Dancing at the Victory Cafe

by Leah Fleming

  The Dainty Dots are professionals, wooing their audience with cheerful noisy exuberance. The grand finale is the French can-can, which the older girls perform with a panache, shocking Dorrie rigid. To see Wyn doing such things in a frilly skirt and knickers; all those fleshy thighs on display! Not a blinker of embarrassment from any of them as they lift skirts and wiggle bottoms in the air. Thank goodness her mother is not here to chaperone her! The hangar is now in an uproar of hoots, stamping, cheers and thunderous applause. The ‘Custard Tarts’ are on form. The rest will be a bit of an anti-climax. Some members of the Operatic Society sing songs from their recent operatic production and the audience fidgets. All too soon comes her own turn to mount the steps onto the vast stage. The lights dim and she stands alone in the spotlight.

  ‘It’s Christmas. I know you are far from home, so I would like to sing for you all tonight, some of our ancient English Carols,’ she whispers into the darkness. ‘Away in a Manger,’ she sings so deeply and huskily that there is a stilled silence. ‘Lullay lullay, thou little tiny child.’ She croons the second hymn and then, taking courage from the response, she smiles and begins, ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.’ She beckons them to join in with her. The applause echoes round. Her turn is over.

  The Yanks, however, have other ideas. On to the stage jump men carrying a drum kit, saxophones, guitars, placing themselves behind Dorrie. A microphone is plonked in front of her and adjusted to her height.

  ‘Do you know “Bye Bye Blackbird”?’ yells the trumpeter.

  ‘Yes,’ Dorrie whispers.

  ‘Well then, little lady . . . let’s do it! Sing some swing toons.’

  The band strikes up. The drummer syncopates the beat. She sways her hips with the rhythm and sings her heart out, while the audience joins in. The deep throaty notes just pour out. All the pent-up restrictions are expelled with her first breath. Unrehearsed, pure instinctive musical flair enables her to take the cue from their nods and swing with the beat. ‘I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places!’ ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘Paper Doll’. She belts them all out. In the darkness, Dorrie Goodman discovers the power of her voice, the power of her musical presence on stage, the dizzy pleasure of the footlights, the warmth of a receptive audience, this heady brew of intoxicating swing music. Performing is now so satisfying, she is reluctant to leave.

  ‘You sure have one talented lady here.’ A tall musician steps from the darkness in a tight zoot suit with gold braid and fancy trousers. Instantly she recognises Lucky Gordon. ‘Let me introduce again “Little Miss Lichfield” singing with the Five Aces . . . Guys and Gals, Ladies and Gentlemen, give the little lady another hand!’

  ‘More . . . more!’ yell the girls in the wings.

  ‘I never knew you could sing like that, our Dorrie, talk about hiding your light under a bushel,’ smiles Wyn. ‘Wait till I tell them all at the Vic . . . They’ll never believe it.’

  ‘No, no . . . don’t please . . . I’m not supposed to sing like this.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ says the Bindy woman.

  ‘It’s just that Father says . . .’

  ‘My dear, in dark times like this, we need every songbird we can to cheer us up. What’s the harm in entertaining people? I must enter you in the Talent Competition. You ought to win outright! Your voice is so deep and so clear.’

  Dorrie basks in the sunlight of their praise, hardly believing her daring on that stage. The benches are pushed back to clear a space in the centre of the hall, while the Five Aces continue to play on the stage. The concert troupe is ushered to the back of the hall, where a surprise supper has been laid out in the darkness, on long trestles. The tables groan with food unseen by the adults and children of the concert party for years. Bowls of salads and cut meats, beef, real ham, chicken, with baskets of soft white bread rolls, butter pats, cookies, chocolate fudge cake, brownies, candy bars, soda pop and a spicy dark drink, called ‘Coca Cola’ . . . ice cream cake, layers of light sponge, filled with proper ice cream and cream. The girls in costumes ravage the plates like starving beggars at a feast. Speechless mouths are stuffed with food, as they stagger with plates piled high as mountains, stomachs full to bursting, while that band performs jazz and swingtime routines.

  Feet begin to tap to the rhythm and the girls shyly choose partners, to jive and jitterbug in the middle of the floor. The young mothers let themselves sway to the beat and the floor fills fast. Every woman, much in demand, dancing from partner to partner to partner. A gramophone is placed by a loudspeaker and the music comes faster and wilder. Dorrie hangs back, her feet tapping to the magic of the music, but its power is too hypnotic, she too drifts further out in a trance. How she wants to dance. It feels so good, so natural . . . the face opposite her sways to the same beat, the smiling man beckons her, they move in a unison of motion. The rhythm seeps into her limbs, and they loosen in response, her scarf falls away, her skirt swirls and she loses herself in the jive . . . a hand smooth and firm catches her gently like a bird in the palm.

  ‘You’re good, little lady . . . real good.’ It is Lucky Gordon. Her heart lurches for a second. ‘Hi again, you were sensational on stage, what a voice. Can we hire you to sing with us?’

  They dance on and as their eyes lock, a strange sensation pulsates through her limbs . . . their movements flow, each anticipating the other in a pattern of daring gyrations, welding together, each echoing, responding to the other. Oblivious of the rest on the dance floor who clap their approval. She has never danced in her life as she dances tonight. Lucky, a natural rhythmic dancer, guides her gradually and expertly to the edge of the floor.

  ‘Thanks, Lucky . . . that was lovely! What a band.’

  ‘You remembered my name?’ he quizzes. ‘What’s yours again?’

  ‘Dorcas . . . but I only answer to Dorrie. You enjoyed our show, then?’

  ‘Sure did . . . a bit of sunshine in this dreary place. Sorry, ma’am . . . no offence, but England’s a real cold place and I can’t get used to all the rain and damp!’

  ‘I thought you G.I.s had central heating?’ says Dorrie.

  ‘Sure thing but only the white boys gets barrack’s warmth. We shovel boys gets tents and cold huts.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Oh a Jim Crow army ain’t that bad. You gets used to it!’

  ‘Jim Crow?’

  ‘We’s segregated. Don’t mix . . . separate leave . . . different nights, different zones. Tuesday blacks, Wednesday whites. Jim Crow is what it’s called.’

  ‘I don’t understand. That’s not fair!’

  ‘You saw what happened in your café.’

  ‘It’s not my café. I’m only working there ’til I get called up.’

  ‘Well, what you saw ain’t nothin’ to what goes on! See Chad Dixon over there, a swell guy. Back home he’s principal of a college, a varsity man. Well, honey, he’s a welfare assistant now . . . Private First Class . . . education or nuttin’. We is all shovel boys, digging runways, loadin’ trucks, driving supplies, store house boys . . . dig ditches like the chain gang! Not exactly what we’s joined up for but there ain’t no coloured combat troops. No sirree. We ain’t fit enough to fight but do mule’s work.’

  Dorrie’s eyes lower.

  ‘Hey . . . none of this. It ain’t your doin’, little lady. We came here to help you folks out of a spot . . . and I am mighty glad I’m standing right here at this very moment. You sure are a pretty sight for my eyes. I’ve never seen hair that colour, just like maple syrup in the lights; so beautiful.’

  ‘What did you do before the war?’ Dorrie smiles with interest.

  ‘Nuttin’ much . . . truck boy in Detroit, driving by day and jazz all night. I reckoned on gettin’ an education when I’s drafted. I reckon wrong. I got enough marks for training but somehow they ain’t too keen to train up the black boy. We just here for the muscle but I’m learnin’ fast!’

  ‘So why do they call you Lucky?’

  ‘I picked that u
p on the boat coming over. We zig zag across the Atlantic in one hell hole of a ship. For two weeks holed up in the bottom. I tell you, I dropped twenty pounds in that tub. Did we get sick! Some guys stayed on deck, watching the sea for “U” boats, too scared to go below. Weren’t much to do but play cards or pray. You can get mighty holy when there’s “U” boats prowling. So I play cards and keep winning. They call me Lucky ever since, Lucky Strike on the drums. And I’m sure glad I’m drumming tonight.’

  Dorrie wavers, conscious that others were mixing among all the soldiers, reluctant to break the spell between them. ‘I’ll have to go, Lucky.’

  ‘Wait, can I see you again? Will you sing with us?’

  ‘I’m not sure . . . I don’t think I’ll be allowed.’

  ‘Can I see you at the café?’

  Dorrie nods, pulled by the bustle of the crowd back towards Wyn and the other visitors. His hand briefly brushes against her palm. They smile at each other shyly as she walks slowly towards the door.

  ‘Bye, Lucky.’

  ‘Bye, Honey Gold.’

  ‘Come on, Dorrie Daydream . . . you’re holding up the convoy!’ Bindy Baverstock counts them out as a roll call.

  Two girls are missing from the Dainty Dots. A brief shouting, shuffling out of corners and M.P.s storming through the troops to check out the men. The girls are half dragged from behind the curtained dressing room, pockets bulging with food, sheepishly grinning, as they chew their way through the ticking off.

  ‘Just taking some home, Miss, for my mam and sisters.’

  The M.P.s stand stiffly as the women are lifted on to the trucks. The soldiers file back to their quarters. Dorrie shivers at the thought of Chad, Abe and Lucky, making the best of it, in a tent on the windy Heath. She does not think much of Jim Crow.

  It is past midnight when the trucks dump their tired cargo back in the Market Place. The Saturday night revellers stagger noisily along the streets. Constable Joby Goodman waits stern faced, as Dorrie jumps down. A siren wails in the distance.

  ‘Where do you think you’ve been ’til this time of night, Dorcas?’ he barks.

  Mrs Baverstock steps in quickly. ‘I’m sorry, there was a delay, Constable. The hospitality was so generous, we couldn’t rush off.’

  ‘Be that as it may, it is now the Sabbath, my girl.’ He peers at his daughter more closely. ‘What on God’s earth have you daubed on your face . . . I’m surprised at you. Just get down the street and get that filth washed off your face before your mother sees it.’

  Wyn and Marlene, clutching bags, follow silently behind the tall policeman in his cape. Dorrie, feeling the heat of indignation stinging her cheeks, strides ahead defiantly.

  Marlene, thinking to ease the tension, pipes up loudly. ‘She was really great, Mr Goodman . . . I loved it when you sang “White Christmas” and crooned with the swing band. They really loved her, didn’t they, our Wyn?’

  Wyn tugs at her sleeve but the damage is done.

  ‘So you disobeyed me again, Dorcas, singing worldly songs, in front of American soldiers, making an exhibition of yourself before the ungodly!’ He pushes her through the gate, while he escorts the two girls further down to their front door.

  Alice Goodman sits in candlewick dressing gown, pale, gaunt, anxious, waiting to deliver her well-rehearsed admonition. ‘Your father and I are burdened by your disobedience. We let you go out on trust and you repay us be dishonouring the Sabbath. You shame us before the unrighteous. Making a spectacle of yourself before coloured men!’

  Dorrie shakes her head vigorously. ‘Why can’t you understand? They were kind, courteous and gentlemanly to us. It’s Christmas, Mother. They must be just as homesick as Solomon, far from home, lonely and cold. What harm is there in bringing comfort?’

  ‘Don’t you talk to your mother in that tone. We know what’s best for you. We have to preserve your spiritual inheritance, your virtue, your chastity. You belong to the Lord. You are not free to behave like others who know not His salvation. I think we should pray about this right now.’ Her father moves closer. It is cold, freezing cold, kneeling on the linoleum with head bent, as his voice rises in supplication. ‘Lord, deliver this frail sister from temptation and sin. Renew the spirit of humility within her. Teach her thy way of the cross. Forgive her weakness and immaturity. Bring her through suffering to everlasting salvation. For we know, the lips of the loose woman drip honey and her speech is smoother than oil, but in the end she is as bitter as wormwood.’

  Dorrie bites her lips. The acid burns in her stomach, too much rich food rumbling her guts. The burp she cannot hold back . . . her father’s stick comes crashing on her head, stinging all sensation from her. It will be a long and painful night.

  Excitement bubbles in the Vic like a hot casserole. Mrs Morton flushes with pride as she pushes the weekly Mercury into Dorrie’s hand.

  ‘See anything there?’

  Dorrie peers through the steam blankly.

  The cook can’t wait. ‘Look – up there!’ Pointing out a thin column of print;

  ‘FROM OUR NEW CORRESPONDENT ON THE KITCHEN FRONT: BAKING BELLE. HANDY TIPS FOR CHRISTMAS TREATS’

  ‘Baking Belle! Whose idea was that?’ says the waitress.

  ‘If we can have Potato Pete and Dr Carrot, why not Baking Belle? Don’t you think it’s a good idea to put the café on the map? Here, take it to show your friend upstairs and have a mince pie to celebrate – heavy on the apple and thin on the spice, I’m afraid.’

  Dorrie gobbles it down, bursting to spill her own news, up the hall steps into Prin’s flat, sneaking a toasted teacake on a plate, under her pinnie, out of Connie’s radar eye. For all the Prin’s fierce exterior, underneath she is as soft as marshmallow. Dorrie often lingers there at breaktimes, sharing her newly acquired baking efforts, hot from the oven, and sipping Russian tea in a glass. No one else drinks in such a fashion!

  The café flat is only the upstairs of the old terrace house. The living room, cold, damp and musty, has the best view over the Market Square from its bay window; the floor is cluttered with paper patterns and material scraps. A paltry heat rises from a one bar electric heater. The tiny fireplace is full of butt ends. Above the ceiling are two attic bedrooms and a washroom. No wonder the Prin spends so much time amongst the clientele downstairs. Her blackouts are always flapping open, much to the fury of the Air Raid Warden, who threatens a fine.

  ‘All my life in zat suitcase, Dorrie, when I come Lichfield. I get on a train, away from the bombings and blitzings. I stay on train till I think it is a safe place. I come in ze café, hungry and cold, I faint on floor and ze Greville sisters, such fine jewels, say I stay here . . . but zat Connie, she nasty piece of workings, she call me spy; no believe I poor refugee. I no trust her . . . but you are darlink child. I know you reach ze stars. I hear you sing like Choir in Heaven!’

  ‘Oh, Prin . . . Can you keep a secret?’ Dorrie dances up and down as she pours all the story of the Saturday night show and especially her meeting with the handsome Lucky Gordon.

  ‘Be careful, silly girl! Men are vicked. You such a baby in zis things. I marry when I come first to ziz country. He is rotting bad lot. He vamoosh . . . poof . . . I no trust men after. All zes married women and soldiers, like Wyn’s silly mother. Zis war is turning morals upsides the down. I no understand English woman – so stiff so starch but underneath, wild as rabbit.’

  ‘Rabbits aren’t wild, they’re soft and cuddly,’ Dorrie corrects.

  ‘Zat so and they breed . . . too mucha sex is not goot for ze rations, N’est ce pas? Look Meez Morton she big woolly woman, she find a fella soon.’

  ‘Will she?’ quizzes the girl with interest.

  ‘I see in tea cups,’ is the firm reply.

  ‘But what about me? How can I see Lucky again?’

  ‘Bring him here then. We make tea for ze poor lonely boys at Christmas. We ask Meez Baverstocks, another woolly rabbit . . . they bring us rations and we have party, play cards, singa songs but you no tel
l zat fat cow, Connie. I make dress for Meez Baverstocks, I talk to her.’

  ‘Bless you, Prin.’ Dorrie plonks a kiss on the little woman’s cheek.

  ‘Why you keep callink me Prin?’

  ‘Cos you are!’ smiles the girl, counting the days to Christmas now with renewed enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s all fixed.’ Those three words are the best present of all for Dorrie. Prin honoured her promise, somehow managing to inveigle invitations to Chad, Lucky and Abe Luther for a hospitality tea on Boxing Day, with special permission from the Colonel via Bindy’s Committee. As Belle was visiting her friend in the Close, they were to use the café premises, on condition that Prin provided the fayre. For once, the moths fly out of Prin’s leather purse, as she storms the queue outside the butcher’s shop in Bore Street, ignoring Dorrie’s blushes and the protesting customers in regal fashion, her five-foot frame hovering imperiously.

  ‘Vot av yous got under the counter today?’ she demands in a loud voice. The queue shoves and pushes but she refuses to budge. One look at her determination and the poor assistant rustles up some sausage and moves her on quickly to avoid a riot. Dorrie cowers with embarrassment. If ever a nick-name is deserved, Prin earns hers this afternoon!

  Dorrie mumbles to her mother about her need to visit the sick and elderly on Boxing Day, as a Christian favour to her employer who would be away. Whether from guilt at Dorrie’s recent treatment or in the Christmas spirit of goodwill, this elicits for once a generous response: some fruit, mincepies and slices of their Christmas cake.

  The women set to work to transform the dingy room, hanging up paper chains and winter holly. Dorrie decorates the folding tables with care; there is bread and butter, cold cuts, even a few left-over crackers. The doorbell rings downstairs and her heart lurches.

  ‘Happy Christmas, you guys!’ The men doff their caps and troop upstairs. They enter the room like the Three Wise Men, bearing gifts in parcels containing a large ham joint, three bags of sugar and the biggest box of chocolates Prin has ever seen!

  ‘Darlinks, you bad boys.’