Rising Summer (14 page)

‘And what’s on after tea?’ I asked.

‘Oh, Dad and me’s goin’ up to the chicken farm near Sudbury in ’is van to collect some new layers. Mum says you can keep ’er company till we get back.’

‘Sorry, Min,’ I said, seeing the trap, ‘but I’m housebound, I’m standing by for fire picquet duty.’

‘Oh, blow,’ said Minnie, ‘Mum’s not goin’ to like that. She’s baked a cake special, she won’t like the old war messin’ you about. All fiddle-diddle the old war is.’

‘I know, Min, I feel as mucked about as anybody. But I’ve got to stand up like a man to it.’

Minnie wrinkled her nice nose. ‘Blessed old fire picquet,’ she said. Then she smiled. It gave her the look of a sunripe dairymaid. What with that and what with Missus, I felt my best bet was to ask for a posting to Australia. ‘Still, there won’t always be a war, Tim. Best you give in when I’m sixteen.’

‘Give in to what?’

‘Lovin’ me,’ she said.

‘I’ll give in to thumping you, I’ll give in to that much, you cheeky infant.’

She laughed. ‘Like you best of all when you’re bein’ comical,’ she said and swung her bike from the hedge to the road. ‘Well, I’ll tell Mum you can’t come.’ She hitched her dress and drew one leg up to put herself in the saddle. Her Sunday stockings flashed. I growled at her. ‘Got good ’uns, ain’t I, Tim?’ She smiled, seeing me looking.

‘Hoppit,’ I said.

‘Don’t you go out no more with that American sergeant,’ she said. ‘Tear all ’er hair out, I will, if you do.’

She rode away, dress whisking, legs shining.

Minnie was trouble. So was her mum.

Aunt May and I wrote regularly to each other. She wanted to know more about this American sergeant I mentioned from time to time. So I told her that Kit Masters was a very efficient American soldier, but that I didn’t know if she was just as efficient as a civilian woman in a kitchen. I said she looked very picturesque on a bike and that I liked her. On or off a bike.

Aunt May wrote back to say it was time I answered questions seriously, as she couldn’t make head or tail of anything I’d said about this American girl. She also let me know that Mr Clayton had called again, just to ask how she was and that they’d shared another pot of tea and an interesting talk. And he’d been nice enough to ask her out. So they were going to have a walk round Hyde Park on Sunday.

I cornered Gunner Simpson in the vehicle workshop. He was a motor mechanic.

‘Listen, mate,’ I said, ‘this uncle of yours, the one who delivered the rabbits to my aunt, what’s he like?’

‘Me Uncle Bill? Oh, a bit short an’ fat.’

‘Eh?’

‘Yes, Little Tubby they used to call ’im in the last war. But he’s got a kind heart and six kids. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he could’ve managed one, let alone six. He liked yer aunt, by the way. Pretty woman, he said she was. I think she put a twinkle in ’is mince pie—’

‘All right, don’t go on, I’ve got the picture.’

I wrote a quick letter, telling Aunt May not to go walking round Hyde Park with her new short fat friend who was a married man with six kids and still had a twinkle in his eye.

Aunt May replied by return, informing me that Mr Clayton was a forty-five-year-old widower, that he had two daughters who were both married, that he wasn’t short or fat, but tall and lean, with nice manners, that he was just a friend and didn’t have any dishonourable intentions, if that was what I was thinking. Still, she said, she liked it that I was thoughtful about her welfare.

I went after Gunner Simpson again. He saw me coming and shut himself up in the workshop loo. Staff-Sergeant Dix came and took a look at me.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I’m waiting for Gunner Simpson to come out,’ I said.

‘What for?’

‘Nothing very much, staff, he’s only going to lose a leg,’ I said.

‘Not in his working time, he’s not,’ said Sergeant Dix. ‘Get back to your chicken shed.’

I lost out on that happening.

WHEN BRIGADE HQ ASKED
for site commanders and a number of NCOs and gunners to report for instruction on the new Bofors Mark V, Sergeant Johnson put my name forward. Since the personnel required were all supposed to be from sites and since they weren’t doing very much at the moment, I asked why I’d been put on the list. He informed me that as I’d been a member of a gun crew and was now rusted up, I was a special case. And Major Moffat concurred. His concurrence, according to Sergeant Johnson, had been terse. ‘Send the fiddling peanut.’

Not that I was upset. Courses of instruction, compared to field exercises, were a doddle. You only did a six-hour day and were excused all those duties that dated from Waterloo. A week away at Brigade HQ would give me a chance to get back to normal.

My normal was being nice to people. Missus had turned all that upside-down and Minnie hadn’t helped. I felt short-tempered at times. Aunt May had written to say that in my last letter I sounded as if I was having problems, was it anything to do with the American lady sergeant I’d met and said funny things about? You’re not in love, are you? That was what she asked in her letter. I expect it’s something like that, she wrote. I
replied
to say yes, it was something like that, but that I wasn’t sure of my ground, or if it would suit me to be in love with a sergeant who was nuts about efficiency and ran a store in Boston thousands of miles away.

The course at Brigade HQ was very instructional. I did it standing on my head, a Bofors gun not being unfamiliar to me and the Mark V being a beauty. My instructor, a sergeant, said if my mouth didn’t hold me back I might be a passable gunner one day.

‘One day soon?’ I asked, thinking of the Second Front, as everybody was.

‘Well, one day in the next war,’ he said.

‘What’s all this talk I’ve been hearing about rockets?’

‘Top secret. You shouldn’t have been bleedin’ listening.’

On my return to BHQ, I ran into Kit and Cassidy. Cassidy gave me a smile and a wink and left me to Kit, who was getting to look like Rita Hayworth.

‘How’s tricks?’ I asked.

‘Excuse me?’ she said impartially. It made me sound as if I could be anybody. Even Gunner Dunwoodie, who was more anybody than anyone.

‘Yes, how are you, lovey?’ I asked, shifting my shoulder. I had a soldier’s best friend with me, my rifle. Slung.

‘I’m fine,’ said Kit. ‘Who are you, by the way?’

‘That’s not very friendly.’

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’

‘Pleased, are you?’

‘I wasn’t aware you were away until Sunday came round and I found I’d been stood up.’

‘Hell, what a lemon, I clean forgot. We were going to cycle to Mary’s. Sorry.’

‘It’s OK,’ she said, but she was still cool. ‘Major Moffat filled in.’

‘That’s historical, you don’t often get a battery commander standing in for a gunner.’

‘He took me on a comprehensive tour of Suffolk,’ said Kit, leafing through a file she held busily to her face.

‘Serves me right. Did you enjoy it?’

Kit’s mouth twitched. ‘I’d have enjoyed it more if that crazy great dog of his hadn’t been so hungry. It tried to eat half my skirt.’

‘Lucky you, it could easily have been half your—’

‘Skip half my whatever,’ she said, ‘I can read your mind, Hardy.’ She looked at my best friend. ‘What’s that?’

‘A rifle. Didn’t you know?’

‘Yes, but I wondered if you did. It’s the first time I’ve seen you wearing one.’ She laughed. ‘Well, I guess that’s all for now.’

‘No, hold on a tick. Can I make up for last Sunday by making chits out for both of us tomorrow?’

‘Why not?’ she said. ‘I think you owe me. See you around, old buddy.’

After teatime bread and cheese, Frisby took me aside and mentioned that his relationship with Cecily was a mix-up.

‘Had a relapse, has she?’ I asked.

‘Listen, cock. I offered myself to Cecily as a father figure. Now I’ve got an ’orrible feeling she doesn’t want
me
as a dad, after all. What’s more, she’s got sex appeal she doesn’t know about. Know what it’s done to me? Knocked me fatherly feelings for six. I’m human, y’know.’

‘I know, that’s a problem for all of us.’

‘Point is, mate, how can I think of doing anything unkind to a bird who wants to believe some men would make a good Christmas present?’

‘With an effort, you could think about it quite easily, couldn’t you?’

‘Don’t talk like a cup of cocoa,’ said Frisby. ‘I can’t do things to a trusting American violet with her kind of history. But I can’t make her out, she’s talking about us going steady. Listen.’ He recounted.

On their way back from the pub last night, he and Cecily had taken to the by-ways instead of the road. The by-ways were rural and romantic and were making Cecily twitch. Frisby assured her nothing was going to happen. But Cecily came up with a surprising invitation.

‘Claud, you can kiss me, if you like.’

‘No, you’ll only get pent-up. Just enjoy the walk. We might get to see a fox or two.’

‘But you want to kiss me, don’t you?’ said Cecily.

‘You’ll kill me,’ said Frisby.

‘Claud, of course I won’t,’ she said. ‘Oh, I guess I’m no good at this, trying to get a guy to be nice to me.’

‘OK,’ said Frisby, ‘here it comes, then, but don’t drop dead.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. Cecily quivered. He admitted the self-tormented Wac had unearthed a protective instinct in him, which was a surprise to him. So he kissed her nicely, that was all.
There
was another surprise coming. Cecily gave her all in her response.

‘Steady,’ he said.

‘Do it again,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Kiss me again.’

So he kissed her again and Cecily wound herself around him. He came up for air.

‘Now how’d you feel?’ he asked.

‘Crazy,’ said Cecily. ‘Claud, you know you’re important to me, don’t you?’

‘Like a father?’

‘Shoot, no, I can find a nice old guy with whiskers to be my pa,’ said Cecily. ‘Was I OK, Claud, did you like kissing me?’

‘Well, of course I did,’ said Frisby.

‘Isn’t that great? I liked it too. I guess we’re dating steady now, Claud?’

I thought that seemed an open and shut case and said so. I asked Frisby why he thought there was a problem.

‘Is she forcing herself, mate, that’s the problem,’ said Frisby.

‘More like she’s after a wartime wedding. What a good job you’ve done on her, doctor.’

‘Think so? She keeps saying she likes this tight little island, all the daisies and everything. Pretty, she keeps saying. You sure that sounds like a wartime wedding?’

‘Lucky old you.’

‘But should I tell her a doctor can’t marry his patient?’

‘Why can’t you? It’s legal. And you wanted a little woman for your post-war future. Now you’ve got one.’

*

I couldn’t avoid Jim in the pub that evening. He wouldn’t let me. He took me aside.

‘Missus said come round Tuesday evenin’. Goin’ bikin’ again with yer nice female sergeant tomorrer, are yer, maybe? Fine legs she’s got. Minnie don’t think ’ighly of ’er, though. Ah, ’ere she is, just come in. Got ’er nice eyes on yer, Tim boy.’

A hand touched my elbow. I turned. Kit smiled sweetly. ‘Buy me one, Tim old boy?’ she said.

‘A pink nightie?’ I offered.

‘A Suffolk cider. I’ll find a table and play you checkers.’

‘You’re on. Can I walk you back to BHQ afterwards?’

‘Sure you can,’ said Kit. ‘At a safe distance.’ She laughed.

I had the bikes ready when she met me on the forecourt on Sunday afternoon. She inspected her machine with the cool, critical eye of a woman who knew it was second nature with men to dig pits for females. The major’s myopic Dalmatian, wandering about on the loose, padded up on eager paws and made a blind try for her left leg. I tickled it with a bicycle pump and it shot off howling.

‘You hit that dog, you brute,’ said Kit.

‘Saved your left leg, though,’ I said. She bounced her bike, testing the tyres. ‘I think they’ll hold out,’ I said.

‘Yes, we don’t want to run out of gas again, do we, Hardy?’

‘Just bad luck last time.’

‘Oh, sure. Let’s go.’

We went riding through the gates and out into the countryside, taking the winding lanes. We rode together. Kit’s skirt travelled enough to make her legs a picture. The weather was warm but breezy, the sky in the east full of little white puff-ball clouds.

Kit, riding easily, said, ‘This is great, this is fresh air and sweet peace. Are you looking?’

‘Not all the time.’

‘Why are men stupid about stockings?’

‘I think we’re stupid about everything. Well, I am.’

‘Never mind,’ said Kit, ‘you’re still useful, I hope.’

In that friendly way, we enjoyed our ride to Mary’s. Mary was delighted to see us again. She was a chatty old love. Kit and I meant welcome Sunday company for her. Her neighbours on either side were chummy but a bit ancient and accordingly prone to drop off during an afternoon gossip, which gave Mary’s chattiness a poke in the eye. Kit’s willing American ear was very welcome. The two of them were soon basking in fields of conversational clover. Lively as crickets, they were. I wandered away to do some gardening.

Mary called, ‘There’s a door come, Tim, I just remembered.’

‘A door? It dropped in, did it?’ I went back into the living-room.

‘No, you silly, it was brought.’

‘Oh, that door,’ I said.

‘With some big bits of wood.’

‘Good.’

‘A shifty-looking man brought them,’ said Mary.
‘Mind,
he spoke friendly and was nice in a way. Mr Beavers he said his name was.’

‘I’ve met that guy myself,’ said Kit. ‘I rate him suspect. Did you feel relieved, Mary, that you were still alive after he’d gone?’

‘Oh, I didn’t feel I was being accosted,’ said Mary, ‘just looked over.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if a nice old bloke like Jim can’t look over a well-formed widow or an American Wac without being thought shifty and suspect, I can’t see any point in men and women being made differently. Mind you,’ I said, making a safety move to the door, ‘if we were all the same, would we face the world with bosoms or chests?’