The fire was roaring up the chimney from a generous pile of logs. They sat cross-legged in front of it, soaking up its warmth.
‘Reminds me of cookouts,’ said Rusty.
‘When the summer comes,’ said her mother, ‘you’ll have to show me what a cookout is like.’ She was about to add, ‘Harvey often talked about them.’ But she swallowed the words.
‘Mother,’ said Rusty, ‘how come you like fixing cars? I mean, how come you got to do it, anyway?’
‘A lot of women had to take over the jobs normally done by men so that the men could join up. Didn’t they do that in America?’
‘Sure. I heard of women building ships in the New York docks, but I guess I didn’t see much of it where we lived.’ She paused. ‘Couldn’t you have done another kind of job?’
‘You disapprove, don’t you?’
Rusty squirmed. ‘No,’ she said slowly.
‘Yes, you do.’
‘We-e-ell. It’s kinda weird, that’s all. I never heard of a woman mechanic before. I guess I just can’t figure out why you like it so much. I mean, how did it all happen?’
Peggy threw some more wood on the fire.
‘Well, I’d been driving for the W.V.S. for over a year, and, like all the other drivers, we had to go through a daily routine of checking and caring for the vehicle and filling in charts recording mileage and fuel, that sort of thing. And I rather enjoyed it. The cars we had to drive were a bit of a menace, though, so I thought it would be useful if I started training to be a mechanic. I volunteered for a course. And I loved it.’
‘What happens when you join the W.V.S.?’
‘Oh, you’re trained in how to cope with an air-raid. You do some first-aid, learn about fire-fighting, emergency cooking, that sort of thing. One of our biggest jobs here was evacuating about three thousand people from their homes in the South Hams.’
‘Why? Was it bombed?’
‘No. The whole area had to be cleared because the G.I.s were going to use it as a training ground for the D-Day landings.’
Rusty listened as her mother talked about how difficult it had been moving people and their belongings away from the villages, of heartbroken people torn from their homes, of bewildered young G.I.s thrown into a foreign country, of the necessity of finding new homes for the evacuated people.
‘Is that how you met Mitch Flannagan and the man Charlie calls Uncle Harvey?’
She nodded. ‘There were clubs set up for the American forces. We wanted to make the Americans feel at home.’
‘Mother,’ said Rusty slowly, ‘what was he like?’
‘Who?’
‘Harvey.’
Peggy reddened.
‘Oh. Tall. Brown wavy hair. Blue eyes.’
‘But what was he like as a person?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
Rusty shrugged. ‘When Charlie talks about him, I s’pose I feel a little left out, not knowing anything about him.’
Peggy gazed into the fire.
‘I remember the day Charlie first met him. It was just after his second birthday, and Harvey had come to tea.’ She turned. ‘You know how jealous Charlie can get. He just stood there in the hall and scowled. Harvey scowled back, and the next, thing I knew Charlie was laughing! From that day on, Charlie worshipped him.’
‘Go on,’ urged Rusty. ‘Tell me some more about him.’
Peggy looked thoughtful for a moment.
‘Harvey had the most extraordinary energy. He was never afraid of making a fool of himself, either. He’d join in the most peculiar games with Charlie, even going as far as dressing up and painting his face.’ She paused. ‘At the same time he never made fun of him, or brushed Charlie aside when he was upset. He took what he said seriously.’ She smiled wryly. ‘He was also extremely determined.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I often tended to overdo working with the W.V.S., and because there was always such a lot to do, I’m afraid I was a bit stubborn about not taking time off. I knew I was being silly, but sometimes I seemed to be on a treadmill and I couldn’t find a way of getting off it. I remember one of the women in charge telling me off. “An exhausted volunteer is no use to anyone,” she said. “You’re not being fair to the others.” So I’d take a day off and then rush out to mend someone else’s car.’
‘What’s this got to do with Uncle Harvey?’ said Rusty, puzzled.
‘He was the only person who could pull me off the treadmill. Once, when I was so tired I could hardly think, he said, “Say, let’s find a nice sunny spot by the river and have us a picnic.” And I said, “Why?” and he said, “For the fun of it.” “But I can’t.” “There’s no such word as can’t,” he said. “I, Harvey Lindon, have just assassinated the word and removed it from Webster’s Dictionary. And the Oxford.” I just laughed. After that I had to give in.’
‘Do you think he’ll ever come back here?’
Peggy reddened again.
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Why?’
‘Things are different in wartime. You’re separated from your family, and so you make friends with other people to make up for that. Once a war is over, everyone goes back to their families.’
‘Does he have a family?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he have children too?’
‘No, but he has seven brothers and sisters.’
‘Does he have a wife?’
‘A fiancee.’
Peggy gave the fire a poke and turned one of the logs over.
‘Mother,’ said Rusty a little later, ‘I know you don’t like to talk about it, but why do you want me to go to college?’
‘Because I want you to have the chance of being more independent when you’re older.’
Rusty was puzzled. Independence was not what her mother or school encouraged. ‘You see,’ she blurted out, ‘I guess I just always figured I’d take some kind of practical or art course. I like fooling around with wood and paints, and drawing designs, and helping out with scenery and boats and stuff like that.’
‘Well, you can still do that after you’ve finished your degree course. You can do those things in your spare time, as a hobby.’
Rusty nodded. It sounded sensible, so why did she feel so broken up inside? Way back, when she and Aunt Hannah had talked about it, Aunt Hannah had suggested that she take some kind of pre-art school course so that she could learn lots of things like drawing, sculpture, printing, pottery, woodcarving, and that way discover what she wanted to do most of all.
For a while Rusty chatted about the Weekeepeemee -the river where she and the gang used to play—and Alice’s graduation day, and Jinkie’s wedding and Kathryn’s acting debut as a maid in summer stock. And, in turn, her mother talked about Charlie and the W.V.S. and occasionally, when Rusty pushed her, about Harvey.
Gradually, as the embers died down, they changed into their pyjamas and slipped, exhausted, into the camp beds.
Rusty was seated at the bar in their drugstore back home, reading a comic book and eating a chocolate icecream soda, when she heard a strange tinkling sound. She turned. Her friend Janey had walked in with a girl friend. She was wearing a flared red-and-white-check skirt below a white peasant blouse. Rusty could see from her wavy hair that she’d got a permanent. There were traces of lipstick on her mouth, and to Rusty’s amazement both she and her friend were wearing nylons. The tinkling sound came from a bracelet on Janey’s wrist, which had a row of charms hanging from it.
Janey sauntered over to the bar with her new friend and casually placed her schoolbooks on the counter.
‘Two cherry Cokes,’ she said.
Rusty leaned towards her. ‘Janey!’ she said, but her friend seemed not to have heard her. ‘Janey. It’s Rusty. Your best friend.’
But there was no response.
As Janey sat proudly up by the bar, Rusty noticed the points of her brassiere jutting underneath the peasant blouse. She turned hastily away and glanced down at
her own breasts. To her horror, she discovered that they had disappeared entirely.
Rusty woke up with a jolt. Her mother’s bed was empty. At the end of it lay jeans, a shirt and a sweater. On the pillow was a slip of paper. She leaned across and picked it up.
‘Dear Virginia,’ she read,
I thought I’d let you lie in. I’ll be at Mrs Hatherley’s. She’s very kindly offered us breakfast. As you can see, I’ve put out clothes to change into.
I hope you had a good sleep.
Love,
Mother.
Rusty pulled the blankets up to her neck and gazed towards the bay window. She could see by the movements of the trees that it was windy outside. Leaves whirled through the air and the windows gave a rattle. She hopped out of bed and dressed as fast as she could. Her jeans slid down to her hips, so she had to fold them over at the waistband to keep them up. She cupped her breasts with her hands. Although small, to her relief they were still there.
She found her mother in a rickety old garage in the Hatherleys’ garden, her head under the bonnet of the car. She was back in her overalls, her hair hanging untidily in wisps out of a grubby khaki turban.
Rusty suddenly realized how unhappy her mother must have been, for the difference in her manner was extraordinary: she looked positively radiant. Rusty strolled over to her. The air reeked of petrol and oil.
‘Doesn’t the smell put you off?’ she said.
‘No. I love it.’
‘I like the smell of wood and paint,’ said Rusty. ‘I guess that’s sort of the same thing.’
Rusty stared at the engine. She was still trying to figure out what it was that made her mother enjoy fiddling around with them so much. She thought of Aunt Hannah and her sculptures.
‘It’s a little bit like sculpture, isn’t it? Only it moves and is made of metal and stuff.’
Her mother stood back and gazed at the arrangement of cylinders and wires. ‘Yes,’ she said, surprised. ‘Some of these engines have a real beauty about them. I’d never thought of it like that. It is rather like a moving sculpture, I suppose.’
Aunt Hannah sculpted out of all sorts of materials -wood, clay, stone – but she’d never made anything out of metal. Maybe Rusty’d suggest it to her in her next letter.
‘Aunt Hannah sells some of her sculptures,’ said Rusty suddenly. ‘Maybe you ought to fix broken-down cars and sell them too.’
Her mother burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ said Rusty. ‘I think it’s a keen idea.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose it is, but I’d need a garage, and to be honest I don’t think anyone would buy a car if they knew that I’d fixed it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m a woman.’
‘But people ask you to fix their cars here.’
‘That’s because they know me and I’ve built up a reputation.’
‘So you could do it again.’
Peggy gave one of Rusty’s plaits an affectionate tug.
‘I’m serious,’ said Rusty earnestly. ‘Why is it everyone in this country always looks at all the things that might go wrong first, instead of starting something and then seeing what happens. Then if something goes wrong, you can figure it out a little bit at a time.’
Just then, Mrs Hatherley poked her head round the door.
‘Hello, Rusty,’ she said. ‘I’m just off to feed the chickens. Harry’s in the kitchen. He’ll give you breakfast.’
‘I can manage all right,’ said Rusty.
‘I’m afraid,’ whispered her mother, when Mrs Hatherley was out of earshot, ‘it wouldn’t be fair to ask for milk.’
‘It’s O.K.,’ Rusty whispered back. ‘A glass of water will be just fine.’
She was about to leave when she stopped.
‘Mother, did the G.I.s like tea?’
‘No. As soon as they could, they had coffee supplies sent over here. And doughnuts.’
‘Doughnuts!’ said Rusty. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a doughnut!’
Harry met her at the kitchen door.
‘Hello,’ he said cheerily. ‘I’ve been instructed to feed and water you.’
He stepped back and with a grand gesture ushered her into the kitchen. Rusty frowned when she caught sight of his hands. They were covered in clay.
‘What are you doing?’
He pointed to several lumps of clay on the board by the sink. ‘I’m trying to make soup bowls.’
He rinsed his hands hastily under the tap and wiped them on the seat of his shorts. He grabbed a frying-pan from a shelf, put it on the cooker, and proceeded to knife out some dripping from a bowl.
‘It’s O.K.,’ protested Rusty. ‘I can do it myself.’
‘I’ve had my orders,’ he said, cracking an egg into the pan. ‘Cut yourself some bread and shut up.’
‘Nobody lets me do anything,’ she muttered, carving a chunk of bread from a loaf. She was just about to add, ‘Don’t they have any sliced bread in this country?’ but stopped herself.
‘Harry,’ she said, as she handed him the bread, ‘do the kids at your school hate the ones who have come back from America?’
He took the peculiar-shaped piece of bread and threw it into the frying-pan. ‘No. In fact, we envy some of the things about them.’
‘Like what?’
‘The films and shows they’ve seen. That sort of thing.’ He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘It’s just that sometimes they don’t know what we’re talking about.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, if we talk about something that’s happened during the War, they can’t join in and they don’t like it that they’ve missed out, and I suppose that makes them a bit miserable. But it’s not our fault. Now,’ he added, ‘how do you want your egg? Sunnyside up or over easy?’
‘Boy, how do you know that? I never heard anyone say that over here.’
‘Most of the Americans are boarders, and sometimes I eat with them.’
‘Sunnyside up,’ said Rusty. ‘Boy, you can really cook.’
‘It’s only fried egg on fried bread,’ he said, sliding it from the pan on to a plate.
Rusty took the plate and sat at the table.
‘This is really good.’
Harry returned to rolling the clay into a long worm. He coiled it around in circles, layer on layer to form a bowl shape.
‘Where’d you learn to do that?’
‘At school.’
Rusty started feeling jealous again. She found herself saying rather pompously, ‘We don’t have time for all that kind of thing at my school. We have so much studying to do.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Harry, unperturbed. ‘I don’t like studying. I don’t mind reading about things after I’ve done them or if I’m looking up something for a reason, but I’d hate to have to learn lots of facts and dates off by heart.’
‘Well, if you don’t learn things by heart, you can’t pass exams, can you?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m not interested in passing exams. I want to be a potter and be judged on what I can make.’
‘A potter!’ said Rusty incredulously. ‘Well,’ she continued, copying her mother, ‘that’s the sort of thing you can do for a hobby, after you’ve passed exams.’
To her annoyance, he laughed. ‘Don’t be so bloody silly,’ he said.
She almost yelled out, ‘That’s an order mark!’ How could he be so sure of himself? ‘I bet your parents won’t let you,’ she stated.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well,’ she said smugly, ‘maybe it’s just that you can’t take exams at your school. At my school we can take exams and go to college.’
‘So what? We can do that at our school, too. You don’t have to be so superior about it.’
‘I am not being superior,’ she exclaimed.
‘Oh yes you are. In fact you’re turning into a little prig.’
Rusty leapt to her feet. ‘At least I’m not a pantywaist like you.’
‘A wha
t?’
‘A pantywaist! A coward. If there was a war on, I’d volunteer for the army. I wouldn’t be a, you know, pacifist like you and let other people do all the fighting and sit at home and do nothing.’
‘Who says I’d do nothing?’ said Harry loudly. ‘If you must know, little Miss Bloody Know-It-All, I’d do something to keep people alive, like working on a farm and helping grow food, or be in an ambulance or bomb disposal squad.’
‘I bet!’ she said. ‘You’d be too scared.’
‘Yes, I probably would be scared, but I’d rather do that than wave flags and sing patriotic songs and then use that as an excuse to kill lots of people.’
‘You’re nuts!’ she yelled.
‘And you’re a pompous ass!’ he yelled back.
‘Well, your ears are too darned big, if you want to know.’
‘And so’s your mouth.’
‘Well... you can go to hell!’
And with that she stormed out of the kitchen.
It wasn’t until she had reached Beatie’s house and had rocked herself violently backwards and forwards for half an hour in the old car tyre that she began to cool down.
She hadn’t meant to say all those dumb things. Everything just came out all wrong. It didn’t when she was with Lance in their Cabin in the Woods. If she could smuggle back a saw and a couple more tools, and maybe even a paintbrush, in her grip, she could take them back with her and use them there. Then she could make it into a really good home and hiding place. Harry and Beth could just go lose themselves. She gave a triumphant smirk. Boy, if they knew about her Cabin in the Woods, they’d be the ones to be jealous. With that thought in mind, she leapt off the tyre and left it swinging wildly behind her.
24
‘It’s preposterous! Absolutely preposterous!’
Rusty was leaning over the heavy wooden banister eavesdropping. The outraged voice that was soaring from downstairs belonged to her grandmother. All Rusty’s mother had managed to tell her was that she had been left Beatie’s house. Her grandmother hadn’t allowed her mother to get any further.
‘The woman must have been deranged!’ she stated. It was Monday evening, Rusty’s last night before returning to school. She and her mother had spent most of the day travelling back.
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