The Beantown Girls

by Jane Healey

  London’s West End was an enormous sea of humanity. We turned down the crowded street outside the club and made our way to the line at the front door.

  “My neighbor, Tim, told me about this place in his letters,” Martha said to me, excitement in her eyes as we followed the rest of the girls. She looked like she had just walked off the farm into her uniform. Her thick, chestnut-brown hair was pinned under her cap simply, her round cheeks flushed. She was wearing no makeup but for a swipe of natural pink lipstick. “Rainbow Corner is one of the biggest clubs in Europe. It’s got hotel-style rooms upstairs, a dance hall, game rooms with pinball machines, a barber shop, a soda fountain, and American-style restaurants. It’s one of his favorite places over here.”

  “Wow,” I said, looking up at the five-story brick building. Across the entire facade, above the entrance and below three arched banks of windows on the second floor, were the words “American Red Cross Rainbow Corner” in huge red block letters on a white tile background.

  Blanche was right—the Piccadilly Circus part of London was hopping. It looked like half the young people in Great Britain were out on this cool summer night. British girls wearing too much rouge chatted with American GIs. Canadian, Australian, and New Zealand accents could be heard as we walked the streets. French, Dutch, and Czech soldiers strolled together, talking and laughing in their respective languages. It was a melting pot of military and nonmilitary personnel, but with so many Americans in the area, it almost felt more like New York City than London.

  “Girls! Red Cross girls! Come on up!” The man checking IDs at the door waved us over.

  We stepped out of line and walked over to him. A few of the GIs waiting to get in whistled and nodded. Someone said, “Yeah, American girls!” when we walked up.

  We all handed the man our IDs. I looked around, and for a minute I thought we were in trouble.

  “You ladies must be brand-new,” the squat, older man in the rumpled Red Cross uniform said.

  “We arrived early this morning,” I answered.

  “Welcome to the European theater of operations, Fiona, otherwise known as the ETO,” he replied, looking at my ID with a smile. “Now you know, Red Cross girls can skip the line, even on crazy Friday nights like this.”

  “I didn’t know that, but now we do, thank you,” I said.

  “Time to relax and finally have that drink, ladies. Let’s go,” Blanche said, pushing us all inside with playful shoves.

  More catcalls and wolf whistles met us as we walked through the doors. I looked over at Dottie, and she was already blushing. Viv just smiled and held her head high, winking at a couple of the guys as she passed by just to drive them crazy.

  I caught Frankie rolling her eyes behind Viv’s back, clearly annoyed. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her react that way. I could tell she thought Viv and Blanche were a little too flighty and flirtatious, like they didn’t take our role here seriously enough.

  In the reception area, a dark-haired woman was sitting behind a desk with a stack of paper and some pens. There was a young GI sitting with her, drinking a bottle of Coke. His mouth dropped open when we all walked up.

  “Come in, come in; welcome to Rainbow Corner,” the woman said. “I’m Adele, one of the regular volunteers here. So lovely to see more American girls arriving.” I guessed she was in her midthirties, with warm brown eyes and a kindhearted demeanor.

  We all introduced ourselves, and Adele gave us a brief, well-rehearsed talk about the different areas of the club and the services available.

  “We can get you tickets to a West End show, and we also offer tours of London,” Adele said, and I could tell she was winding down her speech. “Do you have any questions?”

  We all murmured our thanks and said no.

  “I have to help this young man finish his letter to his mother now, but please don’t hesitate to ask me anything at all. Welcome, and thank you for your service.” And then, as we started walking away, she added, “Oh, and you’re in luck. Since it’s Friday, there’s a fantastic band in the dance hall called the Hepcats—you can’t miss them. I plan on heading in later for a dance or two,” she said with a laugh.

  “I want to explore this place,” Frankie said. “Anyone want to come with?”

  “Let’s head in to see the band!” Dottie said, never one to turn down a chance to see live music.

  “Sounds good, Dots,” Viv said. “I need to sit and have a cold drink after that walk.”

  Blanche and Martha agreed to wander with Frankie, while Viv, Dottie, and I followed the sound of swing music. We entered a massive dance hall with high ceilings and cream-colored paneled walls covered with ornate plaster molding. Lights were strung across the width of it, and a crystal ball dangled in the center of the dance floor. There was a bar in the back corner, and the band was on a stage on the opposite side of the room from the entrance. Small tables and chairs were scattered near the walls around the edges of the room. The floor was packed with couples jitterbugging to the Hepcats’ rendition of “Stompin’ at the Savoy.”

  We squeezed our way up to the bar, where most of the men were more than happy to step aside and let us through—compliments, whistles, and “Hey, dolls” coming at us the whole time. Viv smiled and nodded, acting like a movie star responding to her fans. She even blew a kiss to a couple of young soldiers as we walked by, and one of them stumbled back, holding his heart. Dottie put her head down, blushing as red as the frames of her glasses, which only made some of the guys try harder for her attention. I followed behind them, giving the men a friendly smile as I realized I was searching the crowd for a tall blond second lieutenant I would never find there. If Danny were alive and able, he wouldn’t have been at this club tonight anyway.

  “What’s your pleasure, ladies?” the bartender said when we finally made it up to the bar.

  “A gin and tonic and two beers, please,” Viv said.

  “We’ve got warm British beer and cold American Cokes—no gin and tonics here,” the bartender said with a wistful smile. “And the beer is only on Friday and Saturday nights—Red Cross rules.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “To be honest, I don’t think the top brass even know we serve beer at all.”

  “I say, you ladies must be new here,” a deep, British-accented voice called across the bar. We looked over at a—well, there was really no other way to describe him—a dashing man in a British Royal Air Force uniform standing to the right of the bar, holding a beer mug. He was tall, and with his accent, large dark eyes, and thick black hair, all I could think of was Cary Grant. He lifted his mug in a toast. “Welcome to London. So glad they’ve finally sent some more Red Cross girls over here. Can I ask, are there any young men left in your country? Because it seems like all of them are in mine.”

  “Almost all of them are gone. What’s a British officer doing in an American club? Isn’t that against the rules?” Viv said, clinking her glass against his. Dottie and I exchanged furtive glances that said, This guy is a goner. None of them could resist when Viv started flirting.

  “Well, it’s all about friends in high places, isn’t it?” he said with a smile. “I’m Harry Westwood, invited by a few of my new American friends. Where are you all from?”

  “All from Boston,” Viv answered. “I’m Viv; this is Dottie and Fiona.”

  “Viv, like the actress Vivien Leigh?” Harry asked.

  “Like Viviana Occhipinti,” Viv said, giving him that sultry smile that had broken so many hearts.

  “Lovely city, Boston, despite our country’s beastly history there,” Harry said.

  “You’ve actually been there, then?” Viv said.

  “One of my old chums went to Harvard, and I visited him while on holiday one summer,” he said. He looked up and noticed something near the dance hall entrance. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go see someone. Have a jolly good evening, ladies.” He nodded, tipped his glass, and walked into the crowd.

  I looked over at Viv, and I could tell she was mif
fed. No man ever walked away from her charms. No man ever walked away before she did.

  “Well, he left in a hurry,” Viv said, following him with her eyes. “I must be losing my touch. Let’s go find a ‘jolly good’ table.”

  “Do you think he looked like Cary Grant?” Dottie asked when we sat down at a small, wobbly table in the corner of the room. “I kept thinking he looked exactly like Cary Grant.”

  “No way—you’re not losing your touch, Viv,” I said. “I’ve heard the Brits can be very standoffish.”

  “Oh, I don’t really care,” Viv said with a little too much emphasis, lighting up a cigarette and scanning the crowd one last time. “I’ve told you girls, I’m not here to meet my husband. I’m here to see the world. To have an adventure outside of the four square miles of Boston I live and work in. And, you know, actually contribute to the war and all that.”

  “Cheers, girls,” Dottie said, clinking her mug with ours before taking a sip. “I can’t quite believe we’re in London. And listen to this band!” She craned her neck to get a better view of the stage. “Their pianist is amazing; do you hear that? He also happens to be gorgeous. It’s almost enough to make me forget our close encounter with a bomb today.”

  “Almost but not enough,” said Viv. “I’ve still got the jitters.” She elbowed me and added, “So what’s going on, Fiona? Dottie and I noticed you’ve been unusually quiet since we arrived. Are you that upset about the bomb today, or is it because we’re stuck here in Britain? Or is it Danny?”

  “A little bit of all that,” I said, taking a sip of my beer. “But as far as being stuck in Britain, after sleeping on it, I think I know what we need to do.”

  “We?” asked Dottie.

  “We,” I said. “So, in eight days we’re off to the countryside with the rest of the Clubmobilers that just arrived.”

  “Yes. And what’s your grand scheme exactly?” Viv said, looking at me with skepticism.

  “All we have to do, the only thing we really can do, is impress Miss Chambers with our skills,” I said. “We have to be the best Clubmobile trio she has ever laid eyes on. We’ll knock her socks off with our work ethic and our charm. She’ll quickly realize our value and how amazing we are, and we’ll be the first women in our group to be transferred to the Continent. I mean, how hard is this job going to be? We’re college-educated, professional women for God’s sake.”

  “I don’t know, Fiona. I’m not sure it’s going to be as easy as you think,” Viv said.

  “I’m telling you, it’ll be a piece of cake for us,” I said. “And we’re already friends, so we work together well. Although, Dottie, you definitely need to get over your stage fright with the troops. Hellooo, Dottie? Did you hear what I said?”

  Dottie was blushing and looking behind me, where the band had paused for a quick break. I turned around to see a tall man with reddish hair heading to our table. It took me a minute to place his face, and then I remembered him from my sleepless night on the Queen Elizabeth.

  “Joe Brandon, the late-night piano player from the QE! How are you?” I said, standing up to greet him and make introductions.

  “Ah, the Boston girls,” he said. He pulled up a chair and sat down with us, and one of the white-coated members of the Hepcats came up behind him and handed him a bottle of beer.

  “Nice playing there, Brandon,” the band member said. “Don’t tell Bernie, but you’re way better on the keys. You can play with us anytime.”

  “Aw, I doubt that, Wayne,” he said to the man. “But thanks, it was fun.”

  “Wait, that was you up there?” I said as Wayne walked away. “Dottie was just saying that you were amazing, and she knows music better than anyone.”

  I immediately regretted saying it because Dottie was visibly mortified. At least I had left out the part about how she also thought he was gorgeous.

  “What’s a piano player doing in the army?” Viv asked, covering for Dottie, who couldn’t manage to squeak a word out.

  Joe explained how he was captain of the army band of the Twenty-Eighth. He was looking at Dottie when he talked, but she could barely meet his gaze as she took a big gulp of her beer and fiddled with her glasses.

  “Dottie, Fiona told me you play more than one instrument. Is that right?” Joe said, trying to put her at ease with a kind smile.

  “I . . . yes . . . I do,” said Dottie, her voice soft. “Guitar and piano . . . though not nearly as well as you. I also play clarinet, although that’s my least favorite of the three.”

  “What do you like the best?” he asked.

  “I think guitar,” she said with a slow nod. “I brought mine, but I need to work up the nerve to play for the troops. Fiona was just saying that, and she’s right. My usual audience members are under the age of twelve, at the elementary school where I teach music. It’s a . . . it’s just different.”

  “I’m sure the guys will love you. Trust me,” he said, turning her blush up a notch again. “So, what are some of your favorite bands? What type of music do you like best?” Joe asked. Dottie started to relax as she talked about her love of Glenn Miller and the Andrews Sisters.

  They continued to talk about music, their favorite songs and arrangements, different bands they’d seen live in Boston and Chicago. It was like Viv and I weren’t even there. I was somewhat amazed that Dottie was talking to Joe at all. Viv kicked me under the table, and I knew she was thinking the same thing. Back in Boston, Dottie would sometimes excuse herself to the ladies’ room when guys sat down with us at a club, just to avoid talking to them.

  “I’d love to hear you play sometime, Dottie,” Joe said, taking a last swig of beer and getting up from the table. “I’m heading to a pub a couple blocks down to meet up with some friends, so I’ve got to run. Then I’m out in a couple of days, but hopefully I’ll run into you ladies again.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Viv said. “Take care, Joe.”

  “It was really nice chatting with you,” Dottie said, giving him a dimpled smile.

  He paused, cocked his head, and looked at the three of us for a few seconds. “Are all girls from Boston this pretty?”

  “Of course they are,” I said sarcastically, shaking my head. “And yes, I’m sure we’ll see you again. Take care of yourself.”

  When he walked away, Viv leaned over the table, patted Dottie’s hand, and gave her a playful grin. “Well, if you talk to all the soldiers like that one, Dottie, you’re going to be just fine over here. All of our worrying about you will be for nothing.”

  “Viv, it’s only because he’s a music guy,” Dottie said. “Those types are easier to talk to for me.”

  “He’s a handsome guy,” Viv said.

  “Yeah, he is,” I said. “I didn’t really think about it the night I met him on the boat, but he’s good-looking.”

  “And he liked you,” Viv said, nudging Dottie.

  “He did not,” Dottie said, hope in her voice.

  Then I remembered about his girl from home, Mary Jane. Oh shoot. I was about to tell Dottie when the band started up again, this time playing “Moonlight Serenade,” and the crowd erupted in wild cheers. A couple was dancing alone in the middle of the dance floor. It took me a second to realize it was Adele, the Red Cross woman from the front desk, and the dashing Brit Harry Westwood. They were mesmerizing as they waltzed across the dance floor, in perfect sync with the music and each other.

  “Well, I’ll be damned . . . ,” Viv said. “Do you think that’s his—”

  “Girls, what the heck are you doing here in the corner?” Blanche said, barging up to our table. “As soon as they start playing something fun, you are all getting up and dancing. Martha and Frankie are playing pool upstairs with some GIs, but they’ll join us soon.”

  “Okay, Blanche,” I said, as she sat down. “Do you have any idea why they cleared the floor for those two?”

  “Of course I know,” Blanche said, thrilled to share this gossip. “Don’t you know who Adele is?”

  �
��No idea,” Viv said, handing her a cigarette and pointing to Harry Westwood. “Is that her husband?”

  “No, silly, she’s a recent widow,” Blanche said. “She was married to a lord. She’s known over here as Lady Cavendish, but her maiden name is Astaire. As in Fred Astaire. She’s Fred’s sister and his original dance partner.”

  We all gasped in surprise and turned to watch the couple’s final spin around the dance floor. She wasn’t a kid anymore, but she was still a gorgeous dancer. When the music stopped, everyone started clapping and cheering, and Adele and Harry gave a quick bow before the band started up with the tune “Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny, Oh!” and the dance floor flooded with couples.

  Blanche pulled me up by my hand and nodded to Viv and Dottie. “All right, ladies, we’re going to grab some soldiers to jitterbug with and cheer ’em up before they head off to God knows what.”

  I’m not sure if it was the beer or her enthusiasm, but the three of us got up and followed her onto the dance floor, laughing the whole time.

  Chapter Five

  July 22, 1944

  We didn’t get back to our dorms at 103 Park Street until well after midnight, and I collapsed into bed next to Dottie after brushing my teeth, my feet sore from dancing in heels. So many of the officers and GIs at Rainbow Corner had been thrilled to have “real, live American girls” to dance with, and their enthusiasm was infectious. They kept begging us not to go home. For the first time in months, I forgot about everything other than jitterbugging with sweaty soldiers and laughing with my friends.

  Seven the next morning came way too quickly. Dottie and I had to drag Viv, dead asleep and snoring, out of bed to get dressed so we could get to the Red Cross headquarters in Grosvenor Square on time. The air raid sirens started just as we arrived at the front doors.

  “No worries, girls. Today’s forecast is cloudy with just a slight chance of buzz bombs,” I said to Viv and Dottie, trying to hide my nervousness at the sound of the siren as a receptionist directed us to head up the dark mahogany staircase to the training classroom.