‘Who?’
‘Flanagan and Allen. You were whistling “Free”.’
‘Was I? I didn’t notice. Do you think they’ll care? – the kids who come after us. Whether or not they’re free? After all, it’s why we went to war.’
‘Did we? Your lot may have, but not mine.’
‘But I thought you went to Spain in the Thirties, and fought Franco? The Major told me.’
‘Sometimes the Major has a big mouth.’
‘I heard that, Raffles,’ James said from behind us, snorted, and turned over.
Les plugged on, ‘I went to Spain because I was outta work, and I can drive anything. It just happened that I ended up driving for the Reds; they were the first I came across, so I came back in ’38 an ’ero, because I’d been on the right side for once. I would a’ driven for the first who’d asked me. It was just a matter o’ luck.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘My old lady says I joined up last time to get away from her.’
‘Does she know you name your car after her?’
‘Safer than calling it Susie, an’ ’aving a lot of explaining to do when she finds out.’
‘Would she? Find out.’
‘Definitely. They always do. That’s one of the rules.’
‘Whose rules?’
‘Their rules. Why do you think there’s ten times the number o’ men getting killed in this war as women?’
James said, ‘That’s bloody well enough!’
I was grinning now. Les switched tack. He said, ‘I’m going to stop in about ten minutes and fill the tank, if you wants to stretch your legs. Then push on for another couple of hours. We can laager up away from the war for a couple of hours, then drive in to the rest area at Blijenhoek just as they’re serving breakfast. Americans eat well.’
‘As you say, Private.’
I spluttered, ‘Just who’s in charge in this damned car?’
They said it together.
‘You.’
*
We got as far as Les said, when Kate chose where to stop by catastrophically deflating her right rear. Les three-wheeled her, coasting gently over the billiard-table Dutch landscape for a mile until he pulled her off the road and into a farmyard. Lights showed dimly from a shed, and cows made cow noises. They seemed friendly, but you never know.
‘If women make noises like that, tell them you love them,’ Les told us.
‘Why?’
‘It’s one of the rules.’
‘Whose rules?’ That was the Major, playing bastard again.
Les told him, ‘Don’t take the piss out of the servants, Major. It isn’t nice.’
Honours even, I’d say.
The Major’s communication skills in Cloggie were much better than he admitted to anyone. He told me, ‘It’s all bloody coughs and grunts. Once you’ve mastered that you’re home and dry.’
He went over to the lighted barn which had made sounds like an urgent cowshed. I told you earlier that he wore his old pistol on a lanyard. I noticed that he pulled it from its webbing holster and let it dangle at belt height as he strolled over. He was gone about five minutes. Les got fidgety. He hauled his Sten into his lap, and cocked and uncocked it, moving the slide. Then the Major strolled back. His pistol was back in its holster. He leaned his head in through the window.
‘We can use that shed over there.’ He pointed to a large dark space with sides of overlapping tiles, and a high, vaulted wooden roof. It was as big as St Paul’s. ‘I don’t suppose that either of you knows how to milk cows?’
‘Not the four-legged kind,’ Les said.
James gave him the look, but I could see that they were going to chew over Les’s attitude to the female of the species for the rest of the week. I shook my head. James added, ‘Pity. That means we’ll have to pay to eat. The farmer is away somewhere with a big orange triangle sewed on his sleeve: he’s gone off fighting Jerry, now that Jerry’s on the run. Not much different to the Frogs, really. Anyway, Mrs Farmer is in there . . .’ He gestured towards the light. ‘. . . playing with the cows’ tits, and she has a fine couple herself. Young, too – can’t be above twenty.’
‘Maybe I can learn,’ I offered. ‘It’s about time I pulled my weight again.’
‘Make sure that’s all you pull, young Charles.’ He had this wicked grin when he wanted it. ‘Raffles and I will change Kate’s boots, and join you afterwards for an early breakfast.’
Milking for England. I wasn’t too good at pronouncing her name: the first bit sounded like Gerd or Gerda, so I stopped with that. She had no English, and at that time I had no Dutch, but she smiled a lot, and giggled when I was clumsy. She washed my hands right up to my elbows with rough lye soap in steaming water, before she let me anywhere near her cows. They were big black and white bastards, who made soft cooing sounds like enormous pigeons. If they lifted their tails you moved aside smartly, because they shit like fire hoses. Big, splattery, khaki streams of the stuff, the colour of a brown job’s uniform.
Gerd was short and stocky, with wide shoulders and hips. She had short, very fine blonde hair tucked under a milking cap. Its flat top was greasy, and smelled of cow. Her mouth was small, but her lips were full and smiley. Her eyes were huge and round, and a very dark brown – like those of the cows in her herd – and she was pale-skinned. My mum once described such a girl to me as strawberries and cream.
She sat me on a three-legged stool, facing a gigantic, grubby-pink udder and a handful of teats. She pushed my head gently forward until the top of it rested against the animal’s flank. I felt its heat, and breathed in its rich, heady scent. Then, standing behind me, she
