Rising Summer

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘It’s your problem, lance-bombardier,’ said the major and went on his way, his fiendish grin undisguised. I had a running fight with the hungry Dalmatian all the way to my sleeping hut, where Frisby got me out of trouble by chucking a spare boot at it. It had its own back by running off with the boot.

  ‘Get after it,’ I said, ‘it’ll chew that boot to pieces.’

  ‘It’s your boot, not mine,’ said Frisby.

  I had the devil’s own job rescuing one half of my spare footwear. I couldn’t get a replacement from the stores. The stores had closed down and everything had been packed up. I cornered the animal on the first floor of the mansion and tickled it with a bicycle pump I’d picked up on the way. It howled and dropped the boot. Major Moffat came out of his office.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Have to inform you, sir, that Jupiter pinched one of my spare boots and this bicycle pump. Thought I’d better pinch ’em back, sir.’

  ‘I heard it yell for help,’ said the major.

  ‘Not Jupiter, sir. He’s always been able to stand up for himself. Good dog, Jupiter, good boy. Sit now.’

  ‘What a specimen,’ said the major.

  ‘Yes, dog and a half, sir.’

  ‘Not him, you,’ said the major.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ON MY WAY home to begin my embarkation leave, I thought I’d call on Charlie Chipper and his fish stall again. I hadn’t bothered him on my last leave. I’d got the rabbits, but no perks from the ration stores. All surplus rations had been returned to the main Naafi depot at Earls Colne. I thought some prime fillets of smoked haddock or a couple of fresh haddock might be welcome to Aunt May.

  The East Street market was a jostle and bustle and stallholders who knew me let me know they’d seen me. Charlie had customers at his stall. I waited.

  ‘’Ello, ’ello,’ he said, when he’d finished serving them, ‘is that you there, Tim old cock?’

  ‘Still surviving,’ I said.

  ‘Glad for yer,’ said Charlie. ‘Mind, I ain’t got nothing for yer in the way of kippers.’

  ‘All right, I’ll do you a favour,’ I said, ‘I won’t ask for kippers, I’ll take some fillets of smoked haddock.’

  ‘Ain’t got none of them, neither,’ said Charlie, straw boater on the back of his head. ‘Bleedin’ shame, I grant yer, but I ain’t.’

  ‘All right, I’ll just have two and a couple of fresh ones to make up.’

  ‘’Ere, yer comin’ it a bit, ain’t yer, me old cockalorum?’

  ‘Wrap ’em up before there’s a crowd, Charlie.’

  ‘That’s it, break me arm,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’m on embarkation leave,’ I said.

  ‘Gawd blimey an’ now yer pullin’ on me ’eart-strings,’ said Charlie.

  ‘You’ve always had a warm heart along with your cockles, old mate.’

  Charlie grinned, shook his head in defeat and came up with two fresh haddock. ‘No smoked, cross me warm ’eart,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ I said and he wrapped the fish up and charged me a packet. On account of the war, he said.

  Aunt May wasn’t around when I arrived home. I wondered if she’d got my letter. Everything looked in apple pie order, as usual, everything tidily in place, except for her veneered box of little personal items. Normally, she kept it in her bedroom. There were old photographs in it, family photographs of herself, her parents and my parents. Also letters and other little things. The curved lid was open. I took some of the photographs out and saw her as a small girl, a growing girl and a young woman. They’d turned sepia with age. I’d seen them before, on the occasions when she’d sit with the open box on her lap and reminisce. I wondered if there were any snaps of the man she’d lost, I’d never seen any. No, I couldn’t rummage, not sporting.

  I saw her birth certificate. I’d not seen that before. May Elizabeth Hardy, born in New Cross of Arthur Henry Hardy and wife Margaret Lilian, 19 March, 1904. Funny. That made her thirty-nine, not forty-one. She’d always given her age as if she’d been born in 1902. I took a look at her National Identity card, issued to the population at the beginning of the war. That showed her born in 1904 as well. I’d thought she was twenty-one when she took on the responsibility, with her parents, of looking after me when I lost my own parents. Perhaps the little deception was something to do with legalities, perhaps the law would not have allowed her to have me unless she’d come of age. But then I suppose the law would have required to see her birth certificate. Or perhaps it was her parents who took formal charge of me. Whatever the reason for saying she was two years older than she was, I’d have thought that after a while she needn’t have bothered.

  Should I ask her questions about it? No. She had had her reasons and they were her own business. All the same, it was very unusual for a woman to keep up the pretence of saying she was older than she was.

  I put the items back in her box and left it as it was, with the lid open. I put the haddock in the larder, on a plate. I stowed the rabbits in too, then took myself, my kitbag and my rifle up to my bedroom. I’d left Suffolk for good and on Sunday week would rendezvous with the rest of the regimental personnel at Liverpool’s main railway station.

  I heard Aunt May come in. I called down to her. ‘I’m home, Aunt May.’

  ‘Oh, that’s good,’ she called up, ‘sorry I had to go out, love. Come on down, let me take a look at you.’

  I went down. We met in the passage and she gave me the customary kiss and cuddle.

  ‘How’s tricks?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t grumble,’ she said, looking very personable in her hat and coat. We went into the kitchen. I showed her the fish and the rabbits. ‘Well, you don’t ever come home empty-handed, do you?’ she smiled. ‘I didn’t want to be out when you arrived, but I had to go to the doctor’s.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

  ‘No, of course not, just some twinges from eating something that disagreed with me.’

  ‘What kind of twinges?’

  ‘Just the twinges you get when your stomach’s not well,’ said Aunt May. She took her medical card and a bottle of medicine out of her handbag. She put the medicine on the mantelpiece and the card back where it belonged, in her veneered box. She closed the lid. ‘Now why did I leave that box there? I hope I’m not getting absent-minded, that’s a sure sign of old age.’

  ‘You’re a youngster,’ I said. ‘Were the twinges painful?’

  ‘They caught me a bit sharp,’ confessed Aunt May, ‘so I thought I’d better go to the doctor’s and get some medicine. But I’m all right now.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m fine. The twinges have just been catching me now and again. No need to fuss.’

  ‘Still, would you like to put your feet up while I get some lunch? Or are you off food?’

  ‘I’m not off food, not now I’m not and I’m not putting my feet up,’ said Aunt May. ‘I’ll get the lunch, but before I do, I want to know something. Are you in trouble, Tim?’

  ‘I could have been. The major’s dog could have had those rabbits and my right arm as well yesterday.’ Aunt May knew all about the ravenous and scatty Dalmatian. ‘But I won that one.’

  ‘What I mean is why are you on leave again, love?’ Aunt May was gently enquiring. ‘You had your usual leave only a little while ago. You haven’t gone absent, have you? You just said in your letter you were getting more leave and I thought that’s funny.’

  I wondered if I should tell her the reason. I thought I’d better. ‘It’s ten days embarkation leave,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Aunt May took that with a wry little smile. ‘I see, you’re going overseas.’

  ‘I’ve been lucky so far, I’m not complaining.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve both been lucky, Tim, so I won’t complain, either,’ she said, and gave my arm a squeeze. Then she got on with preparing lunch. Aunt May never went over the top. Although she never hid her likings and her affections, she never becam
e emotional.

  I kept glancing at her over lunch, seeing her now as a woman who was under forty, not over. Perhaps there wasn’t much difference between thirty-nine and forty-one, but it was one reason why I’d thought she never looked her age. Another reason was her equability. It kept away frowns, lines and creases.

  I asked how Bill Clayton was. Aunt May said he was in the pink the last time she saw him. I wanted to know why she still hadn’t made her mind up about him. She said it was something she needed to think long and hard about.

  ‘You don’t usually shilly-shally,’ I said, ‘you usually make your mind up fairly quickly. Bill would be good for you.’

  ‘I don’t have to have anyone just because he’d be good for me,’ she said.

  ‘But you’re fond of Bill,’ I said.

  ‘I’m fond of the vicar and some of the market stallholders,’ said Aunt May, ‘but I don’t have to marry them.’

  ‘Be a sensation if you did. But I thought Bill was a bit special.’

  ‘I’ll make up my own mind, Tim.’

  ‘Well, it’s your life, Aunt May,’ I said, ‘but it strikes me you’re playing hard to get.’

  ‘The very idea, as if I’d do that,’ she said. She was hedging. It was most unlike her. ‘You haven’t mentioned that American girl,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Is it really all over? From your letters, I thought you were keen on her.’

  ‘I am,’ I said, ‘and I’ve got news for you. It’s on again. Well, more than that. She’s said yes and if the war’s kind to us we’ll marry as soon as it’s over. Next year, I hope.’

  Aunt May beamed. ‘Well, I’m glad for you, Tim,’ she said, ‘but when am I going to have the pleasure of meeting her?’

  ‘I’ll give her your address when I write to her, I’ll suggest she pays you a visit. How’s that?’

  ‘Well, I would like to meet her,’ said Aunt May and asked me to tell her more about Kit. So I did and Aunt May said she sounded as if she’d make a nice efficient wife.

  ‘I shan’t worry if she turns out slightly inefficient,’ I said.

  ‘Now then, Tim, you don’t want a wife like that.’

  ‘Why don’t I? I’m a bit inefficient myself. Two of a kind’s best, Aunt May.’

  ‘Go on with you,’ said Aunt May and she laughed.

  The days went fast. I looked up old friends and neighbours and heard that Meg Fowler had become engaged to a PT instructor in the Marines. That would suit exuberant Meg. She liked a wrestle and a PT instructor in the Marines would be just her kind of playmate. I spent a couple of evenings in the Browning Street pub with some of the locals and joined in a cockney singsong. And I took Aunt May on a day trip by train to Brighton, one of her favourite places, although the pier was closed and there were certain wartime restrictions to be observed. But we had fun.

  I noticed she had thoughtful moods, as if there was something on her mind and I wondered if that something was the reason why she wouldn’t give Bill an answer. He called one evening. Aunt May treated him like an old friend, which was nice enough, but not quite like treating him as a lover. He and I repaired to the pub for half an hour, Bill saying he’d like the pleasure of buying me a jug of ale, seeing I was due to go overseas. In the pub, I asked him what he was doing about Aunt May’s indecision.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t be too clever to start pushing her.’

  ‘I wonder what’s holding her back? You haven’t got a wooden leg and a glass eye, have you?’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of a limp,’ said Bill, ‘but no glass eye and all my own teeth. All the same, I don’t fancy pushin’ her. She’s been a long time unmarried and she’s looked after you nearly all your life. That could mean she wants to stick to what she’s used to.’

  ‘Well, she knows that’s going to change after the war, when I get married.’

  ‘Hullo, are you givin’ me news?’ asked Bill.

  ‘Yes, I’m fixed up to get spliced as soon as the war’s over, Bill,’ I said. ‘An American girl.’

  ‘Ruddy fireworks, that’s good goin’,’ said Bill.

  ‘A Wac sergeant,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve pinched one of theirs?’

  ‘Their GIs have pinched most of ours,’ I said.

  ‘That calls for another jug,’ said Bill, ‘a quick one. Drink up, Tim, I like a celebration.’

  ‘All ready to go, love?’ said Aunt May, as I came down the stairs on the morning of my departure.

  ‘I’ll keep the letters coming,’ I said.

  ‘You’d better,’ she said, her smile a bit unsteady.

  ‘I’ll get the war over as soon as I can.’

  ‘Well, now you’re a bombardier, I’ll expect you to,’ she said. ‘Only don’t try doing all of it by yourself.’

  ‘Your tummy all right now?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ she said, ‘the medicine soon cured it.’

  ‘Be good,’ I said. I felt a bit mournful. I loved my Aunt May and I’d no idea how long it was going to be before I saw her again. She wasn’t a woman to fret about being alone. She’d been alone a lot since I went into the Army. Now she was going to be alone all the time. Bill had said he’d keep an eye on her. All the same, it was a bit mournful leaving her.

  ‘Off you go now,’ she said and I thought her eyes a little overbright.

  I gave her a kiss and a cuddle. ‘Love you, Aunt May,’ I said. I didn’t think I could go without telling her that.

  ‘Bless you, Tim, you’ve been good for me all your life,’ she said.

  ‘Mutual,’ I said and hefted my kitbag and picked up my rifle. She came out to the gate with me and stood there watching me go on my way to Browning Street, kitbag over my shoulder, rifle slung. At the corner, I turned and waved to her. She returned the wave.

  It really hurt, leaving her on this occasion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IT WAS ITALY, of course, where the signoras and signorinas had quickly discovered the GIs had unlimited stocks of candy bars and fully-fashioned stockings, in return for which the GIs asked only for the use of a bed.

  ‘Ah, whose bed, Johnny?’ The Italians called all the Americans Johnny.

  ‘Yours, honey.’ The GIs called all females honey.

  Italy was where the Allies were trying to get the better of General Kesselring and his German armies. If we were initially relieved to find ourselves here and not in the jungles of Burma, that relief didn’t last long. Kesselring was a demon and a tenacious one. His Germans were just as tenacious as well as grim, mean and moody. They didn’t like the way the war was going now and they showed it.

  I wrote home. I wrote to Jim and Missus. I told them that their grapevine had been right. I wasn’t allowed to mention the regiment was in Italy, I merely referred to the grapevine. And I sent my regards to Minnie. I wrote a chatty letter to Aunt May to give her the idea that where I was was almost like home from home, except there was no toad-in-the-hole or kippers. I wrote a lengthy letter to Kit, telling her what my idea of post-war bliss was. I suspected she’d find it old-fashioned, and if I knew Kit she wouldn’t hold back from letting me know how she saw our future. Fair enough. I’d have to work out a compromise.

  Mail was erratic, but not hopeless. I heard from Aunt May, a long long letter about home, friends and neighbours, with frequent mentions of Bill. He was turning into a fusspot, she said, but I read between the lines and guessed he was turning up two or three times a week to keep an eye on her. I liked him for that, he was a sound bloke with sense.

  Kit wrote, putting together a whole heap of affectionate words, plus some humorous quips about my idea of post-war bliss. But she didn’t mention she had a different idea, only that I was basically a comic. But she liked me like that she said and told me to take good care of my assets.

  Frisby heard from Cecily and Cecily, apparently, was now a level-headed old scout easily able to cope with propositions from all the GIs who fancied her. She was saving herself for her one and only Limey gu
y, she said. I told Frisby that that was really nice. Can’t believe it, can you, said Frisby, a lovely girl like her sitting at home waiting for me.

  But would he get there? Would any of us? After months of shot and shell, the regiment knew at last that there was a war on. Major Moffat, all vigour and adrenalin, turned 424 Battery into a kind of heavy ack-ack commando unit, refusing to occupy static positions whenever it was obvious he could profitably rush us elsewhere. But his idea of profitability wasn’t always the same as ours. Elsewhere was often close to suicidal, for Kesselring had command of experienced Luftwaffe squadrons that were as mean and moody as German panzers and there were too many occasions when our guns and rocketry were raked and blasted by cannon-fire from planes that screamed in low.

  We took casualties. Frisby and I had gone back to being true gunners, serving with the crews. Italy’s winter was diabolical. Talk about the country of sunshine and ice cream, what a joke. It rained, it snowed and did everything else that was miserable. It was a cold and treacherous winter for all units, with German resistance always formidable. I didn’t envy the infantry.

  But at least the Italians in liberated towns and villages caused no trouble. Having taken themselves out of the war, they welcomed the Allies. Their short portly leader, poor old Mussolini, had had to run for his life to Hitler. They clustered in their streets to cheer advancing Allied units and all they asked for in return for their hospitality was food. Well-shaped ladies enquired about chocolate and stockings as well. For chocolate and stockings, feminine gratitude knew no bounds. Italian virginity was non-existent, never mind the Pope. I despaired. I hoped Cecily and Kit weren’t giving in.

  In action, the regiment supported the RAF against the Luftwaffe, usually operating in defence of makeshift RAF landing strips. The German pilots liked nothing better as targets than ack-ack ground units. That kind of lethal threat was responsible for a certain amount of blind response. Colonel Carpenter, the regiment’s commanding officer, was violently blasphemous on the occasion when a message was received from a fighting wing of the RAF: You missed. Try again on our way back. The culprits were 423 Battery. Lucky for us. Major Moffat would have flayed us alive. He was in the war now and wouldn’t suffer muck-ups lightly.