Our Yanks by Margaret Mayhew

woollen socks and black lace-up boots, and everything was darned or patched all over and near worn out. The old woman was halfway up a ladder, reaching down one of the glass jars from the shelves. She unscrewed the lid and shook out some kind of striped candy onto the scales and then tipped it into a paper cornet and folded the top over. The boy reached up with a big copper penny and a ration book so she could cut the coupon out. The English kids had had it tough, no question. They looked skinny and undersized to him – like they hadn’t had a square meal in years. And their clothes were either too small or too big – never fitting just right. In his own family, there hadn’t been the money for fancy stuff but they’d always been dressed decent – never in old cast-offs or hand-me-downs. And they’d never known such a thing as clothes rationing.
    He asked very politely for a packet of Players. ‘No cigarettes. Only pipe tobacco,’ the woman told him curtly, pointing to the near-empty shelves behind her. Somehow he figured she
did
have some, stashed away for other customers, not Yanks, but he thanked her as he left. The little kid was starting on his candy outside and he gave him a Baby Ruth bar from his pocket. The boy’s face lit up. ‘Thanks, mister.’
    â€˜What’s your name?’
    â€˜Alfie. Got any gum, mister?’
    He searched in his pockets and found some. ‘Here you are, Alfie.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ The kid put it carefully in his pocket, like it was treasure, and ran off.
    Chester pushed the bike along the street, hoping to find another store selling cigarettes. He passed a butcher, a grocer’s and a hardware store and came to a baker’s. A green and gold HOVIS sign was fixed to the wall above the window. When he’d first seen the same sign at a railroad depot he’d thought it was the name of the place. Then when he’d kept on seeing it, he’d finally figured it out. Metal letters alongside the sign spelled out S. BARNET and underneath them, but smaller, High Class Baker. He peered in through the window and saw big wooden trays set out with loaves of bread stacked on end and different kinds of small cakes. They looked pretty good and made him feel hungry so he lifted the latch on the door and went in. Another bell jangled with a hollow sort of sound as he stepped down into the store but this time it wasn’t an old woman serving, but a young girl.
    There was no counter, like in the candy store – just the wooden trays set out on two tables – the one under the window and another against a wall. And it was real warm, with a good smell of fresh baking. He stood by the door, waiting while the girl attended to a customer, and he watched as she put cakes into the woman’s shopping basket and the money into a tin in a drawer. She was quick as anything with the change, he noticed. He still couldn’t figure out the English money; all those halfpennies and pennies and shillings, never mind the sixpences and the threepenny bits and the farthings. She had quite a chat with the woman, smiling away at her, and he went on waiting patiently until they had finished talking. As the customer turned to leave he opened the door for her, making the bell jangle again on its leather strap, but she gave a loud sniff instead of thanks as she passed him on her way out. The girl smiled at him, though. She had some lipstick on – a soft pink colour – and she wore a blue and white spotted scarf tied in a bow at the top of her head with a lot of blond curls showing at the front.
    â€˜Hi there,’ he said.
    â€˜Hallo.’
    â€˜That doorbell looks like a real old one.’
    â€˜It’s a sheep’s bell,’ she told him. ‘It’s been there for years and years. Drives me mad.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘Can I get you something?’
    He realized that he’d been standing there like a