Mena was naive enough to think that she got away with Danny Danielson that day, but she didn’t. It was late now, barely an hour of her birthday remained and she was alone in her room, sitting up in bed, eager to try out her new phonograph. The afternoon had gone so fast since Danny arrived and she’d been so focused on him that she hadn’t even heard it play yet. It was on the bed beside her where she’d been looking at it for half an hour or so. Her new dress was hanging on the back of the door where she could see it. All she needed now was Glenn Miller and she’d be back at De Montfort Hall in Danny’s arms. Just a few seconds would be enough, she thought. No one would hear it and if they did, the music would have stopped again before they realised what it was.
Mena opened the lid and took out In the Mood. She removed the sleeve and set the hole in the middle of the record carefully onto the spindle. When she reached for the winding handle her breath caught in her chest.
It wasn’t there.
She thought about her mother and how quiet she’d been all afternoon. They had exchanged barely two words since she’d told everyone about her and Danny. She put her fingers into the recessed space where the winder should have been and felt around the lining. It was just like her mother. Sometimes harsh words and a slap were not enough. She thought about her Merrythought teddy bear. Pop had bought it for her when she lost her first tooth. That bear went everywhere with her.
Until she lost it.
Lost it, she thought. She recalled how she’d found it again several years later. It was in a box in the attic crawl space with her favourite hair-clip and a number of other items she’d expressed a particular fondness for at some time or another. A part of her now thought that she’d always known better - had always believed that it was her mother who had lost them for her. Now she had lost the winder to her new phonograph. She threw her head back into her pillow and a deep sigh trembled from her lips.
At least the records aren’t broken, she thought, reading the labels again.
Chapter Sixteen
Mena spent little time at home that August. She sensed that her mother was waiting for her to mention the missing winder for her phonograph but she never gave her the satisfaction of believing that losing it hurt as much as it did. She knew her mother would only try to use it as leverage to stop her seeing Danny and her way of getting back at her mother was to see Danny as often as she could. Whenever she wasn’t with him or waiting to be with him, she stayed at the hospital with her books, reading to the patients with such hunger for the words and the sense of escape they offered - which was as much now for her benefit as for theirs. Romance had become her new favourite genre.
It was the 25th of August when news reached Oadby that, after four years of German occupation, Paris had at last been liberated. It was a Friday and a dance was being held the following evening by the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment in their mess-hall at St Peter’s to celebrate the landmark allied victory. Spirits were high that weekend. The way most people were carrying on was enough to make anyone believe that the war was over. At least, that’s what Mena saw in other people, but she couldn’t share in their reverie. The thought of going anywhere near St Peter’s again filled her with an inescapable sense of fear. She hadn’t passed those steps that led up to the church, nor gazed along its path through the headstones where Victor Montalvo had led her, since that dreadful night in May. She did not want to go and yet she knew she had to. How else could she explain herself to Danny? She couldn’t lie to him - not to Danny. And Joan was going, too. She knew Joan would see straight through any excuse she could think up.
She met Danny on the Stoughton Road at seven p.m. and they cycled into the village together. He had a friend with him this time, whom he introduced as Melvin Winkelman. He was hanging onto Danny’s shoulders and riding the back wheel. He was a big man, too, Mena thought. No taller than Danny, but he was thicker set. He had close-shaved, dark hair that continued as stubble across his face and when he smiled Mena thought he didn’t look so mean, but that wasn’t very often. He didn’t say much either; just enough for Mena to know that he liked to be called Mel.
It was a casual dance, nothing like De Montfort Hall. Wire-framed tables and chairs were arranged around the dance floor and there was no decoration to speak of: a few small flags, but that was all. The 504th held regular dances in the church hall and although the event was about as impromptu as things could get during wartime, as long as there was enough warm beer and a few bottles of gin to go around, and as long as the band kept playing, no one seemed to care what the place looked like.
It was packed out.
The girls, who were typically outnumbered, wore swing-skirts and saddle shoes, and within an hour of the band starting up, ties were off and collars were hot and ruffled. Cigarettes were plentiful and a thick, blue-grey haze clung to the ceiling like city smog on a hot summer’s day. Seeing the church again and walking around the low wall beside the headstones had been difficult for Mena, but she’d been okay with Danny’s arm to hold. They were sitting at a table at the back of the hall and the mood inside soon lifted her spirits. The band was kicking out a lively tune and Joan was dancing - always dancing. She’d brought a date along with her this time and Mena had lost count of how many Joan had had since the summer began; she never saw the same face twice. Mena was sitting this one out on Danny’s lap and Mel was sitting opposite, sucking on a beer bottle, watching the dance with a distant stare.
“Jitterbug’s a funny name for it,” Mena said.
Danny smiled. “Come to think of it, I guess it is. What do you call it again?”
“It’s a quickstep.”
“Not as quick as a jitterbug, though. I’ve seen gals back home dance it like their feet were on fire.”
“Do you have a girl waiting for you back home?” Mena said. She’d never thought to ask before.
“Well…” Danny began. He put a hand out in front of him and extended his fingers like he was counting all their curves and faces through his mind.
Mena caught him steal a glance at her out of the corner of his eye and he laughed at her as he made a slow zero between his thumb and forefinger. She slapped his hand away and laughed with him.
“You should’ve seen your face,” he said. “I guess it’s as well I don’t have a sweetheart to go home to.”
“Where exactly is home?” Mena said. Something else she’d never thought to ask. Perhaps it had seemed too trivial a question, or perhaps she was only just beginning to think that far ahead. “You never did tell me,” she added.
Danny smirked. “We’re trained not to. Just the name, rank and serial number, ma’am. Besides, you never asked.”
“I’m asking now.”
“It’s a small town called Grantsville,” Danny said. “In Calhoun County, West Virginia.”
“What’s it like?” Mena didn’t really mind as long as Danny was there with her.
“Well, there’s Main Street running down the middle and the whole place is cradled in the bow of the Little Kanawha River. There’s water on every side save to the east. I guess you’d say it was kind of in a low valley. You can see the trees on the hills rising a little around you just about everywhere you go.”
“It sounds lovely,” Mena said.
Danny looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I think you’d like it,” he said. “I’d sure like to take you there someday to meet my folks.”
“Do you have a big family?”
Danny whistled and nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Real tight-knit too, but don’t let that scare you.”
One of her mother’s sour expressions popped into Mena’s head and she knew that nothing about Danny’s family could even come close. She looked over at Mel. There was something sad about him, she decided. Everyone there had a story. Some just hid theirs better than others.
“Where are you from, Mel?”
Winkelman’s head snapped around. “Arkansas, ma’am.”
Danny clipped the top off another beer bottle and slid it acros
s the table. “That’s about four states further west from me and little to the south. Hamilton, didn’t you say?”
Winkelman nodded.
“The campaign in Italy had its way of making good pals of strangers,” Danny said. He clanked his bottle against Winkelman’s and thoughtfully added, “It’s keeping ’em that’s the hard part. When you look out at a bunch of fellas you’ve fought alongside and you see them enjoying themselves like they are right now, you’re not really thinking about them.”
“No?” Mena said.
Danny shook his head. “It’s the faces you don’t see anymore.”
Winkelman nodded again, slowly this time, and they both drained their beers.
“Few more of these and we’ll be feeling no pain,” Danny said to Winkelman.
Mena gave Danny a curious smile. “No pain?”
“It’s just an expression. You know, numb from the drink.”
“Oh.”
“Mel’s from good old Arkansas farming stock,” Danny said. “Built like an ox, too.” He reached over and slapped his friend’s shoulder. “Ain’t that right?”
Mena caught that rare smile of Mel’s then, this time tinged with embarrassment. It was worth the wait.
“And what did you do before the war started,” Mena asked Danny.
“Same as my folks and my grand-folks. I worked the lumberyard. If not that - if this damn war hadn’t started up when it did - I had an idea to go back to college.”
Joan came back then. Her hair was up out of the way and her face was shiny. Her partner, a highly conditioned American soldier like the rest, had his hands on his knees, panting heavily.
“Phew!” Joan said. “I need a break.” She pulled Mena up and whispered in her ear, “Look, do you mind if we slip out for an hour or so?” She gave Mena a telling wink and her cherry-red lips smiled with devilish intent.
“You’re so bad, Joan Cartwright,” Mena said.
“I know. See you later.”
“Be careful,” Mena added.
The GIs brought scabies with them from Italy and it was no surprise to Mena that Joan soon caught it. She’d never admit it, but Mena had seen her scratching a nail over her skin here and there. Goodness knows what else she might go home with if she wasn’t careful. She watched Joan lead her man away and the music slowed to a waltz. She turned back to Danny and extended a hand to him.
“This is my kind of dance,” she said. “Do you mind, Mel?”
Mel just shook his head and opened another beer.
When they were on the dance floor Mena felt Danny’s hands slide around her waist and she caught her breath. She held his arms and didn’t ever want to let go again.
“So what were you going to study?” she asked.
“That’s just the thing. I never had a clue. It didn’t seem to matter just so long as it was something that could take me someplace better than the lumber yard.”
“It might not have brought you here.”
Danny kissed her. “No,” he said. “It might not.”
She was lost in his eyes, but the dream ended abruptly when she saw a hand tapping on Danny’s shoulder.
“Hey, d’you mind if I cut in?”
The couple parted and when Mena saw who it was her face drained of colour so fast she thought she would faint.
“Hi’ya, doll-face. Remember me?”
“Spiller,” she said under her breath. She paid him no more attention. Her eyes were all over the room. Her chest felt tight suddenly; her breath short.
“Hey, sweetheart -”
That was all Spiller could say before Danny stepped between them. “Hey, joker. Can’t you see you’re upsetting the lady?” He walked calmly towards Spiller and Spiller moved back.
“All I want is a dance! No need for the greed, pal!”
“Trust me,” Danny said. “She doesn’t want to dance with you. Not now. Not ever.”
Danny and Spiller were off the dance floor now, moving towards the door. The empty space they left soon filled and Mena could no longer see them. She was alone in a sea of happy faces, feeling anything but. Her eyes darted quickly from one face to the next until she felt dizzy. Her palms began to sweat. Her legs felt too heavy to move.
“Were you looking for me?”
She spun around and the nightmare she had tried so hard to forget suddenly caught up with her again.
He grabbed her and she began to tremble in his cold embrace. “I know you remember me.”
He was grinning through those impossibly white teeth. She could smell his whisky breath again; feel his fingertips pressing into her. A scream was moments from her lips when she saw Mel Winkelman tower up behind him. Without speaking he pulled Montalvo’s arms away and flung him back. The music stopped and the people cleared. Mena saw Danny again then. A moment later he had an arm around her.
“You okay?”
Mena nodded.
Montalvo was on his feet again. Spiller had worked his way around behind him and they had two other friends with them. Montalvo’s smile looked mean and cocky, like his pride was hurt and he was trying to save face. He came closer. He was looking right at Danny.
“Hey, I saw her first, Blondie!”
“You’re a disgrace to those stripes, Sergeant. Clear out.”
Montalvo sneered. “Don’t say she didn’t tell you about us.”
Mena saw nothing but confusion in Danny’s eyes. She wanted to be sick.
Montalvo laughed. “You really don’t know, do you, Blondie?” he persisted.
Danny took a step towards him and Mena reached out to stop him.
“I guess I’m not all that surprised,” Montalvo continued. He leered at Mena. “I looked out for you by the fence as usual, sweetheart. I even hung around the churchyard in case you came looking for your old pal.”
“That’s enough!” Danny said.
Montalvo stepped up then and Winkelman stood between them. Montalvo pulled a knife. He began to wave it from side to side, tracing infinity through the air.
“Not such a hero now, are ya big guy?”
“Put it away, Vic,” Spiller said. “She’s not worth it.”
“Yeah, c’mon Vic,” another of his pals agreed. “Let’s get outta here. It’s a lousy joint anyways.”
Mel Winkelman didn’t seem to think about it. He just paced up to Montalvo. The knife lunged and he stopped it barely an inch from his stomach. He twisted Montalvo’s wrist until the knife fell and Montalvo began to whimper. Then Winkelman hit him once in the face and he went down.
Mena turned away and stared into Danny’s questioning eyes until the weight of those questions forced her to step back. He came closer and she began to shake her head as a lone tear broke and fell onto her cheek.
“Not now, Danny,” she said. “Later, I promise.”
She watched his chest rise and slowly fall.
“Let’s get you home,” he said.
Chapter Seventeen
It was the last day of August and it had been five days since Mena last saw Danny. He’d called at the house every day since the dance and she knew what an effort it must have been for him to get out of camp so frequently. She knew he must have skipped out on at least half the occasions - gone AWOL for her. She’d asked her mother to send him away again every time simply because she couldn’t face him. Not yet. She’d given Danny a promise, but with all her heart she would not have him know anything of her acquaintance with Victor Montalvo or the truth of what happened that night in May. Yet not seeing him, even to hold his hand over the camp fence at Shady Lane, broke her heart.
Her mother had been all too happy to play her part. No doubt she thought some miracle of divine intervention had come between them, and although Mena had given her no clue as to why she wouldn’t see him, it was apparent that her mother cared little for the reason. Danny, it seemed, was not for Mena after all. Her prayer had been answered and subsequently, on the evening of Danny’s second visit, Mena found the winder to her phonograph again.
She avoided all the usual haunts where she thought Danny might find her and she cycled alternative routes to the hospitals she worked at. She even had her mother looking out for Danny before she left the house in case he was waiting for her. She needed time. The thought of losing him if he knew what had happened kept her distant for now, which is why she’d planned to stay in town after finishing work at the Royal Infirmary that Thursday night.
She met Joan at the clock tower: a nineteenth century Ketton limestone memorial with a clock face set into each of its four sides. She was outside Hilton’s shoe shop, adjacent to the monument, looking up at an enormous Bovril sign that arched high up on the building next to Jay’s. The memorial was set on an island at the junction of five roads and it was always a busy spot with people hurrying about on foot or bicycle, eager to get their shopping or to get home again afterwards. The trams were nearly always full at this time of day and there were always a few cars on the streets here despite the petrol rationing, although US military vehicles now considerably outnumbered them.
They were going to the pictures to see the 1933 adaptation of Gustave Flaubert’s, Madame Bovary, which was showing that month at the Odeon on Rutland Street. The tickets were two shillings and threepence for the good seats and the decor was glamorous Art Deco, which Mena loved because to her it was the essence of Hollywood style. The film itself captivated her to such an extent that she wanted to stay in her seat at the end and watch it over again, but Joan was hungry, so they went for chips.
“What’s wrong with the chips in town?” Joan protested as they collected their bicycles and made off towards Gallowtree Gate.
“I like the chips from Wigston best,” Mena said. “Besides, it’s nearer home and they’re not mean with the scratchings.”
They joined Granby Street and turned right onto Belvoir Street, heading for the Welford Road, which would take them all the way south to Wigston. As she pedalled after Joan, all Mena could think about was the film they had just seen and how much she identified with Emma Bovary.
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