Well, Polly was having none of that. All right, she had her own dreams, perhaps even mercenary intentions, because she wanted to live in North America or at least get a bloke who could give her something better than she had. And loose morals were something she’d acquired herself during the war. But she didn’t hold with setting one man against another and she certainly had no intention of being the centre of a brawl.
‘Well, I’m off,’ she snapped indignantly. She paused to give Mavis a chance to change her mind, but her friend’s attention was elsewhere.
Polly slid away from the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, pushing her way through the crowd who were slowly pressing forward, sensing that there was more to come.
‘Calm it down, lads, or I call the MPs!’ shouted the landlord from behind the safe confines of the mahogany counter.
There was no doubt in Polly’s mind that things were not going to calm down. One war was over but another war was brewing, only this time it was between individuals, one black and one white.
Although she loved uniforms, she hated fighting. Small as she was, she pushed the door with one hefty swing of her right arm and sent it crashing back against the wall outside.
‘Hey!’
The door rebounded and to her embarrassment, she realised someone was standing immediately outside it and she’d hit him.
‘Oh, sorry, chum,’ she apologised, and was going to rush on when she thought of her own accident at the station and the Samaritan who helped her earlier that day. She turned to see a tall figure with dark eyes and coffee-coloured skin.
‘Are you all right? Have I hurt you? I didn’t mean to. Really I didn’t, it was just that there’s a fight about to start in there and I hate blokes fighting. I just can’t …’
She narrowed her eyes against tears of anguish that threatened and pushed her shoulder-length hair into a confused mass on top of her head. The man stayed oddly silent. His hand covered the lower part of his face.
‘You’ve squashed my nose,’ he said.
Frowning, she craned her head forward in order to see better.
She immediately felt contrite. ‘Oh no,’ she said, her own hand covering her mouth in embarrassment.
Above the dark hand a pair of velvet eyes looked down at her. ‘I don’t think my nose will ever be the same again. Look,’ he said as he took his hand away. ‘See? Have you ever seen such a flat, fat nose?’
For a moment the sound of his voice took her by surprise. His accent was subdued, his tonal inflections incredibly refined, especially for a black GI. She’d only heard white officers from well-heeled backgrounds talking like he did. Most of the blacks talked like the slaves in
Gone With The Wind
, or at least, that was the way it sounded to her.
She eyed his nose and although it wasn’t small, she didn’t think it really looked that bad. Still, how did she know what it usually looked like?
‘Look yer, I’m truly sorry, really I am! I ain’t got no money to get it put right, but I do know a doctor,’ she said, suddenly remembering David Hennessey-White and the piece of paper he’d given her on which he had scribbled the address and telephone number of his consulting rooms. She unzipped the brass clasp on her handbag and rummaged for the piece of paper the doctor had given her. ‘If you could go there, or if you could ring.’ She glanced up at him sheepishly. ‘That’s if you’ve got a telephone of course. Though you would, wouldn’t you, back there on the base I s’pose.’
He glanced at the pub door, from behind which shouts of violence could be heard. ‘Well, perhaps it wasn’t entirely your fault. After all it was a pretty dumb place to stand and smoke, wasn’t it? But,’ he said stepping forward and cupping her elbow in his hand, ‘let me take you away from all this. Besides,’ he said, glancing at the door again, ‘I’ve fought enough battles to last a lifetime.’
Normally Polly would have protested.
‘Well, I’m off,’ she snapped indignantly. She paused to give Mavis a chance to change her mind, but her friend’s attention was elsewhere.
Polly slid away from the bar. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, pushing her way through the crowd who were slowly pressing forward, sensing that there was more to come.
‘Calm it down, lads, or I call the MPs!’ shouted the landlord from behind the safe confines of the mahogany counter.
There was no doubt in Polly’s mind that things were not going to calm down. One war was over but another war was brewing, only this time it was between individuals, one black and one white.
Although she loved uniforms, she hated fighting. Small as she was, she pushed the door with one hefty swing of her right arm and sent it crashing back against the wall outside.
‘Hey!’
The door rebounded and to her embarrassment, she realised someone was standing immediately outside it and she’d hit him.
‘Oh, sorry, chum,’ she apologised, and was going to rush on when she thought of her own accident at the station and the Samaritan who helped her earlier that day. She turned to see a tall figure with dark eyes and coffee-coloured skin.
‘Are you all right? Have I hurt you? I didn’t mean to. Really I didn’t, it was just that there’s a fight about to start in there and I hate blokes fighting. I just can’t …’
She narrowed her eyes against tears of anguish that threatened and pushed her shoulder-length hair into a confused mass on top of her head. The man stayed oddly silent. His hand covered the lower part of his face.
‘You’ve squashed my nose,’ he said.
Frowning, she craned her head forward in order to see better.
She immediately felt contrite. ‘Oh no,’ she said, her own hand covering her mouth in embarrassment.
Above the dark hand a pair of velvet eyes looked down at her. ‘I don’t think my nose will ever be the same again. Look,’ he said as he took his hand away. ‘See? Have you ever seen such a flat, fat nose?’
For a moment the sound of his voice took her by surprise. His accent was subdued, his tonal inflections incredibly refined, especially for a black GI. She’d only heard white officers from well-heeled backgrounds talking like he did. Most of the blacks talked like the slaves in
Gone With The Wind
, or at least, that was the way it sounded to her.
She eyed his nose and although it wasn’t small, she didn’t think it really looked that bad. Still, how did she know what it usually looked like?
‘Look yer, I’m truly sorry, really I am! I ain’t got no money to get it put right, but I do know a doctor,’ she said, suddenly remembering David Hennessey-White and the piece of paper he’d given her on which he had scribbled the address and telephone number of his consulting rooms. She unzipped the brass clasp on her handbag and rummaged for the piece of paper the doctor had given her. ‘If you could go there, or if you could ring.’ She glanced up at him sheepishly. ‘That’s if you’ve got a telephone of course. Though you would, wouldn’t you, back there on the base I s’pose.’
He glanced at the pub door, from behind which shouts of violence could be heard. ‘Well, perhaps it wasn’t entirely your fault. After all it was a pretty dumb place to stand and smoke, wasn’t it? But,’ he said stepping forward and cupping her elbow in his hand, ‘let me take you away from all this. Besides,’ he said, glancing at the door again, ‘I’ve fought enough battles to last a lifetime.’
Normally Polly would have protested.
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