Prejudice was not a word that she easily recognised, but she’d always thought herself a bit too good to go ‘mucking about’ with a Negro, even one in uniform. But most of the others had gone home and there wasn’t much choice.
She let him take her arm and guide her towards the Tramway Centre, where the winds of war had left piles of rubble and twisted metal in its wake.
He told her his name was Aaron. She said, ‘That’s nice.’
They ended up in a pub called the Llandoger Trow near the Old Vic in King Street, a place nearly as old as the Cat and Wheel where they’d been earlier, but larger and packed with a variety of service personnel and civilians. Perhaps because it was next to the waterfront and had catered for sailors of many nations in its time, all manner and colour of people were noisily drinking, smoking and talking while someone in the background belted out ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ on an upright piano.
Aaron found a cast-iron table and two stick-fine chairs near the piano and left Polly there while he fetched the drinks. Claustrophobia had never been a problem in Polly’s life, but all the same she found herself wishing that he would hurry back and cause a break in the crowds so she could at least see the bar. The only place it did break was around the bumbling piano player, who she watched with mounting fascination. Sometimes he played with only one hand, his other lifting a pint pot to his mouth, the tune shaking as much as his fingers.
By the time Aaron got back, the pianist’s singing voice had deteriorated to a garbled hotch-potch of made-up verse and broken-up words. Polly began to giggle.
‘That guy ought to be hanged for crimes against music,’ said Aaron and shook his head despairingly.
There was a sudden lull in musical rendition – if it could be called that. Polly took the opportunity to talk.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘Not from round these here parts, missy,’ he said shaking his head, his accent a comic parody of most of the Hollywood blacks she’d ever heard.
Her cheeks dimpled. She was enjoying herself. ‘I know you’re from America,’ she said, ‘but where? You’re not from Alberta are you?’
He looked stunned. ‘That’s in Canada! I’m from the United States of America, ma’am!’ and he stood up and saluted her.
A few around raised their glasses and laughed before their attention went back to the pianist. Two patrons, tired of his drunken renditions, were trying to remove him and asking for someone else to play. The pianist was holding onto the iron-framed instrument with as much tenacity as a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.
Aaron shook his head and they exchanged an understanding smile. ‘I’m from Boston actually. I’m a graduate and when I get back, my father insists I recommence my law studies. He’s determined I’m going to be a lawyer.’
‘Blimey!’ said Polly and took a swig of her gin and orange to quell her surge of excitement. A lawyer. Well, hadn’t she hit the jackpot? And her a mere counter hand in Woolworths before Carol had come along. She’d never expected him to be that. Snowshoe had lived in the back of beyond and didn’t seem to have a recognisable profession. Gavin had worked in a canning factory, and Al Schumacher had been a farmer’s son. ‘Fancy being able to do something like that.’
He looked at her almost angrily then looked away as if regretting it. ‘Being able to do it is one thing. Wanting to do it is another.’
She frowned. What was he getting at? Didn’t he realise how lucky he was to get that sort of an education? ‘So you don’t want to be a lawyer?’
He smiled and looked at her sidelong, his fingers tapping impatiently but tunefully on the marble-topped table. His gaze went back to the piano where a woman with the figure of a pre-war cottage loaf was trying to tap out a few notes and singing in a high-pitched voice that fell off more keys than it hit.
‘I want to be an
She let him take her arm and guide her towards the Tramway Centre, where the winds of war had left piles of rubble and twisted metal in its wake.
He told her his name was Aaron. She said, ‘That’s nice.’
They ended up in a pub called the Llandoger Trow near the Old Vic in King Street, a place nearly as old as the Cat and Wheel where they’d been earlier, but larger and packed with a variety of service personnel and civilians. Perhaps because it was next to the waterfront and had catered for sailors of many nations in its time, all manner and colour of people were noisily drinking, smoking and talking while someone in the background belted out ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ on an upright piano.
Aaron found a cast-iron table and two stick-fine chairs near the piano and left Polly there while he fetched the drinks. Claustrophobia had never been a problem in Polly’s life, but all the same she found herself wishing that he would hurry back and cause a break in the crowds so she could at least see the bar. The only place it did break was around the bumbling piano player, who she watched with mounting fascination. Sometimes he played with only one hand, his other lifting a pint pot to his mouth, the tune shaking as much as his fingers.
By the time Aaron got back, the pianist’s singing voice had deteriorated to a garbled hotch-potch of made-up verse and broken-up words. Polly began to giggle.
‘That guy ought to be hanged for crimes against music,’ said Aaron and shook his head despairingly.
There was a sudden lull in musical rendition – if it could be called that. Polly took the opportunity to talk.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘Not from round these here parts, missy,’ he said shaking his head, his accent a comic parody of most of the Hollywood blacks she’d ever heard.
Her cheeks dimpled. She was enjoying herself. ‘I know you’re from America,’ she said, ‘but where? You’re not from Alberta are you?’
He looked stunned. ‘That’s in Canada! I’m from the United States of America, ma’am!’ and he stood up and saluted her.
A few around raised their glasses and laughed before their attention went back to the pianist. Two patrons, tired of his drunken renditions, were trying to remove him and asking for someone else to play. The pianist was holding onto the iron-framed instrument with as much tenacity as a drowning man clinging to a piece of driftwood.
Aaron shook his head and they exchanged an understanding smile. ‘I’m from Boston actually. I’m a graduate and when I get back, my father insists I recommence my law studies. He’s determined I’m going to be a lawyer.’
‘Blimey!’ said Polly and took a swig of her gin and orange to quell her surge of excitement. A lawyer. Well, hadn’t she hit the jackpot? And her a mere counter hand in Woolworths before Carol had come along. She’d never expected him to be that. Snowshoe had lived in the back of beyond and didn’t seem to have a recognisable profession. Gavin had worked in a canning factory, and Al Schumacher had been a farmer’s son. ‘Fancy being able to do something like that.’
He looked at her almost angrily then looked away as if regretting it. ‘Being able to do it is one thing. Wanting to do it is another.’
She frowned. What was he getting at? Didn’t he realise how lucky he was to get that sort of an education? ‘So you don’t want to be a lawyer?’
He smiled and looked at her sidelong, his fingers tapping impatiently but tunefully on the marble-topped table. His gaze went back to the piano where a woman with the figure of a pre-war cottage loaf was trying to tap out a few notes and singing in a high-pitched voice that fell off more keys than it hit.
‘I want to be an
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