Sylvia was used to being watched as she went about her work, but this time, it was she who was looking on longingly. After a while Carl noticed her and came over. ‘Would you like to go out with me?’ he asked, confidently.
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, blushing at the idea that he had guessed her thought.
‘You know what I’d like to do?’ he said. ‘I’d like to visit one of your English tea rooms. I’ve never done that before!’
Sylvia knew there was a Lyons Corner House close to Charing Cross station, where she took the train home every day, so she suggested they go there. As she sat drinking tea with ‘Red’, as his friends called him, he told her about his hometown of Boston.
‘So, do they drink tea where you come from?’ asked Sylvia. She had noticed at the American Red Cross club the men always seemed to drink coffee.
‘Oh, sure,’ replied Carl, smiling. ‘We had a pretty famous tea party in Boston in 1773!’
Carl was just a regular sailor, but he was from a wealthy background, and lived in the exclusive Beacon Hill district. Sylvia knew a rich Englishman would be unlikely to take her out to tea, but the Americans were oblivious to distinctions of English social class and treated all girls they liked equally. Carl seemed fascinated to hear all about her life in Woolwich and her job at the Piccadilly Hotel. He was intelligent and lively, and Sylvia couldn’t help feeling she was having a much more interesting time with him than she had with her previous dates.
When he kissed her goodbye at the station she felt tingly all over, and as she rode the train back to Woolwich she couldn’t stop smiling.
Carl was a cultured young man, and the next time they met up he insisted on taking her to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. Sylvia had never been to a gallery before, but she didn’t want to seem unsophisticated, so she agreed to go.
The experience proved to be something of a disappointment, however. The gallery had been hit several times in the Blitz – in one case killing seven people – and its paintings had been evacuated to secret locations in Wales and Gloucestershire to keep them safe. Its rooms were all empty, except for a special reinforced chamber that was showing a single ‘Picture of the Month’ – in this case, Velázquez’s The Rokeby Venus.
Sylvia was rather shocked at the sight of the lady’s pink, bare buttocks, but Carl seemed to be transfixed. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ he sighed.
‘I suppose so,’ Sylvia replied.
Carl turned to her. ‘But not as beautiful as you,’ he said.
Sylvia’s dates with Carl quickly became the highlight of her week, and she always felt a rush of excitement when she spotted his red hair out of the window of the Piccadilly Hotel, as he waited for her after work. But the ritual visit to Woolwich beckoned, so that Mrs Bradley could meet him. This time Sylvia found herself unusually anxious that her mother should like her date, but to her relief they hit it off immediately.
At the end of the evening they were sitting in the living room, when Mrs Bradley announced, ‘Well, I’m off to bed. Don’t stay up too long, now.’
As soon as she was gone, Sylvia slipped onto Carl’s lap and they started kissing. After about ten minutes, she had to jump off hurriedly as Mrs Bradley bustled back into the room.
‘I forgot to bank the fire,’ she said, walking over to the fireplace.
‘You just did that!’ Sylvia said.
‘Oh, yes,’ her mother muttered. ‘So I did.’
She bustled out again, and Sylvia sidled back up to Carl. No sooner had they resumed kissing than her mother came barging into the room for a second time.
‘Did I lock the back door?’ she enquired of her daughter.
‘I don’t know, Mum,’ Sylvia said, trying to suppress her frustration. ‘Did you?’
‘I’ll just go and look,’ said Mrs Bradley, and off she went.
Ten minutes later, Mrs Bradley came downstairs again, telling them loudly that she was going out the back to use the loo. Clearly there was going to be no privacy this evening, so Carl soon left.
Mrs Bradley’s tactics had got the desired result, but as she lay in bed that night her mind was still not at rest. For the first time, she had seen her daughter truly smitten, and she knew that no umbrella could protect her Sylvie once she had given her heart.
One day, after Sylvia and Carl had been dating a month, he came into the Washington Club while she was on her shift. At the sight of his red hair, her heart skipped a beat, and she immediately put down the plates she was taking to the kitchen and rushed over to greet him.
But the look on his normally cheery face told her he was not there for fun. ‘I’ve come to say goodbye,’ he said. ‘I’m being sent away for training. They won’t tell us where we’re going, but I’ll be gone a while.’
Sylvia couldn’t believe it. She had only just found a GI she really liked, and after a few short weeks together now he was to be snatched away.
Tears ran down her face as Carl gave her a final, lingering kiss. ‘Don’t forget to write me,’ he said, as he turned to leave. ‘And have a pot of tea ready for me when I come back!’
Sylvia nodded, too upset to reply.
6
Having waited outside her billet week after week, Rae’s GI admirer had finally worn down her resistance and got the date he wanted. After this small encouragement Raymond’s unannounced arrivals continued with the same frequency, and she got into the habit of letting him accompany her to the movies. It wasn’t much more than that – a habit – and she always made sure to walk off briskly at the end of the night before he had a chance to linger on the doorstep.
But one night, Raymond confronted her. ‘Rae, do you know how many times we’ve been out now?’
‘I haven’t been keeping count,’ she retorted.
‘Well, it’s been five dates, and you’ve never given me a goodnight kiss!’
Rae couldn’t help laughing at his hang-dog expression. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she said. An eighteen-year-old tomboy, she had never been kissed before. Why not get it over and done with?
At six foot two, Raymond had to lean over quite some way, but he took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. Rae found it a strange and not particularly pleasant experience.
However, after that there was no point pretending they weren’t a couple. ‘Why don’t you invite him round for Sunday lunch?’ suggested her housemate, Irene, who had also started dating a GI. Having an American at the table always guaranteed a better meal, since their food was shipped in from the States.
Raymond was a cook at a nearby US general hospital, and before the meal he made sure to sneak out some tins of turkey meat. The ATS girls were ecstatic when he turned up with this bounty, and devoured their turkey on toast. He also brought them glossy American magazines, which they kept under their mattresses.
Raymond was soon being invited to join them on nights out, and although he wasn’t a dancer he was happy to stand at the bar and watch Rae dance. Her friends joked that he didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off her, and she could see they had quickly taken to his easy-going personality. Among his own friends in the US Army, Raymond was nicknamed ‘Hap’, because he seemed so happy all the time. The two of them quickly acquired a new