Our Yanks (31 page)

Alfie was quiet for a bit. ‘We won't be here when Mr Aller comes in the morning. That's good.'

Alfie was afraid of Mr Aller. When he came round the village with his soil cart to empty the closet buckets once a week, he'd stomp through the kitchen in his great big black boots and out of the washhouse door, down the cinder path to the closet. Then he'd come back again, swinging a full bucket in each hand and shouting ‘out of my way' at anyone who got in it. In summer flies buzzed all round him like a black cloud. Alfie always hid in a corner, holding his nose because of the stink.

Tom gave another great big yawn. ‘Shut up and go to sleep. And stop kicking me.'

‘I can't help it.'

‘Yes, you can. You do it on purpose.' He turned over and pretended to go to sleep himself but it was a long time before Alfie stopped squirming around and he heard him breathing steadily. He listened to Mum coming upstairs to bed and waited until it grew dark outside. The coast was clear. He didn't feel much like going out now – he'd sooner have gone to sleep too – but it had to be done. The bed creaked as he slid out and Alfie stirred and squirmed around but he didn't wake up. He pulled on his clothes and his coat with the special pocket in the lining, picked up his boots, and lowered himself out of the bedroom window onto the tin roof, sliding down it backwards until he could jump to the ground. The stars were out and there was a quarter-moon so he could see his way easily.

Mr Hobbs's farm lay to the north of the village. Tom took the shortest route – down the high street, up Pig Lane and over the railway track near the station. He slithered down the embankment on the other side and under a wire fence. The land from there onwards all belonged to Mr Hobbs – acres of it in every direction. The corn had been cut and he was able to go straight across the field, keeping between the rows of sharp stubble. Two more fields, sloping downhill, and he came towards the big farmhouse in the valley. He stopped and listened hard; an owl was hooting somewhere but that was all. It was very still and quiet: no sound or sign of anyone about. He'd never dared trespass there before but there was a public footpath that passed close to the house and not even Mr Hobbs could stop people using it if they wanted. Tom had gone by enough times to know exactly where the hens were kept – not in henhouses with nesting boxes that he could get at from outside, but in a long outbuilding that backed straight onto an orchard. The hens were let out there during the day; he'd seen them pecking and scratching about in the long grass. At night they'd be shut up because of the foxes. All he had to do was get in through the door by the orchard and find the nesting boxes inside.

He made his way stealthily, being careful to keep a good distance from the yard because of the dogs; with no wind they wouldn't scent him but they'd hear any sound he made. He crept between the apple trees until he reached the door, groping with his fingers for the iron bolt. It was well-oiled and slid back noiselessly. Inside it was so dark he couldn't see anything but he could smell the hens and hear one of them flutter its feathers and cluck softly. He felt his way round the walls until he found the wooden nesting boxes ranged all along the far side. The first few were empty but the next one had three eggs in it; they were still warm and as smooth as pebbles from the brook. He put them away carefully in his coat lining and worked his way silently along the boxes. One of them had a hen sitting and as he slid his hand under her she started squawking and flapping about. A dog barked from the yard and Tom froze, his heart racing. If he got caught, he'd be in real hot water. Mr Hobbs had once had a man sent to prison for poaching pheasants. He waited motionless while the dog barked a few more times and then stopped. There were thirteen eggs in his pocket but he'd set himself a target of twenty at least; he took three more eggs, his heart still beating fast, and then decided to leave. Sixteen wasn't a bad haul: one shilling and fourpence for the Oxo tin.

As he opened the door the dog sprang at him.

Erika was surprised to see Agnes Dawe on the Manor doorstep. Alex had been with her predecessor in the kindergarten and their paths seldom crossed. The whole village had been astounded when she had broken off her engagement to Clive Hobbs. Nobody, it seemed, rejected a Hobbs lightly. There had been rumours that it was over one of the Americans and Miriam had seized the chance of another dig. ‘I told you, it's folly to be seen with any of them, Erika. She's ruined her reputation and her chances.'

‘That's nonsense, Miriam. I should think she's well rid of the man. You've never had a good word to say of any of that family.'

‘They may not have breeding, it's true, but they have money. It would have been a good match for Agnes Dawe, considering her situation.'

‘What situation?'

‘The daughter of an impoverished country parson. No dowry to her name. Only her looks.'

‘Which happen to be lovely and very English. I'm not a bit surprised that some Yank muscled in.'

‘She's a very foolish girl if she takes any of those Americans seriously; his intentions are most unlikely to be honourable.'

‘We don't know who he is, or anything about him.'

Miriam said darkly, ‘I heard he was of Italian extraction.'

‘How on earth do you learn these things?'

‘I've warned you before: in a small village people talk. You would be well advised to remember that.'

Erika shepherded Agnes into the study, out of range of Miriam's inquisitive ear.

‘It's about Tom Hazlet,' the girl said at once. ‘You'll have seen him around in the village. He lives at number fourteen in the high street. Ten years old. Brown hair, freckles, rather small for his age . . .'

‘Yes, I know him. His brother, Alfie, is a chum of my son, Alex. What's the trouble?'

‘He was caught stealing eggs from Mr Hobbs's farm last night and Mr Hobbs is insisting on bringing charges against him.'

‘A ten-year-old? Over some eggs? Surely not?'

‘I'm afraid so. Tom's father is away on airfield-building work most of the time, and his mother has a hard job making ends meet. He was stealing the eggs to sell to the Americans up at the base to help her.'

‘How resourceful of him.'

‘Unfortunately, this could ruin his chance of a scholarship next year which would be such a pity. He really deserves to get it. I wonder, Lady Beauchamp, would you speak to Mr Hobbs on his behalf? I'd go myself but it wouldn't do any good. In fact, it might make things worse.'

‘Since you broke off your engagement to Clive, you mean?'

She nodded. ‘But he might listen to you.'

‘Why me?'

‘Because of who you are in the village. Your position.'

She had met Ronald Hobbs on several occasions, including at PCC meetings, and none of them had been enjoyable. This one was unlikely to be any improvement. It was much more in Miriam's line to pull rank, but she doubted if she could be persuaded to go pleading to Mr Hobbs for anything. ‘Well, I'll do my best but I'm not sure he'll listen.'

‘Thank you. Tom's worth it, or I would never have asked you.'

At the door, as she showed Agnes out, she said, ‘It's none of my business, I know, but I think you did exactly the right thing breaking off your engagement.'

‘A lot of people don't seem to agree.'

‘I shouldn't let that worry you. I'm sure you had a very good reason.'

The girl nodded and blushed.

Good luck to the American, whoever he is, Erika thought, noting the blush. She's obviously in love with him.

She wasted no time in calling that evening at the Hobbs farm. Iris Hobbs was out visiting her mother, but Ronald Hobbs was at home and she chatted pleasantly about parish matters before she raised the subject of Tom Hazlet.

‘Of course, there's no excuse for stealing those eggs, Mr Hobbs, but I understand he was only trying to help his mother. I wonder if you would reconsider your decision to bring charges against him?'

‘The boy trespassed on my land, and he's a thief, plain and simple. He should be punished for it.'

‘He's never been in any trouble before and his teachers think a great deal of him. Apparently he could well win a scholarship next year. But of course this episode will probably spoil any chance of that.'

‘He should've thought of that before, shouldn't he? It's too late now.'

What a really unpleasant man he was. Unpleasant to look upon with his beetroot face and his gooseberry eyes, and unpleasant to listen to. ‘He's only ten years old. Still very young.'

‘Time he learned a lesson.'

‘It was a few eggs, Mr Hobbs. Nothing of any value.'

‘It was sixteen eggs, Lady Beauchamp. And it's the principle of the thing. If you let these village lads get away with it, they'll be pinching and poaching everything they can lay their hands on. You don't know them like I do.'

She tried a different tack. ‘You own the cottage that the Hazlets live in, don't you?'

‘It's one of my properties, yes. I own the whole row of cottages along there.'

And all of them rundown, insanitary places, without electricity or running water, as she well knew but refrained from saying. ‘So I understand. Since they're your tenants, I expect you know something of the family. How Tom's father's work keeps him away so much of the time and how his mother has to take in washing to get by. About his small brother and baby sister?'

‘I can't know everything about all my tenants. Haven't the time. I'm a very busy man. All I know is the boy's a thief. And you can't tell me otherwise, Lady Beauchamp, no matter how you try.' He stared at her. ‘What's it to you, anyway? You've only been living here five minutes. Why should you care?'

‘I think my late husband would have cared, Mr Hobbs. He always took a great interest in the villagers' problems and tried to help if he could.'

He looked contemptuous. ‘The Beauchamps don't have any say here any longer. Your mother-in-law may think herself above the rest of us, but she's living in the past. And I have to tell you, Lady Beauchamp, that I don't take too kindly to your coming here, telling me what I ought and ought not to do. Least of all a newcomer like yourself.'

Agnes Dawe had been quite wrong about any hope of her talking him round. Erika suspected that Miriam, in her imperious, tactless way, had given offence to the Hobbses once too often and a grudge was borne. But thinking of her mother-in-law reminded her of something that Miriam had once remarked about Ronald Hobbs. Something quite unfounded, based only on a suspicion and on her long nose and sharp eyes. The chance comment had somehow lodged in Erika's mind – forgotten, but now suddenly remembered. It was a long shot but it was worth a try. She stood up to leave. ‘I'm sorry to have taken up your time, Mr Hobbs. You must do just as you think fit.' He saw her to the door and she paused there for a moment, drawing on her gloves. ‘By the way, how is Alice Reeves these days?'

His ruddy face turned a shade darker. ‘No idea. How would I know?'

‘But surely you must, Mr Hobbs. I've happened to notice you calling on her. With her husband away on active service in the Navy, it must get very lonely for her sometimes. It's good of you to keep her company. I must tell your wife what a considerate husband she has. I'm sure she has no idea. Or Commander Reeves either. Or anybody in the village, as yet. It's a shame that your kindness is not more widely appreciated.'

‘I don't know what the hell you're talking about.'

She went on smoothly, ‘You see, that was why I felt so sure you would change your mind about Tom Hazlet – knowing what a generous-spirited man you were. Do tell Mrs Hobbs that I'll look forward to seeing her tomorrow. She's coming to help at the canteen.'

She walked away and before she had gone more than a few yards, he shouted angrily after her, ‘All right, damn it, I'll drop the charges.'

Sometimes, she thought, smiling to herself, Miriam had her uses.

The jeep was parked outside the rectory front door and he was sitting at the wheel, smoking a cigarette. He swung himself out as she pedalled up the drive on her bike. ‘Hi, there. I've been waiting for you.'

She dismounted and stood holding the bike by its handlebars. ‘Will you come in?'

He shook his head. ‘Guess not. I've come to say goodbye. Just been to pick up my laundry from Tom's mom. I'm off today. Finished the tour. Packing up. Going home on leave.'

Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Back to New York?'

‘Yeah. It's going to seem kind of strange.'

She smiled at him. ‘Well, thank you for coming to say goodbye, Ed. Father isn't here, or I know he'd want to wish you all the best.'

‘I'm sure sorry to miss him.'

Something moved inside the jeep and she turned to see a Scottie dog hanging out over the side, wagging its tail.

‘Meet Jessie,' he said. ‘Ben's dog. She came along for the ride.'

‘Is Ben going home too?'

‘He didn't make the end of the tour.'

‘You don't mean . . . ?'

‘Yeah. That's what I mean.'

She was shocked. ‘What happened?'

‘Well, he got shot up on a mission so he was in real bad shape. Almost made it back, then he crashed on landing.'

She could see that was all he wanted to say. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Yeah. Me too. We'd been together since training. He was a great pal. Pain in the neck sometimes, but we got along just fine. And he'd got real guts. More than almost any other guy I know. Still, that's the way it goes.' He ground the cigarette under his heel. ‘I've put in for another tour, as a matter of fact.'

‘But I thought you only did one.'

‘If you're a big enough sucker you can volunteer for a second. No idea where they'll send me. Back here, maybe, but you never know.'