Rising Summer

by Mary Jane Staples

It was a good evening. We all had late passes and didn’t leave until the pub closed. Kit had an escort of ten squaddies. Cecily walked with Frisby and Cass walked with me, her arm tucked in mine. I think she was trying to make up for Kit being a disappointment to me and I think Kit was letting me see that Cass might be willing to be my American pen pal. I asked myself the same question. Did it matter?

  Yes, it did. I was still alive and Minnie’s condition might be only a bad dream.

  When we got to BHQ, I kissed Cass good night. She was very co-operative.

  ‘Who’s a kissing guy, then?’ she said. ‘I liked that.’

  ‘Mutual,’ I said.

  ‘You bet,’ said Cass.

  ‘See you off tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘That’s my buddy,’ said Cass.

  Along with several other squaddies and some ATS girls, I was there when the American girls were ready for the off the following morning. Major Moffat was also there, standing at the rear of the forecourt, hands behind his back, his dog squatting beside him. He didn’t interfere, nor did he order the gunners back to their work. He simply watched. Cass was handing out more kisses. The three Wacs were to be driven to Chackford in a jeep. Cecily refused to climb aboard. She seemed on the verge of dementia. Frisby was absent.

  ‘Where is he, Tim?’ she asked. ‘Oh, the lousy loser, he’s running out on me.’

  ‘No, I think Sergeant Johnson’s got him pinned down,’ I said.

  ‘Private Peterson!’ Kit was shouting from the jeep. She’d said her friendly goodbye to me. ‘Move yourself!’

  Proper sergeant she was at this moment. But Cecily was deaf to her. ‘Oh, I can’t believe my guy could do this to me,’ she said.

  Frisby, flushed with the shame of a soldier who had meant to duck it, suddenly materialized. Cecily’s mood improved dramatically and Kit conceded her a little extra time to say farewell. She pounced. Frisby quivered as she talked to him. She seemed agitated, he seemed to be saying nothing. But his mouth opened eventually and he delivered a few words. Cecily went dumb, stared at him, then flung her arms around him and in full view of various gunners and ATS girls and Major Moffat as well, glued her mouth to her doctor.

  When that was over, Frisby said coherently, ‘Now don’t go off your rocker, scout.’

  ‘Oh, you cream cookie,’ said Cecily. ‘Can we live here, in Suffolk?’

  ‘No, Reigate,’ said Frisby. She didn’t argue. She was happy.

  ‘Wrap it up, Private Peterson,’ called Kit, ‘mount up.’

  Cecily mounted the jeep with such reckless abandon that she was a treat to every manly eye. Frisby looked shocked at her leg show, but gave her a forgiving and fatherly nod when she blew him kisses. Without ever realizing what it would do to him, he’d done a first-class job on mixed-up Cecily.

  Off they went. They waved. We waved. I felt the end of a chapter had arrived. Kit had said to drop in anytime I was near enough to the base, but I couldn’t see much point in that.

  ‘You popped the question, then, did you?’ I asked Frisby, as we made our way back to the orderly room.

  ‘What else could I do?’ he said. ‘No mum or dad, well, not to speak of, and dying to prove herself normal. I couldn’t let her go off and have a relapse. Anyway, she’s a lovely piece of machinery, as good as I’ll ever get, so it’s no sacrifice.’

  ‘Yes, you don’t want to marry her simply because she’s a patient of yours,’ I said. ‘Better if you fancy her. She’s a good ’un, Cecily is.’

  ‘I suppose you know you sound like a bit of Suffolk folklore at times, do you?’ said Frisby.

  ‘I know. It gets you after a while.’

  ‘It’s not getting me. I still like Reigate. Hope it’ll suit Cecily and I hope I’ll live.’

  Sometime, I thought, I’ve got to face up to Missus again. She was leaving me alone at the moment, giving me time to have a good think, but I hadn’t been capable of any good thinking for days.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AUNT MAY WROTE. POOR Edie Hawkins, the young woman who’d been unfortunate enough to fall from grace on Wimbledon Common, was back in the news. Her mother, Mrs Cossey, had been round to have a cup of tea with Aunt May and to tell her all about the latest developments. It seemed that Edie’s husband Ron had arrived home on leave in an unexpected fashion. He hadn’t written to say he was coming. Edie didn’t even know he was back from overseas. He was all sun-tanned but looked ever so grim and stern. It was an awful shock to Edie when he walked in, especially as she was just putting the baby in its pram. Mrs Cossey was there herself. A widow, she lived with her daughter and son-in-law in Cotham Street. Ron just said hullo, that was all. Just hullo. Then he went upstairs with his kitbag, having ignored the baby. Then he came downstairs again, put the kettle on and made himself a large pot of tea, without saying a word. It put Edie in an awful state and she begged him to say something. Ron said he’d got nothing to say, that he was going down to the pub to get drunk and to ask for advice on the quickest way to get a divorce.

  Down to the pub he went and didn’t come back till late. Edie was in bed, but couldn’t get to sleep, of course. She heard him come in and waited for him to come up. But he didn’t. So she went downstairs and there he was, lying asleep on the parlour sofa, in his shirt and trousers. And he still had his boots on, which made Edie think he was keeping himself ready to walk out on her as soon as morning arrived. But he didn’t, he appeared at breakfast. Edie asked couldn’t they talk and Ron said no, he was busy thinking about the best way to give her a good hiding before arranging the divorce. Mrs Cossey told him he ought to be a little bit forgiving and wasn’t it time he looked at the baby instead of pretending it wasn’t there? Ron said he’d give her a good hiding too if she talked to him like that. Mrs Cossey said she’d go and bring the police round if he started handing out good hidings to her. Ron said you bring the coppers round and I’ll knock their heads off. It was awful, especially as Edie had made herself up and looked ever so pretty. She said all right, give me a good hiding if that’ll make you feel better. Go on, she said, I admit I deserve it. Ron said he’d do it in his own good time.

  He went out after breakfast and got back in the afternoon. Then he actually took the baby for a walk, pushing it in its pram, which dumbfounded Edie. He was back an hour later, he came into the house without the baby and pram. Edie asked where the baby was. Ron said he’d sold it. Poor Edie just fainted. Mrs Cossey called him a brute. Ron didn’t say anything, he just set about bringing Edie out of her faint. When she came to she begged him to tell her who he’d sold the baby to. Ron said it was outside the house, still in its pram. It was a nice little thing, he said, but they’d have to move, he didn’t want to live where neighbours knew the baby wasn’t his. He’d been to Peckham that morning and seen a house for rent there. We’re moving before my leave’s up he said, and don’t argue or you will get a good hiding.

  Aunt May wrote what a forgiving man he’d turned out, after all. She seemed fascinated by the whole saga of poor Edie and Ron’s reaction to her moment of weakness. Then she went on to say that Alf Cook wouldn’t go home drunk any more. He’d done it once too often and Mrs Cook had let him have it at last, she’d gone for him with her rolling-pin and he’d had to have ten stitches in his forehead.

  Aunt May finished by saying she was looking forward to having me home on leave again at the end of next week.

  Days went by and I thought I’d better face up to Missus again. Then I had a re-think. No, I didn’t want to put myself in a defensive position again. I’d wait until it was definite that Minnie was pregnant. It had to happen sometime. Sometime she’d have to see a doctor. Wouldn’t she? I was fairly ignorant about whether a girl or woman would have to or not. Or could they carry it all off without ever seeing a doctor at all? There’d at least come a time when it would show. I knew that much. And in any case, I was entitled to wait until Minnie admitted her condition, or until Jim nailed someone whom he called the real whacker.

  I went down to t
he village in the evening, thinking to have another word with young Wally Ricketts. I met Minnie herself. She looked a picture of girlish health in a summer dress, her naturally curling hair lightly dancing in the breeze. But a worried expression arrived as we met, then a tentative smile.

  ‘Come to take me out, Tim?’ she said.

  ‘Leave off, Min, I’m having a crisis, you know that.’

  ‘What crisis?’ she asked, looking at my army buttons.

  ‘About your condition.’

  ‘Oh, was it something about you ’aving to marry me?’

  ‘Now look, Min—’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to marry me, then?’

  ‘Min, you’re a schoolgirl.’

  ‘Oh, you Tim, I don’t mind waitin’, I’d wait ages for you as long as I can be your best girl in between.’ She was still looking anywhere but straight at me. ‘Don’t want no-one else, honest, only you.’

  ‘Min, you’re only just sixteen, you can’t know that.’

  ‘Well, I do, so there,’ she said.

  ‘Listen, Min, are you or aren’t you?’

  ‘Am I or ain’t I what?’ she asked, sparking a little.

  ‘All right, in plain English, are you going to have a baby or aren’t you?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’ she asked.

  ‘It?’

  ‘Me bein’ your best girl.’

  ‘Min, you’re giving me terrible headaches,’ I said.

  ‘They’re not as bad as the ones you’re givin’ me, goin’ out with that fat American sergeant,’ said Min angrily. ‘I bet you’re still seein’ ’er, don’t you mind that she’s fat and ugly?’

  ‘She’s not fat and ugly and I’m not still seeing her and if you don’t stop acting up, I’ll smack your saucy bottom.’

  ‘Now?’ said Min and she was hardly believable. She was laughing at me. Not out loud, it was all in her blue eyes. Ruddy terror, she was. ‘Mum an’ Dad’s out, you can come ’ome with me an’ do it there. Be bliss, Tim, honest. Then I might tell you about my condition.’ A cheeky smile peeped. ‘And risin’ summer night.’

  ‘You’re going to be my death, you are, Min.’

  ‘No, I’m not, just your best girl,’ she said, ‘and I can leave school now instead of next year.’ She was a clever girl right enough, attending the grammar school near Long Melford, which made Jim and Missus proud of her. ‘Then I won’t be a schoolgirl any more, will I?’

  ‘I’m ill,’ I said and left. I heard her laugh softly. What a monkey at just sixteen. I thought about the Yank who had applied his boot to young Wally because the little devil was watching Minnie and me. What happened after that?

  I knocked on Lottie Ford’s door. She opened it and presented a shy womanly smile. ‘Oh, it’s you again, Tim, I just seen you talkin’ to Minnie Beavers and I were thinkin’ isn’t she growin’ up quick. Pleasure it is, havin’ you call.’

  ‘Mutual, Lottie. Is the demon around?’

  ‘That young Wally?’ said Lottie. ‘I don’t have a minute’s peace when he is around, nor when he’s missin’. Well, like, I’m always expectin’ him to come in and say he’s broke someone’s window accidental. He’s in me garden now, tryin’ to mend a branch of the apple tree with that hammer of his. A bit of it fell off, he said. You can go through and talk to him, Tim. Shall I make you a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks, Lottie, but Frisby’s waiting for me in the pub,’ I said and went through to the garden.

  There was young Wally, up on a step-ladder and hammering nails amid apple tree foliage and fruit. ‘That won’t do any good,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, ’ello, Tim.’ Wally came down the step-ladder in a matey rush. Halfway down he fell off. I picked him up. ‘Cor, bleedin’ ladders,’ he said, ‘yer just can’t trust ’em, can yer? You come for yer rabbits? Only I ain’t got ’em yet, you said you’d say when.’

  ‘I’ll let you know, don’t worry.’

  ‘Right, I gotcher, Tim. I’ll only ask two bob.’

  ‘You can ask, you won’t get. Listen, sunshine, that Yank who booted you on rising summer night. What did he do after that?’

  ‘’Ere, I dunno, I ’ad to ’oppit sharpish or ’e’d ’ave booted me again. Still, I did ’ear ’im talkin’ to Minnie as I scooted. I dunno nuffink else. Except ’e was a big dark corporal an’ you was lyin’ down. Was yer drunk, Tim?’

  ‘I did have some cider in me. All right, Wally, good enough. I’ll pay a bob for the pair of rabbits, next Thursday evening, as long as they’re not nicked. If they’re nicked, I’ll make a hole in your loaf of bread with that hammer. Get me?’

  ‘Me? I don’t do nickin’, Tim.’

  ‘Bet your mum’s proud of you.’

  *

  Jim came into the pub as I was buying a round. I went aside with him.

  ‘Ta, son,’ he said and took one of the half-pints from me.

  ‘That’s Frisby’s,’ I said.

  ‘All right, I’ll drink ’is ’ealth,’ said Jim and took a long swig. ‘Yer saw Minnie a bit ago, I ’ear.’

  ‘Not much you don’t hear, is there?’ I said.

  ‘Yer goin’ on a course, I ’eard that.’

  ‘You’re up a gum tree for once,’ I said, ‘I’m going on leave. Friday.’

  ‘It’s a rockets course, I reckon,’ said Jim. ‘It’s rockets all over now, yer know. Well, Tim lad, I ain’t yet copped the whacker that done our Min wrong. I been watchin’ ’er and follerin’ ’er, hopin’ to catch ’er with ’im, but it ain’t ’appened, not yet. Still, she’ll be on ’er school ’olidays soon, an’ she’ll be gettin’ about more. I’ll be on ’er tail. Point is, though, she don’t want ’im, even if ’e did put ’er in the club, she wants you. Got a woman’s feelin’ for you, she ’as.’

  ‘She’s not a woman, you daft old goat.’

  ‘Near enough, though, Tim. Ain’t got far to go now.’

  ‘Listen, if she doesn’t want this Yank, whoever he is, why’d you feel she might be meeting him?’

  ‘Stands to reason,’ said Jim. ‘If ’e’s ’ad ’is pleasure with Min, ’e’ll be after more. I don’t reckon Min’s told ’im he’s landed her in the club. What I do reckon is she don’t want ’im comin’ round. Give the game away, wouldn’t it? So she’s got to keep ’im out of sight by meetin’ ’im.’

  I didn’t feel he was too right about that, but I did tell him there’d been a Yank around at the time. I told him what Wally had told me. Jim said that had to be the whacker all right. He took a look at the crowd of GIs at the bar. There were no corporals among them.

  ‘But I’ll get ’im,’ he said, ‘you leave it to me, Tim. Anytime you see Missus, just tell ’er you’re thinkin’ sympathetic, like. Play for time, eh?’

  ‘Look, don’t think I’m not sorry for Min,’ I said.

  ‘Min’s sorry for ’erself, I reckon.’ Jim frowned. ‘It just don’t seem like my girl to let a Yank make a tart of ’er. She’s an ’andful, but not that kind of ’andful.’

  ‘She didn’t seem sorry for herself when I saw her this evening, Jim, she was as lively as she’s ever been.’

  ‘Well, she was moody again when I saw ’er ten minutes ago,’ said Jim.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ I said.

  Sergeant-Major Baldwin entered the orderly room on Monday morning. ‘Bombardier Wilkins, Gunner Hardy, Gunner Frisby.’ The Sergeant-Major was brisk and gravelly. ‘You’re proceeding with other personnel to Brigade HQ first thing Wednesday. A week’s course. You’ll join site personnel there. That’s all.’

  ‘Excuse me, Sergeant-Major,’ I said, ‘but I won’t be available.’

  ‘Who’s that talking like someone from the Naafi?’ asked the sergeant-major.

  ‘I’m starting my seven days leave on Friday,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not. You’re postponed.’ And the sergeant-major left.

  So I had to write to Aunt May and tell her my leave had been postponed for a week.

  The course was all about rocketry and it
was all top secret, which everyone knew was a laugh. Rockets were common knowledge. Still, it was an interesting week of lectures and demonstrations and it took my mind off all my troubles and setbacks. Getting nowhere with Kit represented my major setback and Minnie represented my sea of troubles.

  And if rocketry represented anything, it had to be active service. The villagers of Sheldham would know when, of course. Their grapevine was always on active service.

  After the course I went on leave. Aunt May received me with a kiss and a cuddle. She looked as content with life as ever. She might have let the war irritate her and ruffle her a bit, but since she knew there was nothing she could do about the colossal nature of the worldwide conflict except keep her pecker up for the sake of her country’s morale, she did exactly that. At the same time, she carried on as if the war was other people’s worry, not hers. It was her opinion that men liked to hear things go off bang, even if the bang blew their heads off, while women liked to get on with living. Women had to put up with the bangs, she said.

  I handed over a pair of rabbits, a dozen rashers of bacon, kindly donated by Bombardier Jones from the ration stores and a box of a dozen eggs from Jim. I received another kiss and cuddle. I noticed the kitchen walls had been re-papered and I commented.

  ‘Yes,’ said Aunt May, ‘I told you in a letter about Mr Clayton offering.’

  ‘Oh, that bloke,’ I said, ‘the short, fat, bald, bandy-legged uncle of Tosh Simpson’s.’

  ‘I’ll give you short and fat,’ said Aunt May, ‘I told you he wasn’t like that.’

  ‘So you did,’ I said, ‘but you know how it is, you get stuck with first impressions.’

  ‘I know what you get stuck with,’ said Aunt May, ‘all your jokes.’

  Over lunch, we had a long chat. I could always chat to Aunt May. We were a couple of gossips together. She first wanted to know all about Kit and how I was getting on with her. I explained how it had all come to a full stop, that Kit was an efficiency expert and would probably only marry a bloke who’d invented something that would do the washing for you, hang it on the line, iron it and put it away. Someone like Henry Ford. Aunt May said that would be like marrying someone’s grandfather. And besides, he was in motorcars, not laundry, wasn’t he? Good point, I said.