Rising Summer (7 page)

‘Welcome,’ I said. I pulled up a couple of chairs and they sat down.

‘Checkers?’ said Kit, eyeing the board with interest.

‘Draughts,’ I said.

‘Same game,’ she said and took off her cap. Her hair shone blue-black in the smoky light. ‘Carry on playing.’

It was my move. I put a hand on one of my kings. Kit shook her head.

‘No?’ I said.

‘It’s not your best move, is it?’ she said. I took my hand away. Kit, convinced I needed help, made my move for me. Frisby, leaving Cecily strictly alone, eyed the move suspiciously.

‘Any advice, Miss Peterson?’ asked Frisby, hand poised over the board.

‘Miss Peterson?’ said Cassidy. ‘Who is this guy? I thought I knew him.’

Cecily put more space between herself and Frisby. ‘Get lost,’ she said. She had a very limited vocabulary.

‘I just thought you might have an interesting move in mind,’ said Frisby.

Cecily glared at him, obviously thinking he was propositioning her. Frisby gave her a fatherly smile. Fatherly? Frisby? Cecily muttered. Frisby pushed his leading king forward, thought for a moment and then left it there. Kit gave me a triumphant smile. Frisby, noticing, moved his king back. Kit sat straight up.

‘You can’t do that,’ she said.

‘Can’t do what?’ asked Frisby.

‘You can’t alter a move once you’ve taken your hand off,’ said Kit.

‘Wasn’t a definite move,’ said Frisby, ‘just a feint.’

‘You must play to the rules or what’s the point? And there are principles.’ Principles? ‘Look,’ she said to me, ‘it’s up to you to discourage this guy in his sneaky cheating. If you don’t you’re an accessory to his delinquency.’

‘So how does that grab you, Tim, old boy?’ said Cassidy.

‘Sounds all right,’ I said.

‘It beats me, all this carry-on because I like to think twice about a move,’ said Frisby.

‘Get on with it,’ I said and we resumed the contest.

Cecily gradually came to life, though in a guarded
way
and joined forces with Cassidy to make a back-up team for Frisby, while Kit interfered helpfully with my play. The game ended in a draw. I caught sight of Jim Beavers then, a briar pipe poking out from under his hat. He was playing dominoes with native cronies. I looked at him. He looked at me. We decided not to know each other. Best thing under the circs.

Kit challenged me to a game. Cecily actually set out the board. Frisby gave her another fatherly smile. It raised her hackles.

‘Don’t worry, you’re doing fine,’ he said.

Kit and I began our game, eyeball to eyeball. Her white teeth gleamed. She played with verve and confidence. She thrust forward, plunging into my ranks, but left a hole or two so that when it appeared she had me scattered, I crowned a couple of kings and annihilated her.

‘Cute,’ she laughed.

‘How about it, Cecily, care for a game?’ asked Frisby in a kind way.

‘Keep off,’ said Cecily.

‘Sure?’ said Frisby.

‘Oh, OK, but don’t louse me up,’ said Cecily. She proved so good that Frisby, tottering on the edge of disaster, broke the rules again. He took a move back. Cecily stared at him.

‘Fact is, I hadn’t actually made up my mind,’ he said.

‘He’s doing it again,’ said Kit. ‘He’s unbelievable.’

‘Look,’ said Frisby, ‘if Cecily thinks I’m pulling a fast one—’

‘No, that’s OK,’ said Cecily. ‘Carry on.’ Well, good
old
Cecily, she’d come round to saying something friendly.

Frisby’s defeat, however, was only delayed. It caught up with him three moves later. ‘Done me,’ he said, ‘what a turn-up.’ He gave Cecily an admiring look. Cecily swallowed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said kindly, ‘it hurt me the most.’

Top Sergeant Dawson thundered in like a walking tree trunk in a hurry. He cast his eyes around, looking for Cassidy.

‘Here’s my guy,’ said Cassidy, and wrinkled her nose.

‘I’m off myself,’ said Frisby, ‘no late pass. Like to come with me, Cecily?’

‘Oh, hell,’ said Cecily, but in surprising fashion she got up and went with him.

Kit said she had to get back. She also said she wanted to talk to me. We left the pub together. It was a twenty-minute hike to BHQ. The evening was cool, its freshness welcome. The cottages, their windows blacked-out, peered darkly at us. Kit walked with a brisk swing, her right hand on the strap of her shoulder bag.

‘You had something to say to me?’ I asked.

‘Sure, I do,’ she said. ‘About your friend. Jim Beavers, that’s his name, isn’t it? You said he was in trouble. He is. He’s suspected of being in unauthorized possession of army gasoline.’ We were passing Jim’s cottage. It was quiet. The chickens were roosting, the dogs lying in wait for foxes.

‘Can’t believe it of old Jim, can you?’ I said.

‘I can. And if it’s true, he’s a saboteur, a fifth columnist.’

‘Never. Not old Jim. He’s a Suffolk cockney, the soul of old England.’

‘Don’t make me hysterical, old buddy,’ said Kit. ‘By the way, if you’re worried about yourself, I can tell you your name hasn’t been mentioned.’

‘Hasn’t been mentioned by whom?’

‘One can’t answer every question. I just thought you’d like to know it’s only your friend, the soul of old England, who’s due for comeuppance.’

‘I might not like it too much,’ I said, ‘I might be someone who worries about his friends. In any case, I could still be sunk myself. They’ll check the spare cans of every vehicle. Every driver is logged for every journey. I mostly drive the Austin. If they find its can empty, they’ll work backwards to find out who emptied it.’

‘You can say you did, can’t you? You don’t mind lying, do you?’

‘Well, we’re only talking about allowable perks.’

‘Allowable perks?’

‘Goes back a long way. It’s traditional. Take your lot in your Civil War, nicking chickens. That’s perks. Look, if I said I used that spare juice, I’d have had to log it and report it to the workshop staff-sergeant.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I had some eggs to fry, I’d missed dinner.’

‘Hasn’t anyone driven that mousetrap since then?’ she asked.

‘Probably and they’ll be suspect too.’

‘So you’ll own up?’ she said.

‘Pardon?’

‘Well, you do have a conscience, don’t you?’ she said, her skirt swishing in the darkness.

‘Look, love,’ I said, ‘everyone concerned will fall down in a fit if I own up. When they’ve got you in uniform for the duration, you leave your Sunday School conscience at home and concentrate on survival. Doesn’t it strike you as trivial, fussing about a spare can of porridge?’

‘So that’s what you call army gasoline. Poor old buddy, don’t you know chickens always come home to roost?’

‘Not if you can get them into the oven first,’ I said. We were well out of the village, walking along the quiet country road towards BHQ. It was winding, and hedged on both sides. And the night was dark and someone was behind us. I stopped and turned. I could only see shadows. Even so, I thought about someone with frustrations and the sex appeal of Sergeant Masters. She stopped herself then, some twenty yards on. One shadow moved and materialized into something dark and wiry. Under a hat.

‘Hold on a moment,’ I called to Kit and went to have a word with Jim. ‘Stop lurking about,’ I said, ‘you’ll frighten people.’

‘I ain’t lurkin’, just follering,’ said Jim in a hoarse whisper. ‘You got yer female sergeant there. Good ’un, is she, Tim? Ain’t ’er fault she’s soldiering, it’s the cock-eyed war, that’s what it is. Only she’s in the way just now, seein’ I got what we need.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘This. Some o’ yourn.’ He showed me a rusty can. I
could
just make it out. ‘Me reserve stock, like. Keep it in a potato sack.’

‘It’s WD stuff?’

‘Ain’t like the muck they took,’ he said. ‘There was a bit of WD in that there drum but not much and what there was was mixed with paraffin an’ turps. I wasn’t born yesterday, it don’t do to be born yesterday.’

‘You’re right, Jim. What’s this can of WD for?’

‘Refill.’ He grinned. ‘There’s an empty can, ain’t there? That’s ’ow they’re goin’ to nick you, Tim boy, on account of the empty one. Know what they done with all the cans?’

‘I only know they pinched your drum.’

‘That won’t give ’em no joy. Listen, they got them cans cuddlin’ up in your vehicle workshop, me young mate. I got to hear round about teatime today. A friend knocked on me back door. Them cans is being inspected official in the morning, to see what’s full and what ain’t. One’s empty, you reckon?’

‘The Austin’s, for sure, unless any of the workshop staff checked it and had it filled up. But then, Staff-Sergeant Dix, who’s in charge, would have wanted to know more about why it was empty.’

‘Well, lad, you show me and if it’s still empty, we’ll fill it up with this canful,’ said Jim. ‘You don’t want no army messin’ you about. Missus likes you. Make sure our Tim don’t get executed, she said. So you lead and I’ll foller.’

I had a few more words with him first, about how to get into the workshop without being spotted, then rejoined Kit.

‘I know who that old goat is,’ she said as we resumed our walk.

‘Yes, he’s a useful old handyman,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re fond of him too. Now, when we reach BHQ, you talk to the guard on the gates to keep him occupied—’

‘Come again?’ said Kit.

‘While I pop across to the workshop. It won’t take long.’

‘Right first time it won’t,’ she said, ‘I’m not doing it. Leave me out.’

‘I can’t do that,’ I said, ‘you’re our anchor man and you can’t hide behind those upside-down stripes all the time. You’ve got to stand up and be counted when a friend’s having problems.’

‘What friend?’

‘It’ll be quite simple. I’ll explain.’

‘Don’t bother,’ she said, swinging along at a brisker pace.

‘It’s part of the night guards’ duty to keep an eye on the workshop to make sure a vehicle doesn’t get nicked by some farmer short of transport for carrying cows to market. I’ll take you to a Suffolk market when the war’s over and you can buy a cow to take home to your family. Better than a fake brass rubbing from Birmingham. There’ll only be one guard on duty. Just keep him occupied with some encouraging female talk and keep him with his back to the workshop.’

‘Encouraging female talk?’ said Kit. ‘That’s out for a start. Nothing doing, old boy. When a crook gets himself stuck in the mud, let him pull himself out. Giving him a hand would be a mistake. He’d not only think he was
entitled
to it, but there’d be the risk of being pulled in with him. Is that loud and clear, Hardy?’

‘It ruddy well is, but is it friendly? Is it even right? Not on your nelly. You can’t stand aside and see a brother soldier go under.’

‘Can’t I?’ she said. We were nearing BHQ. Jim was a silent ghost behind us. ‘Listen, you crook, how long would I have to keep the guard occupied?’

‘Only about ten minutes. Easy for a good-looking sergeant like you.’

‘Cut the soap,’ she said. ‘Where’s the nearest Episcopalian church?’

‘Hold on, you’re not going to bring Jesus in, are you? Do we want to?’

‘Where is it?’

‘Your kind of church? Nearest one’s probably in Sudbury. That’s fifteen miles away and I don’t think you’ll catch a service at this time of night.’

BHQ loomed up. Kit came to a halt.

‘I’m crazy,’ she said. The vehicle yard and workshop opposite BHQ were just visible from the gates. Occasionally, the man on guard would cross the road and patrol about the place.

Jim sidled up. ‘Is she on, Tim lad?’ he whispered.

‘Oh, shoot,’ she breathed and left us. She was on. She walked to the open gates. We waited, tucking ourselves out of sight. We heard her voice. It sounded cooing. Cooing? A cooing sergeant? That had to do the trick.

Jim and I slipped across the road, rounding a parked Bedford lorry to ghost into the workship. Everything was locked up, of course. Jim produced a small torch
with
a tiny but bright beam. The staff-sergeant in charge of vehicle maintenance had an office in the workshop, with upper glass panels. The torch picked out six petrol cans in lined-up formation on the office floor. The door was locked. Jim fumbled in a pocket and brought forth a ring of many keys. He began trying them, one after the other.

‘Don’t muck about, Jim, it’s not Christmas. Get it open.’

The lock clicked.

‘Good ’un, you are,’ said Jim to the lucky key and we went in. ‘Where’s yourn?’ he whispered.

‘How do I know? They’re all WD cans, all the same. Just find the empty one.’

Jim, running his beam of light over the identical cans, disclosed the fact that there was a chalked number on each. I hefted them, one by one. Four were full, two were empty. Two? Someone else was in the market?

‘Them two’s both empty?’ said Jim.

‘Ruddy hell, yes.’

‘Bleedin’ old system’s up the spout, then,’ he said. ‘Ain’t much help to you if we fill the wrong one. Missus won’t like that, she’ll knock me ’ead off.’

‘Fill ’em both,’ I said.

‘Corker you are, Tim boy,’ said Jim and filled one of the empties from his rusty can. I filled the other from one of the full cans. As the juice gurgled in he asked, ‘You after Minnie?’

‘Am I what? You off your rocker? What sort of a question is that at a time like this?’

‘Only askin’,’ said Jim.

‘Listen, Minnie’s too young for that kind of lark.’

‘You might be, she ain’t.’ Jim chuckled. ‘She’s been sayin’ you fancy her. I know she fancies you.’

‘Find her a decent GI when she’s sixteen.’

‘That won’t work, Tim. It’s you Min’s after.’ The petrol gurgled to a stop. A minute later we were out, the door locked again, the workshop at our backs. Jim got lost before I realized he’d gone. I approached the gates and went through. I heard the crisp patter of retreating footsteps. That sounded as if Kit had just finished doing her good deed. Good old American scout she was, after all

The guard appeared and poked his rifle at me. ‘Friend or foe?’ he demanded. It was Gunner Dunwoodie. If I’d known, I’d not have worried so much. On the other hand, even a fellow squaddie short on brains can sometimes rate good conduct marks more important than comradeship. We all hoped for promotion and a corresponding increase in pay.