by Leah Fleming
Shari tried to imagine her mother as a little girl at school. They visited her grandparents’ grave after the burial was finished and the people dispersed. She was introduced to Mrs Beck, the housekeeper, who eyed her up and down with interest.
‘Another American visitor,’ she smiled. ‘We had a couple of GIs the other week. That’s what finished off Lady Hester, seeing the lad who reminded her of her lost son. She was convinced he’d come home for good. She dreamed it all, of course. She pined and wouldn’t eat and went downhill very fast. So you are Selma’s daughter, Essie’s granddaughter? I can’t say I can see the resemblance. How’s your mother shaping in Hollywood? I remember her as a right little tomboy with her brothers.’
‘She’s still making pictures, under the name of Zelma Barr,’ Shari said.
‘Well, I never. She was such a one for the horses. Is she famous?’
‘Not really, but she still rides horses.’
‘Tell her I was asking after her. Her mother was Lady Hester’s one true friend in the end. Poor old woman was left with nothing but memories to live on after Essie died, and that’s not a good diet for anyone.’
Ruth seemed anxious to get away. ‘Come on, Shari, time to make for the bus. I think we’ve seen all there is to see for today. We don’t want you to miss your train back to London.’
Shari took one last look at the freshly dug mound, covered with an expensive wreath. How sad to lie alone in the world with no one to visit your grave, and all because of falling out over a war memorial? What was special about that?
Guy’s back ached from all the hoeing and weeding on the farm. They were trying to increase production to help the war effort. The girls were doing their best, but it was now when he could do with his son helping out.
He tried not to think about Charlie too much. They prayed for him every night, of course. The postcards were never displayed, but Rose looked out for their arrival none the less. The school brochure had taken some explaining. Charlie must know everything by now if they had sent him to Waterloo. Well, the truth would come out; it usually did.
He wanted to write a full explanation but hadn’t got Charlie’s address or his unit. He owed him the truth about why he’d reinvented himself. One night he sat down and confessed everything to Rose too: the whole sorry tale, his mother’s part in it, his own shame, and she held him in her arms to reassure him.
‘I don’t know this Guy Cantrell. All I know is you, Charles. What you were in another life doesn’t matter here. That worldly man has gone and Charlie didn’t know him either…Yet I don’t like to think of your mother suffering remorse and having no means to make her peace like my ma and pa with Zack. You must write and give her a chance to hear who you are now. It’s only fair. “My son, keep thy father’s commandments and forsake not the law of thy mother…” She gave you life and loved your brother so don’t cast her off in bitterness.’
‘But it’s been so long. I don’t know what to say,’ he said, feeling such relief that Rose had been so understanding.
‘Just tell her what you told me. Ask about Charlie, see if she met him. Tell her about your family and your newfound faith. Give her hope. I wish you’d told me earlier,’ Rose said. ‘There’s been such a coolness between us because of Charlie. You must have carried all this on your own.’
They clung together with passion for the first time in years. Rose could always surprise him with her generous spirit.
‘We ought to write to him. The silence has gone on for months. It doesn’t feel right to punish him any longer. He has his own free will. I am beginning to think we’ve been too hard on the boy,’ Guy offered, but Rose shrugged her shoulders.
‘That’s up to you and your conscience,’she replied.‘Every night, I pray he’ll return safe and come back into full fellowship with us, find a good wife within our community and settle down again, but sometimes I am so torn about what is right or not. We have to trust the Bible and its truths for our answers.’
‘I suppose so, but never forget the story of the prodigal son who was welcomed home,’ Guy offered. ‘He’s our only boy. He needs to know we still care.’
‘Write that letter then. Write both those letters. They’re long overdue.’
It was another busy night at the Rainbow Club on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue, near Piccadilly Circus. It had been raining and the soldiers wanted shelter, a warm meal and some a bed for the night. Saturday nights were usually hectic. There was a sickness bug going round the Red Cross staff so they were short of helpers downstairs. Shari was due another pass but it was cancelled because she was needed. She’d palled up with Deirdre and Pam and they were going as hostesses to the dance in the Rainbow Corner Ballroom.
It was going to be packed and noisy and full of homesick GIs wanting to jitterbug and jive the night away. Respectable girls were always needed to keep them in line. So much for an early night with a good book to read on her night off, Shari sighed. There was always a gang of boys hanging around Piccadilly Circus, eyeing up the British girls who were hoping to get into the ballroom and pick up someone. The district was notorious for goodtime girls and ‘the Piccadilly warriors’, out to do business in the local parks.
She could see the desperation in the faces of the soldiers, bored, lonely and wanting excitement. They’d come over to fight the Nazis not hang around in England in base camps. The Red Cross did their best, providing clubmobiles, dishing donuts and Cokes, magazines and gum around the base camps. Shari was too young to be part of these crews. She worked in the admin office most of the time and had to keep reminding herself, ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’
It was an exciting place, though, since you never knew who would put in an appearance in the club: famous film stars like Clark Gable or band artists like Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw. It was the hub of London life for American troops, despite the raids, and Shari felt safer here than anywhere else. The Red Cross girls were considered little sisters. She was their ginger-nut kid. They were as American as apple pie and soda, a reminder of the women back home, to be treated with respect…most of the time.
‘Hey, sister, come and shake a leg.’ A drunken soldier sidled up, grabbing her hand as they walked towards the dance hall. ‘You can be my warm blanket for the night,’ he laughed. Shari ignored him.
‘Come on, foxy lady, don’t be frosty with me. You redheads are always hot for it.’
Deirdre, the tallest of them, pushed Shari forward out of the way of his attention. ‘Go boil your head, Private!’ she shouted, but the stupid private was too drunk to take no for an answer.
‘Don’t be a prick tease, you little vixen!’
‘Shut it!’Another soldier standing in the shadows stepped forward. ‘Would you speak to your sister like that?’
‘Who gave you permission to butt in?’ The private hadn’t seen the young sergeant’s stripes.
‘I did. Chuck him off the pavement. It’s your sort that give us a bad name. Sober up and go find your manners.’
‘To hell with you!’ The soldier pushed ahead, knocking Shari against the door. This time a bunch of soldiers pounced on him and threw him out onto the pavement.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ said the tall blond sergeant. ‘Too much whisky…where do they get it from?’
‘That’s OK, Sergeant,’ said Shari, brushing down her skirt, eyeing her rescuer with interest. ‘It’s busy tonight. There’s going to be a crush in there.’
‘So they tell me. I’m not much of a dancer myself,’ he said.
‘You’ve never been to our ballroom?’ Shari laughed. ‘I think it’s about time you learned. We can’t have a GI letting the side down. It’s all we’re famous for. We’ll take care of you, won’t we, Pam?’
‘You bet, soldier. No excuses…in you go.’ Deirdre grabbed one of his arms and Pam the other. ‘Come on in and join the fun.’
Charlie couldn’t take his eyes off the red-haired girl with those dark eyes. What a looker! This was going to be so embarrassing. He
was getting used to jazz music and all that jigging around but he’d only make a fool of himself and he didn’t want to look stupid in her eyes. There was something about that bright smile and laughing face that was like sunshine on a cold rainy night, eyes that lit up his sagging spirits. He was still troubled by that visit to West Sharland.
He’d written to the old lady at Waterloo House, apologising for backing out of her invitation. It had been a stupid thing to do, but he was shocked at her calling him her son. Then he received a letter from a lawyer in Yorkshire, saying that Lady Cantrell had died suddenly and if he was a relative to get back in touch with them. Did he know the whereabouts of Garth Angus Charles Cantrell, her last known living relative? Charlie didn’t know what to make of any of this. Ought he to send the letter to his pa back home?
So he was glad when Gary suggested they make a trip to London. They had walked their feet off in the pouring rain looking at the sights—or what was left of some of them. How did people manage to live normal lives under the grim conditions and the air-raid warnings?
He was shocked at the way some of his fellow GIs were behaving like dogs with local girls in the parks. Even Gary called him a prude and went off in search of his own pleasure, while Charlie had made his way to Rainbow Corner. There was a canteen and a library for troops there, and a chance of a decent meal, but now this had happened. Perhaps he could make a quiet exit. It was all so raucous, but everyone was having fun. The band got his feet tapping. Perhaps if he bought them all a drink it would delay the moment of his shaming. He couldn’t dance their way.
‘Cokes all round,’ he shouted, ‘if you find the table.’
‘He’s going to slink off. Not so fast, buddy. We don’t even know your name,’ the tall one mouthed.
‘Charlie,’ he yelled. ‘And you?’ He was looking at the redhead shyly.
‘I’m Shari and this is Pam and Deirdre. We work in the offices at the club.’ While Shari was talking someone asked Pam to dance and they drifted off. Deirdre hung around eyeing the crowd until she was whisked away. If he didn’t do something soon, Shari would disappear while he got the drinks.
He watched the dancers leaping and leapfrogging and jumping onto each other.
‘Don’t look so scared,’said Shari.‘It’s only the Lindy Hop. There’ll be a slow one soon. Have you never really danced before, not even in high school?’
‘I’ve done some barn dancing. I’m sorry…if you want to move along, I don’t want to tread on your toes.’ Better be honest that he was no Fred Astaire
‘You’re a challenge and I like a challenge,’ Shari laughed, and he smiled, knowing it was going to be OK. He must just relax and let himself go.
‘You’re from the West Coast, right?’
‘Los Angeles, and you?’
‘From Pennsylvania, Springville, a farm.’
‘That explains it then. No dance halls, no jazz, not even in Philadelphia? Then you must be a Quaker, but I thought they—’
‘Don’t fight. OK, I confess I’m just one of the plain folk. I enlisted against my folks’ wishes.’ He paused, surprised. ‘Why am I telling you all this?’
‘Because we’re going to be friends, you and me, and the first thing I’m going to do is teach you a slow dance. Listen to the music, put your arm round me like this and we’ll set off real slow. Don’t worry, it’s my job to make strangers feel at home, wherever they come from. Can’t have you feeling left out now, can we?’
Charlie smiled and did what he was told. This was going to be one heck of a lesson and he meant to make the most of his teacher’s tuition, even if it took all night.
‘You made a hit there,’ Pam laughed as they were getting ready for bed.‘I love shy guys. There’s something so appealing, especially when he looks like a cross between Leslie Howard and Gary Cooper, all mixed up. Where’s he from?’
‘A farm in the east, somewhere near Delaware River.’ Shari was vague; she didn’t want to share Charlie’s details with anyone. One minute she was fancy-free, one of the girls, the next moment, all she could think of was when she would see him again. He had only a forty-eight-hour pass and he was based up in the north. Chance had brought them together and there was something about his gentle polite manners that disarmed her Hollywood brashness.
They’d danced and laughed over his mistakes, but he was one quick learner and soon he was leading her round the ballroom as if he was born to it. He had rhythm and a natural ear for music. She was going to take him to the museum to hear Dame Myra Hess playing on the piano, if there was a concert on. They were going to walk through all the parks in town. She’d even offered to go to church with him but he said there weren’t any of his sort of churches in London so not to worry.
It had taken her by surprise, this sudden flood of attraction to him, a stranger and yet somehow familiar and comfortable to be with, the sort of guy you’d never get tired of talking to. Why was he so different from others she’d met? She just couldn’t explain to herself as she lay on her bed, strangely unnerved.
If that drunk hadn’t come on heavy, Charlie would never have come to her defence. They would have walked past each other in the dark and never met. Was it fate that brought them together: halfway across the world to this little island, across a whole continent? How strange, how peculiar, how scary. In just a few hours her life had shifted on its axis. Who must she thank for such a miraculous encounter?
‘So you met some broad in a dance hall. That’s a first for you, preacher boy!’ Gary sneered. ‘I didn’t think you Amish played such tricks.’
‘I’m not Amish and Shari is not some broad. She’s a Red Cross administrator working in the office. She’s been to college. She’s wonderful.’
‘So what does Little Miss Red Cross see in a dumb ploughboy except the obvious—tall, blond and full of muscle? It’s your body she is hankering for. It sure as hell’s not your mind.’
‘Oh, shut it, Gary. What’s bitten you this morning? Didn’t you have a good night?’
‘You know what, these British girls are pieces of shit…pardon my French! This girl comes up to me, all smiles and tits, offering it up on a plate, and takes me to this pub. I buy drinks for her and every goddamn girl in the pub. She goes to the john and then, hey presto, disappears and my wallet’s gone walkabout too. I haven’t got a dime to my name. So lend me some—’
‘Sorry, I’m taking Shari out this morning, meeting her in Trafalgar Square.’
‘Then I’ll come with you to chaperone you both.’
‘Not today. I want her to myself. She’s not your type.’ Charlie fished in his pocket for a note. ‘Here, it’s the best I can do. I hope you’ve still got your liberty pass. I’ll meet you back at Euston Station.’
‘Thanks, bud, but I’ll take the early train. I don’t want to cramp your style, but see if your dreamboat has a little sister for next time. I’ll take it there’ll be a next time?’
‘I hope so. It’s strange, there was this drunk bothering her and I was passing…She has this amazing hair, the colour of maple leaves at fall.’
‘Now she’s making a poet out of you. This one I have to see for myself: a little Rita Hayworth. They have tempers, redheads. You poor fool, she’s hooked you in real good.’
‘It’s not like that, we’re just friends.’ Charlie was quick to her defence.
‘Don’t you feel nothing down your pants, and you a farm boy?’
‘We’re not all like you. I respect girls. These things take time.’
‘Time ain’t on our side, Charlie boy! There’s a war on somewhere, and one of these days you and I will be heading right there and maybe not coming back. Live for today and to hell with the rest, I say. Give the girl a smacker on the lips. You might never get the chance again.’
Charlie said nothing. It wasn’t like that, this wonderful feeling of having met someone special against the odds. It was as if he was meant to be with just this one girl and no other. She was an unexpected gift and he’d treat her like porcelain
china, not rough clay. Whatever happened from now on was all part of some plan, but if he didn’t get his shoes polished, his tie straightened and his skates on, he was going to be late!
Selma smiled at Shari’s letter, full of the meeting with the young Charlie West. It was love at first sight for both of them and they had spent every spare moment of leave together. She’d even taken him up to Bradford to meet Ruth, who also wrote to say the boy was very polite and good-looking, and reminded them of someone but she couldn’t think who. He was a farmer’s son and they were religious. There’d been a falling-out when he’d enlisted so he didn’t talk much about his parents. His father was from Yorkshire, but he didn’t say much about that until Shari said she was named after a village called Sharland and Charlie had laughed and said his father went to school there. His name was West and he’d also visited Sharland.
‘How we all laughed when he said, “Let’s get together and make a village.” What a coincidence!’
That puzzled Selma too. Of all the places in such a huge county for them to have connections, but she didn’t know any Wests in the village. Maybe they lived further up the Dale.
She was so happy for her daughter but worried with it. What mother didn’t feel anxious about a wartime romance? She knew what it was like to be heartbroken by events out of her control and she trusted Shari wouldn’t do anything foolish. She hardly knew this young man, respectable or not. They must wait until the war was over before settling down.
Love in a time of war was intense, and soldiers in uniform were so attractive and dashing, emotions ran high. Back home in plainclothes everything was more mundane and humdrum. She couldn’t see Shari mucking out on a farm. She wrote back to Shari.
You must find out more about the Wests. If his father went to Sharland School, they must’ve been wealthy farmers but I’ve never heard of them.
Don’t rush into anything, darling, not like I did with the first man who showed an interest in me. When I married him I knew none of his funny quirks. Your father was charming too but not good husband material, I’m afraid. The only decent thing he gave me was you!
