push it too far, though, or they’ll think I’m taking the mickey.’ She buttoned up her cardigan all the way to the neck. ‘Good evening, wasn’t it? I think you’ve made a conquest, Peggy.’ She nodded to the group of American soldiers to one side of the entrance.
Peggy raised her eyebrows. She knew she should deny it and play along, but life was too short – she of all people should know that. ‘He was a lovely dancer,’ she said, keeping her voice as neutral as she could. ‘We only had a couple of turns though.’
‘Six or seven, more like,’ Clarrie said at once.
‘Ooh, who’s counting?’ Peggy didn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed that her best friend had noted exactly how much of the evening she’d spent in the soldier’s arms. ‘Anyway they’ll all be off soon, so nothing will come of it. They’re just passing through.’ More’s the pity, she thought.
She fiddled with her clip-on earring; it had become tangled in her hair, which she had worn loose for once. It wasn’t a valuable earring, just paste, but she liked it – it was one of a pair Pete had given her for a birthday years before. She didn’t want to lose it. God knew she had little enough to remember him by.
‘Peggy?’
She was shaken from her memories by the voice at her side. It was the soldier.
‘You want me to walk you home?’ His voice was warm. ‘I’d be happy to do so.’ He gave a small grin.
‘No … no, you don’t need to bother. I’m with my friends.’ She nodded across to where Clarrie and Belinda were tying on their scarves.
‘It’s no bother.’ His smile grew and she had a sharp feeling of certainty that he meant it. Her knees weakened at that voice and those melting eyes. But he was just passing through.
‘Thanks, though.’ She wanted to prolong the moment a little longer.
‘Peggy, come on, we have to get the late bus,’ Clarrie called. People were milling all around them, all keen to catch the transport while they had the chance. The building was noisy, its once-smart gold paint now cracked and shabby in the dull light.
The soldier nodded. ‘You got good friends. I’m glad, cos I wouldn’t want no harm to come to you.’ He reached into his uniform pocket and brought out a small notebook and pencil. ‘Can I write to you, Peggy? Will you write to me? I’ll put down my address here, so you don’t forget me. The name’s James, in case that’s slipped your mind already.’
‘I don’t …’ Peggy was going to protest that there was no point, they’d had a fun evening and that was that, but then she asked herself what harm could it do? Maybe he would come through London again. He might be one of the lucky ones. ‘Yes, all right,’ she said. ‘Here, give me that, I’ll write it down.’ She hastily scribbled down the address of the house in which she lived with Pete’s mother, wondering if it was a betrayal of her late husband.
‘I’ll be sure to take good care of it,’ James assured her, tucking the notebook back into his pocket. ‘You do the same, now.’ His eyes flashed with good humour.
‘Peggy, come on!’ Clarrie was losing patience.
‘I’d better go.’ Peggy felt rooted to the spot. The noise of the crowds seemed like miles away; even the irritated sound of her best friend couldn’t pierce the shell around the pair of them.
‘Be seeing you,’ said James lightly, but in such a way that she knew he meant it. ‘I hope so anyway. So long now.’
‘So long.’ Peggy took a step away, raising her hand in a silly wave. She watched him turn and rejoin his friends, then was conscious of Clarrie tugging on her arm, and the spell was broken. ‘Yes, yes, coming, don’t fuss.’
The three young women hurried from the dance hall, along with scores of others, many in uniform, all buzzing from their night out. The bus stop was only a short distance away and, judging from the number of people there already, one must be due any moment.
‘Thank God for that, I hate waiting around in the cold after going dancing,’ grumbled Clarrie.
‘I know what you mean,’ Peggy muttered absently, her thoughts elsewhere.
‘Yes, you got quite overheated there,’ Clarrie said, raising her eyebrows.
‘Stop it. I was only having a bit of fun. You were dancing with plenty of men yourself – in fact the pair of you were.’ Peggy felt around for the small page from the notebook in her pocket.
Belinda chuckled. ‘Well, that’s why we came out, isn’t it? There were a few decent dancers there. Most of them a bit short for me, though. I don’t think I’ll ever find a man tall enough.’
‘What’s that game they play over there? Basketball, isn’t it? You need a basketball player,’ Clarrie said with certainty. ‘Look, isn’t that our bus? Quick, head for the top deck.’
Swiftly they climbed onto the bus and up the stairs, finding three seats together at the back.
‘What was that last song you were dancing to?’ Clarrie demanded, her eyes sharp as she observed Peggy’s response.
Peggy looked down at her hands. ‘“Whispering Grass”,’ she said slowly.
‘That’s by the Ink Spots, isn’t it? Your favourites.’
‘That’s right.’ Peggy’s mouth curved in a slight smile. They were her favourite singers and that was their best song. She’d never had the chance to dance to it with Pete but had often imagined doing so. She stared out of the window at the dim shapes just visible in the blackout and hummed the tune to herself, oblivious to Belinda and Clarrie’s teasing. They could say what they liked. This had been an evening to remember.
April 1942
‘I should have guessed this is where you’d be if you weren’t at the home.’
Alice pushed back the sleeves of her old jumper with muddy hands and squinted into the springtime sunshine, unable to properly make out the figure who called to her from the cracked pavement. But she knew that voice, despite not having heard it for far too long.
‘Joe! You’re back! You’re here! Why didn’t you say you had leave?’ She rushed across the vegetable beds of the victory garden and up the little slope that marked the boundary. Then she stopped short. ‘But … you’re injured.’ She took a breath. ‘What happened? Should you be here – haven’t they told you to rest?’ Anxiety creased her forehead as she reached to touch his arm, but then dropped her hand as she realised it was covered in earth. All the same her instinct was to stretch out and make contact, to convince herself that he really was there, and not a figment of her imagination. He was rarely far from her mind, even if there was nothing she could do to ensure his safety.
‘I’m on the mend, don’t worry.’ Joe automatically glanced down at the cast around his left leg, and gripped more tightly onto his walking stick. He hoped what he said was true and that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by stumbling. Then he looked up again and met Alice’s concerned gaze and smiled broadly. ‘Honestly, I’m all right. I’m much better. It’s just a broken leg and they say it’s going to be fine.’
Alice frowned. Trust Joe to make light of it. She didn’t want to panic him but he must be in pain, and that cut her to the quick. ‘Shouldn’t you at least be on crutches? I’m not sure that a stick—’
‘Alice, don’t worry,’ Joe said hastily. That was the trouble with nurses. They never stopped doing their job. ‘I’ve been on crutches for weeks and I’m sick of them. They get in the way. People fall over them. I’d never have managed on a crowded train. Whereas with a stick, I can get around more easily and yet still get a seat. Works wonders, being a wounded sailor.