Day (27 page)

Pluckrose.

There are days when you would like him to be Pluckrose, when you like him because of Pluckrose, when you try to confuse yourself with someone else.

He wrestles up out of his chair with more effort than he needs and brushes his cardigan. ‘Well, I believe I shall take out the badger hairbrush and clean some upper edges in the dusty stock, get those pages good and spotless.' You've made him angry – the shine of it resting just beneath his skin. ‘Want to join me?' Clipping his words.

‘There's only one brush.'

‘Ah . . .' He pauses, close enough that you can smell him – this vaguely rank, musty scent of a man who lives alone and always will and doesn't much care. You try to do better, keep fresher than that. He leans low to be level with you. ‘I see it now.'

‘What?'

‘A bit of guilt.'

‘None of that.'

‘No, I definitely saw it. Passing like a tiny cloud. Definite guilt.'

‘I have none.' You don't know if he means about your friendship – that it's really built out of a dead man he never met. ‘I've none.' Or maybe he wants you to think of the other thing, the bombs.

‘Of course, of course. No reason for anything other than innocence. No need to be guilty.' He nudges your shoulder and winks again. ‘You got away with it.'

He's a fucker sometimes, Ivor. Sometimes he's a shit.

drop

‘I'm not doing it. I'm a bloody gunner. You want to lose a gunner then you're off your bloody head.' The Bastard crouched up in the fuselage of B for Beer. ‘I won't do it. I don't care.'

The rest of the crew packed up along with him, crushed in the space which is no space at all, between the main hatch and the first-aid kit and the oxygen bottles and the spare parachutes and the Thermos stowage and the evil bumps and angles of your fuselage: above and below and port and starboard sides.

Things are even more cramped than usual because of the secret bundles loaded in beside the catwalk.

The secret brown-paper bundles are why they're here.

Molloy sits with his back to the others, legs hanging down from the doorway. Alfred has perched up on the slope that takes him to his turret, where he belongs. Nothing to bang his head on that he doesn't know about.

Times like this, you'd think – how would we ever get out, really? If we had to. She never would let us leave her. All of our Lancs, they love their airmen, keep a tight hold of us right down and into the ground.

The skipper is staring out beyond Molloy at the sun which is low now, dropping into evening, into the run-up to the op. ‘Well, I agree.'

‘I won't fu—' The Bastard eyeing the skip, then the rest of the crew. ‘Then why . . . ?'

‘I only said that was the suggestion. They've never used this stuff before. But I think it's a stupid suggestion. We need all the guns we can get.'

The Bastard tries catching Molloy's eye, but Molloy won't turn his head, only offers stiffened shoulders and a drift of cigarette smoke. Parks, because he always states the obvious, heaves in with, ‘I'd do it, guys. I would. But somebody has to let loose with a bundle every minute. That's what they say. Try taking a star shot and doing that – I mean, it won't wash, right?'

‘We know.' Molloy apparently talking to the doorway more than the crew, glancing up very slightly and murmuring. ‘We all know that.'

‘I couldn't navigate . . . Boss is no use.'

‘Thanks a lot.'

‘I mean, you've got to be where you always are, bud. And we can't mess around with Miles.'

‘I should say not.'

‘Torrington's not an option – we have to let fly on the bomb run, too, drop this stuff all the way. And Skip's . . . the skipper.'

‘I'll do it.' Molloy sways round and in, leans one knee against the edge of the hatch. He sighs, hamming it up. ‘I'll throw the bloody stuff. I'm the only one who can. But should you happen to need an engineer during your trip – I would point out, you'll be taking a shit.'

The skipper watching him, playing the innocent. ‘If we have any trouble you can chuck the whole lot out at once . . . I suppose.' In his hands, he folds and unfolds a black paper strip, it is backed with aluminium, shines and then hides its shining. ‘Or you could deal with things and then get back to this.' Bundles of God knows how many strips stacked at their side, all ready for Molloy to unwrap them, push them out. ‘Not that I would ever presume to suggest what you should do.' Their new secret – just paper and foil.

‘Oh, and I've never known you to . . . you keep clear of that nonsense, don't you . . . you being just the skipper and our humble servant.' Molloy nodding, content to be the centre of attention.

‘Absolutely. I would never think to try.'

‘All of that giving orders carry-on . . .'

‘Not important to a modern air force.'

‘I see.' Molloy sucks his teeth, almost giving in and chuckling, ‘Well, on the whole, I should say we'd be better off not having trouble, or else we'll be dead on our hole.' He gives the crew his most solemn face, frowns the black of his eyebrows down so far it's a wonder he can see. ‘So keep all your gen boxes working, you bastards – and I hereby commend the engine to St Rita. Let nothing go on fire and catch any shrapnel you see, just put it in your pocket for later, because I shall be unavailable: shoving their mystery bundles down the flare chute – and they'd better work, so. Or I'll be back and haunt the boffins to their graves.' He draws on his cigarette as if it's offended him badly again and then snaps his head back and grants them a huge, rattly laugh. ‘I could sit on your lap, Miles, and pitch them through your window. Would that suit you? However I do it, I'll end up bloody frozen.' He raises his huge, clever mitts and turns them in front if his face. ‘And these were magic hands . . . appreciated by so many in so many lovely ways.'

Miles grips hold of both Molloy's magical wrists and gazes at him fondly. ‘You can sit on my lap any time. But I'll want nylons and a fish tea and all of your Horlicks tablets in return.'

‘You're a shocking demanding bastard.'

The skipper adjusts his flying cap – the one that was pristine once, respectable, the one that makes him seem an old sweat now, because he is. ‘And we appreciate the sacrifice.' Every man of you old sweats now, even Parks.

‘And it is good to be appreciated, Pilot Officer Gibbs.'

‘Yes, but enough of the bollocks for now. Thank you, Dickie.'

‘Didn't expect any better.'

‘Shut up.' The skipper kicks Molloy gently. ‘Anyway, it's the only solution. And possibly they'll sort themselves out better for the next time.'

‘Have you ever known it?'

‘Boys.' Skip giving the crew his slightly crooked, pleased grin. ‘This is what we've always wanted – a lovely new secret weapon of our very own.' He punches Alfred's foot. ‘Can't complain when you've got a secret weapon.'

Alfred grins back, doesn't have to say they will be safe because they have the skipper and no more could be required. ‘Let's see if it works first.'

Molloy lets out a high bark of amusement. ‘Now when were we ever supplied with a thing that didn't work? The very thought . . .'

Skip makes to go and Alfred echoes the move – he likes to keep his safety in sight, likes to check that all is well. On flying days nothing should bother the skip, which means Alfred keeps an eye on him when he can, gives himself this new gunnery duty, to see no one pesters his captain.

‘There you go, Boss.' And the skipper folds their secret weapon in half one last time and then hands it to Alfred. ‘For luck.'

And for luck, when the time comes, Alfred will bring out the gramophone and their record and his captain and his crew will stand with him and ready themselves for the trip.

‘Come on then, lads. Work to be done. Can't precisely remember what, but I'm sure that we have an appointment of some kind tonight.'

But Hanson, of course, interrupts. ‘Hang about, hang about. While we're here, we might as well.' He prods both of his gunner's thumbs into his waistband, wriggles his fingers with significance. ‘Mightn't we.'

‘God, you're a filthy hound.' But the skipper nods and, Molloy leading, they jog themselves down the ladder and out to the tailwheel.

The shock of sunlight leaves them squinting at each other.

‘Home and no trouble every time we've done it.' Hanson unbuttoning his fly. ‘You can't argue with that.'

So they set to and duly watered the rubber of the tyre. Which still made Alfred blush – it was discourteous. He'd rather speak to B for Beer the way Molloy did, the way they maybe all did – or sing to her, or kiss her, God knew what would please her most.

As he'd run down the ladder he'd patted her skin, felt it warm and living.

Hamburg tonight. Hamburg and a secret weapon and the skipper and B for Beer. No one could argue with that.

drop

The camp was getting edgy, out of trim.

End of next week and we'll be gone.

There was no cause for alarm, no reason to think there'd be trouble of any kind, but the place was unhappy nonetheless. This morning some bod had been crying in the mess tent. Gad – Alfred thought it had been Gad – had ambled up and intervened, but whatever was wrong had stayed wrong. There was bickering in the showers, in most places. Part of it was waiting, just the old, old chilly friction, the lick of it in your chest.

‘We fucking hate to fucking wait,

For fucking night to fucking fight

The fucking Huns with fucking guns,

H fucking Es, in-cen-dia-rees

Can't fucking wait to fucking fly

Can't fucking wait to fucking die.'

Behind Alfred an evening cricket game was turning pettish. He was wandering over to the fence, daring himself to lean right up against it, to not even sweat a little or think of guard towers – of goons watching, firing – of bods watching and thinking he was cracked.

A squawk of irritation rose from the game at his back and he half turned to it, only realised he'd caught the ball when he saw it in his hand.

‘Well done, that man.'

Alfred liking the familiar, night-time ache where the leather had hit his palm. He smiled.

Didn't know you still had it in you, did you, our kid? Smart hands – like Cardini.

A sweating type was trotting up to him, extending his arm. ‘I say . . . well done, that man.' He wanted the ball back.

Alfred wanted to keep it. ‘If you say so.' He tipped his head to the side and carried on smiling. ‘I wouldn't know.' He folded his arms.

‘Splendid catch . . .' The man was in front of him, tubby and puffing, unused to exercise. ‘But we do need to go on with our game.' Must have a soft job somewhere, desk work.

‘Do you.' A kind of laugh knocking about next to Alfred's spine and him thinking of how soft his job was these days, too, and thinking he wouldn't go back to it, that he didn't have to. ‘That's nice.'

And the man darting in as if he would snatch the ball, but only holding fast to Alfred's shoulder and whispering close to his cheek, ‘We'd like to take your picture. Just a harmless snap. Civilian clothes. Could come in handy. Hut 4. Let us know.'

‘You what?'

The man hopped back, smoothed his hair. ‘Good show.' He nodded, a drop of sweat falling from his nose.

Alfred took the ball and threw it as hard and as far as he could, watched it clatter the slant of a hut roof and disappear. The cricket team grumbled at him, but only mildly – as if they were glad of something clear they could all be annoyed by. The man only stood and nodded again before starting up a heavy trot, heading off along the line of Alfred's aim.

It had been a good throw – and a good catch, the kind he'd have made six years ago – and there was a logic in that – with the waiting, you knew, there would always come this speed, this depth, this terrible growth in your life until you could barely hold it any more.

Colours – they'd be so sharp and loud they'd spread into each other, until you'd be glad of the dark – and stepping out among civilians, away from your crew, you wouldn't quite believe that anyone could be so flat, so sleepy – and the taste of the Sally Army sandwiches, the bread and jam – it would be like music – and music, that would make you cry, the way it slipped over you, threaded through your fingers and raised your hair – and Joyce.

‘Do you put this in your mass observations?' Standing beside her bed when you say this.

And she is almost shy when she tells you, ‘You're meant to make a record of everything,' and doesn't look at you, but the shape of her mouth is flirting, ‘I try to do my bit,' and when her eyes do find you, your hands tremble.

‘But you don't, do you . . . ? not everything. Would you?'

Joyce lying on the golden quilt because you asked – on the spare bed on the golden quilt, although you shouldn't be here in her flat, not at all, not together, not even in the day because someone may notice your calling or leaving and may talk – the whole city is nothing but talk – only you don't care and the gold is flaring up around her so that she seems to be lying in bright grass, in fur, sunk into a glimmering fur.

‘What I'd, that is . . . Who reads it?'

‘I'm not sure.' The whole of her so close and you've never seen her like this before, never will again – she's never shown you – the way she's shining and naked and naked and shining, the way she is alight. One ankle tucked beneath the other, her right knee bending out towards you, open. ‘But I just tell them . . .' She takes your hand and holds it, watches you standing while you wonder what to do, what she'd like best. ‘I say how I feel and not names and not anything – not anything terribly much, really.' There's a tremor in her grip, this shake of pressure she may not mean.