together, at that place on the Walk the fellows had mentioned. And once she was out of this particular gallery she would be in daylight again and he could approach her without seeming in any way threatening.

The thing to do was not to hurry, though. I’ll wait until she goes one way round a glass case and I’ll go the other and stage a collision, Mal planned. It’s easy enough to get talking, if you really set your mind to it.

He emerged from the Norfolk Room and looked hopefully around him. Nothing. No one. Where on earth could she have gone? The only door within easy reach was firmly shut and had
Staff Only
written, in gold letters, across it. Well, she obviously wasn’t staff, for one thing she was far too pretty, for another thing far too young, and to clinch it, she was most unsuitably dressed. No, she must have realised he was following her and really hurried.

Mal didn’t really notice the rest of the museum, he was too busy searching. But he didn’t see so much as a wisp of dark hair disappearing round a corner and in the end he simply had to give up and make tracks for Gentleman’s Walk and Lyons Restaurant.

They had a good meal in Lyons, Mal considered, when you took rationing and shortages into account. They ate fish cakes, reconstituted potato, tinned peas and bread and margarine, followed by an apricot sponge pudding in which you could taste the dried egg. And when they’d drunk all the tea in the pot they got to their feet and made for the outdoors once more.

‘Dance starts in a few minutes; we’d better hurry,’ Sidney said. Only one crew member was married but Fred and Geoff had girlfriends amongst the WAAFs at the station, though they were not ‘steadies’. Both young men considered themselves free to dance and flirt with other girls, though they probably would not arrange to meet them again. Percy, Sid, both gunners and Mal, on the other hand, were still free as air – they needed to met someone, possibly the sort of girl who would take them home and welcome them into her circle. Mal missed the social side of life in Rhodesia and wanted the chance to get to know local families, so he had been looking forward to the dance.

That girl from the museum would have been bonza, Mal thought wistfully, as they jogged, elbow to elbow, along the pavement. If only I’d not been such a gallah, I’d have grabbed her while I had the chance, darkened room or no. I could have walked past her, pretended to go back, bumped into her . . .

But he hadn’t, so he hurried on, wondering whether beer would be available at the dance; Lyons had not risen to anything other than tea or lemonade.

The dance hall, when they reached it, was imposing. At the entrance two huge plaster statues armed with clubs held up the roof of the portico. ‘That’s why it’s called the Samson & Hercules,’ Percy informed Mal. ‘Wasn’t it Hercules who held the world on his back?’

‘Aye, and it were Samson who had his hair cut off an’ all his strength ebbed away,’ Sid pointed out. ‘But these two’ve got long hair – they’re pre-haircut, not post. Come on, let’s get inside, see what the talent’s like tonight.’

They were early, but the girls were earlier. They drifted in and out of the ladies’ cloakroom on a tide of perfume and talc, smiling, calling to each other, eyeing the men. Mal’s crew found a table, went to the bar, bought beer, returned to sit down as the orchestra filed in and began tuning up.

‘I fancy that one,’ Percy said presently, leaning over and speaking directly into Mal’s ear. ‘The one in the blue dress with the curls. A proper little cutie, isn’t she? Fancy the friend, do you? Oh yes, I’m going to stroll over in her direction presently . . .’

The girl was blonde, small, giggly. Not my type, Mal thought. As for the friend – oh, no, I couldn’t go along with that. Too like Coffee. She kept glancing across at them, smiling above their heads, tossing her pinky-brown curls, crossing and uncrossing solid, plump-calved legs, making sure she did so with the maximum of thigh showing.

‘Are you sure you like those two?’ he said to Percy presently. ‘The dark girl’s showing off too much and the other, she’ll be doing the can-can on a table by the end of the evening. I’m for something quieter myself.’

‘I don’t want a quiet one, I want a willing one,’ Percy said, unabashed. ‘I don’t have time for persuading, life’s too short. Yes, the little blonde will do me nicely.’

‘You’ll do her nicely, you mean,’ Sidney said. ‘I want a really young, shy one who won’t mind me being a bit young and shy myself.’

Raspberries were blown all round at this, since though Sidney was only nineteen he never showed any signs of his much talked-about shyness and indeed seemed, to Mal, to have a good deal of self-confidence for one so young.

‘Never mind them, Sid, there’s plenty of choice, you’ll find someone who suits you,’ Mal said now. ‘Ah, band’s starting! Go on, Perce, make your first masterly move while us beginners look on.’

Percy was half-way across the dance floor when another man reached the table ahead of him. The other man, taller, older, in Army uniform, with a neat little moustache and thin hair almost glued to his scalp, leaned over the blonde just as Percy ducked under his elbow and said, ‘Can I have the pleasure of this dance, beautiful? I’ve always adored blondes with blue eyes.’