Our Yanks (14 page)

Wouldn't she just! She followed him into the crowd of dancers and he started swinging her round. Everything was a blur – the Yank's grinning face, the other couples whirling about – but after a moment or two she started to get the hang of it and it was the best fun she'd ever had. She danced with another Yank and then another and she'd almost forgotten about Chester when he finally turned up in front of her. He'd had to stay late, working on an engine, he told her, and he looked really upset about it. When she danced with him he wasn't so good as the other Yanks she'd danced with, which was a bit of a disappointment.

‘That's a real pretty dress,' he told her, his eyes doing a lot of admiring. ‘You look just swell.'

‘Don't look so bad yourself,' she said. He must have just come out of the shower because his hair was wet and slicked down, and he was all shined up and smart in a dark shirt and light-coloured tie under the Yank jacket. She liked the way they slotted their ties inside the shirt, halfway down, in between the buttons; it looked really swanky. And they all looked so clean. She told Chester so and he laughed.

‘Ought to see me out on the flight line, when I'm working. We get
real
dirty. Mud and dirt and grease all over us. It's a hard job getting cleaned up. Made a special effort this evening, though.'

‘For me?'

‘You've got it,' he said slowly. ‘For you. Where did you buy that beautiful dress? London?'

‘
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.

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.'