Letters to the Lost

by Iona Grey

  An hour later she had amassed a small pile of books on the table in front of her, and found several references to the cottages on Greenfields Lane. They were, she discovered, amongst the oldest properties in Church End, built when it was still a rural hamlet, for ‘artisan workers’, whatever they were. There had been another row, facing the remaining one, which was pulled down to make way for the gardens of the big Victorian houses that were built with the arrival of the railway in Church End. In a little book entitled Kelly’s Directory, which appeared to be a sort of yellow pages and telephone book but without the telephone bit, she discovered that number four Greenfields Lane had been lived in by a Mr and Mrs Mitchell in 1914. But of Mrs S. Thorne there was no mention.

  Outside it had started to rain. The library was a modern building with wide plate glass windows, through which Jess had a good view of the darkening street. The pavements glistened with rain and shimmered with the lights from the shops and passing cars. The thought of going back to the house, to the dark and cold and damp and eerie silence, had never been more unappealing.

  The library was open until seven, the helpful assistant had told her. Jess put back the books she’d been using and walked slowly along the shelves, until she reached a section called ‘Military History’. Something stirred in the back of her mind and she took the letter from her pocket and unfolded it.

  382 Squadron. What did that mean? She scanned down. Death, my old adversary from my flying days . . .

  There were loads of books on World War Two. The war at sea, in Africa, in Italy, in the East . . . The Battle of Britain. The Holocaust. Code breaking. Special Operations . . . Jess read the titles on their spines, and when they meant nothing to her, slid them out to look at their covers.

  They’d learned about World War Two at primary school. Mrs Ainscough’s class. She remembered a display on the wall about rationing and the blackout, and a story they’d had to write about evacuation. The thought of leaving Gran and going to a strange house in a strange town had filled her with horror: little had she known then that she’d be doing exactly that just a few years later, when Gran died. It had been her dad she’d gone to live with, not a complete stranger, but it amounted to the same thing. Before Gran’s funeral she’d only met him a handful of times, when he came up from Manchester on rare duty visits, bringing chocolate bars and garage flowers as gifts. The chocolate was for her, and was always a kind she didn’t like, with nuts in. The flowers were for Gran, gaudy crysanths wrapped in cellophane with the cut-price label badly torn off, to say thank you for relieving him of responsibility for his accidental daughter.

  At least he came, Gran said, stiffly. It was one up on Her, which was the only name Gran ever gave to the woman who’d decided she wasn’t cut out for motherhood and left when Jess was four months old.

  She took down a book about the Home Front (a term she remembered from those far-off days in Mrs Ainscough’s) and, noticing one entitled ‘American Invasion’, pulled that out too. The gap it left revealed a photograph of an enormous aeroplane on the cover of the next book along. A group of men crouched beneath its nose, on which there was a painting of a sexy blonde wearing hardly any clothes and an inviting smile. The book was called Bombs and Bombshells: a History of the USAAF in Britain. She added it to her armful.

  A gust of wind hurled rain against the windowpane as she settled herself back at her table and opened the first book. A black-and-white world opened up before her, of men in uniform with slicked-down, gleaming hair, of girls who looked like the painting on the plane but with more clothes on, of couples dancing the old-fashioned way, hands clasped, gazes locked. There was something innocent about them, but something romantic too. Sexy, she thought with a beat of surprise.

  She paused on a double page blow-up of a crowded dance floor. Young people, just like her, dancing. The photograph had been taken over seventy years ago, and yet as she pored over the details the colour seemed to bleed back into the scene, until she could almost feel the heat, smell the sweat and perfume, hear the blast of the music.

  In Mrs Ainscough’s class the war had been distant history, but as she looked at that photograph she understood in a way she hadn’t before that it was real life. Dan Rosinski’s letter was lying on the desk beside her, and her eye was drawn back to its spiky, urgent handwriting.

  Real life. Real people. And it wasn’t over yet.

  8

  1943

  In the end Nancy had won, as she always did. Though Stella still felt far from comfortable with the idea of going out, Saturday evening saw her sitting obediently at the dressing table while Nancy twisted her hair into little pin curls on top of her head and, cigarette wedged into the corner of her mouth, chattered nineteen to the dozen.

  She’d arranged to meet some other girls from the salon at the dance, she told Stella. ‘You’ll love them – a right laugh they are, and it’ll do you the world of good to spend some time with people your own age for a change.’ Stella’s heart sank. She knew she ought to be glad that Nancy wanted to share her new friends, but the prospect of meeting them was enough to make her courage fail. Their names popped up regularly in Nancy’s conversation, so that Stella already had an idea of the kind of girls they were. Confident girls, who chewed gum given to them by GIs and knew how to do all the latest dances. The kind of girls that would stop at nothing in their pursuit of a good time, and were bound to think that Stella was seven kinds of boring. Normal, attractive girls.

  From his cross on the wall, Christ watched reproachfully as Nancy took a compact out of the little vanity case she’d brought with her and dusted powder over Stella’s cheeks and nose.

  ‘Now – close your eyes.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘A bit of eyeshadow, that’s all. And . . . the finishing touch . . .’ There was a muted snap and Stella jumped as she felt something being dabbed against her mouth. ‘Lipstick!’

  Stella opened her eyes. She barely recognized the woman whose glittering eyes stared back at her from the dressing-table mirror. Tentative butterfly wings of excitement fluttered in the pit of her stomach.

  ‘I don’t know about the lipstick, Nance – it’s very . . . red.’

  ‘Which, in case you hadn’t noticed, is what everyone’s wearing these days.’

  ‘Not in King’s Oak they’re not.’ Stella laughed nervously. She couldn’t stop looking at the woman in the mirror. A stranger, in a stranger’s clothes. ‘I’m not sure it’s quite . . . me.’

  ‘Don’t you dare rub it off – haven’t you heard? It’s unpatriotic to waste anything these days, and that goes just as much for my precious lipstick as it does for stale bread.’ Nancy slicked her own lips with scarlet and pressed them together, then dropped the lipstick back into her bag. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

  The woman in the glass stood up and stroked a hand down the silky fabric of her dress. Excitement fought with misgiving. In the ugly familiarity of the Vicarage bedroom she no longer looked like Charles’s respectable, dutiful, failed wife. She remembered what Ada had said about Cinders. She had been transformed from insipid drudge into a sophisticated siren.

  ‘Hurry up, Dolly Daydream.’ Behind her, Nancy straightened up from checking her stocking seams. ‘You know what they say . . . So many Yanks, so little time.’

  As she spoke, Stella caught sight of the little silver and marcasite watch Roger and Lillian had given her for Christmas, lying in the trinket dish on the dressing table. She slipped it on and fastened the clasp. The metal felt cold and tight around her wrist, like the hard grip of icy fingers. There – now she could be sure not to stay past midnight. She looked at the bed, scene of her failure and humiliation, its mustard-coloured cover pulled smooth. Just a few hours, and she would be back between its chilly sheets, where she belonged.

  But until then she could pretend to be someone different; the stranger who wore red lipstick and had pin curls and a skirt that caressed her legs when she walked.

  ‘Coming,’ she said, and swit
ched off the light.

  London might have been a city in blackout, but if the Luftwaffe had just leaned out of their cockpits Stella felt sure they could have been guided towards it by the noise. As soon as they got off the bus they could hear the sound of Glenn Miller drifting down the street, over the heads of the people huddled together against the cold in the queue for the Opera House.

  ‘Looks like we might not get in,’ Stella said, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. The sense of optimism and adventure she had felt in the bedroom had been slowly draining away during the bus journey, and at that moment an evening spent listening to the wireless with Reverend Stokes seemed rather appealing.

  Nancy seized her arm. ‘Don’t you believe it,’ she muttered. ‘Just keep quiet and look pretty.’

  She set off at a purposeful pace, her pelvis swaying so extravagantly that her hip nudged Stella’s with every step, her eyes scanning the row of faces in the queue. At last, when they were almost at the front she let out a joyful yell, and hurled herself at a soldier in American uniform, dragging a horrified Stella with her.

  ‘Johnny – oh, Johnny, there you are! I thought I’d never find you!’

  Before the startled GI could protest she’d thrown her arms around his neck and fixed her mouth on his. The swell of muttering and grumbling from further back in the queue was drowned out by the chorus of whoops and cheers that went up from the other Americans in the group. Stiff with embarrassment, Stella found herself absorbed into it, sheltered from the belligerent buffeting of the people behind by towering giants who gave off a collective scent of aftershave and mint chewing gum. They seemed taller than British soldiers, or was that just the elegant cut of their uniforms? One of them – dark-haired and olive-skinned – introduced himself as Frank, and his friends as Jimmy and Ron and Mitch, then he bent his head to whisper in her ear, ‘And that’s Eugene that your friend there is eating, though I guess for tonight at least we’d better call him Johnny.’

  Nancy had always been a skilled flirt, but had clearly been honing the art further since Stella had last been out with her. Torn between irritation and amusement Stella watched as she detached herself from Eugene/Johnny.

  ‘Sorry about that, boys, but needs must,’ she smirked, with a singular lack of contrition. ‘How else was we going to get in and have a chance to dance with you lovely lot? And the good news is . . .’ She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and they all came in a bit closer to hear it, ‘Inside I’ve got three more gorgeous friends who’ll be delighted to show you boys a bit of good old London hospitality.’

  In fact, the Americans were so nice and courteous – insisting on paying them into the dance hall, addressing them both as ‘Miss’ all the time, arguing good-naturedly over who was going to buy them drinks – that Stella felt her initial misgivings begin to melt away. Perhaps it was the heat; after the arctic air outside the dance hall was absolutely sweltering. Glenn Miller was deafening in here, and as she followed Nancy and Eugene/Johnny across to a table she could feel the wooden floor bouncing beneath her feet. There was plenty of space to sit on the velvet banquette because everyone was crowded on the dance floor, where American Patrol had just given way to In the Mood.

  ‘This tune could have been written for me!’ Nancy yelled, pulling Eugene away to dance.

  ‘May I?’ Frank offered her his hand with a quaint little mock bow. Stella shook her head quickly. She wanted to explain about being married and only coming along for a night out with Nancy, but the music was too loud and it seemed like she was being presumptuous, assuming that he fancied her when he was probably only being polite. He shrugged. ‘Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll get us something to drink – what’ll you have?’

  ‘Oh . . . a lemonade would be nice, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.’

  Just as he made to move away, one of the others appeared through the crowd on the dance floor delicately juggling several brimming glasses in his hands.

  ‘Nice work, Mitch. Shame your hands aren’t that steady when you’re in the gun turret.’

  ‘Take a hike, Franklin.’ Mitch grinned and slid a glass over to Stella. It clearly wasn’t lemonade, but she could hardly complain. She picked it up and took a sip. It tasted warm, sweet and faintly spicy. She took another cautious sip. She was thirsty and it wasn’t quite as refreshing as she would have liked, but definitely not unpleasant.

  ‘Thanks, it’s delicious. What is it?’

  A look of surprise flashed across Mitch’s freckled face. ‘Port and lemon. I thought that was what all the English girls drank.’

  Nancy appeared, dragging two girls by the wrist, another following behind them. They were all flushed and smiling eagerly and, as they were introduced, looked at the Americans in the same slanting, sideways way that Nancy did, simultaneously shy and knowing.

  ‘Irene, Doreen and Maureen – I kid you not,’ Nancy was saying, while the girls giggled and batted their eyelashes. ‘If you can’t remember which is which, just call them all Renee. Now, let me get this right, girls . . .’ Nancy pointed a cheeky finger at each of the Americans in turn, like a schoolteacher. ‘Frank, Mitch, Ron and Jimmy. Oh, and this is Stella – the friend I told you about.’

  It was added as an afterthought and, unsurprisingly given the circumstances, none of the three girls gave Stella more than a fleeting glance. Electric looks were flying across the table as conversations were struck up and invitations to dance extended. Stella took another mouthful of her drink. The sensation of disappearing returned as the table emptied. Only one of the GIs remained: Ron, the stocky, fair-haired one. Stella watched him light a cigarette and felt sorry for him being stuck with her. As the band started up a new tune he offered her the packet.

  ‘Oh man, I love this song! Shall we?’

  He was already on his feet, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he held out his hand.

  Finishing the last of her drink, Stella gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, I’m very out of practice . . . But really, you go.’

  ‘Hey, anyone can dance to Chattanooga Choo Choo, and if you don’t believe me you gotta let me prove it! C’mon – as a Tennessee boy born and bred it would be a capital offence not to dance to this one.’

  Strictly speaking, it wasn’t impossible to refuse but it would certainly have been awkward. He reminded Stella of the coalman’s dog, a squat muscular thing who had a habit of rushing around in circles, teeth bared in a grin. Without waiting for her to answer he had pulled her to her feet and dragged her out into the middle of the dance floor. Stella was jostled from all sides by couples swinging around, dancing with a vigour that was so far removed from the polite waltzes and two-steps she’d done with Charles at the odd church fund-raising evening that it was scarcely recognizable as the same activity. For a moment she stood motionless and at a loss, but then Ron had seized her by the waist and was pulling her towards him, taking her hand, and her feet were moving of their own accord, her hips too, as if she’d known how to do this all along. He was a good dancer, his stocky frame surprisingly agile, his hands swift and assured as he twirled and guided her.

  ‘See? Like I told you – it’s easy!’

  She laughed. The air was scented with sweat and aftershave and pressed down on them like a damp blanket. Her dress billowed out as Ron spun her round. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nancy, dancing with someone different. They were so good that the dancers around them had cleared a little space for them and were watching as her partner lifted her up by the waist and she swung her legs to either side of him. The band began playing a faster-paced tune that Stella didn’t recognize and the gap between couples seemed to shrink as more dancers crowded onto the floor. She had to duck out of the way to avoid being socked in the eye by an enthusiastically flung-out hand. Ron shoved the offending couple out of the way.

  ‘Whaddya say we sit this one out?’ he yelled above the music.

  Stella nodded and followed him back to the table. Two of the Re
nees were there, perched on the knees of their Americans like ventriloquist’s dummies. As Stella sank gratefully into her seat Frank appeared balancing aloft a tray of drinks. He set it down with a flourish so that beer slopped from the glasses onto Stella’s dress. Ron leapt to mop at it with his handkerchief.

  ‘Watch it, Frank, you klutz.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Frank handed her a glass with an apologetic grin.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for the drink – I didn’t realize dancing was such thirsty work.’

  Ron winked and chimed his glass against hers. ‘Well drink up, sugar, and let’s get back out there and do it some more.’

  After that the evening became a bit of a blur. Stella danced – not just with Ron, but with Frank and Eugene and at least two other GIs whose names she didn’t catch above the screech of trumpets from the stage. Whenever she found herself back at the table a drink was pushed in her direction, but no matter how much she drank she only seemed to get thirstier. It was part of the strangeness of the evening, she decided hazily. The magic. For the first time in months the chill had left her bones and she felt warm through and through, right to the very core. And not in danger of disappearing any more. Swaying lazily against her as the band played Moonlight Serenade Ron had told her how beautiful she was, and while she knew that she ought to feel guilty and wicked, she didn’t. She felt somehow vindicated, and relieved. And happy.

  Escaping to the ladies’ cloakroom she pushed her way through the crowd at the row of basins to run cold water over her wrists in an attempt to cool down. Shaking the water from her fingers she peered at her watch, but its tiny face refused to come into focus. In the mirror above the sink she saw that her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glittering, and the make-up Nancy had applied had formed dark smudges beneath them. She was hastily wiping them away when a familiar face appeared beside hers in the mirror.