It was on such a visit, one mid-July afternoon, that Joan brought with her a gift that could not fail to cheer Mena up. It was a Sunday and such a hot day that all the windows in the Lasseter house were wide open, trying to tease in what little breeze there was. Mena was in her room, curled up in her day-dress on the chair by the window, her teddy bear in her lap for comfort. Through the pages of a book by Jonathan Swift, she had successfully managed to escape to Lilliput, but only until she heard Joan’s voice, followed by Pop’s as he called her down.
Mena found them in the conservatory.
“Joan has a present for you, Mena,” Pop said, smiling as she entered the room and sat in a low bergère chair.
“Hello, Joan,” Mena said. It’s not my birthday for a whole month yet.”
“I know that, silly,” Joan said. “It’s not a birthday present. Here.” She produced an envelope that had been hiding in the folds of her elegant pleated grey dress and handed it to Mena with a grin. “Open it.”
Mena turned to Pop with a look that was as much to ask if it was okay and Pop eagerly nodded back. She thought it odd that the envelope had already been opened. Inside was a card inviting Mr Childers and guest to a dance at De Montfort Hall in Leicester that coming Saturday. She looked up, confused to be given a dance invitation addressed to someone else.
“Turn it over,” Joan said.
On the back Mena read that the dance featured the Glenn Miller Army Air Force Band and that it was supported by the 504th Parachute Swing Band. Her eyes lit up, but she was still confused.
“Who’s Mr Childers?” she asked.
Joan sat forward. “He’s a well-connected friend of my father’s,” she said. “He managed to get four tickets to the dance, and guess what?” She began to nod with enthusiasm. “He can’t go and his wife won’t be going either.”
“So this is spare?” Mena said.
Joan continued to nod. “He’d invited mum and dad,” she said. “Then when he told dad he couldn’t make it, he said he could take whoever he liked in their place.” She stood with a little jump and crossed the room to Mena. “I asked if I could go and whether I could invite you along too.”
Mena looked at Pop and saw that he had that conspiratorial look about him; that amused smile that told Mena he’d already known what was inside the envelope. “What about Mother?” she said.
“I’ll tell her tonight,” Pop said. “It’ll do you good and I can’t see it being a problem as long as Joan’s parents will be there to chaperone the pair of you.”
“You’ll
tell
her?” Mena repeated. “Tell Mother?”
Pop’s face furrowed with determination. “That’s right,” he said. “I, your father and head of this household, will
tell
your mother that you are going to the ball.”
Mena knew Pop could never be so bold, but she didn’t mind how he went about it as long as she could go. She looked at both sides of the invitation again and then at last she returned Joan’s smile. “I can’t believe it,” she said.
The mood outside De Montfort Hall the following Saturday evening gave Mena goose bumps. There were more fancy cars circling the formal gardens to the front of the hall than she thought she could see in one lifetime, all gleaming in the late sunshine as ladies dressed to the nines made their way inside the hall on the arms of their uniformed partners. Older gentlemen such as Joan’s father wore sharp suits and black patent shoes, and the buzz in the air and the sense of high expectation that Mena continued to feel as she took it all in was enough to make anyone forget, for one night at least, that there was a war on.
“Stop gawping and come along,” Joan said.
The tug at Mena’s arm pulled her eyes away from the hall’s imposing facade with its numerous whitewashed Corinthian columns and the banner that reached the full width of the building’s front gable. The banner screamed Glenn Miller’s name and Mena couldn’t believe she was there, about to hear and see, live, the band that she had listened to so many times on the wireless at home.
She felt another buzz run through her as she turned her attention back to Joan, who continued to pull her through the crowd towards her parents and the entry tickets. The lace-trimmed skirt of Mena’s gown began to dance ahead of the music as she ran along with her friend, and Mena knew she would be eternally grateful for the loan of what was decidedly the most beautiful dress she had ever worn. It was emerald satin and one of Joan’s favourites. It was a little tight in places but wasn’t uncomfortable as long as she remained standing. The boned bodice fell to a wide black ribbon that accentuated her waist and went perfectly with her low-heeled court shoes.
Joan had even lent her a pair of long white gloves which, after helping with her make-up in the car, made her look every bit the Hollywood film-star. She wore real silk stockings, too, and although Joan wouldn’t say where she got them, Mena could guess well enough. Joan’s gown was eye-catching red and low-cut, revealing more cleavage than Mena’s mother would have allowed her to admit to owning, and unlike Mena she wore her hair down in long sultry waves.
They looked a formidable pair.
The hall was decorated with flowers around its entire perimeter and hung with the red, white and blue of the British and American flags. Soon after they entered, Mr Cartwright became engaged in a conversation that neither Mena nor Joan had any interest in and Mrs Cartwright was soon chatting away with her counterpart, both ladies hovering thin white cigarettes between elegant fingers as they spoke. Mena felt another tug at her arm and the two girls split away.
“They won’t even notice we’re gone,” Joan said, and the girls began to mill through the crowd.
They quickly lost themselves in the melee of gowns and uniforms and the smiling faces and polite conversations that all conspired to lift Mena’s spirits and cause her to forget momentarily the events of May. She caught sight of the stage as they drew closer - a sea of gleaming brass and sharp-pressed American uniforms - and suddenly it seemed that what had happened at St Peter’s was no more than a bad dream that belonged now to some other life-time.
A lone trumpet flared up. The first brassy note of the evening rasped out from centre stage, filling the hall, turning heads and ending conversations as a deafening applause quickly rose and slowly fell. Then it was Mena’s turn to pull Joan’s arm. She pulled her through the crowd to the edge of the dance floor in time to see the 504th Parachute Swing Band kick off their opening theme tune,
Sentimental Journey.
It sent a tingle down her spine. She was transfixed, like time had frozen around her.
“Doesn’t look like there are many eligible bachelors in,” Joan said, underlining her own priorities for the evening.
Mena didn’t care. She began to sway in time with the music as the space before her started to fill with well-acquainted couples eager to start the dance. The stage ahead was elevated and tiered, with several steps connecting the two platforms so Mena had no trouble seeing the band members, who apart from the cellist were seated behind their boxy music stands. At the very back, a dark mahogany and brass-work organ practically filled the wall, its numerous vertical pipes reminiscent of the hall’s grand pillared entrance.
“Let’s get a drink,” Joan said.
Mena couldn’t take her eyes off all the entwined couples on the dance floor, gazing into each other’s eyes like the music was taking them each on a sentimental journey of their own, perhaps stimulating fond memories of better times.
“Come on!” Joan had Mena’s hand this time, leading her to the back of the hall. “I fancy a gin and lemon,” she added, winking as she turned to Mena. “How about you?”
“Just the lemon,” Mena said, recalling her mother’s often voiced opinion about the sort of women who drink gin.
They reached the bar and Joan ordered two lemonades. She passed one to Mena then she was off again towards the sign for the toilets, stopping as soon as they found a quiet spot.
“Here, hold this,” Joan said, passing her lemonade to Mena. She stood close to Mena for cover, lifted one side of her dress and pulled a hip flask from the garter belt at the top of her stocking.
“You’re so bad, Joan Cartwright,” Mena said as Joan poured a heavy splash of gin into one of the glasses.
Joan raised a questioning brow. “You sure you won’t try some?”
Mena smiled and chewed at her lip. She looked over her shoulder like she half expected her mother to be there. “Just a drop then.”
In the background the music really began to swing, taking on a quickstep tempo that set the girls’ feet tapping.
“Still tastes like lemonade to me,” Mena said, and before she could refuse, Joan had tipped in another splash - a big one this time.
“How about that?”
The next sip made Mena cough. The sip after that she rather liked.
“Come on, let’s dance!” Joan said, her voice rising above the music as she took Mena’s drink from her and set it down with her own. They were almost at a run to get to the dance floor, laughing by the time they reached it and in hold for the big-band rendition of George Gershwin’s,
But not for me
before the number had reached its first drum-roll.
“I’ll miss you come September,” Joan said. “It won’t be the same around here and I know I’m going to hate the Civil Service. I sometimes wish I was going off to join the Land Army with you, but you know how my dad is.”
“It’s only for the duration,” Mena said, already longing for her flat-soled, saddle shoes. “I’ll be back before you know it. The war can’t last forever.”
Then I’ll have to come home to mother again,
she thought, losing her smile and her step at the same time.
“I bet dad could get you a position as well if I asked him,” Joan said. “You might have to wait a while for an opening. It’s a reserved occupation so you’d really have to hope there’s someone you can swap with who wants to join-up.”
Mena stopped dancing. She held Joan’s hands with rigid arms and stared her determinedly in the face. “I’m going,” she said. Slowly, so it sank in.
Joan just smiled back. “Then we’d better make the next six weeks count,” she said, leading Mena into a fast spin that got them both dancing again.
The band wound down their warm-up session with a cheeky take on Miller’s own
Seven-O-Five,
by which time sandwiches had been laid out on trestle tables to the side of the dance floor. The girls re-joined Joan’s parents for the interval and Mena slowly finished her ‘lemonade’. Joan had downed three by the time their attention was drawn back to the stage. The bespectacled Glenn Miller appeared before his fifty-piece Army Air Force Band to rapturous applause, opening with their signature tune,
Moonlight Serenade,
as they did on their wireless programme.
There was something about that mellow melody, Mena thought, that stirred something in people; something even deeper than
Sentimental Journey
had. As she looked around at all the hitherto happy faces she saw a sudden change in every expression there. They were still smiling, but many had a tear on their cheek; such was the power of that tune. The band launched straight into
Little Brown Jug
after that. Then
In the Mood
instantly restored the evening’s former gaiety.
While the dance floor filled, Mena just stood and watched the show, arms crossed in case Joan tried to pull her away again. And it was quite a show. A line of saxophone players were on one side, trumpets to the other. Each side stood up as they played, turning now and then in unison to a flash of polished brass. The trombone players behind them rose and fell in golden waves as they hit their notes, throwing their instruments into the air while Glenn Miller stood centre stage, playing trombone right along with them.
A few fast tunes came and went. Joan was dancing with just about anyone who cared to now, never leaving the dance floor. Mena was alone for the first time all evening, just listening and watching the band through her smile as she drifted without awareness closer and closer to the stage. The 504th band members distracted her momentarily as they came out for refreshments, smiling politely as they passed, and several tipped their caps. She barely looked at them, although she imagined Joan would make a beeline for them as soon as she spotted all those available uniforms. For herself, she just wasn’t interested.
She turned back to the stage and quickly lost herself again as the tempo shed a hundred beats and
I know why
began to play. A moment later a woman in a long silver gown came onto the stage for the vocal and was met with warm applause. She had an unlit cigarette poised between her fingers.
So glamorous,
Mena thought, and as soon as the woman began to sing, Mena wanted to be her; wanted to look like her and to sing like her; wanted to travel the world with a big swing band and never look back. The woman seemed to look right at Mena. Perhaps it was that bold emerald dress that drew her eye, or because she was standing by herself. Either way, Mena felt as if she were singing just for her.
“Why do robins sing in December?” she began. “Long before the spring-time is due. And even though it’s snowing, violets are growing. I know why and so do you...”
The woman turned away and Mena willed her to come back. But another voice suddenly demanded her attention, breaking the spell.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
Mena had half expected this moment would come when she saw the 504th band pouring into the hall, but she didn’t want to dance. She turned, ready to give her apology, but her words lodged in her throat. Her lips parted but she was unable to speak.
It was Danny.
Chapter Eleven
M
ena registered Danny’s blue eyes and his white-blonde hair and she could hardly breathe.
“It is you,” Danny said.
Mena just stared at him.
“I thought as much,” Danny continued. “But…” He trailed off and shook his head. A big smile filled his face. “Wow!” he added. “You look so different in that dress. From when I last saw you, I mean. Say, how are your folks? And how’s Eddie? I’ve not seen him in weeks.”