tall. Good to look at, really.
‘Well, it hasn’t put me off, so you’d better tell me your name.’
‘Charles Lawson, though most of the blokes call me Charlie.’
‘Hm. No. Charles is too stuffy and Charlie makes you sound a real – well you know…Think I shall call you Chas. And I’m called Nancy Morrissey, though I prefer Nan.’
‘Hi!’ He offered a hand, which Nan took. ‘N-nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise. And I think you’d better ask me up to dance when the music starts, ’cause if you don’t, somebody else is goin’ to ask me, and I want to talk to you.’
‘You do, Nan? You really do?’ His cheeks were bright red. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t d-dance…’
‘Why ever not! Don’t you like dancin’?’
‘I’d like to try it, but I can’t pluck up the courage to ask. By the t-time I’ve said I’m sorry, I can’t dance but would they like to t-try one with me some other bloke has nabbed them.’
‘But you’re talkin’ to me, and what’s more you and me’s havin’ the next dance, OK? I mean, you’re never goin’ to learn, are you, if you never set foot on the floor.’
‘You’ll be sorry!’ He smiled for all that, and it was a lovely smile, Nan thought. Nice, white teeth and even, like a film star’s.
‘We’ll see,’ she smiled back, ‘and shh…’
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ The pianist got to his feet, placed his pint pot on top of the piano. ‘Please take your partners for a Bumps-a-daisy.’
There was a loud groan, but Nan took not one bit of notice and taking his hand, walked onto the empty floor.
‘Look at our Nan,’ Evie grinned. ‘Think she’s clicked.’
‘Yes, and he’s not bad looking either. Hope no one asks me to do this one,’ Carrie shrugged. ‘It’s such a silly dance.’
‘Now, this is a good one for a beginner,’ Nan beamed. ‘It’s just a bit of fun. You clap hands, clap each other’s hands, do the bumps-a-daisy bit, and then you do four waltz steps, then start all over again. C’mon, now.’
They clapped hands, slapped hands then bumped bottoms.
‘That’s it! Now – one two three, one two three. Just follow me, Chas. You’re doin’ fine.’
He was. The waltzing came easily; bumping bottoms with a young ATS girl with mischief in her eyes was something he would never have dared to do.
Other couples took the floor. One waltzed past them, arms waving and said,
‘What ho, Charlie! Got yourself a popsie, then?’
‘Take no notice.’ Chas had gone beetroot red, again. ‘He’s a bit loud, that’s all…’
‘Is he now?’ Nan manoeuvred them alongside the offending male and his partner. ‘Excuse me!’ she hissed, narrowing her eyes, stepping to the side. ‘Oh, dear, he’s tripped!’ she giggled, before gliding away for the next bottom-bumping.
‘Did you like that,’ she asked when the dance was over.
‘I did. I really did. Pity about old Clarry, though.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Clarence Harris. The one who skidded on the floor.’
‘Mm. Serve him right. Didn’t like him.’
‘Why not, Nan?’
‘’Cause he called me a popsie and he called you Charlie and grinning all over his face like he’d said something clever. He asked for it!’
‘Nan! You didn’t – deliberately trip him, I mean?’
‘No. Only he was so busy sniggering with that blonde he was dancin’ with that he didn’t notice his left foot got a bit near my right one, and down he went! Arse over tip!’
‘Oh, my goodness! Nan, you are wicked and an absolute love and can I please have the next dance with you?’
‘You can, Chas. You can,’ she lifted her eyes to his and smiled. And did he but know it, bless him, he hadn’t stammered once since they first bumped bottoms! ‘And I think you are very nice, too…’
When they had had the last waltz together, doing one-two-three, one-two-three in the corner of the hut, Chas said, ‘I’ll walk you to the transport – if I may? This your jacket?’
Nan nodded, taking her cap and gloves from the sleeve she had pushed them into, holding back her arms as he helped her into it. Then she put on her cap, slipped her arm through his and left the hut.
They stood, blinking into the darkness. You always did that, when stepping into the blackout; give your eyes a few seconds to get adjusted. Then they made for the dim outline of the transport.
‘You will ring me, Nan? You’ve got the aerodrome number?’ He had written it on a page in his diary and she’d tucked it into her skirt pocket. ‘If the operator tells you she isn’t accepting incoming calls, it means we’ll be flying. Security, you know. I won’t be able to ring you, either. And you will remember to get the number of your NAAFI phone for me, so I can ring you when you aren’t on shift?’
‘I’ll remember. Promise. Well, g’night, Chas. Thanks for tonight.’ They were beside the transport now.
‘Goodnight, Nan Morrissey – and the pleasure was all mine.’ He leaned closer and kissed her cheek. ‘You will phone – give me your number?’
‘I said I would…’ That had been her first goodnight kiss. On her cheek. It wasn’t good enough. She took his face in her hands, then rose on tiptoe to kiss his mouth, softly, slowly, gently. ‘And you take care, mind, next time you’re flying.’
‘I will, Nan. Promise.’
Oh, too right he would! And he’d get home in one piece, too, now that he had Nan Morrissey to come back to.
She was lost to him then in the darkness but he heard her laugh as she climbed aboard. Then he said her name softly as if it were a talisman. ‘Nan. Nan Morrissey. And you take care too, darling girl…’
When the blackout curtains had been drawn at Southgate Lodge and the lights switched on and door bolts pushed home, Carrie said, ‘A smashing dance, eh? Great band.’ ‘Plenty of partners,’ Evie beamed, ‘though someone not two feet from me got herself an admirer, or I’m very much mistaken. Well, come on then Morrissey – tell!’
‘Ar. He’s luvley.’ Nan took off her tie and collar then unfastened her shirt buttons, eager to tell them about the sergeant who was a navigator in a Wellington bomber. ‘But he can’t dance, see, so I offered. He’s very light on his feet so he’ll be all right, with a bit more practice.’
‘You’re going to see him again, Nan?’ ‘Hope so. He gave me the aerodrome number so I can ring him in the sergeants’ mess. I couldn’t tell him what our NAAFI number was, so I’ll give it to him, when I ring. He’s called Charles Lawson by the way, and he talks real luvely. Y’know – like a frewt.’
‘Like a what,’ asked Carrie who was winding her hair into pincurls.
‘A frewt. FRUIT.’ She spelled it out. ‘Posh, like…’
‘I see.’ Gravely, Carrie logged up yet another Liverpudlian word.
‘Mind, I don’t call him Charles ’cause it doesn’t suit him. The fellers in his mess call him Charlie, but that doesn’t suit him, either. So it’s Chas. Mind, he blushes and stammers something awful when he talks to girls but he was all right, once him and me got to know each other. He kissed me goodnight