Our Yanks (16 page)

‘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 edge 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.'

She had difficulty in following everything he was saying but she remembered the Depression in America: the photographs in the newspapers of the destitute queuing for soup, the homeless huddled in packing cases, the veterans marching in Washington. America had recovered – just as Britain had recovered from the Slump. Somehow she had never thought of the fit and free-spending young men she had seen strolling about the village as being the children of that dreadful time. ‘But, it's not like that any more, is it?'

‘No, ma'am. Things got better. Dad gave up the farm an' got work in Henryetta. Me an' my two brothers all volunteered soon as we declared war. We're doin' OK now.'

‘The three of you? Your mother must miss you.'

‘She passed away when I was four. Don't have no memory of her – not to speak of.'

‘How terrible for your father!'

‘Sure was, ma'am. But like I say, we came through.'

‘Where are your brothers?'

‘Jack – he's the oldest – he's with the Marines in the Pacific. Don't know where exactly. Frank – he's the middle one – he's a gunner with the One Hundredth Bomb Group, in Norfolk, England.' He grinned at her. ‘An' I'm here.'

‘So you're the youngest?'

‘Yes, ma'am. An' the dumbest. Least that's what Jack an' Frank always tell me.'

‘Another sandwich, Corporal?'

‘Thank you, ma'am.' It disappeared in a trice. ‘England's sure not the way I pictured. I figured it'd be all lords and sirs, an' folks like that. Everyone talkin' like they was royalty, livin' in castles an' goin' round with their noses in the air. Only mostly it ain't like that at all. An' I hadn't figured on it bein' such a little place. No bigger'n Minnesota, they say. Everthin' so close together an'
real
small.'

‘Really?' Miss Cutteridge had only the vaguest idea of what he meant. Americans must have the strangest ideas about England. And where was Minnesota? ‘Will you have some sponge cake?'

‘Sure thing.'

She undid the paper frill and cut a hefty slice. ‘If you would pass your plate, Corporal . . .' She put the slice onto the plate, together with one of the cake forks, and handed it back to him. He picked up the little silver fork and looked at it, puzzled.

‘I'm supposed to use this, ma'am?'

‘Well, yes.'

‘Wouldn't want to do the wrong thing. Only it ain't like we eat back home.'

She cut herself a small piece and picked up her own fork. He had put the plate back on the chair arm, still balancing the teacup on his knees, and was stabbing at the sponge which kept falling off the prongs; she pretended not to notice. ‘What sort of work do you do at the aerodrome, Corporal?'

‘I'm with the Signal Company, ma'am. Telephone engineer. You see some guy up a pole, it's me. The RAF left us an underground network but we've had to set up a whole lot more lines. More of our guys arrive, more we need. We've got miles of field wire strung all over the base, an' switchboards connectin' everythin' to everythin'. Works real well now.'

‘How interesting.' She put her hand on the handle of the teapot. ‘More tea?'

‘Sure.' He stood up to pass her his cup and saucer and knocked the plate off the chair arm. It hit the brass fender in front of the fire and broke into three pieces, scattering the remains of the sponge cake. ‘Gee ma'am . . . I'm real sorry.' He had flushed scarlet to the roots of his hair and looked stricken with horror and embarrassment.

Miss Cutteridge was equally horrified, but tried not to show it. She said valiantly, ‘It doesn't matter, Corporal.'

‘Heck, it does, ma'am. That's a real nice china plate. I can see that. Where could I buy another for you?' He picked up the pieces and stared at them miserably.

‘I'm afraid you couldn't. Not in wartime, anyway. They don't make things like that now.'