Chapter Two: February, 1944
With all of the tables and chairs stacked against the walls, the mess hall at RAF Minton provided more than adequate space for practice. The group captain had approved it; he was as enthralled as everyone else by the prospect of having nationally acclaimed dancers in their midst, and Arty and Jean’s rotas now included officially allocated time for their dancing, simply because it was good for morale.
The captain agreed that on Thursday evenings, Arty and Jean would dance at the Palais, on Saturdays at the base, travelling down to London to take part in demonstrations and competitions as and when they were called upon to do so. They were accomplished in most ballroom, but their dance was the waltz and they were quickly becoming RAF favourites.
It was on one rainy afternoon in late February, after they had perfected a couple of variations, that Jean stopped dancing, right in the middle of the barren room, looked Arty straight in the eye, and said, “Those Americans at the Palais were the advance party.”
Arty feigned ignorance. “Americans?”
“Oh come now, Arty. Surely you don’t think you can fool me?”
“F-fool you? I don’t understand.”
Jean smiled gently and took his hand. “Come and sit,” she requested, though he had little choice in the matter. She led him across the hall and hopped up onto a table, patting the space beside her. Arty reluctantly complied and sat rigidly, staring dead ahead. From the kitchen came the sounds of clanging pans and shouted orders. They wouldn’t be overheard, but still, Arty had a good idea what Jean wanted to say, and he was wishing so very hard that she wouldn’t.
“The Americans are taking over Gaskell tomorrow,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Gaskell’s WAAF have already transferred to Minton. They were moving into our quarters when I went on duty this morning. And the NAAFI have been given their orders for Saturday night. We’re to host a welcome ball.”
“Oh.” Suddenly Arty was sick with nerves, and not on account of knowing he and Jean would be the main entertainment on Saturday night.
“I felt I ought to warn you,” Jean explained.
“We’ve been practising a lot. We won’t make fools of ourselves.”
She took his hand again and held it in both of hers. “Of course we won’t, but I wasn’t talking about that. I wanted to warn you, because…well, I saw it, Arty. The way you looked at the American sergeant.”
“I… Who?”
“The big man with the impossibly blue eyes, square jaw, fast moves…”
Arty turned away, hoping it might stop Jean from saying anything further, certain his face was hot enough to set itself alight. He wasn’t good at bluffing when the stakes were negligible, never mind when his freedom might depend on it.
“Oh, Arty.” Jean laughed quietly and squeezed his hand. “It will always be our secret, I promise. I care a great deal for you. God forbid that you should go through…well, you’ve no doubt read the same things I have, and you deserve love and happiness as much as the next man.”
He considered denying everything, telling Jean she’d got it all wrong. He was merely admiring the man’s dancing, and she had read more into it than was there. If he offered Jean the lie, she would accept it, and it wouldn’t be mentioned again. Yet the longer he delayed, the greater his need became to tell her the truth. They’d known each other for only a few weeks, and they were already close friends. She trusted him, and he trusted her, but this…abhorrence of his: he had never spoken of it to anyone other than his sister, genuinely fearful for his life if he were found out.
“Arty? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice croaky and tight. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes. I am.” Mustering all of his courage, Arty turned to face her and lowered his voice to a volume barely above a whisper. “I’ve never acted upon it, Jean, I swear to you. Indeed, until now I’ve never met anyone with whom I’d want to. How would I approach him? I’d risk imprisonment, at best, if I made a mistake.”
“If you’re asking my opinion, I don’t believe there is anything wrong with you following your heart. All this nonsense of not acting upon it. Why should you not? That they would turn a man into a criminal for his love of another, well, that is criminal, Arty, and I would say as much to anyone who dared to suggest otherwise. I do understand that one must be discreet. However, I don’t believe you’ve made a mistake. He was watching you too. I saw him.”
“I don’t know…” Arty sighed and rubbed his forehead.
“I do. Arty, he liked you. I’m convinced of it.”
“What if other people noticed?” The fear made Arty’s throat tighten again and the knot in his stomach grew more painful. “If you saw it—”
“We were dancing together. Your cheek was pressed to mine.” Jean raised an eyebrow and smiled mischievously. “Your very hot cheek, whenever he was in sight.”
“And you’re certain no one else noticed?”
“Quite certain.”
“If they found out—”
“We’ll make sure they don’t,” Jean said firmly. She gave him a moment to gather his thoughts and then wrapped him in a warm, tight embrace. “You know, Arty, our dancing together might just be the perfect masquerade.”
“There’s still the small matter of what happens when you meet someone you decide you want to marry.”
“If that ever happens, then I’ll keep him a secret, just like you and Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Technical Sergeant Jimmy Johnson, United States Army Air Forces, twenty-seven years old.” She released Arty and placed a motherly kiss on his head. “Take a chance,” she whispered. “You deserve to be happy.”
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When Skies Have Fallen Page 4