Our Yanks

by Margaret Mayhew

  ‘Thank you, Joan. I can see it is.’

  A moment later the Yank appeared at the classroom door. The children all ran and gathered round him, jumping up and down with excitement. He put his cap on Charlie’s head where it fell down over his nose and little Joan took hold of his hand and dragged him over to the Nature Table to show him the catkins and the primroses they’d picked on their last walk. He admired everything and talked to the rabbit and guinea pigs. Joan tugged at his sleeve.

  ‘Sing us that song again, please.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Miss if that’s OK with her.’

  ‘Please, Miss, can we sing it?’

  So he sat down, with a child on each knee, and they all sang ‘Yankee Doodle’ several times. After that he taught them ‘Camptown Races’ and soon they were all shouting out: ‘Doo-da, doo-da.’ And then another one: ‘Oh, Susannah, don’t you cry for me, cos I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee,’ while he strummed an imaginary banjo.

  Joan was tugging at his sleeve once more. ‘Will you tell us a story?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Miss again.’

  ‘Please, Miss,’ they all chorused. ‘Can he?’

  They sat down cross-legged in a circle round him, watching him expectantly. Charlie was wearing his cap back to front, the peak down his back.

  ‘Gee, let’s see . . . There’s an Uncle Remus one I know about Mr Rabbit and Mr Fox.’ He told it with actions and different voices, making them laugh and clap. ‘More, more,’ they pleaded. ‘Tell us another one.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry, kids, I’ve got to go. I only called by to tell Miss something.’ He came over to her. ‘Hope you didn’t mind all that.’

  ‘Of course not. They loved it. You’re very good with them.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a bunch of little nephews and nieces back home. We’re a big family. Besides, I like kids.’

  ‘I can see you do.’

  ‘Same as you,’ he said. ‘Listen, I came to tell you that it’s OK about the band. The group commander’s all for it and they’ll play at the village hall whatever Saturday you want – you just let me know.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, Ed. What will they charge?’

  ‘Zero. They’ll do it for nothing. And maybe you’d like us to get some posters done, so you could stick them around and get a whole lot of people coming from all over. The more people, the more money.’

  She thanked him again, embarrassed by such generosity.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Glad to help. Gotta get that dry rot fixed.’ The children were clustering round him again, faces lifted to his. ‘So long, kids. Be good and do what Miss tells you.’ He whisked his cap off Charlie’s head. ‘See you around.’

  They crowded to the window and waved as he went by. Agnes picked up little Joan so she could see better and waved too.

  Chester was waiting for her at the bridge over the brook. As she coasted down the hill on her bike, Sally could see him leaning over the wall in the sunlight, smoking a cigarette, his bike propped beside him. She pedalled for the last bit and braked to a stop. He turned round and smiled his slow smile. ‘Hi there. I’ve been watching the fish while I was waiting and wishing I’d got a line. What kind are they?’

  ‘Nothing special. There are otters in the brook too, but you hardly ever see them.’ She pointed to the wicker basket strapped onto the handlebars. ‘I’ve brought a picnic tea for us.’

  ‘Great.’ He ground his cigarette under his foot. ‘So, where’re we going?’

  ‘Anywhere you like.’

  ‘OK. Let’s just take off and see what happens. Never can figure out all these lanes, anyway.’

  They rode along side by side, the American weaving a little to keep to her slower pace. Her cotton skirt kept creeping up above her bare knees and she knew he was looking. After a while she didn’t bother tugging it down any more and pretty soon it was right up round her thighs. Well, it wasn’t as though he was a stranger exactly. He’d kissed her several more times since that evening when they’d come back from the pictures and each time he’d gone on longer. She’d told Doris about it because Doris was forever telling her about Hal and how the last time they’d gone out he’d kept putting his hands where he shouldn’t. ‘I wouldn’t let him, though, Sal,’ she’d said, looking smug. ‘I said no.’

  ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t mind it with a Yank.’

  ‘Well . . . not just yet.’

  Doris had lost her nerve, she could tell that.

  They biked up the hill along by Squirrel Wood and stopped when they got to the top.

  ‘Sure is a beautiful place, England,’ he said quietly, looking down at the countryside below with everything coming out into leaf and the blossom starting along the hedgerows. It didn’t seem all that marvellous to her; lots of other countries in the world must look much better. She’d seen pictures in magazines of wonderful foreign places: palm trees, white sands, really blue skies. She leaned her bike against a tree and picked some of the wild flowers growing at the side of the lane and showed them to him.

  ‘Real pretty,’ he said, looking at her more than the flowers. ‘Don’t think we’ve anything like that back home.’ She could tell he wanted to kiss her and skipped out of reach. ‘Race you to the bottom,’ she called, and tore off down the hill on her bike, the wind in her hair, her skirt blown right up. Of course he got there first – not that she minded. She’d known he would. Meant him to. He was bigger and stronger and faster. She liked that. She let him kiss her then, for a bit.

  They found a place for the picnic in a meadow, in the shade of the willows beside a stream. She unpacked the basket and brought out the little sponge cakes she’d made, and the ginger pop. He sat with his back leaning against a willow trunk.

  ‘What’s it like where you live, Chester?’ she asked him. ‘What did you say it was called?’

  ‘Paradise.’

  She giggled. ‘Funny name.’

  He smiled. ‘Yeah. Nothing very like paradise about it, I guess, but we’ve got some nice old buildings – not as old as yours here, of course, but they’re painted up real pretty. It’s a good place to live. Decent town, decent people. We’ve got a couple of movie theatres, plenty of stores, a beauty shop, a great soda fountain, good places to eat out . . .’

  ‘Whatever’s a soda fountain?’

  ‘You don’t have them over here?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. What are they?’

  ‘Gee. Well, it’s a place where you can get all kinds of ice-cream sodas, and milkshakes and malts and splits, things like that. Most times they’re in a drugstore – I guess you’d call that a chemist. There’s a long bar and you sit up on high stools. You’d like it.’

  ‘Ice cream . . .’ she said wistfully. ‘That sounds lovely. I can’t remember what it tastes like. Mum said she had it at your Officers’ Club when she went there. How do they make them – all those things you said.’

  ‘Well, for the sodas they put a couple of scoops of ice cream in a tall glass, then some syrup – maybe strawberry or chocolate – then they stir it up and squirt soda water into it. Then they put whipped cream over it and a cherry on the top. They’re twenty cents. A Coke soda’s only a nickel, but it’s not so good.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Mmmmmm. I’d love those. What about the other things?’

  ‘For malts they whizz up malt powder and milk in a mixer so it goes all frothy, and milkshakes are milk and whatever flavour you want – vanilla, strawberry, chocolate . . .’

  ‘Banana?’

  ‘Guess they could do that, if you wanted it.’

  ‘I used to love bananas. We haven’t had any since the war.’

  ‘Oh boy, you’d like the splits, then. See, there’s a banana cut in half on a dish with three scoops of ice cream on top, then some syrup, then whipped cream and nuts—’

  ‘Don’t,’ she begged. ‘I don’t want to hear any more, Chester. Tell me about something else. What sort of house do yo
u live in?’

  ‘I guess it’s about twenty years old. Wood-framed with a front porch. It can get real hot and humid in Virginia in the summer. I often sleep out there then.’

  ‘Hotter than here?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything about English summers, but I’d say so. Much hotter than today.’

  ‘This is only spring.’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s real pleasant. Just right.’

  ‘It isn’t always like this,’ she said truthfully. ‘It changes.’

  He grinned. ‘Sure does. I’ve noticed that. Never the same weather two days running – unless it’s rain.’

  ‘Don’t you get rain?’

  ‘Sure. But not like you. That’s why England’s so green. Greenest place I’ve ever seen.’

  She passed him another cake. ‘What does your father do?’

  ‘He runs a garage downtown – doing auto repairs and selling gas. He makes a good living. I was working there before I joined the army and some day I’ll take over, I guess. That’s the idea, anyway. I’d like to open another one somewhere else, maybe several of them one day. I keep thinking about what I’ll do when the war’s over.’

  ‘Have you got brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Two sisters, still in school. Betty and Rose. Fifteen and thirteen. I’m the oldest by a long way. Mom lost another one in between us.’

  ‘Did your parents mind you going away?’

  ‘Sure, but there wasn’t much choice. I got drafted. I didn’t mind, though. I was glad I was. I got to come to England and be part of the war. And I met you. I wish you’d let me tell your dad about us, Sally.’

  ‘Nothing to tell, is there?’

  ‘Well, we’re dating, aren’t we? That’s the way it seems to me. Unless you’re seeing a whole lot of other guys I don’t know about.’

  ‘Course I’m not.’

  He’d gone all serious. ‘I’d like to tell him, face to face, that I’m seeing his daughter. He’s got a right to know.’

  She sighed. ‘I’ve told you, Chester, he’d go mad if he found out.’

  ‘Why? I don’t get it.’

  ‘You’re a Yank.’

  ‘Anything special he doesn’t like about us?’

  ‘He doesn’t trust Yanks. I don’t know why. Anyway, he thinks I’m too young to go out with anybody.’

  ‘You’re eighteen. That’s not too young. What did you tell him for this time?’

  ‘Didn’t need to say anything. After church and lunch, Dad sleeps all day Sundays.’

  ‘I guess he’s tired.’

  ‘Well, he always has to get up in the night to get the dough done in time for baking and get the oven hot.’

  ‘Never really known how bread’s made. What does he do?’

  ‘He mixes up a sack of flour and yeast and water in a big trough. Then he has to wait for it to rise up in a great sort of mound. Then he knocks it back and kneads it all again. And waits some more. It takes ages and it’s a lot of hard work. His back’s always killing him and he’s got arthritis in his hands and his chest gets wheezy from the flour.’

  ‘Poor guy.’

  ‘My brother, Roger, used to help him, before he got called up in the army.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother. Where’s he?’

  ‘He was in Africa. We’re not sure where he is now. Somewhere in the Mediterranean. He’s the apple of Dad’s eye. He’s going to take over the bakery business one day, like with you and your dad. Dad’s got it all planned. He took over from his dad and his dad took over from his dad, and his dad’s dad took over from his dad. He’s lucky Roger doesn’t mind the idea.’

  ‘How about you? What’s he got planned for you, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘Dunno really. I think he’d like me to go on working in the bakehouse so’s I’m under his eye, and then marry somebody posh and settle down.’

  ‘Posh? What’s that mean?’

  ‘Well-to-do. You know . . .’

  ‘Swanky, I guess. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I don’t want to go on working in the bakehouse for ever.’

  ‘No reason why you should.’

  ‘I don’t want to settle down either,’ she said. ‘Not yet. I’d like to do something else first. Work in a dress shop in Peterborough, maybe. With nice things. Pretty things. Not always bread and cakes.’

  He said slowly, ‘Think you’d ever like to come to America? When the war’s over.’

  ‘Maybe. Not over yet, though, is it? Not by a long chalk. Want another cake?’

  He shook his head. ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He lit it for her. She’d got used to handling cigarettes now; she could do all the Bette Davis bits, blowing the smoke up in the air and flicking the ash away.

  ‘What’s an assistant crew chief, Chester? You’ve never told me exactly.’

  ‘Well, each aircraft has a three-man crew to look after it. Service and maintain it. Make sure everything’s working properly and get it ready for the pilot before he takes off. There’s a crew chief, then his assistant – that’s me – and an armourer – that’s Hal. We’ve got our names painted on the aircraft, up in front just below the cockpit. Kind of gives me a kick to think of my name going into combat even if the rest of me’s stuck back at the base, down on the ground.’

  ‘Who’s the pilot?’

  ‘Lieutenant Mochetti. He’s got his name painted on, too. He’s a real nice guy and a heck of a good pilot. Three kills. Real tough. We take care of his aircraft for all his tour. Unless he goes missing.’

  ‘If he’s killed, you mean?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Sometimes they’re shot down but they’re OK and get taken prisoner-of-war. We’ve had a lot in the Group get killed, though.’

  She shivered. ‘Don’t they get scared?’

  ‘Guess they must be. Sometimes there’ll be a pilot who’ll make some excuse and turn back – he’ll say the engine’s rough or something like that – but mostly they go. Lieutenant Mochetti, our guy, always flys the mission. He never turns back.’

  ‘He must be brave.’

  ‘Sure is. So are most of the pilots. They’re a great bunch.’

  ‘So are the RAF.’

  ‘Sure they are. We know that. And they’ve been fighting and dying a lot longer.’

  She took another puff and blew the smoke away. ‘Remember when you first came into the bakehouse, Chester? And you bought all those rock buns? It was ever so funny really.’

  ‘I’d never seen a girl like you, Sally. You knocked me out.’

  She giggled. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Sure did.’ He looked at her from where he was sitting, leaning against the willow, cigarette dangling between his fingers. ‘Never felt about a girl the way I feel about you.’

  ‘Go on . . . There must be lots of pretty girls in Paradise.’

  ‘None like you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I bet you Yanks say that to all the girls. Bet you’ve got a girl back home.’

  ‘You know darned well I haven’t.’

  She pursed her lips in an O to blow some more smoke upwards. ‘How do I know?’

  ‘Thought I’d shown you.’

  ‘Oh, that . . . that doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Does to me.’

  She shrugged. ‘Does it?’

  He stubbed out his cigarette and came over and took hers away from her. ‘Guess I’ll have to show you some more.’ He took hold of her by the shoulders. She could see he was quite upset. After a bit, he said, ‘Believe me now?’

  She shook her head, teasing him again. ‘Not really.’

  He pushed her down onto the grass and kissed her some more; lifted his head and looked at her with his deep blue eyes. ‘How about now?’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘Jesus, Sally . . .’

  Next thing, she was flat on her back and he was kissing her all over her face and neck, and soon he started undoing all the buttons down the front of her blouse, one by o
ne. She could hear him breathing ever so fast and feel the grass tickling her, and his hands touching her all over. Then his mouth, too, warm on her bare skin. She didn’t try to stop him. She felt as though she was melting away inside. She wasn’t going to lose her nerve like Doris. She wanted Chester to do it. She wanted to know what it was like. She thought: I do like him. I like him a lot. He’s gorgeous. And then she thought: just wait till I tell Doris.

  Eight

  In Miss Cutteridge’s opinion, the month of May was the loveliest of the year. Trees loaded with blossom, spring flowers in the gardens, the hedgerows a foaming mass of hawthorn and elderflower, the banks and verges dotted with primroses, celandine, cowslips, lady’s smock, jack-in-the-pulpit, cow parsley. Bluebells carpeting the woods, the mallards hatching their young by the brook, birds singing, the evenings drawing out: a joy to the eye, the ear, the nose and the heart after the long, grey winter.

  It was also the month when she turned her attention to the garden. Before the war she had employed a man on one day a week to do the heavy work and to cut the lawn, but he had been called up long ago, back in 1940. Since then she had struggled along on her own and every year the garden had become more and more like a jungle. She could manage cutting the grass with the lawnmower, and the rose-pruning and most of the weeding but the shrubs had got away from her, growing so tall and so wild that she could no longer reach to keep them in any order, and wild brambles had grown from the other side of the garden wall, smothering everything in their path. And then there was the vegetable plot. The weekly gardener had always looked after the plot: dug, raked, planted and hoed, leaving Miss Cutteridge with only the pleasure of picking the fresh vegetables. At first she had tried to cope on her own, though her arthritis made the work painful and difficult, but the results had been so disappointing – everything had either failed to grow or been eaten by pests – that she had finally given up and left the plot to grow over. But this spring she had decided that she ought to give it another try. Dig for Victory. Grow More Food. Is Your Garden on War Service? There were advertisements and posters everywhere exhorting people to grow their own vegetables, talks on the wireless, articles in magazines and newspapers, leaflets distributed. They’d even had a colour film shown at the village hall entitled A Garden Goes to War which she had unfortunately missed owing to a heavy cold. It was her patriotic duty, not to mention how much it would help her limited budget.