Rising Summer (6 page)

Minnie got moving and I moved with her. She had a lively walk, typical of a healthy country girl. She was a south London cockney who’d turned herself into a country girl with no trouble at all. Bursting with health, Minnie was.

‘Well, let’s hear it, then,’ I said, ‘but if it’s anything saucy I’ll wallop you.’

She gurgled. ‘Ain’t you comical, Tim? You make a
girl
laugh, you do.’ She stopped, and from under her boater her blue eyes cast their cheekiness.

‘Come on, why did your dad send you?’

‘He said someone’s been round.’

‘Who, your Aunt Flossie?’ That was her mother’s aunt.

‘Course not Aunt Flossie. Oh, you Tim,’ she said and another gurgle escaped from her Cupid’s bow. ‘I’m praying, I am.’

‘Praying?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m praying I’m goin’ to be your best girl soon as I’m sixteen.’

‘Well, I’m praying that when you’re sixteen you’ll disappear in a puff of smoke,’ I said. ‘Now, come on, who’s been round to see your dad?’

‘Some soldiers, he said. From your lot. Dad said better he didn’t come and tell you himself, better he kept away. You go, Min, he said, it’ll only look as if you an’ Tim is courtin’.’

‘Don’t say things like that, Min, you’ll give me a headache.’

‘I didn’t say it, Dad did.’ Minnie fluttered her lashes. ‘They went an’ took his drum of petrol. He said they couldn’t, they said they could an’ they did. He said he thought you ought to know.’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ I said. ‘Still, tell him I’d better not have any more eggs from him for the time being, tell him to keep them tucked into the bosom of his family.’

‘Whose, Mum’s or mine?’ asked Minnie.

‘I’ll tan you,’ I said.

‘Honest?’ Minnie looked eager. ‘Would you, though? Be bliss, it would.’

‘Don’t talk daft.’

‘Not daft.’ Her smile was terrifying. ‘You’re fun, you are, Tim. Best ever. But you’re shy, like.’

‘Shy? Of what?’

‘Me. I don’t mind, though. It’s nice in a way. Goin’ to be your best girl, I am, you see. Oh, Dad said he won’t say.’

‘Won’t say what?’

‘Don’t know, do I?’ she said, the April sunshine dancing on her boater. She did know, of course, but nobody was going to prise it out of her. Good little Suffolk scout she was. In a frightening way. ‘All that porridge and all, Tim.’

‘Never mind what your mum gives you for breakfast, just tell your dad to say the drum dropped off the tail of a Heinkel. All right, off you go, Min. Ta for coming.’

‘Kiss first,’ said Minnie, standing in the lee of the hedge and pursing her lips.

‘Not this year, Min.’

‘But I’m sixteen in June.’

‘That’s not now. If I’m going to be shot at dawn with your dad, I don’t want to be hanged as well.’

‘Oh, I never ’eard anything dafter,’ said Minnie, ‘you can’t be hanged just because I’m still at school and look ’ow grown up I am.’ I wasn’t going to look. If I did she’d take a deep breath and puff herself up.

‘Buzz off, Min, behave yourself.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Min. A secretive little smile appeared. ‘Kiss me like you did on rising summer night.’

Rising summer night still had hazy recollections for me. Sheldham celebrated the advent of summer not on the first of May, but on the first Saturday in April. It was something to do with the ritual of rising summer. The village hall had been packed, American GIs there in droves. Barrels of cider were tapped, cider being the only strong beverage allowed. And it was Suffolk cider, not Somerset. Whoever brewed it had squeezed every last drop of biting juice from the apples and its heady tang was of a ripe harvest, bitter-sweet. It was a great help to the GIs, it sent them in pursuit of everything in skirts and there was a bumper crop of those. Taking no notice of whatever the band was playing, the GIs turned every number into a flying jitterbug. The ancient rustics of Sheldham looked on, nodding with the wisdom of people who knew what rising summer cider was all about. Flushed housewives and rosy-cheeked maidens were whirled around. The band was a mixture of baldheads, roundheads and whiskers, all native-born, and their music reached back to some pagan mystique of long-gone ancestors. The ritual song, ‘Rising Summer’, kept cropping up. There were a hundred verses to it, someone said and the natives knew them all. I only managed to pick up the first line of the chorus. ‘
Put
’
em in a barrel and roll
’
em in the barn
.’ Eventually, the music and the rhythm took complete hold of the senses and everything else sounded raw and wrong.

The cider did for me. It was my first encounter with Sheldham’s rising summer night. Some BHQ personnel who’d attended last year said watch the cider. And Jim Beavers said the same thing. I did watch it, pouring from
a
barrel into my glass several times, but once it was down my throat it was out of sight. I jitterbugged in a fog with no idea who my partners were. But one of them resolved into Minnie, at which point I made a rolling exit from the over-heated hall in search of cool fresh air. I also needed a wall to lean against. The fresh air and the coolness of the April night kind of clouted me. Minnie insisted on helping me in my search for a wall. I had a vague idea that a lot of wall was occupied by GIs and village maidens, but Minnie found a welcome piece of secluded brickwork for my back.

‘There, ain’t that nice, Tim?’ she murmured.

‘Where’s a bed?’ I asked unthinkingly. I meant a quiet spot where I could fall quietly down without breaking a leg. I knew I’d never trust Suffolk cider on rising summer night again. Minnie drew her own inference.

‘Oh, no need for a bed, Tim,’ she said. ‘It’ll be bliss any old how with you and I won’t tell Dad.’ She put her mouth to mine.

Fortunately, I fell down then and Mother Earth drew me to her cool and comforting bosom. When I came to I had a racketing head and the hall was emptying. Minnie had disappeared. I didn’t think anything had happened until I tasted lipstick. Then I worried a little. Then I didn’t. Nothing illegal could have happened, the cider had pole-axed me.

But I wasn’t too keen now on her secretive little smile. ‘Hold it,’ I said, ‘what d’you mean, kiss you like I did on rising summer night?’

‘Ain’t telling, am I?’ she said, trying to look coy. Coy? What a hope. ‘Won’t tell Dad, neither.’

‘Won’t tell what?’

‘Not saying, am I?’ She looked sunny and girlish and innocent against the green hedge. Wonderful little actress, she was.

‘I hope you’re not going to grow up a bit devious, Min.’

‘Me? Course I won’t, I couldn’t, not with you,’ she protested. ‘Want to be your best girl, don’t I?’

‘But don’t you fancy a GI from Hollywood, like all the girls?’

‘Hollywood, that’s a laugh,’ she said. ‘I’m not soppy, yer know. Just want you, Tim.’

‘Min, that’s silly,’ I said.

‘No, it ain’t,’ said Min, ‘it’s nice an’ you don’t want someone else to get me, do you?’

‘If anyone gets you at your age your dad’ll slice his legs off. It’s not going to be my legs. I need them for walking about and marching. Now be a sensible girl and go home.’

‘Tim, just one kiss, can’t you?’ she said.

I looked around. The narrow winding country road was quiet. I gave in. I kissed her. A peck on her mouth. But her lips parted and she started to eat me. I almost fell over. I thought of village eyes from which nothing escaped, even at this distance. I thought of a court of law and of Minnie in her gymslip giving evidence, saying I overpowered her. She would too. Self-protective young maiden, she was. She had to be in a village as small as Sheldham. I pushed her off. She looked at me, her eyes wide open, her breath escaping.

‘Minnie—’

‘Oh, you Tim,’ she said faintly and actually dropped her head.

‘Not my fault you didn’t like it.’

‘That’s all you know.’ Her boater came up and her face wore a little smile. ‘Wasn’t it lovely, rising summer night?’

‘I don’t know, was it? I was knocked out myself.’

The little smile was secretive again. ‘I’ll tell Dad,’ she said.

‘Tell him what?’ I asked, feeling alarmed.

‘That you give us a good ’un.’

‘Good what?’

‘Kiss,’ she said. ‘Soon as I’m sixteen, can I tell ’im an’ Mum we’re walkin’ out?’

‘If you carry on like this, you terror, by the time you’re sixteen you’ll be lethal and I’ll be dead.’

She laughed. She looked creamy and larky. ‘You’re fun, you are, Tim. Never goin’ to want anyone but you. I’ll tell Dad I told you about the porridge.’ She went then, jauntily and with a little swish of her gymslip. What the war had done to evacuated cockney girls had to be seen to be believed. Meanwhile I had to think about the fact that Jim had been shopped, his illicit juice confiscated. It would be analysed. WD petrol contained more lead than rationed civilian stuff. The law would lay its wartime hand on Jim and in the court he’d have to take his hat off, which he never did normally.

I went back to BHQ. I tasted lipstick. I’d tasted it before. Same flavour. Going through the gates I saw Kit
coming
out of the house, a thick folder in her hand. She liked work. She liked it enough to carry it about with her.

‘Could I have a word?’ I asked.

‘I can lend an ear to you, Tim, old boy. Is it going to be for real this time? Only you’ve got a lean and hungry look.’

‘Better than Top Sergeant Dawson’s fat look.’

‘Correction, soldier,’ said Kit, ‘Sergeant Dawson’s a fine manly guy.’

‘Yes, fine, big and fat.’

‘I’ll give him your message,’ said Kit, her smile crisp. ‘By the way, can you tell me why this cosy place is full of men called gunners and bombardiers and not a gun in sight?’

‘We’re admin,’ I said, ‘like your Washington admirals.’

‘
Touché
,’ said the lady sergeant, ‘I’ll pass on Washington admirals.’

‘You’re very kind. Listen, remember Jim Beavers?’

‘Should I?’

‘You met him in the village the day I bused you here.’

‘Oh, sure.’ Her response was friendly but a little cautious, I thought. ‘That was Jim Beavers, Private Peterson’s private nightmare?’

‘I think Major Moffat dropped in on him,’ I said.

She frowned. ‘Well, I guess that had to happen,’ she said. ‘Is he going to drop in on you, too?’

‘I hope not. I mean, I hope you and I are on the same side.’

Kit looked me straight in the eye. ‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

‘Well, someone put the finger on Jim,’ I said.

‘Old buddy,’ she said bitingly, ‘you’re an amateur.’

‘Amateur what?’

‘Comic,’ she said and went briskly on her way.

Sergeant Johnson passed by. He gave me a hatchet look. I had a feeling I was going to fail the inquiry.

THE
SUFFOLK PUNCH
WAS
packed out, mainly with GIs. There was an American Air Force base a few miles away. The GIs thought the pub was cute, but that its name was a crazy one for a horse. Both bars, the saloon and the public, provided them with welcome opportunities to fraternize with the local talent. Gunner Frisby conceded the village maidens were on to a good thing. Not only were the GIs relatively rich, but they all lived in Hollywood. Or near it. Frisby said he’d decided not to compete, that he’d wait until the war was over and all the Yanks had gone home. Then he might be able to take his pick of some of the maidens who’d been left behind.

I didn’t think that was too brilliant. Suppose there were no maidens left, suppose the GIs took the lot?

‘But there’s millions of maidens,’ said Frisby.

‘There’s millions of GIs too,’ I said. ‘There’s nearly a million in this pub.’

I was in favour of a nice, well-behaved maiden myself. So was Aunt May. She was devoted to the idea of my ending up with a sweet and respectable girl.

Frisby, formerly a young and ambitious clerk in a town hall surveyor’s department, favoured post-war bliss with a little woman who’d be a help to him and didn’t
put
curlers in her hair at night. He fancied working up from a semi-detached and a mortgage to a manor house by the time he was fifty, with his offspring riding about on horseback. Currently, that idea was taking a hiding, for he hadn’t met any potential little woman who didn’t prefer a Californian manor house next door to Gary Cooper.

‘Makes you feel resigned to waiting till the war’s over,’ he said. We’d managed to take possession of a table in the corner of the public. At the bar, GIs were jammed six deep and in the jam were several local females. ‘By the way,’ said Frisby, ‘I hear there’s a stink on about flogged juice.’

‘Just a rumour,’ I said hopefully, sipping my old and mild.

‘The major’s mounting an inquiry,’ said Frisby. ‘I heard he sent troops to storm someone’s chicken shed. Foxy old Jim’s shed, was it?’

‘Old Jim? Backbone of England,’ I said. Someone had shopped him. I hoped I hadn’t been mentioned. Major Moffat had no understanding of perks.

Sergeant Masters came in then with Cassidy and Cecily. Cecily looked as if she’d rather be somewhere else. She twitched at the horrendous number of men present. Cassidy blinked in the fug. The scrum of GIs broke apart and invited the Wacs into their midst. Cecily retreated as far as she could. Her skirted bottom nudged our table. She hissed, jumped and turned. Frisby, fascinated by her behaviour, rose to his feet.

‘D’you need help?’ he asked.

Cecily looked at him with dark suspicion. Frisby offered a helpful smile.

‘Drop dead,’ she breathed. A GI approached, touched her elbow and asked her if she’d like a drink. She sprang back. Frisby insistently saw her into the safety of the corner chair. She subsided, quivering, poor girl.

‘Like a cider?’ offered Frisby.

‘Go away.’

‘Nowhere to go,’ he said ‘All right, you just sit there, I’ll see that nobody gets to you. Don’t mind if Tim and me play draughts, do you?’ He opened up a draughts board and we played amid the din. Frisby was a suspect opponent. He had a shocking habit of reversing a move after he’d taken his hand away.

‘Hi, Brits.’ Cassidy had arrived, so had Kit. They both had drinks. Gin and tonics. ‘OK to join you guys?’ said Cassidy, ‘It looks safer here than it is over there.’