Pastoral by Nevil Shute Read Free Book Online

experience of the country she had never seen a badger. This expedition in the moonlight night before the dawn was in her line exactly; she ached to be going out with Marshall in the morning. The very suggestion had been like a breath of fresh air to her, a reminder of a sane, decent, country world that she had left behind her in the north.
    That was not possible, of course. A good W.A.A.F. officer, mindful of the honour of the Service, did not get out of bed at four o’clock in the morning to go roaming in the moonlit woods with an officer from her station. She spent an appreciable portion of her time endeavouring to restrain her aircraft-women from that sort of thing, though it was true that none of them had ever thought to plead that they had a date with a badger.
    She stared disconsolately at the signal pad before her. The fault, she felt, in some way lay within herself. Hartley was a rotten station to be in, but there was fun to be got there, good country fun, if you knew your way about and had the wit to find it. Peter Marshall seemed to have a lovely time; the pike yesterday, and now this “fox and badger in a quarter of an hour” business. All she had managed so far was to go for rides upon her bicycle and, since the country was flat and she came from the hills, she didn’t think much of that.
    It was a very quiet afternoon, with little flying in progressand nothing in particular happening. She took a little walk around her duties; passing the main telephone switchboard she looked in to see how L.A.W. Smeed was getting on. L.A.W. Smeed was sitting with headphones on her hair and microphone upon her chest eating her black-market sweets and knitting a jumper for her next leave. She slipped the knitting down beside her chair when her officer appeared in the doorway.
    “Afternoon, Elsie,” said Miss Robertson. “Let’s see your book.”
    The girl handed her the log-book, written in pencil between ruled pencil columns; there were not many calls upon it. “Not very busy,” said Miss Robertson.
    “No, ma’am. Real slack it’s been to-day.”
    They chatted for a few minutes about the work. Then L.A.W. Smeed said: “Mind if I ask a question, ma’am?”
    “What is it?” said Miss Robertson. She knew what it was likely to be: something to do with late leave, an attempt to short-circuit Flight Officer Stevens.
    Elsie said: “Your name’s a funny one, isn’t it, Miss Robertson? Some of the girls were having an argument.”
    The Section Officer said: “Gervase. It’s not a very common one.”
    “Gervase. I never knew anyone called that before. I think it’s ever so nice. What’s the other one, Miss Robertson—the L?”
    “Laura. There are plenty of those about.”
    “I know ever so many Lauras,” said the telephonist, “but I never met a Gervase before. I do think that’s pretty. Are there many girls called Gervase where you come from?”
    “I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s a Yorkshire name particularly.”
    “Is that where your home is, Miss Robertson? I live in Clapham, just by Clapham South Underground.”
    The officer said: “I come from a little place called Thirsk, in Yorkshire. But I don’t think Gervase is a Yorkshire name at all. Mother got it out of a book—Tennyson, or something.”
    The telephone buzzed, and put an end to further confidences. Miss Robertson went on with her round.
    Out in the country, by the river below Coldstone Mill, Marshall was assembling his little rod. He worked more absently than on the previous day, his mind equally divided between fishing and Section Officer Robertson. He wondered if the redplug would do the trick again or whether he should use a narrow-bodied thing that simulated a little alcoholic fish, unable to swim very well. He wondered if Section Officer Robertson really had a boy friend who was doing her dirt. It was quite possible that she had got mixed up with somebody at her last station; indeed, it would be rather queer if she had not,