Pastoral Read Free

moment after lunch. He stood a little, fingering them; then went down to the ante-room.
    Johnson was there; he pressed the bell and ordered a couple of pints of beer. Few of the pilots drank anything but beer,partly from inclination and partly from economy. Marshall said: “Have any trouble getting her down?”
    The other shook his head. “She came in all right. She was all right once I put the flaps down. But she was a swine to handle all the way home. One flap was out and wouldn’t go back. We had to fly her all the way, in half-hour spells. Then when we put the flaps down to land, she was all right.”
    The beer came, two tankards on a tray borne by a white-coated W.A.A.F. “I looks towards you,” said Johnson.
    “I catches your eye,” said Marshall.
    “What are you doing to-day?”
    “Going fishing.”
    “Bet you don’t catch anything.”
    “No takers.”
    They had been together at Hartley aerodrome for nearly a year. At one time both had been novices of golf; they had laboured together round the Hartley course counting it a superior achievement to hole out in less than eight. Marshall had tired of it and turned to fishing; Pat Johnson had gone forward to a handicap of fifteen in the local tournament. In the evenings they had formed the habit of finding amusement together; they were friends. They were much the same age, and from very much the same social class. Marshall had worked for a year before the war in an insurance office in Holborn; Pat Johnson had been apprenticed to an estate agent in Croydon. Both had developed into seasoned and reliable pilots of large aircraft.
    Johnson said: “Coming down to the ‘Black Horse’ after dinner? Take you on at shove-halfpenny.”
    “If it’s not raining.”
    “It won’t rain to-night.”
    The “Black Horse” was one of the two pubs in Hartley Magna, tacitly dedicated to the air crews; other ranks went to the “Swan.” The “Black Horse” was rather more than a mere country pub; in peace-time it had been something of a road-house, with a snack-bar that still sold sandwiches. It was the only social centre within walking distance of the aerodrome; for the wider life it was necessary to catch the occasional bus for Oxford, fourteen miles away, or jump a ride if there was transport going to the city.
    The pilots went and had their lunch together. A masterful, grey-haired woman of about forty-five, Flight Officer Stevens, came and sat by Marshall. “Morning,” she said.“I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
    Marshall knew what was coming; he had had this one with the Officer-in-charge-W.A.A.F. before. “Really?” he said innocently. “What’s that?”
    “Your cup of tea. I cannot have the girls wasting their time bringing you up cups of tea in the middle of the morning. They’ve got their work to do, and that’s not it. If you want elevenses you must come down and get it.”
    Marshall said: “It was only a little cup …”
    “It was the biggest we’ve got on the station. She put two spoonfuls of sugar in, too, which isn’t allowed, and she’d have given you a third if I hadn’t caught her. Next time I’ll put her on a charge.”
    “I wouldn’t do that.”
    “I will. You see if I don’t.”
    Marshall dropped the subject, uncertain if the officer was aware that he had got his cup of tea or not. Instead, he said: “If I catch a fish this afternoon can I have it for lunch tomorrow?”
    Pat Johnson said: “That’s what they call an academic question.”
    Mrs. Stevens said: “If it’s one tiddley little roach, you can’t. If it’s a fish that will feed several people, or a lot of fish, you can.”
    “What do you call a lot of fish?”
    “Three or four pounds.”
    “That’s hitched his wagon to a star all right,” said Mr. Johnson.
    They went on with the meal in silence. The grey-haired Flight Officer felt out of things beside these inconsequential young men. They had no right to make her feel … old, but they did. She could no