Rising Summer

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Don’t say things like that, Min, you’ll give me a headache.’

  ‘I didn’t say it, Dad did.’ Minnie fluttered her lashes. ‘They went an’ took his drum of petrol. He said they couldn’t, they said they could an’ they did. He said he thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘Still, tell him I’d better not have any more eggs from him for the time being, tell him to keep them tucked into the bosom of his family.’

  ‘Whose, Mum’s or mine?’ asked Minnie.

  ‘I’ll tan you,’ I said.

  ‘Honest?’ Minnie looked eager. ‘Would you, though? Be bliss, it would.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft.’

  ‘Not daft.’ Her smile was terrifying. ‘You’re fun, you are, Tim. Best ever. But you’re shy, like.’

  ‘Shy? Of what?’

  ‘Me. I don’t mind, though. It’s nice in a way. Goin’ to be your best girl, I am, you see. Oh, Dad said he won’t say.’

  ‘Won’t say what?’

  ‘Don’t know, do I?’ she said, the April sunshine dancing on her boater. She did know, of course, but nobody was going to prise it out of her. Good little Suffolk scout she was. In a frightening way. ‘All that porridge and all, Tim.’

  ‘Never mind what your mum gives you for breakfast, just tell your dad to say the drum dropped off the tail of a Heinkel. All right, off you go, Min. Ta for coming.’

  ‘Kiss first,’ said Minnie, standing in the lee of the hedge and pursing her lips.

  ‘Not this year, Min.’

  ‘But I’m sixteen in June.’

  ‘That’s not now. If I’m going to be shot at dawn with your dad, I don’t want to be hanged as well.’

  ‘Oh, I never ’eard anything dafter,’ said Minnie, ‘you can’t be hanged just because I’m still at school and look ’ow grown up I am.’ I wasn’t going to look. If I did she’d take a deep breath and puff herself up.

  ‘Buzz off, Min, behave yourself.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Min. A secretive little smile appeared. ‘Kiss me like you did on rising summer night.’

  Rising summer night still had hazy recollections for me. Sheldham celebrated the advent of summer not on the first of May, but on the first Saturday in April. It was something to do with the ritual of rising summer. The village hall had been packed, American GIs there in droves. Barrels of cider were tapped, cider being the only strong beverage allowed. And it was Suffolk cider, not Somerset. Whoever brewed it had squeezed every last drop of biting juice from the apples and its heady tang was of a ripe harvest, bitter-sweet. It was a great help to the GIs, it sent them in pursuit of everything in skirts and there was a bumper crop of those. Taking no notice of whatever the band was playing, the GIs turned every number into a flying jitterbug. The ancient rustics of Sheldham looked on, nodding with the wisdom of people who knew what rising summer cider was all about. Flushed housewives and rosy-cheeked maidens were whirled around. The band was a mixture of baldheads, roundheads and whiskers, all native-born, and their music reached back to some pagan mystique of long-gone ancestors. The ritual song, ‘Rising Summer’, kept cropping up. There were a hundred verses to it, someone said and the natives knew them all. I only managed to pick up the first line of the chorus. ‘Put ’em in a barrel and roll ’em in the barn.’ Eventually, the music and the rhythm took complete hold of the senses and everything else sounded raw and wrong.

  The cider did for me. It was my first encounter with Sheldham’s rising summer night. Some BHQ personnel who’d attended last year said watch the cider. And Jim Beavers said the same thing. I did watch it, pouring from a barrel into my glass several times, but once it was down my throat it was out of sight. I jitterbugged in a fog with no idea who my partners were. But one of them resolved into Minnie, at which point I made a rolling exit from the over-heated hall in search of cool fresh air. I also needed a wall to lean against. The fresh air and the coolness of the April night kind of clouted me. Minnie insisted on helping me in my search for a wall. I had a vague idea that a lot of wall was occupied by GIs and village maidens, but Minnie found a welcome piece of secluded brickwork for my back.

  ‘There, ain’t that nice, Tim?’ she murmured.

  ‘Where’s a bed?’ I asked unthinkingly. I meant a quiet spot where I could fall quietly down without breaking a leg. I knew I’d never trust Suffolk cider on rising summer night again. Minnie drew her own inference.

  ‘Oh, no need for a bed, Tim,’ she said. ‘It’ll be bliss any old how with you and I won’t tell Dad.’ She put her mouth to mine.

  Fortunately, I fell down then and Mother Earth drew me to her cool and comforting bosom. When I came to I had a racketing head and the hall was emptying. Minnie had disappeared. I didn’t think anything had happened until I tasted lipstick. Then I worried a little. Then I didn’t. Nothing illegal could have happened, the cider had pole-axed me.

  But I wasn’t too keen now on her secretive little smile. ‘Hold it,’ I said, ‘what d’you mean, kiss you like I did on rising summer night?’

  ‘Ain’t telling, am I?’ she said, trying to look coy. Coy? What a hope. ‘Won’t tell Dad, neither.’

  ‘Won’t tell what?’

  ‘Not saying, am I?’ She looked sunny and girlish and innocent against the green hedge. Wonderful little actress, she was.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to grow up a bit devious, Min.’

  ‘Me? Course I won’t, I couldn’t, not with you,’ she protested. ‘Want to be your best girl, don’t I?’

  ‘But don’t you fancy a GI from Hollywood, like all the girls?’

  ‘Hollywood, that’s a laugh,’ she said. ‘I’m not soppy, yer know. Just want you, Tim.’

  ‘Min, that’s silly,’ I said.

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ said Min, ‘it’s nice an’ you don’t want someone else to get me, do you?’

  ‘If anyone gets you at your age your dad’ll slice his legs off. It’s not going to be my legs. I need them for walking about and marching. Now be a sensible girl and go home.’

  ‘Tim, just one kiss, can’t you?’ she said.

  I looked around. The narrow winding country road was quiet. I gave in. I kissed her. A peck on her mouth. But her lips parted and she started to eat me. I almost fell over. I thought of village eyes from which nothing escaped, even at this distance. I thought of a court of law and of Minnie in her gymslip giving evidence, saying I overpowered her. She would too. Self-protective young maiden, she was. She had to be in a village as small as Sheldham. I pushed her off. She looked at me, her eyes wide open, her breath escaping.

  ‘Minnie—’

  ‘Oh, you Tim,’ she said faintly and actually dropped her head.

  ‘Not my fault you didn’t like it.’

  ‘That’s all you know.’ Her boater came up and her face wore a little smile. ‘Wasn’t it lovely, rising summer night?’

  ‘I don’t know, was it? I was knocked out myself.’

  The little smile was secretive again. ‘I’ll tell Dad,’ she said.

  ‘Tell him what?’ I asked, feeling alarmed.

  ‘That you give us a good ’un.’

  ‘Good what?’

  ‘Kiss,’ she said. ‘Soon as I’m sixteen, can I tell ’im an’ Mum we’re walkin’ out?’

  ‘If you carry on like this, you terror, by the time you’re sixteen you’ll be lethal and I’ll be dead.’

  She laughed. She looked creamy and larky. ‘You’re fun, you are, Tim. Never goin’ to want anyone but you. I’ll tell Dad I told you about the porridge.’ She went then, jauntily and with a little swish of her gymslip. What the war had done to evacuated cockney girls had to be seen to be believed. Meanwhile I had to think about the fact that Jim had been shopped, his illicit juice confiscated. It would be analysed. WD petrol contained more lead than rationed civilian stuff. The law would lay its wartime hand on Jim and in the court he’d have to take his hat off, which he never did normally.

  I went back to BHQ. I tasted lipstick. I�
�d tasted it before. Same flavour. Going through the gates I saw Kit coming out of the house, a thick folder in her hand. She liked work. She liked it enough to carry it about with her.

  ‘Could I have a word?’ I asked.

  ‘I can lend an ear to you, Tim, old boy. Is it going to be for real this time? Only you’ve got a lean and hungry look.’

  ‘Better than Top Sergeant Dawson’s fat look.’

  ‘Correction, soldier,’ said Kit, ‘Sergeant Dawson’s a fine manly guy.’

  ‘Yes, fine, big and fat.’

  ‘I’ll give him your message,’ said Kit, her smile crisp. ‘By the way, can you tell me why this cosy place is full of men called gunners and bombardiers and not a gun in sight?’

  ‘We’re admin,’ I said, ‘like your Washington admirals.’

  ‘Touché,’ said the lady sergeant, ‘I’ll pass on Washington admirals.’

  ‘You’re very kind. Listen, remember Jim Beavers?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You met him in the village the day I bused you here.’

  ‘Oh, sure.’ Her response was friendly but a little cautious, I thought. ‘That was Jim Beavers, Private Peterson’s private nightmare?’

  ‘I think Major Moffat dropped in on him,’ I said.

  She frowned. ‘Well, I guess that had to happen,’ she said. ‘Is he going to drop in on you, too?’

  ‘I hope not. I mean, I hope you and I are on the same side.’

  Kit looked me straight in the eye. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, someone put the finger on Jim,’ I said.

  ‘Old buddy,’ she said bitingly, ‘you’re an amateur.’

  ‘Amateur what?’

  ‘Comic,’ she said and went briskly on her way.

  Sergeant Johnson passed by. He gave me a hatchet look. I had a feeling I was going to fail the inquiry.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE SUFFOLK PUNCH WAS packed out, mainly with GIs. There was an American Air Force base a few miles away. The GIs thought the pub was cute, but that its name was a crazy one for a horse. Both bars, the saloon and the public, provided them with welcome opportunities to fraternize with the local talent. Gunner Frisby conceded the village maidens were on to a good thing. Not only were the GIs relatively rich, but they all lived in Hollywood. Or near it. Frisby said he’d decided not to compete, that he’d wait until the war was over and all the Yanks had gone home. Then he might be able to take his pick of some of the maidens who’d been left behind.

  I didn’t think that was too brilliant. Suppose there were no maidens left, suppose the GIs took the lot?

  ‘But there’s millions of maidens,’ said Frisby.

  ‘There’s millions of GIs too,’ I said. ‘There’s nearly a million in this pub.’

  I was in favour of a nice, well-behaved maiden myself. So was Aunt May. She was devoted to the idea of my ending up with a sweet and respectable girl.

  Frisby, formerly a young and ambitious clerk in a town hall surveyor’s department, favoured post-war bliss with a little woman who’d be a help to him and didn’t put curlers in her hair at night. He fancied working up from a semi-detached and a mortgage to a manor house by the time he was fifty, with his offspring riding about on horseback. Currently, that idea was taking a hiding, for he hadn’t met any potential little woman who didn’t prefer a Californian manor house next door to Gary Cooper.

  ‘Makes you feel resigned to waiting till the war’s over,’ he said. We’d managed to take possession of a table in the corner of the public. At the bar, GIs were jammed six deep and in the jam were several local females. ‘By the way,’ said Frisby, ‘I hear there’s a stink on about flogged juice.’

  ‘Just a rumour,’ I said hopefully, sipping my old and mild.

  ‘The major’s mounting an inquiry,’ said Frisby. ‘I heard he sent troops to storm someone’s chicken shed. Foxy old Jim’s shed, was it?’

  ‘Old Jim? Backbone of England,’ I said. Someone had shopped him. I hoped I hadn’t been mentioned. Major Moffat had no understanding of perks.

  Sergeant Masters came in then with Cassidy and Cecily. Cecily looked as if she’d rather be somewhere else. She twitched at the horrendous number of men present. Cassidy blinked in the fug. The scrum of GIs broke apart and invited the Wacs into their midst. Cecily retreated as far as she could. Her skirted bottom nudged our table. She hissed, jumped and turned. Frisby, fascinated by her behaviour, rose to his feet.

  ‘D’you need help?’ he asked.

  Cecily looked at him with dark suspicion. Frisby offered a helpful smile.

  ‘Drop dead,’ she breathed. A GI approached, touched her elbow and asked her if she’d like a drink. She sprang back. Frisby insistently saw her into the safety of the corner chair. She subsided, quivering, poor girl.

  ‘Like a cider?’ offered Frisby.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Nowhere to go,’ he said ‘All right, you just sit there, I’ll see that nobody gets to you. Don’t mind if Tim and me play draughts, do you?’ He opened up a draughts board and we played amid the din. Frisby was a suspect opponent. He had a shocking habit of reversing a move after he’d taken his hand away.

  ‘Hi, Brits.’ Cassidy had arrived, so had Kit. They both had drinks. Gin and tonics. ‘OK to join you guys?’ said Cassidy, ‘It looks safer here than it is over there.’

  ‘Welcome,’ I said. I pulled up a couple of chairs and they sat down.

  ‘Checkers?’ said Kit, eyeing the board with interest.

  ‘Draughts,’ I said.

  ‘Same game,’ she said and took off her cap. Her hair shone blue-black in the smoky light. ‘Carry on playing.’

  It was my move. I put a hand on one of my kings. Kit shook her head.

  ‘No?’ I said.

  ‘It’s not your best move, is it?’ she said. I took my hand away. Kit, convinced I needed help, made my move for me. Frisby, leaving Cecily strictly alone, eyed the move suspiciously.

  ‘Any advice, Miss Peterson?’ asked Frisby, hand poised over the board.

  ‘Miss Peterson?’ said Cassidy. ‘Who is this guy? I thought I knew him.’

  Cecily put more space between herself and Frisby. ‘Get lost,’ she said. She had a very limited vocabulary.

  ‘I just thought you might have an interesting move in mind,’ said Frisby.

  Cecily glared at him, obviously thinking he was propositioning her. Frisby gave her a fatherly smile. Fatherly? Frisby? Cecily muttered. Frisby pushed his leading king forward, thought for a moment and then left it there. Kit gave me a triumphant smile. Frisby, noticing, moved his king back. Kit sat straight up.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she said.

  ‘Can’t do what?’ asked Frisby.

  ‘You can’t alter a move once you’ve taken your hand off,’ said Kit.

  ‘Wasn’t a definite move,’ said Frisby, ‘just a feint.’

  ‘You must play to the rules or what’s the point? And there are principles.’ Principles? ‘Look,’ she said to me, ‘it’s up to you to discourage this guy in his sneaky cheating. If you don’t you’re an accessory to his delinquency.’

  ‘So how does that grab you, Tim, old boy?’ said Cassidy.

  ‘Sounds all right,’ I said.

  ‘It beats me, all this carry-on because I like to think twice about a move,’ said Frisby.

  ‘Get on with it,’ I said and we resumed the contest.

  Cecily gradually came to life, though in a guarded way and joined forces with Cassidy to make a back-up team for Frisby, while Kit interfered helpfully with my play. The game ended in a draw. I caught sight of Jim Beavers then, a briar pipe poking out from under his hat. He was playing dominoes with native cronies. I looked at him. He looked at me. We decided not to know each other. Best thing under the circs.

  Kit challenged me to a game. Cecily actually set out the board. Frisby gave her another fatherly smile. It raised her hackles.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re doing fine,’ he said.

&n
bsp; Kit and I began our game, eyeball to eyeball. Her white teeth gleamed. She played with verve and confidence. She thrust forward, plunging into my ranks, but left a hole or two so that when it appeared she had me scattered, I crowned a couple of kings and annihilated her.

  ‘Cute,’ she laughed.

  ‘How about it, Cecily, care for a game?’ asked Frisby in a kind way.

  ‘Keep off,’ said Cecily.

  ‘Sure?’ said Frisby.

  ‘Oh, OK, but don’t louse me up,’ said Cecily. She proved so good that Frisby, tottering on the edge of disaster, broke the rules again. He took a move back. Cecily stared at him.

  ‘Fact is, I hadn’t actually made up my mind,’ he said.

  ‘He’s doing it again,’ said Kit. ‘He’s unbelievable.’

  ‘Look,’ said Frisby, ‘if Cecily thinks I’m pulling a fast one—’

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ said Cecily. ‘Carry on.’ Well, good old Cecily, she’d come round to saying something friendly.

  Frisby’s defeat, however, was only delayed. It caught up with him three moves later. ‘Done me,’ he said, ‘what a turn-up.’ He gave Cecily an admiring look. Cecily swallowed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said kindly, ‘it hurt me the most.’

  Top Sergeant Dawson thundered in like a walking tree trunk in a hurry. He cast his eyes around, looking for Cassidy.

  ‘Here’s my guy,’ said Cassidy, and wrinkled her nose.

  ‘I’m off myself,’ said Frisby, ‘no late pass. Like to come with me, Cecily?’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ said Cecily, but in surprising fashion she got up and went with him.

  Kit said she had to get back. She also said she wanted to talk to me. We left the pub together. It was a twenty-minute hike to BHQ. The evening was cool, its freshness welcome. The cottages, their windows blacked-out, peered darkly at us. Kit walked with a brisk swing, her right hand on the strap of her shoulder bag.

  ‘You had something to say to me?’ I asked.

  ‘Sure, I do,’ she said. ‘About your friend. Jim Beavers, that’s his name, isn’t it? You said he was in trouble. He is. He’s suspected of being in unauthorized possession of army gasoline.’ We were passing Jim’s cottage. It was quiet. The chickens were roosting, the dogs lying in wait for foxes.