Pastoral by Nevil Shute Read Free Book Online Page B

lot of us had it for lunch to-day, stuffed.
    Dare he say that Section Officer Robertson had liked it? Better not. He went on:
    The biggest one caught for years was only fifteen pounds, so mine was a pretty good show. I got it on the new rod with the multiplying reel; it’s fine to use. A chap I met says he can show me a fox and a badger both in a quarter of an hour and we’re going out to try it to-morrow very early, about four. Next week I hope we shall be able to go pigeon-shooting.
    He drifted into reverie. G.L.… Gertrude Lucy? He took up his fountain-pen again and wrote:
    I like being on this station more and more; there are some awfully nice people here. Has Bill got his second pip yet? All my love to Daddy and to you, darling.
    P ETER .
    It exactly filled the double page, which was his statutory length. He read it through and put it in the envelope, and took it downstairs to the post.
    He rang up Ellison and confirmed their meeting in the morning; then he retired into the ante-room with a can of beer. He was called to the telephone five minutes before dinner.
    “Marshall speaking,” he said. “Who’s that?”
    “Sergeant Phillips here, sir. I don’t think that Section Officer can be the one you meant. What did you say her name was? The one that was the sister of the chap you knew?”
    Damn it, what had he said? Cynthia? Sylvia? What on earth was it?
    “Sylvia,” he said. “It was just a thought I had, that it might be the same. What’s this one called?”
    “You said the name was Sheila this morning, Cap. I suppose he had two sisters in the W.A.A.F.s. But it’s not the same family at all.”
    Marshall said very slowly and emphatically: “What—is—this—one—called?”
    “Gervase, Cap. Uncommon sort of name.” He spelled itout. “Gervase Laura. Did your friends live in Thirsk?”
    Marshall said: “No, they lived near—er—Reading.”
    “Can’t be the same, Cap. This one comes from Thirsk in the North Riding.”
    “Oh well—thanks.”
    “Okay.”
    Marshall put down the receiver, conscious that he had had his leg pulled by the sergeant. Still he had got the information that he wanted.
    He went to bed early that night, having thoughtfully secured a packet of sandwiches from the kitchen. He ate these as he was dressing in the middle of the night. At ten minutes to four he was riding out of the station on his bicycle, yawning and rather cold, and wondering if it was really worth it.
    He met Mr. Ellison, a dim shadow with a bicycle, in Hartley market as they had arranged. “Couple of bloody fools, we are,” said Mr. Ellison. “This isn’t worth ten bob of anybody’s money. Let’s get going.”
    “How far?”
    “Seven or eight miles. Kingslake Woods, over by Chipping Hinton.”
    They rode off down the main road leading north. The sky was practically clear; a half-moon was rising, making it light enough to see the detail of the countryside. They rode on steadily for nearly an hour, growing warm with the exertion. In the end Ellison slowed down.
    “Steady a moment,” he said. “There’s a gate just here somewhere.”
    They found the gate and left their bicycles inside it, and went on up a muddy track that wound slowly uphill through the woods. The leafless branches made a fine tracery over their heads, screening the white clouds drifting past the moon. There was little wind; the woods were very quiet. From time to time a rabbit shot away before them; once an owl swooped low over their heads with a great whirr of wings.
    Ellison led on steadily for a quarter of an hour or more. Once Marshall asked: “How in hell do you know where to go?”
    The motor salesman said: “I came here last month, that time when we were shooting foxes. Then old Jim Bullen brought me here again to see a badger, because I told him that I’d never seen one.” He paused, and then he said: “They’re a bit scarce where I come from, around Great Portland Street.”
    The pilot nodded. “There aren’t so many