The pianist announced a waltz, and without speaking, Lucinda went into Mike’s arms. When he rested his cheek on her head, she moved closer, unprotesting.
He moved his head so that his lips touched her cheek, and whispered the words of the song ‘If I Should Fall in Love Again’ in her ear.
This was all wrong, Lucinda thought, eyes closed blissfully. Here she was, unfaithful in thought if not in deed, and glad, glad, glad she had not told Mike about Charlie.
At the end of the waltz, Mike released her abruptly and they walked back to their seats without speaking. Lucinda sat down diffidently, aware of the change of mood and the unaccountable silence between them. It was almost a relief when a quickstep was called, the drummer reminding the dancers that those who wished to jitterbug should keep to the centre of the floor.
‘Can you jitterbug, Lucy?’ The band had crashed into action.
‘No, but I’ve a feeling I’m about to learn.’
The strangeness had gone and whatever had so briefly happened was forgotten.
‘Okay, then. Just relax. And anything goes just as long as you keep your feet moving to the beat of the music. And try to relax your shoulders, too – okay?’
The jitterbug had not been a part of the dancing curriculum at Lucinda’s finishing school in Lucerne nor was it like anything she had ever experienced. In this wild, New World dance, partners did not dance close; only hands touched, and after the heady suffocation of the previous dance it was good to have time to get things back on an even footing again, to be twisted and twirled, to be pulled and pushed, to kick her feet and stamp and sway.
‘Mike!’ she gasped when the music ended. ‘That was like nothing I’ve ever known!’
‘Sure it was, but did you like it?’
‘You bet I did,’ she choked, quickly checking the laugh that rose in her throat because she had had a vivid picture image of Charlie dancing the jitterbug – and she couldn’t tell Mike why it was so very funny.
Near-exhausted, they sat out the silly dances that followed; the Lambeth walk, the palais glide and the chestnut tree, laughing at the antics of those who risked dancing the boomps-a-daisy, without doubt the silliest dance of them all. With every boomps! bottoms were banged together, not at all daintily, and everybody roared with delight.
Only in this summer of 1941, Lucinda thought fondly, could a man ask a perfect stranger to dance with him, then proceed to bump her bottom with his own until she cried for mercy. But in the strange state of siege in which they had all been compelled to live, people were losing their stuffiness and becoming more relaxed. Well, almost everyone.
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Lucinda burst into peals of laughter.
‘What’s so funny?’ Mike grinned. ‘Come on. Give.’
‘Too stupid, really. Actually, I was imagining McNair in his kilt and sporran, boomps-a-daisying with my mother.’
‘And who, for Pete’s sake, is McNair?’
‘He’s Pa’s gillie from Cromlech, further north. He’s caretaking there at the moment, but he’s so dour you’d have to know both him and Mama to realize how really funny it is.’
‘Cromlech? Another house? Listen, honey, how many places can one family live in at the same time?’
‘Cromlech is very tiny, Mike, and I’m afraid that three houses is just about all we do have.’
She really must be more careful. Tonight was to be just for the two of them and no one must be allowed to intrude, certainly not Mama. And Mike must never know about her title. Some Americans, she had found, were over-impressed by such things, though most went quite Bolshie if one was even mentioned, and she wanted Mike to like her for herself and not dislike her because Pa was an earl. She wondered fleetingly about Mike’s family in Vermont and what they were like. But that, she sighed, she could probably never know.
The girls who had sat alone were beginning to pair off with soldiers and sailors, sitting close now, shoulders touching, talking earnestly, for war allowed no one the luxury of time. Women, Lucinda realized, came to public dance halls for many reasons. Some came simply to dance, some to revel in odds stacked in their favour by the heady influx of uniformed men into Craigiebur and to flirt and tease and enjoy what little was certain in an uncertain world. And some came here because they were lonely; because they ached for the feel and touch of a man. Women too young to be brides, thrown into brief, unnatural marriages in the haste of war, had learned that the pitifully few nights of wifehood were little recompense for the enforced celibacy that stretched unending ahead of them, the occasional censored letter their only comfort. Embarkation-leave wives they were called, the women who tonight stood a little apart, trying not to be noticed yet hoping to be asked to dance, to be held, however briefly, in the arms of a man.
It was a sad state of affairs but it simply did not do, Nanny had counselled, to love too well, for passion that flamed hotly died in the flames of its own creating. Fine words indeed, though how Nanny had become an authority on flaming passion, Lucinda had never dared enquire. But she was probably right. Passion, Lucinda had recently realized, could be embarrassing and thoroughly uncomfortable. Charlie’s attempt to put paid to her virginity had convinced her of that, though the three-minute episode on the sofa at Bruton Street had been Charlie’s only fall from grace. Most times he was charming and friendly and fun to be with, which was a firmer foundation on which to build a marriage – or so Nanny had said – than the doubtful emotion that invariably followed love at first sight.
‘Hey, Lucy!’ Mike’s fingers snapped an inch from her nose. ‘Where were you?’
‘Oh! Miles away. Sorry, Mike.’
‘You looked troubled. Want to talk about it?’
‘No, thanks. It wasn’t all that important. Just something someone once said about – er – hasty marriages.’
‘And repenting at leisure?’
‘Something like that. But what about you, Mike? When will you be leaving Craigiebur?’
‘Tomorrow morning, first ferry out. Which reminds me that I’ve no way of getting in touch with you. Guess you’d better give me your phone number – if you’re allowed calls, that is.’
She should have told him she was not, but ‘Ardneavie 358,’ she said at once, ‘and if I’m not there, ask for Vi. She’ll take a message. She works in quarters, you see, so she’s usually around. Three-five-eight, Mike. Write it down.’
‘Don’t need to. It’s easy to remember.’
Like you, Lucy Bainbridge. But then, he could never forget her because he didn’t intend to. Last night had been the start of it, and how far it would go between them or where it might end, he had no way of knowing. Only one thing was certain. Right now he wanted her as he’d never wanted any woman. ‘Ardneavie 358,’ he repeated. No, sir. He wouldn’t forget it.
The silly dances were over now, and newly met couples were more relaxed and easy in each other’s company. The pianist looked at his empty beer mugs then announced the last dance before the interval.
Lucinda jumped eagerly to her feet. Mike gathered her to him. They fitted so well, moved as a whole; it was as if they had always danced together.
Lucinda sighed and moved a little so their cheeks could touch; Mike’s hand pressed her back and she moved still nearer.
The sound of applause caused her to open her eyes briefly. An ATS girl stood at the microphone and, tilting it towards her, began to sing the familiar strains of‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’.