Pastoral Read Online Free PDF Page A

signals.”
    “Mine’s Marshall,” he said.
    She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I know—R for Robert.”
    “That’s right,” he said. “R for Robert.”
    She turned away. “I’ve got to go now. You must have had an awful lot of fun this afternoon.”
    “Well, yes,” he said. “I did.”
    She looked up at him quickly, about to say something; then she checked herself. She turned towards the door. “I’ve got to go now,” she said politely. “Thank you ever so muchfor showing it to me.”
    “Not a bit,” said Marshall. “I’ll tell you when I catch the next one and you can come and see that.”
    She laughed self-consciously, and went.
    Marshall went back into the ante-room, lit a cigarette, picked up a copy of
The Aeroplane
, and sank down into a chair before the fire. He was pleasantly tired, and utterly content. He had had a lovely day in the sunshine in the middle of the winter, he had caught the biggest fish he had ever caught in his life and landed it without a net or gaff, and a young woman that he had never spoken to before had been nice to him. She had black hair that she wore in coils above her ears; she had a very clear complexion with slight colour, and a nose that turned up a bit. Section Officer Robertson. He wondered what her Christian name was.
    He opened
The Aeroplane
, and there was a full description of the new Messerschmidt 210, with a double-page skeleton drawing. He was still poring over it twenty minutes later when Pat Johnson came in and looked over his shoulder.
    “Bloody interesting, that,” said Mr. Johnson. “See the barbettes?”
    Marshall looked up. “Do any good?” He restrained himself from blurting out his own news.
    “Ninety-three.” Bogey was seventy-two. “I fluffed the twelfth and lost a ball, and then I couldn’t do a thing.”
    “Marvellous afternoon.”
    “And how. You do any good?”
    “I caught the biggest fish in the river.”
    “Better not let Ma Stevens see it, if you want to get it cooked.”
    Marshall threw down his paper. “You don’t know who you’re talking to. When I catch fish, I catch fish.”
    Flight Lieutenant Johnson looked at him doubtfully. “No, really—did you get one?”
    Marshall heaved himself up from his chair. “Come and see.”
    He led the way through into the dining-room and snapped on the lights. “God!” said Mr. Johnson. “What an awful-looking thing.”
    “What d’you mean? That’s a bloody fine fish. It’s eleven and a quarter pounds.”
    “Maybe. It looks like something out of the main sewer.”
    Marshall glanced at the clock; it was five minutes past six.“I was going to buy you a noggin,” he said, with dignity. “Now I shall buy myself two.”
    Johnson said: “Has anybody else seen it?”
    “Only one of the Section Officers.”
    “Which one?”
    “The new one, with black hair.”
    “The one that runs the signallers?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “She came and had a look at it?”
    “That’s right. I said she could have a bit of it for lunch to-morrow.”
    “You did?” Mr. Johnson considered for a minute. The dead fish leered at them from the plate. “You offered her a bit of that?”
    “I did. And what’s more, old boy, she said she’d like to have it.”
    Johnson looked at the fish again. “Must be in love with you.”
    Section Officer Robertson walked down the road to the small house that was the W.A.A.F. officers’ quarters. She went into the little sitting-room. Mrs. Stevens was at the writing-table, finishing a letter. The Section Officer said: “I’ve just seen the most enormous fish.”
    The Flight Officer said: “Fish? What fish—where?”
    “It was a pike—about
that
long.” She measured with her hands. “One of the pilots had it on a dish in the dining-room.”
    “Peter Marshall? A Flight Lieutenant? He was going fishing this afternoon.”
    The girl nodded. “That’s the one.” So his name was Peter. “He said he was going to have it for lunch to-morrow.”
    “Oh, he