answered. ‘Sergeant Johnson asked the teacher which children lived with you and then asked if he could give me that note. That’s when he told me he’d met you.’
‘Run on in and have your tea,’ Kathryn said, turning the envelope over to see her name typed on the front.
‘Don’t you want your gum?’ Phillip asked, following the others through the open gate.
One extra piece was sure to cause a squabble, so she took it. ‘Thank you. Run inside now.’
Kathryn waited until each child passed through the front door, then she looked down at the envelope again. She didn’t want to be curious, but was. After slipping her gloves and the stick of gum in her pocket, she carefully slid a finger beneath the flap to release the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper.
It was typed. She’d never received a typed letter before.
Dear Miss Harris,
The United States Air Force is presenting you with the enclosed payment for the loss of supplies resulting from a motor vehicle and bicycle incident on the High Wycombe Roadway during the mid-afternoon of April 27th, 1942.
She unfolded the bottom of the letter and trapped the money against the paper with her thumb while reading the rest of the letter.
If you have any questions, please contact Marilyn Miller, secretary for the United States Army Eighth Air Force South Hill Barracks.
Kathryn flipped the paper over, looking for...she wasn’t exactly sure what. Frowning, she turned it over again. The letter was signed by Marilyn Miller. Whoever that was.
Ire rippled her insides as she counted the money. It was the same amount Dale Johnson had attempted to give Norman, but had been converted into shillings and pence. American or English, she would not be keeping this money.
‘I really think you should let me drive you,’ Norman said a few minutes later while walking towards the barn beside her.
‘There’s no need to waste the petrol,’ Kathryn said. He and Charlotte were worried about the soldiers being in trouble for the mishap. She wasn’t. Her concern was more personal. Sergeant Johnson would not get his way. Not with her.
‘But after—’
‘I’ll be far more careful,’ she interrupted Norman’s response. Feeling guilty about being so discourteous, she added, ‘The letter is addressed to me, so I will to be the one to respond.’
* * *
‘Johnson,’ Sam Smith shouted from the doorway. ‘You got a visitor!’
Dale wiped his crescent wrench clean and placed it in the metal box among his other tools before tossing the rag aside and walking towards the doorway.
‘You’re getting to be awfully popular among the Janes.’ Smith wiggled both of his brush-black eyebrows. ‘The secretary this morning and now a local girl.’
Dale grinned. He’d expected a reaction from the letter he’d had Marilyn type up for him, but hadn’t thought it would be this quick. ‘Jealous?’
Smith laughed. ‘You know it.’
Dale slapped the other man’s shoulder as he walked out the door. ‘Get used to it, buddy.’
Laughing again, Smith nodded towards the concrete slab outside the main building. ‘Say hi for me, will you?’
‘Not on your life,’ Dale replied as he readjusted his hat.
Her bicycle was standing next to the bench she sat upon, back straight and hands folded in her lap. The base was a busy place, with men meandering in all directions, and every one of them was taking a second look at Kathryn. He couldn’t blame them. She was a looker, even with the red scarf hiding her shiny, thick black hair. He’d seen that hair flowing long and loose when she’d pulled a different scarf off her head after taking her tumble. She had on the same shoes as that day and sheer stockings. Riding a bike in those heels had to be close to impossible.
As he walked passed a group of GIs standing stationary longer than necessary, he waved an arm. ‘Move on, boys. You’re here to fight Germans, not dally with the locals.’
‘Ah, Sarge,’ one of them said. ‘We ain’t seen a German since we got here.’
‘You will,’ he said. ‘Now move along.’
They followed orders, heading in the opposite direction as him. A few steps later, he removed his hat prior to stopping in front of the metal bench. ‘Miss Harris.’
She lifted her chin as she stood and smoothed her knee-length, sandy-brown coat with one hand while holding out the other one. ‘I’m here to return this.’
That wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for.
Ironically the sun, which hadn’t let itself be known very often since he’d arrived, chose that moment to peek out from behind a sky full of grey clouds. ‘Would you care to take a walk?’ he asked, ignoring the envelope. The Major hadn’t learned about the incident and, if Dale had his way, Hilts never would.
Her brows knit together as she barely turned her head while glancing left and right. ‘A walk?’
‘I’ve been told there’s a garden around the east side of the building, with a walking pathway the entire length.’
‘I’m not here to—’
‘I know.’ He wasn’t one to act impulsively, but convincing her to keep the money would take a bit of finesse. Something that didn’t come to him naturally. He’d have to work on it. And her. ‘Just a short walk. I’ve wanted to see the garden but haven’t had a reason to walk over there yet.’
She glanced around, this time turning her head fully in each direction. When she faced him again, he wasn’t daft enough to think she nodded because of his charm. It was the dozens of other men looking their way.
‘I don’t have much time,’ she said while taking a step.
‘Neither do I,’ he said. ‘But a walk doesn’t need to take long.’
‘As I said, I’m here to return your money.’
‘It’s not my money.’ That wasn’t completely a lie. The money he’d given Marilyn to include with the letter had been American. The secretary had been the one to exchange it for local currency. So far, only he, Sanders and Marilyn knew exactly what had happened and he wanted to keep it that way. ‘I’m a farmer, Miss Harris. Or was until I became a soldier. My folks own a farm in North Dakota. Gathering eggs was my first chore. At least the first one I can remember.’ The memories floating back made him grin. ‘That and hauling wood, but my brother, Ralph, usually did that. He hated chickens and would haul my share of the wood if I gathered his share of the eggs.’
He bit the tip of his tongue to stop from sharing other things about himself. She didn’t need to hear his life story, nor want to. ‘What I meant to say is that I know how tough farming can be. How the loss of even a single egg is felt. Even more now that the world is at war.’
They’d rounded the building corner and rows of leafy green bushes, some he might have recognised if he took the time to look closer, edged the walking path on both sides.
‘I can’t deny the world is at war, Mr Johnson,’ she said smartly. ‘But I can assure you, we do not need your money. Norman and Charlotte would not have taken in so many if they did not have the means to provide for them.’
He’d heard about children being evacuated out of London and assumed some of the children living with her were part of that. Of the nine, only two looked similar, as if they might be siblings. ‘Are they all evacuees?’
‘Yes.’
Something in her tone, a sadness, had him asking, ‘But not you.’
She