by Jane Healey
We headed downstairs to catch our ride.
“I love that we can wear actual dresses for a change,” Viv said, twirling around in hers. “I’m so tired of wearing that scratchy blue clown suit every damn day.”
We gave Mrs. Tibbetts kisses on the cheek as we were leaving, promising to tell her all the details when we got home. Jimmy let out a long whistle when we walked out front to meet him.
“You girls look brilliant,” Jimmy said, opening the door to the jeep with a bow. “You’re also looking very well this evenin’, Mrs. Tibbetts.”
“Why, thank you, Jimmy, please come early for tea next time you pick up the girls,” she said.
I noticed Jimmy had taken more care tonight. His hair was slicked back, and his Red Cross uniform was neatly pressed. The biggest surprise was that he appeared to be completely sober. Dottie gave me a wink when we got in the car. Now that we knew about Jimmy’s family, we had a newfound perspective on our often-drunk driver. And we had been trying to do things to boost his spirits, like convince Joe Brandon to get him a ticket for the concert tonight.
“Off we go, then,” he said. “There’s cups and an open bottle of champagne back there for ya. One of the fellas gave it to me; ain’t got a taste for the stuff.”
Viv poured us each a cup and we toasted as Jimmy pulled away from Mrs. Tibbetts’s.
“I cannot wait to see your faces when you find out the surprise,” Dottie said as she took a sip of champagne. “This is going to be such a great night.”
De Montfort Hall was a mile outside the center of Leicester on the edge of Victoria Park and the university. It was a beautiful old white stone building, with a low peaked roof and an impressive entryway flanked by large white columns on either side.
Jimmy dropped us as close as he could to the front and then went to park the jeep. We joined the line of hundreds of soldiers and US Red Cross personnel flowing inside. The excitement and anticipation of the crowd wafted through the chilly autumn air.
“Excuse me, I say, is that Miss Viviana Occhipinti?” said Harry Westwood, who had somehow materialized behind us in line, tapping Viv on the shoulder. “You won’t reply to my letters, so the very least you can do is dance with me tonight.”
“I thought this was US troops only,” she said, teasing him. “What are you doing here?”
“As I have told you before, I have friends in very high places.” He shrugged and pulled out a lighter for her cigarette.
Dottie looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“So you will dance with me, then, won’t you?” he said, looking into her eyes.
“Harry Westwood, I do not even know you,” she said, feigning annoyance, though she was enjoying every minute.
“That’s why I sent you the letters, darling,” he said. “So you could get to know me and I can get to know you. Did you even take a moment to read them?”
“I was too busy,” she said, winking at him.
“Ah, now you definitely owe me a dance. I’m hurt,” he said, clearly amused.
“Is there even a dance floor tonight, Dottie?” I asked. We were finally through the front doors and headed to the main auditorium.
“Oh yes, right in front of the stage,” she said. “We’re sitting on the right-hand side of it.”
“Brilliant,” Harry said, flashing a beautiful smile. “Very well, then, I will come find you, Viviana.” And then he disappeared into the crowd.
“He is really gorgeous, honestly,” Dottie said. “At least dance with him, Viv.”
“You’ve got to admire his persistence,” I said to Viv. “And why didn’t you read his letters?”
“Because I knew it would drive him mad,” she said with a self-satisfied grin “Because look at him. I’m sure he has women all over the UK falling all over themselves to get his attention.”
“But why don’t you at least give him a chance?” I said.
“Maybe I will,” Viv said, and I noticed she looked like she was actually blushing. “It’s that accent that gets me every time he opens his mouth. But then, like Dottie said, everyone is always leaving. What’s the point really?”
“I think the point is to dance with a handsome Englishman and have fun,” I said. “Maybe there doesn’t need to be any other point.”
“Maybe,” Viv said, looking at me, seriously now. “And maybe, Fi? You should think about taking your own advice on that front.”
I was about to ask what exactly she meant by that when we entered the auditorium and let out a collective gasp. It was a gorgeous space, with a curved, wood-paneled ceiling several hundred feet above us and burgundy seats on tiered balconies up to the rafters.
A red velvet curtain hung in front of the enormous stage. At the orchestra level, in front of the stage, was a dance floor with several more rows of seats on either side of it.
I barely recognized Liz Anderson waving us over to our seats. She looked so pretty, wearing a conservative eggplant-colored dress, her bobbed hair styled in shiny curls. We sat down with her and several teams of Clubmobile girls that we hadn’t seen in a while, including Ruthie and Helen, the talkers from North Dakota, and Doris, ChiChi, and Rosie—a notoriously funny Clubmobile crew that we hadn’t seen since London. We all shared stories of our adventures over the past several weeks. I wished once again that Blanche, Frankie, and Martha were still here with us. I missed our happy group of six.
When it looked like the auditorium was nearly filled to capacity, the lights flashed three times and people started clapping and whistling. Dottie was laughing and smiling a huge dimpled smile.
“Dottie, I can’t wait,” I said, hooking arms with her. “This is so exciting.”
The lights in the hallway dimmed, and the audience started clapping as a slight man in a dark-brown suit and bow tie walked in front of the velvet curtain to the center of the stage in front of a large microphone.
“To all of the American soldiers and US Red Cross personnel here tonight, good evening and welcome to De Montfort Hall,” he said. He sounded like one of the broadcasters we listened to on Mrs. Tibbetts’s wireless. “My name is Arthur Kimball, and here in Leicester I’m known as ‘the promotor who brings you the stars.’” He grinned and waited a beat as the audience started clapping again.
“In the interest of military security, we had to keep this concert top secret. Now . . . are you ready to see who’s here to perform a concert tonight in your honor?”
The GIs in the audience started cheering and clapping. “Let’s go!” someone yelled.
“All right, all right!” Arthur Kimball laughed. “Without further ado, introducing Major Glenn Miller and the American Band of the Allied Expeditionary Forces!”
Collective gasps could be heard throughout the hall. A couple of the Clubmobile girls near us actually started to cry tears of joy. Viv and I had our mouths hanging open; we could not believe the most popular bandleader in America had come all the way to Leicester. Dottie looked at us, laughing, enjoying our reaction.
“I told you!” she said. “Amazing, isn’t it? The best surprise. Can you believe he’s actually here?”
The velvet curtain started to rise as the first notes of Miller’s signature hit, “Moonlight Serenade,” rang out. By the time the curtain revealed Miller’s forty-five-piece orchestra, the energy in the auditorium was pure electricity, and the entire audience was on its feet in a standing ovation, clapping and cheering.
Glenn Miller was standing in the middle of the stage, playing his trombone and looking very serious. A good-looking man in his late thirties, he was dressed in his military uniform and wearing the signature round, metal-framed glasses that made him look professorial.
The rest of the band couldn’t hide how delighted they were at the crowd’s reaction. When the song ended, we were all still on our feet, and I could barely hear myself think over the thundering applause.
“It’s an honor to be here to play for you tonight. Thank you for your service,” Glenn Miller said into the microphone at the fr
ont of the stage. “As I’ve said before, America means freedom, and there’s no expression of freedom quite so sincere as music.”
The soldiers were swelling with patriotic enthusiasm as they cheered for the American icon. “Now we’re going to turn it up a notch. Does anyone here know how to jitterbug?”
The crowd roared as the band started to play “One O’Clock Jump.” Soldiers started coming over to our group, asking us to dance, and though I couldn’t jitterbug as well as some of the eighteen-year-old GIs, I had improved thanks to all the dancing I’d done at the camps and some lessons from Martha.
“Come on, Fiona. I know you want to dance.” Tommy Doyle held out his hand to me, and I couldn’t say no.
The dance floor in front of the stage filled up with couples fast, and the celebratory, party atmosphere continued as the band played more of their hit songs.
After dancing with several eager partners, I had to take a break from the hot, crowded dance floor and get a drink at one of the bars just outside the main hall. I noticed Viv was dancing and laughing with Harry Westwood, but I didn’t see Dottie anywhere. I got three cold Cokes and started to make my way back to my seat, where Viv met me and accepted one with gratitude.
“We’re going to take a quick break. Glenn Miller and his band will be back in fifteen,” the emcee said at the end of “In the Mood” as the curtain closed.
“How’s Harry Westwood?” I asked.
“Handsome,” she said. “Can’t deny that. And he has nice hands.” Sweat was dripping down the side of her face, and she was breathless. “And he’s smart, interesting, was a lawyer before the war. Maybe he’s not the wolf I thought he was. Where the heck is Dottie?”
“No idea,” I said, scanning the hall. We drank our Cokes and chatted with some of the girls sitting near us. And then the lights flashed three times, and people started to settle down into their seats.
Arthur Kimball took center stage again and tapped the microphone.
“For our first song in the second half of the show, we’ve got a special treat for you,” he said. “We have a very talented female vocalist who is going to perform. She’s working here as a Red Cross Doughnut Dolly, but once you hear her, I think you’ll agree that she has a music career in her future.”
All the Clubmobile girls were giving each other looks, whispering about who it could possibly be. I clutched Viv’s hand and looked at her.
“Absolutely not possible,” she said, shaking her head.
“No. No way. She would never,” I said.
“A music teacher from her hometown of Boston, Massachusetts,” said emcee Arthur, “introducing . . . Miss Dottie Sousa!”
Our whole Red Cross section jumped out of their seats and started to cheer and clap wildly. Viv and I stood there, staring at the stage and holding on to each other as the curtain rose to reveal our dear, sweet, shy Dottie, looking beautiful in her cream-colored dress, standing in front of a microphone with Glenn Miller’s band.
“What the hell is happening?” I said in Viv’s ear. “And why isn’t she wearing her glasses?”
“Oh my God. Is she drunk? What if she’s drunk?” Viv asked. “I think she had more champagne than we did. Fi, I’m about to throw up.”
“Me too.”
We didn’t even sit down when everyone around us did. We couldn’t. We stood there, paralyzed with worry about what our friend was about to do. I pictured her running off the stage in tears or fainting, and I prayed that she would make it through whatever the heck she was going to do up there.
The audience got quiet, and I saw Joe Brandon, at the piano, give a signal to the band to start. The first notes of the song started up, and Dottie’s cheeks were scarlet as she blinked a couple of times. She looked in the direction of Joe, and he was smiling at her and nodding in encouragement.
“Can she even see him without her glasses?” Viv whispered.
I shook my head.
Dottie began to sing the first few lines of “Someone to Watch Over Me,” and Viv and I, still holding hands, looked at each other in shock. I was dumbfounded. I always knew she had a pretty voice. I heard it when she sang next to me during the sing-alongs. She had sung in the church choir, and she sang for her students all the time. But in all the years we had been friends, I had never heard Dottie really sing, all by herself. As the song continued, her singing got stronger, more confident, less self-conscious. And it took my breath away.
I wasn’t the only one that was awestruck. The audience was enchanted. I glanced at a few of the soldiers sitting near us, and the light from the stage reflected off the tears glistening in their eyes. Her voice was sweet and clear and beautiful, and something about it seemed to take them back home.
Liz and the rest of the Clubmobile girls looked as shocked and as proud as I felt. And Jimmy, who was a few rows behind us, was beaming from ear to ear.
She finished singing, and this time the standing ovation was all for Dottie as the audience, starting with our Clubmobile section, leaped to their feet. Dottie stood there with her hands clasped in front of her mouth, an expression of pure joy and surprise on her face. She couldn’t believe what she had just done. Glenn Miller walked over to her, said a few words, and kissed her hand. Then, holding it up to the audience, he signaled us to give her one more round of applause.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and wiped my eyes. Viv pulled out her handkerchief, crying and laughing.
“Jesus Christ,” Viv said, shaking her head. “I had no idea, did you?”
“I knew she could sing, but not like that.”
“And she’s so damn good, Fiona,” Viv said. “That was amazing.”
“I agree,” I said.
“Thank you to Dottie Sousa for that beautiful performance,” said Arthur the emcee. “Remember that name, folks. Remember that voice. Now we’ll hear from the Army Air Force Band’s male vocalist, Dennis Goodwin.”
Viv and I rushed out of the auditorium and down the hall that ran parallel to it until we finally found the backstage door. Dottie walked out just as we were about to open it. We screamed when we saw her, our voices echoing in the empty hallway as we collapsed into a group hug, jumping up and down. A military policeman was standing nearby, looking annoyed yet amused.
“That was incredible,” I said, when we finally broke away. “Dottie, all these years, I had no idea you could sing like that. I’m so proud of you I could burst.”
“Honey, you are really talented,” Viv said. “I’m not just saying this because you’re one of my best friends. You’re not like local-church-talent-show good; you’re more like Andrews Sisters good. Maybe even better.”
“Thank you,” Dottie said, her cheeks flushed. She was still glistening with sweat from the stage lights. “I was so nervous that I thought I might be sick; the extra glass of champagne helped calm me a little.”
“How did you ever get up the courage to do it?” I said.
“My whole life, I’ve dreamed of doing something like that,” she said. “My students always told me I should. But you know me. I just never thought I’d have the nerve. Then when I cut my hand and messed up observation day . . .”
I started to protest, but she kept talking.
“I know it wasn’t entirely my fault, but it didn’t help, did it?” she said. “Anyway, I’ve been trying to play for the troops more, do things that will improve our standing in Miss Chambers’s eyes. And when Joe told me there was going to be a secret concert with a big band, I got the idea. I sang for him with my guitar, and he was blown away when he heard me. He helped me make it happen. And something like this has to get back to Miss Chambers in London, right? Nothing improves soldiers’ morale like music from home.”
“So, wait, Joe convinced the Glenn Miller Band to let you sing?” I said.
“He did,” she said. “He said with a voice like mine it wouldn’t take much convincing. So, when they got here I sang for the band, and the guys went crazy. Glenn Miller is a serious man, very hardworking. But he w
as really happy to have me. Just now onstage, he said I have a future in music if I want it. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to brag.”
“You sang with Glenn Miller—brag all you want, my friend,” Viv said, putting her arm around Dottie.
We headed to one of the bars to get drinks and celebrate Dottie’s solo singing debut. The band started playing a slow song, and Harry Westwood came out of the auditorium, his eyes scanning the bar area for Viv. When he spotted her, he came over and offered her his hand.
“Night’s almost over. I think we should have at least one more dance, don’t you?” he said to her.
“Do you?” she said, looking at his hand like she might say no. But then she put down her glass of Coke and took it. He looked relieved.
“You were marvelous, Dottie,” he said, and she thanked him before they walked away.
“What’s going on with him now?” she said.
“With Viv, who knows?” I said. “She likes the attention, not to mention the British accent.”
“Speaking of attention,” Dottie whispered, taking a sip from her straw and signaling with her eyes that there was someone behind me.
I turned around and nearly bumped into Peter Moretti.
“Oh,” I said, startled. It was the first time I had seen him since the night I ran out of petrol. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said in a quiet voice, no smile. His hair had been recently cut, and I could smell his cologne, the same one he’d been wearing the last time I saw him. Pine trees and cedarwood.
“Would you like to dance?” he said.
“I thought you didn’t dance.”
“I don’t,” he said. “But it’s my favorite song, and it’s Glenn Miller live, so I thought—” He now looked like he regretted asking me, so I interrupted him.
“You’re right,” I said with a nod. “Let’s dance.”
Peter congratulated Dottie, and I kissed her on the cheek. She gave me a curious look, just as Liz and some of the other Clubmobile girls came over and mobbed her with hugs.
I was flustered, so I’m not sure who took whose hand first, but we were holding hands as we walked onto the dance floor. I couldn’t deny that warm butterfly feeling in my chest and the thrill I felt that my hand was in his. And then almost at the same time came the crush of guilt.