“You know more than any of us,” Constance said. “We’ve less than an hour, you know. We’d best get started.”
“Let’s try an eightsome reel. Though as we’re only six, you’ll need to imagine there are two more of us.”
She directed the women to stand in a square, with Ethel, Annie, and Constance designated as men for the purposes of the practice. “First we join hands and dance round to the left for eight steps, then back again in the other direction for eight more. It’s a little like skipping, see? Well done. Now Bridget, Rose, and I will go into the middle of the circle, since we’re meant to be the women, and join our right hands so we’re making a wheel. Put your left arm around the waist of your partner, then we all dance round in a circle, rather like the spokes on a wagon wheel. Then the women spin round like this. Our left hands are the center of the wheel, and then we dance back the other way. Now you dance in place for a few bars, just so, and then the men spin the women round to the right, so the women are back inside the main circle. Then we weave in and out, the men going one way, the women the other, until we’re back with our partners.”
The women were having a grand time already, all of them catching on easily; the eightsome was one of the easier dances to master, which is why Lilly had chosen it. Once they had repeated the first sequence a number of times, she showed her friends how each woman would take a turn in the middle of the circle, dancing in place before her partner, then turning to dance with the man at the opposite side of the circle.
Ethel and Rose had to leave then to help with the dinner service, but there was time still for Lilly to acquaint the others with Strip the Willow, the Gay Gordons, and the Dashing White Sergeant.
“You are right, Lilly,” gasped Bridget, trying to catch her breath after the final reel. “This is ever so much fun. Only wish my Gordon was here. Jim, too. Did you know they’re cousins?”
“I didn’t. Perhaps we can all go to a ceilidh together, after the war is over,” Lilly offered.
“Sounds a treat, that does. What do you say, ladies? Is that a plan? When the war is over?”
Who could say where they would all be when the war ended? All the same, it was a nice sort of plan to have, no matter how improbable.
They took their supper soon after, all six WAACs sitting with Miss Jeffries at their table in the mess tent. Lilly was only able to swallow a few bites of her shepherd’s pie, filled as it was with indefinable chunks of gristly meat that had never been within a mile of an actual shepherd. It was filling, though, and hot, and she knew she ought to be grateful for it. Likely enough Edward’s dinner that evening would be far less palatable.
As the ceilidh didn’t begin until half-past seven, Lilly had intended to spend a half hour, possibly more, reading to the men in the ward tent. In this she was overruled by her friends.
“Not tonight,” Annie ordered. “Otherwise how’ll you have enough time to get ready?”
“I am ready. I had my bath, my hair is pinned up, my uniform is clean—”
“Listen to you! No, duck, you’re not nearly ready,” said Bridget. “Now sit yourself down while we get to work on you.”
“What did you have in mind?” Lilly asked nervously. As fond as she was of her friends, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to look like them, with the exception of Constance. Bridget and Annie had partially bobbed their hair, which meant that when they pinned up the longer strands behind, the front section barely reached their earlobes. They had been known to wear cosmetics while on duty as well, in spite of official WAAC directives to the contrary. Not only had Lilly never cut her hair, apart from a minor trim to its ends, she’d also never used cosmetics, not so much as a wisp of face powder. Just the prospect of putting something on her face other than plain soap was as intimidating as it was exciting.
As Lilly watched, Annie lighted a small rectangular kerosene burner, then covered it with a metal frame. On this she placed a set of curling tongs, their metal dark from long use and, Lilly imagined apprehensively, the ashes of incinerated hair. As the tongs heated, a wisp of steam, or perhaps smoke, wafted up from one end. It was not a promising sight.
“I don’t want you to curl my hair,” she confessed. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather not.”
Annie burst out laughing. “Not to worry. Anyone can see how curly it is already. Constance, do you want us to fix your hair? No? Then we’re just doing up your face?”
“We can’t. You can’t,” Constance protested. “Miss Jeffries—”
“It’ll be dark at this ‘kelly’ thing. No way she’ll see.”
Lilly watched, unaccountably fascinated, as Bridget and Annie worked their magic, rouging Constance’s lips, taking the shine off her nose, and darkening her lashes with a mix of soot and Vaseline.
“Your turn now, Lil. Come over here.” Annie beckoned. “If you don’t like it, you can wipe it off and I won’t hold it against you. How’s that sound?”
Fair enough. Lilly sat on the end of Bridget’s bed and steeled herself to sit perfectly still as her lips were painted, her eyelashes were brushed with her friends’ sooty concoction, and a haze of choking powder descended upon her face. As soon as she could see clearly again, she grabbed the mirror from Annie’s outstretched hand.
How could so little paint make such a difference? Her eyes seemed bigger and brighter, her lips fuller, her skin luminous and fresh.
“See?” said Bridget. “You look a treat. Now out of the way so I can put meself together.”
Arrayed in their pressed and sponged uniforms, shoes polished, faces powdered, and hair meticulously arranged, the women lacked only one final touch, Lilly thought. So she dug into her locker, brought forth a tiny bottle of perfume, and dotted the stopper to everyone’s wrists. The tent was immediately filled with the scent of lily of the valley, a vivid and refreshing contrast to the prevailing odor of singed hair, disinfectant, and kerosene.
“If only we were allowed to wear civvies.” Ethel sighed. “I look like a sack of potatoes in this uniform.”
“You look lovely,” Lilly insisted. “And besides, the men outnumber us six to one. You could be wearing an actual potato sack and it wouldn’t make a lick of difference.”
“Right she is,” seconded Annie. “So stop your mithering and let’s be off.”
Chapter 27
Robbie could scarcely believe he was standing in the reception marquee. Normally it was such a grim place, crowded with stretchers, its floors dirtied by discarded dressings and drifts of blood-sodden sawdust. All that was gone, if only for one night. Benches had been brought in from the mess tent and were arranged neatly around the perimeter of the marquee, although hardly anyone sat on them. A small group of musicians was playing “A Soldier’s Joy” from an improvised stage at the far end of the marquee, while a knot of kilt-clad soldiers performed an energetic hornpipe.
The arrival of the WAACs at the ceilidh coincided with the end of the dance, and within seconds the women were hemmed in by a crowd of potential dance partners, each man keen to capture a spare female for the next reel.
Predictably, Lilly looked enchanting. Like the other WAACs, she was in uniform, which did little to flatter her or any of the other women’s figures. But her lovely hazel eyes were sparkling, her face was aglow with excitement, and her hair, normally pinned tight and hidden beneath her driver’s cap, had begun to curl enchantingly at her temples and nape.
Before Robbie had even taken a step in Lilly’s direction, her arm was seized by Andrew Harrison, one of the surgeons. Though Robbie considered him a friend, he could cheerfully have throttled him at that moment. The man had lived his entire life in the south of England, and it showed, for he hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was doing. Lilly didn’t seem to mind, though, and gamely led him through the reel, laughing gaily whenever Harrison led her in the wrong direction.
At the end of the dance, Harrison was elbowed aside by one of the orderlies, a Glaswegian named Murray. The musician calling the changes, a fiddle player, o
rdered the dancers to line up in two rows for Strip the Willow.
If he didn’t act soon, Robbie realized, he’d never come within a yard of her. He saw Matron standing by the entrance to the marquee; she would do. He advanced on her, took her hand without so much as a by-your-leave, and escorted her to the dance floor. He’d beg her pardon later.
Robbie and Matron were near the beginning of the row, so it wasn’t long before it was their turn to twirl from dancer to dancer, the faces that surrounded them a mere blur.
The touch of Lilly’s hand ought not to have shocked him so much. At least he had some warning, for a heartbeat before he reached her, reached out to grasp her hand, he chanced to look up, and there she was. Laughing, clapping to the music, one foot stomping time as she waited her turn.
Then she was before him, their hands were joined, and he was pulling her into a spin. Before he had a chance to recover from the thrill of her touch, they were done. Time to return to Matron, continue down the line, and put himself back together.
The music swirled to a halt, with the accordion player gasping a little from his efforts. While he recovered, the fiddle player announced that the musicians would be taking a short break after the next dance.
“We hope our next selection will please the ladies among us,” he announced. “The song may be unfamiliar to some of you, but it’s in waltz time, so even our English friends will have nae trouble in joining in.”
A fresh crush of admirers surrounded Lilly and her friends, and Robbie felt a tug of regret that he would have to stand aside and watch her dance, again, with someone else. He decided he was done with waiting.
He shouldered his way through the crowd, not caring if the others thought him a boor. Her back was turned, so he tapped her shoulder. She wheeled around, clearly irritated, though her expression softened as soon as she saw it was him.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Ashford. I meant only to gain your attention. May I ask for the honor of this next dance?”
She nodded. He took her hand, led her away from the throng of supplicants, and, never taking his eyes from her face, waited for the dance to begin.
As the keening notes of a single fiddle curled through the air, Robbie took her in his arms again, for the first time since that July night three years ago. Three years that had been stretched, by war and distance, into something that had often felt like an eternity. But tonight they were together, for however long this dance lasted.
He held her as a gentleman ought to hold his partner for a waltz, without a hint of any interest beyond the platonic. All the same, he was acutely aware of the points of contact between them. His left hand enveloping her right hand. His right hand at her back. Her left hand on his shoulder. Perfectly formal and proper, he told himself. So why was his pulse racing?
A man began to sing; it was Private Gillespie, the ASC driver who worked with Lilly. He sang in Gaelic, the language of Robbie’s maternal grandparents, the language of his earliest happy memories.
“Do you know what this is called?” Lilly asked.
“Aye, I do. In Scots Gaelic it’s ‘Ho Ro, Nigh’n Donn Bhoideach.’ ”
“What does that mean?”
“Roughly translated, ‘My Brown-Haired Lass,’ ” he answered. “Do you like it?”
“I do, very much. And Private Gillespie sings so well. What is it about?”
“I can’t remember exactly. Let me listen as he sings.”
He was surprised by how readily the lyrics revealed themselves, though it had been more than twenty years since his Nan had sung to him as she pegged out the washing in the backyard.
“ ‘My sweet pretty girl, my sweet pretty girl,’ ” he murmured, bending his head so he might whisper in her ear. “ ‘My lovely pretty lass, I’ll marry none but you.’
“ ‘I have fallen in love with you,’ ” he continued. “ ‘Your face, your beauty, they are always on my mind.’ That’s what the words say, Lilly.”
The song had ended; it was time for him to cede his place to another. But he’d forgotten that the band meant to take a break, and as soon as the musicians put down their instruments and lifted their mugs of ale, Lilly’s would-be dance partners melted back into the crowd.
Not far away, Robbie saw, the formidable Miss Evans was engaged in earnest conversation with one of the surgeons, while Lilly’s other friends held court on the opposite side of the tent. Surely if the other WAACs were able to converse so freely with the officers and men, then he and Lilly should be able to talk without causing a sensation.
“Come with me, over here, where it’s cooler,” he suggested, guiding her to one of the benches. “We’ll sit for a minute and I can fetch you a cup of tea.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine. I’d much rather talk.”
“Very well, then. What do you want to talk about?”
“Do you remember the last time we danced together?” she asked abruptly.
“I do. As if it were yesterday.” He grinned, a little ruefully.
“Would you rather not speak of it?”
“I don’t mind, not now. So much has changed since then.”
“I know,” she agreed. “But I’ve always wondered . . . what if my mother hadn’t interrupted us, and told you I was engaged? What would have happened?”
It was a question he’d never asked himself. What good would it have done? All the same, she deserved an answer. “Shall we try and find somewhere more private to talk?”
“What about Miss Jeffries?”
“She has her back turned to us, and Miss Evans is busy with Captain Lawson. If we slip out now, no one will notice. Are you with me?”
“Aye,” she answered, and he smiled at her attempt at levity.
“I’ll leave now. Follow me in a minute.” Taking a step back, he loudly wished her a good evening before turning and walking out of the marquee.
He moved away from the entrance and stood in the shadows, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Long seconds inched past before the flap covering the marquee entrance was thrown back and Lilly emerged.
“Robbie?” she whispered.
“I’m here. Just to your left.”
“Where shall we go?”
He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Perhaps one of the storage huts? We can hope for some privacy there.”
“What about the mechanics’ garage? Private Gillespie never locks the side door.”
“It sounds grand. Lead the way.”
Chapter 28
They walked in silence, mere inches apart, their fingertips almost touching, the din and chatter of the ceilidh fading with every step. Lilly could hardly breathe; surely someone would emerge from the reception marquee and call them back.
They reached the garage. She led him inside, instructed him to wait at the door, and inched carefully through the darkness until she was at the back wall of the hut. She pushed open the first shutter she found, then its neighbor. Moonlight streamed in, revealing the garage’s interior.
“Let’s sit there,” she suggested, pointing at the bench where the WAACs took their tea on rainy days. “I wish it were more comfortable—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted, his beautiful face very serious now. “Where did we leave off, then, the night of the ball?”
“We’d just finished dancing, and were sitting in one of the drawing rooms.”
“So we were. What were we talking about?”
“What you would do when the war came. What I would do, too.”
“That’s all?” He sounded intrigued.
“We weren’t talking for long before Mama interrupted us.”
“I remember your mother’s arrival quite clearly. I don’t know what I would have said next, though.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t manage anything more.
“But I can tell you what I ought to have said.”
“Really?” she asked, her voice squeaking a bit.
“I should have said you were beautiful, and that it was impossible to think of you a
s a little girl any longer.”
Silence enveloped them. Would he say nothing more? Did he expect her to respond?
“May I?” he asked, and then he took hold of her right hand, his fingers easily encircling her narrow wrist. Then, shockingly, he unbuttoned the cuff of her blouse. Pushing her sleeve past her elbow, he began to massage her forearm with a sure and steady touch.
“Robbie, I—”
“I know. I’ve noticed you rubbing your wrists and arms. When you think no one is looking. It’s all that driving. And those heavy buckets of water.”
“This is . . . not what I expected,” she said.
“Hmm. I’m sorry. Do you want me to stop?”
She shook her head, wondering if he could see her in the gloom. “It’s only that . . .”
This was all she had dreamed of, for weeks and months and years. Why hold back now? “I can’t remember the last time someone touched me,” she confessed. “Apart from a handshake. Or a kiss on the cheek from Edward.”
Instead of answering, he busied himself with the buttons on her other cuff, then began to massage her left wrist and forearm. It was a minute or more before he spoke again.
“No kisses from ardent young admirers back home?”
“Not a one. I was rather a failure during my one Season.”
He looked up, his gaze shadowed in the ambulance’s dim interior. Just then, a moonbeam escaped the cloud cover above, its quicksilver gleam falling across his face. His eyes glittered jewel-bright, their blue the only point of color in her universe.
“Why count that one summer a failure? Unless you’d been hoping to end up married to a complete stranger.”
“I know,” she admitted. “And I am glad things happened as they did. It’s . . .”
“Go on.”
“It’s embarrassing. Twenty-four years old, and I’ve never been kissed.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“You mean . . .”
“In the middle of Victoria Station. In front of all those Tommies.”
Somewhere in France Page 16