entertainer,’ he said getting to his feet, the shadow of his tall, well-built frame falling over her like a velvet curtain.
The crowd nearest the piano had obviously had enough of having their ears seriously abused. ‘Get off, missus!’
By the time Aaron’s shadow fell over her, she’d given up the fight.
‘God ’elp you!’ she shouted before sliding off the stool. ‘This load of shit don’t appreciate good music!’
The crowd roared. Aaron smiled at her good-naturedly. ‘Sure, damaged ear drums are a sign of the times, ma’am. Must be the sirens that did it.’
Another roar of laughter went up from those nearest the piano.
Fascinated, Polly watched as Aaron sat down on the stool, unbuttoned his jacket and rolled back his cuffs. He seemed so confident, so sure of himself. He was not her kind, and yet she found herself being drawn to him, intrigued by his elegant self-possession and exotic difference.
A low murmur ran through those nearest the piano. Hostile eyes waited to see if this singer, too, needed to be shown the door. Polly said a silent prayer for him. But she needn’t have worried. As his fingers met the keys the low murmur fell stone dead.
He sang ‘As Time Goes By’.
Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman: everyone in that bar was remembering them, reliving their fear and their love. Every single person was swaying and humming or softly singing the words. They had an empathy with all those people stuck in a bar in
Casablanca
because they’d been through a war too and, by hell, they hadn’t been acting. But they were also moved by the way Aaron was caressing the keys, making the music and singing the words they knew so well.
At the end the crowd clapped and cheered. Encores were shouted for, drinks were bought and forced upon them both, although Polly noticed that Aaron drank sparingly.
‘ ’Ere! You got something against them drinks, Yank?’ asked one pink-faced, grey-haired old chap, a checked cap slapped flatly on his head.
Aaron smiled and gave the man a friendly clap on the shoulder of his worn, grubby jacket. ‘I wish I could keep up with you old timer and I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but …’ he patted his stomach. ‘Got it in the guts over in Italy. But if you and your pals can help me out drinking all this stuff …’
The old man nodded in instant understanding. ‘Don’t you worry about that, my boy,’ he said, his gaze falling to the drinks, his tongue licking his lips as he absentmindedly slapped Aaron’s broad back. ‘Glad to oblige,’ he said.
Polly was impressed. ‘Did it hurt a lot – what you said about getting it in the guts in Italy?’
Aaron looked serious. ‘It certainly did.’ He leaned closer to her. ‘Do you know, I spent so much time in the John the battalion commander thought I’d deserted.’
A tic of a smile lifted one side of his mouth. The penny dropped.
‘Do you mean you had Delhi Belly?’
‘If you mean were my guts in turmoil from some goddam germ I picked up, the answer’s yes, though I did see my fair share of action to start with,’ he added, suddenly defensive in case she thought he was the sort that shirked his duty. ‘And I got involved with some other stuff and got shipped back here instead of straight home.’
‘Oh!’ said Polly and wondered what crime he had committed. He certainly didn’t seem the criminal type. She desperately wanted to ask him what the reason was but was sure he would give her one of his leg-pulling answers. The moment was lost, drowned in the demands of the other customers asking him to belt out ‘Chatanooga Choo Choo’. ‘And don’t spare the horses, lover!’ shouted the woman with the cottage-loaf figure, her wide hips gyrating and her fat legs kicking as Aaron played honky-tonk.
Polly joined in, clapping and singing in time with the tune, her blonde hair tumbling over her face as she danced the jitterbug with a lanky sailor, his long legs spiralling out in all directions like the
The crowd nearest the piano had obviously had enough of having their ears seriously abused. ‘Get off, missus!’
By the time Aaron’s shadow fell over her, she’d given up the fight.
‘God ’elp you!’ she shouted before sliding off the stool. ‘This load of shit don’t appreciate good music!’
The crowd roared. Aaron smiled at her good-naturedly. ‘Sure, damaged ear drums are a sign of the times, ma’am. Must be the sirens that did it.’
Another roar of laughter went up from those nearest the piano.
Fascinated, Polly watched as Aaron sat down on the stool, unbuttoned his jacket and rolled back his cuffs. He seemed so confident, so sure of himself. He was not her kind, and yet she found herself being drawn to him, intrigued by his elegant self-possession and exotic difference.
A low murmur ran through those nearest the piano. Hostile eyes waited to see if this singer, too, needed to be shown the door. Polly said a silent prayer for him. But she needn’t have worried. As his fingers met the keys the low murmur fell stone dead.
He sang ‘As Time Goes By’.
Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman: everyone in that bar was remembering them, reliving their fear and their love. Every single person was swaying and humming or softly singing the words. They had an empathy with all those people stuck in a bar in
Casablanca
because they’d been through a war too and, by hell, they hadn’t been acting. But they were also moved by the way Aaron was caressing the keys, making the music and singing the words they knew so well.
At the end the crowd clapped and cheered. Encores were shouted for, drinks were bought and forced upon them both, although Polly noticed that Aaron drank sparingly.
‘ ’Ere! You got something against them drinks, Yank?’ asked one pink-faced, grey-haired old chap, a checked cap slapped flatly on his head.
Aaron smiled and gave the man a friendly clap on the shoulder of his worn, grubby jacket. ‘I wish I could keep up with you old timer and I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but …’ he patted his stomach. ‘Got it in the guts over in Italy. But if you and your pals can help me out drinking all this stuff …’
The old man nodded in instant understanding. ‘Don’t you worry about that, my boy,’ he said, his gaze falling to the drinks, his tongue licking his lips as he absentmindedly slapped Aaron’s broad back. ‘Glad to oblige,’ he said.
Polly was impressed. ‘Did it hurt a lot – what you said about getting it in the guts in Italy?’
Aaron looked serious. ‘It certainly did.’ He leaned closer to her. ‘Do you know, I spent so much time in the John the battalion commander thought I’d deserted.’
A tic of a smile lifted one side of his mouth. The penny dropped.
‘Do you mean you had Delhi Belly?’
‘If you mean were my guts in turmoil from some goddam germ I picked up, the answer’s yes, though I did see my fair share of action to start with,’ he added, suddenly defensive in case she thought he was the sort that shirked his duty. ‘And I got involved with some other stuff and got shipped back here instead of straight home.’
‘Oh!’ said Polly and wondered what crime he had committed. He certainly didn’t seem the criminal type. She desperately wanted to ask him what the reason was but was sure he would give her one of his leg-pulling answers. The moment was lost, drowned in the demands of the other customers asking him to belt out ‘Chatanooga Choo Choo’. ‘And don’t spare the horses, lover!’ shouted the woman with the cottage-loaf figure, her wide hips gyrating and her fat legs kicking as Aaron played honky-tonk.
Polly joined in, clapping and singing in time with the tune, her blonde hair tumbling over her face as she danced the jitterbug with a lanky sailor, his long legs spiralling out in all directions like the
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