Trouble In Paradise

by Pip Granger

  ‘You’ve been trying to read between the lines,’ I accused her. ‘No good ever comes of that! You nearly always end up jumping to the wrong conclusions. I know, because I’m always doing it myself. The only thing to be found between the lines is sodding great gaps. Anyway, you’re not trying to give him the elbow, but you are going to a dance with another bloke – several, in fact. So even if he does show up with someone else, it might mean nothing at all. Let’s just wait and see, shall we? And meanwhile, do try to have a good time, there’s a dear.’

  To give Dilly her due, she did try. We chatted about work and how impossible Mrs Dunmore was being. We bitched about how skinny she was and speculated about the state of her affair with Percy Robinson, given that he seemed to be casting his roving eye about again. Just thinking about how his roving eye fell on me made me feel a bit sick, and I was pleased when Dilly changed the subject to Zinnia’s recent troubles.

  ‘Who do you reckon’s got it in for her, then?’ she asked. ‘I mean, Zinnia’s so good to one and all; how could anyone have the needle to her?’

  ‘Well, Ma Hole’s always been jealous of her, as you well know. It’s never been any kind of secret. She’s got a real thing about Zinnia having that house and gardens, but why would she suddenly turn nasty now? I mean, she’s been peculiar about Zinnia for donkey’s years: why start any funny business at this particular time? It doesn’t make any sense,’ I said. ‘I reckon it’s someone else.’

  ‘What doesn’t make sense?’ Terry asked, suddenly joining our conversation.

  ‘Ma Hole being behind all the things that are going on with Zinnia,’ explained Dilly. ‘Zelda can’t see why she’d start up now.’

  ‘Funny, me and Lenny were just discussing the same thing. We can’t think of another candidate, either. She doesn’t really need a reason, that one. She likes being a dog in a manger for its own sake. It gives her a twisted kind of thrill, I suppose.’

  We talked about it until we arrived at our stop and then route-marched up a long hill to the town hall. The Yanks had thoughtfully provided a venue right next to a pub, as the town hall itself was not licensed to sell alcoholic beverages and the Mayor had no plans to give it away to a load of foreigners and plebs. So we all piled in there for another pre-dance stiffener.

  It was a nice pub with plenty of fancy glass and glowing woodwork. Hitler had managed to miss the place and the splendid town hall next door, which looked as if it had been built around the same time and by the same builder. No expense had been spared in its ballroom. The gorgeous wooden dance floor was properly sprung, so a body could trip the light fantastic for hours before the old feet and legs gave out. Golden cherubs clustered like naughty children around the pillars that held up a kind of gallery, way up near the ceilings. The plump cherubs played their harps, blew long, shapely horns and bowed golden fiddles for eternity, while chandeliers twinkled brightly, reflected in the long mirrors around the walls. It had been many years since anyone in our little party had seen such splendour.

  Ronnie gasped as he walked through the huge doors. His hands flew to his mouth and he muttered, ‘Fantabulosa, dollies, it’s like fairyland.’

  ‘Just the spot for you, then,’ Molly laughed.

  ‘Cheeky mare.’ Ronnie grinned broadly. ‘Just for that, you can ask me to dance.’

  ‘Not on your nelly, iron man. I see a few dozen spare Yanks just yearning for my attention. I’m off to mingle – there’s Arty over there. I’ll go and thank him for putting some tickets our way. Coming, Beryl?’

  Molly and Beryl disappeared into a sea of uniforms and party frocks, which left Ronnie, Lenny and Terry between Dilly, Vi and me, which was handy. We found the cloakroom and dumped our coats with an elderly lady who obviously came with the place. She was flushed with excitement and I guessed it had been a while since the town hall had seen such action. To be honest, I’d never seen anything like it. The only dances I’d been to – apart from that one with Charlie – had been held in dingy mess halls or Scouts’ huts. The Palais de Dance, where Charlie had taken me, had been nowhere near as posh as this. The Yanks had done themselves, and us, proud.

  We’d done several circuits of the dance floor, swapping partners and leaving the others to gossip and keep an eye on our table and handbags, when Ronnie, Dilly, Terry and I found ourselves sitting out a particularly strenuous number at the same time. Vi and Lenny were having a twirl, but if my experience of dancing with Lenny was anything to go by, they’d get back to the safety of their seats in very short order and Vi would be limping.

  Ronnie had just asked us all if we fancied some lemonade to cool us down, when Dilly glanced towards the door and turned ashen. With the large, dark stains around her eyes she looked like a pasty panda, and her lipstick made her mouth look like an open wound against the awful pallor. The poor girl was stricken with terror. I thought she was going to faint.

  Ronnie moved his chair slightly, so that he blocked her view and made her look at him, eventually. His dear face was deadly serious as he willed her gaze to focus on the new view. ‘I take it Chester has arrived,’ he said, and all eyes swivelled towards the door. Five men stood there. Several were carrying instruments. The men hesitated, had a swift discussion that we were far too far away to stand any chance of hearing, even if the band on stage hadn’t been blaring away, then moved as one body around the outer edges of the packed dance floor until they reached the stage. Dilly’s anxious eyes followed the group’s every move.

  ‘Which one’s Chester?’ I hissed – not that the group could possibly have heard me.

  ‘The one standing on the left, a bit by himself. He’s holding a trumpet,’ Dilly whispered back.

  ‘Dolly,’ Ronnie said accusingly, ‘you never said he was coloured.’

  ‘I never thought,’ answered Dilly, bewildered. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It’s got everything to do with it,’ Ronnie answered. ‘That’s why he couldn’t come to the dance.’

  ‘But he’s at the dance!’ I objected.

  ‘Yes, but he’s obviously going to play with his band. He’s not here for the dancing,’ said Terry, as if that explained everything.

  It didn’t to me. ‘So?’ I asked. Poor Dilly seemed to be struck dumb.

  Ronnie was patient. ‘Coloured soldiers have their own dances, their own pubs, everything. Americans call it “segregation”. Haven’t you noticed that the white GIs and the coloured blokes don’t go to the same places? It’s how they run things. The coloured geezers even have their own regiments. It’s like down Poona way,’ he explained. ‘That’s in India. You don’t get the natives joining the same clubs as the sahibs, now do you?’

  ‘But how are we supposed to know?’ I asked reasonably. ‘We’ve never been to Poona, or America. Down the docks, we just all muck in together.’ It was true, too. Well, up to a point. Africans and West Indians were exotic to us, so people did tend to stare a bit at first, but they soon got over it if they worked or lived near the docks. Further afield, dark faces were a much rarer event.

  ‘And the Gurkhas have their own regiments as well,’ Terry pointed out. ‘It’s a bit like that with the Yanks. Allocating different watering holes is like having different messes for the officers and the men. Of course, if officers and men want to drink in the same pubs, they do, but I expect they choose different bars, saloon or public, depending.’

  ‘But what’s that got to do with Chester coming to the dance with me?’ Dilly had come round and was following the discussion.

  ‘How many coloured people do you see here, Dilly?’ Terry asked.

  Dilly looked around her and shook her head slightly.

  ‘Right, the five waiting to play and they’re it. And none of them is with a woman. Don’t you see? Chester couldn’t bring you to the dance – it’s not allowed.’

  ‘But why didn’t he tell me?’ Dilly asked. It seemed a good question to me.

  ‘You’ll have to ask him that, dolly. Maybe he was embarrassed and thou
ght if he ignored the whole thing, it’d go away,’ Ronnie suggested.

  ‘But he must have known he was going to play here!’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘Perhaps they were asked at the last minute. You won’t know until you talk to him.’

  Just then the music stopped and the MC announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, while the orchestra takes a break, please welcome Chester Field and his GI Jivers.’

  There was an outbreak of rapturous applause. Chester stepped up to the front of the stage, and when there was hush said, ‘Thank you. We’d like to play a Louis Armstrong number called “Jodie Man”.’ And they were off.

  Chester was every bit as good as Dilly had said he was, and as we settled down to listen and to watch, I could quite see why Dilly had fallen for him. He was gorgeous, exotic and gifted. It was certainly a heady mixture when you considered the kind of blokes she was used to – pasty, with bad teeth and about as exotic as suet pudding. Of course, we did have good-looking fellows – Maggie at the cafe in Soho had found herself one – but on the whole, the Americans were better. Most girls thought so, anyway. It was why our men got fed up with them and so many fights broke out between our Tommys and the Yanks when they met on the streets; they became more enemy than ally then.

  Having had a good look at Chester, who was tall and slender, with skin the colour and glow of new conkers, I turned my attention to Dilly, who was transfixed, a look of absolute adoration on her face. Then I saw Terry looking at her, with an expression of such resigned sadness that I thought I’d cry.

  It was Ronnie who saved the day, grabbing Dilly and yanking her to her feet. ‘Time to put the best foot forward, dolly. We’ll show them who can cut a rug round here.’ And he spun her away into the dancing crowd.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ I asked Terry.

  ‘I’ll survive,’ was all he said.

  ‘I certainly hope so.’ We watched the dancers as they swayed to the rhythm of Chester’s magical trumpet.

  31

  Between them, Ronnie, Lenny and Terry managed to keep Dilly busy on the dance floor for the greater part of Chester’s set. I was resting my poor feet for a while as I watched Chester and his band playing their hearts out for the dancers. I thought about what Ronnie and Terry had been trying to tell us about segregation in America and how difficult it must be for some of the people who lived there. After all, Dilly and Chester couldn’t be the only mixed couple Americans had ever seen; it must have happened a lot over the years. It stood to reason. You can’t have men and women living cheek-by-jowl and not have mingling, I thought. I mean, us and the Yanks mingled ourselves senseless, given half a chance, despite the disapproval of our families and British blokes. In fact, all disapproval did was make the minglers keener. It’s human nature, that is.

  I must have had a serious look on my face, because when Terry got back to the table he looked at me hard. ‘A penny for ’em,’ he said.

  ‘I was just thinking …’

  ‘I could see that. You could run trams along the think lines on your forehead. What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was being deep, Terry. I was thinking that segregation must be a bit like Prohibition.’

  He laughed. ‘What’s keeping the races separate got to do with banning booze, dare I ask?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that it seems to me that the best way to make people do the opposite of what you want them to do, is to forbid them to do something.’ I was in a tangle that even I couldn’t make sense of. I tried again. ‘Prohibition didn’t work, did it? People drank like fishes and made their own booze in the bath. And in India, they tried to stop British blokes from taking up with the local girls, but some of them wound up making their own babies, possibly also in the bath, who knows? The point is, there’s loads of half-and-half kids dotted around over there and over here to prove it. Right?’

  Terry nodded. ‘Right. I’m following you so far.’

  ‘Therefore, the best way to make people do what you don’t want ’em to do, is to forbid them from doing it. It’s human nature. Right?’

  ‘Right. Well, some humans, anyway. Most like rules to follow but you’ll always have your renegades, I suppose. But what I don’t understand is why you’re thinking about it in the first place.’

  ‘Well, if they have segregation like you and Ronnie say, what will happen to our Dilly if she decides she wants to follow him to America? I know she’s been hoping he’ll ask her. She really wants to be this particular GI’s bride, Terry. She really, really does.’

  Terry looked at me sadly for a long moment, then said, ‘I don’t know what will happen to her, Zelda. I expect it’ll be difficult for her – for both of them.’

  Just then, Ronnie and Dilly twirled to a stop by the table and sat down. ‘Can’t we just find a corner somewhere?’ said Dilly.

  ‘What?’ I was bewildered.

  ‘I was talking to Ronnie, silly. He says that Chester and I need to have a serious talk and he was trying to think of how to arrange it and I said—’

  Ronnie interrupted her. ‘I don’t think it’d be wise for you two to be seen together in here. Why don’t I arrange for him to meet you outside the cinema we passed down the road? It’s not far, but it’s not under everyone’s noses either.’

  Dilly nodded vaguely. The lights may have been on, but there was no-one in. She hadn’t taken in a word he’d said. ‘I’m just so relieved that he hasn’t brought another girl. I really thought he would. I mean,’ Dilly turned first to me, then Vi and finally, Beryl, ‘wouldn’t you snap him up if you thought he was going spare?’

  Beryl and I agreed enthusiastically. Vi said she was feeling a bit low and out of sorts and couldn’t even think about it. She was missing Fred, of course, which made me feel guilty that I hadn’t given Charlie a thought. Poor Vi had been trying hard, though; she’d even danced with Lenny more than once, and that really was heroic. He’d crippled virtually every girl there, and now they hobbled for the woodwork if they spotted him coming up for seconds.

  ‘I don’t think you really understand, Dilly,’ Terry said gently. ‘Some Americans take a very dim view of a coloured chap walking out with a white girl, a very dim view indeed, especially if they come from the Southern parts.’

  Dilly grinned. ‘I know, but my grandad didn’t like it when my Auntie Maude married that Belgian chap, Uncle Emile, but he got over it in the end. And we’ll only be talking.’

  ‘Just the same, it’ll be better if you talk in private,’ insisted Ronnie. ‘Believe me, you don’t want to be caught at it in here. People have been drinking, and anything could happen. I’ll sidle up to him as if I’m going to make a request and I’ll tell him to meet you in a bit, outside the Regal. How about that? Have you two got a special tune I can ask for? Intrigues of a romantic nature should have a special tune. It’s in the rules, ducky.’

  Dilly smiled dreamily. ‘He sometimes sings a song to me called “Honeysuckle Rose”.’

  Ronnie clapped in delight. ‘ “Honeysuckle Rose” it is, then. I’ll troll up to the bandstand now and wait for a break in the music. Ooh! I do love to meddle,’ he said, and was gone. A few moments later he popped up beside the stage, where he waited politely for a pause before he approached Chester. Mission apparently accomplished, he jitterbugged back to our table with Molly; he’d snapped her up somewhere near the stage, when she’d found herself between dance partners for a fraction of a second. Molly was always a popular girl with the fellows. It had something to do with her sunny nature and impressive cleavage. The good thing was, women liked her too, so we were glad to get her back for a while. We brought her up to speed with Ronnie’s plan. She was agog.

  ‘So, that’s the famous Chester. Well I never! If ever you get bored with him Dills, you just chuck him my direction, I’ll be very happy to help you out.’ Molly winked to show she was joking, but I wasn’t so sure myself.

  Poor Dilly had to wait almost an hour before she could keep her rendezvous with Chester. She was happy and anxious by tu
rns, but in the end, terror won; Ronnie, Terry and I practically had to carry her the hundred yards or so down the hill towards the Regal. It was raining as we tumbled out into the street and I thanked God I wasn’t wearing inky shoes and that Terry had thought to bring an umbrella.

  The neon lights of the cinema reflected blood red off the wet pavements. White bulbs lit up the posters in their glass-fronted cases. Three marble steps led up to doors flung open on a foyer that glowed invitingly and the box office, which was closed. I checked my watch. The punters would be chucked out soon. I looked at the posters while we waited with Dilly. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not. It was a wonderful picture. I’d been to see it twice already, in the West End and again in Hackney.

  When we spied Chester walking towards us, we left Dilly, crossed the road and did our best to fade into the shadows. We didn’t want to cramp the man’s style.

  Back at the town hall, we met Lenny sheltering in the entrance, enjoying a quiet fag and a bit of a breather in the night air. Then we heard a piercing scream. We turned: there was a scuffle outside the cinema. We all hurtled back down the hill, although I was trailing badly in my hand-me-down, over-large but very beautiful shoes. Seeing Ronnie and Lenny arrive at the scene, and haul a couple of GIs off a figure sprawled in the middle of a glowing puddle, I stopped to take them off, along with my precious stockings. I loved old Dill like a sister, but I had plenty of sisters and only the one pair of intact stockings.

  By the time I caught up, Terry was comforting Dilly next to a large picture of my beloved Humphrey and watching the end of a brief but vicious scrap between the two unknown soldiers and Ronnie, Lenny and Chester. The GIs staggered off, one of them clutching his privates and moaning loudly. As Ronnie said later, no sea queen survived for long without being able to grab a pair of balls when the need arose.