‘London!’ She giggled. ‘I’ve never been to London in my life. I made it myself – out of some old curtains.’
‘Well, it suits you just right.’
‘It’d be eleven points at least if I’d bought it in a shop.’
‘Must be kind of sad for you having clothes rationed.’
‘I suppose you don’t have any rationing in America.’
‘Yes, we do. Since we joined. Sugar, meat . . . and all sorts, and gas – that’s petrol. Everyone has ration books. There’s lots of shortages.’
‘But not as bad as here?’
He shook his head. ‘Guess not.’
‘You Yanks are lucky. You’ve had it easy, haven’t you?’
‘Not any more.’
She thought of what they’d been saying in the lorry and was a bit sorry she’d spoken out like that. There was an interval for refreshments and he brought her something to drink. She wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s this?’
‘Coke. Coca-Cola. Don’t tell me you’ve never drunk that before?’
‘We always have lemonade at the village-hall dances. Or ginger pop. But this is all right.’ She looked round, seeing plenty of glances coming her way from other Yanks. Rick, the one who’d danced with her first, gave her a big grin and spun his hand round, fingers pointed down, raising his eyebrows in question. ‘You don’t mind if I dance with some of the other blokes, Chester, do you?’
‘That’s OK. Go ahead.’
She could tell that he did mind but she thought: he doesn’t own me, does he? I’m not his girl. I’ve got a right to dance with anyone I like. The music was starting up again and she could feel her spine tingling. Her head, her heart and her feet were already dancing.
At midnight, when it was 1944, the trumpets played a big fanfare and the Yanks started whistling and yelling and kissing all the girls. One of them picked her right up off her feet and swung her round and round with her red skirts flying out, before he kissed her too. Chester, when she found him again, didn’t pick her up or kiss her, or do anything like that. ‘Happy New Year, Sally,’ he said, looking down at her.
She looked up at him, smiling. ‘Happy New Year, Chester.’
Then everything suddenly went quiet and the band started to play the American national anthem. All the Yanks had gone serious and solemn and Chester was standing very straight and still beside her. Same as us with God Save the King, Sally thought to herself, only I like our tune better and we’ve got a proper King.
The bloke with the white helmet was waiting by the lorry and he counted them as they climbed in. The music was still playing in her ears and her feet were still tapping away. She’d never had such a wonderful time in her whole life.
She changed back into her skirt and jumper at Doris’s and let herself quietly into the cottage by the bakehouse, tiptoeing up the stairs. Dad was snoring away just as she’d known he’d be. She got into bed and lay wide awake for a while, smiling to herself in the darkness.
Brigadier Mapperton had heard the lorry rumble past his house. The Grange was set well back from the road, behind a high stone wall, but the constant racket from American military vehicles infuriated him. He rolled over in bed to look at the luminous alarm clock. Damned Yanks, driving about in the middle of the night! No consideration for anybody. He considered waking Cicily up to tell her so, and then decided against it. No point, really. She never said much. He turned the pillow over, pummelled it hard and lay back again. So far as he could see, the Americans were worse than useless. Their army was sitting around, doing nothing. Their air force was going on those damfool daylight bombing raids and getting shot out of the skies. God only knew what their navy was up to. They might as well have stayed out of the war, for all the good they were doing. Same story in the Pacific. Look what was happening out there. Island-hopping warfare against the Japs who were running rings round them. An island here, an island there . . . too bloody slow, the whole business. The Jap war could go on for ever at this rate. No chance of POWs out there being released for years.
As always, when he was awake at night, he started thinking about John. If only they knew how he was. Where he was. Whether he was alive or dead, for God’s sake. Given the choice of being in a German prison camp or a Jap one, he knew which he’d take. The Japs weren’t the same at all. Different values. Different code entirely. No respect for life. Sometimes he almost hoped that his son was dead – so that he couldn’t suffer. That was the worst of it, the most terrible part: thinking of how he might be suffering. He’d never mentioned that to Cicily, of course. He knew she was as cut-up as himself even though she’d never said so. Never talked about it. Just buried herself in those damned silly library books of hers. He rolled onto his other side and tugged at the eiderdown. He wished now that he’d been a bit more lenient with John when he was a boy. Not quite so keen on all that discipline. He’d brought him up just the way he’d been brought up himself, of course. His own father had never believed in mollycoddling. Pity, though, that he and John hadn’t been able to talk more – man to man. Only there’d never been that sort of thing between them, any more than there’d been with his father. Not many opportunities for it, either. The boy had always been coming or going – prep school, Oundle, Oxford, then the army. He regretted it now. Regretted it a hell of a lot.
His turn for Civil Defence duty tomorrow night – not that a damned thing had ever happened. Back in 1940 he’d half-wanted the Huns to invade so he’d get the chance of taking the swine on; of teaching them a thing or two, like he’d done in the last show. They’d given him an MC for it, by God. Now all he was good for was footling around with stirrup pumps and sandbags. He’d had it all worked out if it had ever happened. Kept his old service rifle and ammunition at the ready under the bed. Lock Cicily in the cellar, out of the way, that was what he was going to do, and let them have it from the windows. To the last round. Go down fighting. Not much chance of an invasion now, though. Those days were over.
He remembered suddenly that it was New Year’s Eve. They hadn’t stayed up for it. Never did now. There was nothing to celebrate. Just another year of war behind and another one ahead. 1944. No hope that it would be over this year either. Or that John would be coming home.
Cicily was making that bloody noise of hers – not snoring exactly but that little click at the end of every breath that was just as maddening. He gave her a prod and his pillow some more pummelling. Another military lorry was passing, making a devil of a noise changing gear. Damned Yanks! No consideration at all.
Five
Erika Beauchamp was regretting her invitation to the American group commander. The timing had been unfortunate, to say the least, though that was not her fault; she had only discovered later that she had been writing to a dead man. His successor, a Colonel Schrader, who had eventually replied, accepting, was an unknown quantity. Predictably, Miriam had been against the whole thing from the start and that could easily prove a grave embarrassment. Her mother-in-law was quite capable of playing her grande dame act without mercy. Erika had been uncertain who else to ask, with feelings running so high against the Americans, and, in the end, had invited Dr Graham and his wife, both of whom could be relied upon to be friendly, and Miss Skinner who was one of the most fair and level-headed people she knew in the village. The rector, unfortunately, had another commitment that evening. After some more deep thinking, she had invited Brigadier and Mrs Mapperton, but without mentioning the group commander. If she did then the brigadier would certainly refuse but, once under the Manor roof, social obligation would force him to be civil, even to a Yank, and some oil might be poured on the troubled waters. Finally, she had written again to Colonel Schrader, suggesting that he might care to bring another officer with him; it seemed only right that he should have a second in his corner.
The other problem was what to give them all to eat. The cook was firmly under the impression that Americans only ever ate steak, but, steak being out of the question, Erika solved the problem by hardening her
heart and sacrificing three old hens at the end of their egg-laying days. Elijah Kerfoot, who came once a week to do battle with the wilderness that had once been a lovely garden, carried out the deed and Mrs Woods concocted a chicken casserole, padded out with root vegetables, to be served with mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts. They would begin with celery soup and end with Brown Betty, a speciality of Mrs Woods, made from apples and stale breadcrumbs. She hoped the Americans had strong stomachs.
At least she could provide some decent wine. The cellar, laid down by Richard’s father, was still reasonably well-stocked with possibilities. She consulted Miriam, who shrugged unhelpfully.
‘A complete waste, giving good wine to Americans. They won’t know it from vinegar. Don’t touch the Chambertin, for heaven’s sake, or the Médoc. If you must, then I suppose you might as well give them a Beaujolais.’
On the evening of the dinner, she went to say goodnight to Alexander who was in bed reading another of Richard’s old books. He looked up at her.
‘What are you all dressed up for, Mummy?’
‘We’ve got guests to dinner this evening, don’t you remember?’
‘I’d forgotten. Who’s coming?’
‘Brigadier and Mrs Mapperton, Dr and Mrs Graham, Miss Skinner and the American commander in charge of their air-force base here. He’s bringing another officer with him.’
‘Can you ask him for some chocolate? And some chewing gum?’
She smiled. ‘He won’t have any on him this evening.’
‘He’ll have gum. All the Yanks have gum in their pockets. They’re always giving it to us.’
‘It’s a horrible habit – I really ought to forbid it.’
‘They give us chocolate, too, sometimes. Hershey bars. And Baby Ruths – they’re sort of chewy. Life Savers are OK, too.’
‘I hope you don’t bother them, Alex. You mustn’t go around begging from the Americans. I absolutely do forbid that.’
‘We don’t. They just give it.’
‘Well, it’s very generous of them.’ She went over to the window to check on the blackout. ‘Another half an hour and you must switch out the light.’
‘All right.’
‘Promise.’
‘Promise.’
She kissed him goodnight and left him to his book. Downstairs, all was well in the kitchen. Doris, who had stayed on late, was scurrying about at Mrs Woods’s bidding. The chicken casserole was cooking slowly in the bottom oven, the Brown Betty in the top. In the dining room, much to Miriam’s disapproval, the Royal Doulton had been set out, together with the Waterford crystal. Her mother-in-law was sitting in the drawing room in her chair beside the fire. Erika noted that she had put on one of her pre-war evening gowns with several of her best pieces of jewellery: definitely her tenue de grand dame.
‘What is this group commander’s name then, Erika?’
‘Colonel Schrader.’
‘It sounds German to me.’
‘It probably is – or was. I believe a lot of Americans are of German descent.’
‘Most peculiar, when you think about it.’
‘I don’t quite see why.’
‘Fighting a war against their own people.’
‘They’re Americans, Miriam. Who they’re descended from wouldn’t have anything to do with it. They fought against us once, don’t forget.’
‘I’m not likely to. And I must say that I think we were well rid of them. Look what they’ve turned into: a hotch-potch nation made up of all kinds of foreign people. And why Colonel when it’s supposed to be an air force?’
‘It’s the United States Army Air Force. They have army ranks.’
‘Very odd.’
‘Actually, the RAF was part of the British army not so long ago, if you remember that too.’ The pointless bickering went on for several more minutes before the first guests arrived. Doris showed Dr and Mrs Graham into the drawing room and, soon after them, Miss Skinner. Erika had just seen to their drinks when Brigadier and Mrs Mapperton arrived. She gave the brigadier a large measure from a hoarded bottle of Glenlivet. He sniffed at it approvingly.
‘Long time since I’ve had any of this, Lady Beauchamp. Special occasion, or something?’
‘Not really, Brigadier.’
He grunted. ‘Well, good of you to ask us. Not often we go out to dinner these days. Quite a novelty.’
‘Is your daughter well?’
‘Far as I know. They keep her pretty busy in the WRNS but she’ll be home on leave at some point, I dare say.’
She had met Anthea Mapperton once: a brusque and unappealing girl in her early thirties. She had never met the son who had been captured by the Japanese, but the village always spoke very well of him. The brigadier himself never mentioned him; the word was that he had been devastated by the news. Imagining how she would feel if it were Alex, she felt desperately sorry for him and his wife. ‘I’ve seated you at one end of the table, this evening, Brigadier. I do hope you don’t mind acting host for me, as it were. It’s awkward for my mother-in-law and myself – two women on their own.’ She could see that he was rather pleased to have been cast in the role – which was just what she’d intended. Cunningly, she had put him even more under an obligation to be civil.
‘Glad to oblige, Lady Beauchamp.’
As they conversed about the recent cold spell and the shocking shortage of fuel, she kept an ear open for the sound of the front-door knocker.
‘People have been stealing coal from the station goods yard, apparently,’ the brigadier was saying. ‘Don’t know what the country’s coming to when that sort of thing starts happening.’
‘Would you excuse me, I think I heard our other guests arriving.’
Doris had opened the door to two American officers, who were standing in the hall. One of them she recognized as Major Peters whom she had met at the Welcome Party. After a slight hesitation, the other said, ‘Good evening, ma’am. I’m Colonel Schrader. My apologies for being a little late.’
She smiled at him as she shook his hand. ‘I’m Erika Beauchamp. Delighted to meet you, Colonel.’ The new group commander was nothing like the old one. This one was shorter, darker and without the film-star good looks. Much more Humphrey Bogart than Clark Gable. There was a strip of Elastoplast across his right temple and a bruise across his cheekbone.
‘I believe you know Major Peters, our group adjutant.’
She shook hands again. ‘Good evening, Major. So nice to see you.’ She showed them into the drawing room and saw the disgust registering on Brigadier Mapperton’s face, and Mrs Mapperton putting a restraining hand on his arm. The introductions were made all round, beginning with Miriam who received the Americans from her fireside throne in the manner of Queen Elizabeth acknowledging a delegation from some upstart and far-flung land. The brigadier was forced to bark some sort of civil remark. The rest of them, as she had hoped, took great pains to be friendly and Mrs Graham led the conversation at once into the relatively safe realms of the weather. ‘Miserable winter we’ve had so far, Colonel. I hope you’re not finding our climate too trying.’
‘Not at all,’ he replied. ‘Where I come from our winters are far more severe. Over here, our only concern is if the weather affects our ability to fly operationally. That’s what counts.’
‘And has it?’
‘If it’s possible to go, we go,’ he answered obliquely. ‘We’ve got a long way to catch up with what you British have been doing.’
‘You rather look as though you’ve been in the wars yourself, Colonel,’ Dr Graham said.
‘I ran into some trouble on a mission the other day. Needed a couple of stitches, that’s all.’
‘I didn’t realize until we heard the unfortunate news about Colonel McLaren that your station commanding officers actually went on operational sorties.’
‘That’s right, doctor. Same as the rest of the pilots. That’s the way we do it.’
‘You must be a very busy man.’
‘Well, it�
�s a real pleasure for me to take the evening off, and to get the chance to meet some of the people of King’s Thorpe. It’s a privilege for us Americans to be here in this beautiful part of England. I’m only sorry that we’ve had to disturb the peace.’
He was saying all the right things. Miriam was inclining her head graciously and even Brigadier Mapperton was looking a shade less like a ferocious bulldog.
‘You can’t help that, Colonel Schrader,’ Mrs Graham said. ‘You’ve got a job to do. Whenever one of your planes goes over I say to myself: that’s the sound of freedom.’
Miss Skinner, unfamiliar in black silk instead of her tweeds, was talking to Major Peters and, by the look of it, that conversation was going equally well. After a while she came over. ‘Colonel Schrader, I’ve been asking Major Peters if somebody from your Group could come to the village school and give our children an informal talk. Tell us about yourselves and about your country. They’ve been taught something about the history and geography of the United States, of course, but I’m sure that there are a lot of questions they’d like to ask that have nothing to do with textbooks.’
‘That’s a good idea, Miss Skinner. We’ll fix it for you right away.’
She eyed him shrewdly. ‘Thank you, Colonel. It’s high time we all understood each other better, don’t you agree?’
‘I certainly do. And I’d like to hear about anything my men do or say that the people of King’s Thorpe don’t appreciate.’
Miss Skinner turned to Brigadier Mapperton. ‘Did you hear that, Brigadier? Now’s your opportunity to speak your mind.’
‘Huh. Well, your confounded lorries, for a start . . . the way they go racketing through the village. Damned dangerous for the children and old people, never mind the noise they make and all the mud they leave.’
I’m sorry to hear that, Brigadier. I’ll see something’s done about it. We’ll take a look at whether we can route the trucks round the village instead.’
‘While you’re about it, you might remind your chaps that we drive on the left-hand side of the road here. And stop them hanging about on street corners, making a confounded nuisance of themselves.’
Our Yanks Page 11