Pastoral by Nevil Shute

nervous stage of wanting to tell people what it looked like, how the fire spread and the bits fell off as the machine went down. Being shot down was like getting cancer, a sad, painful business that you did not labour to describe.
    She was still puzzled. “Was it just bad luck?”
    He found some difficulty in answering her. “He was running up for a damn long time,” he said, “and it was pretty hot. He was making sure of getting his bombs just exactly where he wanted them. Of course, it’s always bad luck if the flak gets you.”
    She said doubtfully: “I suppose so.”
    He smiled down at her. “I always stooge around a bit outside and wait a quiet time to go in,” he said. “I don’t know that it makes any difference really, but the boys think it does. And we like to do a different sort of approach every time, just on principle. I don’t think that makes any difference, either, but it’s another thing. Sometimes if you sit outside a bit and have a damn good look for five minutes or so you get a hunch what’s the best way to tackle it.” He laughed. “I don’t think we’re really yellow—just cream. We generally put our load down on the target in the end.”
    They came to the top of the rise, and the track ran down before them through the woods. In front of them, through the bare trees, there was the glint of water. Marshall said: “I say, there’s a lake or something.”
    Gervase nodded. “There is a lake here,” she said. “I saw it on the map. There’s a house somewhere near.”
    The pilot said: “I wonder if there’s anything in it?”
    They went on briskly to the water’s edge. Across the lake, no more than a hundred yards in width, there was a mown lawn fringed with rhododendrons, and at the head of this there was a house, low, long, and covered in creeper. “That’s Kingslake House,” said Gervase. “I remember that. The drive runs from the other side of it back on to the road where we left the bikes.”
    Marshall said: “Nice place. Do you know who lives there?”
    She shook her head. “I suppose the wood belongs to the house.”
    They turned to examine the lake. It was artificial and very shallow, created by a concrete and timber dam across a little stream that ran down through the trees. With one eye on the house they made their way towards the dam and the deep water by it, and walked out upon it, fascinated by the tinkle of running water at the overflow. Gervase looked out over the small sheet of water and smiled. “I suppose this is the King’s Lake,” she said. “He must have been a very little King.”
    The pilot grinned. “Because it’s a very little lake?”
    She nodded, laughing up at him. “Boy’s size.”
    They walked on round it presently, being careful to keep out of sight of the house as much as possible. “I bet there are some fish in it,” Marshall said thoughtfully. “It’s been dammed up so as to hold them.”
    Gervase agreed with him. “I’ve seen places like it,” she said. “You buy trout and put them in—stock it. Then you have a lot of fun getting them out again.”
    He was interested. “How much do trout cost?”
    “About a shilling each, I think.”
    They came to the stream that ran in at the top end and stood looking at the water. “There’s a fish!” said the pilot suddenly. He touched her on the arm and pointed. “By that bit of weed.”
    She saw a grey shadow moving slowly over the bottom. “That’s a trout,” she observed. “I said there’d be trout here.”
    “How do you know it’s a trout?” the pilot asked.
    She stared at him. “Well—it’s a trout. Haven’t you ever seen one?”
    He shook his head. “I come from High Holborn, lady. I’ve only fished for roach and pike so far.”
    She said: “It looks grey now, but if it was to turn suddenly you’d see it was a sort of goldy colour underneath. It’s got spots on it, too. They’re much brighter when they’re out of the water.”
    “How do you know all that?”