The Grafton Girls

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s full of men.’

‘Oh – so it is. Fancy me not noticing,’ Myra agreed, making big round eyes and then giving Diane an exasperated look. ‘Of course it’s full of men. Why do you think I’m heading for it? Come on.’

‘No,’ Diane told her firmly.

Myra’s mouth hardened in a thin line. ‘All right then. Wait here.’ Determinedly she made her way to the table, saying something to the eager-looking GI who turned to her, and then calling out to Diane, ‘Come on, these nice boys are going to give us two of their spare chairs, so that we don’t have to sit at a table with men we don’t know.’

Diane was so angry with Myra for the way she had drawn attention to her that she was tempted to turn on her heel and walk out, except she felt that doing so would make her look even more foolish. She would have something to say to her later when they were on their own, though – like she wasn’t going out with her again.

The Grafton was obviously a popular venue, the tables set round the dance floor all filled and men standing several deep at the bar. The tables in the part of the ballroom Myra had made her way to seemed to have been taken over by the Americans, whilst the men seated at the tables on the other side of the room were wearing British uniforms or civvies. As she made her way to join Myra, Diane felt almost like a traitor. In Cambridgeshire she would never have gone to sit with a crowd of Yanks. The young women she could see sitting with the Americans seemed to have no qualms about making them welcome, though. There was a desperation in the eyes of some of the girls, which made Diane look away quickly. What was it they were desperate for? The luxuries that their American boyfriends could give them? Or did their need go deeper than that? The country had been at war now since 1939. Some women had not seen their men for a very long time; some women would never see them again. Was that the cause of the angry, bitter hunger Diane could see in their eyes? Despite the heat of the ballroom Diane gave a small shiver. The war had turned so many girls into women, its urgency breaking down all the old rules that governed relationships between the sexes. Girls who would never normally have let their young men give them more than chaste kisses had become desperate to send them off to war with ‘something to remember them by’. What did preserving one’s virginity for tomorrow mean when there might not be a tomorrow, when all one might have was tonight? And then with their men gone and their senses awakened, was it any wonder that those girls-turned-women yearned for the warmth of a pair of male arms to hold them?

Diane shivered again, remembering the stolen nights of pleasure she and Kit had shared under the thatches of remote quaint village pubs, where the landlord had been prepared to turn a blind eye and accept their self-conscious claim to be a married couple. Would her body, deprived of what it had known, eventually fill her with a hunger and an anger that would take her into the arms of a stranger to seek oblivion? Pushing her disturbing thoughts aside, she made her way towards Myra.

Myra patted her hair and cast a discreet look over her shoulder. Not that she was looking for anyone in particular, of course. She leaned down and pretended to check the seam of her stockings. She was pleased with the amount of attention she was attracting. The red halter-neck top showed off the smooth skin of her bare arms and shoulders, although it was on the shadowed valley between her breasts that she could see male glances lingering. She hid a triumphant smile. Next to her Diane looked nothing special at all, despite that blonde hair. That frock she was wearing was the dullest thing she had ever seen and you wouldn’t catch her wearing something so boring. Her own skirt followed the curves of her hips and her bottom; she had had it altered, to make it tighter and shorter, determinedly ignoring Jim’s comment that he didn’t like her wearing her clothes like that. ‘Supposed to be saving on fabric, aren’t we?’ she had told him, tossing her head. ‘At least that’s what the government says. Shorter skirts, we have to have.’ Jim had shaken his head but he hadn’t said any more. He was a real softie.

Myra’s smile disappeared at the thought of her husband. The British Government had done her a favour sending him out to fight in the desert, and Hitler would be doing her even more of one if he never came back. She checked the surrounding tables again. Where was he? Hadn’t he picked up on her message? She’d made it plain enough, telling him where she was going to be and when. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t be easy to spot either, never mind that the Grafton was packed out tonight. Not with those good looks of his.

The young fair-haired GI who had found her the chairs on which she and Diane were seated was gazing at her like a dumb puppy, all pleading eyes and eagerness to please. Myra put out her cigarette. She might as well dance with him. At least that way she’d get away from disapproving Diane and her haughty looks. Who did she think she was? Sticking her nose up in the air and refusing to let the GIs buy her a drink. Myra shot Diane a baleful look. She was sitting facing the dance floor, nursing a glass of lemonade.

Myra looked at the fair-haired GI. ‘Well?’ she asked provocatively. ‘Who’s going to ask me to dance then?’

It had been a mistake to come here with Myra, Diane admitted as she watched her dancing with a young GI who looked as though he couldn’t believe his good luck. The GIs had been drinking heavily, passing around a bottle of what Diane suspected must be spirits and adding some of its contents to their beer, as a result of which they had started yelling out encouragement to their friend. Already the table was attracting hostile looks from the British servicemen on the dance floor. The initial mood of the evening, which had been one of high but good-natured spirits, had somehow developed a darker, unpleasant undertone. Some of the comments being called out by the GIs as they assessed the girls who were dancing were going well beyond what was acceptable, and Diane was not totally surprised when a short, red-faced man in civvies left the dance floor, dragging his uncomfortable-looking partner with him and marched self-importantly up the table to remonstrate with them.

‘Hey, bud, if you don’t like it then go tell Uncle Sam. Seems to me you should be treating us with a bit more respect, seeing as how we’ve come to win your war for you.’

The slurred voice of one of the GIs caused a surge of angry mutters from those near enough to hear it.

To Diane’s relief Myra was returning to her seat.

Standing up, Diane told her, ‘I think we should find somewhere else to sit.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t like the way things are developing.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a bore. They’re only having a bit of fun.’ Myra said tetchily. Where was he? She had been so sure he would be here. She’d been depending on it. The only reason she’d danced with the clumsy farm boy with two left feet had been to make sure that she was seen. ‘Relax and have another drink,’ she advised Diane. If they moved away from this table right beside the dance floor she’d have no chance of catching his eye. The Grafton was well and truly packed with an influx of fresh American troops from their camp at Burtonwood, and naval men on twenty-four-hour leave from their convoy escort duties.

‘You can do as you please, Myra, but I’m not staying here,’ Diane replied sharply.

Myra looked over her shoulder. She had sent her dance partner to get them fresh drinks and she could see him weaving his way back through the crowd. Like Diane, she had seen the bottle being passed round the table, and she too had guessed it contained spirits. There was no way she intended to leave, but she knew she couldn’t stay without Diane. Somehow she would have to find a way to make her stay. An idea suddenly came to her.

‘Clem’s bringing us some drinks. We can’t just walk off,’ she protested, standing up herself. ‘Stay there, and I’ll get them.’

She intercepted Clem a few yards from the table, taking the tray from him and telling him, ‘Go and get some of whatever it is your pals are putting in their drinks, will you, Clem? My friend wants to try it.’

‘Are you sure? It’s pretty strong. Not a lady’s drink…’

‘She isn’t a lady,’ Myra told him sweetly. ‘Go get it.’

He was back within a few seconds, brandishing a bottle.

‘What is it, anyway?’ she asked him when he removed the top.

‘It’s genuine American bourbon,’ he told her proudly.

‘Give me the bottle,’ Myra demanded, pouring a good measure into one of the glasses.

‘Hey, not so much,’ Clem objected. ‘That stuff’s lethal. It fries your brains. It’s not for girls,’ he protested, but it was too late.

Myra handed him back the bottle and walked towards Diane, carrying their drinks.

‘Goodness, it’s hot, isn’t it?’ she commented as she handed Diane one glass whilst taking a drink from the other one.

‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ Diane agreed, lifting her own glass to her lips.

‘Drink up,’ Myra urged, ‘then we can have a dance together, seein’ as how you don’t want to stay here.’ She could see that Diane was looking for somewhere to put her glass. ‘You’ll have to finish it,’ she told her quickly. ‘There’s nowhere safe to leave it, not with this crowd. Someone’s sure to pinch it.’

She didn’t really want to dance with Myra, Diane admitted, but in view of Myra’s attempt to pacify her, she didn’t feel able to refuse. Myra had already finished her drink and was waiting for her so Diane hurriedly swallowed her own.

‘That didn’t taste like shandy,’ she told Myra.

‘Didn’t it?’ Myra gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Maybe Clem misunderstood. Shandy was what I told him to get. Mine was OK. Come on, let’s go and dance.’ She grabbed hold of Diane’s wrist, almost pulling her on to the dance floor.

Heavens, but she felt dizzy, Diane admitted. Her head was spinning. It must be the heat and the noise. She really felt quite odd; not herself at all.

Myra looked uncertainly at Diane. All she had wanted to do was get her to loosen up a bit, and relax, but instead, Diane was swaying unsteadily on the dance floor and there was a unfocused look in her eyes. People were beginning to stare pointedly at her but Diane was oblivious to their disapproval. She had lifted her hand to her forehead as she stopped dancing and simply stood in the middle of the dance floor. Myra began to panic. Why on earth was she behaving like this? She hadn’t poured that much spirit into Diane’s drink, she reassured herself. It wasn’t her fault if Diane couldn’t take her drink, was it? She couldn’t have been expected to know that! As she struggled to wriggle out of any blame, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

‘You dancing, gorgeous?’

She whirled round, her eyes widening in recognition, only too happy to push her guilt about Diane to one side as she smiled up into the eyes of the man from Lyons’ Corner House.

‘I might be,’ she told him coquettishly. ‘It depends how good you are.’

‘Oh, I’m very good, honey. In fact, I’m better than good, I’m the best,’ he told her.

‘Says you,’ Myra returned.

‘Well, there’s only one way you’re going to find out if I’m right, isn’t there?’ he told her boldly, as he stepped towards her, taking her acceptance for granted. Right on cue the music changed to a slow smoochy number. Myra hid her feeling of triumph as he pulled her into his body, one hand caressing her back whilst the other made its way down to the curve of her behind, making it plain how attracted to her he was.

‘So what’s your name then?’ she asked him.

There was something about all Americans, but this one in particular that made her long to be different, and increased her frustrated resentment of her own life and marriage. They came from a different world – a better world – and it was one she herself longed to be part of. She had seen it in films at the cinema: sophisticated elegant women living lives she could so easily see herself living. She had grown to feel so envious of those women; and, through them, of all American women. She hungered for a life in which she hailed New York ‘cabs’ and drank ‘martinis’, a life in which she shopped on Fifth Avenue, and went to shows on Broadway. She had studied the actresses on the screen, bitterly convinced that her own beauty was just as great as theirs if not greater, becoming increasingly discontented and resentful. Until the Americans had joined the war all she had been able to do was dream, but now, with American servicemen coming over to England, she wanted more than just dreams. Now she had a definite ambition she wanted to fulfil, which was to become what the newspapers and magazines were referring to as ‘a GI bride’. Magazines such as Good Housekeeping might caution young British women to recognise the problems they would encounter if they decided to marry their American sweethearts; so far as Myra was concerned the only problem she would be encountering was that of her now unwanted existing husband. What could Jim have to offer her, she asked herself with inward contempt for her husband, compared with this man she was now dancing with? She greedily noted his beautifully laundered uniform, his clean-smelling skin, his knowing eyes and equally knowing way of dancing, not to mention his obviously superior financial status as evidenced by his watch and the gold ring, with its small diamond, he was wearing on his little finger. ‘Nick,’ he answered her question. ‘What’s yours?’ ‘Myra.’ She refused to let him see just how much he impressed her, or what she was thinking. Myra was no fool: she knew that men liked to do the chasing and that they valued what they couldn’t get easily far more than what they could.

‘Well, Myra, what’s a smart broad like you doing in a place like this?’

Where was Myra? Diane stared at the dance floor, trying to focus on the dancers. The music seemed to be roaring inside her head in waves, mingling with the sound of people’s voices. She wanted to go to sit down but she couldn’t seem to find her way off the dance floor. She blundered into a dancing couple, earning herself a disgusted look.

‘Some people,’ the girl muttered.

‘Looks to me like she’s had too much to drink,’ her companion commented.

Diane didn’t hear them. Her head was beginning to pound. She felt hot and sweaty and decidedly unwell. Where was Myra? She could see couples dancing cheek to cheek all around her. Just like she had once done with Kit. Kit…It was his fault she was here on her own without him. Her alcohol-muddled emotions filled her eyes with tears.

‘Kit…’ She had no awareness of saying his name out aloud as she twisted and turned on the dance floor, looking for a familiar face. Myra was forgotten; it was Kit she wanted. Through the blur of her tears she could see the back of the familiar RAF uniform in front of her. Unsteadily she made her way towards it, reaching out to put her hand on the arm of the airforce-blue jacket, as she pleaded, ‘Kit…’

‘Hey, what the…?’ The man looking at her was a stranger. An angry-looking stranger. Diane backed away from him, cannoning into another couple.

‘Well, really. How disgraceful.’ The woman’s coldly disapproving voice made him turn to look at her. She was dancing with a man who looked vaguely familiar. He was wearing an American uniform. His gaze flicked disparagingly over her.

‘I think you should go and sit down,’ he told her curtly.

‘I can’t find Kit,’ Diane told him, hiccuping loudly.

‘Ignore her, Lee. She’s drunk. Her sort brings disgrace on all of us. She ought to be made to leave.’

‘Can’t leave,’ Diane answered her, her voice slurred. ‘Not without my friend…I know you and I don’t like you,’ she told the man, suddenly recognising him. ‘You’re that American major that I don’t like…’ She hiccuped and staggered away into the middle of the crowded floor. Her eyeballs hurt and so did her head and her stomach. She needed to go somewhere cool and quiet and lie down. Unsteadily she started to make her way to the edge of the dance floor.

‘Just look at that woman,’ Emily commented contemptuously. ‘She can hardly stand up straight.’

‘Poor thing,’ Jess commiserated. ‘She doesn’t look at all well.’

‘She’s drunk,’ Emily said sharply.

‘Oh, no, look, if she’s not careful she’s going to fall over.’ Jess pushed back her chair and hurried to where Diane was on the point of collapsing. ‘Come and give us a hand,’ she called out to the others. ‘We need to get her into the ladies’.’

Immediately Ruthie rushed to join her.

‘You get under that arm, Ruthie, and I’ll take this one…’

‘Why don’t you leave her? Why should we help her?’ Emily demanded.

‘Well, it doesn’t look as though anyone else is going to, poor soul. Come on, Em, and you too, Lucy. She’s in a bad way.’

‘Well, it’s her own fault.’

Somehow between them they managed to get her into the ladies’ – and only just in time.

‘Gawd, if she don’t stop heaving soon, I’m going to be doing the same meself,’ Lucy complained.

‘Go and tell them at the bar that we need some water, Lucy,’ Jess commanded.

‘It’s all right, you’ve just had a bit too much to drink, that’s all,’ she tried to comfort Diane, who was now moaning weakly.

‘A bit too much!’ Emily muttered firmly. ‘More like a bloody hell of a lot too much.’

Diane shivered. Her stomach and her throat ached from being sick, but her head was starting to clear. She heard what Emily said and she shook her head. ‘All I had was a shandy,’ she told her.

‘A shandy? Give over, a shandy never got anyone in the state you’re in, staggering all over the dance floor and then trying it on with that RAF chap. No wonder that GI was giving you a right dirty look.’

Diane stared at her. She had no memory of any of that. ‘I can’t…are you sure it was me?’ she protested.

Emily laughed. ‘Hark at her. Of course it was bloody you. Why the hell do you think Miss Save the World here,’ she nodded in Jess’s direction, ‘forced us to bring you in here?’

‘You and your friend was sitting with a table of GIs and they was passing a bottle around,’ Jess offered, seeing how distressed Diane was becoming. ‘Maybe they slipped summat into your shandy.’

‘I…I don’t know. My friend brought me the drink…’

‘Here, I’ve got her some water,’ Lucy announced breathlessly, bursting into the cloakroom. ‘There’s a real to-do going on out there, wi’ some folk saying as how she ought to be told to leave, and others saying it were them GIs fault for giving her the drink in the first place.’

Diane looked apprehensively towards the door. How could she show her face out there? She was so ashamed.

‘How are you feeling now?’ Jess asked her as she handed her the glass of water.

‘A lot better.’

‘We came here to have a good time, not stand around in the cloakroom playing at nurses,’ Elsie complained.

‘If you’re feeling a bit better, then why don’t you come and sit wi’ us for a while? Your friend must be wondering where you are.’

The last thing Diane wanted was to go back into the dance hall, but she didn’t have the energy to protest.

Five minutes later she was being urged into a chair, with Jess standing protectively at one side of her and Ruthie uncertainly at the other.

‘Mind you drink plenty of water to flush your insides out. That’s what my dad always used to do when he’d had a skinful,’ Jess told her firmly. ‘And no dancing neither.’

Diane shuddered and closed her eyes. She never wanted to see a dance floor again, never mind take to one, not after what she had been told she had been doing. Vague flashes of memory were starting to seep back: an RAF uniform, an angry male face, an angry American male voice. The major…

Jess reached across and gave Ruthie’s hand a shake. ‘There’s a GI on that table over there bin watching you for the last five minutes, Ruthie. Bet you he comes over and asks you to dance.’

‘No,’ Ruthie protested in a panic. ‘No, he mustn’t. I can’t dance.’

‘Don’t be daft, of course you can. He looks a nice lad, an’ all.’

The girls turned to look at the table in question, where upwards of a couple of dozen GIs were crowded together, either seated or standing.

‘Give him a bit of a smile, Ruthie,’ Jess urged her.

Tongue-tied and blushing, Ruthie could only shake her head.

‘Well, he’s coming over anyway,’ Jess laughed.

‘And he’s not on his own. He’s bringing another chap with him as well,’ Lucy announced.

Ruthie could only make a small breathless sound when she realised that Jess was right, and the earnest-looking young GI in front of her, with his clean scrubbed face and tow-coloured hair was actually asking her to dance.

‘Of course she’ll dance wi’ you. She’s just a bit shy, that’s all,’ Jess answered for her before turning to smile warmly at his companion.

‘If you’d be kind enough to do me the honour, ma’am…?’ he asked Jess hesitantly.

Jess smiled at him with almost maternal approval. His manners were as meltingly flattering as the look in his eyes.

‘I certainly will,’ she told him.

Diane watched as one by one the other girls were asked up to dance. One of the men looked as though he was about to ask her, but Jess told him pleasantly, ‘She isn’t feeling very well – no offence.’

This was her chance to slip away unnoticed, Diane decided, if only she could find Myra to tell her that she was leaving. Where on earth was she?

‘What do you mean, no?’

Myra looked up into Nick’s face. When he had suggested they slip outside ‘for a bit of fresh air’ she had nodded her head, letting him take her down a quiet side street, where, in its shadows, he had placed his hands on her arms and pushed her back against the wall. Now those hands were resting on the wall either side of her head, virtually imprisoning her. She smiled inwardly. Nick might think he knew all the moves and had the advantage, but she wasn’t stupid enough to let him have what he wanted out here up against a wall, like some floozie. Oh, no, all he was going to get tonight was a little taste of what he was after. Just enough to keep him eager for more, Myra decided smugly.

‘I’d better go back. My friend is going to wonder where I am.’

‘Let her wonder,’ Nick told her as he moved closer to her and bent his head towards hers.

Quick as a flash Myra ducked under his arm and moved away from him.

‘What the…?’ he began angrily.

‘Like I said, I’d better go back. After all, we only came out for a breath of fresh air, didn’t we?’

‘What is this?’ Nick demanded roughly, trying to grab hold of her arm. ‘Don’t you go playing games with me, honey. You were coming on to me like there was no tomorrow.’

‘Coming on to you? Is that what you thought?’ His anger had her body tensing warily but Myra wasn’t going to let him see that. ‘No such thing,’ she told him, shaking her head. ‘I was just being friendly, that’s all.’

‘Like you were being friendly to that sucker who gave you the stockings,’ Nick challenged her.

Myra drew in her breath. This wasn’t the way she had expected things to go. She had expected her refusal to encourage Nick to press her for a proper date, not make him angry.

‘Like I said, I was just being friendly,’ she insisted. ‘It’s our duty to welcome our allies.’ Conveniently she was choosing to forget just how she had come by her stockings. They didn’t matter now, nor the man who had given them to her, not now that she had met Nick. But he mustn’t be allowed to think she was some sort of pushover. Men like Nick didn’t respect women they thought would give them everything they wanted the first time they asked. That was something she knew instinctively.

‘I’m going in,’ she told him.

She started to walk away from him, knowing he would catch up with her and prepared for him when he did, softening in his hold as he grabbed hold of her and swung her round to face him.

‘Just a kiss,’ he said.