Molly, like many others in the crowd, could not keep herself from tearing up during the poignant “We’ll Meet Again,” though the song lost all of its personal relevance given that Molly was saying goodnight (and not goodbye) to a conscientious objector, who had a very good chance of meeting Molly not only on some sunny day but for that matter any day of the week, irrespective of the weather. Molly also wept when the band struck up for its last number of the evening, the patriotic “There’ll Always Be an England,” though in a very large room (the Palais was a great converted tram shed) with a very large number of men in uniform, We Five’s beaux for the evening stood out quite conspicuously in their civvies. As a result, they became recipients of judgemental stares and glares during both this song and the earlier rendition of “Bless ’Em All,” and specifically during the song’s pointed lyric, “You’ll get no promotion this side of the ocean.”
Molly was comforted through her tears by the tender ministrations of her demonstrably Molly-ravenous new boyfriend Pat, the two calling into serious question through their intermittent gaiety and unfettered physical familiarity with one another on the dance floor their assertion that they had only just met.
Neither Ruth nor Cain danced, but kept up a lively marathon rag-chew over topics ranging from the recently discovered Paleolithic cave paintings in southwestern France to whether or not the popular radio comedian Tom Handley was brilliantly funny or annoyingly overrated. Their relaxed and friendly chat was marred only by a look of passing indictment from Holborne — one totally lost on Ruth — which came when the band struck up the droll “Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major,” sung, as it always was, by a male vocalist.
The first kiss of the night — and one which met the approval of both participants — was shared by Jane and Tom and elicited the following exchange:
Jane: I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed by a Jew before.
Tom: My dear Miss Higgins, I would hazard a guess that you’ve never been kissed by an Anglican or a Catholic before either. Excepting, of course, your mother and father.
Jane: To tell you the truth, you’d be correct. But why don’t you be a gentleman and not spread this fact about?
Tom: I spread very little about these days, Miss Higgins. We Children of David try our best to keep our heads down as much as possible. That way Herr Hitler’s troops will have a little more trouble finding us when it comes time to cart us all away.
Jane: If Ruth were standing here she’d ask why, with other members of your faith quarantined behind fences in those bloody camps they’re talking about — why you don’t put on a uniform and join the fight to set them free.
To which Tom replied with a simper: “Oh, it’s only your friend Ruth who wonders this, is it? Then do be sure to relay my answer to her: ‘Tom Katz is a coward — a “fraidy cat,” as the Yanks say. He takes no pride in it, but it cannot be helped.’ Now, enough of this empty jawing. Give us another kiss and be quick about it.”
Which Jane did, enjoying the kiss terribly, though it troubled her that Tom had come to such comfortable terms with all the glaring defects to his character.
And as for Maggie and Jerry, the two had jollied and jousted with one another through most of the evening, each finding in the other one who fancied jesting with a hard edge but a soft wink… until that moment when Jerry Castle stopped winking and beheld his companion for the night with a suddenly predatory eye, this moment arriving without any warning whatsoever.
Of the five couples, only Maggie and Jerry had made no plans for seeing each other under decidedly more intimate circumstances later in the week. Or rather, Maggie and Jerry might have made plans, but the chance of this happening was dashed in an instant by Jerry’s sledgehammer approach to romantic conquest.
Inside the Hammersmith Palais de Danse (the original name given to this, London’s most popular nocturnal gathering spot, by the two enterprising Americans who opened it in 1919), one could almost forget from time to time that there was a war going on, or that London was being subjected to a series of nightly bombings, “the Blitz,” which was originally purposed to tear the heart out of the proud city and destroy the will of its armed forces to keep fighting and its citizens to keep stiffening their collective upper lip. But reminders did abound: not only did the walls and floor of the hall frequently judder and tremble and the nearby air raid sirens sing out in notes discordant with those being produced by the performing dance bands; and not only was the Palais clotted with young men in R.A.F., Royal Navy, Royal Marines, and British Army uniforms, but unfortunately, the refreshments offered up were also sadly indicative of this time of economy and sacrifice. Here at the Hammer-smith Palais could be found the very same restrictions and shortages experienced in other places throughout the kingdom, where people were required to be as creative as possible in the preparation of meals. In the kitchen of the ballroom that meant marge and Marmite sandwiches, and Spam on crisps, and “finger foods,” dominated by the flavor-deficient root vegetables, which all of England was planting and digging up in their backyards and public allotment plots.
Which was why Ruth was disappointed. And hungry. Even more hungry than usual. And hardly able to bear the intrusive redolence of the flaky, perfectly browned meat pie that was presently being devoured by the inexplicably well-provisioned middle-aged woman sitting next to her in the shelter.
Ruth wasn’t alone.
“You could have at least waited until the rest of us had nodded off,” said the man sitting beside her, “you cow.” The last was said under his breath, but the woman heard it nonetheless. Everyone seemed to have heard it. Someone said, “Hear, hear.”
“We’ll have no such talk as that,” said the shelter warden reprovingly. He was a lean, pinched-face man in his late sixties, and if he had not been a schoolmaster in his productive younger years, he could certainly have played the part convincingly in pictures.
We Five had been lucky to find seats in the shelter. The air raid siren had gone off just as they were haring off to catch the last train of the night. Assuming there wouldn’t be sufficient time to make it on foot to the station, they ducked into a public shelter and found they had a lot of company. Some of those huddled inside had arrived long before the latest cautionary wail and had brought with them blankets and Thermos flasks and decks of cards, intending to spend the whole night there, as many Londoners were doing these days.
Indeed, underground spaces of every size and description and degree of suitability were being converted into public shelters during that deadly autumn. Even tube stations throughout the city — especially those dug deep into the ground — were being commandeered, first without the approval of Underground administrators and later with their full cooperation, and turned into circumstantial safe havens, especially by those who lived in the vulnerable East End and by the thousands of other Londoners who did not trust their own basements and backyard shelters to offer adequate protection.