by Jane Healey
You’re still engaged. He’s missing, but as long as he might be alive, you’re still engaged to the only guy you’ve ever loved.
I’d had crushes in high school, but Danny was the only man that I had ever been truly in love with. I didn’t know it was possible that your heart could ache for one person and feel something toward another. My life had never been that complicated.
We faced each other to dance, and he noticed my far-off look as he put his arms around my waist.
“Are you okay?” he asked, as I put my arms around his neck.
“Yes, of course,” I said, giving him a small smile, and I felt him relax. I prayed he couldn’t hear my heart beating. “I wouldn’t have guessed ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ as your favorite song.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he said, flashing his crooked smile.
“That is true,” I said. “Maybe I should learn more. After the war is over, are you going to go back to boxing?”
“‘After the war is over’ is a lifetime away,” he said. “But no, I won’t go back to boxing. I went into boxing because I was a poor kid from the Bronx, and I was good at it and could make good money. Now I’m twenty-seven years old, and it’s a young man’s sport. I’ll finish my degree if this war ever ends—for free, thanks to the army.”
“What degree is that?”
“Mechanical engineering,” he said, watching me for a reaction.
“You’re right,” I said, a little surprised. “I don’t know much about you at all.”
He was gazing into my eyes. It was that feeling I thought I might never feel again. A feeling like you’re the only two people in the room. I looked away first, feeling guilt over what I wanted to happen next between us.
“What about you, what are you going to do after?” he said.
“I have no idea.” I sighed. “I feel uneasy, not knowing.”
“I think we’re all feeling that way,” he said.
We stopped talking but kept dancing, and then relaxed into each other. I tried not to think and to just enjoy the moment, but my thoughts kept getting in the way.
“Do you know when you ship out?” I asked.
“I do, but I can’t say,” he said. The song was almost over, and he grabbed my hand and started pulling me off the dance floor.
“Wait, where are we going?” I asked.
“For a walk,” he said. “To get some fresh air. And talk.”
I saw Viv with Harry, and she gave me a look that said there would be questions later.
Victoria Park was quiet and chilly, and a few other couples were walking the grounds or sitting on park benches. But we were just two people; we weren’t a couple at all.
We walked side by side. He took his jacket off and put it around my shoulders, his arms lingering around me for a few seconds.
“That night at the Paramount?” he said, his voice quiet. “When you waved at me across the hall? I did see you. You looked so beautiful. Just like tonight, your hair with the flower in it, that dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And when you caught me, I was so embarrassed I pretended not to see you. It was stupid. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I said. He thinks I’m beautiful.
“I did send a note to my friend in the IRC,” he said, pausing before adding, “I haven’t heard anything back yet.”
“Thank you for reaching out,” I said, feeling several kinds of guilty now, so much so that my stomach was churning. He was quiet for a minute as we continued to walk. He went to reach for my hand, but then he hesitated.
“Fiona, why didn’t you tell me that Danny Barker is your fiancé?” I stopped walking and faced him. He leaned into me and looked into my eyes again. “Why?”
I wasn’t sure how he’d found out. It could have been from anyone. The only person I had kept it a secret from was him.
“I’m sorry. I’ve asked myself that same question, because I never lie,” I said. “I think it’s because I just wanted to be Fiona Denning to you. I didn’t want to tell you my sad story because I didn’t want you to look at me with pity. I’m so sorry.”
“Is that the only reason?” he said, grabbing the tips of my fingers.
“Peter,” I said, taking his other hand before I even knew what I was doing. “You have to understand, I had my whole life planned . . . If someone had told me a year ago that tonight I’d be dancing with an army captain at a secret Glenn Miller concert in the middle of England, I would have said they were insane.
“I came here after I found out Danny was missing, because all I knew was that I had to get out of town and do something. People looked at me like my life was over at twenty-five years old. I know my fiancé is either in a POW camp or . . . or dead. I need to try to find out what happened to him, and I will accept and deal with the news when I get it. But no matter what happens, my life isn’t over. And . . . that’s my story of how I ended up here.”
“Okay,” he said. “But you still didn’t answer my question. Did you not tell me Danny Barker was your fiancé because you didn’t want my pity, or because of the way you’re feeling, standing here, holding my hands right now?”
I started to speak, but I couldn’t get the words out. To admit I had feelings for him was to betray Danny, or the idea of Danny at least. I was beginning to have trouble remembering Danny the person.
Peter was watching the emotions cross my face as he put his hand on my cheek. He leaned down like he might kiss me on the lips. And I found myself wanting to kiss him back so much that it hurt. I wanted to surrender to that dizzy, elated first-kiss feeling, the kind that you relive for days after it happens. But instead I pulled away from him and took a small step back.
“I’m a mess,” I said, looking up at him. “I’m so sorry. You’re not wrong. About why I didn’t tell you. But . . .”
“That’s all I need to know. Please don’t apologize,” he said, a small smile on his face now, but there was disappointment in his eyes as he reached out and put his hand on my cheek again. It would have been so easy to just melt into him then. But it didn’t feel right, even if I was only being loyal to a ghost.
“Thank you for asking your friend,” I said. “I feel an obligation to find out what happened. If he’s alive? I need to find him. I owe him that. I hope you understand.”
“I do,” he said. “I would do the same thing.”
“I think you would,” I said.
“And I promise I will send you a letter if I hear anything at all from my friend about what POW camp he’s in, or anything else.”
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said, “for saying yes when I asked you to dance. The memory of this night? It’s going to help me get through all the dark nights that are coming.”
He reached out and put his arm around my shoulders, and it made me feel so warm and content I couldn’t even pretend to protest. We walked back to De Montfort Hall like that, and I knew that the memory of this night would stay with me too.
Chapter Sixteen
September 11, 1944
The Monday after the dance found us back at one of our favorite camps, the one we had visited on our very first day. As we served doughnuts and caught up with some of the soldiers we hadn’t seen in a little while, you could feel a change in the atmosphere. Many of the men looked anxious, especially the younger ones, and the laughs didn’t come as easily. There was a frenetic amount of activity as officers and GIs checked maps and equipment and rushed around attending briefings.
“Hey, Fiona, I need to ask you a favor,” Boston Tommy said as I handed him a cup of coffee shortly after we arrived.
“Sure, hon, what can I do for you?” I asked.
He looked at the line of men behind him and said in a soft voice, “It’s kinda personal. Can you take a minute?”
I nodded and told Viv and Dottie and our Victrola helper, Sam Katz, that I’d be right back.
“What is it?” I asked when I stepped outsid
e the Clubmobile and we were out of earshot of his friends.
“This is the address for my mom and dad,” he said, handing me an envelope. He looked so serious, which wasn’t like him.
“Okay, do you need me to mail a letter for you? I’m happy to. Is that all?”
“Fiona, I want you to write my mom a letter if I don’t make it,” he said. “Tell her about our life here for me, because I’m not such a good writer. Her name’s Eileen. She’s a really good cook. And I should have told her that more, you know? I loved her stew and her breads, and I should have told her. I miss her and my pops. God, I miss them so much.”
“Tommy I . . . ,” I began. “You’ve got to think positive; you shouldn’t be thinking like that.”
“No, that’s exactly the way I should be thinking,” he said. “We’re jumping straight into enemy territory, our fourth combat jump. I jumped into Normandy on June 5 and came out of there on a stretcher. I spent two days on one of those Red Cross boats and five in the hospital. It’s a goddamn miracle I made it through.”
He lowered his voice even more. “And this jump? It’s going to be bad, I can tell. You can see it on the officers’ faces. No time to plan. We’re not ready.”
I felt sick to my stomach and prayed he was wrong.
“I will keep the address, but I’m sure I won’t have to send her a letter,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “We’ll see you over there soon.”
“You girls are the best. It’s like having older sisters around,” he said with a smile. His Boston accent coming through strong at the end with “oldah sistahs.”
I tucked the address in my pocket and gave him a tight hug. “I’ve got to help Viv and Dottie before they kill me. I hope I’ll see you again this week before you all go.”
When I got back into the Cheyenne, Sam was gone, but Liz was there with some additional supplies for us. Vera was already curled up, sleeping on the fifty-pound bag of doughnut flour that Liz had brought in.
“It’s happening this weekend. They’re sending thousands of troops into Holland, including the Eighty-Second,” Liz said. “They’re shipping out to the airfields on Friday, and I want the Cheyenne to follow them, go from field to field. I’ll send a supply truck with you. You’ll be sleeping in the Cheyenne, unless any of the RAF bases have beds. It’s going to be a little rough, but if ever they needed some support, it would be now. You up for it?”
“Of course,” I said, feeling sick again at her confirmation. I hoped that I would get to say good-bye to Peter before he left, and then I felt a pang of guilt for hoping.
“I can’t believe they’re all leaving,” Dottie said after Liz left. She was checking her guitar, getting ready to play a few songs before we headed to the next camp. She had become a sensation since the concert. On Sunday, when we had taken a trip into Leicester, soldiers kept stopping her and begging her to sing for them right in the middle of the street.
“I can’t believe that we’re not,” Viv said. “What are we going to do with so many of them gone? Sit around with Mrs. Tibbetts and her petting zoo, twiddling our thumbs?”
“Is Joe shipping out, Dottie?” I asked.
“Yes, to join the rest of the Twenty-Eighth on the Continent,” she said. “Though he couldn’t tell me details. What he did for me on Saturday night? I’ll never be able to thank him enough for that, and for his friendship,” she said, still trying to convince herself that was enough.
“Now, while we’re cleaning up this mess and don’t have soldiers crawling all over this thing, you need to come clean, Fiona,” Viv said. “What happened with Peter Moretti Saturday night?”
I had been dodging their questions, not ready to talk about it, though I had been thinking about him ever since. I wanted to tell my friends, but I had been almost afraid to acknowledge how I felt, even to them.
“All right, here’s what happened . . . ,” I said, and I told them every single detail of the evening, including how I felt then, how I was still feeling. When I was finished, I looked up at Viv and then at Dottie. My face was red from talking about it all. I realized they had both stopped what they were doing and were just looking at me.
“For the record, I didn’t tell him about the fiancé part,” Viv said. “I swear.”
“Me either,” said Dottie.
“I didn’t think you did. It could have been anyone,” I said.
“Fiona, it’s okay, you know,” Dottie said, coming over and sitting next to me on the floor where I had been scrubbing grease from it. “You need to forgive yourself for having feelings for him. You’re human, and let’s face it, we’re surrounded by men all the time in this odd life we’re living here. Also, Peter Moretti seems like a very decent guy.”
“I agree with Dots, one hundred percent,” said Viv. “As I’ve said, everyone is coming and going over here; no one knows what’s going to happen after all this. Don’t be so hard on yourself for having a life. Frankly, I think it’s about time.”
“Yes, but I keep thinking, what if Danny’s still alive? I feel like it’s such a betrayal.”
“If he’s still alive, he would understand,” Dottie said, patting my arm.
“The Danny Barker I know definitely would,” Viv said. “Please stop beating yourself up, for the love of God.”
“Hey, where’s the famous singer Dottie Sousa?” Eddie Landon banged on the Cheyenne’s window and made us all jump. “We’re ready for some singing.”
“Showtime,” I said, as I helped her off the floor.
Dottie grabbed her guitar and started to play to loud cheers as I began cleaning again, thinking about the conversation, relieved that it was over. I wanted to accept what they were telling me so badly, that Danny would understand, that it was okay to have feelings for someone else. But then I would think of the possibility that he was in a POW camp somewhere, depressed and miserable, and the feelings of guilt and betrayal would bubble up all over again.
Maybe it was better if I didn’t say good-bye to Peter Moretti. Maybe it was for the best if I never saw him again. It would make things simpler. Wouldn’t it? But just the thought of never seeing him again made my heart ache. I knew, almost despite myself, that I would do everything I could to try to find him that weekend, to at least say good-bye, possibly for the last time.
On the following Saturday afternoon, we were sitting outside enjoying the sun and a cup of tea in Mrs. Tibbetts’s garden as we waited for Jimmy to pick us up for our long stretch of work, hitting all the air bases before the troops took off for Holland. We heard a jeep coming down the road and thought it was him, but Mrs. Tibbetts came back into the garden with Joe instead. Baby the goat followed behind them, bleating at Joe in judgment.
“I’ll go get the teapot,” Mrs. Tibbetts said, taking her time on her walk to the kitchen.
Joe looked disheveled with dark circles under his eyes. He was gripping an unsealed envelope. Dottie put her cup down and stood up, looking at the envelope in his hand. Viv glanced at me with raised eyebrows and kept sipping her tea.
“Dottie,” he said. “Can we talk?”
“Yes, we can talk right here,” Dottie said. “We’re leaving any second. Jimmy is picking us up. We’ll be gone for a couple days.”
“I know. I’m leaving today for the Continent, heading to Southampton in a little while. And I had to show you this before I left. It’s a letter to Mary Jane. You can read it if you want. It’s the one . . . it’s the one that I should have written the moment Fiona introduced us in London. And I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that. I’ve been so stupid. I told Fiona on the ship, all this time I expected to get a Dear John letter from her, breaking up with me. The truth is, we’d been growing apart even before I left. And I’ve been waiting for that letter to come. And I don’t know why I’ve been waiting for it, because I’ve been wanting to end it since the day I met you.
“I’m in love with you, Dottie. I’m not sure how you feel now, after I behaved so disrespectfully at first but . . . oh, no, don’t cr
y . . .”
He walked over and put his arms around her in a hug, leaning down to kiss her on the lips. I caught Mrs. Tibbetts watching from the kitchen window, smiling and clasping her hands together. I grabbed Viv by the elbow and pulled her up.
“We’ll give you two a moment alone,” I said, giving Viv a look. As a reminder to Dottie, I added, “Jimmy will be here soon.”
They didn’t hear a word.
A short while after Dottie bid a sad good-bye to Joe, Jimmy picked us up in the Cheyenne. We were accompanied by a military police escort and Major Bill, who was driving a two-ton truck of supplies behind us. Our caravan drove all night through the silent villages of Lincolnshire, trying to reach as many soldiers in as many airfields as we could before they all departed. We had decided that we could sleep when they were gone.
Just before sunrise, we reached the airfield at Folkingham and parked right near the hangars where the C-47s, the military transport planes, were warming up. It was that pitch darkness right before any hint of dawn, and a cold wind was whipping across the field.
The soldiers were walking around loaded down with their equipment. Some of them were jumping or jogging, trying to stay warm and psych themselves up. I saw Patrick Halloran holding tight to the Saint Christopher medal around his neck and quietly praying. Many guys came over to the Cheyenne, laughing and joking with us, trying to keep their mind off the obvious. More than a few were drenched with sweat despite the chill in the air.
“Fiona, Viv, thank God you’re here. I need a huge favor,” Nelson, our eager helper from observation day, said as he came running over with something wrapped in a blanket.
“Sure, Nelson, what can I do for you?” I said. I offered him a doughnut, but he shook his head and unwrapped the blanket.
Inside was one of the ugliest little dogs I’d ever seen. She couldn’t have been more than seven pounds, with black and brown hair that was either matted with dirt or sticking out straight. Her pink tongue was dangling halfway out of her mouth, and she had enormous bulging black eyes that looked too big for her head.