Gwen and the girls at the Chamber of Commerce found that American officers were frequently coming in to ask them for local information, and it was sometimes difficult to know whether their enquiries were genuine. The Americans seemed particularly keen to solicit local information from Gwen, although so far none of them had actually asked her out – perhaps because, being very slender, she looked younger than her seventeen years. But one day, as she was going into work, a jeep screeched to a halt beside her. The driver called out ‘Hey, sugar!’ and Gwen, turning to give a smart reply, was caught speechless.
There, with one foot on the dashboard and a large cigar hanging languidly from the corner of his mouth, was a stunningly attractive GI with sparkling brown eyes and exotic good looks. ‘What you doing tonight, baby?’ he asked.
‘Um, I don’t know,’ replied Gwen, flustered.
He laughed. ‘Come to the dance at the Polygon with me. What’s your name, sugar?’
‘Gwen.’
‘I’m Ed. See you at eight, Gwen.’
His beautiful face zoomed off with a big smile on it.
That evening Gwen peddled home from work faster than she ever had before. A date at the Polygon would require a sophisticated outfit, and she knew there was only one dress that would be up to the task: her emerald-green one. Handmade by her mother from curtain material, since dress fabric was rationed, she knew the colour complimented her dark eyes and jet-black hair.
With relief she found the dress hanging up pressed and immaculate in the cupboard. After bathing in the regulation five inches of water and dousing herself in her rose-scented talc, she put it on – and immediately felt like a princess. Unfortunately, with no carriage and horses to transport her, she would have to make do with her bike to get her to the hotel, so she hitched up the dress with safety pins and rode off.
When Gwen arrived at the Polygon, she stowed her bike out of sight and walked through the grand revolving doors. The hotel had long been frequented by passengers from the grand ocean liners that came in and out of Southampton, including many from the fateful Titanic. Its elegant dinner dances were legendary, and had continued throughout the war, providing American officers with an upmarket setting in which to entertain the local female population.
As Gwen entered the room, Ed stood up to greet her and she felt giddy at the sight of him. ‘Just stand still for a moment,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘My, that is such a beautiful dress. And you have such pretty eyes.’
Gwen smiled. Clearly the green dress was having the intended effect.
Sitting opposite Ed, she found herself hardly able to eat her dinner – he was just too distracting, and she was trying too hard to be sophisticated. But it was dancing in his arms that she was really looking forward to.
When the resident band struck up, Gwen and Ed moved onto the dance floor, and as she spun around the room with him she felt as if she were in a fairy tale.
The musicians took a break, and Gwen caught Ed looking at her again. ‘My, you really do look beautiful in that dress,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘But I can’t see you again.’
Gwen was confused. ‘Why not?’ she demanded.
‘Because’, said Ed, drawing slowly on his cigarette, ‘I’m thirty years old. And you’re just a child.’
Gwen felt indignation rising in her. ‘I can handle it,’ she said. Then, grabbing at a phrase she had heard some of the GIs use, she added, ‘I’ve been around the block a few times.’
‘I’m not sure you know what that means,’ Ed laughed.
‘Of course I do,’ Gwen said, crossly.
‘All right then,’ he replied. ‘Do you want to come upstairs and show me?’
Gwen was horrified. ‘Oh no,’ she blurted out.
Suddenly, she felt very young indeed, despite the green dress. It wasn’t long before she was peddling as fast as she could back to Padwell Road.
Despite the unsuccessful date with Ed, the glamour and elegance of the Polygon Hotel had taken hold of Gwen, and now she couldn’t stay away from it. Some of the girls from work went to the dinner dances every Saturday night, and she started going with them. It required her mother’s expert sewing skills to keep Gwen in suitable outfits for these nights out, often pulling apart her own old dresses and turning them into skirts with a more fashionable cut for her daughter. After the humiliating experience with Ed, Gwen was determined to look as sophisticated as possible on the dance floor.
She had also made a decision: she would no longer go by the name Gwen. Her family might have called her by the nickname for as long as she could remember, but she had decided that Lyn sounded much more grown up. The girls at work soon adapted to the change, but her mother, despite repeated reminders, still insisted on calling her Gwen.
One Friday morning, Lyn was daydreaming about the weekend to come when an American ensign came into the Chamber of Commerce. ‘Do you know where I could get some invisible mending done?’ the man asked. His enquiry struck her as falling into the spurious category, but nevertheless she did her best to advise him.
Afterwards, he lingered, his brown eyes gazing at Lyn. It was only then that she noticed how deep they were, and what beautiful tanned skin he had. Like Ed, he had something exotic about him that elevated him beyond the brashness of the usual Yanks, but his eyes seemed clearer and more open in their gaze than Ed’s had.
‘Say, miss,’ he said. ‘Would you like to have tea with me?’
He must be at least in his mid-thirties, Lyn thought, impressed, and agreed to his request.
The next day, she met the GI, whose name was Russ, at a little tea room. As they sat down, he put his hat on the table and Lyn caught sight of a photograph tucked inside the rim.
‘Who’s this?’ she said, pulling the picture out. The woman in the photo was a beauty, with tumbling dark curls and a flower in her hair.
‘Oh, that’s my wife,’ Russ said, sounding wistful.
‘You’re married?’ Lyn asked, shocked. ‘Why are you having tea with me then?’
‘Because I trust you, and I think you trust me,’ he replied. ‘And I think we could be friends.’
As he poured the tea, Russ poured out his heart about his beloved Larina. They were both of Mexican origin, he told Lyn, and she was a singer in a mariachi band.
Their life together in Florida, surrounded by sunshine and orange trees, sounded idyllic, and the tear in his eye as he spoke of her was very affecting. By the time she had swallowed the last of her tea, Lyn was so impressed by Russ’s apparent devotion to his wife that she felt overcome with warmth towards him.
Soon she and Russ were meeting regularly. As he stared into her eyes, talking about another woman, Lyn found herself squeezing his hand in consolation, her heart overcome with feeling. But she couldn’t help wishing it was she, not Larina, who was the lucky recipient of his idolisation.
‘You know,’ he said one day, ‘if you lived in the US you would never date a man like me.’
‘You mean because you’re married?’ asked Lyn.
‘No, because I’m a Mexican.’
Lyn thought this the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.
‘It’s true,’ Russ continued mournfully. ‘American girls don’t date Mexicans.’ He smiled sadly at her.
‘I would!’ Lyn felt like saying, but she managed to stop herself.
After a while Mrs Rowe noticed