Bluebirds

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘What’s in thet thare?’

  ‘Things I figured might come in handy for you folks.’

  ‘What sort o’ things?’

  He set the bag on the table and unzipped it. ‘Can of ham.’ He took it out and held it aloft.

  ‘Huh. What else?’

  He fished again and produced more tins. ‘Pineapple, peaches, grapefruit . . .’

  ‘Huh. That all?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ He dug deeper. ‘Chocolate . . . candy . . . gum . . .’ The pile on the table was growing. He dug deeper still and drew a long cardboard carton from the very bottom of the bag. ‘Luckies.’

  Gran’s eyes flickered. She had been watching him like a child watching a conjuror, her eyes following each emerging item in turn, and now she inspected the assortment before her suspiciously. Her tobacco-stained forefinger jabbed the air.

  ‘Them thare’ss Amurican cigarettes?’

  ‘Sure are.’ Virgil picked up the carton and offered it to her. ‘Special for you, ma’am.’

  Quick as a flash Gran had the Lucky Strikes on her lap, buried in the folds of her black gown. ‘Thet thare chewin’ gum . . .’

  The Wrigleys packets disappeared too and she graciously accepted a bar in a brown and silver wrapper. She held it up, turning it this way and that.

  ‘Whass this’m?’

  ‘That there’s a Hershey bar, ma’am. Chocolate. Made in Pennsylvania.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The bar vanished into her gown. ‘Oi’ll troi one o’ these here cigarettes . . .’ She tugged at the carton.

  Virgil extracted a packet for her and bent to light the cigarette that she stuck in the corner of her mouth as attentively as if Gran had been a great beauty and not a cantankerous old woman. She puffed away for a moment, eyes closed, tasting.

  ‘Ain’t bad. Ain’t good, neither. But t’aint bad.’

  She squinted up at the young American through a curl of smoke, considering him. ‘Reckun yew’s a sight better’n thet tibby husband o’ Winnie’s . . . weren’t no good fur naun. Or thet thare pesky Welsh fellah.’ She stretched her mouth sideways at him in what was Gran’s version of a smile. ‘Reckun yew’ll do right well.’

  To Winnie’s chagrin, her mother also seemed as taken by Virgil as she was by the tins of fruit and ham. She kept on thanking him and exclaiming over them as though they were made of solid gold. And Ruth and Laura clustered round him, squealing with delight at all the sweets and chocolate bars. Ruth hung onto his arm, gazing upwards, and he picked her up by the waist and swung her round high up in the air, making her squeal a whole lot more. Then Laura jumped up and down, begging him to do the same to her.

  Dad wasn’t so easy to please, though, as she’d known. He stomped into the kitchen for his midday meal, grunting away like Susie and acting at first like there was no visitor there. But the bottle of Johnnie Walker whisky went some way to thawing him – she could tell that by the way his eyes kept returning to where he’d set it on the dresser, and halfway through eating his rabbit stew he’d relented enough to start complaining yet again about the Yanks in the Pig and Whistle, which also meant having to acknowledge that there was one of them sitting at his table.

  ‘Time us farmers get there of an evenin’, place’s near dry,’ he said bitterly. ‘Drink like fish they do.’

  It was a clear case of the pot calling the kettle black, but Dad wouldn’t see that.

  ‘Sure am sorry about that, sir,’ Virgil glanced at the bottle standing sentinel on the dresser. ‘I figure least thing I can do’s see you ain’t goin’ to run dry here.’

  Dad grunted again, but it was a milder grunt than when he’d come in. Ruth was still gazing across the table at Virgil. Winnie saw him give her a big wink, and she giggled and looked down at her lap and went pink. Laura started to giggle too, a big smear of Hershey chocolate about her mouth.

  After the rabbit stew there was apple pudding with thick cream. Virgil reached the chunks of apple beneath the suet crust.

  ‘Gee, ma’am, I ain’t never tasted nothin’ so good since I left home.’

  Mum went as pink as Ruth. ‘I make it with plums too. I’ve got some bottled, so next time you’re here I’ll cook that for you, Mr Gillies.’

  ‘Call me Virgil, please. An’ I’d sure appreciate it. Ain’t nothin’ like home cookin’.

  ‘Where’s your home . . . Virgil?’

  They listened while he told them about the farm back in Ohio – about the one hundred and sixty acres and the wood-built farmhouse with the creek running close by, and about the seventy-year-old barn that his grandfather had built.

  ‘See, the Government was givin’ out land free then, an’ my grandpa homesteaded back in the 1880s. Went out there with my grandma an’ worked the land from nothin’. Then my pa and ma took over when they died. Reckon I’ll do the same when it comes to my turn – if I make it back. Guess I’ll try to get a whole lot more land, grow more crops . . .’

  Dad put down his spoon with a clatter. ‘Seen my corn? Best lookin’ crop I’ve had in years. We’ll be harvestin’ in a few weeks.’

  ‘Be glad to give you a hand, sir . . . long as I’m still around.’

  Winnie could tell that Dad was weighing up the thought of having a Yank on his fields against the thought of having another much-needed pair of strong hands and, with any luck, another bottle of Johnnie Walker. He wouldn’t have noticed the ‘long as I’m still around’, or thought what it meant if he had. The flying and the fighting, the living and the dying went on somewhere up in the skies and so long as it didn’t interfere with the farm or the animals he took no account of it. Bombers and fighters came and went over his head and he shook his fist at them if they made too much noise, but he never troubled to count them or to wonder how many had failed to come back.

  The extra pair of hands and the whisky won. Dad nodded grudgingly. ‘Reckon you’d come in useful.’

  After the meal was over Winnie was hustled out to show Virgil round the farm. She could never remember so much fuss being made over a visitor. She wondered uneasily how it would all compare with the hundred and sixty acres in Ohio. Everything in America, it seemed, was bigger and better than in England. Not that she cared – except for pride’s sake. In his eyes, she supposed, it would all seem small and old-fashioned, and now that she tried to see things as he might, she noticed the shabbiness and the untidiness as well. The Fordson had left thick tracks of mud all across the yard, the flint wall had tumbled down at one end and the cow byres had been patched up with planks, any old how. She suddenly felt ashamed of the rusty, cast-off machinery and tools lying about in corners, of the broken cart, lopsided on three wheels, of the dung heap covered in flies. Even the farmhouse looked dingy. Its plaster walls were cracked and grimy and fat green cushions of moss grew over the thatched roof. She couldn’t remember when the window frames had last been painted, it was so long ago.

  Rusty, lying by his kennel, muzzle on forepaws, thumped his tail and followed them with his eyes as they passed.

  ‘Got a coupla dogs back home,’ Virgil observed. ‘Different kind, though.’

  ‘He’s a sheepdog. Dad uses him to round up the flock.’ But she blushed as she said it. Rusty was getting too slow and blind to do more than pant after the sheep, who mostly knew their own way without him.

  The sheep and the cows and the two Suffolks were all out in the fields, but Susie was in her sty, snuffling and grunting over some choice morsel. Winnie picked up the long stick she kept by the wall and leaned over to scratch her back.

  Virgil leaned over too. ‘Hi there, Gorgeous! Ain’t never seen a black an’ white pig like you.’

  ‘She’s an Essex Saddleback.’

  ‘That so? I guess the white part’s the saddle. Well, she sure is a fine old lady. Kinda small, though. Reckon ours’re a whole lot bigger’n that.’

  ‘She’s supposed to be that size,’ Winnie said coldly. ‘It’s the breed. She had ten piglets last time.’ And don’t tell me yours have fourteen, she thought to
herself.

  ‘They still around?’

  She shook her head. ‘They all went to market, ’cept one. He’s hangin’ up on a hook. We’re only allowed to kill two pigs a year. Mum cures them for ham.’

  ‘Ma does the same. Better ’n out’ve a can, huh?’

  Winnie was surprised. Somehow she had pictured his mother, all neat and trim in a pretty apron, taking things out of one of those big refrigerators she’d seen in American kitchens in films – not going through the long, messy process of curing a pig.

  ‘I’ve never tried ham out of a tin,’ she said.

  ‘Aint’ like home-cured. Or home-anythin’.’

  ‘Mum boils the trotters,’ she volunteered. ‘They get a kind of jelly over them when they’re cold. Do you have those?’

  He shuddered. ‘Ugh! Won’t touch that kinda stuff. Me, I like real meat. Steaks an’ things.’

  ‘She boils the head, too,’ Winnie went on gleefully, seeing his disgust. ‘Takes out the eyes and the brains first, then boils it down. Then she mashes it all up and lets it go cold. That’s called brawn. It’s a bit like jelly too. Haven’t you ever eaten that?’

  ‘Jeez, no! I’ll bet you eat it with Brussels sprouts. You Limeys . . . you’ll eat anythin’. An’ there’s another thing you call different – like corn. Jelly’s somethin’ you spread on bread to us. You mean jello.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said indignantly. ‘I mean jelly. Stuff that wobbles. It’s jam you spread on bread.’

  ‘Ain’t jam ’less it’s got lots o’ fruit all mixed up in it.’

  ‘Yes it is. It’s jam. You don’t put jelly on bread. It’s our language. We started it. It’s you that’s got it all wrong.’ She turned her back on him, scratching some more at Susie.

  ‘OK,’ he conceded. ‘We’ll call it quits. It’s jelly over here. But in America you’re goin’ to have to call it jello.’

  ‘I shan’t ever be goin’ there, so I won’t have to do any such thing.’

  ‘Sure you will, when the war’s over . . .’

  She was still scratching at the sow’s back, not looking at him. ‘All those things you brought today . . . seemed all wrong to me. Like you felt you had to. Like a bribe, or somethin’. I thought it’d be all right – just for Gran’s sake. For the cigarettes, see, an’ she likes the sweets and gum, too, but I don’t want you to bring any more. It’s not right.’

  ‘Well, I guess you could call it a kind of bribe,’ he said slowly. ‘But then I reckon we’d all’ve got along just fine without that stuff – maybe even your pa, come harvest time. An’ I can’t see anybody bribin’ your gran. She figures things out for herself. Ain’t nobody goin’ to make her do nothin’ she don’t want to. Or think any different. An’ what’s so wrong with us Yanks sharin’ what we’ve got around a bit? Seems to me that’s only fair. So quit fussin’, Winnie, an’ show me that old barn o’ yours.’

  There might be bigger barns in America, she thought, and maybe even better, but there wouldn’t be one older. Virgil stood with his hands on his hips, looking admiringly about him at the ancient stones and up at the massive roof timbers.

  ‘Oh boy! Five hundred years old! That’s a helluva long time . . . a whole lot’ve harvests. Gee, the folks back then – well, they must’ve been walkin’ around wearin’ those old costumes, like you see in the movies about the old days . . . only they was wearin’ them for real. Know what I mean?’

  She did know exactly what he meant because she often thought of that too – wondered if their ghosts watched her as she went about the place, and if their spirits lived on somehow in the old walls.

  He went on staring about him. ‘An’ they’d’ve been seein’ just what I’m seein’ now. Same stones, same timbers . . .’

  Honesty prevailed this time. ‘Well, bits of it ’ve been mended. You can see new wood over there where the windbrace rotted, an’ there’s some of the roof timbers are different, if you look hard.’

  ‘Ain’t nothin’. Reckon most’ve it’s just like it was when some guy put it all together.’ He craned his neck upwards. ‘There’s birds nestin’ high up there.’

  ‘Swallows. They come back here every summer. Don’t know how they find it.’ She tilted her head as well, noticing patches of daylight gleaming among the cobwebs. ‘There’s a few tiles missin’ too. Dad keeps meanin’ to do somethin’ ’bout them.’

  ‘Don’t make no never mind,’ he said. ‘Sure is the darnedest old barn I ever seen.’ He took his gaze off the roof and looked instead at her. ‘An’ you’re the prettiest girl I ever seen. You were cute in that Air Force uniform, but that outfit sure beats everythin’.’

  She went pink in the cheeks. The old blue bib-and-braces dungarees were what she always wore about the farm. So was the checked shirt. And both of them were darned and patched. There he was sweet-talking again, and she didn’t want it.

  ‘An’ don’t say that’s dumb,’ he went on as she opened her mouth, “cos I’m tellin’ you that’s so. That husband o’ yours . . . what was his name?’

  ‘Ken.’

  ‘He killed in the war?’

  ‘No, he was ill. He had asthma and a weak heart.’

  ‘You married long?’

  ‘Bit more than a year.’

  ‘Tough luck on the guy,’ he said. ‘Sure feel sorry for him, losin’ out like that. The other guy your grandma talked about . . . Welsh, she said. Where’s he fit in?’

  She took hold of a broom and swept some straw against the wall. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Sure you do. He your boyfriend now?’

  She found some more straw to sweep up. ‘It’s nothin’ to do with you.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m real curious, see. Your grandma said he was pesky. Now that’s a word we use just the same’s you, I figure. Means a doggone nuisance, back where I come from. That what he is?’

  ‘He’s just someone in the RAF I knew where I was stationed once, that’s all.’

  ‘Still hangin’ around, though?’

  ‘I told you – it’s nothin’ to do with you.’ She propped the broom back against the wall. ‘The cows’ll be comin’ in soon. I ought to go an’ help Jack with the milkin’.’

  ‘Give you a hand, if you like.’

  She looked at him doubtfully, standing there in his smart, smooth, American uniform. ‘Do you know how?’

  ‘Sure I do.’ He was laughing at her expression. ‘I’m just a country boy – remember?’

  They passed the lean-to shed where the tractor was kept and he spotted it through the open doorway.

  ‘Gee, there’s a Fordson . . . mind if I take a peek?’

  Dad didn’t treat her kindly, Winnie thought sadly. The orange paint was scraped and scratched all over and there were some bad dents.

  ‘We’ve got a John Deere,’ Virgil said.

  ‘Bigger an’ better, I suppose.’

  ‘Bigger, sure, but then we ain’t got little fields like yours, so we have to use big ploughs – an’ that means big tractors to pull ’em. Stands to reason.’

  Dad had left the tap switched over to TVO again, she noticed, and he’d probably try to start it like that. She turned it to petrol. No sense saying anything to him; he’d only be grumpy about it, and it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Virgil watched her. ‘You’re real handy with machines, ain’t you, Winnie? It comes natural to you. Still seems funny to me, though, a pretty girl like you messin’ about with engines.’

  She straightened up. ‘I don’t see why. What’s funny about it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Guess I’m just not used to it. Reckon there’s no reason why not . . . Now, if you looked more like a man – same as some women I’ve seen in uniform – wouldn’t seem so strange. But seein’ you’re pretty as you are makes it hard to figure out. I mean our ground crews ’re tough as hell . . . out in all weathers, workin’ all hours.’

  ‘It’s not so hard as on an operational station,’ she said. ‘They don’t let us on those yet . . . at l
east I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of a WAAF mechanic on one.’

  He grinned. ‘Guess they don’t trust you enough.’

  She said hotly: ‘We’re just as good as the men. Some of the RAF say we’re more reliable. More conscientious . . . that’s what a lot of them say.’

  He was still grinning. ‘I like it when you get cross, Winnie. Makes you go all pink and look prettier than ever. I won’t tease you no more . . . ain’t fair. I’m glad you’re good with machines – comes in real handy. Me, I’m pretty good with ’em too. Cars, tractors, all kinds o’ engines ’n things. Take real good care o’ my gun . . . make sure there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to go wrong with it on a mission.’

  He raised both arms and swung an imaginary machine gun from side to side, traversing the top of the Fordson’s engine cover. She stared.

  ‘Have you shot any Jerry fighters down yet?’

  He dropped his arms. ‘Got one the other day. Boy, that was a great feelin’. Got some of our own back for what they’d been doin’ to our guys . . . Jeez, those fighters come at us from all round the clock . . . they sure ain’t beginners. Got lucky with this one an’ blew his wing off an’ down he went. Ain’t easy, though. You’re slippin’ and slidin’ around with all the empty shells droppin’ on the floor, and you keep bumpin’ the guy on the other side . . . tough to get a good aim ’n keep firin’ real steady.’

  ‘How many crew do you have?’

  ‘Ten. Pilot, co-pilot, bombardier, navigator, flight engineer, radio operator, ball turret gunner, two waist gunners ’n a tail gunner.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘Some of those guys man guns too.’

  ‘There’s only seven in a Lanc. What do you need all those for?’

  ‘We’ve got more guns, like I told you before. So we need more guys to fire ’em. Else there ain’t no point havin’ them.’

  ‘The Lanc carries more bombs than you.’

  ‘Sure. Goin’ at night they don’t need all the guns, so they can carry more weight. But we drop our bombs where they’re s’posed to go.’ He shook his head. ‘Aw, shucks . . . come ’n, Winnie, it was meant to be quits, remember? Let’s go find those cows.’