***
The night wore on, and people danced and drank and found their common ground. The Americans were either very generous or possessed great cunning; they had come armed with promises of the plentiful gifts from their supplies back at Gaskell—chocolate, sweets, gum, cigarettes and, of course stockings, which was almost as powerful an allure as them hailing from the land of movie stars. Even the most independent WAAFs were swooning at the fine young men, most of whom were also highly accomplished dancers.
“I think it’s their more relaxed posture,” Jean observed from the settee where she and Arty had crashed, having danced for a solid hour. They had gladly given over their prime spot to the jitterbug, particularly as it meant Arty could watch Jim without rousing suspicion that it was driven by anything other than artistic interest. Jim was not a small man, easily as tall as Arty and much broader, but it didn’t hinder him in the slightest. The woman he was dancing with was an AC2, little more than a girl, really. When Jim slid her along the floor between his legs, turned and grabbed her around the waist, she positively flew into the air, the thrill of the dance pinking her cheeks and painting an enormous, enchanted smile upon her face.
“Daphne has got the hots for your friend,” Jean said with a laugh. The girl was certainly enamoured with the handsome American, and he was charming her most convincingly.
“Are you sure?” Arty asked Jean again. “He seems to delight in dancing with every girl who asks.”
“Just like you, eh?” Jean grasped Arty’s hand and gave it a tight squeeze.
“Yes.” She was right; just like his own enthusiasm, Jim’s was all about the love of dancing, but still Arty felt anxious. “Are you all right here? I need some air.”
Jean nodded and smiled in reassurance. “Yes. I’m fine.”
Arty stood and, after being intercepted by well-wishers several times, made it across the mess hall to the outside. The evening was cool, but the weather of late had been mild, and the breeze was refreshing, seeming to clear his muddled thoughts. In the heady exhilaration of their dance, the notion of approaching Jim hadn’t troubled him at all. Now, without Jean to goad him on, he was becoming more and more certain that saying nothing would be the wisest thing to do. Arty leaned back against the wall and stared up into the dark, overcast sky. Had there been stars he could have whiled away the moments counting them. Instead, his traitorous mind filled with wonder, of what it would be like to comb his fingers through Jim’s thick, blonde hair, to feel the sturdiness of those shoulders against his palms, press lips to lips… It was a sin to think of touching a woman in such lustful ways, but a man?
“Beautiful night.”
That same deep baritone he had just imagined whispering tendernesses tore him from his thoughts. “Yes. No stars though.”
“No,” Jim agreed. “Other than you and I.”
Arty turned his head to his companion. Jim’s smile shone through the darkness.
“You’re quite the celebrity, Arty Clarke.”
Arty chuckled bashfully. “I suppose so. As are you. You dance very well.”
“Thank you. I sure seem to be a winner with your gals.”
“Yes, I noticed that.”
“You sound like you’re…” Jim paused, as if to consider his choice of words.
“Envious?” Arty suggested.
Jim laughed quietly, and Arty detected an underlying tremor. “Yeah. That’s a good word for it.”
The air next to where Arty’s left palm pressed to the wall became slightly warmer. He spread his fingers to investigate, making contact with skin. He decided bravely to leave his hand where it was and see what happened.
Jim continued, “So, would I be right in thinking your envy is not of my jitterbug?”
“That would be correct, Sergeant.”
“All right.”
A finger bridged Arty’s little finger. His heart was pounding so hard he was certain Jim could hear it.
“You know what’d be really great?” Jim said. “If there were somewhere on the base that two guys could talk without fear of being overheard.”
His words prompted Arty to lean forward. He could see no one else. Jim breathed out heavily and grasped Arty’s hand.
“Arty, I…”
“Yes, I know.” Arty was having the same fight to keep his breathing steady. “I think there are a couple of places, I’d need to conduct a reccy, but not tonight.”
“That’s fine. Just… Don’t take too long, will ya?”
Now it was Arty’s turn to laugh with nervous excitement. “No. I can promise you that.”
* * * * *
When Skies Have Fallen Page 6