Dancing at the Victory Cafe

by Leah Fleming

  ‘Are you now . . . well we’s all Luckies here. Take your pick . . . it’s your lucky night, catch ma drift,’ is the only reply.

  ‘No . . . not tonight, I got to see Chad. It’s urgent. He’s a sort of preacher man.’

  ‘Oh naughty, naughty . . . little sweetie. We don’t want no preacher’s kickin’ ass in this joint.’

  ‘Please, you’ve got to help.’

  ‘Look you is holdin’ up the show. Get out . . . shoot or we’ll make a meal of you, babe.’

  Dorrie heads out of the door and into the darkness. The camp tracks confuse her. Aware only that she is now on enemy territory, she slides under hut windows, peers through open doors, panic rising with each yard further into the Base. If only she knew where to look. Suddenly she sees a group of familiar faces, some of the regulars who frequent the Vic, and calls out, accosting them with the beam of her torch. ‘Stubby, Tex . . . shsh! It’s me, Lucky’s Dorrie, from the Vic . . . shsh! Over here. Lucky’s in trouble. I must see Chad. Please help me,’ she cries, seeing their startled expressions.

  Stubby searches blindly for the disembodied voice. ‘Dorrie, is it really you? Don’t move a muscle, stay put. Keep down. There’s a lot of traffic on this track . . . I see what I can do.’

  She needs no encouragement to crouch in the darkness, the spring night is chilly and a wind from the east whips across the bleak Common straight from Russia. Eventually, she hears footsteps scrunching on the asphalt and then a pause.

  ‘You got Lucky with you, Dorrie?’ whispers the soft drawl of Chad Dixon.

  ‘No. He won’t come. Says he’ll not get a fair hearing.’

  ‘It’s a bad business, Dorrie, if he deserts. Big trouble, honey.’

  ‘He didn’t do it.’

  ‘I knows, you knows but this Colonel is so unpredictable. It’s bad for morale.’

  ‘He was set up by McCoy,’ she says. ‘Please come and talk to him. He’s going crazy. How’s Abe?’

  ‘In the jailhouse . . . out cold, real bad. You gotta make him give himself up, child. They’ll come lookin’.’

  ‘Then we’ll go to Ireland, run away together. No one will find us there.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. They watch the ports. You two’ll stick out a mile. Go back, Dorrie. It’s far too dangerous for you here. I’ll do what I can . . . speak to the Pastor. Somptin’ nasty’s going on here and it don’t smell good.’

  ‘Lucky says he got his orders from a guy he’d never seen before.’

  ‘This place is burstin’ with new guys. That don’t mean a thing but no one knows who is who anymore.’

  Chad escorts her back towards the tents where a party is in full swing. The girls are plying their trade from tent to tent. ‘Makes me real ashamed of Uncle Sam’s army,’ Chad whispers. ‘This is what we’ll be remembered for . . . sex and the jitterbug!’

  ‘It’s only a bit of fun.’ Dorrie tries to soothe his embarrassment.

  ‘No, child, it’s business, hard cash. It don’t do either nation proud. I wish I could escort you through the front gate, ’stead of sneakin’ through the fence. I’ll be prayin’ for you both. Make him see sense. I’ll do what I can, hurry on. God be with you.’

  Someone has let her tyres down as a joke. It is a slow sad trail back to the city, eerie and cold with only the dim bicycle lamp for comfort in the gloom. Dorrie sings her repertoire of showband favourites to keep up her spirits. Lucky must see sense now. Chad will find a strong defence. The Colonel will understand the mistake. She parks the cycle by the front door. The street is silent and dark. At the end of the cobblestones stand the three spires of the Cathedral, offset against the dawning sky. Suddenly a torch flashes in her face, blinding her for a second. A hand pulls her back from the door.

  ‘I got you both now, babe,’ triumphs Sergeant Burgess McCoy. Dorrie struggles to evade his grasp but McCoy is muscle strong and she is no match for his animal cunning. He rings the bell and shouts through the letter box. ‘Come out, Nigger boy, I got yer two bit whore . . . right here. Come out and get what’s comin’ to yer. No black boy makes a fool of Burgess McCoy and lives to tell the tale. Come on . . . nice and easy, no tricks or I’ll give this little piece of white trash something to remember me by.’

  The girl kicks hard as he gropes her body. ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Stay still, missy. Why you fussin’ . . . what’s a slice off a cut loaf. I knows you is hot for it. Redheads is always hot for it.’

  Terror melts her limbs, only her scream rings out, ‘Don’t do this, Sergeant, please. Don’t do this to us. You’ve no right.’

  ‘Move once more and I’ll squeeze every breath out of your whorin’ body, little song bird, so you ain’t going to croon no more.’ She feels his thumb on her throat. ‘No coon takes a breath without my permission. I gets first pickin’s . . . you made a big mistake, honeybun. Now I got you both just where I wants you.’

  ‘No you ain’t.’ Lucky Gordon shoots out the door like a bullet from a gun and with one spring jumps on the soldier. Dorrie sees a kitchen knife, glinting coldly in the moonlight. ‘No, Lucky . . . don’t kill him. He’s not worth it.’

  The sergeant fumbles for his holster. Dorrie’s cries are drowned by the screech of brakes. Suddenly, a flash of headlights beams in on the scene, a rush of boots on the cobbles.

  ‘Drop the knife, Gordon, cool it, McCoy,’ yells an officer. Curtis Jackson moves forward pointing a gun. Chad sits helplessly in the back of the jeep.

  ‘Let me kill the bastard now.’ McCoy raises his gun. Dorrie leaps forward and shields her lover. ‘Kill him and you kill me . . . an unarmed civilian. Want to hang for me, McCoy?’

  ‘Put it down, buddy. It’s over. We got our deserter. No civilians. You know the rules. We got what we came for. Shove him in the back.’ McCoy hesitates, puts his gun back slowly, pushing Lucky towards the jeep. ‘Let him say goodbye to his girl,’ Chad yells but is ignored as they handcuff the soldier.

  Dorrie runs after the jeep. ‘Lucky, I’ll find a way . . . you’re innocent. Sergeant Jackson, help him. You got the wrong man.’ The engine revs and roars off. Lucky turns his head, his eyes burning with fear. ‘I love you, Lucky Gordon . . . I love you . . .’ Dorrie’s voice fades as she sinks onto the pavement before her only witnesses but the three silent spires stab impotently into the dawn sky.

  No one can make any sense out of Dorrie’s garbled tale. Prin, convinced that she was only dreaming, tries to allay her growing fears. As hours pass into days, the girl, desperate for news, makes one last stand on Lucky’s behalf.

  On a bright May morning with pillowy white clouds scudding across the blue sky, Dorrie struggles in the wind, uphill towards the open Heath, her hair streaming backwards like a banner. Traffic, heading south, snakes in a long grey convoy of trucks, lorries full of soldiers with gum-chewing grins, whistling their appreciation as her best skirt rides slowly up her thighs with the effort: hard evidence of rumours of a ‘big push’, heading troops and supplies down to the Channel ports. Oblivious of their wolf whistles, she pedals furiously to the Barrack gates, parks her bike purposefully and demands to see the officer in charge.

  ‘Miss Goodman. I’ve come about the civvy job in the offices. It’s all been fixed by Mrs Baverstock. Friend of the Colonel. Hurry up, I’m a bit late,’ she bluffs, her legs trembling at her lies.

  ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ says the sentry, eyeing her carefully.

  ‘Perhaps. I’m a friend of Curtis Jackson and Sergeant McCoy.’ She flirts coyly. The guard makes a call and, to her amazement, lifts the barrier and lets her cycle through. Trying not to wobble, she makes for the administration block at the heart of the red bricked fortress with its turrets and crenellated splendour. One step nearer to Lucky; the thought is the only force pushing her forward. She opens a side door, asks for the Colonel’s Office H.Q. trying to look official and in command of the situation. A soldier carrying boxes points her up the stairs, down a long corridor, too busy to ask for her pass. To her amazement her p
resence goes unchecked.

  Down in the yard, she watches all the busy preparations of an army on the move, loading, lifting, reversing huge lorries out towards the main road. An officer stops her progress and commands her to sit outside his room. ‘The Colonel has no appointments today. Who did you say you were told to see? Wait here on this chair. I’ll make enquiries.’

  She waits precisely until his back is turned, shoots through the door and turns the key, dragging the desk, chair and cabinet into a barricade. She hears him return.

  ‘Where’s that red-haired dame gone?’ He turns the door knob. ‘What the hell! Are you in there? Open this door!’

  ‘Not until I see Lucky Gordon . . . I demand to see the Colonel. He is innocent!’ She can hear him charging about outside, raising the alarm.

  ‘Hellfire, we got a crazy dame in my office . . . shouting the odds about some poor guy . . . another one wanting sweets from Uncle Sam for her bastard baby. Get the M.P.s and a doctor. Who the Hell let her in?’ He shouts through the door, ‘Look, honey, if you come out now, you can go home, no charges, nice and peaceful.’

  ‘I have to see the Colonel. It’s about Private Charlie Gordon and the trucks. I have to make them understand . . . if you don’t, I’ll jump out of the window. I mean it. I was there when you took him . . . when McCoy tried to kill him. I want to know what’s going on . . . Please.’

  ‘Who is this Gordon to you then? Promised to marry you did he?’

  ‘I tried to make him give himself up. He didn’t steal any truck. He’s not that kind of guy. I love him and we want to do some shows together. I promised I’d sing with the Five Aces Showband.’ There is silence. Slowly, Dorrie feels a sick weariness seeping through her body. What is the point of taking on the might of the U.S.A. Armed Force?

  She peers through the window to see a group of soldiers with guns looking up at her. This stupid idea was doomed to failure, a silly impulsive, childish tantrum. Now, alone and afraid, only anger fuels her resolve to help Lucky, no matter what the cost to herself. She sits under the window, curled up in a ball, trying not to cry. Someone taps on the door, a different voice calls.

  ‘We’ve brought a friend of yours here to see you, Miss Goodman. Let him in.’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll not be tricked. Who is it?’

  ‘You won’t see him if you don’t open the door.’

  ‘Lucky is that you there?’ Silence again.

  ‘It’s me, Chad . . . Chad Dixon, Lucky’s friend. Dorrie, let me in. You won’t be harmed. I promise.’

  ‘I want to see Lucky. When I hear his voice. Then I’ll open the door.’

  ‘Honey, he ain’t here, let me in and I can explain, please, Dorrie. I promise.’

  Dorrie wavers for a moment. ‘Where is he, Chad, what’s happened? Why can’t he come, Chad? Tell me. I miss him so much. We’ve got plans to sing in the Showband soon.’ Her voice trails away into a soft moan of anguish as a searing pain encircles her gut and forces her to her knees.

  ‘Let me in, honey, what I gotta say ain’t gonna be easy and I need to hold you while I tell you.’

  The furniture is dragged slowly away and the key turns in the lock. Outside the men stare at her strangely and Chad stands with eyes full of tears. But it is the way he clutches his cap that buckles her knees. He looks to the Officer, who nods as he squeezes through the door. Dorrie waits, suddenly ice cold and calm, every detail of the room crystal in clarity: the glitter of dust on the rays of sunlight, the tick of the wall clock, each second in slow motion. The pastor sits down on the floor beside her.

  ‘There was an accident in the camp last week, Dorrie. All this business with Abe, Lucky and McCoy. Some real bad feelin’ in the jailhouse when they brings in Lucky on desertion charge. It’s a mean place . . . a jail full of roughnecks . . . mean guys, who’ll take on any cause to settle their own scores. They starts a hollerin’ and clangin’ plates, smashin’ things, wrecking the joint . . . stabbed a guard and busted into the yard on a breakout.’ Chad’s voice begins to crack and he swallows hard. ‘You have to understand, these things just happen. The guards were reinforced . . . to cool off the riot. Someone stuck a knife in McCoy’s ribs, straight to his heart.’

  ‘On no! Lucky!’ Dorrie cries.

  ‘No . . . it wasn’t Lucky, not him this time, just another prisoner with a score to settle. Once the shootin’ started, it was every man for himself, all runnin’ for cover . . . a real mess . . . bullets flyin’ . . . only Lucky gotten himself caught in the crossfire, a bullet in the back. He didn’t know what hit him. I guess he just ran out of luck, honey.’

  Dorrie buries her head, unable to cry. ‘And it’s all my fault. I should never have told anyone, if only I’d sent him packing.’

  ‘They knew where he was, honey. McCoy had been stalking your place for days.’

  ‘Poor Lucky. No one to protect him. He was innocent.’

  ‘Yeah, they knows it now. When McCoy gets killed, out comes all the rats, fleein’ for cover, coverin’ their asses. Abe and Lucky were set up as decoys for some real stealing going on. Abe is doin’ fine and is out of that jail.’

  ‘Can I see my Lucky, then?’

  ‘No. He ain’t here no more. His folks back home’ll be told in due course.’

  ‘No inquests, no investigations, then?’

  ‘That’s none of my business, you know how it is now. If you makes a fuss, it’ll all be denied. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘So am I. I wish your rotten army never came to this place.’

  ‘Don’t be bitter, Dorrie. We can’t change a thing. Come on out of here, I can get you a lift back to town. The Colonel won’t press charges as long as you leave peaceful.’ They stand up awkwardly. Dorrie brushes her skirt. ‘I have my bike, thank you. I will manage.’

  ‘Wish us luck, Dorrie, we is movin’ soon, I reckon.’

  ‘You don’t want my luck. Look where it got Charlie. I’m bad news.’

  She is cautioned and admonished, frogmarched briskly out of the Base. Dorrie mounts her bike and turns her ashen face grimly towards the city without a backward glance.

  ‘Come away, love. Come away from the wire. They’ve all gone. Look, no tents, not a black face in sight . . . all gone south. Stop this torturing of yourself, Dorrie. We’re worried sick about you.’ Belle Morton tries to prise the girl’s clawing fingers off the perimeter fence.

  ‘He’s still here. I know he is. I can hear his voice calling me. We never said goodbye. How can he go without saying goodbye. They’ve buried him here on the Heath. I’ve heard the ghost tales. I can feel him here. Lucky, where are you?’ Dorrie paces the boundary banging the wire, throwing the weight of her body in vain, forcing it to yield. ‘How can I bear this, never-again feeling? Come on, show me where you are!’

  ‘Dorrie snap out of this! He’s not here. He’s dead. They’ve gone to France. Cry it out of your system. You have to let go of your grief or it will make you ill!’

  ‘I don’t care!’

  Belle feels her words ricochet off a brick wall. ‘Your mother called in to see you yesterday. Why won’t you speak to her? She looks so concerned. Wyn’s chest is very wheezy and Prin is so lost without your company. Don’t shut us out. We all care about you . . . if there is anything we can do!’

  Dorrie stares ahead unmoved. ‘I suppose this is all a punishment for me leaving the fellowship. My father’s curse on me for disobedience. My sinfulness has killed him. It should be me, not Lucky. It’s not fair!’

  ‘No, love, it ain’t fair. Who ever says it is is a fool. Digger Carstairs has gone missing. I’ve just been told. His crew bailed out somewhere in Holland, they think. The best thing that happens to me over, poof . . . before it really began. No, life isn’t bloody fair!’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Morton, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. He was a good bloke and a laugh.’ The stone wall is cracking.

  ‘Don’t give up on life now. I’m not giving up on that daft bugger yet! Not until I see him written out in black and white. You’re st
arting a new life in the Land Army next week. Eighteen years old, with a voice like an angel and looks to match. Who knows what the future holds for you? Chop, chop. Remember Prin and her blasted teacups?’ Belle sniffs through her tears. ‘We all want to hear you on the wireless one day, making Lucky Gordon real proud of you. He was the first to spot your talent. Live for him!’

  Droplets glisten in the dark pools of Dorrie’s eyes and roll down her nose like glass beads. Belle hugs her tightly and the floodgates open.

  Saturday Night

  The hotel bedroom was cheerful but stuffy, the meal indifferent. Oblivious of the weekend revellers who tumbled out of the pubs, shouting and cursing across the city with noisy exuberance, Dorrie paced the city pavements briskly to ease the ache no aspirin will ever shift, circling around the floodlit Cathedral Close.

  She searched the starlit sky in vain for the splutter of bombers limping home, distress flares torching their return to the anxious ground crew below. ‘Lucky moon, lucky moon. Bring the boys back safely soon. Am I clinging onto the past or is the past still clinging onto me? This place keeps releasing my memories from their rusty chains. How much more can I bear? Dorrie’s last stand indeed. How could I have been so naive?’

  4

  DORRIE. SOLO

  Menu

  Pumpkin Soup

  Farmhouse Pasty with Vitamin Salad

  Bakewell Tart or Summer Pudding

  July 1944

  Dorrie watches the procession arching slowly ahead up the field: the tanned leather backs of the ‘conchies’ stacking up the stooks as they laugh alongside the other Land Army women. Her own burnt flesh prickles in the heat, mite-lumps, swollen and scratched raw, sting in the sweating recesses of her groin; the itching unbearable. In the fierce heat of late July, the straw pokes needles through holes in gum boots. Her felt hat is the only protection on her neck, hot and sticky with brittle bleached tendrils of baked hair straggling across her brow. Brown freckles merge into a mottled rash across her pink face and arms. Drips of perspiration seep beneath her swollen breasts. She tastes the tang of salt on her cracked lips.