The Grafton Girls - Annie Groves [89]
Typically they found the pub virtually opposite the church, its sign swinging in the evening breeze.
Diane glanced up at it as the major stopped the Jeep, and read the name – the Traveller’s Rest. The village didn’t look as though many travellers passed through it, but then looks could be deceptive.
The major had already got out of the Jeep. A sign of his hunger, or his dislike of her company?
She reached for the handle to the Jeep’s passenger door, cursing herself inwardly for not being more speedy when the major stepped round the Jeep’s bonnet and opened the door for her.
She didn’t look at him as she thanked him, but she could once again smell the scent of his skin, more his skin than his soap now, she recognised. She had no right to be aware of the major as a man. And no desire to, either? She was glad that the necessity of following him into the pub gave her an excuse for not answering her own question.
Inside, the pub was low ceilinged with heavy dark beams and the kind of bar she was familiar with from her days in her previous posting. The usual group of elderly ‘locals’ were grouped round the bar and occupying the wooden settle close to the huge open fireplace, and with a good view through the old-fashioned mullioned window.
The silence that followed their entrance could have been because she was a woman – the only woman in the place – or it could have been because the major was American. Diane suspected it was probably caused by both.
‘Looking for Burtonwood, are you?’ the landlord asked affably, but Diane had seen the looks the locals were exchanging and knew that his comment masked disdain.
‘I guess you get pretty tired of Americans coming in here to ask the way,’ the major answered him easily, adding, ‘We’d like something to eat, first.’
All the men exchanged looks.
‘Sorry, mate,’ the landlord answered. ‘But no can do. I’m afraid you and your lady friend will have to try somewhere else.’
Diane saw the way the major stiffened. She felt like doing the same herself. It was plain that the landlord thought she and the major were a couple, and of course he would disapprove of an English girl taking up with an American whilst young British men were away fighting for their country.
The major’s silence was lasting just that little bit too long. Diane could feel the growing tension, and diplomatically she told him untruthfully, ‘I’m really not very hungry. Do let’s go and find somewhere else.’
For a second she thought he was going to ignore her and challenge the landlord, but then he looked down at her and gave a small shrug.
They had just reached the door when Diane heard one of the men at the bar telling the landlord, ‘You missed your way there, Pete. I reckon you could have charged him a tenner to let him have that spare room of yours for the night.’
‘Bloody Yanks,’ the landlord swore angrily. ‘I don’t want no truck with them, nor their fancy pieces, not when I’ve got a lad fighting in ruddy Africa.’
The major stopped moving. Quickly Diane yanked open the door, her palms damp with nervous sweat. She walked out into the street and headed for the Jeep without looking to see if the major was following her, not wanting to give him an excuse to stay and challenge the men at the bar.
When he followed her to the Jeep she wasn’t sure if it was relief or hunger that was making her feel sick.
They travelled several miles before he finally broke the silence, demanding coldly, ‘Tell me something. Does everyone in this country hate our guts, or—’
‘It’s your own fault that people react to the American forces the way they do,’ Diane stopped him defensively, suddenly all her own pent-up feelings rushing to be voiced. ‘You’re supposed to be our allies but you behave more as though you’re some kind of occupying force. You treat us with contempt, and you brag about how much better you think you are than us. You call us shabby, and badly dressed, you hate our food and our roads, and our weather. We’ve all heard GIs calling our soldiers cowards for