Rising Summer (32 page)

‘Well, stay for a nice high tea,’ said Missus. She caught the look of disgust Minnie gave her. ‘We couldn’t let you go without a nice high tea, Tim. Min’s on a week’s leave, aren’t you, Min?’

‘Kettle’s boilin’,’ said Min, whose bouncy vivaciousness seemed to have gone for ever.

‘I’ll make a pot,’ said Missus, ‘your dad’ll be in in a minute.’

Jim arrived home just as the pot was made. His old hat had acquired another coating of moss. He exploded into loud chuckles at seeing me. He wrung my hand, said I looked a real good ’un as a sergeant and that I’d done a handsome job by winning the war. He told Missus to start pouring. Missus did. The large steaming cups were handed out. She and Jim talked to me, often together and at the same time. I answered Jim’s questions, while Missus continued to answer her own. Minnie just sipped her tea beside the fireside and said nothing. Jim asked how the nice American sergeant was and I said I was going to phone her and find out.

‘How about you, Min, how’s your boyfriend?’ I asked.

‘Which one?’ Min was casual and indifferent.

‘The RAF bloke,’ I said.

‘Oh, him,’ she said, ‘that didn’t last, they all come an’ go.’

‘Yes, always goin’ out with different soldiers, she is,’ said Missus disapprovingly.

‘Well, I can’t stop them lining up for me,’ said Minnie.

‘Now, my girl,’ said Jim, ‘that ain’t nice talk, nor sensible, neither.’

‘You’re never goin’ to settle down if you carry on like that,’ said Missus. ‘You won’t grow real affection for no-one, Min.’

‘I ain’t ’aving it,’ said Jim, ‘I ain’t ’aving no daughter of mine turnin’ into a restless little nanny goat with nothing on ’er tail except randy old billy goats.’

‘I don’t want any of that vulgar talk,’ said Missus, ‘you don’t hear our Tim sayin’ things like that. Still, I’ve got to say the war’s done bad things to girls, Tim, it’s made them think havin’ a good time’s more important than havin’ a good husband and nice fam’ly.’

‘I wish you two wouldn’t talk about me like that in front of strangers,’ said Minnie, suddenly furious.

‘Strangers?’ said Jim, his hat seeming to wear a frown. ‘What’s she on about, Missus? Tim ain’t no stranger.’

‘Never mind,’ said Missus placatingly.

‘I think while I’m here I’ll cycle to Elsingham and see Mary Coker,’ I said.

‘What, that widder woman?’ said Jim.

‘Bit of a foreigner, she is,’ said Missus. ‘Still, you was always a good friend to people, Tim, foreigners as well. I’ll get that nice high tea soon as you come back.’

Jim had a bike and said I could borrow it. He went off, back to his country spivving no doubt and I got his
bike
out of the shed. There was another bike there, a female machine. I returned to the cottage and looked in on Minnie. She was still sitting beside the fire, a book on her lap, but was watching the burning logs. Missus was in the kitchen.

‘Min?’ I said.

She jumped. The book slid to the hearthrug and she made a little gesture of irritation. ‘Oh, it’s you again,’ she said.

‘Fancy a bike ride to Elsingham with me?’ I suggested. ‘Be nice to have your company.’

She retrieved her book. ‘No,’ she said.

‘OK. Just thought I’d ask. You’re probably better off toasting yourself, it’s a cold day.’

‘Just go away,’ she said.

‘The war’s over, Min. Still, never mind—’

‘Oh, all right, I’ll come. I don’t want to be nagged all day,’ she said.

‘That’s a sport. I like company. Come on, then.’

Missus was pleased that Min had stirred herself. Wearing her cap and Waaf overcoat, she rode her own bike. Her coat skirts frisked back and her blue-clad knees peeped. Her peaked cap gave her a smart military look and her face began to glow in the keen country air. We took the route Kit and I had used, along the winding lanes, where quietness hung about. I wondered what on earth I was doing. I had Aunt May – my mother – to go home to and there was Kit to see. So what was I doing, spending time cycling to Mary’s with Minnie, who wasn’t exactly bright company?

‘D’you like it in the Waafs, Min?’ I asked.

‘D’you like it in the Army?’ she countered.

‘I haven’t liked it all the time.’

‘Well, hard luck,’ said Min shortly.

‘Yes, it wasn’t my idea of bliss. Damn old inconvenience, more like. Better off, I was, hiding under the bed.’

‘Why’d you talk like that?’ Minnie sounded scornful. ‘It’s silly.’

‘Picked it up in Suffolk.’

‘It’s not Suffolk talk, it’s daft talk. But you like showin’ off, you do. Anyway, I never thought the war bothered you. Easy come, easy go, that’s you.’

‘Only for the sake of peace and quiet, Min,’ I said. The hedgerows glinted with autumn tints. ‘I like peace and quiet.’

‘Can’t always have what you like, can you?’ she said.

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Still like that Waac sergeant, do you?’ she said. We were both cycling at a good pace in the tingling wind. ‘Goin’ to ask her, are you, now you’re back?’

‘Ask her what?’

‘To marry you, of course.’

‘The date needs to be fixed. I’ll have to phone her about meeting her. I’d like to get married and settle down in a humdrum way, wouldn’t you, Min?’

‘No, I wouldn’t, not for the sake of it,’ she said. ‘I just like havin’ a good time.’

‘You don’t sound as if you’re having one.’

‘Do me a favour,’ said Min, ‘mind your own business.’

‘OK, fair enough, Min.’

When we arrived in Elsingham, Mary’s welcome was
demonstrative.
But she was a bit flummoxed that I’d turned up with a Waaf. I think she thought it should have been Kit. However, when I introduced Minnie as the daughter of Jim Beavers of Sheldham, Mary received her in her warm friendly way.

Minnie, who seemed to have acquired some kind of anti-social outlook, thawed a bit and said, ‘Nice to meet you, I’m sure.’ Then she was more like her old self, liking the look of Mary’s cottage and saying so and liking too, the view of the garden from the living-room. Mary, always more willing to give people the benefit of the doubt than to form prejudices, showed a smiling appreciation of Minnie’s interest in her home. They began to chat about Elsingham and about life in the country. They had both come to Suffolk from London. While they chatted, I went down to the village phone box and called Kit at the American Headquarters in London.

‘Captain Masters, please,’ I said to the switchboard operator. Kit had been made up to captain on moving to London.

‘Who’s calling?’ asked the girl on the switchboard.

‘General Hardy.’

‘Oh, hold the line, sir.’

Kit came through after a moment or two. ‘Hello? Who’s this?’

‘Me.’

‘Tim! Oh, you screwball, I was told some general was on the line.’

‘I pride myself I could have made general if Colonel Moffat hadn’t been in my way.’

‘General idiot, you mean,’ said Kit and I heard her laugh. ‘You’re back, you’re actually here in the good old UK?’

‘I’m in Suffolk, I dropped in to see Mary on my way home. I’ll be in London tomorrow, then on to Guildford to get kitted up for civvy street. Could I see you lunchtime, say?’

‘You’d better, or I’ll get you peppered with rockets,’ said Kit. ‘Meet me outside the American Embassy at twelve-thirty. Will that do, lover?’

‘That’ll do. Can’t wait to see you.’

‘Yes, you can, you creep, or you’d be here now instead of in Suffolk. Give Mary my love and be good to me when we meet, because I’m going to be very good to you.’

‘How good?’

‘You’ll find out,’ she said. ‘Do you know how long it is since we last saw each other?’

‘Yes, I know. Two years. Do I have to salute you when we meet?’

‘I’m not in your outfit,’ said Kit, ‘but if you want to, you can. Just don’t be late, not after two years. I must hang up now. Kiss, kiss.’

Minnie gave me a look when I returned to Mary’s. ‘Spoke to her, did you?’ she said.

‘Yes, I’m meeting her in London tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Oh, you mean Kit?’ asked Mary, bringing in a pot of tea on a tray.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘That’s nice,’ said Mary.

‘Rapture,’ said Minnie, ‘if you like funerals.’

‘Funerals?’ said Mary, pouring the tea.

‘Good as,’ said Minnie, face as straight as Jim’s when he was being cryptic.

‘I don’t think I understand,’ said Mary, serving cups of tea. Minnie and I had both had some from Missus, but I could always accept an encore from a fresh pot.

‘It’s only what Harvey told me,’ said Minnie and thanked Mary as she took the cup and saucer.

‘Who’s Harvey?’ I asked. Minnie was worrying me. I couldn’t help having a soft spot for her and I felt her don’t-care attitude meant she was keeping the wrong kind of company.

‘A GI friend of mine,’ she said. ‘He knows why American soldiers are fallin’ over themselves to marry English girls. He says you’re a dead duck if you marry an American girl, he says you’re bossed for the rest of your life.’

‘Oh, that’s just talk, I’m sure,’ said Mary.

‘Well, I’ve heard that American society is pretty matriarchal,’ I said.

‘What’s that mean?’ asked Mary. ‘You sound all French sometimes, Tim.’

‘Oh, he’s always spoke peculiar,’ said Minnie.

‘A bit of a laugh, really,’ smiled Mary and went on to say she was going to sell the cottage and move to Ipswich, where her daughter and son-in-law lived. They’d bought a very roomy house just recently and the top floor was a self-contained flat. That was for her. And there were two young grandchildren to enjoy. Besides which, Mary said she was going to get lonely if she stayed in Elsingham to grow old.

‘It’s right, livin’ near your fam’ly,’ said Minnie, ‘and you shouldn’t have trouble sellin’ a nice cottage like this.’

‘No-one’s offered for it yet,’ said Mary.

‘I bet a young couple will,’ said Minnie, ‘a young couple that likes livin’ in the country.’

‘Not many young couples like a life as quiet as this, though,’ said Mary, ‘and nor would they get very rich, either.’

‘Why would they have to get rich?’ asked Minnie, who seemed more comfortable talking to Mary than to me. ‘A cottage like this and enough to live on, why should anyone want more, I’d like to know. In the country you just need enough, you can grow all the flowers and vegetables you want, like my dad does. He makes a livin’, but I’ve never heard him and my mum talk about wantin’ to get rich.’

‘You can’t always make people see that,’ said Mary.

‘Some people can’t see anything,’ said Minnie. ‘Still, I’ll tell my dad you want to sell, he’ll find someone who’ll buy it and he won’t charge you much for his goodwill. I never knew a room more warm and cosy than this.’

‘That’s because Tim fixed a door to my porch,’ said Mary. ‘It keeps the draughts out.’

‘Yes, he fixed things for a lot of people,’ said Minnie. ‘Not everyone, but a lot.’

‘Oh, Tim’s always been good to people,’ said Mary.

Minnie didn’t look very impressed. Abruptly, she said, ‘I’ve got to get back.’

We left a few minutes later. Mary asked me to give
her
love to Kit, who’d kept in regular contact with her and had been up to see her three or four times. I wondered if Kit would like to live in the country, if she’d favour us taking out a mortgage on Mary’s cottage and if I could get a job in Ipswich.

I cycled back to Sheldham with Minnie. The day was losing its best light and the air was nippy. Minnie discouraged conversation and went up to her room when we reached her home.

Missus put on a high tea of ham and eggs, with crusty bread and a bowl of butter. With food rationing still on, that was food for kings and queens. Good old Jim still had his sources.

Over tea, Minnie said very little, Jim was chatty and Missus wore her creamy smile. She said she couldn’t hardly believe I was back, it didn’t seem no time at all. Jim said I’d come back looking a fine full-grown bloke. Minnie made no comment. Missus said you’re not having much to say, Min.

‘I don’t go in for small talk,’ said Minnie, ‘It’s borin’.’

‘Well, I’m blowed,’ said Jim, ‘got yer nose up in the air a bit, ’ave yer?’

‘It’s all right, Jim, leave her be,’ said Missus.

Jim asked me about Kit again. Well, he asked about the female American sergeant with the good pedallers. I said she was a female American captain now and that I was having a reunion with her in London tomorrow.

‘Ah,’ said Jim and winked.

Missus cast me a knowing smile. ‘Be a sweet pleasure to her, you will, Tim,’ she said, ‘now you’re all of a man.’

What did she mean by that? That she thought Italy and France had introduced me to the rites? That she knew it just by looking at me? Well, she was wrong.

After tea, Jim said goodbye to me. ‘I’d ’ave liked yer livin’ up ’ere, Tim lad,’ he said, ‘but I don’t reckon that there American Kitty fancies it quiet, like. Still, come up an’ see us when yer can, me an’ Missus is fond of yer and I ain’t tellin’ no lie. I wish yer luck.’ He disappeared again.

I told Missus I’d help to wash up before I left and Missus said what a nice chap I was, that I could give Minnie a hand.

In the kitchen, with Missus leaving us to it, I said, ‘I’ll wash, you dry.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ said Minnie, jacket off and apron on, ‘don’t tell me what to do.’

‘Ruddy fireworks,’ I said, ‘leave off, Min.’

‘I’ll wash, you dry,’ she said.

‘OK. When d’you come out of the Waafs?’

‘How do I know? I’ve only been in five months. Of all the potty things, VE Day comin’ not long after I’d joined. I felt stupid. Still, I’ve always been like that. Stupid.’

‘Never thought it would come to this,’ I said.

‘Come to what?’ she asked, using a washing-up mop ferociously.

‘That you’d turn into a hard luck story.’

‘Bloody cheek,’ she said again, furiously. ‘Why don’t you go home?’

‘I am going, soon as I’ve finished the drying,’ I said
and
wondered again what I was doing, why I’d come here when Aunt May was beckoning.

The moment the chore was over, Minnie said, ‘Well, that’s it. I’ll say goodbye now.’

‘Well, at least we had a good bike ride, Min.’

‘Oh, grow up,’ said Min and left the kitchen to go up to her room again. I went and started my goodbyes to Missus.