Our Yanks (40 page)

‘I'd take any chance with you.'

He pulled her into his arms. ‘Those goddam whiskers sure got in the way.'

At the end of the meeting, the rector bowed his head in prayer. ‘Oh Lord, we thank Thee for Thy heavenly guidance. As we stand at the gate of a new year, we ask that we may be given strength in all our endeavours. We thank Thee for the year that has passed: for the victories achieved by the Allies against our enemies. We pray for all soldiers, sailors and airmen, and especially the American airmen of King's Thorpe, that they may be given courage to continue the fight until the world is free once more. And we ask that the souls of all those who have sacrificed their lives for us may rest in eternal peace.'

It was far too cold to linger for long in the hall. The brigadier paused briefly for a word. ‘Not the usual damfool idea Mrs Dakin comes up with, Rector. Military theme. Honouring the fallen. All that sort of thing. Perfectly sound tradition. Better than a lot of angels or that Mary woman. I thought she was going to bring her up again.'

Miss Cutteridge was the last to leave. He thought, again, that she looked rather unwell. ‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Cutteridge? Not going down with this nasty influenza, I hope.'

‘I'm quite all right, thank you.'

He persisted a little, out of concern for her. ‘You don't quite seem your usual self.'

‘I've been a little down in the mouth lately but I'm much better now.'

‘Is it anything I can help with?'

‘Oh, no. It's nothing. Really nothing.' She smiled brightly at him as she tugged on her gloves. ‘We must all soldier on, mustn't we, Rector? Life has to go on, come what may.'

‘Yes, indeed. God will give us the courage.' He held the blackout curtain aside for her as she slipped out into the snowy night. When he had turned off the oil heater and switched off the lights, he went through into the house. Agnes would be in the kitchen, cooking supper. He went down the passageway, opened the door and stopped dead when he saw his daughter locked in the arms of a Yank. He shut it quietly again, smiling to himself, and tiptoed away.

In the hall he caught sight of the paper bag on the table beside Ed's battered cap and peered inside. Tio Pepe! What a treat! He carried the bottle into his study, found a glass and poured out a generous measure. The fire was out and the room damp and chill but he scarcely noticed. Two good happenings in one day: the memorial window and now Agnes and Ed. Cause for real celebration. Of course, it meant that he would lose her, after all, but he couldn't do so to a better man. He had decided that when the war was over it would be time for him to retire and give way to somebody younger and stronger with new ideas for the parish. A new broom. Life, as Miss Cutteridge had so accurately said, had to go on. He would find a small cottage in the village and settle down to do some of the things he'd never had time for – leisurely reading, some writing, watercolour painting, gardening – while still helping in the parish if his help was needed. And perhaps even paying visits to America.

He sat down in his chair, raised his glass to the future and drank.

‘How did the meeting go, Erika?'

She sat down opposite her mother-in-law beside the drawing-room fire. ‘Rather more smoothly than usual. The brigadier and Mr Rate had their usual spat, but otherwise everyone agreed on most things.'

‘That's a change. In Geoffrey's day they used to fight like dogs over bones.'

She held out her hands to the flames, thawing them. ‘The Americans sent a huge cheque to replace the transept window as soon as we can, after the war. They collected money from almost everyone at the base.'

‘They think that money solves everything.'

She ignored the remark. ‘It's been decided to make the new window a memorial to the American fighter group here.'

‘In our church! I suppose they insisted on it.'

‘As a matter of fact, they didn't. They didn't ask for anything. Thea Dakin suggested it.'

‘She would. She has some extraordinary ideas. I think she's definitely loopy.'

‘We all agreed on the proposal. Unanimously.'

‘Surely Brigadier Mapperton opposed it?'

‘No, he was all in favour.'

‘Quite extraordinary. I should have expected
you
to agree, Erika, knowing your predilection for Americans, but scarcely him.'

‘He's changed his views considerably. Did you know that he holds a regular bridge evening at his house for a number of officers from the base? Mrs Mapperton was telling me about it the other day.'

Miriam sat up very straight. ‘No, I did not. He might have had the courtesy to invite us.'

‘It's men only, I understand. Not a social occasion. They play for money.'

‘I must say, I'm surprised at the brigadier. I didn't know he was a gambling man.'

‘Hardly. A penny a hundred.'

‘It's still gambling. Look what happened to the Beauchamp fortunes as a result of it. I hope you'll bring Alexander up to avoid making any kind of wager.'

‘I don't think we need to worry about Alex; he's got his head screwed on all right. By the way, he's told me that he'd like to go away to boarding school in September. It was his own choice entirely.'

‘Thank heavens for that! I'm delighted to hear it.'

‘I knew you would be. And when he goes, I'll go back to London.'

‘Whatever for?'

‘With any luck the war will be over by then. I'd like to find something that I can do in life other than making sandwiches and pouring teas – useful though that has been. I can't find it here in King's Thorpe.' She drew back from the fire. ‘And besides, let's both face it, Miriam, you and I have never exactly seen eye to eye. You'll be glad to see the back of me.'

There was a moment's silence before her mother-in-law spoke again and she was astounded to hear a break in her voice. ‘As a matter of fact, I won't, Erika. It will be extremely lonely without you.'

‘I'll try to come back when I can, and Alex can spend at least part of his holidays here with you. If you'd like that.'

Miriam had collected herself rapidly. ‘That would be appreciated.' She cleared her throat and looked at her wristwatch. ‘It's high time dinner was ready.'

Erika stood up. ‘I'll go and chase Mrs Woods.'

‘Erika . . .'

‘Yes?'

Another pause. ‘I was actually very sorry about Colonel Schrader. I want you to know that. He was a fine man and I believe he meant a great deal to you. You have my sympathy.'

She went over to her mother-in-law and bent to kiss her cheek. Something she had very seldom done. ‘Thank you, Miriam.'

Sam Barnet trudged home through the snow, his overcoat collar turned up about his ears, his knitted scarf – another of Freda's attempts – wound round his neck. He'd given his vote to the memorial window when the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of any of the Yanks. But he prided himself on being a fair man. The Americans had earned it, so far as he could see, and the war wasn't finished yet. There'd be a lot more of them dying before that happened, on all fronts.

Instead of going straight into the house, he turned into the yard to check on the horse. The narrow torch beam showed her contentedly munching hay in her stable. He bolted the top half of the door shut again and swung the torch over the van safely under cover in its shed beside the stable; and stiffened. Someone had scrawled in white chalk on the side.
S. Barnet & Bastard
, it now read. He found a rag and rubbed out the addition furiously. At the back door he knocked the snow from his boots and dragged them off before he padded in his socks into the sitting room. Freda wasn't there but he heard a sound from the corner and saw that she'd brought the rocker down. He went over quietly and stood looking down at his bastard grandson who was stirring in his sleep, waving his small fists around. He bent a little closer. He still couldn't see any likeness to himself, though Freda kept saying there was. As far as he was concerned, the child looked just like that Yank.

Freda whispered behind him, ‘Sally's gone to the pictures with Doris. I brought him downstairs so I could keep a good eye on him.'

He grunted. ‘She oughtn't to have gone off and left him.'

‘She's very young, Sam. It's good for her to have a bit of time to herself.'

‘Well, she'll have plenty of time soon enough, when he's gone.' He went on staring at the child who was peacefully asleep again. ‘What's she going to call him? He's got to have a name.'

‘She doesn't know. I thought of Robert – your father's name. Robert Samuel. After you both.'

‘Not much point in that, is there?'

She touched his arm. ‘We can't let him go, can we, Sam? Our own flesh and blood?'

‘He's the flesh and blood of some Yank too. Whichever of the four it was.'

‘There were never four of them. Sally told me that. She just made them up. There weren't any others at all. Just that nice young Chester. He's the father and he was a good lad.'

‘Supposing he gets to know about it? Supposing he comes back?'

‘I don't think he ever will. They've transferred him somewhere else, Sally says. He'll go back to America when the war's finished and he'll marry some other girl and forget all about what happened here. That's the best way.'

‘What about Sally? She never wanted to keep it.'

‘We'll look after him, Sam. You and I. We'll let Sally go off and do what she wants and we'll take care of him. I've talked to her about it and she doesn't mind. I think she's glad. Relieved. She felt bad about giving him away.'

The baby must have heard them talking because he stirred again and opened his eyes. Sam bent for another look. They looked a bit darker, he thought. As though they might be changing colour, after all.

Freda said, ‘You can pick him up, if you like. I'll need to change him and give him a bottle.'

He lifted the child very gingerly and held him awkwardly in his arms, wrapped in Freda's shawl. Robert Samuel. The sixth generation of Barnets. The baby waved a fist at him and he could have sworn it smiled.

‘We'll keep him, won't we, Sam?'

He nodded.

‘Stop wriggling, Alfie.'

‘I'm cold.'

‘Put your socks on.'

‘They are. I've got all my clothes on and I'm still cold. It's freezing.'

‘Well, keep still, I'm trying to think.'

‘What about?'

‘How to make some money for Mum. The tin's almost empty again.'

‘Steal some more eggs.'

‘I can't do that any more. I promised her. Don't know what I can do.' Tom blew out the candle and lay back in the darkness. He was cold, too, even though they'd got Dad's old topcoat spread over the blanket.

‘I've thought of something, Tom.'

Alfie's ideas were always useless. ‘What, then?'

‘Lucky rabbits' feet. Like you did for Ed. Get that old witch in the forest to do her spell over them and then sell them to the Yank pilots. They like having lucky things.'

He considered it carefully, and honestly. ‘I don't know that she does proper spells. She might have been pretending.'

‘She must do. Ed's all right, isn't he? And I'll bet he always will be. Ben didn't have one and look what happened to him – and all those others. It's a brilliant idea of mine.'

‘Mmm.' It never did to let Alfie get above himself. Tom debated the possibility some more. Getting the rabbits' feet was no problem. He'd just set three snares in the snow by the big warren at Gipping Wood that dusk. There could be three rabbits caught in them when he went over first thing in the morning. Three times four was twelve. Twelve feet in one day. The witch had charged ninepence to do one, but maybe he could make some sort of deal with her: say sixpence each – six shillings for a job lot of twelve rabbits' feet and he'd have to pay her later. Then he could sell them for a shilling and make a big profit. Six shillings out of three rabbits. There were at least a hundred and fifty pilots up at the base and Alfie was quite right about them liking lucky charms. Of course, it would mean going back to the witch again, several times over, but he'd do it for Mum – like he'd done it for Ed.

He said offhandedly, ‘It might work. I'll think about it.' And the more he did think, the better he liked it. ‘I'm going over to see if I've caught any, soon as it's light in the morning.' He paused and added generously, and against all his better instincts, ‘You can come too, if you like.'

But there was no answer. Alfie was sound asleep.

THE END

Margaret Mayhew was born in London and her earliest childhood memories were of the London Blitz. She began writing in her mid-thirties and had her first novel published in 1976. She is married to American aviation author, Philip Kaplan, and lives in Gloucestershire. Her previous novels,
Bluebirds, The Crew
and
The Little Ship
, are also published by Corgi.

 

and published by Corgi Books

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OUR YANKS

A CORGI BOOK : 0 552 14822 9
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781446487419

First publication in Great Britain

printing history

Corgi edition published 2001

5 7 9 10 8 6 4

Copyright © Margaret Mayhew 2001

The right of Margaret Mayhew to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77