The blonde hesitated, glanced from one to the other, then stood up. Percy grabbed her and whisked her on to the floor whilst the brown job, as Mal was learning to call them, looked startled and fingered his moustache for a moment before turning to the girl sitting next to the blonde’s now empty chair. He spoke, the girl got up, the brown job whirled her away, and other men began to cross the mysterious divide – men on one side, girls on the other – in order to claim dancing partners.
Presently, Mal found himself alone at the table. He drank the rest of his thin, warm beer, then stood up. He would get a refill whilst everyone was dancing and then find himself a partner for the next dance. The bar wouldn’t be crowded now, with so many people on the floor.
He was wrong, though. The bar was crowded and he had to stand in a wild and indisciplined sort of queue, waiting with what patience he could muster until his turn came to be served.
It was while he was waiting to be served that he saw the girl. She was by herself, sitting at one of the small tables with a glass in front of her. She looked . . . familiar. It was not that she resembled someone he knew, it was more as though he really knew her, though how, he could not imagine. His first thought was the girl in the museum, of course, but this girl had shoulder-length, blue-black hair, straight and simple. The girl at the museum had had her hair pulled up into a bunch on top of her head. And this girl was wearing something grey and clinging, like smoke, and high-heeled shoes. No, it couldn’t possibly be the girl at the museum. He went on looking at her though, puzzling about it. Where, where? He had been in England five weeks, she might have served him in a shop or sat next to him on a bus or train. She could have been in a queue before him or she might have been at the next table in a restaurant somewhere. She was slim and quite tall, though it was difficult to judge her height since she was sitting down, and she had the palest skin he had ever seen or imagined and shiny, blue-black hair, straight and simple, which fell forward like a blackbird’s wing when she bent her head. He did not consider whether she was beautiful, she was just – familiar, he supposed. He stared so hard, in fact, that she looked up and, for a moment, their eyes met. Then she looked away, down at her hands once more, and he saw that there was colour in her cheeks.
I’ll go over, apologise for staring, Mal thought. It was the familiarity which got to him, as though they knew one another and had done so for a long time.
He reached the bar, ordered another beer and, after some serious thought, a gin and orange. All girls drank gin and orange, didn’t they? He would take it over to her, apologise for staring . . .
He was half-way to her table when a young man joined her. An extremely handsome young man in flight lieutenant’s uniform, Mal saw, and disliked him on the spot. Six foot or more, curly, red-brown hair, a lean, piratical face full of danger and amusement. The stranger bent over the girl in the grey dress and kissed the top of her head, then took the seat beside her, picked up her hand, played with the fingers for a moment and then kissed her palm in a lingering sort of way, closing her fingers over the kiss as he moved his mouth away at last.
What a drongo, Mal thought scornfully. That girl can’t like it – can she? You wouldn’t find me kissing her hand when there were so many other places more fitted for kissing. Like lips. Oh God, did I say she wasn’t beautiful? She’s special, that’s what she is, and she’s gone and landed herself with a greaseball who kisses hands!
He carried the drinks over to another table, but nearer the girl in the grey dress this time. He didn’t want to be caught staring though, so he sat to one side, where he could watch her profile. She was talking to the young man now, laughing, telling him something, then listening with intent intelligence . . .
She knew Mal was watching. He didn’t know why he was so sure, he just was. Her awareness of him crackled like electricity between them, he was sure his hair was standing on end, he felt twice as alive as he usually did. But she was with another man; all he could do was watch and wait. Still, in the nature of things the fellow would have to take a pee eventually and when he did . . .
Mal drank his beer, and was standing the empty glass down just as the greaseball stood up. He’s going . . . I’ll rush in . . . Mal thought, already half on his feet, his hand gripping the gin and orange. But the girl in the grey dress rose too; they were going on to the dance floor. And as soon as he saw her in motion Mal knew that it was the girl from the museum. The same wonderful, flowing walk, she held her head the same way . . . yes, it was definitely her!
He sat down, then jumped to his feet again, determined to make a move – any move – which would bring him to her attention. If I don’t I’ll lose her, he thought, his mouth drying up at the mere threat of such a thing. They’ll go and sit somewhere else when the dance finishes and I’ll lose sight of her – or they’ll leave, or go for a walk . . . I’ll lose her!
The nearest girl still unclaimed, sitting at a table alone, as he was, was extremely young and rather spotty, with a bush of dark, wiry hair. She was wearing a pink dress with little cap sleeves and she hadn’t shaved her underarms; hair bushed out from her armpits as wirily as it did on her head. He crossed the space between them in a stride, slammed the gin down on her table and said, ‘Like to dance?’
Colour flooded her face; less rose than beet, she was almost purple with a mixture of joy and embarrassment. She wasn’t used to being asked to dance, Mal thought, and knew, shamingly, that his eye would have passed over her quickly, completely, had it not been for the girl in the grey dress. The spotty girl began to say yes, she would like to dance, but he had hauled her to her feet and on to the dance floor before she had got half-way through the sentence.
‘All right? Off we go, then.’
He steered her on to the floor and began to pursue the greaseball through the canoodling, cuddling crowds. It was a waltz, he thought, or possibly a quickstep. Whichever, it didn’t matter so long as . . .
‘Sorry, cobber. Okay are you?’
He had trodden, heavily, on someone’s shinily shod foot. The girl in his arms looked as though she might cry – what was the matter with her? He pulled her a bit closer and whirled her round, then pushed her through a small gap in the crowd, nearer the centre of the floor. If they could reach the centre he could pin the greaseball down and follow him, dog his footsteps.
He found the greaseball and the girl in the grey dress and calmed down a bit. He shovelled his partner into the group, wishing he’d chosen someone lighter on her feet. This girl weighed a ton and didn’t move with him, he had to keep shoving her along as though he was a gardener and she a wheelbarrow. Still. The greaseball and the girl in the grey dress were only separated from them now by two other couples. He had better not get closer. She had been aware of him at the table, if she noticed him on the dance floor, realised he was following her, gave him the brush-off . . .
But she wouldn’t. That marvellous feeling had to be a shared sensation, he could not have been the only one conscious of it. Once she got rid of the greaseball they could . . . they could . . .
What could they do? Dance? Well, why not? This was a dance, wasn’t it? Though with a ton of perspiring partner now uncomfortably draped across his chest dancing was the last thing on his mind.
For some moments he had been hearing a voice, buzzing away dully, like a mosquito, on the periphery of his consciousness. Now, as the music drew to a close and people began to move off the floor, he listened to it, feeling vaguely guilty. It was his partner, trying to act normally, to make friends.
‘Whass your name, bor?’ she was saying. ‘I’m Ethel Wicks. I live down Magdalen Street – thass not far from here.’
‘Oh . . . sorry.’ He held her away from him, shook her solemnly by the hand. ‘I’m Malcolm Chandler, Mal to my friends.’
‘Hello, Mal. How d’you do?’ Obedient now, to his hand on her elbow, she moved back to the table she had just vacated and sat down heavily. He sat down too; he could see the girl in the grey dress better from here. She was fanning herself with her hand, laughing at something her companion had said, looking up at him . . .
She knows I’m looking at her, Mal told himself. Her cheeks are stained with the slightest of slight flushes, that’s because she knows I’m looking at her. Ah God, how can I get away from Ethel Wicks without being bloody rude? Do I want to get away from her, though? The chaps are right the other side of the room, I don’t want to go over there, I’d rather sit here and listen to Ethel wittering on whilst I watch the girl in the grey dress, the way she moves, the dimple that springs up in one cheek when she smiles . . .
‘. . . Wouldn’t mind a drink myself.’
That was Ethel, sounding wistful. Quickly, he handed her the gin and orange. ‘Here . . . I bought that for you – I thought it would be an introduction – only then the music started and I asked you to dance instead. I’ll go and get myself another beer, though – shan’t be a tick.’
The bar was impossible, the uniforms wall to wall. But he wedged himself amongst them and watched and presently the greaseball added himself on to the outside of the scrum. A chance! He could go over to her table, ask her to dance . . . the music had just struck up again . . . all while the greaseball was fighting his way to the bar.
But Ethel would see him. Mal was not a cruel person and he had seen her incredulous joy when he had approached her, had recognised it as the pleasure of a perpetual wallflower suddenly plucked, danced with, talked to, made beautiful, perhaps by a little attention. And he’d lied to her, told her the drink had been intended for her whilst all along . . .
But even so he left the crowd round the bar and walked towards the girl in the grey dress. He dared not lose this opportunity, he just dared not. She watched him coming towards her, her eyes very large and dark in her pale face. He smiled at her but she did not smile back, not with her mouth. Her eyes smile, he thought, and felt dizzy. Ah God, if I touch her hand the electricity which sparkles and splutters between us will probably burn!
He reached the table and bent over her. For the first time but not, he was sure, the last, the smell of her skin and hair was in his nostrils, turning him drunk with the pleasure, the
rightness,
of it. ‘Excuse me, what’s your name? I’m sorry . . . where do you live? I want . . . I thought at first I knew you and then I realised you were in the museum this afternoon, in the Norfolk Room. I tried to catch up with you but you disappeared. I want to . . . if we could meet . . . That fellow, the flight louie, he isn’t . . . I’m sorry . . .’
He was stammering like a ten-year-old, all his calm, his certainties, suddenly gone, leaving him tongue-tied, stupid. But she was smiling now, and it was the most beautiful smile in the world, a tilted, three-cornered smile which creased her eyes into long, shining slits and showed small white teeth between lips which were red by nature, not artifice.
‘I’m Tess Delamere,’ she said, quick and soft, beneath her breath. ‘I’m a landgirl on a farm not far from Norwich – Catfield, the place is called. The fellow’s Ashley Knox, he’s an old friend . . . Oh Lor’, he’s coming back! Look, can I phone you?’
‘Yes! Tomorrow . . . any time. My station’s not far from Norwich, either.’ He gave her his number, drunk with success. He had known it wasn’t going to be difficult, all it had needed was courage. ‘It’s the officers’ mess, someone will fetch me if I’m not around. I’m night flying. Lancs.’
‘Oh . . . Ashley’s a pilot too, but he’s stationed in Lincolnshire . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t ask you what your name was?’
A voice spoke behind them. A disgruntled voice. The tall flight louie whose name, it appeared, was Ashley was standing by the table, empty-handed.
‘Well, bugger me, I go to the bar for a drink and when I come back some bloody Aussie is trying to pinch my girl! Piss off, you, the lady’s not for rough colonial boys to play with.’
It was the greaseball, but he hadn’t guessed that there was anything between Mal and the girl in the grey dress – Tess. The greaseball’s words sounded offensive but he was only joking. Mal had heard enough English jokes in the past five weeks to know this was one of them. He turned, giving the greaseball his most placid, easy-going grin.
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise the lady had a partner for this next dance . . . I’d best be getting back to my crew.’
‘Oh Ashley, how silly you are,’ the girl named Tess said resignedly. ‘And where’s my drink?’
‘I told you, the bar’s impossible. Well, no, I didn’t tell you, but it is. I waited and waited and whilst I was trying to decide what to get you if they didn’t have sherry or port some scum of a brown job shoved in front of me. So if you really want a drink, sugar plum, we’d better get out of here, go to a pub and get one in a civilised fashion. What d’you say?’
He had actually forgotten Mal, had sat himself down and recaptured Tess’s hands. Tess began to reply, to say that she had come dancing and she would jolly well stay and dance, but Mal judged it was time to make his next move.
‘What are you drinking? Bitter?’ he said. ‘Let me get them in . . . Ethel!’
Ethel, sitting staring, heard her name and came lumbering over. She smiled awkwardly at Tess – she had rather a sweet smile, Mal thought, or was it the reflective glow of Tess’s smile which made everyone else look prettier, better?
‘Yes, Mal? You did mean me to come over, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right. Look, I’m going to get some drinks, you sit here whilst I fight my way back to the bar. What’re you drinking, dear?’
She was so happy that the beet red came flooding back. She giggled breathlessly, cast a triumphant, half-frightened glance at Tess and said boldly, ‘I do love gingerbeer.’
‘Right. Two bitters, one gingerbeer . . .’ he glanced at Tess, remembering just in time that he wasn’t supposed to know her name. ‘What d’you fancy?’
‘Tess will have a dry sherry,’ Ashley said. ‘It’s very good of you . . . shall I come and give you a hand?’
‘I won’t, I’ll have a gingerbeer, the same as – as Ethel,’ Tess said. Mal was fairly sure she had only said it to annoy the Ashley bloke, but he just nodded down at her, then turned and grinned at Ashley.