Our Yanks

by Margaret Mayhew

  She fetched the fork and rake from the toolshed and made a start on clearing the patch. After an hour her back and her hands were aching and she had only managed to clear and dig a very small area. She wiped her forehead and leaned on the fork handle, head bowed, afraid that the task was going to be beyond her strength, and yet unwilling to give up.

  ‘Hey there, ma’am. You OK?’

  Startled, she turned her head to see Corporal Bilsky standing on the path. Miss Cutteridge straightened up quickly. ‘I’m quite all right, thank you.’ She went pink with embarrassment. He had caught her at a great disadvantage: all dishevelled and perspiring, wearing her oldest skirt and the jumper with the hole in the elbow and with a ladder in her lisle stocking.

  ‘Couldn’t get no answer at the door, so I came round the side gate,’ he said. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’ He stared at the plot. ‘Gee, that looks like a lot of hard work. Here, let me give you a hand.’

  He took off his uniform jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and removed the fork from her grasp. ‘Want me to do the whole patch?’

  She hesitated for a moment, but the temptation to take advantage of the offer was overwhelming. ‘If it’s really not too much trouble.’

  He grinned. ‘No trouble at all. You goin’ to grow things here?’

  ‘Vegetables, I hope.’

  He lifted the fork. ‘Well, you go indoors an’ take a bit of a rest, ma’am. A lady like you shouldn’t be doin’ this sort of work.’

  Miss Cutteridge retreated and watched discreetly from the kitchen window. He was digging away deep and fast and making it look so easy, but then he was a strong young man and she was a feeble old woman. She went upstairs to comb her hair and change her jumper and her laddered stocking and then came down again and sank into her armchair, feeling quite worn out. She wondered how much she should pay him – another awkwardness. The Americans were paid very well, she’d heard – overpaid, some people said – and she had no idea what to offer. If she asked him he might say a sum that she simply couldn’t afford. She sat wondering and worrying about it. After a while, when she had recovered her strength, she went to look out of the kitchen window again and averted her gaze hurriedly when she saw that the corporal had taken off his tie, shirt and vest and was working bare-chested. Her former gardener had never taken off so much as his hat, except to raise it to her, but then Americans were so much less formal and, of course, he must be feeling quite warm from all the digging. He was probably thirsty, too. She searched anxiously in cupboards and found a bottle of Robinson’s barley water with just enough left in the bottom to make one glassful. It was out of the question to take it out to him, given his state of undress, but she mixed it up ready in the glass and went and sat down again and picked up her knitting to keep herself calm and usefully occupied while she waited.

  Another hour and a half passed before there was a knock on the back door and she hurried to open it. To her relief his shirt and tie were back on again, both neatly tucked in. He carried his uniform tunic over his arm.

  ‘All done, ma’am. I’ve dug it over and raked it real good, an’ I put all the weeds ‘n’ stuff on that trash heap at the end of the garden.’

  He looked dreadfully hot. ‘Thank you so much, Corporal. I’m very grateful to you. Will you have a glass of barley water?’

  ‘Long as it’s not in a teacup . . . thank you, ma’am. I’m real thirsty.’

  She watched as he gulped the barley water down in one go. The poor boy must have been absolutely parched. ‘I’m so sorry, there isn’t any more.’

  ‘Plain water’ll do nicely,’ he said. He filled the glass from the kitchen tap and drank it down.

  She steeled herself. ‘I was wondering how much I owed you for all your hard work, Corporal. I’m not quite sure what would be acceptable—’

  He interrupted her, shaking his head. ‘Not a cent, ma’am. I don’t want nothin’.’

  ‘Oh but I couldn’t possibly allow that . . .’

  He smiled. ‘Reckon you’ll just have to, ma’am, seein’ as I’m not takin’ nothin’ from you.’

  She really ought to point out his double negatives but that would be very impolite, especially in the circumstances. ‘It’s very good of you, Corporal. But I really think I owe you something.’

  ‘You already paid me with the afternoon tea, ma’am, and invitin’ me here in the first place. So that’s an end to it. What vegetables’re you thinkin’ of plantin’?’

  ‘Potatoes, I think. Some broad beans. Runner beans and carrots and cabbage. Perhaps some beetroot. It rather depends on what seeds I can find.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘Don’t know nothin’ ’bout growin’ those things but I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. Seems a good idea to grow your own, everythin’ bein’ in such short supply over here. I’ve noticed most folks have a patch in their yard. Lot of folks have a pig, too. How about you keepin’ a pig?’

  ‘There’s nowhere to keep it.’

  ‘There’s that tin hut near the dump.’

  ‘The Anderson, you mean?’

  ‘That what you call it? Well, that’d do just right.’

  ‘But it’s an air-raid shelter.’ The gardener had erected it for her in the early days of the war. So far she hadn’t used it once.

  ‘Reckon you’re not goin’ to need it no more, ma’am. Those German bombers ain’t goin’ to come over this way, not with all us guys around. If you could get a piglet from some place, I could bring you stuff from the kitchens up at the base to feed it up – peelin’s and scraps and such. One of my pals is a cook, see. Wouldn’t cost you nothin’ and when the pig’s growed enough you’d have some nice pork to eat. You can salt the rest so’s it keeps.’

  ‘I don’t think I could cope with a pig, Corporal. I’ve never kept any animals. Not even hens. Only the one cat.’

  ‘Just an idea, ma’am.’ He delved in the pocket of his tunic. ‘I brought some photos to show you.’ He fanned them like a hand of cards and held them out to her, pointing with his forefinger. ‘There’s my dad right there in the middle, with my two brothers. That’s Jack standing next to Dad on this side. He was all-state third base in ’38. Got picked up by the Brooklyn Dodgers and played for one of their minor league teams.’

  ‘Really? How interesting.’ She had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Yes, siree. Could’ve made the big time if he hadn’t got drafted. And that’s Frank on the other side. He was All-America – left guard from Henryetta High.’

  ‘Goodness me.’

  ‘Yeah. No kiddin’. And this next photo here’s of me and Jack on the front porch – that’s our house in Henryetta. Frank took that one. This one’s us all on the Fourth in ’42 – my Aunt Sara took that. Last time we were all together: Dad, Jack, Frank and me.’

  They were a smiling and happy family. In spite of the hardships and difficulties, Miss Cutteridge could see that the father, who looked a very nice man, had done a good job. Three fine sons who were a credit to him. If she and William had ever had a son, what might he have been like? Perhaps a little like Corporal Bilsky. An absurd fancy, of course. What was she doing even thinking of such a thing? He was nothing like William in looks or manners or speech, nothing at all. But there was something about him – a concern for and consideration of others, a decency, that reminded her very much of William.

  The corporal was putting on his jacket. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else I can do, ma’am, I’d best be getting back. I’ll be by sometime, soon as I can, an’ give you a hand with the vegetables, if you need it.’ He put his hand in another pocket. ‘Oh, I darn near forgot. This is for you. Might come in handy.’

  He was gone before she could protest, bicycling away down the street. She picked up the tin he had left on the kitchen table and saw that it contained American ham. Best quality, it said on the label. She put it away in her store cupboard carefully. Next time he came she would open it and give him a proper meal with potatoes and vegetables. She had bought a tin of
Smedley’s select garden peas on her last visit to the grocer and they were always very nice. From what he had said about a pig, the corporal would probably prefer fresh pork but it was a long time since she’d been able to get any, other than in sausages and she often wondered what parts of the pig those contained. It was almost certainly far better not to know. Occasionally, the butcher sold her some streaky bacon under the counter because he had a soft spot for the elderly, and that made quite a good meal. But a joint of pork, roasted so that the crackling was brown and crisp, and served with apple sauce . . . her mouth watered. Miss Cutteridge put on her hat and coat and picked up her shopping basket. It was time to sally forth in search of vegetable seeds. There was not a moment to lose. As she set off, she wondered where on earth one might buy a piglet.

  ‘I recommend the fish.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it’s one of the very few things not rationed. The sea’s not far away so it should be fresh, and sole is rather good, if they cook it well.’

  ‘I’ve heard about your fish and chips. Haven’t tried any yet.’

  ‘There’s nothing better. Unfortunately we don’t have a fish-and-chip shop in King’s Thorpe, or I’d be down there all the time. It must be eaten straight out of the newspaper it’s wrapped in, though, to be properly appreciated – preferably the Daily Mirror. I’m not sure I could persuade my mother-in-law to do that.’

  Carl Schrader smiled. ‘Somehow I don’t see it . . . Sole it is, then. The same for you?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, thank you.’

  Miriam had been very huffy about this dinner outing. ‘Not a wise thing to do, I should have thought, Erika. It’s one thing to invite an American to bridge, but quite another to associate with him.’

  ‘I’m not associating with him. I’m having dinner with him. It’s a thank-you for the Cook’s Tour the other day, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s still an American. They have an appalling reputation.’

  ‘He’s a group commander, not some randy GI, Miriam.’

  ‘There’s no need to be coarse, Erika.’

  ‘Anyway, I thought you liked him.’

  ‘He may be a good bridge-player but that’s irrelevant where this situation is concerned.’

  ‘There is no situation.’

  ‘People will gossip. I asume you have some regard for the Beauchamp name, if only for Alexander’s sake. Colonel Schrader is a married man.’

  ‘I am perfectly aware of that.’

  Sitting opposite him in the panelled grandeur of the George restaurant, she was not only perfectly, but painfully, aware of it. I’m falling in love with him, she thought. I hardly know him, but that’s what’s happening. Already happened, in fact. I don’t know exactly how, when or where, or even why. Miriam was right, blast her. This wasn’t a wise thing at all.

  ‘This is a famous old coaching inn,’ she said, briskly continuing the Cook’s Tour. The stagecoaches used to stop here to change horses and for the passengers to stay overnight. Stamford is only a mile from the Great North Road – the main route between London and York. King Charles the First stayed here and William the Fourth. It’s full of history.’

  ‘I can tell that.’ He looked round the room. ‘It’s a very fine old place. I wish we had something like this in St Louis. We just don’t go back that far.’

  ‘I’ve forgotten what state St Louis is in.’

  ‘Missouri. It’s right on the border of Illinois. Very hot summers, very cold winters.’

  ‘Were you born there?’

  ‘Born and raised there. Lived there until I left high school to go to West Point. Since then, I haven’t been back too much.’

  ‘But your wife and daughter are there?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s Jan’s home town too. We met at high school and then got married when I was through West Point. After that she moved around with me whenever it was possible. Then Kathy came along and then the war. It got so I was never around, so they went back to St Louis to be near her family. It was the only thing to do. Same as with lots of people.’

  ‘The war’s hard for everybody.’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘You must find your job extremely demanding, Carl.’

  ‘I’ve got a deputy and squadron commanders and a whole lot of other officers dealing with different things. I don’t handle it all. It would be impossible.’

  ‘But you’re in overall command and you fly combat missions as well.’

  ‘Sure. The guys wouldn’t be too impressed if I stayed home hiding under the desk.’

  ‘Leaders have to lead?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  To her relief the Sole Véronique was all right. Why is it, she wondered, that one feels so apologetic to foreigners about everything in England? We shouldn’t be. We should be proud of not being occupied by Germans. Of never, never, never being slaves.

  He said, ‘You haven’t told me much about yourself, Erika. You said your father was Hungarian and your mother English and that you were born in England. That’s as far as we went. How did your father come to be over here?’

  ‘He was a musician. A violinist. He found life in Hungary fairly impossible so he went to Paris and then came to England afterwards and met my mother in London. He was extremely handsome and he swept her off her feet and married her, much to my grandparents’ disapproval.’

  ‘Was he a good violinist?’

  ‘Yes, he was rather. Concert standard. A very nomadic life, though. I didn’t see a great deal of him and I was sent away to boarding school, as well. He died when I was fifteen, but all the memories of him are good. Very good.’

  ‘I guess that’s what counts. And your mother’s remarried?’

  ‘To a very rich man with a lot of land in Scotland. She’s made a new life up there.’

  ‘Did you meet your husband in London too?’

  ‘We met on Waterloo Station. We bumped into each other – literally. I was running for a train and he was going the other way and we collided. My suitcase came open and everything fell out. He helped me gather it all up.’ She smiled at the memory of Richard dashing about retrieving undies and solemnly handing them over. ‘It was an odd way to meet one’s husband.’

  He smiled too, ‘Yeah, but there are no rules. Did you live in London when you were married?’

  ‘Yes. Richard had a job in the City and we lived in a flat in Kensington. I still have the flat, as a matter of fact. Do you know London?’

  ‘I’ve been there a couple of times, that’s all. What I’ve seen I liked.’

  ‘I’ve always adored London. I’m not a country-lover, to be honest, but I appreciate lots of things about it. Richard loved King’s Thorpe, though. We used to come up here at weekends, until the war broke out and he was called up. He was killed in France, during the retreat to Dunkirk. I didn’t hear for nearly three months. Everything must have been pretty chaotic over there. Nobody knew whether men were dead or taken prisoner, or what had happened to them. Some of them were never even found. One keeps hoping, you know. While there’s hope, there may be life. Then eventually, I was told that there wasn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It must have been tough.’

  ‘It was. They sent me the usual letter.’ She remembered how she had felt when the envelope had landed on the mat; how long it had taken her to steel herself to open it, to look at the first words. It is with great regret that we have to inform you . . . ‘Alex was only four and we stayed on in the flat in London at first. Then the Blitz happened and we came up to King’s Thorpe. My mother-in-law and I have what you might call an armed truce. If it weren’t for Alex I’d be back in London like a shot, bombs or no bombs.’

  He smiled. ‘Let’s hope the war’s over soon, so you can escape.’

  ‘Well, there seem to be enough Americans over here now to deal with any number of Germans.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess you’ve been invaded by Yanks, instead of Huns. The British sure have had a lot to put u
p with.’

  When they’d finished dinner he drove her back to the Manor. Miriam, she guessed, would be waiting up past her usual bedtime to deliver a late-night lecture. He stopped the car and turned the engine off.

  ‘I’d like to see you again, Erika. Whenever that’s possible.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’re welcome at the Manor any time.’

  ‘That wasn’t exactly what I meant . . . but thanks, anyway.’ He got out and came round to open the door for her.

  ‘Thank you for the dinner, Carl.’

  ‘The pleasure was all mine. Goodnight.’

  The drawing-room door was half open, the lights still on. As she had expected, her mother-in-law appeared, looking pointedly at her watch.

  ‘Oh, there you are at last. I was very worried. Alexander woke up and got into quite a state, wondering where you were.’

  ‘He knew perfectly well where I was, Miriam. I told him at bedtime.’

  ‘Well, he was very upset.’

  ‘I’ll go up and see him.’

  Her son was sound asleep in his bed, his book fallen to the floor beside him. There was no tear-stained face, no evidence of any upset state, just a child sleeping peacefully. She tucked the blanket round him, straightened the eiderdown and picked up the book. To hell with Miriam, she thought, suddenly furious. To hell with what she thinks. To hell with everything.

  ‘I think we should donate part of the proceeds to the Red Cross, Agnes. It seems only right to me. I shall raise it at the next Parochial Church Council and I’m sure there will be full agreement. How many people do you expect to come to the dance?’

  ‘I’m not sure. We’ve put posters in all the neighbouring villages.’

  ‘There will probably be a big turnout. People seem to like the American band music very much, especially the young. I can quite understand it, though I do find it a little loud sometimes and rather difficult to dance to.’ Her father drank his tea and got up from the breakfast table. ‘Well, I must get about my business. I have some early visits to make.’ He touched her shoulder as he passed. ‘We shall see each other at lunchtime, as usual, my dear.’