She was out of breath by the time she reached the gate at the bottom of the garden. She nudged through and pedalled hard down the brick pathway that wound through the lawns, past the Anderson shelter to her right and the old well to her left that was now no more than a garden ornament. When she arrived in the yard beside the house, she jumped off her bicycle before it had stopped and left the pedals spinning by the coal-shed as she burst in through the back door.
“Sorry, I’m late!” she called, still panting. There was the smell of old chip-fat on the air, which made her stomach groan, and there were dirty pans in the sink. She removed her shoes and hurried into the dining room where the Lasseters always had their tea. She opened the door and began her excuses. “I was just -”
Her words trailed off when she saw that the room was empty. Then laughter drew her away and she crossed the hall to the sitting room, aware now that she was so late she’d missed the meal altogether. Her mother looked unhappy to see her, but Pop’s smile made up for it. Edward Buckley was there so that would save her, she thought. The 1st Airborne had been billeted all over Leicestershire, awaiting orders. Edward had a few days furlough and was staying with the family in the hope that Mary would soon be home. There was someone else with him: a young man, also in military garb. He rose with Edward as she entered and then both men sat down again as she closed the door.
Mena cast a smile into the room, avoiding eye contact with her mother. Pop spoke first.
“Couldn’t you find Mr Gibbons?”
Mena faltered in her reply. She’d been sent out early that afternoon with a prescription for old Fred Gibbons in Wigston. She often ran such errands for her father - doing her bit.
“I was -” she began.
Then she saw the dubious squint in her mother’s eyes and turned to Pop again who winked at her and she caught on.
“He wasn’t home,” she said, and in her mind she crossed her chest for the lie. “I had to ride all over the place. It was such a nice day and I suppose he must have -”
“Enough, enough,” Margaret said. “Did you find him or not?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Then sit down. You can have supper later. We have a guest.” Margaret’s smile returned. “This is Mr Danielson,” she added. “He’s from America.”
“Folks just call me Danny on account of my surname,” their guest said with an accent that seemed to flatten the vowels and draw them out as he spoke, or so Mena thought.
He was perched on the edge of the settee, like he was uncomfortable with the idea of getting too relaxed. His rank insignia was that of Staff Sergeant and he wore his Class A uniform: gleaming russet-brown shoes and a sharp edged, olive-drab, four button tunic and trousers with a khaki tie in the neck. The jacket carried a number of badges and brass buttons, the most notable of which was an
‘Airborne’
insignia on the left arm with the letters
AA
sitting boldly beneath it.
Between his hands was a flat-folded forage cap that had a parachute emblem on the side. He was pressing it between his fingers, turning it over every now and then. He looked at least twenty, Mena thought, and she liked his close-trimmed hairstyle, which was so blonde it was almost white. He had a pronounced jaw-line that looked unbreakable, she thought, and his blue eyes were the kind that held your attention. At least, they held Mena’s.
Margaret’s smile broadened. “Danny’s a friend of Edward’s,” she said. “He thought it would be nice to bring him home for tea to meet an English family. Apparently everyone’s doing it.”
“Brought fresh eggs with him too,” Pop said, smiling through his pipe.
Margaret cleared her throat and to Mena she said, “Yes, well I’m afraid the twins have eaten yours, dear.”
Mena was starving. Real eggs and home cooked chips. She sighed through her nose and smiled awkwardly. Then she sat in the chair opposite her mother and turned to face Edward.
“Hello Eddie,” she said. “Anything from Mary yet?”
“She’ll be home first thing,” Edward replied, beaming. “I don’t know how I shall sleep tonight.”
Mena tilted her head towards their guest and began to stare. “Mena Lasseter,” she announced, suddenly finding that her mouth was dry. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise ma’am,” Danny said. He squatted forward, stretched a long, substantial looking arm across the gap and shook Mena’s hand.
Edward gave a chirpy laugh. “Danny here almost got himself into trouble this afternoon,” he said. “That’s how we met.”
“Oh?”
“No fault of his own, mind,” Edward added. “I was having a drink with a couple of chums down at the
Dog
. It was pretty quiet in there except for a bunch of flyboys who’d had one or two sherbets too many. We couldn’t see them where we were sitting, but we could hear them all right. Having a dig at you over the pay difference weren’t they, Danny?”
Danny grinned. “Hell, they’d have started up over just about anything, I reckon.” He shot a glance at Margaret. “Pardon my language, ma’am.”
Margaret returned a forgiving half-smile and Danny continued.
“Well, I didn’t much like the odds,” he said, “but there was no way I was getting outta there without a fight. I stood to meet them as they came over - ready to give it my best. Then Eddie here stepped out.”
Edward laughed. “We couldn’t just sit there and let you take a pasting, could we? It was Dougie Peters who pointed your insignia out. We’d been fighting alongside you 82nd boys in Italy. You might be
All American
but we’re all airborne together so up we got.” Edward laughed again. “I can still see their faces when I said to Peters, ‘Now it’s a fair fight!’”
“They didn’t even finish their beers,” Danny said, laughing along with him.
He had a perfect mouth, Mena thought. She liked the way his smile lifted slightly in one corner and how the intensity in his eyes seemed to lift with it.
“Good for you, Edward,” Pop said. “Those RAF sorts think they own the place. We’re surrounded by airfields, Danny. It’ll be nice to see some different uniforms about the place.”
“The 504th are camped at Shady Lane,” Edward said to Mena.
“Camp Stoughton, we call it,” Danny added.
Mena continued to smile at Danny, nodding her head. She wished she wasn’t in such a state. Her hair felt wretched and her face was no doubt ruddy and glistening from the ride home.
“They kept us in for two weeks quarantine when we arrived,” Danny said.
“Came into Liverpool, I hear,” Pop said.
“We sure did, and it was a welcome sight after Italy. We sailed up through the Med on a tub called the Capetown Castle. I think it used to be a cruise ship.” He paused and for a long moment he stared at the cap in his hands. “We lost too many friends back there,” he added. “I guess that’s why we’re here now.”
“Regrouping?” Pop said.
Danny nodded. I don’t know how long it’ll take to get back to operational status, but no one’s in any hurry. Green fields and friendly faces, and a comfy cot to sleep on. It sure ain’t Italy.”
Mena found herself fishing for eye contact, but Danny was looking at his cap again, slowly wringing it back and forth in his hands like his mind was elsewhere. There was an element of vulnerability about him that Mena liked. It made her want to know him better, perhaps to understand why.
Danny drew a breath through his teeth and pressed his hands onto his thighs. “Well I should be getting along.” He stood up. “Thank you kindly for your hospitality ma’am,” he said to Margaret. “It was real swell of you.”
The rest of the room rose with him.
“You must come back again,” Margaret said.
“Mmm,” Pop agreed, still hanging onto his pipe. “And bring a
buddy
next time.”
“Careful,” Edward said. “You’ll have the whole of the 504th knocking at your door before you know it and it will all be my fault!”
Danny laughed. “Don’t worry, ma’am. They don’t let us all out at once.”
“Well come back soon,” Margaret said, shaking his hand.
“I’d sure like that,” Danny said, and as he made for the door Mena caught his eyes at last and she held them, thinking how much she would like that too.
Chapter Seven
T
he next day was not so bright: no rain yet, but there was a scurrying breeze and the sky over Leicestershire was filled with the kind of gathering grey clouds that told Mena rain was soon to follow. Gone was the sun-washed vibrancy of yesterday, muted now in shade. Yet today, Mena saw Oadby just as she had seen it then, as if everything reminded her of the day she first met Danny.
Mary had arrived home early that morning, as Edward had said she would. It was early afternoon now. The Saturday chores were done and the errands run. Pop had been called out on a house visit and Margaret Lasseter had gone to queue with her ration book - and the twins. Sightings of Mary and Edward had been scarce since breakfast and since Edward was with them it meant that they had sausages, which although not on the ration were hard to get and made a pleasant change to the monotony of wheat flakes or porridge.
Mena was by the French doors in the conservatory when Mary and Edward reappeared. She was sitting on the floor between Xavier and Manfred, gazing towards Evington, deep in thought as she toyed affectionately with their floppy ears.
“Are you sure you won’t come to the pictures?” Mary said. “We’d love you to join us, wouldn’t we, Edward?”
“Yes, of course,” Edward said. “Just like old times.”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t been looking forward to it,” Mary added.
They were taking the bus into Leicester and it had been arranged that the next time Mary was home they would see a movie. Rita Hayworth was starring in
Cover Girl
and Mary was right, she had been looking forward to it. Until yesterday. Until Danny Danielson.
“I can’t, really,” Mena said.
Mary came closer and knelt beside her. “Why-ever not?”
“I told Mother I’d look after this soppy pair until she gets back.”
Mary ran a hand down Xavier’s spine. “That doesn’t sound like you, Mena Lasseter. What are you up to?”
Mena felt a smile rise inside her. “Nothing, really.” She looked away and tried to hide her face by nuzzling into the back of Manfred’s huge head, brushing her nose back and forth on his coat until he rolled over and licked her chin.
Mary stood up. “Well, be good.”
“See you later,” Edward added as they left. “We’ll save you some popcorn if they have any.”
Fifteen minutes after Mary and Edward had gone, Mena was cycling away from Oadby on the Stoughton Road wearing her best day-dress beneath a beige raincoat, with a scarf in her hair and contraband cherry-red lipstick on her lips. There were fields to either side of her and she saw few people, although she turned away whenever she did in case someone recognised her. As she neared the end of the road, a US-military jeep passed her in the opposite direction and a covered truck followed it with plenty of whistling from the back. At the junction she turned left onto Gartree Road then right into Shady Lane by the golf course.
Shady Lane looked its best in full sun, she thought, when the contrast between the leafy canopy above her and the swatches of sunlight on the lane below was at its most intense. The bluebells that lined the lane’s deep verges looked happier then; although today, for Mena at least, they were still smiling even though the lane, which stretched away beyond sight, was so grey it was almost dark.
She had cycled about halfway down when she heard what sounded like a party going on somewhere ahead. A little further and she could see a number of bicycles scattered at random, some lying on their sides, others against the trees. The party-like chatter was coming from the cycle’s owners, who were leaning against a post-and-rail fence that ran alongside the lane.
Mena slowed and stepped from her bicycle, walking with it until she drew level with the rest. She stopped. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes but what had she expected? That she was the only girl within cycling distance of Camp Stoughton with cause to go there? A line of girls, wearing what Mena imagined were their brightest outfits, stood by the fence, chatting away and giggling with a line of men that was three deep in places on the other side. Their American accents told her she’d found the right place and as she dropped her bicycle and went to the fence herself, she saw that some of them wore the same smart uniform she’d seen on Danny yesterday, while others looked casual in loose-fitting jackets and trousers that were covered with baggy pockets.
Her heart began to race. She felt uncomfortable at first, but as she leant on the rail she was put at ease by a sudden eruption of laughter as one of the GIs - a small, dark-haired man - climbed onto the shoulders of the biggest man there and began to juggle what looked like three galvanised metal cups. She became so caught up in the scene, smiling and laughing with everyone else as the larger man wobbled and side-stepped beneath the juggler, that she was startled when another uniform rose up against the fence in front of her.
“Hey, doll-face! You wanna help win the war?”
Mena stepped back and the smiling soldier removed his forage cap. He clutched it to his chest and began to flash his eyebrows at her. “Tell me I never made it through Italy,” he said, pronouncing the country as,
Idaly
. “Tell my mother I’m in heaven and I ain’t ever comin’ home!”
Another man quickly joined him, shoving him aside. He was smiling, too. Everyone was smiling. “Don’t mind him, ma’am,” he said. “Spiller’s the regimental idiot! It’s a mystery to us all how come he
did
make it through Italy.” The GI reached a hand over the fence. “Names Montalvo,” he added. “That’s Vic to you. What’s yours?”
Mena was hesitant. A girl standing beside her in a royal-blue dress turned and nudged her. She was no ‘girl’ at all, Mena thought. She had to be in her forties.