by Jane Healey
“We’ll work on all of these things and then some,” I said. “We can do this, Miss Chambers. We’ll prove to you that we’ll be ready for France.” I felt my cheeks burning.
“Well, you talk a good game, but if the Continent is where you want to go, you’ll have to show me,” she said. “Or I’m afraid you’ll spend the war on this side of the channel.”
Chapter Nine
That evening was our final night in London Town, and the blacked-out city was once again alive and hopping with young people partying like it was New Year’s Eve. On the dim streets were groups of soldiers from every Allied country, though once again it appeared the majority of them were Americans. And there were groups of civilian British girls seeking to escape the sad monotony of wartime.
In total, our crew of fifty-two Red Cross Clubmobile girls would be shipping out to our assignments all over the United Kingdom the next morning, but we planned to enjoy our last night in the city we had grown to love during our short stay.
“Girls, try to keep up. We’re almost there,” Viv yelled to me, Frankie, and Martha. She was up ahead with Dottie. About a dozen of us were walking the dark streets to the Paramount Dance Hall on Tottenham Court Road, where Joe Brandon’s band was playing.
“I’ve heard you’re quite the dancer, Martha,” I said. “How’d you learn to dance so well?”
“My church group, believe it or not,” Martha said. “We were looking for a way to raise money, so we started to organize these dances on the first Saturday of the month. It took some convincing to get decent bands to come play in Orange City. But then as word got out, young people from all over started coming—some from an hour or more away, just looking for something to do. So that meant we were able to attract even bigger bands. And then we started jitterbug contests. That’s when I really learned to dance well.”
“Maybe you can give me a few tips tonight. I’m barely good enough to get by,” I said.
“Sure,” Martha said. “I’m hoping Adele Astaire might be here. We could all learn from her.”
“She was amazing,” I said with a nod.
“You know who was also amazing?” Blanche asked, coming up behind us. “That fella she was dancing with that night. He was drop-dead gorgeous. Do you remember him?”
“I do; we had talked to him at the bar,” I said, remembering the dashing British soldier named Harry Westwood who had caught Viv’s eye for a second. “Hey, did any of you get any mail today?”
“Yes, I got a letter from my mother and one from my neighbor,” Martha said.
“I got one from my parents too,” Frankie added.
“Viv got one from her sister, Aria, who’s due to give birth to her third baby any day, and Dottie even got a V-mail from her brother Marco—he’s a navy firefighter stationed in the Pacific,” I said. “But I got nothing in this batch. No news.”
Every time the mail came, I got that tightness in my chest, anxiety I could feel down to my toes. I wanted to get mail, because I was starting to really miss my parents and my sisters, but I dreaded it at the same time because of the ever-looming possibility of bad news.
“I’m not going to tell you not to worry because you still will,” Frankie said. “But I will tell you that I’m happy to sit and read any letters that come your way, like I did on the roof, just so you’re not alone if the news is . . . is about Danny.”
“Me too,” Martha said.
“Just say the word,” Blanche added.
“Thanks, girls,” I said. In the Midlands, Frankie, Martha, and Blanche would be stationed nearby, and we were all happy about that.
We turned one more corner and reached the Paramount Dance Hall, the sidewalk beneath our feet vibrating from the sound of the big band coming from inside.
“Hey, dolls! You girls American Red Cross?” an olive-skinned soldier said as soon as we walked into the club. He was standing with a bunch of his fellow GIs, and they weren’t even trying to hide their admiration, whistling and elbowing each other as they looked us up and down.
“You know it, darling,” Blanche said with a dazzling smile. She looked beautiful; her blonde curls were pulled up on top of her head in an updo, and she was wearing a lovely emerald-green dress with flattering gathers at the shoulders.
“Where’s your uniforms, then?” the soldier asked.
“Last night in town, so we’re allowed to play dress-up,” Blanche replied.
“Last night? You’re breaking my heart,” the soldier said, putting his hands on his chest, his face an exaggerated frown. “Promise me a dance?”
“If you’re lucky.” Blanche winked, and his friends laughed and teased him.
“Jesus, Blanche, enough. Get inside the club already,” Frankie said, annoyed but amused as she gave her a shove.
It felt so good to wear something pretty and be out of uniform for the night. Viv’s dress was a deep teal with an off-the-shoulder neckline, crossover detailing on the bodice, and a dropped waist that flattered every one of her curves. Dottie had a demure cream-colored swing-style dress with navy piping that made her look like the fourth Andrews sister. Martha’s dress was a simple but flattering pink floral print. Frankie was wearing a dress that was black velvet on top with a full hot pink skirt.
And I was wearing my favorite black dress. It had a sweetheart bodice with spaghetti straps underneath a gauzy blouse overlay with cap sleeves. It was cinched at the waist with a black patent leather belt and had a slight fishtailed skirt. I had used a comb with a faux red rose to twist my hair up and to the side in the front; the rest of it fell in waves to my shoulders.
The hall was bathed in a smoky haze, the smell of cheap perfume and cigarettes mingling with the sour odor of stale beer. Joe Brandon had brought more than just a couple of his bandmates. He was up onstage, sweat dripping down his face as he played piano with a ten-instrument ensemble complete with a full horn section. Couples packed the dance floor, laughing and jitterbugging to the band’s fantastic rendition of “Sing, Sing, Sing.”
Miss Chambers’s words were weighing on me, but I had promised Viv and Dottie I would try to relax and have fun on our last night here. I took a deep breath, self-consciously smoothed out my dress, and walked with my friends along the edge of the enormous dance floor. We finally found a couple of tables that we could push together, and a waiter in a white coat immediately came over to take our drink order.
A loud, rambunctious group of British RAFs were drinking pints of amber-colored beer and celebrating a birthday at the tables next to ours.
“He’s really still got a girl at home?” Dottie was looking up at the stage as she asked. Her dark hair fell in soft waves around her face, and there was a wistful look in her eyes. Viv had done her makeup—winged black eyeliner on her lids and bright-red lipstick. She looked stunning but never believed it when we told her.
“I think so, and I’m so sorry you’re disappointed,” I said. “He certainly seemed to be flirting with you.”
“It’s fine,” she said with a sigh and a wave of her hand. She turned away from the stage as the waiter brought our drinks. “Even if he was flirting, it’s not like any of this matters—we’re all going our separate ways.”
“True,” I said.
“Excuse me, I say, ladies, are these soldiers bothering you at all?” Harry Westwood, the RAF officer and Cary Grant look-alike, said. He stood behind Viv’s chair and nodded over to the group of RAF soldiers next to us.
“They’re fine,” Viv said, giving him an amused look that told me she had definitely not forgotten him.
“Oh, it’s Viviana, not Vivien, from Boston,” he said, flashing her a broad smile that made Dottie kick me under the table. “How lovely to see you Red Cross ladies again.”
“You too. I’m sorry, your name again?” Viv asked him, and I rolled my eyes at Frankie and Dottie because I knew she hadn’t forgotten.
“Westwood, mate, come have a pint with us,” one of the soldiers called to him. “Unless you’re too good for our lot
.”
“Not at all,” he said. “But I was hoping to ask Miss Occhipinti for a dance. And my first name is Harry. Shall we?” He put his hand out for her. Viv looked at it and then back up at him. It was like watching a movie unfold, these two gorgeous people, so confident, so used to getting people to do what they wanted.
“Why don’t you have that pint, and I’ll think about it,” Viv said, smiling and giving him a wink. “We just got here. I want to talk with my friends for a bit.”
They locked eyes, and I could tell he was a little put off, but then he laughed and said, “Very well. You think about it, Viviana.”
“Are you crazy?” Blanche batted Viv on the arm after he walked away. “He’s the most gorgeous guy in the joint. What are you waiting for? And besides, this group needs more to talk about. We need some scandals.” Before the Red Cross, Blanche had been a gossip columnist for a New Orleans newspaper, which came as a surprise to exactly no one.
“Viv, he remembered your last name,” I said. “We met him for what, a minute at Rainbow Corner?”
“Honestly, I didn’t even remember your last name,” Frankie said.
“That’s why I know he’ll be back,” Viv said, sipping her gin and tonic. “This is payback for giving me the brush-off last time.” She smiled and winked across the table at Blanche.
“You are crazy,” Blanche said. “But I don’t doubt he’ll be back. That dress is smashing on you, as the Brits say.”
“Thank you, honey,” Viv said, lighting up a cigarette and offering one to Blanche.
I scanned the room, watching the dancing, the crowds of people talking and laughing. For a few hours, we were all pretending there wasn’t a war going on outside the doors. And, once again, I looked for an officer I knew would not be there, and I felt the grief wash over me like a wave.
“I know what you’re thinking about, or rather who you’re thinking about. You get a certain look in your eye,” Dottie said into my ear, patting my hand. “You try so hard to hide it. But it’s okay, you’re among friends. Miss Chambers isn’t within earshot.”
“I’m pathetic,” I said, blinking back tears. “If Miss Chambers saw me right now, she’d send me home. Was I crazy to do this?”
“No, not at all,” Dottie said. “When you told me you wanted to apply, I thought it was so brave. Your bravery made me decide to apply too. Part of the reason I’m doing this is to force myself to come out of my shell. Leaving my little brother and my parents, with Marco already stationed so far away? That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I needed to do this too. For myself.”
“I’m proud of you, Dottie,” I said. “And my saving grace is having you and Viv with me.”
“All right, finished my beer, who wants to go find some soldiers to dance with?” Martha said, slamming her beer glass on the table and jumping up from her chair. “Who’s with me?”
“I’ll come,” Viv said. Blanche got up, as did a few other girls, including a somewhat reluctant Frankie, as well as ChiChi, Doris, and Rosie, a crew from the Clubmobile Dixie Queen that we had gotten to know during our training.
“Wait, where did Harry Westwood go?” I asked, looking over to where he had just been sitting with the RAF officers.
“Missing. Maybe he brushed me off again,” Viv said, acting nonchalant despite the disappointment in her eyes.
Dottie and I sat talking with the Clubmobilers who remained at the table, including Ruthie Spielberg and Helen Walton, two friends from North Dakota who could talk the bark off a tree. As Ruthie was telling a story, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I felt someone watching me. I looked around the hall again and spotted a group of officers sitting in a dark corner on the opposite side of the dance floor. They were drinking beer, their faces serious as they talked quietly. In the middle of the group was Captain Peter Moretti. He was looking right at me.
I got aggravated all over again, recalling our conversation about women in war. I considered ignoring his stare, but I took the high road, waving and giving him a small smile. He just turned and started talking to the blond officer sitting next to him.
“How rude,” I whispered under my breath.
“What?” Dottie asked.
“Hey, Boston girls, how are you?” Joe Brandon came over to our table and greeted us like long-lost friends. “So glad you came. Dottie, you going to join us up there tonight?”
“Never! I don’t know how you do it,” said Dottie with a laugh, her cheeks flushed at the sight of him.
Oh boy. It didn’t matter if he had a girl at home, Dottie was smitten.
“Why aren’t you onstage?” she asked him.
“I had one of my bandmates jump in for me so I could at least grab a beer or a Coke; it’s so hot under the lights up there,” he said, wiping his brow. “You girls want to come to the bar with me?”
“Sure,” Dottie said, grabbing my hand and pulling me up.
At the bar, Joe ordered drinks for the three of us.
“Hey, Joe, have you heard from Mary Jane yet?” I said as he handed us our drinks. He had to come clean. I didn’t want him breaking Dottie’s heart. Joe looked at me and then at Dottie’s face, turning pale.
“I . . . ,” he said, taking a deep breath, nervously wiping his brow again. “Yes, I did yesterday for the first time. She’s getting her classroom ready for the start of school.”
“Your fiancée?” Dottie said.
“No, she’s my girlfriend,” he said in a quiet voice. “Dottie . . .”
They were looking deep into each other’s eyes, and suddenly I was interrupting a private moment.
“I have to find the ladies’ room,” I said. “I’ll be back in a few.”
I made my way through the crowds to the ladies’ room, which was in a narrow hallway near the front doors. There was a line, of course, so I queued up behind a gaggle of British girls who were swooning about some GIs they had just met. One of them was wearing lavender perfume that was so strong it made me gag a little.
“I thought you’d be out on the dance floor with your friends.”
I looked up to see Peter Moretti, who was taking up more than half the narrow hallway with his broad shoulders.
“And I thought you’d wave back when I waved to you across the hall a few minutes ago,” I said with a frown, feeling slighted and still annoyed by our last conversation.
“When did you do that? I didn’t see you,” he said.
“How come I don’t believe you?” I stepped out of my place in line.
That lopsided grin again. “Honest, I didn’t see you.”
“Why aren’t you dancing?” I asked.
“I don’t dance.”
“Ever?”
“Ever,” he said. “I am a—well, I used to be a boxer, so I’m pretty good on my feet . . . but I don’t dance.”
“I heard you were a boxer. Norman is quite a fan.”
“Norman’s a good man.”
There was an awkward silence as the line to the ladies’ room moved up and guys pushed past us to get to the men’s room.
“Well, see you,” he said.
“Yes, I guess I’ll see you in Leicester—or thereabouts,” I replied.
He looked up at the ceiling, sighed, and said, “Yeah, you Red Cross girls are heading there too. They also sent a bunch of you over to Normandy with the troops in July.”
“I’m sure you were thrilled about it,” I said.
“It’s nothing against you girls personally,” he said. “I know I upset you the other day. But I just don’t see the point of putting American women at risk so they can pass out doughnuts. It makes no sense.”
“It’s nothing against us, but you keep insulting my whole reason for being here,” I said. “I know you don’t see the value in it, but we must be doing something right or they wouldn’t keep hiring more of us.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Again, no offense, I just don’t get it. Maybe you just look like you’re helping, and that’s all that matte
rs. Maybe it looks good in pictures for the folks back home.”
I thought of the LIFE magazine shoot, and my face grew hot. Did he know about that?
“I’m not going to try to convince you,” I said and, seeing that the line to the ladies’ room had disappeared, decided to make my exit. “I don’t think I could if I tried. I only hope someday you’ll see our value. See you,” I said and made a beeline for the swinging door of the restroom.
As soon as I walked back into the hall, Martha and Viv pulled me onto the dance floor. The band was playing again, and they had brought up a vocalist, a soldier named Marty. He was no Bing Crosby, but he wasn’t half-bad.
“No more sitting in the corner, Fi,” Viv said, squeezing my elbow. “We’ve got another guy out here that needs a partner.”
“Any sign of Harry Westwood?” I said.
“Nope, disappeared,” Viv said, shrugging. “His loss.”
They introduced me to a fella named Timmy, a tall, skinny guy who didn’t have a dance partner. Joe Brandon was back onstage at the piano, looking sullen. Dottie was laughing and dancing with a GI who didn’t look old enough to shave.
Timmy proved to be a better dancer than he looked, and I actually relaxed and enjoyed myself as he gave me dancing tips and whirled me around the floor. The band had just started another song when Harry Westwood appeared again and rushed up to the stage. He signaled for the band to stop playing, and some of the soldiers in the audience booed. Harry grabbed the microphone and turned to the audience. The look on his face made the booing stop.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the club has to be evacuated immediately,” Harry said, as he looked out across the crowd, calm, serious, and dignified. “It’s too loud in here to hear the sirens outside. We have reports of an unprecedented number of V-1s coming into the city in the next twenty-four hours, and we need to take all the necessary precautions. Please exit the club in an orderly fashion and be cautious getting back to your lodgings. Be safe and God bless.”
There was no panic in the crowd as people downed the last of their drinks, started finding their friends, and filed out of the Paramount. The feeling in the air was one of resignation. The carefree bubble of the club had just burst, and it was time to head back outside to the war.