Letters to the Lost (12 page)

Nancy had always been a skilled flirt, but had clearly been honing the art further since Stella had last been out with her. Torn between irritation and amusement Stella watched as she detached herself from Eugene/Johnny.

‘Sorry about that, boys, but needs must,’ she smirked, with a singular lack of contrition. ‘How else was we going to get in and have a chance to dance with you lovely lot? And the good news is . . .’ She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and they all came in a bit closer to hear it, ‘Inside I’ve got three more gorgeous friends who’ll be delighted to show you boys a bit of good old London hospitality.’

In fact, the Americans were so nice and courteous – insisting on paying them into the dance hall, addressing them both as ‘Miss’ all the time, arguing good-naturedly over who was going to buy them drinks – that Stella felt her initial misgivings begin to melt away. Perhaps it was the heat; after the arctic air outside the dance hall was absolutely sweltering. Glenn Miller was deafening in here, and as she followed Nancy and Eugene/Johnny across to a table she could feel the wooden floor bouncing beneath her feet. There was plenty of space to sit on the velvet banquette because everyone was crowded on the dance floor, where
American Patrol
had just given way to
In the Mood.

‘This tune could have been written for me!’ Nancy yelled, pulling Eugene away to dance.

‘May I?’ Frank offered her his hand with a quaint little mock bow. Stella shook her head quickly. She wanted to explain about being married and only coming along for a night out with Nancy, but the music was too loud and it seemed like she was being presumptuous, assuming that he fancied her when he was probably only being polite. He shrugged. ‘Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll get us something to drink – what’ll you have?’

‘Oh . . . a lemonade would be nice, thank you.’

‘I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.’

Just as he made to move away, one of the others appeared through the crowd on the dance floor delicately juggling several brimming glasses in his hands.

‘Nice work, Mitch. Shame your hands aren’t that steady when you’re in the gun turret.’

‘Take a hike, Franklin.’ Mitch grinned and slid a glass over to Stella. It clearly wasn’t lemonade, but she could hardly complain. She picked it up and took a sip. It tasted warm, sweet and faintly spicy. She took another cautious sip. She was thirsty and it wasn’t quite as refreshing as she would have liked, but definitely not unpleasant.

‘Thanks, it’s delicious. What is it?’

A look of surprise flashed across Mitch’s freckled face. ‘Port and lemon. I thought that was what all the English girls drank.’

Nancy appeared, dragging two girls by the wrist, another following behind them. They were all flushed and smiling eagerly and, as they were introduced, looked at the Americans in the same slanting, sideways way that Nancy did, simultaneously shy and knowing.

‘Irene, Doreen and Maureen – I kid you not,’ Nancy was saying, while the girls giggled and batted their eyelashes. ‘If you can’t remember which is which, just call them all Renee. Now, let me get this right, girls . . .’ Nancy pointed a cheeky finger at each of the Americans in turn, like a schoolteacher. ‘Frank, Mitch, Ron and Jimmy. Oh, and this is Stella – the friend I told you about.’

It was added as an afterthought and, unsurprisingly given the circumstances, none of the three girls gave Stella more than a fleeting glance. Electric looks were flying across the table as conversations were struck up and invitations to dance extended. Stella took another mouthful of her drink. The sensation of disappearing returned as the table emptied. Only one of the GIs remained: Ron, the stocky, fair-haired one. Stella watched him light a cigarette and felt sorry for him being stuck with her. As the band started up a new tune he offered her the packet.

‘Oh man, I love this song! Shall we?’

He was already on his feet, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he held out his hand.

Finishing the last of her drink, Stella gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, I’m very out of practice . . . But really, you go.’

‘Hey, anyone can dance to
Chattanooga Choo Choo
, and if you don’t believe me you gotta let me prove it! C’mon – as a Tennessee boy born and bred it would be a capital offence not to dance to this one.’

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t impossible to refuse but it would certainly have been awkward. He reminded Stella of the coalman’s dog, a squat muscular thing who had a habit of rushing around in circles, teeth bared in a grin. Without waiting for her to answer he had pulled her to her feet and dragged her out into the middle of the dance floor. Stella was jostled from all sides by couples swinging around, dancing with a vigour that was so far removed from the polite waltzes and two-steps she’d done with Charles at the odd church fund-raising evening that it was scarcely recognizable as the same activity. For a moment she stood motionless and at a loss, but then Ron had seized her by the waist and was pulling her towards him, taking her hand, and her feet were moving of their own accord, her hips too, as if she’d known how to do this all along. He was a good dancer, his stocky frame surprisingly agile, his hands swift and assured as he twirled and guided her.

‘See? Like I told you – it’s easy!’

She laughed. The air was scented with sweat and aftershave and pressed down on them like a damp blanket. Her dress billowed out as Ron spun her round. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nancy, dancing with someone different. They were so good that the dancers around them had cleared a little space for them and were watching as her partner lifted her up by the waist and she swung her legs to either side of him. The band began playing a faster-paced tune that Stella didn’t recognize and the gap between couples seemed to shrink as more dancers crowded onto the floor. She had to duck out of the way to avoid being socked in the eye by an enthusiastically flung-out hand. Ron shoved the offending couple out of the way.

‘Whaddya say we sit this one out?’ he yelled above the music.

Stella nodded and followed him back to the table. Two of the Renees were there, perched on the knees of their Americans like ventriloquist’s dummies. As Stella sank gratefully into her seat Frank appeared balancing aloft a tray of drinks. He set it down with a flourish so that beer slopped from the glasses onto Stella’s dress. Ron leapt to mop at it with his handkerchief.

‘Watch it, Frank, you klutz.’

‘Sorry.’ Frank handed her a glass with an apologetic grin.

‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for the drink – I didn’t realize dancing was such thirsty work.’

Ron winked and chimed his glass against hers. ‘Well drink up, sugar, and let’s get back out there and do it some more.’

After that the evening became a bit of a blur. Stella danced – not just with Ron, but with Frank and Eugene and at least two other GIs whose names she didn’t catch above the screech of trumpets from the stage. Whenever she found herself back at the table a drink was pushed in her direction, but no matter how much she drank she only seemed to get thirstier. It was part of the strangeness of the evening, she decided hazily. The magic. For the first time in months the chill had left her bones and she felt warm through and through, right to the very core. And not in danger of disappearing any more. Swaying lazily against her as the band played
Moonlight Serenade
Ron had told her how beautiful she was, and while she knew that she ought to feel guilty and wicked, she didn’t. She felt somehow vindicated, and relieved. And happy.

Escaping to the ladies’ cloakroom she pushed her way through the crowd at the row of basins to run cold water over her wrists in an attempt to cool down. Shaking the water from her fingers she peered at her watch, but its tiny face refused to come into focus. In the mirror above the sink she saw that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering, and the make-up Nancy had applied had formed dark smudges beneath them. She was hastily wiping them away when a familiar face appeared beside hers in the mirror.

‘Look at you – the belle of the ball!’ Nancy smirked as she uncapped her lipstick. ‘I won’t say I told you so, but . . .’

‘I know, I admit it,’ Stella sighed. ‘I should have done this months ago. I’m having such a good time, I don’t want tonight to end.’

‘Well, no need to worry about that just yet; the night, as they say, is still young . . .’ Nancy pressed her freshly crimsoned lips together and twisted the lipstick back into its case. ‘Matter of fact, we was thinking about leaving here and going on somewhere else.’

‘Somewhere else?’ Dreamily Stella slid her hands into her hair and attempted to smooth it back into its earlier sophisticated submission. Beautiful, he’d called her . . . Just like Gene Tierney. Stella knew she was a Hollywood actress, but couldn’t quite picture her face. He’d made it sound like a compliment though, and he wasn’t bad looking. Not tall and gentlemanly like Charles . . . but then maybe that was a good thing.

‘Yes, somewhere quieter. It’s getting very crowded here,’ Nancy said pointedly, throwing a dirty look at a girl who was jostling for a space at the mirror. ‘The Yanks want to walk down to the Savoy and take us for a drink in the American bar.’

She said this last bit loudly as she pushed through the crush. Stella hurried after, biting her lip to stop herself from laughing at the envious stares that followed them all the way to the door.

Outside the cold took her breath away. She stumbled, but Ron was beside her and slid an arm around her waist. His body felt completely solid and slightly damp as his sweat cooled in the night air. A bit like a sandbag, she thought hazily. They walked down The Strand. The pavements were almost as crowded as on a weekday afternoon, in spite of the fact that it was dark, which added to the surreal feeling of the evening. Up ahead Nancy was twined around Eugene – or was it Johnny? Stella couldn’t remember – and one of the Renees, the plump one with the loud laugh – had kicked off her shoes and was being given a piggyback ride by Mitch. Her pencilled-on stocking seams were smeared across the backs of her legs. Unsurprisingly they were all turned away from the Savoy by a supercilious uniformed doorman, and spilled out onto The Strand again. The Americans were belligerent and vociferous.

‘Jeez, we’re risking our necks for you guys – he coulda let us in for one goddamn drink!’ ‘Yeah – in the American bar, what with us being Americans and all.’

Stella leaned against the wall of Ron’s body. She felt suddenly very tired, and her feet hurt from dancing. She was almost tempted to sit down on the pavement and take her shoes off like Irene, or Doreen, or – what was the other one called? She wasn’t sure she’d like a piggyback though, especially not the way that Mitch was swinging Irene or Doreen or whoever around, which was making Stella feel queasy even to watch. They were walking without purpose, the evening’s magic souring.

‘Hey – look at this! It’s a church!’

It was Frank’s voice. He was no longer walking ahead of them, Stella saw, but had disappeared inside a bombed-out building to their left.

‘Careful – it might not be safe!’ one of the girls called, but the other GIs were already following him through the gaping doorway, stumbling over loose bricks and picking their way past piles of rubble.

‘
Was
a church – Jeez, not much left of it now.’

‘Good job by some Nazi bombardier. Ripped the whole of the inside out.’

‘Musta been in the Blitz I guess – ’40, ’41?’

Ron moved away, as if following some herd instinct. Left alone Stella looked around for somewhere to sit and sank down on a slab of fallen masonry at the top of some shallow steps. It was peaceful in here, enclosed by thick walls, cut off from the rest of the city. She tipped her head back to take a deep breath, hoping it would clear the nauseous feeling that had been insidiously creeping up on her since they left the dance hall. High above the jagged, ruined walls, the moon floated on her back, beyond the reach of the searchlight beams that raked the darkness.

‘I don’t like it in ’ere,’ whined the disembodied voice of one of the salon girls. ‘It’s spooky, and dark.’

‘Hey, there’s nothing wrong with dark,’ came the husky reply. ‘In fact, dark has a lot going for it . . .’

There was a shriek, which was immediately followed by a giggle, trailing off into a muffled moan. In the thin moonlight Stella could just make out two figures locked together against the wall. She looked away quickly, but once her eyes adjusted she became aware of another couple, the girl propped against the ledge of a glassless window, her legs wrapped around the man’s khaki back. From the pale gleam of her hair Stella could tell that it was Nancy. Stella stood up, a peculiar feeling churning in the pit of her stomach. She jumped and gave a little cry of alarm as an arm closed around her waist from behind.

‘Cold?’

Ron’s breath smelled of beer and cigarettes more than chewing gum now. It was warm against her neck.

‘A bit.’

‘Here, let me take care of that.’

He pulled her into his body, rubbing his hands up and down her back. Heat radiated from his touch and she was glad of it. It seemed to spread from her back down into the cradle of her pelvis. She closed her eyes and submitted to it. She was so tired. Behind her eyelids the world was spinning, so that she suddenly remembered a carousel she’d been on once at the fair on the front at Southend. It had been a school outing, and Miss Birch had bought them candyfloss and allowed them two rides each. Nancy had dragged her onto the swinging chairs first, and then she had chosen the carousel with its painted horses and gleaming barley-sugar twisted poles. She remembered gripping tightly, holding on for dear life as the fairground spun and the faces of the people watching blurred and the music of the organ swelled inside her head. She’d wanted it to stop, to get off, but she was terrified that if she opened her mouth to speak she’d be sick.

Ron’s mouth found hers in the dark. His kiss was hard and determined, so different from Charles’s.
Charles
. The thought of him jolted her back from the dark vortex in which she’d been spinning. She tried to pull away but Ron’s hand was clamped on the back of her head, his tongue jabbing against hers. She couldn’t breathe. More desperately now she fought against his kiss, trying to twist her head away and wrench herself out of his grasp, trying to cry out to him to stop. Nausea rose in her throat, like on the carousel; she could see the smudged faces again, spinning around on the inside of her skull. Gathering all her strength she placed her hands against Ron’s chest and pushed him away.