Читать книгу GI Brides: The wartime girls who crossed the Atlantic for love - Duncan Barrett - Страница 9

Sylvia’s first GI date, Andy, who had been such a hit with her mother, was soon posted elsewhere. But there was no shortage of keen young men at the American Red Cross club where she volunteered, and she soon had so many dates that she rarely had a night to herself. Among those who took a liking to her was a swaggering Texan called Wally Benson, who liked to impress her with talk of his life back home. ‘My dad’s got a real big ranch,’ he told Sylvia, who listened wide-eyed.

‘What’s it like being a cowboy?’ she asked.

‘Oh, you know, like it looks in the movies,’ he replied vaguely. ‘Texas is so big you could fit this little country inside it four times over! I’d like to show it to you someday…’

Wally often came into the club, and repeated his wish to take Sylvia back to Texas with him. ‘Hey, baby, how about you and me get hitched, and when this war’s over you can come live on the ranch with me?’ he asked one day.

Sylvia didn’t know what to say, so she gave an embarrassed giggle and hurried back into the kitchen. ‘I think Wally just asked me to marry him!’ she told one of the other volunteers.

‘Oh, they’re just after a bit of hanky-panky when they say that,’ the other girl replied. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’ She knew that in war a man was likely to seize his pleasures where he could, not knowing what tomorrow might bring.

Sylvia soon began to accumulate marriage proposals at the rate of about one a week. Since she always thought the best of people, she preferred to believe it was a little bit of permanence and security the men were looking for, in the midst of so much uncertainty. But she learned to bat away the proposals all the same.

Wally continued to be a regular visitor to the club, however, and when he had some leave coming up he asked if he could come and visit her and her family in Woolwich. Sylvia’s mother was all for the idea, and Wally duly turned up, bringing with him a bottle of expensive perfume for Sylvia. She felt like a movie star when she put it on, and walked back and forth for the sheer pleasure of wafting the divine scent around.

Mrs Bradley insisted on the two of them joining her and her husband at the pub, and while Sylvia stuck to her usual shandies, her mother became increasingly tipsy. She was on top form, and had Wally laughing at everything she said.

On the way home they were still having a good giggle when Mrs Bradley said, ‘Oh, I’m going to wet meself laughing if I don’t find a loo.’ At the top of the street was an empty air-raid shelter, and they waited as Mrs Bradley ran in to use the toilet. They chuckled as they heard strains of ‘Swanee’ coming out of the shelter, as she sang away merrily to herself on the toilet. Then suddenly there was a screech of ‘Oh my Gawd!’ and a flustered Mrs Bradley came racing out, followed by a homeless man waving a stick and shouting, ‘Can’t you be quiet? I’m trying to get some sleep in here!’

The sight of Mrs Bradley hitching up her skirts and legging it up the road had them all in stitches again, and even Sylvia’s usually reserved father had to clutch his belly with laughter.

Wally was transferred soon after, but he wrote to Sylvia, ‘I can still hear your mother’s voice in my head, singing “Swanee” on the “loo”. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that evening.’

Sylvia read the letter aloud to her mother, who was tickled pink at her conquest.

After that, Mrs Bradley even began bringing home soldiers for her daughter herself. ‘This is Frank Dunphy,’ she announced when she got home one evening, introducing an English soldier quite a bit older than Sylvia. Frank accompanied the Bradleys to the pub, and after that took Sylvia to the pictures a few times. She didn’t mind – since he was older than her, it felt a bit like having a big brother around. Frank came from Nottingham, and one day he mentioned that he had some leave coming up and was planning to go back and visit his mum. ‘Would you like to come with me?’ he asked.

Sylvia had never been to Nottingham before, and thought it might be fun to see a new place. ‘All right then, why not?’ she replied.

They took the train up that weekend, and had a pleasant time with Frank’s mother, who seemed very pleased to meet Sylvia. ‘Your mum’s nice,’ she said, once they were back on the train.

‘Oh, I’m so glad you liked her,’ replied Frank, ‘because when we’re married I thought we could –’

‘When we’re what?’ asked Sylvia in surprise.

‘When we’re married. We are getting married, aren’t we?’

Sylvia thought back to Mrs Dunphy’s eagerness to meet her, and it suddenly dawned on her that the whole trip had been arranged with very different intentions to those she had imagined.

‘Frank, you’re like my big brother,’ she told him, feeling terrible as she saw the disappointment on his face. ‘I like you and all that, but I can’t marry you.’

‘Well,’ Frank replied, ‘I’m going to keep on trying.’

Unfortunately, they were only halfway back to London, and Sylvia had to endure the rest of the awkward train ride with him.

When Frank was sent to Africa, he wrote to Sylvia constantly, and to her surprise so did one of his friends, Tom, whom she had met only briefly in London through Frank. She now had several soldier pen pals and kept up the correspondence religiously, feeling she couldn’t let the boys down in their hour of need.

So far, Sylvia had enjoyed her dates, but most of the men she had gone out with she regarded, like Frank, as little more than brothers. One day, however, a young sailor walked into the Red Cross club who changed all that.

She spotted Carl Russell immediately. With his flame-red hair he was hard to miss, and he was clearly the comedian of his group, doing all the talking as his fellow sailors laughed at his jokes. He didn’t look much older than her – around eighteen or nineteen – and he had a big smile that made her feel warm all over.

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.