Our Yanks (25 page)

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 up 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.'

She cleared the breakfast table and washed up in the kitchen. It was Mrs Halliwell's morning to oblige but her bunions were playing her up again and she was at home keeping her substantial weight off them. As Agnes finished the drying, she heard somebody knocking at the front door. When she opened it Clive was standing there. Unsmiling.

‘Big surprise, eh? I got home late last night. They've given me forty-eight hours.'

‘That's wonderful, Clive.'

‘You don't look that thrilled, Agnes. Sorry, more like.' He came into the hallway and grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘I want to sort things out with you. Here and now.'

‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘I'm talking about you running around with some Yank. That's what.'

‘I've been doing nothing of the kind.'

‘That's not what I've heard. You were seen having dinner with one of the bastards at the Haycock. Mother wrote and said it was all round the village. It's true, isn't it?'

‘I had dinner once with one of them.'

He shook her. ‘What's his name? Tell me and I'll break his bloody neck.'

‘Let go of me please, Clive,' she said coldly. ‘You're hurting. There was a reason for it, if you'll give me a chance to explain.'

He dropped his hands. ‘Well, it'd better be good.'

‘I wanted to ask him about getting their band to play at one of the village-hall dances. The church has got dry rot in the roof and we have to raise money, a lot of money, to get rid of it. They're playing this Saturday. You must have seen the posters.'

‘Come off it, Agnes. You don't expect me to swallow that? Why him? And why go to dinner? Why didn't you just write to whichever Yank's in charge?'

‘I'd met him and I thought he'd be able to arrange it.'

‘Because he's been after you, that's why. He'd do anything for you, wouldn't he? You damn well knew that. And you fancied him. Has he been coming here? To this house?'

‘Father invited him to lunch once, that's all.'

‘Christ almighty! I'd have thought at least you'd be safe here. But your father's been the one who's been so keen on the bloody Yanks all along, hasn't he? I've heard about that, too. What the hell did the old fool think he was doing, encouraging them? This is all his fault.'

‘How dare you speak of my father like that! How
dare
you!'

He took a deep breath. ‘OK, OK. I'm sorry. Listen to me, Agnes. Everyone's talking and I'm not having you making me a laughing-stock in the village. Or my family. I want you to promise me here and now that you won't see or speak to that Yank again. Or any other Yank.'