Nevil Shute Norway - Pastoral (Nevil Shute Norway) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

‘All right if I could weave the same each time. I think you’ll find I go thirty degrees one way and fifty the other.’

‘If you were German,’ said the Dane severely, ‘you would always weave the same.’

‘If I was a German,’ said the pilot equably, ‘I’d be flying a Heinkel and kicking your bloody arse because you didn’t say “Heil Hitler” before you spoke. All right, let’s have a crack at it that way, and see how it goes.’ He turned round to the crew of four, gathered around him in their flying kit. ‘We’re going to practise a few run-ups this morning, taking the gasometer at Princes Risborough as the target. Eight thousand feet.’ He turned to the wireless operator, a pale lad from Stockton-on-Tees. ‘Leech, you can do the navigation, and Phillips, you can help him if he gets it wrong.’ He did all he could to ensure that everybody understood the wireless and the navigation and the guns.

They took off presently, and went climbing away into the distance. It was nearly two hours later when they landed back again, taxied in, and wheeled round into wind at the dispersal point with a grinding squeal of brakes. In turn the engines died and came to rest.

Marshall stood up beside Gunnar, who had landed the machine, with Sergeant Phillips’ notebook in his hand. ‘Take out runs three and seven, when you weren’t on,’ he said. ‘The rest go fifty-two seconds, fifty-four, forty-four, forty-four, forty-one, forty-five, thirty-nine, forty-two, thirty-nine. It’s not bad.’

They discussed their practice for a few minutes, standing crouched and cramped beside the pilot’s seat. Then they got out of the machine down on to the concrete beneath the nose, slipped off their harness, and stretched cramped limbs. The corporal fitter went into a huddle with Sergeant Pilot Franck over the engine temperatures and pressures. Marshall turned to the fuselage and had another look at the patches. Sergeant Phillips walked up and joined him.

‘Nice and tight,’ the sergeant said. ‘I’ll get a drop of paint this afternoon.’

The pilot nodded. ‘When you spoke of your young lady, that saw me with that fish—did you say she was a signaller?’

‘Telephonist,’ the other said. ‘Works on the board all day.’

‘Does she come under that Section Officer Robertson?’

‘That’s right. A new Section Officer with black hair.’

Marshall said carefully: ‘I knew a Flying Officer called Robertson at my last station, who had a sister called Sheila who was a WAAF Section Officer. I was wondering if this was her. Ask your young lady if she knows her Christian name, will you?’ He spoke with elaborate carelessness that did not deceive the sergeant for one moment.

Phillips said: ‘Oh aye, I’ll find that out for you.’

The pilot said: ‘Thanks. It was just an idea I had.’ He left the machine and, carrying his parachute and harness, walked down to the control office.

Half an hour later he was in the mess with a pint of beer. The ante-room gradually filled before lunch. The Wing Commander came in, and Marshall crossed the room to him, beer can in hand.

‘May I go off the station at four o’clock tomorrow morning, sir?’ he said. ‘I’ll be back before breakfast.’

‘What for?’

Marshall grinned. ‘I met a chap in the ‘Black Horse’ last night who said he’d take me to see a fox. A fox and a badger, both within a quarter of an hour. I’ve got a bet on that he can’t.’

The Squadron Leader (Admin.), a grey-haired man called Chesterton with wings from the last war, laughed sharply. ‘Lady into fox?’ he said.

The pilot flushed a little. ‘No, sir. Honest-to-god fox—beast what smells.’ There was general laughter in the group.

The CO said: ‘Smell him when he comes back, Chesterton; let me know if it’s fox or Coty.’

The laugh grew loud. Section Officer Robertson turned to see what it was all about. She saw Marshall talking to the Wing Commander in the centre of a laughing group. She thought that it was something to do with the pike, the pike that she was to have a bit of for her lunch. She drew near, smiling at their mirth without understanding it, wanting to know what was going on.

The CO said: ‘A badger and a fox? Where are you going for that?’

‘I don’t know—somewhere in the woods. It’s got to be before dawn. I said I’d meet him in Hartley at four o’clock—if that’s all right with you, sir.’

The Squadron Leader said: ‘I don’t believe there are any badgers here. Plenty of foxes. But it’s too close to London for a badger.’

The CO said: ‘It’s all right with me. Better go to bed early, or else get in some sleep tomorrow. We may be on the job tomorrow night.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Chesterton said: ‘I’ll have the guard warned that you’ll be going out.’

The pilot turned away, and found himself face to face with Miss Robertson. She said: ‘Did you say you were going to see a badger?’ There was a quality of breathless interest in her voice.

Marshall grinned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Chap in the “Black Horse” said he’d show me a badger and a fox both within a quarter of an hour, and I bet him ten bob that he couldn’t.’

‘They don’t come out in daylight, do they? Badgers, I mean.’

‘I don’t think so. I think they stooge around all night.’

‘Where are you going for it?’

The pilot glanced down at her face turned up to his. In one fleeting moment in the crowded ante-room he saw the colour in her cheeks, her parted lips, her eyes bright and sparkling. He withdrew his glance quickly, because of the crowd about them. He had not known before that she was beautiful.

‘I don’t know,’ he said casually. ‘Somewhere in the woods.’

‘Oh.’ She thought for a minute. ‘Will there be a moon?’

Marshall said: ‘Yes, if it’s a fine night. The moon rises about two o’clock.’

She said: I think it will be fine. Three-tenths cloud or something. We got the message in this morning.’

There was a little pause; slowly the animation died out of her face. ‘It’ll be awfully interesting,’ she said. Queerly, it seemed to Marshall that she was disappointed about something, or depressed. Perhaps her boy friend was giving her the run around. If that were so, it was a shame; she was a nice kid.

‘I didn’t forget about that bit of pike,’ he said kindly. ‘I told them in the kitchen, and I told them to give Ma Stevens a bit, too.’

She said: ‘You’re sure you can spare it?’

He said: ‘Lady, I eats hearty, but not eleven and a quarter pounds.’

She laughed. ‘I suppose not.’

He moved away from her, though he would rather have stayed talking to her and have taken her in to lunch, in the hope of seeing her look again as she had looked when he was telling her about the badger. He had lived in a mess too long to risk being seen to talk much with one WAAF officer. In a society predominantly masculine with just a few young women, gossip ran rife; Marshall had caused embarrassment to too many young men from time to time to risk himself as target. He went in to lunch with Pat Johnson, choosing strategically a seat that gave him a view of Section Officer Robertson eating pike, twenty feet away.

He was relieved to notice that she ate it all, in happy distinction to Mr Johnson, who took one mouthful, put it out again, said a rude word, and went and fetched himself a plate of beef.

Marshall watched Section Officer Robertson covertly all through the meal, timing the progress of his lunch to synchronise with hers while talking to Humphries about accelerated take-offs. He followed her out into the ante-room for coffee. He asked her how she had liked the pike.

‘I liked it,’ she replied. ‘It’s different to most other fish.’