down there, helping clear everything out.’
‘Looks a swell old place. What are you wearing, Lucy?’
‘What d’you mean, what am I wearing?’ For God’s sake, why didn’t he ask about Charlie?
‘Your clothes. I want to know exactly.’
‘Okay, then. I’m wearing an old pair of jodhpurs and a pale blue Aertex shirt – my school hockey shirt, actually.’ Now ask about the man beside me with his arm on my shoulders. Go on, Mike. Ask.
‘Y’know, Lucy, I don’t think you should ever let your hair get that long again.’ He was studying the snapshot intently, as if it were a valuable painting, hung, well-lighted, in some exhibition. ‘Short hair, like you’ve got it now, frames your face, shows your bones better. Who’s the guy, by the way?’
‘Him? Oh, that’s Charlie, my cousin. He’s Pa’s younger brother’s boy. Charlie’s older than me because Pa married late, you see. Late, and somewhat unproductively.’
Dear Lord! Did she have to go on like this? All she had to do was say, ‘That’s the man I’m engaged to.’ Simple enough, so why was it such an effort?
‘In the Navy, is he?’
‘The Army.’ Her reply was brief because she was angry; angry with herself for not being straight and honest, and angrier still because suddenly and inexplicably she did not want to be straight and honest, and had never, she realized, had the slightest intention of being so. At least, not where Charlie was concerned.
‘Oh, Lucinda, how could you?’
‘Ar, hey, queen. It’s nothin’ to do with me, but wasn’t that a bit naughty, eh?’
Nanny and Vi were sitting like prim little consciences, one on either shoulder, and they could both mind their own business because tonight Lucy Bainbridge was out dancing with an American. And after tonight their ships would have passed and sailed in opposite directions, so what the hell?
She watched him place the snapshot in his wallet, then taking her arm again he said, ‘Right, honey, let’s get weaving. We’ll be there in time for the first dance, if we get a move on.’
When they reached the Rialto dance hall there was already a queue outside. Dammit, Mike frowned, everybody formed queues these days. Queues for food, for cigarettes, for beer, even. They did it automatically and without a murmur of complaint; most unlike the usual run of Brits. One thing was certain, though. Granny Farrow wouldn’t stand in a queue for anybody, bet your bottom dollar she wouldn’t!
But maybe, he thought, the British were still a bit bemused after Dunkirk, still licking their wounds and wondering how it had happened to them, the lords of empire. And maybe soon they’d jerk themselves out of their beleaguered apathy and start snapping back at the Krauts and be their old, arrogant British selves again. Didn’t they always land on their feet, in the end?
The queue began to move. At the cashier’s window Mike asked, ‘How much, honey?’
‘Two shillings.’ She smiled broadly. ‘And if the young lady is with you, that’ll be four.’
He handed her a ten-shilling note and received change of three florins.
They parted company at the cloakrooms, and Lucinda handed in her hat, respirator and jacket, placing the receipt carefully in her belt pocket. Then, running her fingers through her hair and placing a threepenny-piece in the attendant’s saucer, she walked to the dance floor and Mike, who waited beside the open glass doors.
Her heart raced with excitement. She would dance every dance, if Mike’s leg stood up to it, of course. She would slide and glide and twirl with never a hint of a beeline or marching turn.
They chose seats halfway down the hall, not too near the band, having mind to their eardrums.
Lucinda looked around. The hall was large, with a well-polished floor. It was airy, too, but only because the heavy blackout curtains did not need to be drawn yet and the windows were open wide to the summer night.
At the end of the hall, on a dais decorated with dusty potted plants, members of the dance band sorted their music.
The drummer was young, his short hair obviously cut by an Army barber. To his left sat a middle-aged civilian lady saxophonist and an accordion player wearing naval uniform. They chatted easily, that strange assortment of musicians, handing round cigarettes, checking the beer glasses beneath their chairs.
To the far left of the group, the pianist in RAF uniform sat at the ready, his hands relaxed on his knees, taking occasional sips from the nearest of the three pints of beer standing in readiness on the piano top, smiling at a giggle of young girls who sat beside the dais.
‘I wonder what they’re going to be like.’ Mike nodded in the direction of the band.
‘Don’t know. They’re a bit of a hotchpotch, aren’t they? But some of them might have been musicians in civvy street, so they might be quite good.’
The hotchpotch dance band was very good, swinging into the first quickstep with style and in perfect dancing rhythm.
‘Care to dance, lady?’ Mike rose to his feet, holding open his arms.
Unspeaking, Lucinda went to him, and before they had covered a circuit of the floor she knew she had been right. Mike was a good dancer, his hand, light on her back, exacted just the right pressure to make following him easy.
‘This is going to be good, Mike.’
He squeezed her hand in reply. Good? It would be better than he had ever imagined. And hadn’t he been right? Didn’t those ridiculous curls of hers reach exactly to his chin?
The floor was uncrowded and they glided and turned and slid and spun. Mike sang softly in tune to the music.
Lucinda pushed a little way from him, smiling up into his eyes. Strange, how his touch pleased her, how right his nearness felt. Mike Farrow was a very attractive man and it was just as well, she thought, half in sorrow, half with relief, that this meeting was destined to be their last. A girl could fall heavily for a man like Mike; a girl who wasn’t engaged, that was.
‘Why didn’t you tell me,’ she laughed when the quickstep came to an end, ‘that you were a marvellous dancer?’
‘Modesty forbids,’ he teased, lifting an eyebrow. ‘And anyway, you never asked.’
Lucy was easy to dance with and so light in his arms that he had felt she would float from him should he move his hand from her. Her hair smelled sweet and newly washed and it had been a distinct effort not to pull her closer and rest his cheek on her head.
Lucinda gazed around her with rapt interest. This was the first ‘hop’ she had ever attended. Every other dance had been a formal gold-printed invitation affair, usually with Charlie and always amongst acquaintances of long standing. Now, one of the delights of leaving home would be going to informal hops and dancing with whomever she pleased. And, what was more, there would be no need to hold an inquest at the end of hops, no Mama wanting to know who had been there, who danced with someone he or she shouldn’t have danced with and was that dreadful Maudie Thingummy there again hawking around that unmarriageable daughter of hers? Ah yes, from this night on, dances would be fun!
The hall was beginning to fill now; the seats around the perimeter of the floor were all occupied. Land girls and ATS girls in Army uniform and Wrens stood around in groups. There were even a few men in civilian dress, though not so many, for civvies were completely out of favour. Men in the armed forces now had the pick of the unattached female population, all of whom turned up pert noses at civilians, wondering why they were not in uniform, wondering, even, if they were conchies, for to speak to a conscientious objector, let alone dance with one, was completely unthinkable.
From the far corner of the floor a group of sailors eyed girls who sat alone, whilst from another, soldiers did the same, doubtless