Rising Summer

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘’Eard you was back,’ he said.

  ‘Turn-up for the book if you hadn’t heard,’ I said. ‘How’s Min?’

  ‘Fairish,’ he said. ‘She’s out this evenin’.’

  ‘With a feller? A boyfriend?’

  ‘Now don’t talk daft, Tim lad. Min ain’t interested in boys. Growed out of boys before she was thirteen. Boys ain’t grown up, she always says. They’re kids, she says.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s found a six-foot Yank with a moustache.’

  ‘You all right, Tim?’ Jim looked concerned. ‘Ain’t like you to talk like you don’t know the alphabet. Min won’t stand for any Yank gettin’ too near ’er, you know that. She knows too much about ’em. Didn’t she tell yer there’s a fifteen-year-old girl at ’er school been put in the fam’ly way by a Yank that’s disappeared like a bleedin’ puff of smoke? That ain’t goin’ to ’appen in Min’s life. I dunno why I ever come to think it ’ad, except there she was, growin’ up fast an’ ready to eat you about risin’ summer night. I remember givin’ yer one or two warnings. Still, I ought to ’ave ’ad more faith in me own flesh an’ blood.’

  ‘You old haybag,’ I said. ‘One minute you’re offering to let your Missus teach me things I ought to find out for myself and the next you’re congratulating yourself on your daughter’s purity. Anyway, as long as she’s all right—’

  ‘Fairish, Tim, fairish. She’s round at the Goodwins ’ouse, with ’er friend Jane.’

  ‘Well, give her my love,’ I said.

  ‘Now I ain’t goin’ to go that, Tim lad,’ said Jim, wagging his pipe at me. ‘She’ll think you mean it, she’ll take it serious. That sort of thing you got to say to ’er yerself, only I know she ain’t the right age for you, specially seein’ I also know you got certain feelings for that there Wac sergeant that’s more your age, like. Mind, not that I’d tell Minnie that, or she’d be up to Chackford with a chopper.’

  ‘Give her my regards, then,’ I said. ‘I’m fond of her.’

  ‘Fond of Missus too, ain’t yer, lad?’ said Jim and he chuckled.

  I went on to the pub.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I ACTUALLY RECEIVED a reply from Kit. She said my apology was a happy surprise and a welcome one, as she hadn’t wanted to be left with only unpleasant memories of me. She was willing to meet me at Mary’s next Sunday afternoon, when we could talk things through.

  Talk things through, yes, I’d got to know that American females had a thing about talking things through. I wasn’t sure if that would get me anywhere, but the temptation of seeing Kit again made me reply by return, saying yes to the meeting.

  Sergeant-Major Baldwin entered the orderly room. ‘On your feet, Gunner Hardy,’ he barked. ‘Cap on. Right, this way.’

  He marched me up to Major Moffat’s office. He presented me to the Major, who had his own cap on. So I came to attention and saluted.

  ‘Is this him, Sergeant-Major?’ he asked.

  ‘Gunner Hardy present and correct, sir,’ said the sergeant-major.

  ‘I see. Very well. Gunner Hardy, from tomorrow you will accept promotion to the rank of lance-bombardier. That’s all. Dismiss.’

  The sergeant-major marched me out of the office and down the stairs, telling me to draw stripes from the stores and to get them sewn on by tomorrow. Were there any questions?

  ‘Well, yes, Sergeant-Major. Are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake?’

  ‘No, I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘but it’s done now. We’ll have to live with it.’

  Promotion. What for? Distinguished service in getting the battery through the bog on Exmoor? Ruddy hell, Missus and her tea leaves. If that wasn’t second sight, what was?

  Life was suddenly being kind to me. I no longer had to worry about Minnie and Kit was going to meet me again. And wait a tick, hadn’t Missus seen a surprise marriage for me in a previous teacup?

  I felt I ought to knock my head against a wall and bring myself down to earth. All that might happen on Sunday was the possibility of Kit psychoanalysing me to find out what my real problems were and then buying me the kind of helpful book that Frisby had had in mind for Cecily. Well, I’d have to take what she dished out.

  My first day as an NCO landed me with my first responsible duty, as guard commander. Major Moffat, accompanied by Sergeant-Major Baldwin, came out to inspect the guard himself, sharp on the dot at eighteen-hundred hours. I brought my four men smartly to attention and saluted as the major came up. He made his inspection. He didn’t say a word, not until he’d given every man a good look. Then he said, ‘Carry on, Lance-Bombardier Hardy.’ I was almost certain he had a little grin on his face as he departed. I think it meant, ‘Try that for starters, you bugger.’ I saw it all then. He was going to wear me out with responsibilities.

  Later on, just after dark, the man on duty called me from the guard hut, where I was wondering if the night was going to be peaceful enough for me to risk taking my boots off.

  ‘Bloke in a hat wants to see you, Tim.’

  ‘You’re supposed to call me lance-bombardier.’

  ‘Laugh a minute, that is.’

  Outside the gates, Jim was darkly hovering. His ancient van was parked adjacent the workshop. ‘Watcher, Tim lad. Just passin’, I was, thought I’d stop. I ’eard you was in charge of the guard tonight.’

  ‘Well, you help write out the day’s orders, I suppose,’ I said. ‘Which reminds me, you forgot to tell me I was getting promotion.’

  ‘Now, Tim, Missus told yer, didn’t she? Told yer before you went up to Exmoor. An’ we’re all pleased for yer. You’ll be a sergeant soon, Missus reckons an’ she’s got some eggs goin’ spare. You can step in for ’em tomorrow evenin’, eh? She’s sorry yer goin’.’

  ‘Going? Going where?’

  ‘Italy, lad. Well, bound to be, ain’t it, now the Yanks and our lads ’ave got Mussolini by ’is tail. We’ll miss yer, but as Missus says, you’ve got to start winnin’ medals sometime.’

  ‘Look, you old dicky bird, don’t come round here twittering about things that give me headaches.’

  ‘No good lettin’ yer lid rattle, Tim, that won’t ’elp,’ said Jim. ‘The country needs yer and you’ve got to go.’

  ‘The country needs you too,’ I said, ‘but you’re not going.’

  ‘Not at my age I ain’t,’ he said. ‘Besides, I got me chickens, me small ’olding and me bits of business.’

  ‘You sure we’re off to Italy?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it’s just something I ’eard, Tim. Still, won’t be for a week, or so, and it might only be a rumour.’

  ‘Tell Missus to do a teacup job and find out for sure.’

  ‘If yer want, Tim. Minnie ain’t too ’appy about it.’

  ‘Nor am I, it’s ruddy dangerous in Italy.’

  ‘Hello, Tim love,’ said Missus the following evening. ‘My, don’t you look manly? And with a stripe as well. Did you good, goin’ on them moors. Told you it would.’

  ‘Yes, your teacup did a good job, Missus,’ I said, as we went into the living-room. ‘You look a bit of all right yourself, is that a new jumper you’re wearing?’

  ‘Yes, it is, love. Aunt Flossie just finished knitting it for me,’ said Missus, her proud bosom softly enclosed by the knitwear, her chocolate-brown eyes melting with pleasure because I’d noticed. ‘It fits nice, don’t you think? Jim’s special fond of it.’

  ‘So he should be. After all, what’s yours is his, seeing you’re married to him.’

  ‘Oh, saucy today, are we?’ Missus laughed softly. ‘Mind, women like a bit of sauciness in some men, men they’re fond of. Pity you never let me learn—’

  ‘We’ll keep quiet about that, Missus. Best thing. Minnie enjoyed her school holidays, did she?’

  ‘She’s upset, Tim, knowin’ you’re goin’.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know and no-one else does either. Those ruddy dicky birds of yours ought to be fed castor oil, then they wouldn’t fly about so much.’

&
nbsp; ‘Now, Tim, no good bein’ like that. You’ve got to put up with it, like we have. Everyone’s sorrowful—’

  ‘Oh, the whole village has heard, of course?’

  ‘Well, yes, love, course they have. Jim reckons Italy.’

  ‘What does your teacup reckon?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, Jim said you wanted me to do some consultin’, so I did. It come out like the Pope blessin’ the multitude and Jim said that’s it, it’s Italy where the Pope lives.’

  ‘First time I’ve ever heard of the Pope blessing the multitude in a teacup,’ I said. ‘Missus, you’re having me on.’

  ‘A body can’t do that, Tim love, not with what’s in a teacup. It’s the guidin’ ’and of fate in a teacup. Minnie’s gone out, by the way, she said she’d better when she knew you were comin’. She said when you’ve gone we won’t ever see you again and the best thing she could do was try and get over you. She said something about you wouldn’t come knockin’ in two years time, that you’d have forgot us by then. Well, you see, love, she asked her dad about that American girl of yours and if you were still keen on her and her dad wouldn’t say, so Minnie got upset about still bein’ only a schoolgirl. Blamed us for it, sayin’ it was our fault she was only sixteen and that you wanted that American girl instead of her.’

  ‘Hell, don’t we all have problems, Missus, when we’re only sixteen?’ I said, feeling rotten.

  ‘Can’t be helped, Tim,’ said Missus gently. ‘Did you tell her something about knockin’ on our door in two years?’

  ‘I thought that was one way of giving her time to get over it. I mean, she is only sixteen, Missus and no-one’s the same at eighteen as they are at sixteen. She’s just got a young girl’s crush at the moment, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Well, love, I’m not sure that some girls of sixteen aren’t already grown up as much as they ever will be. Well, in some ways, I mean. Still, like I said, it can’t be helped.’ Missus looked a bit sad, all the same. ‘There, I’ll put the kettle on. Jim’ll be in in a minute and I’ll make a pot of tea for all of us. And I’ve got some eggs for you.’

  When Jim came in from doing a bit of business, the kettle was boiling and Missus made the pot. We sat and had a long chat. Minnie was conspicuous by her absence. Nor had she come in by the time I left at nine-thirty. Missus gave me six new-laid eggs and I shared them out at breakfast the next morning, giving one to the sergeant-cook, who let us fry the rest.

  On Sunday I had my reunion with Kit. She arrived in a jeep, driving it herself. She was warm and friendly, showing no hard feelings at all. She even kissed me. Mary smiled at that.

  Noticing my stripe, Kit said, ‘Is that promotion?’

  ‘A small step upwards,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, fancy Tim a corporal now,’ said Mary, pleased for me.

  ‘Lance-bombardier,’ I said.

  ‘That sounds like a guy who drops bombs from Flying Fortresses,’ said Kit, looking like my idea of an all-American girl.

  ‘Oh, we don’t want Tim goin’ up in one of them things,’ said Mary.

  ‘Sure, let’s keep him on the ground, Mary,’ said Kit. ‘We can see what he’s up to then.’

  Mary laughed.

  Kit and I wandered around the garden a little later. It was a nice autumn afternoon, the sun warm. Mary kept out of the way. I think she thought Kit and I had reached a lovey-dovey stage. But all we were doing in the garden was trying to work out exactly what kind of a relationship we had at the moment. At least, I was. Kit was talking things through, so that she could chuck out everything that wasn’t satisfactory. Well, I supposed she was. She said that when she left BHQ for the Chackford base she thought that was the end of a close personal friendship with me. She had to go her way and I had to go my way and that was that. But she kept thinking of me, she said, and it was a shock to her when I didn’t bother to call in and see her after I’d dropped Cassidy off. She also said that after the fiasco of our last meeting she thought she could just make me a turned page in her life. But the page wouldn’t turn, with the result that when she received my letter of apology she knew she was sunk.

  ‘Sunk?’ I said. And she went on in her American fashion about how a crisis in one’s emotions could make a woman feel she’d fallen out of the lifeboat. That sounded to me as if she was trying to complicate the issue. To me it was just a question of did she like me or didn’t she? I was in love myself, she fascinated me, even if I was a bit miffed that she’d never be a virgin bride.

  ‘Well, you’re back in the lifeboat,’ I said. ‘You must be, or you’d have sunk without trace.’

  ‘Yes, but do you want me?’ she asked.

  ‘As what, Kit?’

  ‘OK,’ she said, ‘we won’t talk about being lovers. You’re a sweet old buddy and you’ve got principles. Fine. Look, I’m sorry, real sorry that I threw that instructor guy at you the way I did. I didn’t like myself very much for that and you were right to give me a poke in the eye.’

  ‘No, my mistake,’ I said. ‘I think I showed I was a bit out of date. Point is, I used to believe you only made love to a girl if you were going to marry her. No, correction: I used to believe you didn’t make love to a girl unless you were married to her. I’ve got to face it, I’m all behind, that stuff’s all gone overboard.’

  ‘That’s not being out of date, that’s having principles,’ said Kit, doing her best to find excuses for my old-fashioned outlook. We stopped to look at the pecking chickens, which immediately cocked suspicious eyes at us. ‘No-one’s made those kind of principles a crime yet. In the States magazine surveys have shown that most girls still don’t make love until they’re married. So what made me step out of line? Infatuation and a totally new environment, I guess.’

  She talked on. I’d heard that American females could talk and liked to. Kit indulged in lots of American self-examination, while I did what I could not to sound as if I expected her to be on a par with the Virgin Mary. She said she and I must really get to know each other, to meet as often as possible, to get good and compatible until we could decide if we had a future together. She didn’t mention any need to make love. I think she thought it had nearly ruined a beautiful friendship.

  ‘I’ve already decided,’ I said.

  ‘Decided what?’ asked Kit.

  ‘That I’d like to marry you.’

  ‘Well, that’s sweet,’ said Kit, ‘that really is. You don’t mind that I’d like to have more time to think about it?’

  ‘I can wait till the war’s over,’ I said. ‘Next year, I should think.’

  ‘That’s my old buddy,’ said Kit. ‘How about a kiss to seal the agreement?’

  I kissed her. She had a lovely mouth. But I guessed, from all she had said, that she wasn’t sure if she was in love with me or not.

  Mary called us in to have tea then. Good old Mary. She knew how to serve up a welcome Sunday tea. She knew, in fact, all there was to know about the simple pleasures of life. She was a simple soul all round, whereas Missus was a bit subtle. When we asked her if we could meet here again next Sunday she said she’d love to have us. She did add that the putty wanted replacing around her kitchen windows, that Fred Plummer had said he’d do it, but still hadn’t.

  ‘Tim will fix it,’ said Kit, then looked at me and wrinkled her nose. ‘I mean, we could ask him.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring some putty from the stores, some that’s lying around and not doing anything.’

  ‘He’s a first-class fixer, Mary,’ said Kit.

  ‘I don’t know anyone more helpful than Tim,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, I don’t know anyone who puts on better Sunday teas,’ I said.

  ‘All the same, I guess Tim rates, Mary,’ said Kit and gave me a smile.

  We said goodbye to Mary at seven-thirty. Kit told me to heave my bike into the jeep and she’d drive me to BHQ. I did so and got up beside her. Off she went, Mary waving to us. We hadn’t gone more than a mile before I came to a startling conclusion. My efficient Amer
ican sergeant couldn’t rate as a driver. Well, at least she couldn’t handle a jeep with its four-wheel drive. She was all over the place on bends and corners and on the tightest corners she was inclined to end up on the wrong side of the road. There was little traffic, but she was a danger to life and limb all the same. How she’d arrived at Mary’s all in one piece I’d never know.

  ‘I think you’d better pull up, Kit,’ I said.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ she asked, careering round a bend.

  ‘Let me drive,’ I said.

  She pulled up, but not to hand over the wheel. ‘Come again?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’d like to drive,’ I said. ‘I’ve only handled a jeep once and then only for five minutes. I’d like another go. Don’t mind, Kit, do you?’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Kit, ‘is there something wrong with my driving, then?’

  ‘It’s the road, Kit, there’s not enough of it. Well, except for people used to it.’

  ‘Listen, you male big shot, are you one of those guys with a prejudice against women drivers?’

  ‘No, I’m just an ordinary bloke who wants to get where he’s supposed to be going,’ I said. From under the peak of her cap her blue eyes were threatening. ‘You’re a lovely sergeant, Kit,’ I said, ‘but the jeep’s running away from you.’ Actually, I quite liked the fact that there was one thing she wasn’t too good at. It made her more lovable.

  ‘I can handle it,’ she said.

  ‘So can I. Come on, be a sport, give us a go.’

  ‘You kook,’ she said and she laughed. ‘OK, take over.’

  I liked that too. She’d made her protest, but wasn’t going to turn it into an argument or a fight. I took over and drove her all the way to her base to make sure she got there. When we arrived at the base, I stopped at the gates. The Snowdrops came out of their cubby-hole to give us the once-over. Kit said this was crazy, now she’d got to drive me to BHQ. I said I’d use the bike. I unloaded it. The evening dusk made me switch the lamp on.