Our Yanks (21 page)

‘I guess he doesn't believe in it, anyway. So, she dumped the workload on you? That was kind of a raw deal.'

‘People in the village help, so it's really not so bad.'

The wine and the rissoles appeared and there was a pause in the conversation while the waitress served them. Now was the moment to ask the favour she needed of him.

‘I was wondering . . .'

‘I'm wondering too – what's in these rissoles besides the corned beef?'

‘It's mashed vegetables. Carrots and turnips and potatoes, and that's wheatmeal breadcrumbs on the outside. It's one of our wartime recipes – to make things go further.'

‘You don't say. So, what were
you
wondering?'

‘About your station band.'

‘What about them?'

‘Do you think they'd play for one of our village dances?'

‘They're kind of different from your band.'

‘Yes, that's rather the point, you see . . . we need to raise some money. Some of the church roof timbers have got dry rot. I don't know if you know about dry rot, but if you don't get it treated quickly it spreads everywhere and costs a fortune to get rid of.'

‘That sure would be a pity with a beautiful old place like that. You figure our band could help in some way?'

‘Well, they're awfully good, aren't they? People have heard about them in the village. If they played at one of the Saturday night dances we could charge extra for the entrance fee – say one and sixpence instead of a shilling. Perhaps even two shillings. People wouldn't mind paying that for something special. It wouldn't make enough but it would go quite a way towards the roof repairs.'

‘Well, I figure it's up to our group commander. Want me to find out what the score is?'

‘The score?'

‘What he thinks about it.'

‘If you would, please. We'd be very grateful . . . Ed.'

‘With him so keen on being very nice to you villagers, then I'd say you wouldn't have a problem . . . Agnes.'

Driving back in the jeep he said, ‘Now if we were in New York I'd've taken you to my parents' restaurant on 53rd Street. They'd've made a great big fuss of you and my mother would have cooked something pretty special. Maybe
Polio alla Bolognese
. That's a great dish: chicken cooked with onions and tomatoes, and white wine. You serve it over spaghetti with grated cheese on top. Or maybe
Pasta con Gamberetti
– that one's with prawns and cream. I reckon you'd like that too.'

She tried to picture it: the crowded Italian restaurant, plates piled with exotic, foreign food; outside, the brightly lit New York Street. A million miles away.

It had started to rain, spattering the jeep's wind-screen.

‘Say, do you mind working the windshield wipers?'

‘What do I do?'

‘There's a handle your side as well – just up in front of you.' She found it and worked it to and fro every now and then, keeping the screen clear for him. ‘Thanks, that's a real help.'

At the rectory he got out and came round to unclip the webbing strap. The only easy way out was to jump down into his arms.

‘I'll let you know about the band – soon as I can.'

‘Thank you. And thank you for the dinner.'

‘Just carrying out orders.' He let go of her. ‘Goodnight, Agnes.'

‘Goodnight.'

Her father was still up, writing at his desk in the study.

‘I asked Lieutenant Mochetti about their band,' she told him. ‘He thinks they might be able to play at the village hall. He's going to find out.'

He smiled at her. ‘It was a very good idea of yours, my dear. Quite inspired.'

‘Of course they may not let them.'

‘Oh, I have a feeling that the lieutenant will succeed in arranging it for you.'

‘I hope so. That's the only reason I went.'

‘Just so. But he seems a very pleasant young man.'

‘Yes. He is.'

‘Did you have a nice evening?'

‘Yes, thank you. His name's Ed, by the way.'

‘Ah . . . I must remember that.'

‘Don't work too late, Father.'

‘I'm just finishing my sermon, my dear.'

She climbed the stairs slowly and thoughtfully to bed.

The otter's sleek, dark head broke the surface of the brook. Tom instantly froze where he was on the bank, motioning to Alfie to keep still. He held his breath, watching the wet muzzle and whiskers and the bright little eyes. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the otter vanished beneath the water, leaving a long trail of bubbles.

‘You went and scared him, Alfie.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘Yes, you did. You moved.'

‘Only a bit. I couldn't help it.'

It was hopeless taking Alfie along; he always ruined everything. Otters were mostly only around at night and Tom had hardly ever seen one, but he knew they were there in that stretch of the water because he often saw their spraints on the old elder tree that had fallen down over the brook. ‘Come on, then.'

They crossed the brook by the fallen tree, balancing along its narrow trunk with their arms outstretched like tightrope walkers. He waited for the splash of Alfie falling in behind him, like he'd done last time, but he did it all right, for once. On the other side, Tom cut across Fitt's meadow, over the stile, past the old claypits and on round Spinney field where the blackthorn hedge was already blossoming. Alfie panted along after him.

‘Where're we going, Tom?'

‘You'll see.'

He heard the sound of fighters starting up at the airfield in the distance, and stopped to watch two planes soaring up into the sky, followed by another pair and then another and another. Leader and wingman taking off together, one beside but a little bit behind the other. A whole squadron of them.

‘What're they doing?' Alfie asked – another of his stupid questions.

‘Going to meet up with the Yank bombers, of course. They'll be going on a raid with them. Berlin p'raps . . . somewhere like that. Those are the new planes they've got. P-5
is
. Mustangs, they call them. They can go all the way to Berlin and back with the bombers, so's they can stop the Jerry fighters from shooting them down.'

‘But those've only got one engine, so how can they? The others had two.'

‘It's a special engine. A Rolls-Royce Merlin. Same as the Hurricane and Spitfire. And they have extra fuel tanks under the wings that they can drop when they're used up.'

‘Is our Ed in one of those planes?'

‘How should I know? Can't see the markings from here, can I?' Tom stood watching the fighters until they had all disappeared into the clouds. ‘Come on, then.'

He kept going at a steady pace without looking behind him. Alfie would follow wherever he went. They crossed more fields, jumped ditches, wriggled under wire, scrambled over gates and presently they came towards the forest. Tom stopped again.

Alfie stopped too. ‘We're not going in there, are we?'

He fingered the rabbit's foot in his pocket. ‘
I
am. You needn't come if you don't want to. You can stay here.' He knew Alfie was afraid of the forest. Afraid of the stoats and the weasels and the snakes and of the noise the great trees made in the wind. It was different from the woods where they gathered the sticks and branches for the fires. Tinker's Wood and Gipping Wood and Bonny Wood were small, sunny places where there were rabbits and nightingales and badgers and where bluebells grew in the spring, but the forest was so big and overgrown in parts that you could get lost in it easily and not be able to find your way out. King John had hunted deer and wild pigs there, hundreds of years ago, and there were strange tales told about it. Stories of wolves and robbers and outlaws, of elves and goblins, of mysterious things happening. And there was the witch.

Mum said she wasn't really a witch, just a mad old woman who lived in a hut in the forest, but other people in the village believed she could cast spells and blamed her for anything bad that happened: a poor harvest, a child dying, an accident. She brewed things up in a big black pot, they said. Newts and toads and snakes and poisonous plants: deadly nightshade, hemlock, stinking hellebore, devil's eye . . . She could make magic – for evil, or sometimes, if she'd a mind to, for good. The tiler's wife who'd never had a baby had gone to see her and soon after she'd found she was expecting, though he'd heard some people, Mother Becket for one, saying that it was more likely one of the Yanks who'd made that happen.

‘What d'you want to go in there for?'

‘I'm going to see the witch.'

‘The
witch
!' Alfie's mouth fell open. He looked scared stiff. ‘Don't go, Tom. She'll put a bad spell on you, that's what she'll do. Or she'll cook you in her oven, like Hansel.'

‘Course she won't,' he said airily. He took the rabbit's foot out of his pocket. ‘I'm going to ask her to make this lucky. Then I'm going to give it to Ed. So's he won't get shot down by a German. You don't want him to get killed, like all those other Yank pilots, do you?'

‘No, I don't. He's nice, Ed. And we wouldn't get so much chocolate and gum any more, neither.'

Trust Alfie to think of that. ‘Well then, we've got to do something about it. You'd better wait here.' He was more scared himself than he'd let on but he had to do it, for Ed's sake. ‘I won't be long.'

He walked into the forest as bravely as he could. It wasn't too dark or difficult because the leaves were only in bud and the undergrowth wasn't thick yet. He could see deer slots clearly in the soft ground. Dad poached deer sometimes when he was home. He'd trap them with a noose strung between two trees, then he'd slit their throats and hold them up by the hind legs to bleed. After that he'd cut off the head and bury it far away. Once Tom had gone with him and it had made him feel a bit sick with all the blood and the deer struggling.

The witch's hut was in a clearing – a tumbledown wooden hovel with one window and a stovepipe sticking out of the roof. Even the packing-case huts that the Yank ground crews built up at the base looked better. He saw a curl of smoke rising from the pipe. The witch would be in there, brewing her potions. Tom took a deep breath, walked up to the door and knocked on it.

The door opened with a jerk and he almost turned tail and fled. She was the ugliest old woman he'd ever seen – even uglier than Mother Becket – dressed in black with straggly grey hair, a great long chin and a nose as sharp as a knife. And she stank even worse than Nell.

‘What do you want, boy?'

He swallowed and held out the rabbit's foot. ‘Please, missus, can you make this lucky?'

Her dark eyes snapped at him. ‘Lucky? How could I do that?'

He gulped again. ‘They say you can. They say you can do magic spells.'

She looked angry and uglier than ever. ‘Who says, pray?'

‘In the village.'

‘Gossiping fools.' She nodded at the rabbit's foot. ‘What's that for?'

‘It's for someone. To keep him safe. One of the American pilots. I want to give it to him so's he doesn't get shot down by the Germans and killed.'

She stared at him for a moment and he wanted more than anything to run away as fast as he could. But he stood his ground.

‘You must like him a lot, this American.'

He nodded.

‘How much will you pay me?'

The tiler's wife had paid three shillings, he knew that. He'd been saving up from selling the radio-shack Yanks' cigarettes but he hadn't got anything near that.

‘I'll pay you ninepence.'

‘And where would a boy like you get ninepence?'

He took the three threepenny bits from his other pocket and held them out. She bent to peer at them closely and picked them out of his palm. Her fingernails were blacker than Alfie's ever got. ‘Come inside, boy.'

His mouth was dry with terror. If he went inside, he might never be seen again. She'd go and cast a spell on him, like Alfie had said; turn him into a frog or a newt, or bake him in her oven. Then he thought of Ed and what might happen to
him
if he didn't go in.

The hut was dark and dirty and smelled of her. He could see a truckle bed with a patchwork blanket in one corner, a rocking chair, a big pot cooking on the iron stove. Something squeaked and scuttled away in a corner. He stood close to the door, ready to run.

‘Shut the door, boy. And give me that.'

He did both, with trembling hands.

‘What's your pilot called?'

‘Ed Mochetti.'

She didn't put the rabbit's foot into the pot or do anything like he'd expected. Instead, she cradled it in her hand for a while and stroked the fur gently, crooning words that he couldn't understand. He waited, his heart thudding.

‘There you are.'

He grabbed at the foot. ‘Will it keep him safe now?'

‘It might and it mightn't.' The witch leaned closer. ‘What's your name, boy?'

‘Tom, missus.'

Her mouth gaped suddenly, showing blackened stumps for teeth. ‘You're a nice-looking boy, Tom. A brave boy.' She took a step towards him and reached out a claw. He fled. Wrenched open the door behind him and ran for his life through the forest; tripped and fell flat over a root and ran on with bleeding knees. He burst out of the trees, going full tilt, and found Alfie waiting fearfully.

‘Did you see the witch?'

He nodded, gasping for breath, still terrified.

‘Cor . . .' Alfie looked impressed. ‘What was she like?'

‘Horrible.' Tom shuddered.

‘Did she do a lucky spell for you, like you wanted?'

‘I think she did. Sort of. Come on, let's get away from here.'

As they trailed back across the fields towards the village, he wondered, shamefacedly, if perhaps the witch had only been trying to smile and be friendly.