Our Yanks (22 page)

‘There's an American gentleman to see you, milady.'

Erika stopped typing. ‘Who is he, Doris?'

‘The one with all the brass bits and the silver wings and the medals.'

‘Colonel Schrader, you mean?'

‘Yes, milady. I went and forgot his name. Shall I show him into the drawing room?'

‘No, in here, thank you, Doris.'

He came into the study, carrying his cap, and she got up from the desk to greet him. ‘How nice to see you again, Colonel. How are you?'

‘Fine, thanks.' He gestured at the typewriter and the pile of papers. ‘I hope I'm not interrupting you.'

‘Not at all. I'm just doing some WVS admin work.'

‘You look pretty busy.'

‘We do anything and everything.' She smiled drily. ‘Our motto is if it should be done, the WVS will do it. Luckily, I did a secretarial course years ago and it's come in very handy.'

He was looking round at the panelled walls and the collection of books. This is a great room.'

‘It was Richard's study and his father's before him. Actually, it's one of the nicest in the house – certainly one of the warmest. Would you like some coffee or tea or anything?'

He shook his head. ‘No thank you.'

‘I'm afraid my mother-in-law is having her afternoon rest. She sets great store by it. Every day from two until four and nothing is allowed to disturb it; not even the war.'

‘I enjoyed the bridge.'

‘So did she. She was delighted to find you were such a good player, by the way.'

He smiled. ‘I guess she didn't expect us colonials to play that much.'

‘If at all.'

The bridge evening had been a success. Miriam had partnered Colonel Schrader and found him worthy of her, while her own partner, Brigadier Mapperton, once he had got his latest complaints off his chest to the group commander (far too much noise outside the pubs at closing time, bicycles left lying around on the pavements and something else that he'd taken the American into a corner to talk about out of their hearing) had gallantly borne their defeat.

‘I'm sorry I haven't had the chance to get back since. There's been no time.' He looked completely exhausted, she thought. The village gossip had been that things hadn't been going at all well lately for the Yanks. One couldn't ask, of course.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Colonel?'

‘As a matter of fact, there is. I've sneaked off for a couple of hours. Playing truant. It's a beautiful sunny day and I've got a car outside. Would you have time to give me a conducted tour of the local countryside? Just about all I've seen of England so far is either out on an airfield or from ten thousand feet up. Seems to me that's a great pity.'

‘I don't know how good a conductor I'd be – I don't know this part of England very well – but I'll do my best.'

‘I'd appreciate it.'

The car was an American Ford saloon, painted dark olive with the white star on the side. ‘First time I've ever driven on the left,' he told her. ‘There's usually somebody driving me. Tell me if I do anything stupid.'

She directed him west out of King's Thorpe into some of the loveliest parts of the county. It was mid-April: fresh young grass growing in the meadows, some of the blossom already out, primroses and cowslips flowering along the banks, buds breaking into leaf.

‘Your green and pleasant land,' he said.

‘This is nothing. Give it another month and you'll really see what Blake meant.'

‘I'll look forward to it. How am I doing with the driving?'

‘Extremely well.'

They drove slowly through a small and very ancient village, past church and schoolhouse, pub and pond. Children were playing on the green, old men with pipes were sitting on benches in the sun, women filling water buckets at a spring. ‘A trip back in time,' he said. ‘Boy, it's wonderful.'

‘It's also very feudal. This village, for instance, is owned entirely by one family who live in the big house. The villagers are all tenants, working for them. A lot of forelock-tugging still goes on. It's the same in most of the villages round here. Northamptonshire is known for its spires and squires. King's Thorpe's rather different, thank goodness.'

‘How so?'

‘Well, the Beauchamps used to own most of it but over the past few hundred years the family ne'er-do-wells have been steadily selling off land so the Manor's down to less than a hundred and fifty acres now, and it's all rented out.'

‘That's a shame.'

‘Personally, I'm rather glad for Alex. I'd hate him to be a feudal overlord. The King's Thorpe villagers are free spirits and that's a good thing. Apparently a lot of them came to settle here from other places for that very reason, so Richard told me. Now, if we had a real squire who owned everything and everybody, and if he wasn't on your side, you'd have had a much harder job winning people over.'

‘Do you reckon we've done that?'

‘You're getting there. There're a few old diehards who'll probably never come round but I wouldn't let that worry you. Most of them are realizing how hard you're fighting. Mind you, does it matter to you very much what they think? Does it make any difference to winning the war?'

He glanced at her. ‘Frankly, that's the way I saw it to start with – but those at the top of our tree believe it does. We can't win together if we're at odds with each other, that's their perception. It's militarily stupid to fall out with your allies. And I guess they're right.'

‘Together we stand, divided we fall?'

‘That's about the size of it. And the morale factor's pretty important for us, you know. A soldier away from home who feels good about things is going to fight a whole lot better. And he's not going to feel good if he's getting spat on by the locals and into fist-fights.'

She took him into Stamford to show him the old market town and suggested they stop for tea at The Olde Spinning Wheel. ‘Another bit of quaint Olde Englande that you might enjoy, Colonel.'

The tea room was a low-beamed, copper-kettled, lace-clothed parlour with a genuine old spinning wheel beside the inglenook and elderly, be-hatted ladies sipping from dainty teacups. Conversation and sipping ceased instantly as they entered. All eyes were trained on the American commanding officer in his impressive uniform with the gilt buttons and badges, the row of medals and the silver wings on his breast. The proprietress hurried forward. ‘Tea for two? Will this table suit?'

Erika poured the tea and passed the home-made scones and jam. He looked so incongruous in those surroundings that she wanted to laugh. She said in a low voice, ‘You're the centre of attention, do you realize?'

‘Am I? Heck . . .'

‘They're admiring you, don't worry. By the way, what does the blue patch under the wings signify?'

‘It means you're doing a flying-combat tour in England.'

‘That's rather nice – a special badge.'

‘It's a special place.'

‘You're very diplomatic.'

‘I'm trying to make up for my predecessor.'

She smiled. ‘You heard about the village-hall speech?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Poor man. I'm sure the last thing he wanted was to give offence.'

‘I guess he just chose the wrong words.'

‘And I'm afraid they were waiting for him to say something like that.'

‘It's been said before, so I hear. Us Yanks telling you British we've come over to win the war for you.'

‘We're rather sensitive on the subject.'

‘I don't blame you.'

‘More tea, Colonel?'

‘Yes, thanks.'

She changed the subject. ‘The village canteen seems to be going well. Your men come in quite a bit.' It had taken some time for them to appear – in ones and twos, hesitantly, as though not too sure of their welcome, and then, gradually, more and more of them as time had passed and, presumably, word had got around. They were unfailingly polite and well-behaved.

‘No trouble with them, I hope?'

‘None at all. They're very appreciative.'

‘So they should be. It's run by your volunteer workers, isn't that so? The WVS. This country has women to be real proud of. They don't care what they turn their hands to. All kinds of jobs. If it helps win the war, they'll do it. Every one of them. All ages. We've got some of your WAAFs on the base and they're respected a hell of a lot.'

All ears in the room were tuned in to their conversation: she could tell that by the general frisson of gratification; by the patting of hair and rearranging of fox furs. And the colonel was a very attractive man. Not in an obvious film-starry way but something much more indefinable and interesting. It was no wonder that he'd created such a stir among the teacups.

Going back in the car, he said, ‘I want to thank you, Lady Beauchamp, for this afternoon. It's been a wonderful break for me.'

‘Please call me Erika.'

‘I'd like to, if you don't mind.'

‘It's Erika with a k, by the way.'

‘My name's Carl, with a c. I've never met an Erika with a k before.'

‘It's the Hungarian version. My father was Hungarian, my mother English.'

‘That so? You don't look at all typically English, if that's not too personal a remark to make, but you sure sound it.'

‘I was born and brought up over here. I hardly speak any Hungarian.'

‘By descent, I should be speaking German, but I'm a couple of generations down the immigrant line. So I'm Carl with a c and I speak American. I
am
American. And that's the way I like it. Your parents both in England now?'

‘My father died sixteen years ago. My mother remarried – a Scottish landowner up in the wilds of the north. I hardly ever see her.'

‘That's too bad. Same as me. Haven't seen my parents in three years. I don't even get to see my wife and daughter any more. It's been a heck of a time since we got into the war. Trying to catch up. Get things up and running as fast as we can.'

‘Have you been in the Air Force long?'

‘It seems like forever. I went straight to West Point from high school – that's our equivalent of your Sandhurst – and I'm thirty-three now, so that's about fifteen years.'

She'd been right about his age. He was only two years older than herself. She wouldn't have cared to carry his burden.

He dropped her at the Manor and thanked her again. ‘In return, I'd like to take you out to dinner, Erika. If you've no objection.'

‘None at all.'

‘I'll call you,' he said. ‘As soon as I can.'

Miriam came out of the drawing room. ‘I gather Colonel Schrader was here.'

She took off her coat. ‘Yes, we went out for a drive. He had some time free and wanted to be shown the local scenery.'

‘What a pity I was resting, I could have given him a proper tour. There's a great deal of interest to be seen.'

‘I'm sure he'd like that another time.'

She went and sat down at the typewriter again. Miriam had looked quite put out; it had been wiser not to mention the dinner.

The lucky rabbit's foot was in his pocket, a tin loaf under each arm and a dozen eggs – pinched from Mr Barnet, the baker – stowed carefully in the lining of his coat. He felt a bit guilty about the eggs because of Sally but they kept lots of chickens so they wouldn't really be missed. He didn't think she'd have minded too much, anyway. Her dad would have done, though. Tom took his usual short cut across the fields, downhill to the stream at the bottom, across by the two stepping stones and then up towards the aerodrome. A Mustang was taking off just as he reached the perimeter fence and he stopped to watch it, as he always did. It was the only one, so they weren't going off on a mission – just a test flight most probably. He ducked under the pole at the main gate and the sentry gave him a wave. They all knew him. In the radio shack the Yanks stopped work while he handed over the loaves of bread and the eggs. This time he swopped the eggs for torch batteries. Four eggs for one battery that he could sell in the village for sixpence each. More for Mum's Oxo tin.

‘What else've you got, Tom?'

‘That's all.'

‘What about those rock cakes?'

‘Sorry, there weren't any spare this time. Oh, Mrs Honeybun in the village says have you got any Silvertex she could have? She said she'll give you fresh eggs in exchange.'

They all started laughing, though he didn't know why.

‘Tell her she can have some for free, Tom, long as it's us guys using it. How about that name? Mrs Honeybun. Oh, boy . . .'

He didn't understand why it was so funny. He'd thought it was some kind of silver cleaner. ‘What is it? Silvertex?'

The one called Mitch patted his head. ‘You'll find out when you're older, kid. Want some toast?'

They still had the stove going, even though it was April, and he sat on a wooden crate, eating the peanut-butter toast and watching them at work. They'd tuned one of the radios into some Yank band music and Mitch, cap peak flipped up, started dancing round the shack with a broom, making them all laugh some more. As he watched, laughing too, he heard another fighter taking off and listened to the sound of it climbing, over the sound of the dance music, and then to a different noise as something went wrong. There was a booming thud in the distance and all the Yanks rushed to the windows. Tom dropped his toast and ran outside. He could see black smoke billowing up into the air from the end of the main runway and orange flames flickering. A fire engine was careering across the grass.
Ed
. He was sure it was Ed. Tom started to run round the peri track. He ran and ran until his breath came in great gasping gulps and his heart felt as though it would burst. If only he'd given him the rabbit's foot sooner it wouldn't have happened. It was all his fault.