Rising Summer (11 page)

‘Perfect,’ she said, her gesture embracing Suffolk, lush from rain and sun. ‘Don’t you feel you’d like to get out and wander?’

‘Can’t stop now, Kit, I’ll miss my dinner.’

‘No, I guess not,’ she said.

‘It’s no guess, it’s every man for himself,’ I said. ‘Why’d you want to wander?’

‘I’d like to explore some of the country while I’m
here,’
she said. ‘I’d like to climb gates and talk to horses, or knock on doors and talk to people.’

‘Well, you can borrow a bike, there are several available. Then you can cycle at leisure and wander at will.’

‘Is that a fact, could I borrow one?’ she asked keenly.

‘Why not? We’re all mates. They’re WD property, but you’re attached to the unit and you only need a chit. I’ll make one out for you. It looks as if it’ll be a nice afternoon.’

‘Do I have to go by myself?’ she asked.

‘I could make out a chit for Cassidy too, or Cecily. Which one d’you fancy?’

‘Wake up,’ said Kit.

‘D’you mean you’d fancy me?’

‘I don’t have to fancy you, do I?’

‘It’s not compulsory. We could just be cycle mates for the afternoon.’

‘Your English is very peculiar at times, Tim, old boy. Can’t we just say we’ll ride out together?’

‘Sounds OK,’ I said.

As soon as we got back I made out chits, took two bikes out of store and hid them. There was always a demand for them on Sunday afternoons. I had a cold wash after dinner to acquire a fresh clean look. Frisby caught me in the ablutions and confided news of Cecily, who had joined the ATS girls and the gunners on church parade.

‘Poor young bird,’ he said, ‘she’s got mother trouble.’

‘I didn’t know she’d brought her mother over with her.’

‘Can the cackle and listen,’ said Frisby.

Cecily, it seemed, was the only child of parents who had a small farm in Illinois. The marriage had turned sour and Cecily’s father had walked out ten years ago. Her mother never forgave him. Living in a cheap apartment in Chicago, the farm sold, she revenged herself on her husband and all other men by regaling her daughter with mind-boggling details of what they were capable of. At the same time she lavished on the girl the selfish and possessive love that was designed to never let her go. Evenings were often traumatic, the cataloguing of the sins of men sparing Cecily nothing. Cecily developed a horror and fear of ever letting a man near her. By the time she was twenty, that fear had become an aggressive rejection of men. Then the Japs bombed Pearl Harbour. The store at which Cecily worked closed down for the day. Arriving home well before she was expected, she found her mother in bed with a man. She walked out on her, as her father had done. It did not cure her of her antipathy towards men, but it did enable her to escape the maternal straitjacket. She enlisted in the Wacs a year later, wanting to serve her country within the ranks of thousands of her own sex. She was well aware there were many more thousands of men in uniform, all of whom stalked the game. She dreamt of various fates, all worse than death.

‘She actually poured all this out?’ I asked.

‘A bit at a time,’ said Frisby. ‘So now what do I do? It was a lark at first. Now she needs me, she thinks I’m the only guy who’s got two hands instead of six. She really needs me.’

‘As a father or a doctor?’ I asked, as we walked along the path, the stone borders newly whitewashed. The afternoon had become brilliant, but Frisby was frowning darkly.

‘I’ve got problems,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to fancy her, but the last thing I can do is to let it show. She’ll commit suicide.’

‘Be like me, try celibacy,’ I said. ‘Be her father confessor.’

‘I’ve had celibacy ever since the Yanks arrived,’ said Frisby, ‘and I’m at the age when it hurts. I can’t guarantee I won’t grab Cecily. So what d’you think, mate?’

‘Just be kind to her,’ I said. That would have been Aunt May’s advice.

I WAS WAITING
at the gates at two o’clock, keeping both bikes warm. Kit, arriving ten minutes late, apologized. She’d been detained by Major Moffat. He’d decided to make an unscheduled round of the sites and if Sergeant Masters cared to, she could accompany him.

‘A round of the sites?’ I said, shaken. ‘On a Sunday afternoon? He’ll wake everyone up.’

‘I think that’s his idea,’ said Kit with the misguided relish of a woman sergeant who didn’t understand how men fought a war. ‘After all, there are still air raids. German bombers still sneak over.’

‘Not in daylight any more and not on London.’

‘Your false sense of Sunday afternoon security will catch up with you,’ she said, ‘and you’ll have egg all over your face.’

‘Well, don’t let’s worry about that today,’ I said. ‘Look, you keep an eye on these bikes while I pop up to the RT room and get the bloke on duty to pass a quick word to our site commanders.’

‘I’m not falling for that stuff again,’ said Kit. ‘And you can forget your RT room. Major Moffat has already taken steps to seal it off. He said the whole of BHQ was alive with traitors who’d do just what you thought of doing. I must say he’s got a fascinating accent.’

‘All right, marry him then and see what happens the first time you answer him back. His accent will burn the clothes off your back and reduce your roll-on to a smoking ruin.’

‘Don’t keep telling me to marry him, you clown, and don’t imagine I wear a roll-on,’ said Kit crisply. ‘Let’s go, shall we? I told Major Moffat I had a prior engagement. What’s that?’

‘Your bike. A ladies’ machine of first-class WD quality, with khaki mudguards.’

Kit viewed the museum piece. I assured her it didn’t actually creak and jangle. She mounted, finding the pedals with her brown-shod feet and off we went. Her skirt rode up, her knees gleamed and her legs looked rhythmic.

‘Eyes front, Hardy,’ she said.

‘Good ’uns, they are,’ I said. I had a bit of Suffolk in me too, like Min.

‘What?’ Kit asked.

‘This way,’ I said and I led her off the village road and made for Plaxted Farm.

In the rural quietness, Kit hummed a song as she rode beside me. Early butterflies danced to it and hedgerows murmured. The day was golden now, the fields verdant, the trees brilliant with glossy leaf. We approached a man in leggings. He was carrying a bucket. It vibrated as he saw Kit and her shining summer legs.

‘A tidy pair of good ’uns you got there, soldier girl,’ he said, as we rode by. Kit stopped in a little while.

‘Listen,’ she said, ‘is this low saddle your idea? That guy saw my pants.’

‘You sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. His eyes fell in his bucket. I think you’d better fix this saddle.’

I fixed it with a spanner from the little tool kit. Remounting, she said it was fine now that her knees weren’t coming up to hit her chin. We rode on. I stopped when we reached a gun site just beyond Plaxted Farm. Kit, seeing Nissen huts, came about.

‘What’s cooking?’ she asked.

‘This is my old site,’ I said. ‘Shan’t be a tick.’

I went to find Sergeant Fox, deputy site commander under Lieutenant Rogers. He was having a nap. He was cross when I woke him up, but mellowed when I let him know what the major was up to. ‘Can you pass the word to the other sites on your RT, sarge?’

‘Me old grandmother’ll be disappointed if I can’t,’ he said. ‘All right, can do. You’re a loyal piece of leavings and I hope those ponces at BHQ appreciate you.’

‘Miss me, do you, sarge?’

‘Not yet. ’Oppit.’

I went back to Kit. She gave me a cryptic look but said nothing. We went on, cycling leisurely through countryside and hamlets. The hamlets slumbered in the afternoon warmth and the livestock in the thatched roofs were probably waking up to the fact that summer had arrived. There was a gentle ascent to the village of Elsingham and we rode up slowly, Kit digging her feet into her pedals. At the top we dismounted to look back over the ground we had covered, over fields, dissecting hedgerows and winding lanes. Far away the colours were hazed by the sun. A small stream
near
the foot of the little hill flowed into a green and leafy copse.

‘Lovely,’ said Kit musingly, ‘it’s Constable country.’

‘Oh, Constable,’ I said. ‘He paints old mills and things.’

‘Painted. He’s dead now. Do wake up, old buddy. Incidentally, you spilled the beans to the men on your old site back there. You took sneaky advantage of what I told you in confidence.’

‘Yes, ta for the information, Kit.’

‘All your sites will be alerted?’

‘You bet.’

‘Did I get a mention?’ she asked, eyes on the copse.

‘Pardon?’

‘I’d have liked a mention,’ she said. ‘Loyal American ally helps to save British comrades from being scalped.’

‘Yes, you’re a good old American guy, Kit.’

‘You’re cute too. Where’s your home town?’

‘Walworth in South London.’

‘Sounds great. Do you have a girlfriend back there?’

‘Not yet. But I’ve got an aunt. I was orphaned as an infant and she’s looked after me ever since. She’s my Aunt May and my good old mum.’

‘Well, I rate Aunt May,’ said Kit. In her musing mood, her eyes still on the view, she had a softer look. She was very good-looking, with a lovely mouth.

‘How about you?’ I asked. ‘What part of America do you come from?’

Kit said her home was in a Boston suburb, that Boston itself was OK, even if it didn’t set New Yorkers alight. But New Yorkers were almost foreigners, she said. There
were
places in New York where English wasn’t spoken, or if it was, one couldn’t understand it. She had been running a little store in Boston with the help of a friend until the war interfered. A store for kids. She and her friend, Effie Charmicle.

‘Effie Charmicle?’

‘Yes. You don’t know her, do you?’

‘No. She’s too far away. Are there many Charmicles in Boston.’

‘There’s Effie’s family,’ said Kit. ‘Czech extraction.’ She mused again. I fancied a cup of tea. Just the afternoon, it was, for a cup of tea. Kit went on to say she and Effie had felt there weren’t too many stores that catered all that well for young people and even those that did got crowded out by adults. So she and Effie took a lease on a downtown shop and sold only kids’ stuff. Weekend shirts, casuals, sweaters, books and anything else with teenage appeal. She and Effie pooled ideas and resources, plus unlimited enthusiasm and in six months the store had caught on and was flourishing. But by then it was September 1942 and she felt guilty. So she enlisted in the WAAC and left Effie to carry the store through the war. It had the backing of Kit’s father, who had supplied some capital in the first place.

‘You’ll go back to it when the war’s over?’ I asked.

‘I surely will,’ said Kit. ‘I’ve a feeling that after the war it will really take off. What were you doing before you enlisted?’

‘Insurance.’

‘Insurance?’ Kit looked disgusted.

‘Claims department.’

‘You can do better than that,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’

‘About forty.’

‘I’m twenty-two – hold on, you comic, you’re not forty.’

‘No, I only said about forty. It’s the war, it’s put years on me.’

‘Old buddy, you’re not even in the war.’ Kit took her cap off and shook her springy hair. She looked young and lovely in the sunshine. I wondered if Missus would think her right for me. I felt Aunt May would. Kit might be just the job to come home to in the evenings, with a pretty apron on and a cake baking in the oven. On the other hand, was that the right kind of picture to draw of an efficient female sergeant who had a store in Boston?

‘What’s next for you?’ I asked. ‘Officer rank?’

‘I’m working my way up,’ said Kit, ‘I like doing it that way.’ She would, I thought. Each step up would make her efficiency feel good.

‘What’s your family like?’ I asked.

‘Both my parents are nice guys,’ said Kit, ‘so are my two brothers. They’re in the Pacific’

‘Wish I was. All those grass skirts and coconuts. Here you can’t even get a banana.’

‘You’re a banana, Tim,’ she said, putting her cap back on. ‘Banana first-class. Come on, let’s go.’

We went, wheeling our bikes through Elsingham so that she could knock on doors and talk to the natives, if she wanted to. The houses had rendered walls and painted doors. Cottages looked timeless. The one shop sold groceries, papers, stamps, a small range of hardware
and
spare parts for bicycles. The church had a look of ancient history that Kit liked. Beyond the church, three cottages nestled together. The middle one had a timber porch. On either side of the front path were flower borders surrounding small square lawns. The grass looked in need of a cut. A woman was weeding. She was a little fat, her cotton dress tight, her healthy-looking face red from bending. She was in her fifties, a little grey showing in her brown hair. She came to the gate when she saw me approaching.

‘Hello, Timmy,’ she called.

‘Hello, love.’

‘You know each other?’ said Kit.

‘We met last year,’ I said. ‘I pass this way from time to time, whenever I’ve made out a chit for a Sunday bike. Come and meet her yourself. She’s a widow and she’s nice. She might put the kettle on for us.’

‘You’d take a widow’s tea ration?’ asked Kit, aware of our food shortages.

‘Only if she insists. Come on.’

Widow Mary Coker greeted us with a good-natured smile. She was a Londoner who, with her husband, had escaped the smoke ten years ago, selling their shop in Balham to settle in Elsingham. They’d had eight happy rural years before Mr Coker quietly died, leaving Mary to live on her pension and their savings. She managed to exist in a busy and thrifty way and she practised good neighbourliness and hospitality. She reminded me sometimes of Aunt May and I liked all women of that kind.

‘You haven’t been by lately, Tim,’ she said.

‘It’s been a few weeks,’ I said. Often I cycled around
with
Frisby, but I’d been on my own when I met Mary. She’d invited me in for a cup of tea and I’d seen her regularly since then and done little jobs for her. I’d let her chat to me. She liked a good chat.

‘Mary, meet a new cycle mate of mine, Sergeant Kit Masters of Boston, America. I’m giving her a guided tour.’