Call Nurse Jenny (8 page)

Each time he thought about it, he found himself shaking his head in disbelief, found himself wondering about the feeling it had promoted, musing about the girl herself.

Her nurse’s navy-blue coat had suited her colouring. Hair, burnished to old gold by August sunshine, still flared despite being drawn into a neat roll behind her ears; it made her look pretty really. He’d never noticed before. Probably the uniform? Not as leggy as he’d once thought her, not so overwhelming and always ready to help everyone. That had always been her trouble. She’d seemed more at ease. She’d make someone a wonderful wife one day.

The thought brought an unexpected pang deep inside him, rather like a longing. He’d write to her again, definitely. In the past she’d always been too much of a managing person to be thought of in any other way than as a friend. Back in those careless days he had much preferred girls who liked to lean on a man rather than have a man lean on them. Jenny had never leaned on anyone. Perhaps she’d changed, had grown less independent. Perhaps it would be nice to find out. At the thought a small ripple of excitement made itself felt in the pit of his stomach.

Sitting on his bed cleaning his equipment after a day on some muddy moor, he found himself wanting to find out, thinking about her, her life. Yes, when this bloody training allowed him a moment to himself, he would write. Good to have a girl to write to. He hadn’t got her hospital address but her mother could forward it on. And when he next came home on leave …

He had meant to write. But that weekend, with the Army’s usual lack of forewarning, his whole unit found itself transferred to a camp just outside Birmingham. With all the excitement that went with it, writing to Jenny had to be put to one side. That week he had a lot to do, settling in, and the following Saturday when he and a few mates wangled an evening pass into Birmingham, it was shelved again. But he would write, he told himself as he picked up his pass. He still felt good about her.

Cadging a lift in the back of an Army truck to save a bus fare, the group split up to find their own way to whatever part of the city they sought for a few hours’ pleasure. Matthew found a dance hall near the town centre. Obviously popular, it was packed, the floor crammed with couples, girls in bright dresses, men in uniform, a tight kaleidoscopic mass gyrating slowly to a strict-tempo waltz by a top-quality band.

‘We’ll slope off then, see what talent there is.’ Once the last two mates with him moved away, Matthew found himself alone, already losing interest.

‘See you later,’ he muttered to himself, for they had already melted into the crowd. He didn’t know why he felt so despondent. Jenny crossed his mind briefly, though why, he couldn’t say. She had never excelled as a ballroom dancer. She knew how to dance, but she was better at sports like swimming and badminton and tennis. So why this odd pang thinking of her here in this unfamiliar dance hall? Yes, he was feeling at a loose end at this moment. He would write to her when he got back to camp.

What he needed now was someone to take away this unaccustomed loneliness he was experiencing. With an effort he perked himself up and surveyed the crowd, as his mates were doing a little way off.

Not much was here except for one petite dark-haired girl at one of the far tables, visible now that the floor was clearing from the waltz just ended and the lights were coming back up. She was with a Marine. Yet the way they were leaning away from each other, not talking, conveyed that she might not be with the Marine for much longer. Matthew took heart, began to feel better. She’d do.

‘Found anyone yet, Matt?’ Dave, one of his mates, was back, himself still looking for a likely partner.

Matthew nodded towards the girl and drew a knowing chuckle from Dave as he followed the direction of the nod. With the remark, ‘Didn’t take you long, then,’ the stockily built Dave prowled off on another search.

Alone again, but this time feeling somewhat better, he fished into the breast pocket of his khaki battle blouse and pulled out the silver cigarette case his sister had given him; he had almost forgotten his twenty-first, it seemed so far away. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned against one of the pillars at the entrance to the large hall and inhaled slowly. He needed to summon up some sense of nonchalance, and, surrounded by a protective cloud of smoke which he was exhaling, he found it.

He seldom needed courage to approach any girl, even when she was with a partner. One could soon calculate whether the partner was steady or merely casual and act accordingly. But that pale oval face set in a mass of luxurious dark hair, hair that even from here contrasted startlingly against the simple yellow dress she wore, brought an odd trepidation that he could not shake off. Suddenly it seemed very important that he should. Jenny, with her fiery hair and her straightforward manner, faded a little as he began his slow walk towards the girl with the Marine.

As if sensing his approach, hardly had he taken half a dozen steps than the girl turned her head towards him. Her lips broadened into a tiny smile, its message unmistakable. She had been looking thoroughly bored, but already the bored look had fled, leaving hope in its place. Matthew’s heart lifted. It might not be such a bad evening after all. He threw a glance at her partner as he drew nearer. No wonder she was bored. The guy’s face sported a mass of ripening acne. Other than that he could probably be classed good-looking, but in his present condition he couldn’t be very savoury to her.

Matthew stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on one of the tables he passed, bringing a surge of interest from the hopeful ring of girls around it, each young eager face looking up in brief anticipation of being asked for the quickstep now being struck up by the band.

The dark-haired girl had turned away from him, seeing him bend forward towards the table, assuming she hadn’t been the object of his desire after all. He saw a small upward-tilted nose and lips carrying just a little too much bright red lipstick but which now possessed a most becoming little pout. Why did he suddenly feel so shaky?

Matthew took a deep breath and walked the last few paces as nonchalantly as he could. It was the fate of all faced with the prospect of asking the girl of their choice for a dance, especially if she struck them as ravishing, to feel at least a fraction nervous, alive to the possibility of an abrupt turndown, having to walk away as though it hadn’t mattered to them in the least. He had hardly ever suffered from that, but this time, inexplicably, he had joined the ranks of the nervous, at the last minute losing his nerve.

Pausing in front of a wide-eyed blonde, her hair dragged into what was currently called a victory roll, he offered her his hand, at the same time executing a casual tilt of his head towards the rapidly filling dance floor. In a trice the blonde was on her feet, almost knocking over her port and lemon in her haste. Seconds later he was winging her away across the floor, choosing one of the gaps that still remained between the fast-moving couples. To his relief the blonde danced well. Conscious of the eyes of the dark-haired girl following his progress, he couldn’t have borne someone who might have hampered his steps.

‘You’re ever such a good dancer,’ came the light words whispered into his ear, to which he nodded absently.

He had no need to be told he was a good dancer. He’d always gained pleasure from it, from being watched, stretching his talents to the full. Yet it had become imperative to put his present partner through every intricate movement of the quickstep he knew, so that those dark eyes watching him would know he was good. Though God knows why that should matter.

A disconcerting thought came. What if she were only mediocre? All this weaving and twirling could frighten her off. Immediately he moderated his steps – the floor was becoming too crowded for showing off anyway – and fell to making occasional light-hearted smalltalk with his partner.

The ending of the quickstep came as something of a relief. Escorting the blonde back to her seat, he made for the bar and the safety of those hovering males who, despite the romance of their various uniforms, hadn’t yet felt inclined to leave their kind and ask for dances, and couples having already found a partner for the evening – perhaps, he grinned, for life.

Yet for all the press of people, he could still sense the dark-haired girl’s eyes watching him, and he found his need to know more about her pushing away that last-minute reluctance he had felt.

For the past half-hour the dark-haired girl had sat out through dance after dance, feet tapping under the table as she watched the couples, uniforms and dresses melting together as one, moving around the floor.

Susan Hopkins cast her escort a contemptuous glance. Apart from one visit to the bar for a pint of black-and-tan for himself and a small port and lemon for her, he hadn’t moved out of his seat the entire evening.

He had cut such a dashing figure in his dark blue Marines uniform when she’d first met him last week: tall, broad, the briefest scarring on his face from an old outbreak of acne giving it a certain rugged look. She had felt proud to be on his arm. They had gone to the pictures, the cheapest seats, but he’d explained he hadn’t drawn his pay yet and she was ready to forgive him. He had asked to see her again, but this evening instead of his gorgeous dress uniform, he had turned up in this horrid khaki thing. It diminished the aura of romance, of the debonair. Not only that, but the dormant acne had run riot during the past week she hadn’t seen him.

She’d never been endowed with a strong stomach for unsightly things like suppurating pimples or nasty-looking cuts and bruises. Any physical defect aroused squeamish sensations. It was just as well, she thought watching the dancers, that he hadn’t taken her on to that floor – being so close to those yellow-headed pimples would have made her positively sick. Most certainly there’d be no goodnight kiss, that’s if she could get out of his taking her home at all. Already she was rehearsing a polite farewell, this date definitely their last.

The previous waltz had been in full swing, the lights dimmed, the faceted crystal orb in the centre of the ceiling flicking sensuous rainbow flecks over the dancers. Suddenly, she had felt an explicable compulsion to turn her eyes towards the hall entrance.

Among the slick RAF uniforms, the rakish body-hugging navy blue, the officers’ smooth attire, the soldier’s khaki battle dress was unspectacular. The man it clothed, however, made it look as superior as any officer’s as he leaned with casual grace against one of the dance hall’s pillars. She saw him reach into his breast pocket, extract a cigarette case; with growing interest watched him light a cigarette, his head bent for a moment over the flame. It was then he looked at her, directly, just as she was sure he’d done earlier, which had caused in her that odd need to turn. It was as though he had actually spoken to her. When their gaze met across the clearing dance floor, she had looked quickly away, filled with embarrassment.

The band had struck up with a quickstep. The man by the entrance stubbed out his cigarette and began walking towards her, making her heart start to pound against her ribs with excited anticipation. But as she composed herself to rise casually at his invitation to dance, ignoring her Marine, the soldier had paused just a few steps away, bending towards a common blonde in a red dress sitting nearby. Seconds later he had whisked her away.

Pique had replaced embarrassment. How dare he? Susan watched him move with supple grace across the filling dance floor with the girl, looking quickly away every time he glanced briefly in her direction. But she didn’t miss his expression. What was it? Appraisal? Amusement? Taunting, perhaps. When the quickstep ended with a final flourishing crash of cymbals and a flamboyant twirl of female partners, she pretended not to look as he conducted the blonde back to her friends. But at least, instead of lingering, the soldier turned and sauntered away to the bar.

In that instant, Susan Hopkins made her decision. ‘Oh, look!’ she burst out to the practically lifeless Jack, ‘I’ve just seen a friend of mine. Must pop over and have a word. Won’t be a tick.’

Giving him no time to reply, she was off, skirting the vacated dance floor, timing it perfectly so as to collide with her quarry as if by accident. It worked, even if in the process she trod on his foot, something she had not planned, almost taking herself off balance. Instinctively he caught her, held her steady with firm hands on her shoulders. ‘Careful there!’

Deep brown eyes fringed by thick lashes gazed down at her in open amusement. Her embarrassment was more real than she had intended.

‘Oh, golly! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … Did I hurt you, like?’

‘You?’ He laughed, taking stock of her diminutive figure. ‘I don’t think you’ve broken any toes.’

‘Oh I’m ever so glad.’

She was instantly conscious of her Birmingham accent against the refined tones of this man. Yes, he was a corporal, but his speech sounded so incongruous with the mere two stripes on his arm. His smile gently mocked her.

‘What, that you didn’t hurt me, or that you stepped on my foot?’

Susan fell silent. He must have seen through her ruse. Her face felt hot. Whatever possessed her to embark on this silly idea in the first place?

‘You came at me like an express train,’ he was chuckling. ‘A fraction more weight on you and you could really have done me an injury. There have to be subtler ways to start up a conversation.’

Indignation finally rescued her from embarrassment. ‘Fancy yourself, don’t you?’

The grin diminished a little. A momentary look of sadness, loneliness perhaps, crossed his face, and she had a strong feeling he was about to play it down as if she almost heard his words form in her head: I’d be the only one that does. But instantly he brightened, his tone teasing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve not been watching me right from the moment I came in. Actually, I’m flattered.’

Now she was embarrassed again – that look that had passed so briefly across his eyes had gone. ‘Well, I might’ve looked at you. You’re a good dancer. Everybody looks at good dancers, don’t they?’ She wriggled a little in the grasp he still had on her. ‘I’ve got to go back to my friend.’