The Beantown Girls

by Jane Healey

  Our bedroom was on the second floor, a long and narrow room with a slanted ceiling and three single beds in a row. It was her sons’ room—all three of them were away in the war, one in Italy, two in the Pacific.

  Dottie was already awake and standing by the window, where she had removed the blackout curtain. “Come see, Fiona.”

  We hadn’t been able to see a thing when we arrived the night before. That morning the English countryside was breathtaking and such a contrast from London. There was a garden divided by a winding path—it was in full bloom, bursting with orange daisies, purple foxgloves, and pale-pink geraniums. Beyond the garden were rolling hills of various shades of green, spotted with herds of sheep. In the distance you could see a pond with some white geese lazily floating on the surface.

  I opened the window and took a deep breath of the fresh country air.

  “This is lovely,” I said. “Like out of a Jane Austen novel.”

  “Isn’t it?” Dottie said with a smile. “I think we’ve got to wake Princess V.” She gently shook Viv, who just grumbled and rolled over.

  “Hello? Hello, good morning!” Mrs. Tibbetts knocked on our door and peeked in. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, pulling her head back. “I didn’t realize you weren’t dressed.”

  “It’s fine, Mrs. Tibbetts,” I said, stepping into the hallway in my pajamas and smoothing out my hair. “Good morning.”

  “Did you sleep well, dear?” she asked, hope in her voice. She was shorter than me, with light-blue eyes and brown hair streaked with gray. She had a round face and a very pretty smile.

  “Yes, I did,” I said. “Your home is beautiful. Thank you for letting us stay here.”

  “It’s no trouble,” she said in a lilting accent that was different than Jimmy’s, though I couldn’t identify exactly how. “And I’m happy to have the company. It’s been too quiet with just me and the animals. I’ve started talking to them, for goodness’ sake.” She laughed. “There’s tea and breakfast downstairs.”

  She smiled and patted my shoulder before turning to go. “And Jimmy will take you to Granby Street when you’re ready to go.”

  “Jimmy’s already here?” I said.

  “Jimmy never left,” she said. “He was in no shape to drive a minute longer, so I got him some blankets and he slept on the sofa.”

  “That was smart,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Not a worry. I’ll see you downstairs.”

  I walked back into the bedroom to get dressed, put on some lipstick, and brush my hair. I was surprised to see Viv and Dottie almost ready to go.

  “Please tell me she didn’t say tea,” Viv said, her voice even raspier than normal. “I need a strong cup of coffee, or I’m going to kill myself. Damn that rooster.”

  “I do prefer roosters to air raid sirens,” Dottie said.

  “We can get some coffee at the Red Cross club,” I said. “We should go. Liz Anderson is meeting us there at nine to give us our assignments.”

  “Well, at least I have this pale-peach nail polish now, so when it chips into the batter, the soldiers won’t be able to see it in their doughnuts,” Viv said.

  “You could actually not wear polish, Viv,” Dottie said. “Nail polish chips in doughnuts is disgusting.”

  “Not wear any? Never,” Viv said in mock horror.

  I adjusted my hat and looked at the three of us in our battle dress uniforms.

  “We look official,” I said.

  “I still think we look like we’re wearing clown suits,” Viv said.

  “Oh shush, Viv.” Dottie swatted her.

  I laughed, and then felt myself getting a little emotional. “Thank you both,” I said in a soft voice, looking at my two best friends. “For getting me this far. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “We’ve got a lot farther to go, Fi,” Dottie said. “But you’re welcome.”

  “All right, all right,” Viv said, waving her hand in the air and heading out the door. “You don’t really need to thank us, but whatever, you’re welcome. Now can we please go find some American coffee?”

  After a breakfast of Mrs. Tibbetts’s own farm-fresh eggs, a fried tomato, mushrooms, and toast, a quiet and sober Jimmy and his very vocal cat Vera drove us through the English countryside, past bursts of flowers and clipped hedges, past villages that looked straight out of a children’s fairy tale. As we got closer to Leicester, it was clear that this part of England had not been spared the horrors of war. Buildings had been bombed out and had yet to be replaced, and the rubble had been cleared in some places, but the damage was still shocking. Jimmy explained that, like London, Leicester had suffered its own devastating damage from German air raids in late 1940.

  Throughout the city, lampposts and curb stones had been painted with thick white stripes to help drivers navigate during the blackouts. I thought of Jimmy driving us the night before in that inky blackness, barely sober and with very little to rely on but his tiny headlights and the occasional marker. I’m not sure how he did it, but I was grateful.

  Jimmy dropped us off and went to gas up the Clubmobile, and Liz Anderson met us at the front entrance of the Red Cross Service Club on Granby Street. To Viv’s relief, she led us immediately to the dining hall to get steaming mugs of coffee.

  “Now, which one of you is going to be captain?” Liz asked as we sat down at a table. She had a folder in front of her with Cheyenne written on the tab.

  “Sorry, we haven’t even discussed it yet,” I said, a little embarrassed.

  “We have actually,” Viv said, pointing at Dottie and herself. “Fiona’s captain, no question. Of the three of us, she’s perfect for the job.”

  “Yup, Viv’s right,” said Dottie. “She ran the mayor’s office in Boston; she’s super organized. We nominate Fiona.”

  “Nice of you two to tell me ahead of time,” I said, annoyed.

  “Oh please, Fi, if one of us had the job, you’d end up with it anyway,” Viv said.

  “It’s true,” Dottie said.

  Liz looked at the three of us, amused, as I paused to consider.

  “No. What I know is that neither of you wants the job, and you’re trying to flatter me into taking it,” I said, giving them an exaggerated grimace. “Fine. I’ll take it.”

  Liz gave me a quick refresher on the captain’s duties we had reviewed in training, which included tedious tasks like making sure Jimmy kept the Cheyenne gassed up and running properly and keeping a weekly log of how many doughnuts we made and packs of cigarettes we dispensed.

  “Okay, now to the good stuff.” Liz pulled another sheet out of the folder. “Leicester is centrally located near several army installations. Each day of the week, you’ll be assigned two or three locations. In the mornings, Jimmy will pick you up at Mrs. Tibbetts’s and bring you here to the yard, where we keep the Clubmobiles—a.k.a. ‘Doughnut Alley.’ We have electrical hookups back there so you can make some of the doughnuts before you even get on the road.

  “Now, since it’s your first day, I was going to only assign you one camp instead of two, but I’m short-staffed and promised I’d get a crew to Huntingdon this evening. You up for it?”

  Dottie and Viv and I looked at each other, the reality of it all making us nervous.

  “Sure. Trial by fire, right?” I said.

  “Great,” Liz said. She looked at us, searching for words. “Finally, I wanted to mention, you aren’t Miss Chambers’s favorite Clubmobile group . . .”

  “You’ve got that right,” Viv said with a snicker.

  “But you’re going to be just fine,” she said, giving us a reassuring smile. “Besides, you could serve them coffee grounds and stale dog biscuits, and they’d still be thrilled to see American girls.”

  Liz came with us, and we met Jimmy back at the Cheyenne in Doughnut Alley, where the air was thick with the now-familiar, cloyingly sweet smell of doughnuts and grease.

  “Okay, I think you’re all set,” she said. “We had to hire some local women to com
e here to headquarters early in the morning to help supplement your own doughnut making, so you’ve already got several dozen to get you started. Jimmy did you load everything up?”

  “Ya, I did, Miss Liz,” he said. He was sitting in the front seat, smoking a cigarette. “Time to go.”

  “Major Bill O’Brien is your army liaison. He’ll meet you at the first base to help you get situated,” Liz said, handing off the paperwork. “If you run into any problems, he’s your man.”

  “Liz, would it be possible to get some paints?” Viv asked, running her hand across the side of the Cheyenne. “I’d like to spruce this baby up.”

  “I think we can arrange that,” Liz said, pleased at the idea.

  We thanked Liz and said our good-byes. As we were pulling away, I called to her, and Jimmy stopped the Cheyenne, grunting his annoyance.

  “Do you know when we’re going to get another batch of mail?” I asked.

  “I’m hoping by the end of the week,” she said. “If I have any for you three, I’ll drop it at Mrs. Tibbetts’s.”

  “No news is good news, right?” Dottie said, trying to reassure me as we pulled away.

  “I guess,” I said. “I’ve only received that one letter from my sisters since we left the States.”

  “We’ll be busy enough to keep your mind off any news,” Viv said. “Although I think two stops on our very first day is way too much, frankly.”

  “What news you waitin’ on?” Jimmy asked. He was quiet for a moment after I told him about Danny, but then he said with a nod, “Ah, well, hope you hear somethin’ good soon.”

  “Thanks,” I said quietly. I looked out the window at the blue skies and green rolling hills, the hedges and the flowers, wondering for the millionth time, Where are you, Danny? Are you anywhere anymore?

  Our first stop was a half hour outside of Leicester, so we had Jimmy pull over, and then we climbed in back to prepare for our big debut. You had to hand it to Harvey Gibson—the interior design was impressive. The Cheyenne’s compact kitchen included the doughnut machine, six coffee urns, and a stainless steel sink. There were space-saving drawers and cabinets for pots, pans, and utensils. There was a compartment with a Victrola that was hooked up to a loudspeaker and another compartment that held our record collection.

  Dottie put a Bing Crosby record on the Victrola, and Viv was fixing her hair and lipstick, so I elbowed her to help me with the coffee urns.

  “We’re here, ladies,” Jimmy said as we approached a virtual city of army tents. We pushed the two trap doors on the side of the truck up and out to create our serving counters. When we got closer, we spotted an officer in a jeep waving at us.

  “Major Bill O’Brien?” I asked, leaning out the window as Jimmy pulled up beside him.

  “At your service,” he said. “The boys from the Eighty-Second are going to be happy to see you three. Where y’all from?” He was of average height with strong, rough-hewn features and a thick drawl.

  I made the introductions.

  “Yankee girls, eh?” he said, smiling. “We’ve got at least a few GIs from around Boston. I’m from Boerne, Texas, myself. Follow me, I’ll show you where to hook up for water.”

  Jimmy drove behind Major Bill into the dusty tent city, and my stomach did a little flip.

  “All right, ladies, this is what we came here for. Put on your ugly aprons. It’s showtime,” Viv said, handing us each one.

  “Ready, Dottie?” I asked, squeezing her hand.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, chewing on her hair, her cheeks bright red.

  “Promise me you’ll play one song on the guitar?” I said, thinking of Miss Chambers’s warning. “Just one, please?”

  “Yes, you have to, Dottie, at least one,” Viv said.

  “Okay.” Dottie sighed. “I think I can manage that without dying of embarrassment.”

  We leaned out of the Cheyenne and started waving and smiling. GIs peeked out from tents and looked up from cleaning their guns or shaving over water-filled helmets, then cheered when we passed. A couple of mangy-looking dogs started chasing after us. We went by a small muddy field, where a group of men was playing a game of pickup football, shirts versus skins. Viv whistled at them, and they went crazy.

  Major Bill pulled his jeep up to the electrical hookup, and we parked right next to him. There were already men swarming the Clubmobile, waving their canteen cups in the air. One of them climbed onto the back and walked in.

  “Hey, can I help?” the GI said. “I helped the last Clubmobile girls that were here.”

  “Sure,” Viv said, handing him a tin of cream to open and stir into the coffee urn. “What’s your name, soldier? Where you from?”

  “I’m Private Edward Landon from Mesa, Arizona.” He was a stocky, blond-haired boy who couldn’t have been older than eighteen.

  “Can you help us make some doughnuts for the next stop?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he said with a huge smile, so thrilled that we had taken him up on his offer. “I learned how with the Daniel Boone crew, before they left for France.”

  Viv turned on the Victrola and started blasting “Paper Doll” by the Mills Brothers over the speakers, and the soldiers cheered in delight. Dottie and I were on doughnut duty, handing out two apiece, while Viv and our new friend Edward started filling coffee cups. There had to be over a hundred soldiers surrounding the Cheyenne. Each conversation started out the same: “Hey, soldier, where you from?”

  “I’m from Queens, New York,” said a blue-eyed, black-haired soldier named Patrick Halloran, “but my buddy Tommy Doyle is from Boston. Hey, Tommy! Come over here, these girls are from Boston.”

  “No way. What part?” Tommy said, running over, an urgency in his voice. He looked more Italian than Irish. He had an olive complexion and deep-set brown eyes, a dimple in his right cheek.

  “Charlestown,” I said, smiling and handing him two doughnuts. “You?”

  “Southie,” he said. “You look like you’re around my sister’s age. Her name is Bridget Doyle.”

  “Hmm,” Viv said. “Don’t think I know her, but if she’s as pretty as you are handsome, I bet she’s popular.”

  This brought a roar from the crowd, and Tommy blushed, shaking his head.

  “Come on in, Boston Tommy, and help us get these huge cans of lard off the floor,” Viv said with a wink.

  “Sure!” Tommy said.

  Tommy rushed inside, pushing past another young soldier that I hadn’t noticed. He was tall, standing at the back of the truck almost hunched over, with his helmet on and his carbine strapped to his back, looking at us all shyly.

  “What’s your name, hon?” I said.

  “Sam. Sam Katz, I’m from Scranton, Pennsylvania,” he said. He had a pale complexion and a distinct cleft in his chin. “It’s so nice to see you gals.”

  “Well, Sam from Pennsylvania, would you like to help us pick some records for the record player, maybe pass out some candy?” I asked him.

  “I sure would,” he said, his face lighting up as he took off his helmet, revealing dirty-blond hair. “I’ll help you gals with anything. Hey, a cat! What’s your name, kitty?”

  “That’s Vera Lynn,” I said. She was curled up on top of the record cabinet.

  “You can put your gun down; I promise you don’t need it to play records,” I said, teasing.

  His face got very serious, and he gripped the carbine on his back. “I . . . since our last, I’ve got to have it with me,” he said, stuttering. “I, I know we’re in safer territory, but . . . if you don’t want me in here with it . . .”

  “No, no, it’s perfectly fine, really,” I said, putting my hand on his arm. “Whatever you need to do, it’s fine. How about putting on some Glenn Miller?”

  I felt him relax as he let out a deep breath and nodded. Vera jumped down and rubbed up against him, and the two of them started going through our limited record collection.

  After he was done with that, I handed him some gum, boxes of cigar
ettes, and packs of Life Savers and told him to pass them out to everyone waiting in line. I put another young GI in charge of the “guestbook,” the state registry where GIs could sign their name and where they were from, so when we visited other units, soldiers could look through for friends from home.

  This happy chaos went on for three hours as Tommy and Patrick helped us keep the six-and-a-half-gallon coffee urns full. When the doughnut machine was finally heated up, Edward from Mesa assisted us in mixing the eighteen pounds of doughnut flour with ten pounds of water. Our helpers were eager but not neat—the coffee, flour, water, and grease splashed all over our tiny kitchen, making a gooey mess, mucking up the floor and dripping down the cabinets, and soon everything stank of fried doughnuts. The boys loved the smell, but Viv, Dottie, and I were nauseated by it.

  “Eau du Doughnut,” Viv said as we finished making over five hundred doughnuts for the next stop. “I’ll never get this smell out of my clothes.”

  “Got to leave at half past,” Jimmy announced from the front seat at three o’clock.

  “Okay, I think we’re almost done here,” I said. “Dottie, one song?”

  Dottie looked at her guitar resting against the doughnut racks.

  “You play?” Tommy asked. “Please play a song. The guys will go crazy.” He held his hands in prayer and was about to get down on his knees.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, all right,” Dottie said, grabbing her guitar.

  We turned off the music and the crowd started to boo. Viv put her hand to her mouth and whistled for quiet. One of the GIs cupped his hands and said, “Anything for you, gorgeous!”

  “We’ve got a treat for you all before we go,” Viv said. “Dottie Sousa is a fantastic musician, and she’s going to play a song on her guitar for you.” Dottie put her guitar strap over her shoulder and stepped up to the window next to Viv, and everyone started clapping.

  I stood next to her on the other side.