The man stuck around until Sylvia returned to the kitchen to start washing the dishes, and then he stood up to go. She glanced over as he was leaving and saw him put his hat on at a jaunty angle over his dark, wavy hair, which gave him an impish air. He cast her a last look and then he was gone.
Three days later, Sylvia was chatting away with Peggy at the Piccadilly Hotel when their manageress marched in and told her there was a call for her.
‘For me?’ she asked. She didn’t know anyone back in Woolwich who owned a phone.
Sylvia followed Miss Frank to the phone, took the receiver and hesitantly said, ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Sylvia!’ a cheerful man’s voice replied.
‘Who is this?’ Sylvia asked.
‘It’s Bob. Don’t you remember? I said I liked your voice at the Red Cross club.’
The image of the dark-haired young man with the twinkle in his eye popped into Sylvia’s head.
‘I’m coming to meet you after work today and we’re going for tea,’ he continued. ‘Meet me in front of the hotel. Bye!’
The line went dead, and Sylvia looked up to see the annoyed face of Miss Frank, who had been listening to every word.
‘Sylvia, personal calls aren’t allowed in the office!’ she reprimanded her.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ Sylvia faltered, ‘I didn’t even give him the number.’
Miss Frank looked unconvinced, and Sylvia scurried back to her desk.
Sylvia clocked out at 5.30 p.m. that day as usual, and found Bob waiting outside the Piccadilly’s grand entrance, his hat cocked impishly to one side as before. As soon as she saw him her heart beat a little faster, and she was surprised to find she had butterflies in her stomach.
‘At last!’ Bob said, as if they had arranged a time and she was running terribly late. ‘Come on!’
He took her by the arm.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, giggling.
‘Do you like scones? Of course you do. So do I!’
Like her previous boyfriend Carl, Bob took her to a nearby Lyons Corner House. Why were Americans so keen to go to tea rooms? Sylvia wondered.
She was pleased to discover that Bob genuinely did like tea. He ordered a large pot, along with two scones, and although they came with only a measly amount of jam and no cream, he devoured them hungrily.
‘I’m not a fan of all your British food,’ he told her, seeing her smile at him. ‘Fish and chips – now what do you want to eat that stuff for?’
He had the twinkle in his eye again. Sylvia giggled. ‘Well, what do you eat?’
‘We eat hamburgers and hotdogs. Much more sophisticated.’
‘Why do you call it a hotdog?’ she retorted. ‘It’s just a blinking sausage!’
‘Why do you call it a blinking sausage when it can’t blink?’
They traded quips over the tea cups, laughing until Sylvia’s tummy was so sore she could hardly breathe. Bob was a third-generation Irish-American, and if he hadn’t kissed the Blarney Stone himself, someone in his family clearly had. He certainly had the gift of the gab.
Between the banter, Sylvia learned that Bob had been called up the day after his eighteenth birthday and that he had fought in the bloody Battle of the Bulge. He had recently been sent back to England with a shoulder injury he had sustained in the lead up to the Battle of Remagen, for which he had been awarded the Purple Heart that now adorned his uniform.
She also learned that he came from a place called Baltimore, which she had never heard of. ‘It’s where “The Star-Spangled Banner” was written,’ he told her proudly. ‘We whooped the British there in 1814!’
As she listened to his descriptions of his hometown, with its beautiful downtown, big shops and historic harbour, Sylvia had a picture in her head of a glamorous modern city, not unlike the ones she had seen in the movies, where every American girl seemed to live in a swanky apartment and drive her own car.
As on most of her dates, Sylvia let Bob do the majority of the talking. He was so funny, and knew so much about history, that listening to him was a joy. She was so absorbed that she completely lost track of time, and suddenly realised with a jolt that three hours had flown by. Her mother would be worrying about her.
‘I’ve got to catch me train!’ she exclaimed. Bob paid up and they ran to Charing Cross station. There was only time for him to give Sylvia a quick peck on the cheek before she boarded her train.
The following Tuesday, when she arrived for her shift at the Washington Club, Bob was already waiting for her. As she saw him, her heart instantly began to beat a little faster again.
‘Hi, shortstuff!’ he called. It was a fitting description, since Sylvia was the smallest of all the Red Cross volunteers, but she pulled a face nonetheless.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said, affecting a soppy tone. ‘How about “babycakes”?’
‘That’s not much better,’ she giggled. Then she noticed there was something different about him. He was wearing the uniform of a military policeman.
‘I’ve been promoted,’ he told her. ‘They need me patrolling the streets to make sure our boys behave themselves.’
The MP headquarters were further along Piccadilly, opposite Green Park, and patrolling the area as hundreds of GIs swarmed into town every night to have a good time was no mean feat. But it meant Bob would be based in London for the foreseeable future – and close to the Washington Club. That evening, as Sylvia went about her work, he grabbed the chance to talk to her whenever he could, paying her compliments, cracking jokes and keeping her smiling. After a while he even took to following her about the room, not content with waiting for snatched moments of conversation.
On her Thursday shift, there he was again at the same table, and once again he seemed to fix all his attention on her. All night none of the other GIs got a chance to talk to Sylvia, but she didn’t mind – she hardly noticed they were there.
That weekend Bob had two days’ leave and he told her he wanted them to spend it together. Sylvia knew she couldn’t arrange any more dates until her mum had met Bob and had a chance to vet him, so it was agreed that he would come to Woolwich and stay overnight on the sofa.
Before he took the train from Charing Cross, Bob made sure to make a visit to the Army Post Exchange, and turned up at St Mary Street loaded with gifts. On his arrival, Sylvia’s younger sisters watched in fascination as he took out his various presents with the air of a magician, transfixing all the family.
‘This is what soldiers eat,’ he told Audrey and Enid, handing them a couple of Hershey bars. ‘And this is what little girls in America eat.’ He gave them two lollipops with chocolate toffee centres, which they handled like precious treasure.
For Mr Bradley, there was pipe tobacco and for Sylvia there was liquid shampoo in a bottle – a novelty after the packets of powdered shampoo she usually bought from Woolworth’s.
Then he turned to Mrs Bradley. ‘This, ma’am, is for you,’ he said, handing her the biggest bar of soap any of them had ever seen, with the evocative name Cashmere Bouquet.
‘It’s blinking huge!’ Mrs Bradley said, marvelling at the oval bar and turning it over in her hands.
‘Yes, ma’am. Everything’s bigger in America,’ Bob said, with a cheeky grin.
‘Big isn’t always best, Bob,’ Mrs Bradley retorted. She laughed heartily at her joke and Bob joined in as if it was the most hilarious thing in the world.
But Bob’s crowning glory was yet to come. From each of his pockets he produced four perfect hen’s eggs – the equivalent of two months’ rations – which he had somehow managed to carry all the way on the train from Charing Cross without breaking.
‘What did you do – stand up all the way?’ Sylvia asked, giggling at the thought of him jiggling around on the train with his pockets full of eggs.
‘Pretty much!’ Bob replied.
‘Well, Bob, being poor little English people we’re not so well stocked here,’ Mrs Bradley told him. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of meat ratio
ns, so if you want your Sunday lunch tomorrow you’re going to have to catch it yourself.’
‘’Scuse me, ma’am?’ Bob said.
Mrs Bradley pointed to the back yard. ‘We used to keep chickens out there, but all that’s left is an old duck who’s had his day,’ she told him. ‘Maybe you and Mr Bradley can finish him off.’
‘No, not Ducky!’ Sylvia’s sisters protested. The bird was two years old, and they had come to regard it almost as a pet. But Mrs Bradley couldn’t bring herself to send an American soldier away hungry, so Ducky was for the chop.
But first, Bob and Mr Bradley would have to catch him. Perhaps it was Bob’s uniform that warned Ducky he was there on a mission, or perhaps it was the hungry look in Mr Bradley’s eye, but whatever it was the bird instantly ran quacking to the other end of the garden. ‘Run, Ducky!’ Sylvia’s sisters called, cheering the bird on. But Mr Bradley had managed to run at him from the side and wrestled him to the floor. ‘Hold him fast, Bob,’ he said as he took a knife from Mrs Bradley and went to cut its neck. The blade was halfway across when the duck put up one last fight for freedom. It managed to wriggle out of Bob’s grasp and went careering up the garden again, its head half hanging off, veering all over the place like a drunkard.
Finally Bob managed to pin the creature down again, Mr Bradley finished the job and Ducky was laid to rest once and for all. Mrs Bradley took the bird to hang it up overnight, and Sylvia and Bob were at last allowed to go off and enjoy their day together. It had been quite a baptism of fire for Bob, but Sylvia admired him even more, having seen how well he handled it.
That day, Sylvia gave Bob a tour of the area, telling him about the devastating raids they had suffered during the Blitz. She took him up to the Royal Artillery Barracks for a stroll on the common, then down to the river for a ride on the ferry across to North Woolwich and a walk around Royal Victoria Gardens. She had brought other GIs to Woolwich before, but she felt especially proud to be seen out and about with Bob. He took a lively interest in all that they saw and seemed fascinated by everything she had to say, all the while keeping her laughing and giggling with little witty asides and jokes. Sylvia had never felt such an attraction to anybody – even poor Carl Russell.
On the way back they walked through the little park next to St Mary’s Church and into the graveyard, where Bob was fascinated by the ancient tombstones and went around reading all the inscriptions.
‘There’s one here from the seventeenth century!’ he said, astonished.
‘Yeah – we’ve got proper history here,’ Sylvia quipped.
Bob turned to her and, out of the blue, took her in his arms and kissed her properly for the first time. They might be in the middle of a graveyard, but to Sylvia it was the most romantic moment of her life.
The next day, they sat down for the much-anticipated Sunday lunch. Mrs Bradley had spent all morning making beautiful Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes, carrots and gravy to accompany Ducky, who had been roasted in the oven. Mr Bradley carved the meat, Mrs Bradley served up the veggies and then they all went to tuck in.
‘How do you like a traditional English Sunday roast, Bob?’ Mrs Bradley asked.
‘Um, it’s very nice,’ said Bob, chewing hard.
Mrs Bradley took her first bite of duck and her face darkened. The meat was impossibly tough. She removed the piece into her napkin and took another bite. Again she was unable to chew it. She looked around the table and saw the faces of her husband and three daughters, all of whom were struggling to eat what was in front of them.
‘This darn duck’s like boiled leather!’ she exclaimed, putting her napkin down.
The others followed suit, relieved not to have to persevere any longer.
‘That duck’s had the last laugh after all!’ her husband said.
Over the following weeks, whenever Bob had time off from racing around the West End in his jeep wielding a truncheon, he and Sylvia spent their time together. He was a regular presence at the Washington Club during Sylvia’s shifts on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and he spent all his leave at the Bradleys’, always turning up with new gifts for all the family. Knowing his love of history, Sylvia took him out to Kent, to visit the village of Eynsford, where she knew he would love the sixteenth-century pub and eleventh-century church. Anything built more than 100 years ago was ‘ancient’ to the Americans, and Bob couldn’t get enough of walking around graveyards, marvelling at engravings that were so faded by time and weather that they were almost illegible.
Sylvia loved his enthusiasm, and the humour and fun he injected into even the most mundane outings. Every time she saw him he seemed to have become more handsome, and on the days they were apart he was all she could think about. She felt she had never met a more wonderful man, and was almost sick with love for him. When he told her he was in love with her too, she was over the moon. Sylvia had always been one to sing along with the jukebox, but now she was so happy that she sang all the time, whether it was on or not.
As April rolled into May, world events were also taking a happy turn. Hitler took his own life on 30 April 1945, and by the early hours of 7 May General Jodl had signed the unconditional surrender of all German forces. The news was broadcast in Germany and picked up by the BBC and the British papers before an official announcement could be made.
The girls in the billing office of the Piccadilly Hotel heard the news from an excited waiter, who ran up the spiral staircase and burst into the room shouting, ‘The war’s over! The war’s over!’
But their manageress, Miss Frank, wasn’t about to let her employees leave early. Sylvia, Peggy and the others would have to wait until the end of the normal working day before they were free to celebrate.
When Sylvia finally left for the day there seemed to be Union Jacks everywhere. Selfridges had been doing a roaring trade in flags for several weeks now, and they were being put to good use, while some people had taken out their old ones from the Coronation of 1937. Bonfires were being lit in Piccadilly, and when she got to Trafalgar Square it was teeming with people. The hat sellers were out in force, flogging ‘Montgomery’s berets’ at a bob each – two bob with feathers. Everyone was laughing and smiling, people were singing and dancing, and some overexcited souls had even jumped into the fountains. On the train home, commuters who normally never spoke to each other were suddenly chatting away as if they had been friends for years. It was as if they had all been holding their breath for six years, thought Sylvia, and they had finally been able to breathe out again.
Bob was on duty all that week, but back in Woolwich the end of the war in Europe was celebrated with a big party at the playground round the corner from Sylvia’s house. Mums, dads, children and grandparents all sang and danced together, most of them fuelled by little more than euphoria and a few ginger-beer shandies – although a couple of the granddads had started early and were already two sheets to the wind.
Sylvia’s neighbour, Mr Chalk, brought his accordion, and as he played ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ everyone danced in a circle. Mrs Bradley pushed her daughter into the centre. ‘Pick them knees up, Sylv!’ she shouted.
Sylvia did as she was told, dancing and singing away so loudly that by the end of the night she had lost her voice completely.
13
Gwendolyn
As impromptu street parties began to spring up all over Britain, Lyn and Ben were snuggled up together in the cinema, totally unaware of the excitement that was fast spreading around the country. They were watching A Song to Remember, the story of the nineteenth-century composer Frédéric Chopin and his lover George Sand.
Suddenly the lights went up, the door flew open and the cinema manager came running breathlessly down the aisle. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the war is over!’ he announced.
The audience burst into a spontaneous round of applause. But even on such a momentous occasion most people decided to stay until the end of the film.
Afterwards, however, it was time to celebrate. The Polygon Hotel was marking the occ
asion in the way it knew best – with a dance – and Lyn wasn’t going to miss out on the biggest ball of the year. When they arrived the hotel was swarming with people, and for once elegance went out of the window as elated American officers drank themselves silly, jitterbugging with abandon. Bottles of beer were shaken vigorously and sprayed around like champagne. ‘My mother’s going to kill me if I go home smelling of beer!’ cried Lyn, as the pretty dress she was wearing got soaked.
The mention of Mrs Rowe reminded Ben that Lyn’s curfew was 10 p.m., even if the war was over. As they walked home she couldn’t stop humming the Chopin polonaise from the movie, which now seemed to sum up the victorious sentiment of the night. Ben was always the more reserved of the two, but now he was quieter than ever. Unlike Lyn, he was thinking beyond the current celebrations and worrying what the end of the war in Europe might mean for them.
As they neared their usual bench in Watts Park, he suggested they sit for a moment. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Lyn. ‘Aren’t you pleased the war’s over?’
‘Lyn,’ he said quietly, ‘I want you to come to California.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, still so elated that she wasn’t really concentrating.
‘I mean,’ he said, ‘will you marry me?’
Lyn couldn’t believe what a wonderful night it was turning out to be – first the war had ended and now the man she loved had proposed to her. ‘Yes, please!’ she said, and Ben scooped her into his arms and gave an uncharacteristic ‘Whoop!’
Ben would have to ask her parents’ permission before any engagement was confirmed, so Lyn couldn’t mention her news to her family. But she was more than happy to run up to bed and clutch her happy secret to her chest in solitude. As she lay down to sleep she had visions of herself in an exquisite long, white wedding dress. She played the scene through in her head – the perfect gown, the crowds of admiring onlookers, the wedding banquet, the romantic honeymoon.
GI Brides: The Wartime Girls Who Crossed the Atlantic for Love Page 11