The Crew (35 page)

He spent that night on his old mattress bed behind the partition, listening to the vermin running about. It was almost as cold as the sergeants' hut at Beningby; he swore to himself that when the end came he was going to see to it that his mother didn't spend one more day there.

They went back to the hospital in the morning. This time there were screens put round the bed and his father didn't open his eyes. He left his mother at the bedside and walked the streets of Glasgow, hunched into his greatcoat against the wind. When he returned it was to find that his father had died half an hour earlier. His mother wept and wept.

He dealt with the death certificate and made the arrangements for the funeral – the best that could be done with the savings his mother had hidden away in an old jug, and with what he had to give from his pay. There was a delay digging the grave because of the frozen ground, and it was the last day of his leave before the burial could take place. It didn't surprise
him to find there were no mourners except his mother and himself. Not that he counted himself a mourner. There wasn't a shred of regret in his heart as he watched the chipboard coffin being lowered into the cold earth.
Let him rot.

‘You're leaving here, Mother,' he told her when they were back in the kitchen. ‘You're not staying in this place.'

She was putting the kettle on the hob to make tea and turned round, her face stained with all the tears she had shed.

‘Och, no, Jock. I wouldna want to leave.'

‘Why ever not? What's to keep you?'

‘This is my home. It's where I lived with your father.'

‘But now he's gone you've no need to stay. No reason at all.'

‘It's still my home,' she said stubbornly, just like she'd always done. ‘My married home. I dinna want to leave it.'

Nothing would change her mind and it was all he could do not to lose his temper. As long as he lived he'd never understand her. Never understand women. Never.

‘Just be yourself, Peggy. That's all you have to do.'

But they weren't going to like herself at all. The very moment she opened her mouth they'd know her for what she was, that's if they hadn't seen it the minute they set eyes on her. She'd put on her best skirt and jumper and coat, and borrowed a hat from Mum. And she'd packed her best frock, a new pair of shoes, a blouse and cardigan she'd borrowed from Mum, too. None of it was going to make any difference, though, because they'd see it was all cheap make-do.

‘Only a few more miles, darling,' Piers said, smiling at her as though there was nothing whatever to worry about.

She wanted to tell him to slow down. Not to drive the car so fast, so they would take longer to get there.
Never
get there at all. For part of the journey she'd been imagining what Piers' mum was going to look like.
Lady Wentworth-Young.
She'd never met a lady before. The nearest thing she knew was Mrs Mountjoy, and if she was anything like her then she'd turn tail and run. If Mrs Mountjoy knew about this she'd have a word or two to say. She could hear her saying it.
I don't know what the world is coming to. A common waitress thinking she's good enough for an officer and a gentleman
 . . .

Of course, they wouldn't know Piers wanted to marry her. Perhaps they'd think she was just a friend? And then, when they'd got to know her a bit better, they might quite like her and not mind so much . . . No, no use hoping anything like that. They were going to hate her straight off.

They turned through a gateway and down a long drive. It went on and on.

‘Here we are. This is it.'

Peggy gulped. She'd never pictured anything nearly as grand as this. She clung to Piers as they stopped outside the front door.

‘I can't . . . I can't . . .'

‘Of course you can, darling. There's nothing to be afraid of. They can't eat you. I'll be with you all the time. Just try to remember not to call me sir if you can.'

He got the luggage out of the boot – her father's old canvas bag with its rusty hinges and his own
beautiful leather suitcase with his five initials on the top.

There was nobody in the huge hall. For a moment she hoped against hope that they'd all gone away somewhere, but Piers had put down the luggage and was opening one of the doors.

‘They'll be in the drawing-room, I expect. Yes, here we are. Come on, Peggy.'

There were three of them sitting in a room even bigger than the hall: two ladies and a gentleman. The gentleman stood up slowly; the ladies stayed sitting. None of them smiled.

Piers put one arm under her elbow. ‘This is Peggy.' He pulled her forward, else her feet might have stuck where they were. ‘Come and meet my mother.'

The lady on the sofa was nothing like Mrs Mountjoy at all. Not to look at, anyway; much younger and ever so smartly dressed. Peggy just stopped herself bobbing a curtsey.

‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘And this is my sister, Pamela.'

The eyes were the same as the other lady's and stared at her in the same way. She hadn't known Piers' sister would be there as well, just to make matters even worse.

‘Pleased to meet you.'

‘And this is my father.'

He was the most frightening of all. He reminded her of the general who had once come to dinner at The Angel, shouting his order as though she was deaf and half-witted.

An old woman in a black dress and white apron, like her own waitress's uniform, appeared and led her up a big staircase and along a dark corridor. She showed
her into a bedroom, and from the way she sniffed as she shut the door, Peggy knew what she thought of her and Dad's bag. She sat down on a chair because her legs were still shaking. The room was far grander than any of the ones at The Angel. All done in pale blue and with curtains that went right down to the floor. After a moment, when her legs felt stronger, she got up and went over to sit at the dressing-table by the window, gazing at her three reflections. She looked wrong in all of them, left, right and in the middle. Out of place. Sitting where she didn't belong and had no right to be.

‘Come down in half an hour,' Piers had said. ‘We'll be having a drink before dinner.'

She'd have to guess the time because she hadn't got a watch, and ought she to change into her frock, or not? Mrs Mountjoy changed for dinner every evening, decking herself out in jet beads like bits of shiny coal and a big cameo brooch. If Mrs Mountjoy changed, then she'd better, too.

She lost her way trying to find the staircase again and couldn't remember which door it was in the hall that Piers had opened. As she stood there, afraid to try any of them, he came out.

‘
There
you are, Peggy. I was wondering what had happened to you.'

‘I got lost . . .'

He put his arm round her. ‘It's a bit muddling, this house, but you'll soon get used to it. You've missed the drink, I'm afraid. We're going into dinner now.'

There was no starched white cloth on the table, like at The Angel, just a wood surface so polished she could see her face in it; Piers seemed so far away. He kept
smiling across at her and she tried to smile back, but her face felt too stiff.

The old woman came in and served the soup. After all the times she'd laid up the tables, Peggy knew which was the right spoon to pick up but she had to copy how to use it and how to break up the bread roll with her fingers. To her dismay the crumbs spilled over onto the polished table. She poked them under the rim of the side plate with her forefinger.

‘Piers tells us that he met you in Lincoln,' Lady Wentworth-Young said in her drawly voice. ‘Where was that?'

‘At The Angel.'

‘The Angel?'

‘It's a hotel,' Piers said.

‘Really? How interesting. Were you staying there, Peggy?'

‘I work there.'

‘
Really
? What do you do exactly?'

She looked at Piers in desperation.

‘Peggy works as a waitress,' he said firmly. ‘And she's a very good one.'

She saw the glance that passed between Lady Wentworth-Young and the sister.

‘How fascinating. How long have you been doing that?'

‘Only a few months.'

‘I see. And you waited on Piers?'

‘Yes. He came in – with some friends.'

‘On my twenty-first birthday, actually.' Piers was smiling again at her. ‘I'm afraid we all behaved most frightfully badly, didn't we Peggy?'

‘Oh, no, sir—' The ‘sir' was out before she knew it. ‘No, you didn't really.'

It was the sister's turn now. ‘Where do you live, Peggy?'

‘She lives just outside Lincoln.'

‘Do let her answer for herself, Piers. I'm sure she's capable of it. With your family?'

‘Yes.'

‘And what does your father do?'

‘He works for a farmer.'

‘Oh? What sort of work exactly?'

‘Well, ploughing and hedging and ditching and things like that. Anything that needs doing.'

‘And I'm sure he's
frightfully
good at it.'

It went on and on like that. Them asking questions and her stumbling over the answers and Piers helping her, and them being ever so polite all the time. But she could tell what they really thought underneath it all. Underneath the smiles and the
reallys
and the
how interestings.

Somehow she got through the meal without spilling anything else or knocking anything over, but she was the last to finish for each course and they all had to sit waiting for her, watching every mouthful that she ate.

At long last she was able to escape up to the bedroom again. She undressed and put on her nightie and sat on the edge of the big bed with her hands over her face.

Someone tapped softly at the door. ‘Peggy, it's me, Piers.'

She opened the door a little way.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Just a bit tired, sir.'

‘I expect you are. The journey and everything. Can I possibly come in for a moment?' He shut the door
behind him. ‘You were absolutely marvellous this evening. Bit like the Spanish Inquisition, wasn't it?'

‘Like what?'

‘You know, having to answer all those questions. Anyway, they know all about you now so there's no need to worry any more.'

‘They don't like me, Piers.'

‘Of
course
they do. Mama said how sweet you were.'

‘She's only pretending. She hates me.'

‘You've got it wrong, Peggy. Honestly.'

‘Didn't you see the way they kept looking at each other?'

‘You're imagining it, darling. It's just that you're so awfully sensitive.' He put his arms around her and kissed her, and nothing seemed to matter then. Not even that she was only wearing her nightie. Not when it was Piers.

After a bit he whispered, ‘I suppose I ought to go. I mean, I'd love to stay, but I mustn't . . . God, Peggy, I wish we could be married at once . . .'

When he had left her, tiptoeing away, she climbed into the bed and lay there in the dark with the bedcovers up to her chin.
It'll never happen, Piers. They won't let it.

The next day, Piers showed her over the house. She trotted after him as he opened door after door. It was freezing cold everywhere. Not a bit cosy, like home.

‘This is my old school-room . . . the nursery . . . the sewing-room . . . the library . . . the morning-room . . . my father's study . . . the billiard-room . . . the butler's pantry – of course we don't have one any more. Reynolds joined up. So did all the other staff, except our cook. She's too old to join, luckily for Mama.
I don't know how she'd cope without her.'

‘It's ever such a big house, Piers.'

‘Gosh, I suppose it is. Do you know, I've never really thought about it. Of course, we wouldn't live here, Peggy. We'll have our own home as soon as we can. I'm going to buy a house when I have the money, when I'm twenty-five, and you can make it however you want. What do you say to that?'

‘A whole house? For us?'

‘That's right. There'd be the children, too, of course. How many would you like?'

She blushed. ‘I don't know—'

‘Let's have at least four. Two boys and two girls.' He took hold of her hands. ‘Look, Peggy, I want us to get engaged –
officially.
As soon as I've asked your father, of course. I want to tell my family and everyone that we're going to get married as soon as we can, the minute the war's over.'

‘Not yet,' she said. ‘Let's not say anything just yet. Let's wait a bit longer.'

He sighed. ‘Well, if you
really
want . . . but I honestly don't see why.'

On the last day, he went off to see somebody in the village with the sister. ‘Duty visit for Pam and me. Morrison, our old chauffeur. He's bedridden now, poor chap. I'd take you, darling, but it'd be terribly boring for you.'

She went and sat in the bedroom, waiting for him to come back. After a while there was a knock on the door and she ran to it, hoping it was Piers. The old woman stood there.

‘Sir William wants to see you. In his study.'

She followed her fearfully down the staircase.

‘Go on in, then.' The old woman gave her a shove
in the small of her back so that she almost fell into the room.

Sir William was sitting behind a big desk, wearing heavy spectacles which made him look even more frightening. He didn't smile; she'd never seen him smile.

‘Sit down, then. No, not there. Over here. I want to have a talk with you – without Piers. Strictly between us. Understand?'

She nodded.

‘You are not to repeat one word of this conversation to him. Is that quite clear?'

She nodded again.

‘I'll come straight to the point. Lady Wentworth-Young and I are very concerned. Our son, Piers, appears to be quite infatuated with you.'