Our Yanks

by Margaret Mayhew

  Sam Barnet was raking out the ashes from the bottom of the bakehouse furnace and shovelling them into the bucket. He wouldn’t be baking in the morning but the furnace would have to be lit just the same so the oven was ready to roast the Christmas dinners. Threepence a time he charged people, and sometimes he wondered if it was worth it for all the work. He carried the ashes out into the yard and groped around in the fog for some coal and wood. The Yank lorries were making a din, bringing everyone back from the carol service and the Christmas party. He’d never wanted to go but Freda would have done if Sally’s labour pains hadn’t started. They’d come a lot earlier than expected and they’d been going on for nearly four hours. He could hear Sally groaning and shrieking out, even from the bakehouse. Freda was up there with her, and the district nurse, and Dr Graham had been sent for. Supposing there was something wrong and Sally was in danger? He’d been hard on her, he knew that. She’d behaved like a trollop and brought shame on the family, but the thought of losing his daughter as well as his son was unbearable.

  He laid the furnace fire, ready to put a match to, swept the floor clean, and put things tidy. Then, when there was nothing left to be done, he went through into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Freda had been boiling hot water for the doctor and he might as well get some more ready in case it was needed. He sat down at the table and, just as he did so, there was another shriek from Sally: more than a shriek, a loud and terrible scream of agony that horrified him. And it went on and on until he clapped his hands over his ears in distress. He couldn’t remember Freda going through anything like that when Roger and Sally had been born. When, at last, he took his hands away there was silence and in the silence he could hear the church clock striking midnight. As the twelfth note faded away there was another sound – the full-lunged, furious yell of a baby protesting at being thrust into the world.

  Sam ran to the foot of the stairs and stood waiting, his heart thumping hard. After what seemed to him a very long time, Dr Graham came down the stairs and put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Congratulations, Sam. You’ve got a fine healthy grandson.’

  His voice was croaky: ‘Is Sally all right?’

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. It wasn’t an easy birth and she’s very tired, but she’ll recover quickly. The nurse will take care of things and I’ll be back again in the morning.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  The doctor paused at the door. He said with a smile: ‘A pretty good Christmas present, Sam, I’d say. Just what I’d order for you. You’re a lucky fellow.’

  He went back to the foot of the stairs and presently Freda came down, carrying a bundle in her arms. ‘I thought you’d like to see him.’

  He stared down at the tiny face, nestled in the lumpy woollen shawl that Freda had knitted. ‘He’s got blue eyes, just like that Yank.’

  ‘All babies have blue eyes to start with. They might turn brown later, like yours. I think he looks a bit like you, Sam.’

  He couldn’t see any resemblance to himself at all. Freda held out the bundle. ‘Would you like to hold him?’

  He backed off instantly, shaking his head. ‘When’s Sally going to have him adopted, then?’

  ‘She’s got to look after him herself for a bit, hasn’t she, poor little mite? She can’t give him away just yet.’

  ‘The sooner the better, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Best all round.’

  ‘What is it, Doris?’

  ‘If you please, there’s an American officer at the door.’

  Miriam said sharply, ‘What does he want?’

  ‘He didn’t say, milady. He just asked to speak to Lady Beauchamp.’

  ‘Well, which one of us did he mean?’

  Doris looked at Erika. ‘I think he must have meant your ladyship. But it’s not the colonel. It’s a major.’

  ‘You’d better show him in here, Doris.’

  ‘Very well, milady.’

  ‘Another of your American admirers, I suppose, Erika. You seem to attract them like flies.’

  She ignored her mother-in-law and waited, her eyes fixed on the drawing-room door. When Major Peters walked in she rose to her feet. He looked directly, and only, at her and she knew by his face what he had come to tell her. She listened without flinching to his words. Deep regret . . . Colonel Schrader . . . leading the Group in a vital attack . . . flying at low level . . . enemy ground fire . . . too low to parachute . . . no chance . . . no hope. So very, very sorry.

  ‘Thank you for coming to tell me, Major.’

  ‘He asked me to do so, Lady Beauchamp. If it ever happened.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll have to get a replacement,’ Miriam said when Major Peters had left. ‘I wonder if he’ll play bridge.’

  Alex put his head round her bedroom door. ‘I heard you crying, Mummy. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m sad because Colonel Schrader has been killed.’

  He came into the room over to the window seat where she was sitting. ‘He was a nice man, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was very nice.’

  ‘Did you like him a lot?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘More than Daddy?’

  ‘No, not more than Daddy. In a different way.’

  ‘I’ve got a clean handkerchief, if you want it.’

  She took it and wiped her face and blew her nose. ‘Thanks, darling.’

  ‘Are you OK now, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Perfectly.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you asked me – whether I wanted to go away to boarding school.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘Well, I think I’d quite like to next year. Would that be all right?’

  ‘If that’s what you really want to do. You won’t get homesick?’

  ‘I might at first, but I think I’ll be OK. Daddy liked it there, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he did. He loved his schooldays.’

  ‘Then I expect I would, because I’m rather like him, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you are, darling. Very like him. I shouldn’t say anything to Granny about this just yet. We’ll keep it a secret between ourselves for the moment, shall we?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to anyway. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Quite sure. You run along now.’

  At the door he said, ‘I’m very sorry about Colonel Schrader. I expect you’ll miss him a lot, won’t you?’

  She tried to speak normally in answer, but luckily he had gone.

  Fifteen

  It snowed hard early in January. The rector, arriving for the first Parochial Church Council meeting of the New Year, found the temperature of the parish room barely above freezing. There were radiators, of course, but no coal to run them and only one paraffin stove to provide any warmth. He lit it, but without much hope of it having any real effect other than to create an unpleasant smell.

  The meeting was timed, as usual, for six o’clock in the evening. The blackout blinds were already drawn and so he had been able to switch on the lights immediately and prepare things. He had dragged a trestle table into the centre of the room and was flapping at the dust on it with his handkerchief when the outside door opened and Sam Barnet came in, muffled up in overcoat, scarf, cap and gloves. Invariably early and invariably the first.

  ‘Evening, Rector. I’ll give you a hand with the chairs.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Barnet.’

  He was looking better, the rector thought. He had been very concerned for him during his illness. Overwork, together with the tragic loss of his only son and the unfortunate business with Sally had taken a great toll, but he appeared to have rallied; to have recovered his strength and his customary dignity. The rector would have liked to raise the question of the baby’s baptism, but thought it best not. Sally seemed determined to have him adopted and the matter would soon be out of his hands. The baker helped him move the chairs into position and no sooner was that done than the oth
er Council members began to arrive: Miss Cutteridge, Miss Skinner, Mr Wells, Mr and Mrs Dakin, Miss Hooper, Mr Rate, Brigadier Mapperton, Lady Beauchamp. They were all clad in heavy winter clothing and nobody, except for Miss Cutteridge who removed her gloves to hold her shorthand pencil, took off a single garment.

  The rector bowed his head and began with the prayer: his customary appeal for peace and harmony. ‘Oh Lord, we ask Thy blessing upon this meeting. Give us Thy guidance in all our deliberations and grant us the wisdom and understanding to work together so that we may serve Thee faithfully and truly here on Earth. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’ As he spoke he could see his breath clouding the icy air.

  He read out the apology for absence from Mr Hobbs who was in bed with influenza. Nobody seemed very sorry either about the absence or the influenza, unless he was imagining it. The minutes of the previous meeting were read and approved after Brigadier Mapperton had pointed out one or two small inaccuracies and they had been corrected. The first items on the agenda were plain sailing. The King’s Thorpe Brownies had raised one pound three shillings and fourpence carol-singing at Christmas and this was to be spent on comforts for the elderly poor in the parish. Miss Cutteridge and Lady Beauchamp undertook to buy and distribute suitable gifts. The rector noticed how wan both those ladies looked and wondered if they, too, were going down with influenza. There was a great deal of it about. The second and third items passed without difficulty but the fourth – repairs to the organ bellows – was more tricky. The estimate was for twenty-six pounds ten shillings, and the organ fund stood at fourteen pounds eleven shillings and fivepence. ‘Either the work’s done, or I can’t play,’ Miss Hooper announced. ‘Can’t we use some of the other money?’

  ‘Unfortunately, there is still the question of the dry rot.’

  ‘Dry rot? What dry rot, Rector? I thought that was all done and finished with.’

  Mr Rate leaned forward. ‘We’ve found some more, Miss Hooper. I was about to report that officially to the Council in the next item.’

  Brigadier Mapperton shifted ominously. ‘Keeping yourself in business, eh?’

  ‘I find that remark very offensive, Brigadier. If you will recall, I was asked at the last meeting to check the overall condition of the church fabric and timbers. In doing so, I discovered another area in a corner of the chancel roof where there are clear signs of some dry rot. As you are all aware, this should be dealt with at the first possible opportunity, before it spreads.’

  The rector said quickly, ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Rate. We’re very grateful to you for your vigilance. Have you an estimate of the cost?’

  The builder laid a sheet of paper on the table. ‘Forty-five pounds. And I’ve cut that to the bone.’

  ‘Are there sufficient funds to meet that, Mr Wells?’

  ‘Fortunately, yes. Just. The credit balance stands at a little over fifty pounds, at present.’

  Brigadier Mapperton raised a hand. ‘Just a moment. We should get another estimate. Ask Prescott’s what they’d charge. Got to do the thing properly. All above board.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by above board, Brigadier. I can assure you that there has never been anything below board about my firm in all the fifty years we’ve been in business. On the last occasion when you insisted on an alternative estimate from Prescott’s it was considerably higher than mine. I’m confident that the same would apply in this case. Any work I do for the parish is always carried out at the lowest possible rate – at some financial sacrifice to myself, I might add.’

  ‘You mean you overcharge everyone else?’

  Mercifully, Miss Hooper interrupted. ‘Blow the dry rot! What about my organ, that’s what I want to know.’

  The rector said soothingly, ‘It looks as though the balance needed for that will have to be raised by other means. Has anyone any suggestions, please.’

  They discussed jumble sales and bring-and-buys and concerts at the village hall with Miss Hooper at the piano. Brigadier Mapperton’s suggestion of rattling tins round the village was given consideration. ‘Nothing wrong with a straightforward approach, in my view. I’ll start the ball rolling myself: give them something to rattle. No good having a church without an organ.’

  Item five concerned the damaged transept window. ‘You will remember the Americans’ offer to pay for its replacement.’

  ‘I should damn well think so. They broke it.’

  ‘Quite so, Brigadier. Though it was never actually proved, of course, and may have been sheer coincidence.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense, Rector. The fellow was flying far too low.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘The original stained glass is irreplaceable, of course, and, in any case, so far we have been unable to find a craftsman to carry out the work of creating a new window.’

  ‘You can’t find anybody to do anything these days,’ Miss Skinner said. ‘Hopeless.’

  ‘Indeed. However, since our last meeting I have received a very substantial cheque donated by all the Americans who have attended some of our church services, taken part in our various village activities and come into our homes over the past year. They have particularly requested that it should be spent on the damaged window. We now have a chance to create something rather special in our old church. Not, I would think, until the war is over and such peacetime work can be undertaken once again. But, if you have any suggestions as to what would be appropriate, perhaps we could discuss this now so that I can give our benefactors some idea of what will, eventually, be done with their generous donation.’

  Thea Dakin lifted her hand. ‘If I may speak, Rector?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Dakin.’

  ‘I heard about this gift – Mr Wells just happened to mention it when I met him at the post-office counter – and in my prayers I have been asking God exactly what sort of new window should we create? It seems to me that this is a great responsibility. It should be something special, as you rightly say, Rector. Something uplifting. Something commemorative of this time for those that come after us to see and appreciate.’ The rector waited anxiously. God had a habit of answering Mrs Dakin’s prayers with controversial edicts; the argument over the Lady chapel had continued for three more meetings before it had finally died a death. She went on, with her eyes shining. ‘My prayers were answered. God spoke to me quite clearly.’ The brigadier muttered something but she took no notice. ‘He told me that we should create a window for our American airmen here at King’s Thorpe. A memorial stained-glass window to give thanks for their valour and their sacrifice in our common fight against evil. That’s what He told me. And that’s what I believe we should do.’

  The rector held his breath for the broadside that would surely come from Brigadier Mapperton. To his complete astonishment the brigadier held his fire. ‘Humph. Maybe not such a bad idea, especially since they’re paying for it. They’ve been doing a pretty fine job. Credit where credit’s due. I’ve always said that.’

  They all agreed: not a single voice was raised against Mrs Dakin. The rector, who had already thought of the same idea himself, rather than direct from God, but had hardly dared suggest it, gave an inward sigh of relief.

  She was crossing the rectory hall when she heard a vehicle crunching through the snow up the drive. By the sound of its engine, she knew it was an American jeep. And she knew who it was before she opened the front door. He stamped the snow off his feet onto the mat and brushed it off the sleeves of his sheepskin jacket. ‘Jeez . . . it’s kind of cool out. Real icy. Thought I was going in the ditch on the way down, once or twice. I brought your father a New Year’s present.’ He handed over a brown paper bag.

  ‘It feels like a bottle of something.’

  ‘Sure is. Sherry. I thought he’d like it.’

  ‘Thank you, Ed. He’ll like it a lot. We ran out months ago. How on earth do you get hold of such things?’

  ‘Ways and means.’

  ‘I’m sorry he’s not here at the moment. He’s in the Parochial Church Council
meeting.’

  ‘It wasn’t just him I came to see.’

  ‘Oh.’ She put the bottle on the hall table. ‘Well, would you like to come into the kitchen ? It’s the warmest place in the house. The only warm place, in fact.’

  He shed his jacket and cap and followed her down the passageway. ‘There’s something good cooking.’

  ‘Sausage casserole. Will you stay to supper with us?’

  ‘I can’t eat your food.’

  ‘There’s plenty.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I am. How’s Jessie?’

  ‘Just fine. She usually goes everywhere with me, but I left her behind this time.’

  ‘Thank you for the chocolates, Ed.’

  ‘What chocolates?’

  ‘From Father Christmas.’

  ‘He gave you chocolates? What a guy!’

  ‘The box is beautiful and the chocolates look much too good to eat.’

  ‘Hey, listen, you’ve got to eat them. That’s what they’re for.’

  ‘Anyway, thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Thank Santa Claus.’

  ‘I knew perfectly well it was you.’

  ‘You quite sure? I bet all us Yanks sound the same to you.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, you don’t. Not a bit. And I’d know you anywhere.’

  ‘That so?’ He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her. ‘I’m crazy about you, Miss, do you know that? Have been all along.’

  ‘Oh, Ed . . .’ She was half-laughing, half-crying. ‘I’ve been crazy about you all along as well.’

  He smiled slowly. ‘I kind of hoped you had. Do you reckon you could take a chance on my making it through the war OK?’

  ‘I’d take any chance with you.’

  He pulled her into his arms. ‘Those goddam whiskers sure got in the way.’

  At the end of the meeting, the rector bowed his head in prayer. ‘Oh Lord, we thank Thee for Thy heavenly guidance. As we stand at the gate of a new year, we ask that we may be given strength in all our endeavours. We thank Thee for the year that has passed: for the victories achieved by the Allies against our enemies. We pray for all soldiers, sailors and airmen, and especially the American airmen of King’s Thorpe, that they may be given courage to continue the fight until the world is free once more. And we ask that the souls of all those who have sacrificed their lives for us may rest in eternal peace.’