The Crew by Margaret Mayhew Page A

thought I’d try to tidy it up.’
    â€˜More weeds than flowers, I’d say. I could let you have some seeds, if you like. Fill in the gaps.’
    â€˜Could you really? I’d pay for them, of course.’
    â€˜They’re spare,’ he said. ‘No payment needed. Plannin’ on stayin’ a while, then?’
    â€˜Six months or so, I expect.’
    â€˜Well, safer than down south – long as the Jerries don’t take it into their heads to pay the aerodrome a visit. Too close for comfort, that’d be.’
    He went on speaking, but the roar of a bomber taking off at that moment drowned his words. She put up her hand to shield her eyes and watched it climb into the sky.
    â€˜. . . always feared one’ll fall on the farm,’ the old man was saying, as the sound died away. ‘I’ve seen ’em crash comin’ back, all shot-up. An’ t’other week one blew up takin’ off with the bombs. You could see the blaze for miles . . . Weren’t nothin’ left but little bits. An’ there’s lots go off an’ don’t ever come back. More an’ more, so they say, with all the guns those Jerries’ve got. Down they come over there, poor lads, an’ that’s the finish of ’em, ’less they’re lucky.’
    â€˜Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit thirsty. I think I’ll get a drink of water.’ She fled inside the cottage and stood leaning against the wall, waiting for him to go away and for the sickness inside her to pass, the trembling to stop. After a few moments she went to get some water from the kitchen tap and gulped it down. When she felt better she went back outside.
    The old man had gone and another bomber was taking off. She remembered something else that Charlie had told her – that they always tested the planes on the day of an operation to make sure they were working all right. It meant they must be going tonight. Charlie might not be going with them, of course. It might not be his crew’s turn, in which case there was nothing to worry about. He might evenmanage to get over this evening, just for a while. Or he might not. She might never see him again.
Lots go off an’ don’t ever come back.
That’s what the old man had said.
More an’ more of them.
    Stop it, she told herself sternly. Stop it this minute, Dorothy. You promised Charlie you wouldn’t worry. You’ve got to stop thinking like this or you’ll be nothing but a nuisance to him. He’ll be all right. He’s got a good crew, hasn’t he? That’s what he said. And he’s got Sam now, and Sam’ll bring him luck.
    The waiting around always made them nervy. After the air test there was nothing much to do but hang about the station until briefing in the evening. No leaving base, no phone calls, no outside world.
    Van wrote a letter home full of the usual lies.
Everything fine . . . great food . . . easy trips . . . home soon
 . . . He doubted if they’d believe it but he could hardly give them the true facts:
everything stinks . . . filthy food . . . suicidal missions . . . unlikely ever to come home again . . .
    He’d thought several times of writing some kind of ‘last farewell letter’ to leave in his drawer in case he didn’t come back, but had torn up the attempts. He wasn’t sure what he could say that might make things easier for them and so he’d shirked the whole thing. He wondered if any of the others had written letters. Not Piers, he thought. Not quite the done thing. In the photographs that Piers had shown him of his parents, they had looked typically reserved English to their upper-class backbones: the mother in evening dress and jewels, the father in some kind of fancy army dress uniform with a row of medals. Not a glimmer of a smile