Rising Summer (10 page)

‘Lucky for you I’m all talk and no do,’ I said and went blindly away.

Jim kept telling me I wasn’t doing myself any good dodging Missus. She’d catch up with me, he said. Not
while
I’m still wearing trousers, I said, and she’s still in skirts.

Sergeant Masters was busy. She was even working overtime in the evenings, something that made most of us feel she was letting the side down. But at least she did have a smile and some brisk chummy words for me whenever we ran into each other.

Aunt May wrote, thanking me for two lovely plump rabbits, which a very nice man, Mr Clayton, had delivered to her. Mr Clayton, she said, was the uncle of one of my battery friends, Tosh Simpson. She’d invited him in for a cup of tea. He had a limp because of a wound in the First World War, she said, but was in the ARP all the same, which she thought very public-spirited of him. Then she said that poor Edie Hawkins had had to write to her soldier husband overseas, confessing she’d lost her head with a Canadian soldier and was going to have a baby. Her mother confided it all to Aunt May, telling her that Edie’s hubby, Ron, had written back by Forces Air Mail to inform Edie he was going to chop the Canadian up into little bits and give her a good hiding as soon as he had Blighty leave. He also informed her he was going to chuck the baby off the top of Tower Bridge. He didn’t actually say baby, wrote Aunt May, but of course he was naturally upset, so you had to forgive him for what he did say. He gave Edie a lecture for being too accommodating, he said no wife should be as accommodating as that and besides it was against the law. He could divorce her for it. As it was, he’d make do with giving her a good hiding. Her mother said Edie was ever so relieved, she didn’t mind a good
hiding
and she was sure Ron wouldn’t chuck the baby off the top of Tower Bridge, he’d never done anything like that in his life.

Well, it’s taught her a lesson, wrote Aunt May, and it’s taught others a lesson too about how to behave. The vicar had preached a very good sermon about how mistakes can teach one to be a better Christian and that there was great virtue in faithfulness and forgiveness, so Edie’s mother had probably confided in him too.

I copped hold of young Wally Ricketts one evening, dragging him through the gate of Mrs Ford’s cottage by the seat of his pants just when he thought he’d escaped.

’Ere, what yer ’olding me for, Tim?’ he asked, all freckles and hurt innocent eyes.

‘Nothing much,’ I said, ‘just a walloping. Where’d you want it?’

‘I don’t want it nowhere, I ain’t done nuffink.’

‘You sold me a couple of nicked rabbits,’ I said.

‘Me? Me?’

‘You heard.’

‘Honest, Tim, they was just lyin’ about not doin’ nuffink. ’Sides, I already been walloped once today. Mr Berry done it, just ’cos I accidental got ’is Emma a bit wet, just ’cos she fell over me.’

‘Fell over you and then what?’

‘She went in the pond. Still, I got ’er out. I dunno why I got walloped for gettin’ ’er out. It ain’t ’arf an ’ard life round ’ere sometimes, Tim. You ain’t goin’ to wallop me as well, are yer?’

‘Hoppit,’ I said and he scooted down the path.

‘I’ll nick yer – I’ll get yer some more rabbits one day, Tim,’ he called and disappeared.

Someone swooped on me from behind. ‘Gotcher!’ exclaimed Minnie happily.

‘Leave go my arm, it’s not dark yet.’

‘Oh, you Tim, ain’t you comical?’

‘You’re not,’ I said. She wasn’t. She was wearing a thin Betty Grable sweater and was highly dangerous.

‘Mum’s been sayin’ what’s come over you lately, you ’aven’t been near us, nor come and looked at our chickens. Tim, you can take me to the Sudbury flicks one evenin’, honest. I asked me mum an’ dad if you could, an’ they said all right, they’d trust you, they said. They don’t mind.’

‘Your dad would. He’d skin me.’

‘Course ’e wouldn’t.’ Minnie laughed and looked joyously tickled in the twilight.

Lights were coming on in cottage parlours and blackout curtains were being drawn. A jeep pulled up outside the
Suffolk Punch
and disgorged GIs and Wacs.

‘You’re me dad’s best friend, he likes you ever so. He keeps saying why don’t our Tim take you to the pictures sometimes, Min, that’s what he keeps saying.’

‘No, he doesn’t, you’re making that up,’ I said. ‘I know you, you perisher. I suppose you’ve got the back seat of the cinema in mind, have you?’

‘Oh, crikey,’ breathed Min, ‘you and me in the back seat, Tim. Be bliss, that would. I can’t ’ardly wait, can you?’

‘I’m not listening, Min, I’m unconscious.’

‘Wasn’t risin’ summer night good, Tim?’ she said.

‘How do I know? All that cider knocked me out.’

‘Lovely, you are, Tim.’

Missus showed herself at the cottage door. ‘Is that Tim, love? Tell him to come in, then you can take a message to Aunt Flossie for me.’

I ran. I was in uniform, but it made no difference. I ran like a born coward.

It was a Sunday morning when Sergeant Johnson sent for me. That was a bit of a liberty, for a state of non-belligerency existed between NCOs and gunners on holy days, apart from all the shouting that went on when they were lining us up for church parade. If you weren’t on fire picquet duty or some other duty, Sundays could be civilized. Officers sometimes made nuisances of themselves, but most officers were insensitive to the customs of other ranks.

Sergeant Johnson was duty sergeant for the day. That mucked up his Sunday, so I had to watch that he didn’t muck up mine. He was doing some one-finger typing in the orderly room. He greeted my arrival with a morose look.

‘Where’s the fire, sarge?’ I asked.

He inspected me. Something made him smile then, as if good news had arrived after a bitter dose of bad. ‘Got you, Hardy. You’re improperly dressed. Buttons undone.’

‘It’s Sunday,’ I said, ‘and I only came because we’re friends. I hope it’s not for nothing.’

‘Nothing’s for nothing,’ he said. ‘Listen, you’re excused church parade. You’re taking the Austin to
Sudbury.
Report at the gate at ten-fifteen pronto. And tart yourself up.’

It was a try-on. They were going to put temptation in my way. I’d probably find two spare cans, both full, in the utility. It was so obvious I nearly felt sorry for him.

‘What am I delivering and where?’ I asked.

‘You’ll find out. Just go and tart up.’

I didn’t mind missing church parade. I was at the gates in good order at ten-ten. The Austin utility stood outside. Giving it a thoughtful look was Sergeant Masters, in her best olive-green. The weather was cloudy with a threat of rain, but Sergeant Masters looked a bright picture of American military womanhood. And she was so smart I felt like saluting her.

‘Morning, Sergeant Masters.’

‘Hi, Tim old boy, old boy.’

‘Going walking?’ I asked.

‘No. I’m going to church. You’re driving me there.’

‘Me?’

‘It’s our date. One of our officers arranged it with your obliging transport officer.’

‘But you’ve got your own transport,’ I said.

‘Our transport, one jeep, is hogged by our officers,’ said Kit. ‘Do you mind that I asked for you as driver?’

‘Not a bit. But you’re taking a chance, aren’t you? I suppose you realize it’s got around, through Gunner Dunwoodie, that I’ve got staring eyes and heavy breathing?’

‘Oh, that,’ said Kit. ‘Well, you asked me to keep him riveted and that was the best I could do for you. I hope you’re not complaining. The cause, after all, wasn’t a
worthy
one and I’m not sure I go along with the result. You fluked it. It placed your major on a bed of nails.’

‘Bad luck if he bleeds. His dog will eat him if it smells blood. Shall we go?’

‘Can we wait a few more moments? Cecily asked last night if she could come.’

Cecily arrived at that point. She too was in her best uniform.

‘Morning, Cecily,’ I said.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said in a fairly friendly way, but for one of her odd reasons failed to look me in the eye. ‘Look, d’you mind if I don’t come?’ she said to Kit. ‘Only the guys here are on church parade and I can go along with them. It’s Protestant, so I guess that’s OK.’

‘It’s OK with me,’ said Kit.

‘Well, Claud’s going,’ said Cecily, ‘and he said there’ll be room in the pew for me.’ Good old Frisby. He was doing a good job on Cecily and Cecily was looking as if the prickles were being taken out of her shirt.

‘Enjoy the hymns, Cecily,’ I said.

‘Oh, I’ll make out, I guess,’ she said.

Kit and I climbed aboard the Austin and off we went. It was a rustic drive to Sudbury, the narrow roads winding around farms and doddling through hamlets. The rain began, showery at first, then depressingly sheeting. It wasn’t like blithe May at all. The hedges looked like glistening watersheds and in the distance the heavy sky dropped thick curtains of grey wet mist over Suffolk. The countryside turned into sodden blankets of greens and mustards. The hamlets, clustering around
their
churches, sprouted brooding belfries and glowering spires.

‘Mournful,’ I said.

‘The rain? Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Kit, ‘and it’s not as if we’re on our way to a picnic or a clambake. Besides, the weather can’t alter the fact that everything’s very peaceful and that the war’s not happening here. Are we grateful, old boy?’

‘Over the moon.’

‘Good.’ She seemed happy to talk. She had a companionable American warmth this morning. ‘What side of the road are you driving on?’

‘The middle,’ I said. ‘The road’s full of bends and there’s not much of a camber. If I landed you in a ditch, I’d have to write a long report and fill in a form.’

‘If you land me in any ditch, Hardy, I’ll write my own report,’ she said. ‘What’s that?’ She pointed.

‘A cow?’ I suggested, keeping my eyes on the road.

‘If that’s a cow I’m George Washington.’

I took a look. We were passing a concrete drive leading to a tarry-roofed Nissen-hut complex in what had once been a Suffolk meadow. Not a soul was in sight but within a large concrete and sandbag emplacement three Bofors ack-acks were snouting under their tarpaulin covers.

‘That’s one of our battery’s gun sites,’ I said, driving on. ‘We’d better not call or the gunners will want you to stay for dinner and keep you till Christmas. Even in our army, troops get a treat at Christmas. Like a bird or two.’

‘Like a Christmas goose?’ asked Kit.

‘Turkey’s favourite. But they’d make do with an American girl sergeant.’

‘Now I get you,’ said Kit, ‘a bird is a broad is a girl, right?’

‘Right,’ I said, motoring on through the rain.

‘Your battery’s been in action?’

‘Since the Blitz. It’s quieter now.’

‘Have you brought any planes down?’ she asked.

‘Two,’ I said, ‘both ours.’

‘You shot down your own planes?’ Kit turned astonished eyes on me. ‘You shot down Spitfires?’

‘Might have been Hurricanes. We were too ashamed to go and look.’

‘Listen, you comic, isn’t there any chance of having a serious conversation with you?’ she asked. ‘How long have you been an enlisted soldier?’

‘Two and a half years.’ We splashed past a farm entrance, which threw liquid mud at us.

‘Good grief,’ said Kit, ‘in all that time you haven’t won promotion?’

‘Major Moffat has. As for the rest of us, nobody’s died or fallen in action. We’re up to establishment. One major, one adjutant, one messing officer and so on, site commanders and so on, the allowed number of NCOs and so on and no battle casualties. I’ve been at BHQ for nearly a year now, I was on site before.’

‘I still think you should have made sergeant by now, Tim, old boy. I made it in six months.’

‘Well, you’ve got good legs, of course, and good looks,’ I said.

‘I’m happy you’ve noticed, of course,’ she said, ‘but
they’re
nothing to do with promotion in the Wacs. Why can’t you apply for a commission and make lieutenant as a beginning?’ She pronounced it ‘lootenant’. ‘I’ll speak to Major Moffat about you. You must have some potential.’

I rounded a bend at startled speed. The utility keeled and Kit bounced against me.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

‘Watch it,’ said Kit.

‘Did you say you’d speak to the major?’

‘He walked me out with his dog last night.’

‘Lucky you weren’t wolfed.’

‘Wolfed?’

‘Eaten up by Jupiter, the major’s hungry hound.’

‘Now you mention it, it did have a go at my skirt once or twice.’ Kit smiled. ‘Your major’s very civilized, he fits my image of a typical British officer.’

‘It’s not allowed, of course, officers taking female sergeants out for a walk.’

‘He gave it a go,’ said Kit. ‘He’s kind of charming.’

‘All right, try marrying him and see what happens when you come down to breakfast with a button undone. You’ll get seven days potato-peeling.’

‘Someone should take you in hand, old boy. It’s crazy you’re still a private after all this time.’

‘Gunner,’ I said and drove into Sudbury.

It was a nice little town, although today it was wet with summer rain. People were walking to their churches in macs and brollies were up. I found a Methodist establishment and pulled up.

‘I think this is your kind of church,’ I said.

‘Thanks for the buggy ride,’ said Kit and alighted. I declined an invitation to join her. I was strict Church of England and didn’t want to get confused. I promised to pick her up at noon and drove to the only shop open, a newsagents. I bought a Sunday paper, found a public bus shelter and sat down to pass the time while it rained. The war news seemed better. Tripoli had been taken, Hitler wasn’t having it all his own way in Russia and nor were the Japs in the Pacific.

When I picked Kit up at noon, the weather had improved. As we drove through the town the clouds were breaking, the rain had stopped and the roofs, wet and shining, looked sun-washed. We took to the winding road again. Kit, having said she’d enjoyed the church service, asked why there weren’t any straight highways in England. I said I supposed they’d all been laid down by drunken road gangs. She wasn’t impressed, but she was when the sun came right out and the countryside glistened, sparkled and ran with colour. A cottage perched on a little Suffolk slope looked as if it was hanging out to dry. We swished through long puddles and clipped drying fronds of new honeysuckle reaching out from hedges.