Our Yanks (6 page)

Cicily Mapperton put her bookmark between the pages. ‘Of course I do, Lionel.'

‘Cheek of the rector even to suggest it. He knows my feelings in the matter. I made them perfectly clear at the PCC.'

‘Perhaps he thought that with your position in the village it might look a bit strange if you weren't there . . .'

The brigadier stopped. ‘Huh! Some truth in that, I dare say. Can't be helped, though. Principles are principles.' He walked on and came to a halt again beside the grand piano with its array of silver-framed family photographs. Himself and Cicily on their wedding day – it was like looking at two strangers – completely unrecognizable; his mother in Court dress; his father in his general's uniform; his daughter at twenty-one and a later photograph in her Wren officer's uniform; the one of his son done when he'd been promoted to captain only six months before Singapore fell and he'd been taken prisoner by the Japanese. They didn't even know if he was dead or alive. If the damned Americans had had the guts to come into the war earlier and help stop the rot with the Japs, things might have been very different. He resumed his pacing. ‘They'll probably get a turn-out. People who don't give a damn about the principle of the thing.'

‘I expect they will.'

‘Might look a bit odd if we don't show our faces.'

‘Considering your position, Lionel. Churchwarden and everything.'

‘Huh . . . Wouldn't need to stay long.'

‘Only a moment.'

‘Make the point that I don't approve.'

‘That's right, Lionel.'

The brigadier sat down in his armchair and snatched up
The Times
. His wife went back to her novel.

Miss Cutteridge's turn on the brass-polishing rota was for the last Sunday in each month and it was her habit to go to the church on the Friday after lunch. Elijah Kerfoot was scything the grass between the ancient and toppling gravestones as she made her way up the path and she bid him good afternoon. The old man paused at the end of a long sweep to raise his cap and she stopped for a word with him about his arthritis, which troubled him as much as her own. Inside the church it was cool and dim and utterly quiet. She always enjoyed the quiet. God's presence seemed almost palpable; she was sure that she could feel Him there, though sometimes she wondered if he would trouble Himself for just the one person.
Where two or three are gathered together in my Name there am I in the midst of them
 . . . Christ hadn't said anything about only one, so far as she could remember. She really must ask the rector about that.

As usual, she knelt for short prayers before she began: for her long-dead mother and father that they might rest for ever in peace, for all the poor unfortunate people suffering under the Nazis, for little Sarah Turner who was very poorly, for Harry Wilmcott, the tiler, who'd fallen off a ladder and broken both legs, and for Matthew Gibbons who was permanently on her sick list. And, as always, for William who, unlike herself, had never grown old. When she had finished she rose, rather stiffly because of the arthritis, to her feet. There were three large brasses set in the floor in front of the altar, four wall memorials along the north aisle, a small, plain floor brass in the south aisle and another wall plaque in the chancel behind the choir stalls to Brigadier Mapperton's younger brother, John, who had been killed at the Battle of Verdun in 1916. Then there was the big altar cross, the altar can lesticks, the communion chalice, the baptismal ewer, the brass-topped churchwarden's staves and the collection plates. She always started off with all the moveable pieces which she cleaned on the table in the vestry with the dusters she kept specially for the job and a tin of Bluebell metal polish that she used very sparingly because, like everything else, it was in short supply.

When she had finished in the vestry she tackled the three brasses set in the stone chancel floor. She worked on her knees – rather painful and the stones were always cold, even in summer – beginning with the chain-mail armoured Sir Richard Beauchamp, who had gone on the Seventh Crusade before he had died at King's Thorpe in 1265. The brass image of his wife, Alice, in veiled headdress, a mantle worn over her shoulders to reveal the graceful folds of her gown, was set close beside him. The third brass, at a distance from the other two and rather larger, was a fine rendition of the next baronet, Sir Geoffrey, also in full armour, though there was no record of him fighting any battles. He had evidently neglected to arrange for an accompanying one for
his
wife. Nobody knew where she had been buried. Later Beauchamps had been laid to rest in the family mausoleum in the churchyard. Not the last baronet, though, of course, Miss Cutteridge thought regretfully as she rubbed away; he would have been buried somewhere in France. She hoped that one day he would be brought home to lie with his ancestors. Such a pleasant young man. Always so cheerful and so polite. Such a sad tragedy.

She had just started on Sir Geoffrey's right foot when she heard the heavy clunk of the south-door latch being raised and the creak as the door swung open. Mrs Dakin or Mrs Vernon-Miller, perhaps, whose turn it was to do the flowers? Except that they generally did them on the Saturday morning. Hearing nothing more, Miss Cutteridge crawled forward on her hands and knees to peer round the edge of the choir stall. Her eyes widened.
An American
!

He was standing at the far end of the nave, caught in a shaft of sunlight from one of the windows, and staring up into the barrel-vaulted roof: a dark-haired young man in a brown leather jacket, khaki shirt and tie and olive trousers, a peaked cap dangling idly from his fingers. An extraordinarily casual military uniform. Undoubtedly an American.

Miss Cutteridge withdrew her head, debating the situation. She ought to speak up and ask him to shut the door before the birds got in but she felt flustered at the thought. She had never spoken to an American before and was not certain that he would understand her, or she him. If she did nothing he might go away and no action or conversation would be necessary. She retreated on her knees to Sir Geoffrey and waited hopefully, holding her breath. After a while footsteps started slowly down the nave towards the altar. In a moment he would discover her in this foolish position, on the floor clutching her dusters and the Bluebell. There was nothing for it. She rose creakily to her feet, screwed up her courage and stepped forward from behind the choir stall to confront him.

He started violently and dropped his cap. ‘Jeez . . . you scared the hell out of me, ma'am. Thought you were a ghost, or something.'

She blushed. ‘I'm so sorry. I was cleaning the brass, you see.' She indicated Sir Geoffrey. ‘It has to be done every week or it tarnishes.'

‘Oh, sure . . .' He bent to retrieve his cap and held out his hand with a smile. ‘The name's Ed. Lieutenant Ed Mochetti, United States Eighth Army Air Force.'

She transferred the Bluebell to the dusters and put her free hand in his, babbling nervously. ‘Oh really? Goodness gracious. Bless my soul. How do you do?'

He was rather swarthy with dark brown eyes and black hair. Somehow she had always thought of Americans as fair and blue-eyed. And his name had sounded odd. If one overlooked the peculiar uniform, though, he was really a very handsome young man. Very handsome indeed. Her heart fluttered a little as she looked up at him. ‘I'm Miss Cutteridge. Emilia Cutteridge.'

‘Of King's Thorpe, England?'

‘Well, yes . . . though I was actually brought up in Oundle, near here. My family lived there.'

‘I'm from New York City myself.'

‘Good heavens! Imagine that.' She did so, with some difficulty. Skyscrapers soaring and glittering at night with millions of lights; Times Square and those dazzling neon advertisements flashing away; the Empire State Building; Broadway with all the theatres; Fifth Avenue with the wonderful shops; huge American cars, those yellow taxicabs . . . everything she had ever read or heard or seen about New York raced through her mind. It seemed simply unbelievable that somebody from there should be standing here in St Luke's, talking to her.

He twirled his cap round and round on his index finger. ‘Just got over with my Fighter Group. We're based up the road a little ways. Thought I'd take a look at the village. All those houses must be real old. Same as this church, I guess.'

‘Well, yes. St Luke's was begun in the twelfth century, though of course there have been a lot of changes and additions since then. Unfortunately, the pews are only nineteenth-century.'

He grinned. ‘Where I come from that makes them pretty old.'

‘Does it really? Well, yes, I suppose it would.'

‘I'm Roman Catholic myself, but I guess this church isn't.'

‘Oh, it was once – for several hundred years – until King Henry VIII changed everything.'

‘Yeah, the one with the six wives. I know all about him. There was a great movie with Charles Laughton.'

A movie was a film, she thought. She very seldom went to the cinema herself, though, of course, she had heard of Charles Laughton. ‘We're Protestant now, I'm afraid. But I'm sure there would be a Roman Catholic church in one of the towns.'

‘No, that's OK. We've got an RC chapel at the base and a visiting chaplain. They take care of us. This sure is a beautiful old place.' He walked about a bit and stopped at one of the tombs in the south aisle. He read aloud, his American accent twanging in her ears.

‘Hey, this guy gives it to you straight from the shoulder.
Hic jacet
. What does that mean?'

‘It's Latin for “here lies”.'

‘Well, Richard Wilbur's been lying here since 1688. That's quite a while.' He went on staring down at the tomb for a moment.

She wondered what his job was. The leather jacket hid any insignia. ‘Do you fly aeroplanes?' she asked politely.

‘Sure do. Except we've no planes to fly right now. Waiting for them to be delivered. Any day now and you'll be seeing us up there, and hearing us. I guess that won't be too popular with you folks. Us making a racket.'

They both turned at the sound of someone coming into the church. Agnes Dawe stood at the far end of the nave, caught, just as the young American had been before, in the shaft of sunlight. She was pink in the face and gasping for breath. ‘I thought my father might be here, Miss Cutteridge. I've been looking for him everywhere. Mr Gibbons has taken a turn for the worse. I think it's really serious this time.'

‘I'm afraid I haven't seen him, dear. I'm so sorry. Would you like me to help look?'

‘No, it's all right, thank you. I'll try the Turners. He might have gone there.'

She hurried out again, closing the door carefully behind her, the latch clunking loudly into place.

‘The birds get in, you see,' Miss Cutteridge said. ‘It's best to shut it.'

‘What?' The American was still standing in the aisle, staring towards the door.

‘The birds get in if you don't shut the door. They can make an awful mess.'

‘Oh, sure. Sorry. I'll remember another time. Who was that girl?'

‘Our rector's daughter, Agnes Dawe.' Perhaps she ought to have introduced him, but she hadn't understood his rank and she'd quite forgotten his odd surname. And anyway, it had hardly been the moment. Not with poor Mr Gibbons perhaps meeting his Maker at last. ‘Well, if you don't mind, I really should get on with the brass.'

‘Sure. I must be getting along.'

‘Are you coming to the Welcome Party?'

‘Welcome party?'

‘It's all arranged for next Saturday afternoon. At the village hall. Nothing very exciting, I'm afraid. Just some refreshments and a little entertainment, but we hope you'll enjoy it.'

‘I hadn't heard about it,' he said.

‘Your group commander is coming with a number of you.'

‘I guess it depends who he picks, then.'

‘Well, I hope you do come.'

‘I hope so too, Miss Cutteridge. It's been good to meet you.'

She went back to Sir Geoffrey and polished him thoughtfully. The first real live American that she'd ever met. Fancy that! She'd had some difficulty understanding the way he spoke and some of the words he'd used but, all in all, she thought he had seemed perfectly civilized. Not nearly as bad as she had feared or Brigadier Mapperton had predicted. And he'd remembered
her
name while she'd forgotten his.

‘Refreshments and a little entertainment, that's what the old girl said. What do you reckon that means, Ben?'

‘A lot of English old maids pouring crap tea. Stuffed shirts, blimps and fossils. No floor show.'

‘Yeah, that's what I figured.'

‘I don't know why the hell the CO had to pick on us.'

Ed Mochetti lit a cigarette. ‘I guess he wanted a couple of pilots and saw us first. She was a nice old girl.'

‘Yeah, well, I'm not interested in old girls, only young ones.'

‘Saw one of those, too. She came into the church.'

‘I haven't seen a pretty girl over here yet.'

‘This one looked kinda interesting.'

‘Maybe she'll be at the party. Maybe one of us'll get lucky. I sure hope it happens soon or I'll go nuts.' Ben Feinstein shook his head. ‘What a country! These guys live in the Stone Age. Nothing works. The plumbing sucks. This place is a dump. Look at it.'

Mochetti looked. The lounge of the Officers' Mess where they were sitting was housed in the old brick-and-corrugated-iron hut left behind by the RAF. It was furnished with a sorry collection of broken-down armchairs, plywood tables and some threadbare carpeting – also left behind by the British. His easy chair was missing a front castor and he had his right leg over the other arm and one foot on the floor to keep it balanced. ‘OK. It stinks. So what? Our guys'll fix it. They'll fix everything the way we want it.'