The next day passed in a flurry of activity as everyone worked together to prepare for the dance. Elizabeth had been quite pleased with Polly’s work in the office the day before and decided to delegate some more duties. Thus leaving her more time to concentrate on the dance.
She’d tried to catch Major Monroe before he left that morning, in the hopes of finding out exactly what he planned to bring in the way of spirits, and was quite disappointed when informed by one of his officers that the major had left for the base in the early hours of the morning.
The significance of that disquieted her a great deal, and her thoughts kept returning to him throughout the day, despite her best efforts to put him out of her mind.
An hour before the dance was to begin, Polly had been dispensed to help Bessie deliver the gramophone and records. She arrived at Bessie’s cottage to find her on her hands and knees in front of a small cabinet, doing her best to break it open with a dinner knife.
“It’s locked,” she explained when Polly crouched down beside her. “I can’t find the key anywhere. I had it in that little blue egg cup on the mantelpiece, but it’s not there now. All I can think is that the cat knocked it down, and it’s rolled under the settee. It’s too heavy to move on my own, but now you’re here…”
She looked hopefully at Polly, who shook her head. “We don’t have time for that now,” she said briskly. “I’ve got a better idea.”
She reached up to the knot of hair that Marlene had carefully piled up and pinned for her. Her fingers found a hairpin, and she drew it out carefully so as not to disturb the elaborate arrangement. Marlene would kill her if she messed up her hairdo now. She’d wanted a wave down the side of her face like Veronica Lake, but Marlene had talked her into wearing it on top of her head. She had to admit the style made her feel much older and more sophisticated.
In return she’d promised to tell everyone that Marlene had done her hair, so that her sister might get some new customers from North Horsham. There were bound to be girls coming to the dance from there, once the word got around. Word got around really fast in that town.
Realizing that Bessie was watching her with a worried expression, Polly grinned at her. “Watch this.” She poked the hairpin into the keyhole, jiggled it around for a moment or two until she felt the lock release, then pulled out the pin. “Now try it.”
Bessie’s expression was skeptical as she twisted the handle, but it turned to amazement when the door opened easily. “How in the world did you do that?”
Polly shrugged. “A boy in school taught me. I kept losing the key to my desk, so he showed me how to open it with a hairpin. I got really good at it after doing it a few times.”
“Well, it might be as well to keep that little talent to yourself,” Bessie warned as she drew out a pile of records. “Here, have a look through these.”
Polly sat down on the carpet to examine the platters. “Crikey!” she exclaimed. “Look at all these. Benny Goodman, Louis Armstrong, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Ted Heath, Duke Ellington…” She held one up in the air. “Frank Sinatra! My favorite! This is going to be a groovy dance. I can’t wait to boogie-woogie with my Sam.”
Bessie’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “What does all that mean?”
“It’s jive talk.” Polly went on sorting through the records. “The Yanks use it all the time.”
“I always thought the Americans talked English.” Bessie got up from her knees with a groan. “I’m beginning to think they talk a foreign language after all.”
“I know. I have trouble understanding Sam sometimes. He comes from Tennessee and really slurs his words.”
“Aren’t you a bit young to be going out with Yanks?”
Polly scrambled to her feet. “I’m old enough. As old as most of them, anyway.”
Bessie shook her head. “They’re too young to be fighting in a war. It’s criminal, that’s what I call it.”
Polly felt a stab of sympathy for Bessie. With her husband dead and both her boys fighting abroad, she must be feeling really lonely. Obeying an unexpected impulse, she put her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “Tell you what, I’ll introduce you to some of the Yanks tonight. They’re all nice boys, and you could sort of mother them. They must be missing their mums as much as you miss your boys.”
Bessie wiped a tear from her eye. “You’re a good girl, Polly, and that’s a fact.” She beamed her familiar smile. “Come on, let’s get these records over there so you can start dancing with your Sam.”
“I just hope he gets there soon.” Polly piled the platters into the shopping bag that Bessie held out to her. “None of them had come back when I left.” She couldn’t voice aloud the thought that followed. Please God, let him be all right.
“You look very nice, madam,” Martin announced when Elizabeth met him in the front hallway. “I hadn’t realized you were going on the town. Shall I have Geoffrey bring around the horses?”
Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to remind Martin that Geoffrey had died of tuberculosis many years ago. “That won’t be necessary, thank you, Martin. I’ll be using other transportation tonight.”
Martin gave her a shrewd look. “Not that infernal machine that American drives around, I hope? It makes enough noise to wake the dead. I can’t fathom for the life of me why they don’t use their horses. I thought Americans rode horses everywhere.”
“Only in certain parts of America, I believe.” Elizabeth spoke automatically; her mind was elsewhere. It was well past eight o’clock, and so far there had been no sign of Major Monroe. She’d waited in the library in a fever of excitement, which had gradually diminished as the seconds had ticked by in that lonely room. Now she was beginning to get worried.
“You haven’t seen any sign of the Americans this evening, have you?” she asked Martin. Perhaps she’d missed him somehow, and he’d gone on to the dance with his fellow officers.
“The American motorcars have not arrived back yet this evening,” Martin said, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner. “They are rather late, come to think of it.”
Elizabeth suddenly felt cold. “Well, yes, I suppose I should be getting down to the town hall. If you see Major Monroe, please tell him I have already left and will meet him at the dance.”
“Dashed ungentlemanly, if I might say so, ma’am. One does not abandon an appointment with a lady for any reason. Those Americans have a lot to learn about manners.”
“I’m sure the major would have kept his appointment if he’d been able to do so,” Elizabeth said quietly, “which is precisely what worries me.” She headed for the door, trying to ignore the icicles forming in her stomach. “Don’t wait up for me, Martin. Violet and I will probably be late.”
Martin looked surprised. “I wasn’t aware Violet was going to accompany you tonight, madam.”
“She will be at the town hall, helping with the refreshments.” Elizabeth peered at him over her shoulder. “Please don’t do anything too strenuous tonight, Martin. I don’t want you to hurt yourself when there is no one in the house to help you.”
“I’ll do my best not to hurt myself at any time, madam.”
She smiled fondly at him. “Yes, well, you know what I mean.”
“Wait a moment, madam. I’ll get the door for you.”
She waited for him to shuffle toward her, her gaze drifting past him to the stairs leading to the great hall. If only she could see the major’s tall figure striding down those stairs. Impossible, of course, if the Jeeps hadn’t arrived back. Still, it was hard not to hope for a miracle.
Martin finally reached the door and pulled it open. A gust of cool air greeted her as she stepped outside into the darkening evening. Soon the clocks would be turned back an hour, and the evenings would disappear altogether, swallowed up in the winter darkness that could fall as early as four in the afternoon. It was a depressing thought.
The depression weighed heavily on her shoulders as she climbed aboard her motorcycle. Fastening her head scarf more firmly under her chin, she braced herself for the cold ride to the town hall. In spite of the silver fox coat she wore, the wind from the sea would chill her bones. She could only hope that the town hall radiators were working properly and that the dance hall would be warm, though something told her she would not lose the chill over her heart until she saw the burly frame of Major Earl Monroe walking through the door to greet her.
“Look at this. Have you ever seen such a beautiful sight in all your life?” Marlene’s voice was hushed in awe as she gazed around the crowded ballroom.
Polly followed her gaze. “Are you talking about the decorations or the men?”
Marlene grinned. “Both. Just look at those Yanks dance! Our boys can’t dance like that.”
“They’re not even trying.” Polly nodded at the walls lined with British soldiers, most of them with scowls on their faces. “They don’t look very happy, do they?”
“I can see why. What with all the girls out there on the floor with the Yanks. Look, there’s Lilly Crumm. Trust her to grab a Yank.”
“I’m surprised her ma isn’t out there with one, too.” Polly gasped as she watched a tall, skinny American airman swing Lilly through his legs, then up over his back where she was suspended upside down for a heart-pounding second or two before being bounced back on her feet.
“No wonder they call it swing,” Polly murmured. “Them Yanks are swinging the girls all over the place.”
“So where is your Sam, then?” Marlene sent a searching glance around the room. “Can’t see him anywhere.”
Polly’s stomach turned over. “He’s not here yet. Must have been kept late at the base.” She pretended not to notice Marlene’s quick look of concern.
“He’ll probably be here any minute.”
“Yeah, I hope so.” He had to be there. It wouldn’t be the same without him. She’d got all dressed up for him and had put on the nylons he’d got her from the base. She just loved those nylons. She wouldn’t have believed how silky and sheer stockings could be until she’d pulled on one of those filmy, almost transparent scraps of fabric over her legs. Just wearing them made her feel sort of slinky and ritzy.
She’d hitched up the skirt of her pink seersucker frock once she’d left the house and escaped from Ma’s sharp eyes. She didn’t really like the dress. It was too babyish. She’d wanted the black one hanging in Finnegan’s big window, but Ma had put her foot down. Said it was too old for her.
At first she’d sworn never to wear the soppy pink thing. Then Marlene had shown her how to hitch up the skirt and pull the sweetheart neckline down lower, and it hadn’t looked half bad after that. Though she still wished she could have had the black frock.
Idly she watched a good-looking Yank stroll over in her direction. Normally she’d have been all in a tizzy to see a man like that heading toward her. Funny how nobody seemed worth bothering about now that she had Sam. She sent another worried glance at the door. Where the bloody hell was he?
The dark-haired, dark-eyed Yank paused in front of her. She was all set to send him on his way with a polite refusal when he stepped past her and offered his hand to Marlene. “Wanna boogie?”
Marlene’s face turned bright red. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she said nervously.
Polly gave her a mighty shove with her shoulder. “’Course you can do it, silly. Just let him throw you about, that’s all. He has to do all the work.”
The American shot her a grin. “Thanks, babe.” He grabbed Marlene’s hand. “Come on, sugar, I’ll show you how it’s done.” He charged onto the floor, dragging a protesting Marlene behind him.
Polly watched them for a while, forgetting her worries about Sam in the sheer enjoyment of watching her big sister make a proper fool of herself out there.
Marlene looked stiff and awkward as she tried her best to keep up with the Yank, who seemed to be made of rubber the way he was twisting and twirling all around the floor. He spun her around a few times, until she looked really giddy, then grabbed her hands and swung her between his feet.
Polly caught her breath when Marlene, instead of hanging on to her partner’s hands, let go instead. She skidded across the floor on her bottom and crashed into another couple. The girl was in midair at the time. Her partner caught her awkwardly, breaking her fall before they both landed in a heap on top of Marlene. Polly thought she was going to die from laughing.
Marlene’s face was the color of a beetroot when she scrambled to her feet, tugging her skirt back down over her knees. She started to walk away from the Yank, but he pulled her back into his arms and started jitterbugging again all around the floor, with Marlene hanging on like grim death. Polly had to go and sit down before she wet her drawers laughing at her.
Half an hour later she wasn’t laughing at all. By then Marlene had got the hang of the dancing and seemed to be having a really good time with her Yank, who hadn’t left her side for a moment.
Polly sat staring at the door, fear looming like a cold dark cloud inside her. Sam still hadn’t come. Although she’d fought hard against the thought, the unthinkable now seemed frighteningly possible. Maybe this time Sam wasn’t coming back at all.
“These Cornish pasties are marvelous!” Elizabeth exclaimed after she’d bitten into the savory pastry. “What a treat.”
Standing behind the refreshment table, Violet’s face looked sour. “I could bake stuff like this if I didn’t have to worry about rationing and that’s all I had to do all day.”
“I’m sure you could, Violet,” Elizabeth hastened to reassure her. “Your trifle is beyond compare.”
Violet’s scowl vanished. “Well, thank you, Liz-” She caught herself just in time and, after giving the woman next to her a swift glance, added lamely, “Your ladyship.”
Nellie Smith seemed oblivious to anything except the line of American airmen clamoring to buy the sandwiches and pastries piled up in front of her. Behind her, one of Bessie’s assistants stood frying fat, juicy sausages over a camp stove, while a pan of fried onions sizzled next to them. Elizabeth moved away from the enticing aroma before she was tempted to sample the fat-laden food.
The noise in the main hall was deafening. Captain Carbunkle had turned up the volume to an ear-splitting roar, and everyone on the dance floor yelled to be heard above the blaring of trumpets and the pounding of drums. Heads bobbed up and down, feet swung in the air, hands were flung in every direction, and the vibration of stomping feet shook the floorboards.
Elizabeth, overwhelmed by all the raucous activity, decided to get a breath of fresh air. On her way out she scanned the floor, searching for a familiar square-cut face with sun-bleached brown hair. Determined not to give in to the fear that hovered inside her, she strode to the main doors and pulled them open.
Cigarette smoke escaped above her head in a billowing cloud. She took in several deep breaths of the cool, fresh night air then closed the doors behind her, shutting out the noise. With the ensuing silence came the terror she’d tried so hard to ignore.
Something had happened to him. She was sure of that now. It shouldn’t hurt so much, but it did. She had no right to feel this way about another woman’s husband, but sometimes a heart wouldn’t listen to reason, and hers seemed set on turning a deaf ear to common sense and decency.
If she wasn’t so miserable, she could laugh at herself for being such a fool. After the fiasco of her marriage to Harry, the very last thing she’d ever imagined doing was falling for another man. That would have been crazy enough. She hadn’t been content with that. Oh, no, not Lady Elizabeth Hartleigh Compton. She’d had to break all the rules. She’d made the fatal mistake of falling for a man who was so far out of reach he might just as well be on the moon.
For a moment or two she allowed herself to wallow in self-pity. Then she pulled herself together. She was a Hartleigh, after all. Stiff upper lip and all that. Her attraction to Major Earl Monroe had been nothing more than an immature fascination for the unconventional, the inevitable lure of a uniform, and the appeal of a foreign lifestyle so different from her own. What woman hadn’t been led astray by such enticements at some time or other in her life?
After all, what had she really lost? One couldn’t lose that which one never had, and there were many thousands of women who had lost so much more. She had absolutely no right to go moping about feeling sorry for herself. Violet would be furious with her if she had any idea of her ridiculous and childish behavior.
Thus fortified, albeit with a heavy heart, Elizabeth squared her shoulders, shoved open the doors, and marched back into the thundering fray.
She noticed this time that the room had become sharply divided. On the one side, the Americans sat at the tables, either in groups or alone with a girl, while the rest of them jiggled around on the dance floor.
On the opposite side of the room, the British soldiers leaned against the wall, watching the dancing with bored expressions, or stood in groups muttering amongst each other.
It was those groups that worried Elizabeth the most. Even from that distance she could tell that the soldiers were not at all happy. A couple of them were making angry gestures and shaking their heads, while others scowled at the dancers on the floor.
It wasn’t hard to understand why they were upset. With the exception of two or three women, all of whom looked old enough to be mothers of the uniformed men, the rest of the female assembly were either clinging to the arms of the Americans or flying over their backs.
It was time, Elizabeth decided, to get the two sides together before they were at each other’s throats.
She headed for the stage, where Wally Carbunkle was busily sorting out records. “I think it’s time for a break,” she told him as she clambered up beside him. “See if you can find Priscilla. Tell her I need her to play the piano for a short while. I think I saw her over by the bar.”
“I’ll get her, your ladyship.” Wally, looking very spiffy in a white shirt and red waistcoat, trotted off to find Priscilla.
Elizabeth stepped up to the microphone and looked down at the upturned faces of the dancers, most of whom looked disgruntled at being interrupted in their war dances. Undaunted, Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I think it’s time we got everyone on the floor for a round of country dancing,” she announced into the round, black mouth of the microphone.
Her words were met with a chorus of groans from the women, while the Americans looked at each other in confusion. A babble of voices arose from the floor while the women explained the art of English country dancing.
Sensing the lack of enthusiasm, Elizabeth tried again. “How about a Lambeth Walk?”
More mutters of explanation. The Americans merely looked horrified.
“Hands, Knees and Bumps a Daisy?”
This time the explanations were accompanied by half-hearted demonstrations from the abashed-looking women. Howls of laughter erupted from the men on the floor.
Elizabeth had to admit they did look rather ridiculous, slapping hands and bumping behinds. She made one last appeal. “All right, we’ll play a slow song and make it a lady’s invitation dance. Marlene Barnett, you start off by picking your partner, then when the music ceases, you each find another partner, and so on until everyone is dancing.”
This announcement was met with a rumbling of grudging approval. Smelling victory, Elizabeth urgently beckoned to Wally Carbunkle, who was still hunting for Priscilla. He came back at a bumbling run and, panting for breath, climbed onto the stage.
“Don’t you worry, Lady Elizabeth, I’ll take care of it,” he assured her.
She waited until the first strains of Frank Sinatra’s clear, mellow voice filled the hall then thankfully left the stage. She’d done her best to integrate the crowd. Now she could only hope for the best.
Watching the dancers from the edge of the floor, she couldn’t stop the ache growing in her heart. Couples danced cheek to cheek, shuffling around no more than an inch at a time. Amazing, she thought. She’d been fascinated by the way the Americans danced much livelier and faster than their British counterparts, and now they were dancing closer and much more slowly than she was used to seeing.
In fact, in view of the fact they were so closely entwined with their partners, the Americans’ idea of a slow dance was quite sensual. How marvelous it would have been to have danced with Earl Monroe that way.
Even as she struggled to repress the thought, her attention was caught by a small disruption by the main doors. A group of American officers had entered, and Elizabeth was intrigued to see Polly Barnett rush up to one of them and throw her arms around his neck.
Then her heart seemed to stop when another of the officers broke away from the group and began walking unsteadily toward her. He was limping, she noticed, and he wore a piece of sticking plaster on his forehead. He looked incredibly weary… and unbelievably handsome.
He paused in front of her and held out his hand. “Sorry I’m late. I believe this is our dance.”
Speechless and embarrassingly close to tears, Elizabeth smiled up into the tired face of Major Earl Monroe.