The Crew by Margaret Mayhew

‘You’re very young for the post. My residents are accustomed to a high standard of service, and so are our non-resident diners. We have high-ranking officers coming here in the evenings.’
    â€˜I think I could manage, madam.’
    â€˜Hmm.’
    In the end, she’d got the job and Mum had been pleased. Although it meant she wouldn’t be home to help so much, there’d be a bit more money coming in.
    She finished laying the cutlery and put out the table napkins in front of each place. Miss Frost had shown her how to fold them so they stood up like little wigwams. There was a strong smell of frying onions coming from the kitchens, to go with the liver on the lunch menu, and a lot of clattering and banging ofpots and pans, too, which meant the chef was in another bad mood. She went round the tables again, checking to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She checked Mrs Mountjoy’s table three times. Mrs Mountjoy insisted on everything being just so and she made a big song and dance if it wasn’t.
    The bombers were busy today. They’d been roaring around overhead while she’d been doing the laying – practising, she supposed. One was going over so low that it was making everything rattle – knives and forks and spoons and glasses jingling and tinkling on the tables. She ran to the window and looked out in time to see it flying past, a great black thing with huge wings and a long tail, like a fish with a fin sticking up each side. She could see guns poking out of the glass bit at the end.
    There’d probably be some Air Force officers in again tonight and that made her nervous to think of. They were nice enough gentlemen, but they kept teasing her so she got in a fluster and made mistakes. She gave a last look at the tables and then hurried into the hall to the big brass gong standing in its corner by the stairs. It was her job to ring it for meals and she liked making it boom loudly. Before she could hit the first note, Mrs Mountjoy came stomping out of the Residents’ Lounge, looking at her wristwatch.
    â€˜Five minutes late, girl. Can’t you tell the time? Well, what’s it for luncheon today, then? Not fish again, I hope.’
    The cottage garden was a terrible mess: weeds and long, rank grass and overgrown shrubs. Dorothy could hardly see what plants there were for it all. Still, it would be nice to get it a bit tidy, for Charlie’s sake –more like home – and she could watch the bombers coming and going while she was out there working. She found an old fork and spade in a shed near the outside privy, and made a start on the small patch at the front. After a while she began to uncover the remains of what must once have been a pretty little garden with lupins and poppies and hollyhocks. She cleared away the tangled growth from around the plants, making a big pile of weeds on the brick pathway. From time to time she stopped to watch a bomber taking off or landing over on the aerodrome, wondering if it was Charlie’s plane and if it was him up there, sitting in the tail turret with the guns, testing everything like he’d told her they had to do.
    The old labourer from the farm up the road went by the gate. He’d stopped to pass the time of day with her before when she was beating the carpets outside, and he did so again, lifting his cap.
    â€˜â€™Afternoon, Mrs Banks. Warm today.’ He squinted up at the sun overhead. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t have a nice summer.’
    She didn’t know his name, but he knew hers. She was a stranger to the area, so they were all curious about her, of course, but she hadn’t said anything about Charlie.
    â€˜Doin’ some gardenin’, then?’ he went on. ‘Bit of a job that for a young lady like you.’
    People always took her for younger than she was. She wondered what he’d say if he knew she had a son serving in the RAF. ‘I