‘A cup now will be just fine,’ said Kit. ‘We won’t stay for anything else.’
‘You must now you’re here,’ said Mary. ‘Sunday company’s a nice change for me and I happen to have done a bit of baking.’
She poured tea, hot and golden. Kit hitched her skirt and sat down. Her legs had a delectable shine. Growing boys never really knew about women having legs until after the First World War. Before that, they only knew about bosoms. And when legs really arrived with the flappers, bosoms went out in favour of flat chests. No wonder we’re all a bit confused.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘your grass needs mowing.’ I was fond of grass. There wasn’t much of it about in Walworth.
‘Me mower’s gone wrong,’ said Mary, ‘and George Whittle’s packed up doing repairs and gone to be a watchman in a factory in Ipswich doing war work. I’ve been waiting for Fred Plummer to come and have a look at it, but it’s like waiting for a blessed miracle.’
‘I’ll look at it,’ I said. With Mary and Kit already getting to know each other, I took my tea outside.
Mary’s mower was in the shed. The blades were jammed. One had a vicious kink. Mary must have hit Suffolk stone. I hammered out the kink, filed the edge and sharpened the other blades too. It worked a treat then, it was a good old reliable hand-mower. I spent the next hour mowing the lawns front and back and building up a compost heap with rich grass cuttings, while Mary had a nice time gassing to Kit.
It was good in the sunshine. Mary put her head out of the kitchen window and said I was a love. To me it was a pleasant way of spending a Sunday afternoon. Intellectual people despise suburban lawn mowers, but if we all took to living under railway arches or sharing a tent with Bedouins, think of what gardens would get to look like. And who’d grow the potatoes? Some of us have got to be homely and peasant-like.
Mary called to say proper tea was ready and Kit came out to tell me I was a welcome surprise to her.
‘You’re actually useful,’ she said.
‘Oh, Tim’s been useful to me in more ways than one,’ said Mary from the open window. That wasn’t the best way a widow could have put it. I saw a little smile creep up on Kit. ‘I wish there was more like Tim,’ Mary went on, ‘then I might get someone to look at my drain out here. I think it’s got blocked, me water’s not running away properly. I’ve told the council, I’ve told them I hope it don’t mean the cesspit’s full up and they said they’d come and see, but no-one’s been.’
‘Oh, we’ll get Tim to take a look at it,’ said Kit generously.
‘I’d be ever so grateful,’ said Mary.
‘First thing after tea,’ said Kit and that was something to be thankful for, that she realized tea should always come before drains.
Tea was scones made from a wartime recipe with Mary’s own strawberry jam, and slices of her honey cake. Kit ate with relish. It was, she said, her first genuine English country tea. She had discarded her jacket. Her shirt was impeccably buttoned, her tie pursuing a straight and orderly path between rounded turrets. Only the gentlest of motions disturbed her shirt, due no doubt to efficient bosom control.
Mary said the front door was getting a bit of a nuisance. It let in the devil and all his draughts in the winter.
‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘you can’t keep the devil out of any house, Mary, but as my Aunt May said once, as long as you don’t shake hands with him, he never takes the best chair.’
‘Old Fred says it needs taking off and re-hanging,’ said Mary over her teacup.
‘Old Fred is all say and no do,’ I said.
‘We’re glad you’re not, aren’t we, Mary?’ said Kit. She popped cake into her mouth and I thought of following it with the tea cosy, because I knew what was coming next. ‘You’ll look at it, won’t you, when you’ve seen to the drains? Mary will appreciate that.’
‘Oh, only if you’ve got time, Tim,’ said Mary.
Flying pancakes, they were already bosom female chums ganging up on me. I muttered something about I’d better see first how I got on down the drain, as drains could be lethal. They simply gassed on over my mutters. Best of pals they were, already.
I finished my tea and went to look at the swinish drain. I spent the next forty minutes poking it with bamboo canes. There was a messy blockage and an inescapable stink. The day didn’t seem like sweet summer any more. I got sweaty and bad-tempered, my army braces dangling, my shirt sleeves rolled up and my hands and arms filthy. But just as a squadron of Flying Fortresses flew thunderously over and I was essing everything in sight, there was a mushy, squashy gurgle and then a glorious mud-sucking rush. When Mary and Kit came out to inspect progress, the drain was clear, and the stink had transferred itself to me. Mary held her nose. Kit backed off.
Mary, seeing the unblocked drain, said through her pinched nose, ‘Oh, lovely, Tim.’
‘Pleasure,’ I said hypocritically.
‘All that muck gone,’ said Mary, ‘there’s just a bit of a pong now, that’s all.’
‘That’s me,’ I said, ‘I’m pong.’
‘Just a small stink,’ said Kit.
‘I’ll go and light the geyser,’ said Mary, ‘and you can have a bath. Thanks ever so much, Tim, I don’t hardly know how to thank you.’ Off she went to light the geyser. I heaved the drain cover back into place.
Kit gave me a kind smile. ‘You’re surprising me,’ she said again, ‘you can do things.’
‘I’ll go and grab that bath,’ I said.
‘What about Mary’s front door? You’ve still got that to look at.’
‘Stop organizing me,’ I said and went into the cottage after wiping my feet. ‘Or I’ll assault you,’ I said, but only to a piece of crest china from Norwich.
I climbed the stairs. Mary was in the bathroom where the antique geyser was making threatening noises and shaking itself silly. An eruption seemed likely. ‘Jesus,’ I said, ‘if that thing blows up while I’m in the nude, I’ll—’
‘It’s all right,’ said Mary and gave the geyser a bang with a back scrubber. It calmed down at once. She left me to my bath. I enjoyed a hot, wallowing soak. I thought about Kit. I thought about Mary. What a woman. She was a lively cockney who, like Missus, had taken on all the characteristics of a rural female. As for young Minnie, it beat me that she had a schoolgirl crush on me and not on some GI equivalent of Gary Cooper. It wouldn’t last, of course. With any luck by the time her birthday arrived she’d be looking at me as an uncle.
After my bath, I looked at the front door. It seemed a fine old piece of joinery to me, of solid, weathered oak, with a heavy brass knocker that Mary always kept polished. The door had a necessary clearance, but not an abnormal one. The trouble was, it opened directly on to Mary’s living-room, like so many cottage doors did and the draughts were bound to arrive around her feet, especially when her winter fire was drawing. I suggested fitting a draught-excluder.
‘Oh, them things,’ said Mary, which meant no thanks. I examined the porch, enclosed on both sides. It was a little less than four feet wide between the front supporting posts. With further posts butted on, a three-feet door could be hung. That would close the porch right up and turn it into a little entrance lobby that would kill the worst of the draughts. And if I still fixed a draught-excluder, that ought to button it right up. I thought I could manage the job, provided the battery didn’t get posted to some battlefield. I carried the idea to Mary and Mary said what a hope that was, trying to get a door and someone to fix it. Be like waiting for another miracle, she said, but I was a lamb to think of it.
‘Don’t worry, Mary,’ said Kit, who’d made herself really at home. ‘The miracle’s here. You’ll fix it, Tim, won’t you?’
‘I was going to say I’d give it a go.’
‘There’s a good guy,’ said Kit. ‘Mary, have you ever thought about central heating?’
Flaming Amy, I thought, she’s not just an American disturbance, she’s an interfering earthquake.
‘Oh, I don’t want no foreign central heati
ng,’ said Mary.
‘But for someone living on her own,’ said Kit keenly, ‘it’s very labour-saving and much more efficient than an open fire. I’m sure Tim would—’
‘Pardon me, dearie,’ I said, ‘but no, I wouldn’t. I’m not a heating engineer, I’m just a bloke who drops in sometimes.’
‘Don’t be self-defeatist,’ said Kit. ‘Be a tiger.’
‘He looks nice after his bath,’ said Mary in an irrelevant, motherly way.
‘He smells better, I’ll say that,’ said Kit.
‘I think I’ll stick to my coal fire,’ said Mary.
‘Well, you do that,’ said Kit. ‘I guess some things shouldn’t get changed and this is a sweet old English cottage. Mary, this has been just the nicest Sunday I’ve had since I arrived. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it.’
‘Come again anytime,’ said Mary, ‘I like company.’
‘I might just take you up on that,’ smiled Kit.
We cycled leisurely back to BHQ. The May evening was warm and the lustre left by the morning rain was still evident. The setting sun was beginning to flush the countryside and to tint the tops of trees. I rode ahead, Kit behind me, keeping her legs to herself. The country quiet made the war seem remote.
‘Tim Hardy! Come back!’
I stopped and turned my head. She was off her bike. I rode back to her. She had a flat.
‘Hard luck, old girl,’ I said. ‘Well, stay here and guard the puncture and I’ll shoot back to BHQ and see if one of your officers will motor out and pick you up.’
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ she said, ‘you’re not dumping me here with a flat. You got me here and it’s up to you to get me back. How about some English chivalry, how about fixing the tyre?’
‘Take ages,’ I said and she gave me a crisp look. I’d heard that American men were brought up to do as they were told. I believed it. ‘OK, I’ll take a look,’ I said weakly.
Out of the quietness came the deep hum of a speeding car. It came careering round a bend, but slowed as it approached us. It was a Hillman, bedecked in WD war paint. It pulled up. At the wheel was Major Moffat. In place of Lance-Bombardier Burley, his driver, was his horse-faced Dalmatian, already licking its lips at the sight of Kit’s tasty legs. I saluted. The major put his head out. He didn’t look as if he’d had a satisfying afternoon. He looked as if he knew some traitor had sabotaged his plans to give site personnel a shake-up. Then he recognized Kit. His ruggedly handsome face creased into a smile. He saw her flat tyre. He glanced at me.
‘Trouble, Gunner Hardy?’
‘Sergeant Masters has a puncture, sir.’
‘Well, well.’ He seemed pleased about it. ‘You’re outside the permitted area. D’you have a pass?’
‘Yes, sir. And a chit.’
‘Come here,’ he said and I advanced so that he could address my ear alone. He was a military martinet, but preferred the unconventional to red tape. Kit looked on solemnly. ‘I know about chits, you fiddling Himalayan yak.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What are you doing out here with an NCO of the Wac?’
‘Showing her the countryside, sir.’
‘I hope I’ve arrived in time to save her. All right, stuff her bike into the boot. I’ll take her back to BHQ.’ He called to her.
‘Major?’ said Kit.
‘Climb aboard, Sergeant Masters,’ he said. ‘Can’t let you walk.’
Kit hesitated. The Dalmatian licked its lips again. The major gave me a look. I took the hint and opened the passenger door for Kit. Jupiter thrust his jaws out. The major cuffed the hopeful animal and it scrambled over on to the back seat. Kit got in. I closed the door.
‘See you,’ she said and gave me her warmest smile yet.
‘The major made off with his treasure a few minutes later, the bike sticking out of the boot. Pity, I thought. It could have been a lingering evening, I could have begun to do some learning on my own initiative.
Acceptable learning.
I biked back. When I approached BHQ, there was a girl waiting some twenty yards from the gates. Minnie in a bright Sunday dress and with sparks in her eyes. She made me stop, by plonking herself in my way.
‘Now what?’ I said.
She tossed her head and her hair whipped and flew like an angry banner of August gold. ‘Where is she? You been out with her, you been out on bikes with her. Oh, you Tim, you’ve never been out on bikes with me and I’m goin’ to push ’er face in. Where is she?’
‘Probably putting her feet up in the ATS quarters, or taking a shower,’ I said. ‘And how d’you know I’ve been out with her?’
‘Someone said, didn’t they?’
‘Who?’
‘I ain’t saying, am I? I know, that’s all.’ Minnie was flushed and upset. ‘Fancy goin’ out with someone like that, I never seen anyone more ugly. Aunt Flossie says I’m easily the prettiest woman in Suffolk—’
‘Now, how could she say that about a scatty schoolgirl?’
‘Never you mind, she did say it.’ Minnie kicked the front tyre of the bike. ‘Why can’t you take me out on Sundays instead of someone ugly and with rotten legs?’
‘She’s got good legs.’
‘Oh!’ Minnie let out a cry of fury. ‘You’ve been lookin’ at them in some field, you never look at mine and they’re easy better than hers!’
‘Oh, come on, Min, pack it up, you know you’re just putting it on and playing games with me.’
‘I ain’t, I’m not, I wouldn’t, I couldn’t! Oh, you wait till I’m sixteen and the Yanks line up to take me out, I’ll go out with hundreds of them I will and send you all dotty and grief-struck with jealousy. You’ll want me for your best girl then, when you can’t ’ave me.’ She eyed me woefully. ‘I just don’t know why you can’t say you love me.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’m grown up nice, ain’t I?’
‘A terror, more like,’ I said.
‘You didn’t say that at rising summer.’
‘Leave off about that, Min, there’s a good girl.’
‘All that lovin’ and all,’ she said.
‘All that imagination, you mean.’
‘I won’t say anything, will I? Don’t want Dad to go for you with ’is chopper, do I?’
‘Holy cows,’ I said, ‘you’re making holes in my head.’
‘Just don’t take that ugly old American woman out any more, that’s all,’ said Min. ‘Just come round when I’m sixteen and take me out.’
‘I’m going to have to talk to your dad about you.’
‘And I’m goin’ to talk to that boss-eyed, bandy-legged sergeant woman,’ said Min. ‘I’m goin’ to tear all ’er rotten hair out.’ And off she went in high dudgeon.
I walked down to the pub with Cassidy, Cecily and Frisby later. Top Sergeant Dawson seemed to have got lost in a rural backwater somewhere, so Cassidy said she’d like a nice quiet evening. Going through the high street, young Wally Ricketts called me. I went back to see what he wanted.
‘’Ello, Tim,’ he said, ‘I can get yer a pair tomorrer, say, seein’ yer didn’t wallop me that time.’
‘You can pinch another helping of bunny rabbit, can you?’
‘Dunno what yer mean,’ said Wally. He was far browner than he probably ever was in the East End. His freckles were a burning gold. ‘I can get ’em dead honest for you, Tim.’
‘I’ll let you know, Wally. I need someone who’s going on leave to deliver ’em.’
‘You ask anytime, Tim, you’re me mate,’ said Wally, ‘and ain’t that Minnie Beavers an eyeful? Is she stuck on yer? Cor, I wouldn’t mind bein’ you. Seen yer wiv ’er at risin’ summer.’
‘What d’you mean, you saw her with me at rising summer?’
‘Kissin’ and all,’ said Wally, a grin on his face.
‘You were in bed.’
‘Well, I was for a bit, then I got up,’ he said. I could imagine that. The sounds of revelry and the inclinations of an adventurous boy. He’d want
to get a look at what was going on.
‘How would you like to be pushed under a train?’ I asked.
‘’Ere, I wouldn’t tell on yer, Tim,’ he said. ‘Could yer lend me a tanner so’s I can send me dad a birfday card?’
‘Meet me at the pond in half an hour, when it’s dark,’ I said.
‘Can’t yer lend me the tanner now?’ he asked.
‘I’m not going to lend you a tanner, I’m going to drown you,’ I said.
‘Me? I ain’t done nuffink, Tim.’
‘All right, here’s tuppence,’ I said. The trouble was I had a blank mind about Min that night. I supposed I might have gone in for some heavy kissing while inebriated up to my eyeballs. Wally accepted the copper coins with a boyish smile.
‘Yer me best mate, Tim,’ he said. ‘I ’opes yer flattens the ’ole German Army by yerself. I wouldn’t ’arf be proud.’
‘Flog off,’ I said and went to join Frisby and the Wacs in the pub.
CHAPTER NINE
I WAS GLAD to get out one evening, after several days of having Major Moffat on my back. He meant to get me for something, even for having a button undone.
I walked to the village and knocked on Jim’s door. Minnie answered. In her gymslip. She blossomed into smile, a forgiving one.
‘Oh, you Tim, you’ve come to take me out?’ she said.
‘Well, no, not yet, Min, you’re still not eighteen.’
‘No, when I’m sixteen – sixteen. That’s when I can start goin’ out. Oh, Mum heard you were comin’ round this evening.’ It was almost frightening. I’d said to Frisby I was popping down to the village, did he want to come with me. He’d said he had a date to walk about with Cecily.
‘Just how did your Mum get to know that?’ I asked.
‘Dicky bird flew in again, didn’t it?’ said Min. ‘But we ’aven’t heard you’ve gone out with that ugly old American sergeant again. It’s best you don’t, Tim, I’ll get ever so cross if you do. Oh, I couldn’t have come out with you this evening, anyway, I’m goin’ to Aunt Flossie’s again. Mum said to give ’er a bit of company.’
Missus was up to something again. Minnie was being got out of the way.
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