Rising Summer (27 page)

‘Who’s going?’ asked everyone.

‘The regiment, all three batteries.’

‘ATS as well?’ asked Corporal Deirdre Allsop.

‘Not this time,’ said Sergeant Johnson.

‘That’s it, leave us out,’ said Corporal Deborah Watts, ‘we’re only the backbone of BHQ, don’t take us to exciting foreign places.’

‘Safer not to,’ said Frisby, ‘you’ll only end up in a harem. Here, half a tick,’ he said, as the news sunk sharply in, ‘I don’t like the sound of this, sarge.’

‘Thought you wouldn’t,’ said Sergeant Johnson, ‘but make a note, all of you, to read standing orders to make sure you know you’ve got to finish up in Liverpool next Sunday week. It’ll probably mean a sea cruise to the Pacific.’

Bombardier Wilkins said he’d only go if he had to, Frisby said he wouldn’t go under any circumstances and I said I couldn’t go.

‘Dear oh lor’,’ said Sergeant Johnson, ‘you sure you couldn’t?’

‘Positive,’ I said. ‘It’s my private life, I’m expecting developments. I don’t mind the Isle of Wight, but anywhere farther than that would muck things up considerably.

‘No problem,’ said Sergeant Johnson, ‘just get your developments sorted out and the rest of us will wait for you.’

‘They can wait for me too,’ said Frisby. ‘I’ve got certain medical responsibilities.’

‘Yes and we know who your patient is,’ said Sergeant Johnson. ‘Take her on leave with you and give her an operation.’

‘I’ve got to go down to the village,’ I said.

‘Don’t come it,’ said Sergeant Johnson.

‘It’s all right, I’ll make out a chit,’ I said.

He let me go, it was that kind of a day. I cycled down to the village to use the public phone box and got the operator to ring the American base at Chackford. I put my tuppence in and asked for Extension 151, which was Kit’s office. She answered and I gave her the news. She asked if I understood what I was saying and was it true. I said yes. She said it wasn’t the best joke she’d ever heard. I said it was no joke. Don’t make it worse, she said, go sick, fall ill. That wasn’t like her at all, she’d always been inclined to think I was having too easy a war. She asked where the battery was going to. I told her that Jim Beavers had said it would be Italy.

‘Don’t quote that old ratbag,’ she said, ‘I’m sick enough as it is.’

‘I suppose you couldn’t get ten days off and share my embarkation leave with me, could you?’ I asked.

‘Now I’m really hurting,’ said Kit, ‘I had a week’s leave in London while you were living it up without me in BHQ and I’m beginning an officers’ training course in a few days. From next Monday.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that, I’ll have to salute you next time we meet, which looks like being when the war’s over.’

‘Tim, that’s not funny.’

‘Well, how about if we arranged a wartime wedding for tomorrow, with a one-night honeymoon?’

‘That’s even less funny,’ said Kit.

‘After the war, then?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Is that yes to the proposal?’ I asked.

‘Yes, love you,’ said Kit.

‘You mean you’re going to be my little woman?’

‘I’m going to marry you,’ she said, ‘not be your little woman. I—’ She stopped. I heard a voice in the background. Kit rushed a few words, ‘Write to me. Take care. Write to me.’

‘I’ll write. All the best, love.’

When I came out of the phone box I hardly knew where my feet were. When I got back on the bike I hardly knew where the road was. Twice I mounted the verge and once I rode into the hedge.

I had a post-war future with an all-American girl.

As soon as my work was finished for the day I went to the village, giving army tea a miss. Frisby had already
disappeared
to cycle to Chackford, where Cecily was dwelling in blissful ignorance of his imminent departure to war, unless Kit had given her the news.

I posted a letter to Aunt May, then called on Jim. Minnie answered my knock.

‘Hello, Min,’ I said. She was still growing up in a ripe and creamy way, but looked as if she’d lost some of her exuberance. It was understandable.

‘No-one’s in,’ she said.

‘You’re in and you’re not no-one,’ I said.

‘Are you here to see me?’ she asked.

‘All of you.’

‘Well, there’s only me,’ she said, ‘and I’m goin’ out, I’ve got a date.’

‘Have you? Well, that’s good, Min, but does your dad know?’

‘Yes,’ she said and there wasn’t even the ghost of a smile around.

My stomach rumbled. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I missed out on tea.’

‘Fancy that,’ said Min, unimpressed. Having some of her own back, Min was. ‘Well, you’d better come in, I suppose.’

‘Not if you’re going out, Min.’

‘You can come in, can’t you?’ she said. ‘Not goin’ to jump all over you, am I? All right, I’ll give you a bit of tea.’

‘I didn’t come for that, Min. I came to let your mum and dad know we’re definitely going overseas.’

She bit her lip. ‘Yes, we thought you’d be goin’ soon,’ she said. ‘Oh, don’t keep standin’ there, just come in.’

‘All right, Min, I’ll come in and wait,’ I said, ‘it’s my last chance of seeing your mum and dad. From tomorrow we’re confined to barracks until they let us out on embarkation leave on Thursday.’

I stepped in. Minnie closed the door and went through to the kitchen. I followed.

‘What d’you want to eat?’ she asked with her back to me.

‘Min, don’t worry about that,’ I said, ‘go and get yourself ready for your date.’

‘Just sit down, will you?’ Minnie was huffy. For the sake of peace and quiet, I sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I’ll do you scrambled eggs on toast and a pot of tea. I don’t want Mum sayin’ I wasn’t ’ospitable. She an’ Dad are in Sudbury, doin’ shoppin’. They went in his van.’

‘Well, I hope they’ll be back before you chop me in half, I’d like to see them.’

‘Best if you don’t talk, you don’t make me laugh any more,’ said Min and got on with scrambling two eggs.

‘Min, you told your Mum that after I’d gone I’d forget all of you.’

‘So you will,’ she said.

‘Of course I won’t.’

‘You won’t ever come an’ see us again, I bet you won’t.’ She was keeping her back to me all the time. ‘You’re goin’ with that Wac sergeant again, we ’eard you was seen out with her on Sunday, in a jeep.’

In the jeep, Kit and I had been an obvious target for eyes that were always wide-awake in this part of Suffolk, where everyone seemed to know every BHQ soldier.

‘Well, Min—’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Min. ‘I already got the message. I suppose you thought you were bein’ nice to me in tellin’ me you’d come and see me when the war was over, but I don’t think you were bein’ honest. Never mind, it don’t matter now, I’ve met someone.’

‘Then I’m pleased for you, Min.’

‘That’s a laugh,’ said Min. She rustled up the welcome snack in no time, a fluffy golden mound on two slices of toast. Then she plonked a pot of tea on the table. ‘There’s the milk, there’s the sugar and there’s a cup an’ saucer.’

‘Thanks, Min, it looks a treat,’ I said, wondering if Kit could perform as quickly and as well.

‘I’m goin’ to get ready for me date now,’ she said and whisked out. The little meal was first-class, although I’d have enjoyed it more if she’d served it up with a smile. Her missing sparkle made me grieve a bit for her.

I was on my second cup of tea when Jim and Missus arrived home, laden with two full shopping bags. Most people these days were lucky to come home with one shopping bag half-full. Jim and Missus, of course, had their own sources of supply. Missus beamed at seeing me.

‘My, it’s nice to see you makin’ yourself at home, Tim,’ she said. ‘Has our Minnie been givin’ you some tea?’

‘Scrambled eggs on toast,’ I said. ‘I dropped in to let you know the battery’s moving out on Thursday – embarkation leave. You probably know already, of course.’

‘I didn’t know we knew that, did we, Jim?’ said Missus.

‘Sort of,’ said Jim.

‘Well, perhaps you also sort of know how much longer the war’s going to last and if I’m going to come out of it alive.’

‘Blessed if our Tim’s not teasin’ us, Jim,’ said Missus, taking her hat and coat off.

‘You’ll be all right, lad,’ said Jim, seating himself and testing the pot for contents. He poured himself a cup.

‘Shame you got to go, though,’ said Missus, ‘specially as we heard you’re goin’ round courtin’ your American lady sergeant in one of them jeeps.’

‘Yes, we did ’ear, Tim, an’ good luck to yer,’ said Jim. ‘She looks a good ’un to me. Where’s our Min? Gone out, ’as she?’

‘She’s upstairs getting ready,’ I said.

‘Yes, she’s met a nice young chap in the RAF,’ said Missus.

‘Well, that’s good,’ I said.

‘Maybe,’ said Jim. ‘’E ain’t like you, Tim, nor us. More of a foreigner, like. Comes from Yorkshire.’

‘Still, he’s a kind boy,’ said Missus, ‘only eighteen an’ just joined up. Mind, we’re goin’ to miss you, love.’

‘Well, you’ve been good friends, you and Jim, Missus,’ I said. ‘Your place has been home from home to me.’

‘Stay for the evenin’ and have a bite of supper with us,’ said Missus, ‘there’s a nice sausage and onion puddin’ simmering away in that saucepan. I’ll just go up and show Minnie the new dress we bought for her
in
Sudbury, Jim ’appened to find some spare clothin’ coupons.’ She took a parcel from one of the shopping bags and went upstairs with it.

Jim sat drinking his tea, his mossy hat nodding pensively. ‘Buy yer a pint at the pub after supper, Tim,’ he said.

‘Well, good on yer, mate,’ I said. I heard voices upstairs, then the sound of descending footsteps, followed by the opening of the front door. Minnie called.

‘See you later, Dad.’

‘Not too much later, Minnie girl,’ called Jim.

‘No, all right,’ called Minnie and the front door closed.

Missus reappeared. ‘Well, she liked the look of the dress, Jim,’ she said, ‘but didn’t ’ave no time to try it on. Said she was already late meetin’ her young man. She’s still a bit low.’

‘Nothing you said to ’er, was it, Tim?’ asked Jim. ‘You wasn’t unkind to our Min?’

‘Give you my word,’ I said. ‘She did me proud with the scrambled eggs, told me she’d got a date and went upstairs to get ready.’

‘Funny she didn’t say goodbye to you,’ said Jim.

‘Not funny at all,’ said Missus.

‘This ain’t yer last evenin’ before you go, Tim, is it?’ said Jim.

‘’Fraid so,’ I said. ‘We’re confined to barracks tomorrow and Wednesday. We’ve got to clean the whole place up and leave it looking tidy. Didn’t you know?’

‘We don’t ’ear everything,’ said Jim.

‘Yes, dicky birds don’t fly in all the time,’ said Missus.

‘Anyway,’ said Jim, ‘we’ll go to the pub after supper,
Tim,
an’ you can stand me that jug of ale you mentioned.’

‘I thought you said you were treating.’

‘Did I?’ Jim’s old green titfer looked as puzzled as his face. ‘I thought goin’ off to a place like Italy made it your turn, lad.’

Yes, bound to be Italy, I thought. Mussolini had done a bunk, the Italian government had surrendered and its navy was in the hands of the British. But the German armies in Italy were giving the Allied troops a hard fight. Well, the battery had had it cushy so far, we couldn’t complain about being sent to join the fighting forces in Italy.

Missus served a luscious sausage and onion pudding for supper. I had no problem in tucking in, although I’d had my army dinner at midday and the teatime snack of scrambled eggs. Missus said she was pleased to give me that kind of treat for my farewell. Afterwards, Jim and I went to the pub. It was a lively hour or so, with some of my battery mates there as well and several Suffolk natives. They all knew about us going, the locals. They always seemed to know everything. It was no good the government warning everyone to keep whatever information they had under their hats. It all escaped and flew into the ears of the inhabitants of Sheldham.

I went back with Jim to his cottage to say a final goodbye to Missus. Young Wally Ricketts appeared out of the night.

‘’Ello, Tim, yer goin’, then,’ he said.

‘Seems like it,’ I said.

‘I might as well fink about goin’ meself, back to me
mum
an’ dad in ’Oxton,’ he said gloomily. ‘I mean, you’re me only mate round ’ere. Well, except for Mr Beavers – ’ello, Mr Beavers. I only get fick ears from everyone else. Honest, Tim, if any of the kids fall in the pond, I get the blame. D’yer want any rabbits when yer go?’

‘I won’t be able to collect them,’ I said.

‘I’ll bring ’em, don’t you worry, I’ll bring yer a pair, like before. Only times bein’ ’ard, I’ve ’ad to put the price up. Say a couple of bob for the pair, Tim?’

‘That lad’s got the makin’s,’ said Jim, grinning.

‘Young war profiteer,’ I said. ‘Still, all right, Wally, bring ’em along on Wednesday and I’ll find you a couple of bob. But I want fresh bunnies.’

‘You betcher, Tim mate,’ said young Wally.

A few minutes later I was saying goodbye to Missus. She gave me a kiss and wiped a tear away. ‘We’re goin’ to miss you something chronic, Tim love,’ she said.

‘I’m going to miss you too, Missus, all of you. So long, you old Suffolk cockney,’ I said to Jim, shaking his hand.

‘I ain’t as old as that,’ said Jim. ‘Me an’ Missus, well, it’s been a pleasure knowin’ yer, Tim. You watch out for yerself now.’

No-one had mentioned Minnie.

‘Sorry Minnie’s not here,’ I said, ‘I’d have liked to say goodbye to her.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Jim carefully.

‘Best thing she’s not here in a way,’ said Missus.

‘Well, give her my love,’ I said, ‘and wish her the best of luck for me.’

‘Goodbye, Tim,’ said Missus and gave me another kiss.

‘I’ll come knocking one day,’ I said and I left.

As I reached the gate, Minnie appeared on clicking heels. ‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Hello, Min.’

‘I thought you’d be gone by now,’ she said.

‘I’m just off,’ I said.

The village street was dark. I’d known it bright, sunny, rainy, misty and icy and I’d known it as neighbourly as any Walworth street. I’d known smiles, looks, country greetings, soft voices, rich voices, friendly eyes, curious eyes and knowing eyes. I felt as much a part of this village street as I did of my home street in Walworth. And I felt that Jim, Missus and Minnie were family. I also felt, at this moment, that Minnie meant as much to me as a lovable, teasing sister and that I had a lot to make up for in the way I’d treated her.