Our Yanks by Margaret Mayhew Page A

time, sir, and maybe I’ll give you a different answer.’
    After a while the daughter came back to tell them that lunch was ready. He followed them down a dark passageway into a kitchen that was another museum piece. Some kind of big cooking range – though not as ancient as Mrs Hazlet’s – heavy pots and pans hanging from hooks, blue and white dishes ranged along shelves, a large wooden table in the centre, scoured pale from scrubbings. They sat up one end of the table and the girl served out something from a frying pan and put it in front of him.
    â€˜It’s cabbage, onions and potatoes,’ the rector told him. ‘My daughter grows them all here in the garden.’
    He tried a forkful cautiously. He hated cabbage, even more than he hated Brussels sprouts; wouldn’t ever touch it if he could help it. It wasn’t bad, though. In fact, when he ate some more, he reckoned it was pretty good.
    The girl sat in silence but her father seemed determined to be friendly. ‘How long have you been in England, Lieutenant?’
    â€˜Since August, sir. We came over on one of the big liners from New York – close on twenty thousand on board. It was a real shock to us guys when we got to Liverpool, I can tell you. First time we’d seen what the Luftwaffe had done to your cities.’
    â€˜And where do you come from in the United States?’ The guy was trying real hard to be nice – a lot harder than his daughter.
    â€˜New York City. I was born in Manhattan.’
    â€˜We’ve heard of Manhattan, of course, but I’m afraid we’re rather ignorant about American cities. What part of New York is that exactly?’
    â€˜Well, Manhattan’s where all the famous landmarks are: the Empire State, the Rockefeller Center, Central Park . . . It’s kind of an island. See, you’ve got the Hudson river on one side and the East on the other. To get to other parts of the city you have to cross one of the bridges.’ He drew with his finger on the wooden table. ‘The Bronx is up there, Queens is over there, Brooklyn’s down there and Staten Island’s over this side. That’s the layout.’
    â€˜And you were brought up in Manhattan?’
    â€˜Yes, sir. My grandparents emigrated from Naples in the last century. My parents run an Italian restaurant on 53rd street.’
    â€˜How interesting. Do they do the cooking themselves?’
    â€˜They sure did when they first started. Now, they’ve got help. They’re wonderful cooks, both of them – all the great Italian dishes. I guess they wouldn’t know how to do this one.’ He’d meant it as a compliment to the bubble and squeak but the minute he’d said it he realized it could be taken two ways and, from the look on her face, the girl had taken it the wrong one.
    â€˜Agnes makes some Italian dishes, I believe, don’t you, my dear?’
    He watched her colouring up again. ‘Not really, Father. Only things with macaroni.’
    He said easily, ‘Well, I’d sure like to try one of them sometime. I haven’t eaten macaroni in ages.’
    She didn’t answer that and the father tried some more. ‘Do you speak Italian, Lieutenant?’
    â€˜Sure. We speak it all the time at home. But I consider myself an American, sir. One hundred per cent.’ He paused. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
    â€˜It seems a very long way from New York to King’s Thorpe. You must find it very different.’
    â€˜It sure is.’ He couldn’t come up with a bigger contrast.
    â€˜Forgive me for asking so many questions, but what made you become a fighter pilot?’
    â€˜Well, I saw a movie years ago when I was a kid – all about a barnstormer – you know, someone who goes round doing stunt flying to entertain crowds. I made up my mind then that I’d learn to fly like that one day, if I ever got the chance. So,