Battle Cry - Leon Uris [149]
“Well, he does get a good one now and again. Come, you must be starved. The car is just across the street.”
“Is old Betsy still running? Having a devil of a time with her, L.Q. Shortage of parts, you know.”
“And how do you like New Zealand, L.Q.?” Grace asked.
“Wonderful, Mrs. Busby.”
“Can I carry your gun, L.Q.?”
“Sure, kid.”
They piled into a Ford of 1935 vintage. Grace pushed the starter button. Nothing happened.
“Damned battery again.” Tom Busby sputtered.
“Damned battery again,” Ronnie repeated.
“Hush up, both of you.”
“Try the horn, Mrs. Busby. Maybe the starter is stuck,” L. Q. said.
“Oh, the horn has been gone for almost a year now.”
L.Q. found the light switch on the confusing right-hand-drive car. The headlights went on. “It isn’t the battery,” he said. “Put her into low gear. I’ll see if I can rock her loose.” They knocked the starter free and the motor turned over.
“Amazing, simply amazing. Are you a mechanic, L.Q.?”
“No, but I guess most of us tinker around with motors now and then.”
“Well, this was a good idea. First thing tomorrow I’ll let you jump right under the hood and catch up on some of my husband’s long lost odd jobs. He’s a baby with a hammer in his hand—and to think he sells machinery.”
“Hush now, Grace, you’ll frighten the lad off.”
“I’d be glad to,” L.Q. said.
“See, Tom, what did I tell you?”
“I can sing the Marine’s Hymn,” Ronnie said.
L.Q. opened his eyes and looked about the soft and cheerful room of the cottage on Park Road. The sun streamed in. He sat up and stretched. A rap at the door. “Come in,” he said.
Grace, Tom, and Ronnie Busby burst into the room. L.Q. drew the blankets about him. Grace carried a large tray and set it down on his lap.
“Aw look now, Grace. I feel funny eating breakfast in bed, especially in pajamas.”
Tom Busby laughed, reservedly.
“You’ll have to get used to rhubarb, L.Q., we’re right in the middle of the rhubarb season, you know.”
“Look, I can get up and eat at the table.”
“Nonsense.”
“Say, what time is it?”
“Almost one. You slept like a baby.”
L.Q. stared at the tray brimming with luscious-smelling food and scratched his head. “You people are sure nice,” he sniffled.
“Come now, boys. Let the lad eat, let’s get out,” Grace said.
“Shake a leg, L.Q. I have a game of bowls on the green at the club in an hour. Great sport, good for the spread,” he said patting his stomach. “Phoned up all the boys to let them know I have a Marine. Want to show you off a bit, L.Q.”
The door shut and L.Q. Jones sat there for a moment shaking his head.
Later L.Q. looked at the grinning mob of females of the Palmerston North Tennis Club. “Hold my hand, Grace. They look like a pack of vultures.”
“See the dark one at the end of the table. She’s called Gale Bond. That’s the one Tom picked out for you. She’ll be over for dinner.”
L.Q. lined up the array of children on the vacant lot.
“Now, you guys understand the rules of the game? It isn’t like cricket.”
“Yes, L.Q.”
“O.K., let’s choose up sides.”
“I want to be the pitcher.”
“No, I want to be the pitcher.”
“L.Q. says the pitcher is the most important player.”
“Wait a minute,” L.Q. said. “They’re all important. Now we’ll see who bats first. Choose up with this broom handle—I mean, bat.”
The Marine leaned over and whispered into Ronnie’s ear, “Remember what I told you?”
“Yes, L.Q.” He wheeled about and faced his team. “O.K., let’s have a little chatter in that infield, hustle you, birds,” he cried in a shrill voice as he winked at L.Q.
“Play ball,” L.Q. ordered.
The Ford was purring, the faucets no longer leaked and the Busby home sported several rejuvenated lamps and appliances. Gale Bond and the Busby family stood on the concrete platform with their Marine.
“Now you will write us, L.Q.”
“I promise, Grace.”
“And remember, any time you have leave, jump on the train. You don’t have to wire or phone, just come on up.”
“I will, Tom.”
Ronnie clutched L.Q.’s baseball glove and stood behind his father to hide the tears.
“Thanks for the rod and reel, L.Q.”
“Glad to get rid of them,