by Judy Nunn
Henrietta peered, along with the others. In her Red Cross volunteer’s uniform, lined up with WRENS and WAAFS and ATS, there were fifteen of them in all, she stood on the stage and searched the servicemen’s faces as they jostled each other and waved and laughed. Who amongst the sea of men in army, air force and navy uniforms had bid a whole week’s wages just for a dance? And with her!
One by one, the girls had been called to the stage and introduced, each receiving a generous round of applause. Then they’d lined up in front of the dance band, beneath the huge portrait of King George which hung from the proscenium arch, and the bidding had begun for each girl. One by one, numbering from the left and starting at five shillings a pop. Girl number five, a pretty blonde WREN, was so popular that her final bid had come in at two pounds five shillings.
Fourteenth in line, Henrietta had waited, cursing her stupidity in volunteering. ‘Go on, Henrietta,’ her workmates had urged, ‘it’s all in good fun and it’s for a good cause.’ It had seemed harmless enough at the time. Until the volunteers had been called up on stage. To Henrietta’s horror every one of the servicewomen looked as though she’d stepped out of a beauty pageant, or off the pages of Vogue. Willowy and elegant, or petite and pretty, their hair perfectly coiffured, their makeup immaculate, Henrietta felt large and clumsy and untidy in their company. She’d dreaded the arrival of her turn. What if nobody bid? Well, some poor sod would probably feel sorry for her and offer five bob, but how humiliating!
‘I bid five pounds for Miss Henrietta Southern!’ The voice with the lazy drawl repeated itself strongly from amongst the balloons and streamers which festooned the walls at the back of the hall. There was a huge round of applause.
‘Thank you, sir, most generous,’ Alfie, the cockney MC announced through his microphone. ‘If you’d just make yourself known to one of our two stewards, we’ll move right along.’ No point in trying to push up the price, nobody was going to go higher than that. Funny choice though, Alfie thought, the big girl with the unruly copper-coloured hair. Good looking enough, he supposed, but he would have gone for the little blonde WREN himself. And the bidding moved onto the next and final girl.
This was the highlight of the NAAFI Ball, the moment everyone had been waiting for, the buy-a-belle dance to raise contributions for the Orphans Welfare Scheme.
As the girls stepped from the stage, the dance band struck up a rendition of ‘Amapola’.
‘Flight Lieutenant Terence Galloway,’ he stepped out of the crowd and introduced himself.
‘Henrietta Southern, how do you do,’ she said and they shook hands. She was taken aback. He was tall and well built, sun-tanned and sandy-haired, with arresting hazel-green eyes. In fact he was so handsome that Henrietta was shocked. She’d expected her benefactor to be a middle-aged philanthropist—who else would have five quid to spend on a dance?
‘You’re Australian,’ she said, noting the RAAF uniform. She’d thought he was a Yank from the twang of his accent.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Shall we?’
He offered his arm, she took it, and he led her through the jostling throng and onto the dance floor.
From the moment he’d seen her up on the stage, Terence had known he must meet her. Her chestnut curls bouncing disobediently whenever she moved, her skin, free of makeup save for a touch of lipstick, glowing with vitality, she had put the other women to shame, he thought. Their prettiness was manufactured, synthetic beside the natural beauty of Henrietta Southern. Just in case other potential bidders had been thinking the same thing, Terence had cut to the chase and bid five pounds. He’d recently received a money order from his father so he could afford it.
She wasn’t a nurse, hers was the uniform of a volunteer worker. ‘What do you do?’ he asked. ‘For the Red Cross, I mean.’
‘I drive,’ she replied. ‘Courier cars, supply trucks, you name it.’
He smiled as he nodded. She looked like she could handle a truck. Practical. Capable.
There was a wry twist to his eyebrows, she noted, and his mouth was a little lopsided when he smiled, none of which detracted from his looks, if anything they made him even more attractive.
‘Where are you based?’ she asked by way of conversation. He was a good dancer too.
‘At the moment, Biggin Hill,’ he said a touch evasively. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Chelsea. With my grandmother,’ she added, although she didn’t know why. Perhaps it was because he was so direct. She wanted him to know that she wasn’t one of ‘those’ girls, just in case he was wondering.
It charmed him even more. She could dance too. ‘Chelsea, that’s not far from here, is it,’ he said.
‘About a half a mile.’
‘Perhaps I could walk you home after the ball,’ he said, and then quickly added, ‘Taxis’ll be hard to come by with this crowd.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Amapola’ had finished and the band now began to play the introduction to ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ as the MC stepped onto the stage and took the microphone from its stand.
‘Would you like a glass of punch?’ Terence asked. He wanted to get her away from the dance floor before another prospective admirer cut in. ‘Or a cup of tea?’ he suggested at her slight hesitation. Lined along one wall of the hall was a row of trestle tables with tea urns and huge bowls of punch. The table at the end, with crates of beer, was surrounded by men; he’d steer clear of that one.
‘Yes. Punch. Thank you.’ It was a warm June night and the air in the crowded hall was close. Too hot to drink tea.
‘Our special guest for tonight,’ the MC was announcing. ‘A young lady who has sung her way into all our hearts. Take the arm of the girl of your dreams, gentlemen,’ Alfie was milking it for all he was worth, ‘and dance the night away with our most loved songstress! Our mistress of melody! Our very own … Miss Vera Lynn!’
The music swelled and there was a huge ovation as the singer appeared. The band repeated its introduction to ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, Vera Lynn took the microphone from Alfie and, to hushed silence, she started to sing.
‘There’ll be blue birds over …’
‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she,’ Henrietta remarked, accepting the glass of punch Terence handed her. But she blinked rapidly, feeling the hot familiar sting in her eyes. She wanted to get away from ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’, it had been one of their favourites and even now, nearly two years later, such reminders could reduce her to tears. A fact which Henrietta found embarrassing in public.
People were drifting back to the dance floor. Keeping a sharp lookout, Terence had noted two men making a beeline for Henrietta. ‘Would you like to duck outside for a bit of fresh air?’ he said. ‘I could do with a smoke and it’s stuffy in here.’
She smiled gratefully. How tactful of him, she thought, how sympathetic. And, just as the men arrived, one on either side of Henrietta, Terence took her hand and elbowed his way towards the main doors.
Once outside, he led the way down the several steps to sit on the low stone wall out the front of the hall.
‘Thank you,’ she said, fumbling for the handkerchief in the pocket of her uniform.
‘What for?’ He proffered his packet of Craven A but she shook her head.
‘I was a bit upset,’ she said, briskly blowing her nose. ‘Terribly embarrassing, I’m sorry. Thanks for getting me out of there.’
‘I was getting you away from two blokes who were going to ask you to dance.’
Henrietta burst out laughing, it was the best remedy he could have offered to break through her brief maudlin bout.
He liked her laugh. It was open and honest, and he liked the genuine humour which shone from her clear blue eyes. ‘Why were you upset?’
‘Oh,’ she shrugged, tucking her hankie back in her pocket, ‘just the song. Reminding me of things. You know how it is.’ It was time to change the subject.
‘What things? A boyfriend, I suppose.’ He struck a match. ‘A great love?’
he asked as he lit his cigarette. If there was any cynicism intended she couldn’t read it from his tone, but the question was impertinent, she thought.
‘No,’ she said, just a trifle brusquely.
But he didn’t get the message. ‘What then? What did the song remind you of?’
The intensity of his interest unnerved her a little. ‘You’re very persistent,’ she said.
‘I’m a fighter pilot, I have to be.’ His non sequitur puzzled her. ‘Our life-expectancy isn’t rated very high,’ he explained, ‘and I’ve learned to get to the point. I can’t afford the luxury of taking months to get to know you, Henrietta—you don’t mind if I call you Henrietta?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘I want to get to know you now. I want to know everything about you.’
Henrietta had been sexually propositioned along similar lines on a number of occasions. ‘I’m going into battle, I may never come back …’ But even as she’d felt for the young men, she’d never once been tempted to succumb. This was different, she thought. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why do you want to know everything about me?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he said honestly enough, but even as he said it he had a feeling he did know why. He had a feeling that this was the woman he wanted to marry. He couldn’t tell her that. It was madness. ‘But please let me know you, Henrietta.’
She looked away for a moment at the several other couples who had escaped the hall and were whispering quietly or embracing, heedless of those about them. ‘The song reminded me of my parents,’ she said, ‘they were killed in the first heavy bombing.’ September 10, 1940, she could have said but she didn’t. ‘Nearly two years ago now.’
She was glad of his reaction. He didn’t say he was sorry he’d asked, he silently accepted the information and waited for her either to call a halt to the conversation or to continue. For some strange reason she continued.
‘We lived in Battersea,’ she said. ‘The whole block was destroyed, razed to the ground. It was around midnight, and I would have been killed along with them if I hadn’t been safely out of London for the night.’
Henrietta was surprised to hear herself say it without bitterness. There would have been a sarcastic edge to such a comment once. For a full twelve months she had felt shockingly guilty that she hadn’t died with her parents. As if, by escaping their fate, she had deserted them. In fact, talking now to Terence Galloway, Henrietta was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t feel at all emotional. It was quite liberating to simply state the facts to a person who was neither embarrassed nor dripping with concern for the tragedy of her life.
‘I wasn’t driving trucks then,’ she said. ‘I only did the occasional job for the war effort so that I wouldn’t feel guilty about not helping. When the raid happened I was in Amersham with twenty children who’d just been evacuated. I was supposed to come back the same day but I missed the afternoon train to London and had to stay the night.’
‘That was lucky.’
‘Yes,’ she said. He was right of course. For a long time she’d blamed herself for missing that train. ‘Yes, it was very lucky.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and rose. ‘Do you want to go back inside?’
Vera Lynn was singing ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ when they returned. Then the band played a bracket of upbeat American swing numbers, and Henrietta was whisked off her feet by a succession of enthusiastic Yanks. But Terence was waiting when, giddy with exhaustion, she finally refused all offers. ‘I’m sorry,’ she panted to a disappointed GI, ‘I need to get my breath back, I really do.’
‘Punch?’ Terence was holding a glass out to her.
‘Thank you.’
The last dance she reserved for him. At least he made sure that she did. He was by her side in an instant.
Vera Lynn was back on the stage.
‘Goodnight sweetheart, ’til we meet tomorrow, goodnight sweetheart, tears will banish sorrow …’
They swayed to the music, to the melody and the woman’s glorious voice. There was no need to talk any more.
He’d told her about his father’s cattle station as they’d sat drinking punch.
‘I thought they were called ranches,’ she’d said.
‘That’s in America.’
And when she’d asked if all Australians were such good dancers he’d said ‘No, probably not, but my sister Charlotte is and she taught me. She doesn’t dance any more, though; they call her Charlie now and she musters cattle.’ She hadn’t really understood the comment but he’d grinned as he’d added ‘and she’s bloody good with a rifle’, and she’d thought how fascinating his family must be.
He’d asked her about her family too; she didn’t sound as though she came from Battersea. Her mother was Irish, she’d said. She’d lived quite a lot of her early life in Ireland.
‘Ah, that explains it,’ he’d said. He loved the slight lilt to her voice.
‘Dreams enfold you, in my arms I’ll hold you …’
There was nothing more to say as they swayed to the music. There was no need for words.
‘Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight.’
Terence Galloway and Henrietta Southern were in love. He walked her home to her grandmother’s flat in nearby Chelsea and shook her hand as he said goodnight, although she wouldn’t have minded at all if he’d kissed her. He was going away for a while, he told her, but when he returned may he call on her? Of course she said yes.
She thought, regretfully, that she’d never see him again. But two weeks later he was back. He took her out to lunch on the Saturday. To a little café in Soho an RAF mate had told him about that sold good food, and they talked. Or rather he did while she listened. He didn’t talk of the war or the missions he’d flown, but of his home in Australia. The Northern Territory, he called it. She’d never heard of the Northern Territory. And the cattle station. ‘Bullalalla’. She thought it was a beautiful name.
‘You can travel a dozen countries at Bullalalla,’ he told her. ‘You can gallop your horse across the the Pindan country where, at dusk, the spinifex glows red like fire. And you can look down into gorges hundreds of feet deep, and you can climb rocks the size of castles.’ Her rapt attention drove Terence on. ‘In the wet season, when the rivers flood, all you can see for miles is green, and then the dry comes and whole riverbeds and lakes disappear.’
She looked as if she didn’t believe him. ‘They do,’ he insisted. ‘They just dry up. They burn to a crust, and you can drive a thousand head of cattle across something that was once an inland sea or a raging torrent of water.’
Never in his life had Terence waxed so poetic. But then never in his life had he needed to. Where had such passion come from? He really didn’t know. But one thing he was sure of, he wanted this woman for his wife, and he needed to paint a picture she would wish to see.
On the Sunday afternoon they walked along the Chelsea Embankment. Holding hands. As if they’d known each other for a very long time. She looked at other couples holding hands. A soldier and a girl were embracing, clinging tightly to each other.
‘I’d like to meet your grandmother,’ he said, surprising her.
‘Flight Lieutenant Terence Galloway,’ he said. ‘How do you do, Mrs Southern.’
A very formal introduction, the old lady thought. There’d be a reason for that. Currying favour of course, but to what end? Any young Lothario out to bed the girl didn’t need to seek the approval of an old woman. Henrietta was twenty-two years old, she’d make up her own mind.
‘How do you do,’ she said, shaking his hand. She was in her favourite armchair by the window, overlooking the small park, her crocheted rug tucked about her knees. It was where she spent most of her time.
Henrietta had led Terence through the front door and up the stairs. ‘Grandma doesn’t get around much these days,’ she’d explained.
He was a handsome devil all right, Winifred Southern thought, Henrietta had said that he was. ‘Will you get the tea, Henrietta?’
‘Of course.
’
As her grand daughter left the room, the old lady said, ‘I’m sorry we have nothing stronger, Lieutenant, I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Tea’s fine, thanks.’ She was tough, he thought, but he respected her for it. She didn’t look at all like Henrietta. Small, and frail in body—well, she must be about eighty—she had white hair which would once have been black judging from the beady brown eyes which were studying him intently. Henrietta must have got her looks from her Irish mother.
‘How long are you stationed here?’
‘Not for much longer,’ he said. ‘I’ve applied for a transfer to Darwin. The Yanks have set up bases there and the Dutch are sending forces from Batavia.’
‘Darwin?’ she queried politely. ‘Where’s that?’
‘The Northern Territory.’ She looked a little blank. ‘The north of Australia,’ he said, ‘we call it the Top End.’
‘Ah.’
‘Darwin was heavily bombed six months or so ago. In February.’
‘Who by?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He was confused by her question.
‘Who bombed Darwin?’ Winifred Southern asked. Why in God’s name would the Germans want to bomb northern Australia, she was wondering. What on earth could they gain by it?
For a brief moment he wondered at the stupidity of her question. Then he realised that civilians experiencing the horrors of the European war probably wouldn’t even know that the battle had spread to the Pacific. And they probably wouldn’t care if they did. Why should they? Their lives were being torn apart right here at home.
‘The Japanese,’ he said, and added, not impertinently but with the vestige of a smile. ‘The Japs are in the war too, you know.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’ She made no apology. ‘Here’s the tea. Do sit down, Lieutenant.’
She was calling him Terence, by his request, when he left nearly two hours later, but for all the charm he’d laid on he wasn’t sure if she liked him. She was certainly adding him up, trying to read his intent, which was what he’d expected. After all, Henrietta was the only family the old woman had.