Wartime Brides

by Lizzie Lane

  She eyed his nose and although it wasn’t small, she didn’t think it really looked that bad. Still, how did she know what it usually looked like?

  ‘Look yer, I’m truly sorry, really I am! I ain’t got no money to get it put right, but I do know a doctor,’ she said, suddenly remembering David Hennessey-White and the piece of paper he’d given her on which he had scribbled the address and telephone number of his consulting rooms. She unzipped the brass clasp on her handbag and rummaged for the piece of paper the doctor had given her. ‘If you could go there, or if you could ring.’ She glanced up at him sheepishly. ‘That’s if you’ve got a telephone of course. Though you would, wouldn’t you, back there on the base I s’pose.’

  He glanced at the pub door, from behind which shouts of violence could be heard. ‘Well, perhaps it wasn’t entirely your fault. After all it was a pretty dumb place to stand and smoke, wasn’t it? But,’ he said stepping forward and cupping her elbow in his hand, ‘let me take you away from all this. Besides,’ he said, glancing at the door again, ‘I’ve fought enough battles to last a lifetime.’

  Normally Polly would have protested. Prejudice was not a word that she easily recognised, but she’d always thought herself a bit too good to go ‘mucking about’ with a Negro, even one in uniform. But most of the others had gone home and there wasn’t much choice.

  She let him take her arm and guide her towards the Tramway Centre, where the winds of war had left piles of rubble and twisted metal in its wake.

  He told her his name was Aaron. She said, ‘That’s nice.’

  They ended up in a pub called the Llandoger Trow near the Old Vic in King Street, a place nearly as old as the Cat and Wheel where they’d been earlier, but larger and packed with a variety of service personnel and civilians. Perhaps because it was next to the waterfront and had catered for sailors of many nations in its time, all manner and colour of people were noisily drinking, smoking and talking while someone in the background belted out ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ on an upright piano.

  Aaron found a cast-iron table and two stick-fine chairs near the piano and left Polly there while he fetched the drinks. Claustrophobia had never been a problem in Polly’s life, but all the same she found herself wishing that he would hurry back and cause a break in the crowds so she could at least see the bar. The only place it did break was around the bumbling piano player, who she watched with mounting fascination. Sometimes he played with only one hand, his other lifting a pint pot to his mouth, the tune shaking as much as his fingers.

  By the time Aaron got back, the pianist’s singing voice had deteriorated to a garbled hotch-potch of made-up verse and broken-up words. Polly began to giggle.

  ‘That guy ought to be hanged for crimes against music,’ said Aaron and shook his head despairingly.

  There was a sudden lull in musical rendition – if it could be called that. Polly took the opportunity to talk.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘Not from round these here parts, missy,’ he said shaking his head, his accent a comic parody of most of the Hollywood blacks she’d ever heard.

  Her cheeks dimpled. She was enjoying herself. ‘I know you’re from America,’ she said, ‘but where? You’re not from Alberta are you?’

  He looked stunned. ‘That’s in Canada! I’m from the United States of America, ma’am!’ and he stood up and saluted her.

  A few around raised their glasses and laughed before their attention went back to the pianist. Two patrons, tired of his drunken renditions, were trying to remove him and asking for someone else to play. The pianist was holding onto the iron-framed instrument with as much tenacity as a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.

  Aaron shook his head and they exchanged an understanding smile. ‘I’m from Boston actually. I’m a graduate and when I get back, my father insists I recommence my law studies. He’s determined I’m going to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Polly and took a swig of her gin and orange to quell her surge of excitement. A lawyer. Well, hadn’t she hit the jackpot? And her a mere counter hand in Woolworths before Carol had come along. She’d never expected him to be that. Snowshoe had lived in the back of beyond and didn’t seem to have a recognisable profession. Gavin had worked in a canning factory, and Al Schumacher had been a farmer’s son. ‘Fancy being able to do something like that.’

  He looked at her almost angrily then looked away as if regretting it. ‘Being able to do it is one thing. Wanting to do it is another.’

  She frowned. What was he getting at? Didn’t he realise how lucky he was to get that sort of an education? ‘So you don’t want to be a lawyer?’

  He smiled and looked at her sidelong, his fingers tapping impatiently but tunefully on the marble-topped table. His gaze went back to the piano where a woman with the figure of a pre-war cottage loaf was trying to tap out a few notes and singing in a high-pitched voice that fell off more keys than it hit.

  ‘I want to be an entertainer,’ he said getting to his feet, the shadow of his tall, well-built frame falling over her like a velvet curtain.

  The crowd nearest the piano had obviously had enough of having their ears seriously abused. ‘Get off, missus!’

  By the time Aaron’s shadow fell over her, she’d given up the fight.

  ‘God ’elp you!’ she shouted before sliding off the stool. ‘This load of shit don’t appreciate good music!’

  The crowd roared. Aaron smiled at her good-naturedly. ‘Sure, damaged ear drums are a sign of the times, ma’am. Must be the sirens that did it.’

  Another roar of laughter went up from those nearest the piano.

  Fascinated, Polly watched as Aaron sat down on the stool, unbuttoned his jacket and rolled back his cuffs. He seemed so confident, so sure of himself. He was not her kind, and yet she found herself being drawn to him, intrigued by his elegant self-possession and exotic difference.

  A low murmur ran through those nearest the piano. Hostile eyes waited to see if this singer, too, needed to be shown the door. Polly said a silent prayer for him. But she needn’t have worried. As his fingers met the keys the low murmur fell stone dead.

  He sang ‘As Time Goes By’.

  Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman: everyone in that bar was remembering them, reliving their fear and their love. Every single person was swaying and humming or softly singing the words. They had an empathy with all those people stuck in a bar in Casablanca because they’d been through a war too and, by hell, they hadn’t been acting. But they were also moved by the way Aaron was caressing the keys, making the music and singing the words they knew so well.

  At the end the crowd clapped and cheered. Encores were shouted for, drinks were bought and forced upon them both, although Polly noticed that Aaron drank sparingly.

  ‘ ’Ere! You got something against them drinks, Yank?’ asked one pink-faced, grey-haired old chap, a checked cap slapped flatly on his head.

  Aaron smiled and gave the man a friendly clap on the shoulder of his worn, grubby jacket. ‘I wish I could keep up with you old timer and I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but …’ he patted his stomach. ‘Got it in the guts over in Italy. But if you and your pals can help me out drinking all this stuff …’

  The old man nodded in instant understanding. ‘Don’t you worry about that, my boy,’ he said, his gaze falling to the drinks, his tongue licking his lips as he absentmindedly slapped Aaron’s broad back. ‘Glad to oblige,’ he said.

  Polly was impressed. ‘Did it hurt a lot – what you said about getting it in the guts in Italy?’

  Aaron looked serious. ‘It certainly did.’ He leaned closer to her. ‘Do you know, I spent so much time in the John the battalion commander thought I’d deserted.’

  A tic of a smile lifted one side of his mouth. The penny dropped.

  ‘Do you mean you had Delhi Belly?’

  ‘If you mean were my guts in turmoil from some goddam germ I picked up, the answer’s yes, though I did see my fair share of
action to start with,’ he added, suddenly defensive in case she thought he was the sort that shirked his duty. ‘And I got involved with some other stuff and got shipped back here instead of straight home.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Polly and wondered what crime he had committed. He certainly didn’t seem the criminal type. She desperately wanted to ask him what the reason was but was sure he would give her one of his leg-pulling answers. The moment was lost, drowned in the demands of the other customers asking him to belt out ‘Chatanooga Choo Choo’. ‘And don’t spare the horses, lover!’ shouted the woman with the cottage-loaf figure, her wide hips gyrating and her fat legs kicking as Aaron played honky-tonk.

  Polly joined in, clapping and singing in time with the tune, her blonde hair tumbling over her face as she danced the jitterbug with a lanky sailor, his long legs spiralling out in all directions like the arms of a skeleton windmill.

  Aaron can’t have done anything very dreadful, she thought to herself as she skidded around the floor. If he had he would be under arrest, wouldn’t he? Unless he was facing trial, or unless he’d escaped.

  Haphazardly, because she was moving so fast, she tried to study the flurry of faces as she was whirled, thrown over a shoulder and slid along the floor. White, pink, brown and black, plus shades in between. This truly was an international alliance. Everyone was enjoying themselves and no one was interested in fighting.

  Polly eyed Aaron dreamily and imagined herself in slinky satin, looking every inch the glamour girl in a dimly lit American nightclub – just like Rita Hayworth – when suddenly someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Polly?’

  She looked up and came face to face with Edna.

  ‘Oh!’ she said, without thinking. ‘You’re the one with the fiancé.’

  Edna winced. ‘Yes. Edna,’ she said, realising that Polly probably remembered her fiancé more readily than her name by virtue of his injuries. ‘We’re having a night out – me and Colin that is. Care to join us? It was Charlotte’s suggestion. She’s been in constant touch since the other day and gave us a lift down in her car. Wasn’t that kind of her?’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ said Polly looking expectantly for the tall, elegantly attired woman who made her feel more envious than anyone else she’d ever known.

  ‘She’s not here,’ Edna added, realising that Polly was looking for her. ‘She’s picking us up at ten o’clock. She’s out collecting sewing for one of those things she does.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I noticed you were sitting by yourself,’ Edna went on. ‘Would you care to join us?’

  ‘I am with someone,’ said Polly, nodding towards Aaron and studying Edna’s face for her reaction. She’d automatically expected her to look shocked, even to withdraw her offer when she saw she was with a black man. Instead a strangely wistful look came to her eyes.

  ‘He’s very talented,’ she said softly.

  Polly, suddenly full of pride to be with such a man, got to her feet and stretched to her full, diminutive height. ‘Reckons he’s going to be a musician.’ Then she followed Edna to the table where Colin was sitting patiently in his wheelchair.

  ‘Hi there!’ he shouted.

  Edna explained to him about Aaron and what his intentions were after the war.

  ‘Best of luck to the bloke,’ he said raising his glass. ‘It looks as though I’m going to be a toy maker if that Charlotte Hennessey-White has her way. First an aeroplane for her lad and now a battleship.’

  ‘You could make one for me,’ Polly said quickly, unable to control her need to outdo or, at least, equal Charlotte. ‘A wooden horse? Could you manage a wooden horse? It’s for my niece,’ she lied, and didn’t bat an eyelid. She rarely admitted to having a child.

  Colin agreed. ‘And what sort of future have you got planned out, Polly?’

  Now it was Polly’s turn to look wistful. Her eyes fixed on Aaron as she answered. ‘All I want to be is someone’s wife in a place as far away from here as possible.’

  Unseen by Polly, Edna and Colin exchanged knowing glances. They hoped it wasn’t Aaron she had in mind. Like Edna, Colin knew that the American army practised a colour bar. There would be no wedding bells for a mixed marriage, but neither of them could bring themselves to mention it.

  Polly insisted on leaving before Charlotte turned up, using the excuse that she had promised not to be late tonight. She couldn’t really explain how uncomfortable she felt when Charlotte was around. It just hurt to see those beautiful clothes and that perfectly coiffed hair.

  Polly introduced Aaron before they left. He offered her his arm once they were outside the door.

  ‘She’s a brave girl sticking by her guy like that,’ Aaron said softly.

  Polly pouted. ‘I suppose so. She doesn’t have to. Anyway how do you know for sure that there wasn’t someone while he was away?’

  Aaron shrugged.

  ‘I know her kind,’ Polly went on. ‘All strawberries and cream but deep down she’s boiling like a kettle.’

  ‘You’re cynical,’ said Aaron squeezing her arm.

  She returned the squeeze. ‘And you’re gorgeous!’

  He went on to tell her he was going to play music on Broadway one day.

  ‘I’ve heard of that,’ she said. ‘I saw it at the pictures. Is that really what you’re going to do?’

  God, he thought, but these English dames were easy to impress. He never referred to them as Limeys.

  The clippie on the bus they were travelling on chose that minute to clip their tickets. ‘Next stop Old Market,’ she said curtly, her eyes glancing at Polly before giving Aaron her own superior look as though she were looking over a prize stallion and finding it not quite what she was looking for. She sniffed and reached for the next seat.

  ‘Fares please,’ she said, moving down between the two rows of seats.

  ‘My stop,’ said Polly getting up.

  ‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Aaron and as he got up and his full height towered over her, she felt too overwhelmed to refuse his offer.

  As they turned into York Street she became aware of net curtains twitching as the sound of their footsteps reverberated between the Victorian terraced houses that squatted meanly on either side of the road.

  Polly bristled. How dare they? At least she was single. There were married women in her street who had not always sat home alone while their husbands were away fighting.

  She glanced up at the bedroom windows of Aunty Meg’s house. No lights were on and there was no sound of crying. Carol was sleeping. Hopefully she’d stay that way. She didn’t want to tell Aaron about Carol – not yet anyway.

  ‘Can I see you again?’ he asked. ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Why not? I’ll meet you outside the Llandoger where we were tonight,’ she said quickly. She didn’t want him to pick her up from the house. Mentally she weighed up the cost of the bus fare against the opportunity to be the wife of a GI. ‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ she said in her most sultry voice, her blue eyes wide and purposely appealing.

  He smiled. His lips came down to meet hers.

  Some girls she’d known had said that the black blokes were over-sexed, more so even than their white counterparts and, on the whole, better lovers. In a way she had expected him to reflect that, hard kisses, feverish fumbling around her breasts and even up her skirt. But he did none of those things. His kiss was warm; the hands on her shoulders were gentle. A thrill ran through her. She really wanted him and pressed her body against him in an effort to let him know.

  To her surprise he stepped back. ‘Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  His footsteps echoed between the twin rows of brick houses. She didn’t put her key in the door until the sound had melted away. Once inside she slumped so heavily against the wall that a lump of damp plaster slid out from behind the wallpaper and cascaded to the floor. ‘Be still,’ she said to her heart. It totally ignored her and continued to beat wildly.

  She reached out and ran her hand down over the
front door and imagined in the darkness that he was still there, big and broad above her. Perhaps this was the one who would fulfil all her dreams. He was the last of a great army and would soon be gone. In order to go with him she would do anything, anything at all, and woe betide anyone who upset her plans.

  Chapter Six

  MEG SIGHED IN defeat when Polly explained to her why she wanted her to look after Carol.

  ‘It’s free. Can’t refuse if it’s free, can I!’ Her blue eyes flashed and she tossed her head so that her hair slapped around her cheeks.

  Meg had no argument to offer. If all it took was the price of a bus fare, she had to let it be. She pursed her lips to prevent herself calling Polly a selfish little cow. Her patience was wearing thin. Nowadays when the neighbours made snide comments about her niece, she didn’t always stick up for her as readily as she once had.

  She tilted her head and viewed Polly from a sideways angle. There was no doubting she was pretty in a brazen kind of way. Blondes always were. ‘Are you sure it’s only yer foot he wants to take a look at?’

  Just like Mavis, thought Polly. She stuck her hands on her hips, her elbows forming acute angles. ‘Just my ankle, Aunty Meg. Besides, there might be something else in it seeing it was him that did me the injury. Compensation like.’ She twigged Meg’s speculative raising of eyebrows. ‘I mean money.’

  Meg snorted slightly before throwing in one last dig.

  ‘Not going to cost him much time anyway. It’s not hurting is it? Haven’t seen you limping for days.’

  Those last words came back to Polly as she walked past the rank of detached stone houses in Park Row, Clifton. With self-conscious swipes at a few cat hairs that had transferred from Meg’s black moggy to her coat, she trotted on. Every now and then she glanced at the high bay windows and wondered if anyone watching would judge her as being a visitor to Dr Hennessey-White’s house. Naa, she thought. Definitely a servant; that’s what they’d think; a skivvy to tidy up after the likes of the doctor and his snooty wife. And what a posh cow she was with her fine fur coat and that wisp of veil over her face. And those children! Too good to be true, they were.