Miss Skinner said briskly, ‘Come now, Brigadier, we must be fair. There’s nowhere really for them to go – except the pubs and only when they’re open.’
‘Damned nuisance there, too. Rows and fights all the time. Look at that one at the Black Bull.’
‘I heard that was because Fred had been overcharging the Americans disgracefully for months and they finally found out about it. I can’t say I blame them for being rather annoyed. It’s been happening in other pubs, too.’
The brigadier grunted. ‘Huh. Didn’t know about that. Can’t have that happening, of course. I’ll have a word with Harry. Get him to put a stop to it.’
‘Our village bobby,’ Miss Skinner explained to the group commander. ‘Between us, we might manage to make some progress in improving Anglo-American relations, Colonel.’
He smiled at the schoolteacher. ‘I sure hope so, ma’am. And I’d appreciate it if I could be kept informed of any other complaints you people have.’
Miss Skinner looked amused. ‘Brigadier Mapperton will be more than glad to do that. Won’t you, Brigadier?’
The dinner passed off without any incidents. The brigadier, seated at the opposite end of the table to Erika, had Miss Skinner on his left to keep him under control and Mrs Graham on his right, acting as a buffer between him and Major Peters. Erika realized, though, that the silver-haired group adjutant, with his smoothly deferential manner, was capable of handling several Brigadier Mappertons. She had placed the group commander on her right with her mother-in-law on his other side and he, too, seemed to have no trouble in dealing with Miriam’s occasional barbs. ‘Yes, my grandparents came from Germany,’ she heard him saying, in answer to the pointed question. ‘I don’t have any problem with that, Lady Beauchamp. We’re fighting a regime.’ He had even pronounced Beauchamp correctly.
The celery soup was rather watery and tasteless but the hens’ sacrifice had not been in vain and the Brown Betty pudding was quite eatable. The wine was excellent and she was tickled to hear Colonel Schrader remarking on it appreciatively to her mother-in-law.
Towards the end of the dinner, he said to her, ‘I want to thank you for inviting Major Peters and myself here tonight. It’s given us a chance to try and smooth things over a little.’
‘I think you may have drawn Brigadier Mapperton’s fangs – and that’s not easy.’
He smiled. ‘I meant what I said. We need to know of any complaints so we have a chance to do something about them.’
He was probably only somewhere in his early thirties, she thought – not much more than her own age. It seemed terribly young to be in charge of all those men; to have all that huge responsibility. And to have to fly in combat as well.
‘You must have much more important things to think about than local grumbles, Colonel.’
‘We need to get along, Lady Beauchamp. We figure that’s important if we’re going to do a good job fighting this war together.’
‘Miss Skinner pointed out earlier that your men have nowhere to go in the village – except the pubs. The WVS are opening a canteen in the old Methodist chapel—’
‘WVS?’
‘Women’s Voluntary Service. It’s made up of women like myself who are not in the Services or doing war work in factories. We try to do our bit in all sorts of other practical ways. Actually, we come round your base with a mobile canteen.’
‘Yes, I know about that.’
‘This canteen we’re opening in the village is for all Service people – whatever nationality or branch. We’ll be open every evening and Sunday afternoons, serving snacks – tea and coffee, sandwiches, buns, cakes, that sort of thing. It’ll be somewhere for the men to sit out of the weather. Not very exciting but if your men would like to use it, they’d be very welcome.’
‘They’d appreciate that. I’ll see that word gets around. This is a beautiful house you have here, ma’am.’
‘I don’t actually have it. It belonged to my husband, Richard, but he was killed in France in 1940 so it’s passed to our son, Alexander. Or will do, when he’s grown-up.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Upstairs in bed – asleep, I hope. He’s only seven.’
‘I have a daughter exactly the same age.’
‘And where’s she?’
‘Back home in St Louis, Missouri. With my wife, Jan. I haven’t seen them in months. By the time I get back, I guess Kathy won’t even know me.’ His eyes were an unusual steel grey, she noticed. German eyes? Miriam’s hotch-potch nation. She was a hotch-potch herself with looks that were far more Hungarian than English. Another thing that Miriam had held against her until Alex had been born in the unmistakable image of Richard. The American went on, ‘There’s something else you could help me with, Lady Beauchamp. If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Fire away.’
‘We’re planning to invite people from King’s Thorpe to a kind of get-together party at the Officers’ Club. We can’t ask everybody – there’s just not the room. Would you be able to let Major Peters have a list of all those you think would feel they ought to be on it – if you understand me?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I understand you. I haven’t lived in the village very long myself, so I’m not the one to advise you, Colonel, but I know just who could. My mother-in-law will know exactly who you should ask.’
When the guests had left, she told Miriam about Colonel Schrader’s request.
‘I suppose he wants to include all the jumped-up tradespeople who will take offence if they’re left out.’
‘He wants to smooth feathers, not ruffle them more – that’s all.’
‘Everybody’s somebody in the United States, so I understand. Anything goes. Did you notice the extraordinary way they ate? Cutting everything up with the knife and then eating with the fork upside down, like a shovel?’
‘That’s the way Americans eat. I thought their manners were impeccable.’
A shrug. ‘They weren’t as bad as I’d feared, I grant you that, but then I don’t suppose they’re typical.’
‘Will you do that list?’
Another shrug. ‘I’ll see.’
But Erika knew that she would and that, secretly, Miriam was delighted to have been asked.
‘How do you reckon we made out, Major? Think we charmed them enough?’
‘I think it went pretty well, sir.’
Schrader leant back against the seat. He wasn’t sure that he cared. All he wanted to do was roll into bed and get some sleep. Eight solid, unbroken hours of sleep. He knew there wasn’t a chance of it. The evening had been a goddam effort and probably a wasted one. Sure, some of the inhabitants were willing to be friendly, but the rest probably hated Yanks – period. Nothing would change them. His driver swung the car round under the railroad bridge and then turned off to go up the hill towards the base. ‘And what a house! You don’t get to be in a beautiful old place like that too often. I was frozen to death, but what the hell.’
‘I guess they’re well used to the cold.’
‘Must be. Old Lady B sure was a battleaxe. Glad you warned me about her. She took some charming.’
‘I thought you might find her a bit tricky. The brigadier too.’
‘He’s real unhappy with us. I figure we’ll be getting more complaints than ever now that I’ve opened the floodgates.’
‘As a matter of fact, I thought that was kind of smart of you, sir.’
‘Think I drew his fangs? That’s what the young one said. She was no battleaxe, Major.’
‘I told you she was very pleasant, sir.’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled faintly. ‘You sure got that one right.’
The flowers arrived the next day: a large bouquet of red and white mophead chrysanthemums. Pinned to them was a note of thanks from Colonel Schrader. Where on earth, in the middle of Northamptonshire, in January, in a wartime England of unheated greenhouses, had he managed to get them? Even Miriam’s acid tongue was silenced. With the flowers came a box of Whitman’s Sampler American
chocolates for Miriam and another box addressed to Sir Alexander Beauchamp. Inside it, Hershey chocolate bars, Baby Ruth candy and some things called Life Savers.
‘Hallo, stranger.’
She said it casually as he came into the bakehouse: sort of tossed the remark over her shoulder while she moved some loaves around on the tray, though they didn’t need it. Well, he hadn’t been near the place for three weeks, not since the New Year’s Eve dance, so what was she to make of that after him coming in almost every other day?
‘Hi,’ Chester said. ‘How are you, Sally?’
‘Not so bad. Haven’t seen you in a long while.’
‘They’ve kept us pretty busy up at the base. Working all hours.’
‘We’ve heard the planes. A real din you’ve been making. We could hardly hear ourselves speak.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Not your fault.’ She turned round from restacking the loaves. ‘Dad and Mum have had an invitation from your colonel. He and your officers are giving a big party.’
‘They going?’
‘Dad’s not. Not likely. He makes out he’ll be too busy with the baking. Mum’s going, though. Nothing’s going to stop her, she says. She doesn’t want to miss the food.’
‘Didn’t they invite you?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s mostly just the old people. Really boring. Do you want anything, then?’
‘I’ll take six of the rock cakes, please.’ He took a brown paper bag out of his pocket and handed it to her. ‘I kept this.’
‘You’re learning.’ She picked out the cakes for him. The nicest-looking ones with the most currants.
‘Hear you went out with Rick Domingos,’ he said.
So that was it. That was what’d been the matter. She’d put his nose right out of joint. ‘He took me to the pictures in Peterborough. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘No. Just wondered if you’d like to go with me sometime?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That yes, or no?’
She hesitated. It’d been fun going out with Rick and she liked flirting with all the other Yanks who tried it on. But it was Chester she’d been waiting for to come in again. Every time the bakehouse doorbell’d gone jingle jangle she’d looked up, hoping he’d be standing there. But now that he was, she didn’t want him to know about it. Stay fancy free: that was her motto, wasn’t it? Not just one bloke. That was stupid. But that was what Chester would want, wouldn’t he? She could tell he wasn’t the sort to play around. He was watching her in that way of his, with his lovely blue eyes, waiting for her to answer him. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘If you like. Only I’ll have to tell Dad I’m going with a girlfriend. That’s what I did with Rick.’
‘I’ll tell him straight out. Ask his permission.’
‘Don’t be daft. He’d just say no. Give you a flea in your ear. We’ll have to meet somewhere. Say at the bus stop in the village by the Black Bull.’
‘I’d sooner there weren’t lies told,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Well, if it worries you so much, I could ask my friend, Doris, to come too, then it’d be the truth, wouldn’t it? Have you got another Yank for her?’
‘Much better to tell your dad.’
‘Then I won’t be coming.’
He gave up. ‘All right. I’ll bring someone. How about this Saturday?’
‘OK. We could catch the five o’clock bus in.’ The sheep bell jangled loudly as another customer stepped down inside. She passed him the bag of rock cakes. ‘That’ll be threepence, please, sir.’ As she handed him his change, she gave him a wink.
Miss Cutteridge was putting the finishing touches to the tea trolley. The jam sandwiches, cut into triangles with the crusts off, were arranged neatly on a white doily. She had been saving the jar of strawberry jam in her store cupboard for many months and this had seemed the moment to bring it out. The sponge cake, made with her precious egg, was on another plate. It hadn’t risen quite evenly, but she had found a paper frill to put round so that the dip to one side didn’t show and she had sprinkled a little sugar over the top. She checked everything again: three cups and saucers, three small plates, three cake forks, three teaspoons, the mother-of-pearl-handled cake knife, jug of milk, sugar basin containing her entire week’s ration and the filigree sugar spoon, not forgetting the little basin for the slops. The teapot, ready warmed, was waiting on the side, the kettle simmering on the stove. The Crown Derby tea service, the cake knife, the spoons and the forks had belonged to her late mother and so had the mahogany trolley and the matching lace-edged linen tray cloths. She had clear memories of them all in use, her mother presiding, since her childhood. The napkins! She had forgotten all about them. She hurried to the tallboy where they were kept and took out three, which she folded into neat triangles and placed beside the plates on the lower shelf of the trolley. She consulted her wristwatch. Five minutes to four o’clock. Time to glance in the looking glass over the mantelpiece – just to make sure she was tidy. Then she sat down and waited.
At twenty minutes past four she was still waiting. The sandwiches were beginning to curl at the edges and she had had to turn off the kettle before it simmered dry. It was not until half past that there was a loud knock at the door that made her jump. She went to open it. The young American standing outside in the pouring rain lifted his wet cap to her.
‘Afternoon, ma’am. Are you Miss Cutteridge?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘The name’s Corporal Bilsky, ma’am. I’ve been sent to have afternoon tea with you.’
‘Sent?’
‘Yes, ma’am. They told two of us to come here. Only Gus, the other one, went sick, so he couldn’t make it. An’ then I couldn’t find where you lived. They told me up at the base it was Lilac Cottage in West Street, but I couldn’t see that nowhere at first. I’ve been goin’ up and down, and lookin’ all over, till I saw that little sign you’ve got up over the door. I’m real sorry to be late.’
‘Please come in.’ She retreated as he stepped forward, taking off his cap. ‘Would you wipe your feet.’ He was wearing some kind of raincoat on top of his uniform and when he hung it on the stand it dripped water all over the lino in the hall. Not a pilot or even an officer. Only a corporal. And only one of them, after all the trouble she’d gone to.
‘Do sit down, Corporal.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Ginger, curled up in the best chair, opened his eyes and glared. ‘Nice cat you’ve got there. What sort would that be?’
‘Oh, only an ordinary moggy.’ Feeling flustered, she jabbed wildly at the fire she’d lit earlier, which was now almost out. ‘Excuse me, I’ll just bring the tea in.’
She went into the kitchen and put the kettle back on. It seemed a long time before it came to the boil again and she could rewarm the pot and make the tea. Meanwhile there was silence from the sitting room and she wondered uneasily what he was doing. She measured out the Lyons Green Label. One spoon each and none for the pot. That’s what Lord Woolton had said on Kitchen Front on the wireless and she chanted it to herself every time, from habit. The tea was much weaker, of course, but it went further. Little jingles were rather helpful. Those who have the will to win, cook potatoes in their skin. Far more nutritious, of course. She poured in the boiling water, set the teapot on its stand on the trolley and put the cosy over it. When she wheeled the trolley into the sitting room the American was crouching down on his haunches to stroke Ginger. The surprising thing was that Ginger was permitting it. Most unusual. He stood up.
‘Can I gave you a hand with that, ma’am?’
‘No . . . thank you. I can manage. Please sit down.’ She sat down in her chair behind the trolley. His shoes had left mud on her carpet, she noticed. ‘How do you take your tea, Corporal?’ She had already forgotten his surname – another peculiar American one. ‘With milk?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘Sugar?’
‘Sure.’
He had sat down on the very ed
ge of an armchair and she passed him the tea. He balanced the cup and saucer on his knees while he ladled in the sugar. Three heaped spoonfuls, she noted, with dismay. ‘Would you care for a jam sandwich?’
She handed him a plate and offered the triangles. He set the plate and the sandwich precariously on one arm of his chair. ‘A napkin, Corporal?’
‘Oh, thanks.’
She watched him wondering what to do with it; in the end he laid it over the other chair arm. He was a nice-looking young man really. Wiry in build, of medium height and not what she’d call handsome, but the uniform was always a great help. She could see that he was as ill at ease as she felt herself. Conversation was going to be quite a challenge.
‘Have you been here long, Corporal?’
‘Four months, ma’am.’ Half the sandwich triangle had vanished at one go.
‘You must be getting quite used to us.’
‘Don’t know about that,’ he said through the other half. ‘It’s a whole lot different from back home.’
‘And where is home?’
‘Place called Henryetta in Oklahoma.’
‘Really? Where is that exactly?’
‘About seventy miles due east of Oklahoma City.’
‘I see,’ said Miss Cutteridge, who didn’t. She really must get out her old atlas sometime. Her knowledge of world geography was disgracefully limited. ‘Another sandwich, Corporal?’ He demolished three more while she nibbled at hers. Well, at least they weren’t going to waste, she thought. ‘I expect you find it all rather uncomfortable . . . after America. The rationing and shortages here.’
He shook his head. ‘This ain’t nothin’. Not to me. It was a darn sight worse when I was a kid, back in the Thirties. The Depression hit us real hard out in Oklahoma. An’ we had this big drought an’ dust storms blew away all the soil. No crops, no food, no work. People starvin’. We had a smallholdin’ then and Dad went out shootin’ jack rabbits for us to eat. Me and my brothers didn’t wear no shoes in them days.’ He shook his head again. ‘I know all ’bout things bein’ tough.’
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