Our Yanks

by Margaret Mayhew

  She lifted her chin. ‘I’m not telling you, Dad. So that’s that.’

  ‘That’s that?’ His voice crescendoed to a roar. ‘That isn’t that, my girl. You tell me this minute or I’ll, I’ll . . .’

  ‘What’ll you do, Dad? Turn me out of the house? Don’t worry, I’m going anyway. I’m going now. Soon as I’ve packed. I’ve found a place to have the baby and soon as it’s born I’m going to give it away. I don’t want it any more than you do.’ She rushed from the room and he heard her running up the stairs and her bedroom door slam. In the silence, he said lamely, ‘Well, she can’t stay here, Freda, can she?’

  ‘Of course she can, Sam. And she’s going to. She’s our daughter and we’ll look after our own. Stand by her, the way we should.’

  ‘She’ll have to marry him.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. We can’t force her to. And if she really wants the baby adopted, then maybe that’s best all round. We’ll have to see how she feels when the time comes.’ Freda stood up. ‘You stay here and drink your tea. I’ll go up and have a talk with her.’

  He collapsed onto the chair and sat with his head in his hands. All his plans and hopes lay in ruins. The Barnets would be a laughing stock in the village. He could hear the whispers, see the pointing fingers. The gossips would have a field day – if they weren’t having it already. Nothing like it had happened to the family before. They’d been God-fearing, church-going, hardworking, respectable, decent people, their reputation handed unblemished from father to son over more than a hundred years. All wrecked now. And all because of some lecherous bloody Yank.

  The tea was cold and he left it. He dragged himself up and went through into the bakehouse. Sally’s sponge mix was still in the bowl and he carried on doggedly with it, ignoring Mrs Trimwell’s curious glances. The customers would be at the door before long and they’d want their cakes as usual. Barnets had never let them down and he didn’t intend to start now.

  ‘I’ll only be away for three days, Alex. Do you mind?’

  He looked up from his book. ‘Granny will make me go to bed early.’

  ‘I’ll ask her not to.’

  ‘She’ll make me eat spinach.’

  ‘No, she won’t. I’ll tell Mrs Woods not to cook it. What would you like best?’

  ‘Sausages and baked beans and chips.’

  ‘All right. What about pudding?’

  ‘I like spotted dick, with lots of custard. And that coconut pudding she makes.’

  ‘I’ll ask, but just this once.’

  ‘Why do you have to go to London, Mummy?’

  ‘There are some things that I need from the flat.’

  ‘Can’t I come too? I like London.’

  ‘Not in term-time. You mustn’t miss school.’

  He pulled a face.

  ‘I’ll bring you back something,’ she said, knowing she was indulging him from sheer guilt. ‘Something nice.’ Three days, she thought. That’s all. Three days with another woman’s husband. Guilt. Betrayal. Lying to her son. Lying to Miriam, who wasn’t nearly so easy to placate.

  ‘London, Erika? What on earth for?’

  ‘I want to get some things from the flat and to make sure everything’s all right.’

  ‘There’s a porter, isn’t there? He would have let you know if it wasn’t.’

  ‘I’d still like to see for myself. And, as I said, there are some things I’d like to get.’

  ‘What things?’ Miriam looked suspicious and probably was.

  ‘Books, clothes, photographs.’ It was no business of hers, for God’s sake. I don’t have to explain a thing to her.

  ‘What about the risk?’

  ‘What risk?’

  ‘Flying bombs. And now those V2s. It’s utter madness to go anywhere near the place.’

  ‘People are going about their ordinary daily lives in London. They don’t let the Germans dictate to them and I don’t intend to either.’

  ‘Well, you might at least consider your responsibility to Alexander, if nothing else.’

  Her Achilles heel, and Miriam invariably aimed at it in the end. ‘I always consider it.’

  ‘No you don’t, or you wouldn’t be going. If anything happened to you, he’d be orphaned.’

  ‘Nothing will happen to me. I shall be back in three days.’

  Her mother-in-law was right, though. For the first time she was putting herself before Alexander: her own selfish desires before his welfare. For the first time something else was too strong, too longed-for, too overwhelming to resist. She was ashamed of it, but she couldn’t help it.

  She packed a small suitcase; a lot of her London clothes, including evening dresses, were still hanging in the wardrobe at the flat. ‘We’ll go out on the town,’ he’d said. ‘Dine and dance.’ It was a very long time since she’d done anything of the kind.

  She took King’s Thorpe’s only taxi to the railway station, fending off friendly enquiries from Mr Stoke, the Daimler’s owner – a dear old man who liked to know exactly where everyone was going and why. He shared Miriam’s view that her trip to London was nothing short of madness. ‘Wouldn’t go near the place if it was me, your ladyship. You’ll be dodging the bombs all the time.’

  The booking hall was a mob of American air force men going on leave, dressed up in their best, shaved and shined and hell-bent on getting to London. There were no army Yanks. Since D-Day they had become rare birds. Carl had bought the tickets and they found seats in a first-class carriage with five other American officers and a middle-aged British major. As bad luck would have it, she had met him before in connection with the WVS. He leaned across eagerly. ‘Lady Beauchamp, Major Winthrop. I don’t suppose you’ll remember me.’

  ‘Of course I do, Major.’

  He looked pleased. ‘You’re going to London?’

  ‘Just a brief visit.’

  ‘Pleasure, I hope.’

  ‘I have some business there.’

  More subterfuge but she could hardly say, ‘Actually, I’m going for an illicit three days with the American colonel sitting opposite me by the window, on your left. Only we’re pretending we hardly know each other, because we’re not married and he’s married to somebody else.’

  The major talked nearly all the way to London. Tedious trivia about the trials and tribulations of his desk-bound job and, lowering his voice only slightly in spite of the strong American presence in the compartment, how tricky the Yanks were to deal with. At King’s Cross, she managed to shake him off and they joined the long queue for a taxi. In the fading light of early evening she could see fresh ruins where the monstrous new German weapons had found their mark, and everywhere the old scars from earlier bombing raids. A few doors away from the block of flats in Kensington a house had been hit, only its elegant facade left standing while the remainder behind had collapsed into a pile of rubble. They took the lift up to the top floor and she opened the front door to the flat hallway.

  ‘The drawing room’s through here.’ She led the way for Carl. ‘I’ll do the blackout.’ She pulled the blinds down by their acorns before she turned on the lamps. A thick film of dust lay over everything but otherwise there was no damage. It was like stepping back into the past – a past she had shared with Richard. He had lived here, sat on that sofa, eaten off the table in the dining room, slept in the bed. She switched on the electric bar fire. ‘I’m sorry, it’s freezing.’

  ‘I don’t feel it.’

  ‘You must have got acclimatized.’ She peeled off her gloves and took off her hat and fur coat. ‘Would you like a drink? That’s if there is anything.’

  He was still standing over by the door, looking so very American in his so very fine American uniform, with what Doris called all the brass bits and the silver wings and the medals. And she was so very much in love with him.

  ‘Sure. Can I help?’

  ‘You can pour out whatever I can find. I’m sorry, but there won’t be any ice. The fridge is turned off.’ She opened the drinks cupboard and d
iscovered a near-empty bottle of Tio Pepe, a near-full bottle of Martini and a half-full one of brandy. She held it up. ‘With luck there’ll be some soda in the siphon to go with this.’

  ‘Exactly what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘And here are the glasses. Very dusty, I’m afraid. I’d better give them a wipe.’

  He poured the brandy for them and squirted the soda. He handed her one glass and raised his own. ‘To you, Lady Beauchamp.’

  ‘And to you, Colonel Schrader.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘So, where shall we dine and dance, Lady Beauchamp? I’m not too familiar with London.’

  ‘Well, the Savoy’s rather nice. They’ve danced all through the war, so to speak. Blitz and all. Carroll Gibbons’s band. He’s a compatriot of yours.’

  ‘Sounds great. Will they let me in dressed like this?’

  ‘Certainly. Uniforms are fine. Almost de rigueur. I’ll need to change, though, if you don’t mind waiting.’

  ‘I’ll wait as long as it takes.’

  ‘There are some records in the gramophone cupboard, if you’d like to put one on.’

  In the bedroom she went through the wardrobe and decided on a pre-war Chanel of coffee-coloured tulle. She hadn’t worn it for years. She redid her face and her hair and went back into the drawing room. A record was playing quietly. East of the sun and West of the moon. ‘One of my favourites,’ she said from the doorway.

  He turned and stood up. ‘Mine too. You look very beautiful.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He went on looking at her and the record played on and finished. He drained his glass and put it down. ‘Shall we go?’

  They took another taxi across wartime, blacked-out London: traffic crawling along on dimmed headlights, buses and trams with blinds down, traffic lights thin crosses of red, amber and green, the white glimmer of S for shelter, the orange blink of Belisha beacons, torches wielded by unseen pedestrians. Apart from helping her on with her coat he hadn’t touched her.

  Inside the hotel there was light and warmth and music. If it hadn’t been for the predominance of men in uniform it would have been possible to forget that there was a war on at all. Looking round, she saw that many of them were American.

  ‘This is a wonderful place,’ he said.

  ‘Richard and I used to come here quite a bit. It’s a good dance floor, as well as a good band.’

  ‘I’d like to try it out.’

  He danced very well. Miriam would probably have been surprised at that too, as well as at the bridge-playing. They danced and they dined and they talked and they laughed. She watched him shed years before her eyes. Felt herself doing the same.

  It was after midnight when they returned to the flat. ‘Another brandy?’ she asked him.

  ‘No, thanks. Another dance, instead.’ He put the same record on again and took her in his arms. She closed her eyes, longing for him. As it finished, he started to kiss her.

  He saw her through the window and drew back. He’d kept away for weeks, like she’d wanted, but the need to see her, just to look at her, was too great and, in the end, he’d ridden the bike down the hill to the village, like he always used to, and leaned it against the wall beside the bakehouse. He waited until the sheep’s bell sounded as a customer came out, and then went in. She hadn’t seen him, he realized that by the look on her face when she did. It was something like fear but he must have been mistaken. She had nothing to fear from him, she’d know that.

  ‘Half a dozen of the rock cakes, please,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought a bag.’

  ‘You mustn’t come here, Chester. I asked you not to. You mustn’t.’ She kept tugging at her overall, real nervous. What the heck was the matter with her?

  ‘No harm in it, surely. I missed those cakes.’

  ‘If Dad sees you . . .’

  ‘He’s seen me before.’

  ‘That’s just it.’

  ‘He still on about Yanks?’

  She nodded. ‘Worse than ever. You’ve got to stay away, Chester. Please. For my sake.’

  ‘OK,’ he shrugged. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘I’ve told you before it is.’ She put the rock cakes into the brown paper bag he’d given her. ‘Just go.’

  ‘Haven’t paid for them yet.’

  ‘Oh . . . it’s threepence.’

  He was handing over a threepenny bit when her father came into the bakehouse, stopped dead and then rushed at him like an angry bull.

  ‘By God, it’s you! Showing your face here! I’m going to see you court-martialled for what you’ve done.’

  He backed away from the onslaught. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You took advantage of my daughter. You raped her!’

  ‘Dad, please . . .’

  ‘Hold your tongue, Sally. That’s what he did. Let him deny it, if he dares. Fifteen years old you were. That’s against the law in this country. Fifteen.’

  ‘He didn’t know, Dad. I told him I was eighteen. He didn’t know.’

  The father snorted in fury. ‘You’ll be telling me next he doesn’t know you’re carrying his child.’

  Chester saw now why she’d been tugging at the overall and wondered how he could have been so blind. So dumb.

  ‘He doesn’t.’ She moved between her father and himself and crossed her arms over her swollen stomach. ‘And I don’t know whose child it is. That’s a fact.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know? You know very well.’

  ‘No, I don’t, Dad. I’ve gone with several Yanks – four of them – and I don’t know which one it was. I can’t tell, can I?’

  Her father raised his hand as though to strike her, and then let it drop. He shook his head, bewildered. ‘I don’t believe it – a daughter of mine, acting like a whore. I don’t believe it.’

  She tossed her head at him. ‘Well, it’s true, Dad. And you can’t make me marry all of them.’ Over her shoulder, she said to Chester, ‘It was never just you, see. You ought to’ve known that.’

  He stared at her and he thought about the way she’d always looked at other guys. He said steadily, ‘I still want to marry you, Sally, like I asked you before.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t want to get married.’

  ‘What about the baby? You’ve got to think of the kid.’

  ‘I’m giving it away. Aren’t I, Dad? He doesn’t want it. I don’t want it. Nobody wants it.’

  ‘Well, I sure do.’

  ‘It’s not yours to have, Chester. It’s mine. And I don’t know who the father is. Tell him to go, Dad. Go away and not come back. Ever.’

  All the anger had gone out of the poor guy; his shoulders were sagging, his face grey and defeated. He felt real sorry for him.

  ‘You’d better go. Go away, like she said, and don’t come back. Go on. Before I throw you out.’

  ‘Sally?’

  She turned her back on him.

  The sheep’s bell jangled loudly as he wrenched the door open. In his acute distress, he almost knocked down an old woman with his bike as she was hurrying across the road.

  Miss Cutteridge collected herself and her fallen shopping basket. The young American had ridden past so close that she had had to leap for the pavement. She’d seen him come bursting out of Mr Barnet’s, jump on the bike and tear off as though the hounds of hell were after him. From the brief glimpse she’d had of his face, he’d looked very upset and he had scarcely seemed to see her.

  She straightened her hat and went to the bakehouse to collect the small tin loaf that Sally always put by for her on a Friday. The young man had left the door open and the bell was still jiggling on its leather strap as she stepped inside. Sally wasn’t there, which was unusual, and it was Mr Barnet himself who served her. He looked upset, she thought, just like the young man, and seemed quite distracted too.

  ‘Is Sally well?’ she enquired.

  He almost snapped at her. ‘Perfectly, thank you.’

  �
�I just wondered . . . she’s normally here.’

  ‘Well, she’s not at the moment. Will there be anything else?’

  She didn’t like to ask for the stale bread that Sally sometimes put by for her for Porky Pig. ‘No, thank you, Mr Barnet.’

  She paid for the small tin loaf and walked back to her cottage. It seemed to her that the rumours about Sally must be true, after all. For a time she had persisted in believing that the girl was simply putting on rather a lot of weight, perhaps eating too many of those delicious cakes she made, but the encounter with Mr Barnet had signified some serious trouble. He was always politeness itself with customers; always so anxious to please and give the best service. And then there was the young American rushing off like that. She could remember having seen him before, calling at the bakehouse. If Sally was expecting, as half the village said she was, then, most probably, he was the father. Perhaps he had refused to marry her? That seemed unlikely as he looked a very nice young man, even if he had nearly knocked her down. It was all very shocking, of course, but somehow she seemed to have become quite used to being shocked these days.

  She let herself into her cottage and put the fresh loaf away in the bread bin. There was only a little stale bread left which she would mash up for Porky with the last of the potato peelings. Fortunately, Joe would be bringing another bucket of scraps later on, or she would have had nothing else left to give the pig who seemed to have an insatiable appetite. He had grown and grown until he almost filled the shelter, and he had become even more sociable, knowing exactly when to expect her visits. He would trot over to the wire to grunt his welcome and wait for her to scratch his back with a stick. She had never imagined that it would be possible to grow so fond of a pig, just the way she was fond of Ginger, and the time had long passed when he should have ceased to exist. She had put it off again and again. ‘You’ve got to do it, ma’am,’ Joe kept telling her. ‘You can’t keep him for ever.’

  ‘I’ll do it next week,’ she always said, but when the next week came she couldn’t bring herself to send for Mr Ford, the butcher.