Our Yanks (2 page)

Brigadier Mapperton shifted impatiently. ‘Our Lady? Statue? All sounds like a lot of damned popery to me. We've got a perfectly good altar already. No earthly need for another one and certainly not with that woman on it. We got rid of the Pope so we didn't have to have all that nonsense, Dakin. Next thing we know you'll want the rector dressed up in lace and throwing incense around.'

Miss Skinner said briskly, ‘I don't think Mr Dakin intends anything as extreme as that, Brigadier. But I must say I agree with you. I can't see the need for a Lady chapel. In my view, the money would be far better spent on things we really
do
need – new hymn books, for example, new robes for the choir – some of them are almost beyond repair. There are plenty of practical possibilities.'

Miss Hooper's hand shot up. ‘How about the organ, Rector? The bellows are starting to go. If we don't do something about them soon I won't be able to play at all.'

‘There's a special fund for the organ,' Thora Dakin said stubbornly. ‘If Miss Weatherington had intended her legacy to be spent on it, she would surely have said so. In our prayers Leonard and I clearly discerned God's will—'

‘What God wants and Miss Weatherington intended may not be the same thing at all.'

‘That's
blasphemous
, Miss Hooper.'

The organist shook her frizzy nest of grey hair. ‘No it isn't. It's a fact. We have to decide what Miss Weatherington would have approved of and I don't think she'd have liked your Lady chapel idea. She was never one for anything High Church. She liked things kept simple. I know that for a fact. Isn't that so, Rector?'

He sidestepped adroitly: ‘As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest that the legacy might be spent on repairing the cracked bell.'

Brigadier Mapperton shifted again. ‘What's the point of that? We can't ring the blessed things. Not while the war's on. That's the invasion signal.'

‘I realize that, of course, Brigadier, but it occurred to me that it would be very nice if, when the war ends, we were able to ring out a full peal of bells in celebration of peace.'

The treasurer shook his head dolefully. ‘We won't have much to celebrate if the Germans win.'

Miss Skinner delivered a schoolmistress's sharp reprimand: ‘There's no
question
of them winning, Mr Wells. None whatever. We shall go on fighting until the enemy is defeated. And, of course, now that the Americans have entered the war, things should be much easier.'

‘Damned Yanks,' the Brigadier barked. ‘Left it to the last moment, as usual, when we've done all the dirty work. Only came in when the Japs caught them napping. They don't know the first thing about fighting . . . no discipline, no backbone. All talk and no action. Mollycoddle their men—'

‘Could we perhaps return to the item under discussion . . .'

Miss Skinner nodded. ‘Of course, Rector. I'm afraid we've gone rather off-course.' She looked round the table. ‘I think Miss Weatherington would have approved of the Rector's proposal about the bell.' A firm glance towards the Dakins. ‘And that it would certainly have God's blessing. It's a
splendid
idea. How astute of you to think of it, Rector.'

‘Thank you, Miss Skinner. It occurred to me, you see, that the sound of church bells has played a very ancient role in our country's history. It is a sound that was just as familiar to a man's ears a thousand years ago as it is to ours today. A sound that summons us to prayer, that celebrates our joys, tolls for our griefs and gives thanks for our deliverances.' He quite surprised himself with his eloquence and fervour and was even more surprised when, after only a brief discussion, everyone agreed except the Dakins, who eventually, and reluctantly, gave way. The next item on the agenda – pruning and clearing to be done around the graveyard in the autumn – went smoothly, Mr Wells volunteering to organize a working party to tackle the job by the end of October. The rector braced himself for the final item on the agenda: Any Other Business. He had another proposal to make and the brigadier's earlier remarks had warned him of the rocks that could lie ahead. He coughed and cleared his throat.

‘I think we are all aware that the aerodrome outside our village, previously occupied by the RAF, is about to be handed over to a Fighter Group of the American Eighth Army Air Force. Building has already been in progress for some weeks to accommodate what, I understand, could be a large number of American airmen who are expected to arrive imminently.'

‘And a confounded nuisance they'll be,' Brigadier Mapperton growled. ‘We must keep them out of the village at all costs.'

‘That would be rather difficult, Brigadier. The aerodrome is only a mile away.'

‘Make it out of bounds. Can't have them slouching around the place, chewing gum.'

‘They have come from far across the sea to our aid.'

‘Only when it suited them. Had to be kicked into the war.'

The rector cleared his throat again. ‘Nonetheless, I feel that we should welcome them – make some sort of gesture to our American cousins.'

‘
Cousins
! They're mostly a lot of foreigners. Far more German blood than English, I've heard. French, Italians, Poles, Swedes . . . all sorts of odds and sods mixed up together.'

Miss Hooper shook her head. ‘The first settlers were English, Brigadier, and they must have plenty of direct descendants.'

‘As a matter of strict historical accuracy,' Miss Skinner remarked, ‘the very first settlers in North America were probably Vikings, several hundred years earlier. Not to mention the Spanish after them. Of course, that's not counting the Indians who were there long before anyone else.'

Thora Dakin had come out of her sulk about the Lady chapel. ‘I think the rector is quite right. It is our Christian duty to make the Americans feel welcome. Our Lord preached tolerance towards all men, whatever their race or creed. We ought to organize a reception of some sort at the village hall for them. Tea and sandwiches, say.'

Miss Skinner said sharply, ‘For all those men? Be practical.'

‘Well, not perhaps
all
of them.'

‘Out of the question. However, I imagine we could issue an invitation to the officer in command and suggest that a token number might like to attend. Extend the hand of friendship. That seems perfectly reasonable.'

Brigadier Mapperton banged the trestle table with the flat of his palm. ‘Hand of friendship be blowed! We've got nothing to be friendly about. They sat around while we had our backs to the wall and didn't lift a finger to help us.'

Mr Wells frowned. ‘They've lent us some ships and so forth?'

‘Obsolete stuff they'll make us pay through our noses for.'

‘Still, they're our allies now. We could surely run to a modest welcome party for them. It seems only right and proper.'

Lady Beauchamp said quietly, ‘I rather agree, Mr Wells. We ought to do something. If it's any help, we could invite them to the Manor. The drawing room will hold at least fifty people, or more.'

‘It wouldn't be necessary to trouble you, Lady Beauchamp.' The rector smiled at her gratefully. ‘This room would do perfectly well, I'm sure. Or the village hall.'

‘If we had it in the hall I could play the piano for them, if you like,' Miss Hooper offered. ‘And it'd be easier for the catering there, wouldn't it?'

‘Well, that's certainly a thought . . .'

Miss Cutteridge looked up from her notes. ‘We could manage sandwiches and teas quite easily, Rector. There are plenty of cups. What would we put in the sandwiches, though? I wonder if they would mind paste? The salmon flavour is very nice, or perhaps the sardine and tomato.'

‘I don't think they'd mind very much, Miss Cutteridge. I'm sure they'd understand about our rationing.'

Brigadier Mapperton snorted. ‘They won't know the meaning of the word. Steaks and fresh eggs – that's what they'd expect. Fat of the land, they live on. Give them paste sandwiches and they'd laugh in your face. Give them
nothing
, I say. Give 'em a taste of what it's like to go without.'

Sam Barnet nodded. ‘I'm rather to your way of thinking, Brigadier, but for a different reason. I don't think we should encourage these Americans to come into the village. We've our women to consider. Most of the men are away and there's not many of us left here to protect them. What about our young girls? My Sally's just turned fifteen.'

Bill Rate said, ‘I dare say their officers'll keep good control of things. They'll not want trouble with us.'

‘All very well for you to talk, Bill, you've no daughters, only sons.'

‘And all three of them are away fighting for their country, Sam. Like this lot of Yanks will be doing. I'd like to think the locals'd treat my boys right, wherever they are.'

The baker said levelly, ‘You've got work up there at the 'drome, haven't you? It's in your interest to be friendly.'

‘That's got
nothing
to do with it and I'll thank you to withdraw that insinuation.'

‘I'm sure Mr Barnet didn't mean anything offensive . . .'

‘Oh, yes, he did, Rector. My trade's building and there's no shame in taking on honest work where you can find it. When those Yanks come marching in let's see you refusing to sell your fancy cakes to them, Sam. Make a mint, you will. So will others in the village. We've got seven pubs, all told, and I'll wager every one'll be full every night.'

The brigadier hit the table top again. ‘Drunks littering the streets! No respectable woman daring to show her face out of doors. Is
that
what you want, Rector?'

At that moment, Thora Dakin, who had been frowning to herself, lifted her head. ‘We've forgotten about the sugar, Rector.'

‘Sugar, Mrs Dakin?'

‘For the teas. What would we do about it for the Americans? I expect they like lots of sugar.'

This provoked another outburst from the brigadier and more argument in its wake. Enthusiasm was lukewarm but it was eventually apparent that Brigadier Mapperton and Sam Barnet were the only ones flatly in opposition.

‘I suggest we vote on it, Rector,' Miss Skinner said at last.

‘I was about to propose that. Will all in favour of a welcome party raise their hands, please.'

The result was nine in favour to two against. ‘Well, if there's no other business . . .' He brought the meeting to a swift close, standing and bowing his head. ‘We thank Thee, God, for the freedom we enjoy in this land. We pray that we may do all that lies within our power, whatever it may be, to help and support all who are engaged in the fight to liberate those who suffer under the tyranny of our enemies. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.'

He stood by the open door as they left. Brigadier Mapperton muttered crossly at him. ‘Damned stupid idea of yours, Rector. I'm surprised at you. Mark my words, it'll lead to no good.'

Miss Skinner was the last. She lingered for a moment. ‘Mr Barnet had a valid point, you know. The young girls in the village will need protecting, whether we welcome these Americans or not. I still have great reservations, I must say. We will need to be on our guard. I've never met an American but from their films they appear to inhabit an entirely different world from us. Very glamorous. Very attractive to innocent eyes.'

‘I appreciate that,' he told her gravely.

‘Have you thought about Agnes?'

‘Agnes? She's engaged to be married.'

‘I somehow doubt that the Americans would let that stand in their way, especially with her fiancé safely absent. I should be on your guard, too, if I were you.'

‘Surely, Miss Skinner, if we show them respect and trust then it is more likely to be reciprocated.'

She gave him a grim smile. ‘You have a much greater faith in human nature than I, Rector, but I suppose that's only right in your calling. We know next to nothing about these people but they scarcely have a reputation for self-restraint, so far as I'm aware.'

‘Fortunately for us, perhaps. Wars aren't won by restraint, are they?' He looked past her shoulder towards the unkempt croquet lawn where the trees were casting their shadows across the long grass. It was a beautiful English evening at the tail-end of a warm summer, with all the haziness of a dream. Early in his ministry he had spent several years in Africa, where the relentless glare of the sun had thrown everything into harsh relief. He much preferred the soft light of England where one thing melted into another, giving the whole a mysterious and magical quality. All was peaceful and serene. They'd been lucky so far in King's Thorpe. The war had passed them by. No bombs had dropped anywhere near. No guns had been fired within earshot. There had been little evidence that a world war was in desperate progress, except for the distant drone of heavy bombers going to and fro and only occasionally overflying the village. A Polish tank regiment was camped in woods five miles away and Canadian soldiers were stationed in a requisitioned stately home beyond the next village, but the Poles and the Canadians preferred to spend their free time and money in the towns. As for the King's Thorpe aerodrome, for the first year of the war it had been nothing more than a satellite landing strip for a much larger RAF station further north. A squadron had finally arrived in 1941 and had flown Spitfires on patrols out to sea but after a few months they had been moved away. A new squadron had taken its place briefly and then, in turn, had been posted elsewhere. There had been no dogfights overhead, no crashes – or none that the village had witnessed. He had visited the aerodrome once, at the invitation of the RAF chaplain, and had found it a bleak, muddy, uncomfortable place, the men living and working in huts of brick and concrete and corrugated iron. A lot of work was being done there now and in a great hurry but he wondered what the Americans would make of it.