Our Yanks (23 page)

There was a gap on the hardstand where Ed's Mustang usually stood and a group of Yanks there, looking over towards the fire. He stopped to catch his breath and then ran towards them. As he reached the group one of them turned round and he saw that it was Ed.

‘Hi there, Tom . . . what're you doing here?'

He couldn't answer; just stood there, his chest heaving. Beyond the group he could see Ed's Mustang standing in a different place. He could see the big letter A near the tail, the dwarf, Bashful, painted on the nose and the three black swastikas underneath for the Germans Ed had shot down now. He wiped a tear quickly away from his cheek.

The pilot rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Hey, you don't want to worry about that guy . . . They got him out real quick. He'll be OK.'

‘I thought it might be you.'

‘
Me
? Sure hope I take off better than he did. The guy's a rookie. He got it wrong. He'll learn. Here, have some gum.'

Tom put the gum in his pocket and took out the rabbit's foot. ‘I brought this for you.'

‘What the hell's that?'

‘It's a rabbit's foot. It's lucky. You can take it with you on missions.'

Ed grinned. ‘Well now, that's real nice of you, Tom. I'll certainly do that. Gee, the other guys have got all sorts of good-luck things, but I'll sure be the only one with a rabbit's foot.' He stuck it in the pocket of his leather jacket. ‘Say, like to sit in the Mustang for a moment?'

He took him over to Bashful and showed him how to get up onto the wing so that he could climb into the cockpit. ‘You put your right foot here, see, where it says STEP and grab a hold of this handle in the side and up you go.' Ed always made it look easy; the same as he made everything look easy. Tom couldn't manage it anything like that, but he got up onto the wing somehow, with a bit of help. The canopy was pushed back and he climbed into the cockpit and sat there, heart beating fast, breathing in the fighter smell of fuel and oil and leather. He looked at all the dials and gauges in front of him and at the gunsight above. The stick was between his legs, and he put out his hand and held it reverently. The shiny black button on top would be for the gun. He felt it with his thumb. ‘Don't touch anything, Tom,' Ed called up. ‘Wouldn't want you taking off.' He took his hand away quickly. One day, though, he would. One day, when he was grown-up, he'd be a fighter pilot.

He climbed out again and jumped down off the wing, trying to do it just the way he'd seen Ed and the others do it.

Ed ruffled his hair. ‘Better cut along, kid. We're kind of busy right now.'

He wandered back slowly along the peri track, chewing the gum that the pilot had given him. A skylark was warbling away somewhere high up in the sky and the sun was shining. Ed was all right. And now he'd got the rabbit's foot he'd always be safe.

‘Please, Miss, there's a Yank at the window.'

‘Yes, I did notice him, Charlie.'

‘It's
our
Yank, Miss.'

‘Thank you, Joan. I can see it is.'

A moment later the Yank appeared at the classroom door. The children all ran and gathered round him, jumping up and down with excitement. He put his cap on Charlie's head where it fell down over his nose and little Joan took hold of his hand and dragged him over to the Nature Table to show him the catkins and the primroses they'd picked on their last walk. He admired everything and talked to the rabbit and guinea pigs. Joan tugged at his sleeve.

‘Sing us that song again, please.'

‘You'll have to ask Miss if that's OK with her.'

‘Please, Miss, can we sing it?'

So he sat down, with a child on each knee, and they all sang ‘Yankee Doodle' several times. After that he taught them ‘Camptown Races' and soon they were all shouting out: ‘
Doo-da, doo-da
.' And then another one: ‘
Oh, Susannah, don't you cry for me, cos I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee
,' while he strummed an imaginary banjo.

Joan was tugging at his sleeve once more. ‘Will you tell us a story?'

‘You'll have to ask Miss again.'

‘Please, Miss,' they all chorused. ‘Can he?'

They sat down cross-legged in a circle round him, watching him expectantly. Charlie was wearing his cap back to front, the peak down his back.

‘Gee, let's see . . . There's an Uncle Remus one I know about Mr Rabbit and Mr Fox.' He told it with actions and different voices, making them laugh and clap. ‘More, more,' they pleaded. ‘Tell us another one.'

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, kids, I've got to go. I only called by to tell Miss something.' He came over to her. ‘Hope you didn't mind all that.'

‘Of course not. They loved it. You're very good with them.'

‘Well, I've got a bunch of little nephews and nieces back home. We're a big family. Besides, I like kids.'

‘I can see you do.'

‘Same as you,' he said. ‘Listen, I came to tell you that it's OK about the band. The group commander's all for it and they'll play at the village hall whatever Saturday you want – you just let me know.'

‘That's wonderful. Thank you, Ed. What will they charge?'

‘Zero. They'll do it for nothing. And maybe you'd like us to get some posters done, so you could stick them around and get a whole lot of people coming from all over. The more people, the more money.'

She thanked him again, embarrassed by such generosity.

‘Forget it,' he said. ‘Glad to help. Gotta get that dry rot fixed.' The children were clustering round him again, faces lifted to his. ‘So long, kids. Be good and do what Miss tells you.' He whisked his cap off Charlie's head. ‘See you around.'

They crowded to the window and waved as he went by. Agnes picked up little Joan so she could see better and waved too.

Chester was waiting for her at the bridge over the brook. As she coasted down the hill on her bike, Sally could see him leaning over the wall in the sunlight, smoking a cigarette, his bike propped beside him. She pedalled for the last bit and braked to a stop. He turned round and smiled his slow smile. ‘Hi there. I've been watching the fish while I was waiting and wishing I'd got a line. What kind are they?'

‘Nothing special. There are otters in the brook too, but you hardly ever see them.' She pointed to the wicker basket strapped onto the handlebars. ‘I've brought a picnic tea for us.'

‘Great.' He ground his cigarette under his foot. ‘So, where're we going?'

‘Anywhere you like.'

‘OK. Let's just take off and see what happens. Never can figure out all these lanes, anyway.'

They rode along side by side, the American weaving a little to keep to her slower pace. Her cotton skirt kept creeping up above her bare knees and she knew he was looking. After a while she didn't bother tugging it down any more and pretty soon it was right up round her thighs. Well, it wasn't as though he was a stranger exactly. He'd kissed her several more times since that evening when they'd come back from the pictures and each time he'd gone on longer. She'd told Doris about it because Doris was forever telling her about Hal and how the last time they'd gone out he'd kept putting his hands where he shouldn't. ‘I wouldn't let him, though, Sal,' she'd said, looking smug. ‘I said no.'

‘I thought you said you wouldn't mind it with a Yank.'

‘Well . . . not just yet.'

Doris had lost her nerve, she could tell that.

They biked up the hill along by Squirrel Wood and stopped when they got to the top.

‘Sure is a beautiful place, England,' he said quietly, looking down at the countryside below with everything coming out into leaf and the blossom starting along the hedgerows. It didn't seem all that marvellous to her; lots of other countries in the world must look much better. She'd seen pictures in magazines of wonderful foreign places: palm trees, white sands, really blue skies. She leaned her bike against a tree and picked some of the wild flowers growing at the side of the lane and showed them to him.

‘Real pretty,' he said, looking at her more than the flowers. ‘Don't think we've anything like that back home.' She could tell he wanted to kiss her and skipped out of reach. ‘Race you to the bottom,' she called, and tore off down the hill on her bike, the wind in her hair, her skirt blown right up. Of course he got there first – not that she minded. She'd known he would. Meant him to. He was bigger and stronger and faster. She liked that. She let him kiss her then, for a bit.

They found a place for the picnic in a meadow, in the shade of the willows beside a stream. She unpacked the basket and brought out the little sponge cakes she'd made, and the ginger pop. He sat with his back leaning against a willow trunk.

‘What's it like where you live, Chester?' she asked him. ‘What did you say it was called?'

‘Paradise.'

She giggled. ‘Funny name.'

He smiled. ‘Yeah. Nothing very like paradise about it, I guess, but we've got some nice old buildings – not as old as yours here, of course, but they're painted up real pretty. It's a good place to live. Decent town, decent people. We've got a couple of movie theatres, plenty of stores, a beauty shop, a great soda fountain, good places to eat out . . .'

‘Whatever's a soda fountain?'

‘You don't have them over here?'

She shook her head. ‘I don't think so. What are they?'

‘Gee. Well, it's a place where you can get all kinds of ice-cream sodas, and milkshakes and malts and splits, things like that. Most times they're in a drugstore – I guess you'd call that a chemist. There's a long bar and you sit up on high stools. You'd like it.'

‘Ice cream . . .' she said wistfully. ‘That sounds lovely. I can't remember what it tastes like. Mum said she had it at your Officers' Club when she went there. How do they make them – all those things you said.'

‘Well, for the sodas they put a couple of scoops of ice cream in a tall glass, then some syrup – maybe strawberry or chocolate – then they stir it up and squirt soda water into it. Then they put whipped cream over it and a cherry on the top. They're twenty cents. A Coke soda's only a nickel, but it's not so good.'

She closed her eyes. ‘Mmmmmm. I'd love those. What about the other things?'

‘For malts they whizz up malt powder and milk in a mixer so it goes all frothy, and milkshakes are milk and whatever flavour you want – vanilla, strawberry, chocolate . . .'

‘Banana?'

‘Guess they could do that, if you wanted it.'

‘I used to love bananas. We haven't had any since the war.'

‘Oh boy, you'd like the splits, then. See, there's a banana cut in half on a dish with three scoops of ice cream on top, then some syrup, then whipped cream and nuts—'

‘Don't,' she begged. ‘I don't want to hear any more, Chester. Tell me about something else. What sort of house do you live in?'

‘I guess it's about twenty years old. Wood-framed with a front porch. It can get real hot and humid in Virginia in the summer. I often sleep out there then.'

‘Hotter than here?'

‘Well, I don't know anything about English summers, but I'd say so. Much hotter than today.'

‘This is only spring.'

‘Yeah, and it's real pleasant. Just right.'

‘It isn't always like this,' she said truthfully. ‘It changes.'

He grinned. ‘Sure does. I've noticed that. Never the same weather two days running – unless it's rain.'

‘Don't you get rain?'

‘Sure. But not like you. That's why England's so green. Greenest place I've ever seen.'

She passed him another cake. ‘What does your father do?'

‘He runs a garage downtown – doing auto repairs and selling gas. He makes a good living. I was working there before I joined the army and some day I'll take over, I guess. That's the idea, anyway. I'd like to open another one somewhere else, maybe several of them one day. I keep thinking about what I'll do when the war's over.'

‘Have you got brothers and sisters?'

‘Two sisters, still in school. Betty and Rose. Fifteen and thirteen. I'm the oldest by a long way. Mom lost another one in between us.'

‘Did your parents mind you going away?'

‘Sure, but there wasn't much choice. I got drafted. I didn't mind, though. I was glad I was. I got to come to England and be part of the war. And I met you. I wish you'd let me tell your dad about us, Sally.'

‘Nothing to tell, is there?'

‘Well, we're dating, aren't we? That's the way it seems to me. Unless you're seeing a whole lot of other guys I don't know about.'

‘Course I'm not.'

He'd gone all serious. ‘I'd like to tell him, face to face, that I'm seeing his daughter. He's got a right to know.'

She sighed. ‘I've told you, Chester, he'd go mad if he found out.'

‘Why? I don't get it.'

‘You're a Yank.'

‘Anything special he doesn't like about us?'

‘He doesn't trust Yanks. I don't know why. Anyway, he thinks I'm too young to go out with anybody.'

‘You're eighteen. That's not too young. What did you tell him for this time?'

‘Didn't need to say anything. After church and lunch, Dad sleeps all day Sundays.'

‘I guess he's tired.'

‘Well, he always has to get up in the night to get the dough done in time for baking and get the oven hot.'

‘Never really known how bread's made. What does he do?'

‘He mixes up a sack of flour and yeast and water in a big trough. Then he has to wait for it to rise up in a great sort of mound. Then he knocks it back and kneads it all again. And waits some more. It takes ages and it's a lot of hard work. His back's always killing him and he's got arthritis in his hands and his chest gets wheezy from the flour.'