Read Online Rising Summer by Mary Jane Staples - Free Book Online

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.