When they came out of the cinema they found they’d just missed the bus back and had an hour to wait for the next.
‘Let’s go to a pub, girls,’ Hal suggested.
‘Sally’s not allowed in pubs,’ Doris said. ‘Are you, Sal? Her dad won’t let her.’
‘He’s not here, is he?’ She glared at Doris. ‘And I’m not waiting in the cold.’
The pub was beery and smoky and full of Service men – RAF and army and lots of Yanks. Doris asked for a lemonade. ‘I’ll have a port and lemon, if they’ve got it,’ Sally said. She’d never drunk such a thing but it was Mum’s favourite. She kicked Doris on the shin as she opened her mouth. When Chester and Hal had gone off to get the drinks, she hissed at her. ‘Don’t you dare say a word.’
‘But they’re not supposed to serve you anything like that until you’re eighteen, Sal. It’s against the law. You’re under age.’
‘And who’s going to know that? I told you, Chester thinks I’m eighteen. So you just shut up.’
Doris looked offended. ‘Anyway, I thought he was supposed to be sweet on you. He doesn’t act like he is.’
The port and lemon tasted horrible but she pretended it was lovely, and when Chester gave her another cigarette she managed it better. Hal was talking away to Doris and Doris’s face was all flushed and her eyes shining; she didn’t look nearly so plain as usual.
‘We’re having a dance in the Aeroclub Wednesday next,’ Chester said. ‘Think you could come?’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘I’ve been learning some new steps. One of the Red Cross girls has been teaching me.’
‘Has she?’
‘Yeah. There’s a couple of them on the base now. American girls. They run the Club and they’ve been teaching some of us guys. They’re pretty good.’
‘Then you’ll be able to dance with them, won’t you?’ Sally puffed at her cigarette and blew the smoke up in the air, just like Bette Davis. Then she took another gulp of the port and lemon. A Yank standing over by the bar gave her a wave and she saw it was one of the ones she’d danced with at the hangar dance. She smiled and waved back and he came over with three more of them. After that she didn’t take any notice of Chester.
In the bus going back to King’s Thorpe, Doris and Hal sat together in the dark at the back and she plonked herself down next to some old woman so Chester couldn’t sit beside her. When they got to the village, Hal said he’d see Doris home.
‘Don’t bother,’ she said to Chester when he started walking along beside her. ‘I can see myself back, thanks very much.’ But he carried on, shining his torch ahead on the pavement. ‘How about that dance? Like to come?’
‘You’ve got your Red Cross girls to dance with. Doesn’t seem you’d care if I came or not.’
‘I care a heck of a lot.’
‘Well, you don’t act like it.’
He stopped walking. ‘You mean because I’m not all over you, straight off, like some of the other guys? Like Hal with Doris? That’s not my way, Sally. I reckon it takes time. You need time to figure out what you really think about me. You don’t know yet, do you? All the while you’re still looking round at other guys, talking with them, dancing with them, to see if maybe you’d like them better.’
‘Well, how about you with your Red Cross girls?’
‘You’ve got that all wrong.’ He sounded angry. ‘They’re like sisters. And I sure as hell don’t think about you like a sister.’
She tossed her head. ‘Oh really? Seems to me you do.’
‘Want me to prove it? OK.’ He switched out the torch and the next thing she knew he’d pulled her to him and started kissing her. Nobody had ever kissed her like that before – only village boys who didn’t know what they were doing, fumbling and slobbering. Chester knew how to do it properly. She put her arms up round his neck, like she’d seen in the films, and kissed him back. When he let her go, she could hear him breathing fast as if he’d been running. He switched on the torch again. ‘Guess I’d better get you home.’
Sam Barnet had fallen fast asleep in his armchair but he woke up the minute he heard his daughter come in. He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and looked at it. ‘Where’ve you been, Sally?’
‘The pictures. Like I said.’
He tapped the watch face. ‘Half past eleven! You ought to have been back an hour ago or more.’
‘We missed the bus.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Doris and me. Who else?’
He lurched to his feet. ‘Have you been smoking?’
‘Course I haven’t.’
‘That’s not drink I can smell, is it?’
‘Don’t be silly, Dad.’
She looked flushed and sounded out of breath. ‘Somebody been chasing you?’
‘I ran the last bit, that’s all. I was cold.’
She slipped past him like an eel and fled up the stairs. He called after her.
‘You’d better not have been with any of those Americans.’
He heard her bedroom door slam shut and trudged slowly up after her. Freda was in bed, the eiderdown pulled up so he could only see her hair, all rolled up in curlers. ‘Sal back, Sam?’
‘Yes. Half past eleven it is. She should have been home an hour or more ago. Says she and Doris missed the bus, but I didn’t believe her. I’d like to know what she’s been up to.’
‘Waiting in the cold for the next one, I should think. You were silly to stay up for her, Sam. You need your sleep.’
‘I could smell cigarette smoke on her.’
‘It gets on you in the cinema, with everybody smoking.’
‘I thought I could smell drink, too.’
The eiderdown heaved as she sat up. ‘Now, Sam, you’re getting yourself in a state about nothing.’
‘If she’s been in a pub . . .’
‘I’m sure she hasn’t. And even if she had, it’s legal, so long as she’s over fourteen.’
‘It’s not legal to drink before you’re eighteen, though. I’m not having a daughter of ours arrested and bringing disgrace on our name.’
‘It’s the landlord’d be arrested if that happened.’
‘It’d be all over the Mercury. We couldn’t hold our heads up.’
‘Honestly, Sam, all you ever think about is your name.’
‘Well it’s important,’ he said. ‘It is to me, anyway. Once you lose your good name, you can’t ever get it back. I’ve a business to run in the village. A reputation to keep up. Barnets have been bakers here for four generations. I’ve got Roger to think of and him taking over.’ He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. His back was aching like fury and he felt tired to death. In another four hours he’d have to get up again and start work, never mind the tiredness or the pain. He bent down to untie his bootlaces. ‘I think she’s been with some American, that’s what I think. They come into the bakehouse and talk to her.’
‘Of course they do. Our Sal’s a pretty girl. Of course they talk to her and flirt with her.’
‘I’ve seen her flirting back.’
‘That’s only natural at her age. They’re good-looking boys.’
‘They’ve no morals, Freda. Look at what’s going on in the village. That Mrs Fitt, with her husband away in the Forces, carrying on with one of them, brazen as anything, and she’s not the only one, not by a long chalk.’
‘You can’t blame the Yanks for that. If it’s offered they’re going to take it, aren’t they?’
Sometimes Freda shocked him. ‘Well, I think it’s disgusting behaviour.’
‘It’s nature’s way, that’s what it is. When people fancy each other, it happens. Don’t you remember how it was with us, Sam? Have you forgotten that time in the hayfield, that summer?’
He reddened, remembering it. He’d courted Freda in the proper way for over a year. Calling to see her regularly and sitting for hours in the hovel of a place she’d lived in, with the five brothers and sisters hanging round and sniggering. He�
�d asked permission of her drunken old father to address her before he’d bought the ring in Stamford and gone down on one knee to propose. Everything done as it should be. All right and proper.
‘We were engaged, Freda.’
‘Weren’t married, though, were we?’ She smiled at him and wagged a forefinger playfully. ‘Jumped the gun, didn’t we?’ For a second, in spite of the curlers and the years in between, he saw the girl she’d once been with the long, nut-brown hair. ‘Now Sam, stop fretting and fussing so. Sally works hard for you. She’s a good girl and she does well, so don’t be too strict with her. It’s only fair to let her have a bit of fun. The Yanks are here and there’s nothing you can do about it. Besides, you’ve been making money out of them, haven’t you? You can’t grumble. Not when they’re spending so much in the bakehouse and with all the orders you’re delivering up there.’
It was true enough. He’d got a regular twice-weekly order and the Officers’ Mess were always asking for special cakes. Tuesdays and Fridays he took the horse and van up to the American base to deliver it. It had gone against the grain with him but in his book you didn’t turn down honest work, not if you could help it. He placed his boots neatly together by the bed and slid his braces down over his shoulders. ‘Business is business. That’s a different thing from what I’m talking about, Freda.’
She yawned and lay down, tugging at the eiderdown. ‘Come to bed, Sam, and get some rest before you have to be up again.’
He undressed and clambered in beside her. She was asleep almost at once but he lay awake for a while, thinking of that hayfield and that summer long ago.
‘I’ve brought your plate back, ma’am.’
Corporal Bilsky was standing on the doorstep, holding a brown paper package out to her. Miss Cutteridge, who had never expected to see him or the plate again, was taken completely by surprise. ‘Good gracious me. Bless my soul!’
There was a bitter wind blowing down the street and she felt obliged to invite him inside and then into the sitting room, as the hallway was so narrow. He waited, cap in hand, while she undid the brown paper. The Crown Derby plate had been beautifully mended. So well that she couldn’t see the joins.
‘However did you manage this, Corporal?’
‘Well, I can fix most things pretty good. Are you satisfied, ma’am?’
‘Of course I am. It’s wonderful – the breaks are quite invisible. Thank you, Corporal.’
‘I’m real sorry it got broke.’ He felt in his left pocket and then his right. ‘These are for you, ma’am.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Oh, my goodness . . .’ He was holding out a bar of chocolate and a tin of spam. She stared at them in dismay. ‘Oh, dear.’
He looked deflated. ‘I guess you don’t like them. Tried to get some ham but there weren’t none this time.’
‘No, no . . . it isn’t that. But I really can’t accept them, Corporal. I hardly know you. It wouldn’t be correct, you understand.’
It was obvious that he didn’t understand at all. Perhaps they had different rules in America? Different customs?
‘Gee, we’re givin’ this stuff away all the time, ma’am. Just tryin’ to help you folks, seein’ as you’re so short of things. I’d be obliged if you’d take it.’
How could she refuse when he put it like that? It would be most ungracious. And the spam would be very nice. It was on points and not always available and it made delicious fritters. As for the chocolate, well, she’d always had rather a sweet tooth.
‘It’s very kind of you, Corporal. Thank you so much.’ She accepted the tin and the chocolate bar and put them on the table.
‘My pleasure, ma’am. Anythin’ else I can do for you, while I’m here? Like I said, I’m pretty handy at fixin’ things.’
Miss Cutteridge hesitated. She could think of several things that needed repairing and it was almost impossible to get anybody in. ‘Well, if it’s not too much trouble, one of the handles on a kitchen cupboard has broken.’ She showed him the faulty handle that she had tried hard to mend without success, and fetched the tin box where she kept a few tools. He put it right in a matter of minutes.
‘Anythin’ else, ma’am?’
‘Well, this drawer has stuck. I don’t know why.’ Her string and brown paper drawer had jammed halfway. He crouched down to take a look and whistled. ‘My, you’ve sure got a whole lot in there, ma’am.’
‘I save it, you see. Every bit. String is very scarce and so is paper. Almost everything is. We have to save every single thing we can.’
He rocked the drawer carefully. ‘Uh-huh. Looks like there might be somethin’ gone and got itself caught up some way.’ He pulled some of the string and paper out of the drawer, reached inside with his arm and felt around. ‘Yep, that’s your trouble, ma’am.’
The drawer was soon freed and, after that, he mended a dripping tap, the part-blocked sink waste pipe, and a collapsing shelf. Ginger appeared and wound himself lovingly round the corporal’s ankles. So unlike him, Miss Cutteridge thought.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Corporal?’
He grinned at her wryly. ‘Better not. Wouldn’t trust myself with the cup. Anythin’ else need fixin’?’
‘No, really. Thank you.’
‘Well, I’ll come by another time, case you think of somethin’. Or somethin’ else gets broke.’
‘Thank you so much for the chocolate and the spam.’
‘Weren’t nothin’. I’ll see what else I can bring.’
When he’d gone she put the spam away in the back of her store cupboard, together with her other special treasures: the Tate & Lyle’s golden syrup, the gas-proof Mazawattee tea, the Prince’s salmon, the Nestlé’s condensed milk, and the Oxford marmalade. She picked up the chocolate bar, examining it more closely. Hershey’s Milk Chocolate, it said, in silver letters on a brown background. 5c. The c would stand for cents. They had dollars and cents – not pounds, shillings and pence – which must be so much simpler. She unpeeled the wrapping, just to see what American chocolate looked like. It seemed very like Fry’s or Cadbury’s, but of course she wouldn’t know that until she had tasted it. Miss Cutteridge nibbled cautiously at one corner of the bar. It tasted delicious.
Lieutenant Mochetti shone his torch on the jeep. ‘I’ll give you a hand getting in.’ There was no running board and no step of any kind. He put his arm under Agnes’s elbow as she climbed up awkwardly into the passenger seat. There were no doors either; instead he clipped a webbing strap across. ‘Sorry, it’s going to be kind of draughty.’ He shone the torch again. ‘There’s a grab handle just here on the outside if you need it, but don’t worry, I’ll take it real easy in the dark.’
He swung himself in on the driver’s side, as though there was nothing to it. They drove out of the village, under the railway bridge and up the hill in the direction of the aerodrome. She soon discovered how right he’d been about the draughts.
‘We’re going to a place called the Haycock. Know it?’
‘Yes, I know it.’ She knew the Haycock because Clive had taken her there often and it had been there that he’d proposed to her on one of his leaves. Well, not exactly proposed. He’d produced the ring at the end of the dinner, picked up her left hand and slid it straight onto her fourth finger. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer, Agnes.’ It hadn’t come as any surprise. She had always supposed that she and Clive would get married one day and it meant that she would never have to worry about Father.
The American pilot changed gear. ‘Been there to the bar a couple of times. One of the guys said the food’s OK. He’d better be right.’ He changed gear again at the top of the hill. ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said. ‘I’m not Lieutenant, whichever way you pronounce it. My name’s Ed. And in case you’re wondering, that’s short for Edoardo. The Italian version of Edward. But nobody calls me that, except my family. You speak any Italian?’
She shook her head. ‘Just French.’
&
nbsp; ‘I know some French, but not too much. Italian’s real easy to learn. Seems so to me, anyway. A darn sight easier than English, I reckon. I can switch, no problem. Makes no difference to me which one I’m talking. And that can come in handy. There’s a whole lot of Italians in New York and everywhere in the States. And a whole lot of other immigrants from all over, speaking all kinds of languages. Of course, when you get a generation or two down the line, some kids don’t learn their own lingo and that’s a pity. My family, they made sure I did.’ He slowed to avoid a rabbit caught, frozen in fright, in the jeep’s masked headlights. It skittered on across the road and vanished. They roared on. ‘I forgot to mention back there that you’re not Miss Dawe. You’re Agnes. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ In the dark, she could tell that he was smiling. ‘You lived round here long, Agnes?’
‘About fifteen years. We lived in Norfolk before that.’
‘I know where Norfolk is all right. Always a country girl, huh? I guess you’d have a real problem picturing a place like New York. I’m sure looking forward to seeing it again myself, when I get to the end of my tour. If I make it.’
‘How long is a tour?’
‘Three hundred hours combat mission time.’
According to the King’s Thorpe grapevine, the Americans had been losing a lot of fighter pilots. The village always got to know about it . . . who hadn’t come back; what had happened to them; all the gory details. She said, ‘That sounds an awful lot.’
‘Yeah . . . it can go real slowly on some missions. Boy, is it cold, sitting up there for four or five hours with no heat. Flying icewagons, we call the P-38s. You get so you’re so damn cold you don’t care about anything else. We’ve had some bad problems over here. Too cold and too wet for them. Engines quitting on us all the time. But we’re getting different kites. Brand new ones that can go a whole lot further. That’s good news for our bomber guys and real bad news for Hitler and Goering. The good news for us fighter pilots is they’ve got heating.’
Our Yanks Page 15