Our Yanks

by Margaret Mayhew

  He’d set his copper-wire snares near the warren at the edge of the wood the evening before and he was counting on one of them having worked – if a fox or stoat hadn’t got there before him. The first was empty but the second one, further on, had a dead rabbit caught by the head in the copper noose. He went on to the third where he found another rabbit snared but still alive. When he’d been smaller it had bothered him when that happened but now he’d learned how to kill it instantly. He stretched its neck quickly, just like Dad had taught him, and the rabbit stopped struggling and hung limp. He took his pen-knife out of his shorts pocket, opened up the sharp blade and gutted the two rabbits, burying the innards in the soft earth. All the while he kept a sharp ear open. Farmer Dixon was as sour-tempered as his cockerel and Hollow Wood was on his land. A miserable old skinflint, Tom called him – and worse names sometimes now that he knew them. The old bastard could well spare a rabbit or two, but he wouldn’t.

  When he’d finished his work he wiped the blade clean on some grass, folded the knife and put it away. It was light by now and he set off homewards with the copper snares and the dead rabbits in the sack slung over his shoulder, keeping to the shadow of hedges wherever he could. As he drew near the railway embankment he heard the whistle of an early train approaching. Tom hesitated. There was plenty of time to cross the line but he’d never quite forgotten the old tramp who had gone and got one boot stuck under the rail and been found with the foot still in the boot, his head rolled down the embankment, and the rest of him like he’d gone through the mangle. So he waited at the bottom of the slope and presently the engine came chuffing round the corner. The driver gave him a wave as he went past and Tom waved back. Then the carriages followed and he saw men in khaki-coloured uniforms crowded at all the windows, looking out. He gave them a wave too and they waved back, grinning at him. One of them let down a window, yelled and threw something out to him. It landed in the long grass at his feet and when he crouched down he saw that it was a packet of Wrigley’s chewing gum.

  Instead of going home, he ran along the track to the station half a mile away where he hid the sack in a thicket behind the coal dump. The train was standing at the platform and the men he’d seen in the carriages were streaming out into the yard outside the booking hall and climbing into army lorries painted with big white stars on the side. He watched them from a distance for a while. He knew they were Yanks by the chewing gum; he could see them chewing away all the time. And he wasn’t the only one watching. Lots of people had come out to gawp. They were standing in huddles, staring at the Yanks like they’d come from the moon. Mostly nosy old women like Mother Becket muttering to each other. Dick and Robbie and Seth and all that lot were there too. He could have been one of them, if he’d wanted, but he didn’t like going round in a stupid gang all the time; it was much better on your own. The lorries started grinding out of the yard and when Dick and the others ran after them the Yanks began throwing things for them. Tom ran too and barged Seth aside with his elbow. He was gone with his catch before they could all fall on him.

  When he got back to the cottage, Mum was in the kitchen carrying Nell round on one hip. ‘Take her for me for a moment, so’s I can get on, will you, Tom?’ She dumped the baby in his arms and he sat down with her on his lap, wrinkling his nose. She smelled of wet nappy and sick and her nose was all snotty. He didn’t like her much. Not yet, anyway. There’d been two other babies before her, after Alfie, but they’d both died. One when she was six months old from measles and the other when she was born. He’d seen the midwife through a crack in the bedroom door, holding her up by the feet and slapping her. She’d looked just like a skinned rabbit.

  Alfie was eating bread and dripping at the table and scowling at him. ‘You left me behind. I wanted to come too.’

  ‘Mum wouldn’t let you.’

  ‘She lets you.’

  ‘I’m nine. You’re only six.’

  His mother was riddling the range fire. ‘I don’t like you going neither, Tom.’

  ‘Caught a couple of rabbits for you,’ he told her casually. ‘Left them outside.’

  ‘You poach them from someone’s land?’

  ‘Course not.’

  She didn’t really believe him, he knew that, but she wouldn’t say any more. Rabbits were food. Good food. And when Dad was away all the time working on the new aerodromes, helping build runways, the old Oxo tin on the kitchen shelf never had much money in it. When Mum had skinned the rabbits he’d clean the skins, stretch them and nail them out on a board, and then sell them to the rag-and-bone man for a penny each, next time he came round. He was bursting to tell the other piece of news. ‘The Yanks are here. I saw them coming in on the train.’

  Alfie looked up from his bread and dripping. ‘What’re yanks?’

  ‘Americans, stupid. They gave me these. They were throwing them for people to catch.’ He groped in his pocket and laid his two prizes on the kitchen table. Nell made a grab at them but he kept her out of reach.

  ‘What’re they?’

  ‘Chewing gum and chocolate. Can’t you see? It says Wrigley’s Chewing Gum here and on this one it says Hershey’s Milk Chocolate.’

  Alfie looked hopeful. ‘Can I have some?’

  He was feeling generous. ‘All right. You can try a bit of gum.’ He opened up the yellow packet and unwrapped a stick. It smelled minty. ‘Here you are. You have to chew it.’

  Alfie stuffed it sideways into his mouth. ‘Tastes funny.’

  ‘That’s with the dripping, I expect. You ought’ve waited.’ He offered the chocolate bar to his mother, hoping she wouldn’t want it.

  ‘No, you keep it, Tom. Share it with Alfie.’

  He probably would but he wasn’t going to say so; you had to keep Alfie in his place. ‘I might go up to the aerodrome later and take a look. See how the Yanks’re getting on.’

  ‘Can I come too?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  Alfie started to snivel which made Nell start up as well. She smelled worse than ever. To his relief Mum took her back. ‘Alfie can go with you. Long as you take care of him.’

  ‘Do I have to, Mum? He’ll be a nuisance.’

  ‘He won’t be, will you, Alfie?’

  Alfie shook his head, grinning all over his face now. ‘I won’t, I promise.’

  Tom stared at him. ‘What’ve you done with the gum?’

  ‘Swallowed it.’

  ‘Stupid!’

  ‘Bloater,’ said Miss Cutteridge apologetically. ‘I’m afraid that’s the only flavour the shop has in. Mr Watts says they won’t be getting any more for some time.’ She was looking quite upset. ‘I was hoping we’d be able to offer something nicer, like salmon, if possible. Anyway, Mr Watts is going to let us have a quantity very reasonably priced and it’s Shippam’s.’

  The five ladies of the Welcome Party committee were gathered in Miss Cutteridge’s small and neat sitting-room. Erika Beauchamp had been ushered to the most comfortable armchair, once a large ginger cat had been removed. ‘I don’t think we should worry too much, Miss Cutteridge. They won’t expect anything special.’

  ‘I do hope not, Lady Beauchamp. It’s just that they must be accustomed to all sorts of delicious food. It may seem a little strange to them.’

  ‘They’ll jolly well have to lump it.’ Mrs Vernon-Miller, stalwart of the local Women’s Voluntary Service, never minced her words. Her complexion clashed with her plum-coloured twinset and, lit sideways from the window, she had a very noticeable moustache. ‘If it’s the best we can do. How many of them are we expecting, anyway?’

  Erika said, ‘The rector thinks only about fifteen or so. The group commander and some other officers. Of course we don’t know how many of the village will turn up.’

  ‘We’ll have to charge an entry fee for them at the door. Can’t have a free-for-all. The Americans wouldn’t have to pay, of course.’

  ‘How much do you suggest?’

  ‘Sixpence. Enough to cover costs and to keep out
the rag-tag and bobtail. We don’t want any trouble.’

  Miss Cutteridge frowned. ‘Trouble? Surely we don’t expect anything like that.’

  ‘You never know,’ Mrs Vernon-Miller told her darkly. ‘Not everyone’s keen on the idea of Americans turning up here. There’s plenty in the village against it, especially the older ones. They still remember the last war. The Americans were late then as well. What about decorating the hall?’

  ‘Perhaps we could put some bunting round – strings of Union Jacks?’ Mrs Salter, the verger’s wife, suggested. Mrs Vernon-Miller squashed her. ‘Rather premature. We haven’t won the war yet.’

  ‘How about an American flag?’ Erika said. ‘They’d appreciate that.’

  ‘Where would we get one? There won’t be one in the village.’

  ‘Perhaps in Peterborough or Stamford . . . I’ll see if I can find one.’

  ‘We could always draw one with crayons,’ Mrs Salter said bravely.

  Mrs Vernon-Miller gave her a withering glance. ‘How many stars and how many stripes?’

  ‘Oh. I’m afraid I don’t know exactly.’

  The displaced ginger cat jumped up onto Erika’s lap, to Miss Cutteridge’s embarrassment. When he had been prised off, in spite of her insistence that she didn’t mind, they went on to discuss teacups and saucers and how many helpers would be needed, the cleaning of the lavatories and the order of events. The Americans had been invited for four o’clock and the rector was to make a speech of welcome. While they had the tea and the bloater sandwiches, Miss Hooper would play the village-hall piano up on the stage.

  ‘It does rather need tuning,’ Erika pointed out. ‘Could we find someone to do it?’

  ‘There isn’t anybody,’ Mrs Vernon-Miller informed her. ‘Not since Mr Bodkin died. He always tuned it. You can’t get anyone to do anything like that now. I can’t even find anyone to repair my alarm clock. Anyway, the piano sounds quite all right to me.’

  She was probably tone-deaf, Erika thought. She also thought how much she disliked this type of meeting – the wrangling, the pointless digressions, the unconscionable time it all took and, most of all, the feeling of being an outsider, only present by virtue of being Lady Beauchamp. In reality, she was just as foreign to them as the Americans. Three years spent in the village was nothing. People who had lived there for more than twenty were still considered to be newcomers. But for Alex, she would have been anywhere but in a place like King’s Thorpe. She would have joined one of the women’s services, gone to work in a factory, done some real war work. As it was, since the Manor evacuees had gone back home, she had had to content herself with whatever the local WVS offered. She might, perhaps, have left Alex to the tender mercies of Granny for the duration, but Alex needed her. He’d lost a beloved father and his small world had been turned upside down. Truth to tell, she needed him too. He was all that she had left of a beloved husband and so like Richard in so many ways. His son was her greatest comfort in her grief. To see him was to see Richard again.

  After some more lengthy discussion the Welcome Party meeting finally ground to a halt. Mrs Vernon-Miller walked down West Street with Erika, grumbling about the verger’s wife.

  ‘I can’t think why she’s been co-opted. Never anything sensible to say. It should have been the rector’s wife, of course. It was all his idea in the first place.’

  Erika said nothing. By some sort of tacit agreement in the village, Mrs Dawe’s flight from King’s Thorpe years ago was only alluded to obliquely, never openly discussed.

  At the corner of Pig Lane, where she lived, Mrs Vernon-Miller paused. ‘I expect you’ve heard the good news on the WVS front – about the mobile canteens we’re getting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Converted charabancs, apparently. The Americans are paying for them. Coffee and buns for their bases – that’s the general idea. I should have thought tea would do perfectly well, but apparently the Americans don’t care for it.’ Mrs Vernon-Miller squared her shoulders. ‘Something else useful for us to do.’

  ‘Damned if I’ll go,’ Brigadier Mapperton told his wife. ‘Damned Yanks! Damned if I’ll go.’

  From long experience, Cicily Mapperton knew that it was best to keep silent. She turned the page of her book surreptitiously – a romantic novel that she had borrowed from the library in Peterborough. The heroine hated the hero and had just slapped his face, but she knew, also from long experience, that this state of affairs wouldn’t last. Meanwhile she could picture the present scene vividly in her mind’s eye – the heroine, her eyes flashing defiance, and the dark and dissolute hero who had just seized her by the wrist with a grip of steel.

  Her husband had reached the far end of the Persian rug and turned on his heel to pace back again.

  ‘We’ve been fighting this war for four years while they just sat on their backsides and watched us. All that big talk of theirs about freedom and liberty but when it comes down to it, the only thing they care about is their own. Don’t give a damn abut anybody else. Hitler could have had the whole of Europe for all they cared. The only thing the Americans care about is their own precious skin.’ He reached the other end of the rug and started off again. ‘Damned if I’ll go. You agree, naturally.’

  Cicily Mapperton put her bookmark between the pages. ‘Of course I do, Lionel.’

  ‘Cheek of the rector even to suggest it. He knows my feelings in the matter. I made them perfectly clear at the PCC.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought that with your position in the village it might look a bit strange if you weren’t there . . .’

  The brigadier stopped. ‘Huh! Some truth in that, I dare say. Can’t be helped, though. Principles are principles.’ He walked on and came to a halt again beside the grand piano with its array of silver-framed family photographs. Himself and Cicily on their wedding day – it was like looking at two strangers – completely unrecognizable; his mother in Court dress; his father in his general’s uniform; his daughter at twenty-one and a later photograph in her Wren officer’s uniform; the one of his son done when he’d been promoted to captain only six months before Singapore fell and he’d been taken prisoner by the Japanese. They didn’t even know if he was dead or alive. If the damned Americans had had the guts to come into the war earlier and help stop the rot with the Japs, things might have been very different. He resumed his pacing. ‘They’ll probably get a turn-out. People who don’t give a damn about the principle of the thing.’

  ‘I expect they will.’

  ‘Might look a bit odd if we don’t show our faces.’

  ‘Considering your position, Lionel. Churchwarden and everything.’

  ‘Huh . . . Wouldn’t need to stay long.’

  ‘Only a moment.’

  ‘Make the point that I don’t approve.’

  ‘That’s right, Lionel.’

  The brigadier sat down in his armchair and snatched up The Times. His wife went back to her novel.

  Miss Cutteridge’s turn on the brass-polishing rota was for the last Sunday in each month and it was her habit to go to the church on the Friday after lunch. Elijah Kerfoot was scything the grass between the ancient and toppling gravestones as she made her way up the path and she bid him good afternoon. The old man paused at the end of a long sweep to raise his cap and she stopped for a word with him about his arthritis, which troubled him as much as her own. Inside the church it was cool and dim and utterly quiet. She always enjoyed the quiet. God’s presence seemed almost palpable; she was sure that she could feel Him there, though sometimes she wondered if he would trouble Himself for just the one person. Where two or three are gathered together in my Name there am I in the midst of them . . . Christ hadn’t said anything about only one, so far as she could remember. She really must ask the rector about that.

  As usual, she knelt for short prayers before she began: for her long-dead mother and father that they might rest for ever in peace, for all the poor unfortunate people suffering under the Nazis, for little Sarah Turner who was very poorly, f
or Harry Wilmcott, the tiler, who’d fallen off a ladder and broken both legs, and for Matthew Gibbons who was permanently on her sick list. And, as always, for William who, unlike herself, had never grown old. When she had finished she rose, rather stiffly because of the arthritis, to her feet. There were three large brasses set in the floor in front of the altar, four wall memorials along the north aisle, a small, plain floor brass in the south aisle and another wall plaque in the chancel behind the choir stalls to Brigadier Mapperton’s younger brother, John, who had been killed at the Battle of Verdun in 1916. Then there was the big altar cross, the altar can lesticks, the communion chalice, the baptismal ewer, the brass-topped churchwarden’s staves and the collection plates. She always started off with all the moveable pieces which she cleaned on the table in the vestry with the dusters she kept specially for the job and a tin of Bluebell metal polish that she used very sparingly because, like everything else, it was in short supply.

  When she had finished in the vestry she tackled the three brasses set in the stone chancel floor. She worked on her knees – rather painful and the stones were always cold, even in summer – beginning with the chain-mail armoured Sir Richard Beauchamp, who had gone on the Seventh Crusade before he had died at King’s Thorpe in 1265. The brass image of his wife, Alice, in veiled headdress, a mantle worn over her shoulders to reveal the graceful folds of her gown, was set close beside him. The third brass, at a distance from the other two and rather larger, was a fine rendition of the next baronet, Sir Geoffrey, also in full armour, though there was no record of him fighting any battles. He had evidently neglected to arrange for an accompanying one for his wife. Nobody knew where she had been buried. Later Beauchamps had been laid to rest in the family mausoleum in the churchyard. Not the last baronet, though, of course, Miss Cutteridge thought regretfully as she rubbed away; he would have been buried somewhere in France. She hoped that one day he would be brought home to lie with his ancestors. Such a pleasant young man. Always so cheerful and so polite. Such a sad tragedy.