The man returned and gestured to some narrow concrete stairs. “Up the top. First door.”
As Keyes hurried up the stairs the stage-doorkeeper said, “Bit of a change for Georgie, ain’t it?”
The man with the cash box rubbed his chin. “Must be more to him than shows at a glance, eh?”
Keyes hesitated outside the flaking door. There were telephone numbers and messages scrawled over the wall. An air of decay, smells of grease and powder, of dust and sweat hung in the narrow passageway like part of the building itself.
He rapped on the door and-heard her call, “Just walk right in, sailor!”
She was sitting at a dressing table, the large mirror of which was surrounded by different coloured light bulbs, as well as wads of postcards and old telegrams, the flotsam of previous occupants. She had her back to him, and was wearing a short, very flimsy coat with a collar of pink feathers. The coat was open almost to her waist, and as he stared at her reflection in the mirror, spellbound, she looked up at him for the first time.
She swung round on her stool. “You!” She pulled her coat together. It only helped to reveal her breasts as well as uncover a larger portion of bare thigh. She swallowed hard. “Where-I mean …”
He held out the card. She was so overcome by his arrival that he wished he had telephoned her first.
“I’m so sorry.” He hesitated, feeling the flush rising to his face. “Georgina.”
She took a very deep breath. “Of course. Iceland.” She patted a chair, giving herself time. “Sit down. You sound all in, er…’
“Allan.” He looked round the dressing room. “You look marvellous.”
“I seem to recall that I gave the card to one of your lieutenants.”
“Yes. He’d forgotten to pass it to me. Otherwise … ‘ She nodded slowly. “Otherwise. Yes, I get it.”
He decided to try again. “I thought we might go out some where. To a restaurant. Have dinner.”
She studied him gravely. He had changed in some way. He looked strained. Desperate. She thought of the pilot officer called Mike, and gently eased him from her mind.
“Well, Allan. Where’s it to be?”
“I thought perhaps you’d know of a decent place.”
She looked in the mirror, seeing the way his hands were gripped together, and was suddenly moved by what she saw.
Georgina Dare, aged twenty-six, whose name on a birth certificate described her as Grace Wilkins of Shoreditch, London, who was married to a soldier in the First Army, and knew more about ways to excite men than most, was actually touched by the sad-faced, eager boy in a midshipman’s uniform than she would have believed possible.
Gently she asked, “How much cash have you got?” “Three pounds, and a bit.”
She took a deep breath. She could not allow him to escort her to one of the local places. Someone would spoil things. And up West, after the theatre had closed, the price would be three pounds just for a glass of watered wine.
She said firmly, “There’s a place down the road. They sell drinks. Tell them I sent you. They’ll let you have some Scotch.
He stared at her, completely lost. It was getting out of control.
She stood up and touched his hair with her hand. She was very close to him and he could see her neck and shoulders, very white, through the flimsy coat.
She added softly, “After the show we can go back to my flat. “It’s not far.” She hesitated. “Unless you really wantto go to a restaurant?”
He replied, “No. Whatever you want. Really.”
“That’s settled then.”
She touched her hair with a comb. Anyway, it would make certain that they did not bump into Mike.
By the time they reached her flat Keyes’ mind was in a complete whirl. They had stopped on the way at a small backstreet pub where they had had quite a few drinks and exchanged greetings with some other jovial characters. “Showbiz people,” she had explained casually. A couple of old-timers from the Hackney Empire, a chirpy comic from the Mile End Road. It was another existence to Keyes.
She unlocked the door of her flat. Picked two letters from the floor, remarking, “Damned bills, I expect!” and switched on the lights.
It was a tiny flatlet, with a kitchen and bathroom opening like large cupboards from either end.
She nodded towards the sideboard. “Some glasses in there. ” She saw his uncertainty and crossed the room to face him. “What’s the matter? Is anything wrong?”
He put his arms around her, like someone handling a piece of priceless porcelain, and answered shakily, “I’ve wanted to see you for so long. And now …”
She pushed him firmly into a battered sofa. “Drinks first. Then some music.” She was groping amongst a pile of records. “Geraldo. He’ll do.”
Keyes’ head revolved as he watched her moving busily round the room. Drinks appeared, and Geraldo’s orchestra provided a muted accompaniment.
She said, “Hang your nice coat on that chair.” She leaned over the back of the sofa and ruffled his hair. “Here’s to you then, sailor. Now, I must get out of this dress. It belongs to the show anyway.”
She vanished into the bathroom, humming in time with the gramophone.
Keyes loosened his tie and poured another drink. He had only had whisky once in his life. At his aunt’s funeral. It was hot and fiery, but not as bad as he remembered.
She came back in a white n6glig6 and stood by the door, eyeing him calmly, a small smile on her red lips. She asked, “Approve?”
He nodded and said hoarsely, “You look lovely.”
She nestled beside him, sensing his sudden confusion and despair. In another moment he would make an excuse and leave. His moment and dream shattered. And her evening wasted.
She touched his face and then pulled his head round towards her and kissed him hard on the mouth. He was stiff as a board, but she was not one to give in easily. She said into his ear, “Hold me, Allan.”
He reached out blindly, his eyes buried in hair. The n6glig6 was wide open, her breasts and supple body right here under his hand. ‘
She gave a small sigh, her hands tugging at his shirt and exploring his chest. She could feel his agitation giving in to something far stronger. She thrust him away and stood up, letting the n6glig6 fall to the floor.
“I’m waiting, Allan.”
She watched him as he struggled with his clothing, and reached out to help him.
“My poor darling.” She did not know why she had spoken. “Let me do A.”
She laid down beside him and kissed him again. This time he was ready. She sighed with catlike satisfaction. And very able.
Two miles from the room where Midshipman Keyes was being led deliciously into manhood, Able Seaman Jevers stood in a crowded bar staring at his beer.
Back to the ship tomorrow.
He downed the beer and gestured to the barman. And everything was quiet. As it should be. Nobody had said much about his wife, and he guessed they were too embarrassed. Funny that. The whole bloody city falling in bits under the bombing, yet these daft buggers still bothered about unfaithful wives and unhappy marriages.
He’d go back to the ship and try for his leading rate. He was due for promotion, which would make him eligible for chief quartermaster. He had it all worked out. As Leading Seaman Harry Rumsey, Warlock’s chief Q.M., had somehow survived the shellburst, his job would not be vacant. He’d apply for a draft chit to another ship. There would be no questions asked that way. It would be the natural thing for a matelot who was trying to better himself. He grinned and swallowed another glass of watery beer.
In the other bar, the Snug as it was called, Sergeant Matthew Wagner kept out of sight behind a bottle-glass partition. The thin-haired railway porter at his side nodded firmly.