Annie Groves - The Grafton Girls

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.