Edinburgh USO
The punch table is crowded, but I can’t wait any longer for a pick-me-up. I’ve been dancing the jitterbug with Peter Thomas for the past half hour. I’m out of breath and covered in far more perspiration than is proper for a girl. I’m supposed to sing shortly, but I can’t hop right off the dance floor and onto the stage without grabbing a cool drink.
The air is thick with the smell of cheap perfume, aftershave, and sweat. After performing here for six months, I know that as the night goes on, my senses will numb—the pinch of my shoes and the strange smells in the air will fade away, and all that will matter is the music. But I’m not there yet.
The next number starts, and I can see Peter scanning the room for me. He’d keep me on the dance floor all night if I let him. I duck behind a tall serviceman ladling two glasses of the red punch. It’s actually one of the worst things I’ve ever tasted, barely any sugar in it due to rationing, and it leaves an off-flavor coating on my tongue. Occasionally, if we’re lucky, there are chilled bottles of Coca-Cola waiting at the refreshment table, but not tonight.
I get to the front of the line and reach for the ladle when a serviceman snatches it out of my hand.
A voice in my head yells out, “Hey!” but another calms it immediately with a “You can wait.” I’m convinced the first voice is that of Vivian Snow, singer, dancer, actress. But the second voice, the one that wins every time, the one that keeps me in line, is me, Vivian Santini.
“Let me get that for you.” The man passes me a glass cup.
I take the cup, realizing he wasn’t cutting in line after all. He just wanted to serve me a drink.
“Oh, thank you.” I gulp the liquid quickly, trying not to taste it and wishing I were one of those girls who could quip back in the sassy way men seem to love.
“Saw you dancing out there. You’re pretty light on your feet,” he says, taking a mouthful of the punch, then grimacing. “Wow. This is really, really . . .”
“Terrible?” I say, laughing, placing my empty glass on the return tray.
“That’s a nice way of saying it.” He laughs and attempts another sip before putting his nearly full cup on the table. “It’s truly awful. I’d rather drink old canteen water.”
“We should really treat our soldier boys better, shouldn’t we?” I joke, the sticky film already turning my mouth sour.
“We’re going out there to get shot at. If we could only have something decent to drink before we go . . .”
“This feels like a travesty Washington must hear about. A new bill or something.”
The soldier’s eyebrow lifts, and he looks at me with a bit of a smirk when someone bumps me from behind, shoving me against my companion. He steadies me and calls out to the young private who hasn’t noticed his misstep.
“Hey! Look where you’re going. Aren’t you going to apologize to the young lady?”
“Oh, hey, sorry,” the distracted private says half-heartedly without turning around.
“Really, Private? That’s how you apologize?” he says, reaching out to tap the kid’s shoulder. I glance at his arm and notice a capital T under two bars. He’s a corporal, I think. Which outranks the private.
I can’t stand to see an altercation here, in the middle of what should be an escape from the war, over an accidental bump. I grab his wrist. His pulse is pounding. My heart’s also racing.
“I’m all right, you know,” I say softly. “It’s no bother.”
It takes a moment, but when the corporal finally recognizes my touch, it causes a shift in him. Instead of pursuing the unrepentant soldier any further, he switches his focus to me.
“You’re a little darling, aren’t you?” he asks like he’s surprised by the revelation.
By following the movements of his eyes, I can tell he’s taking in my curled and smoothly styled hair, then my dress, deep maroon with a white collar, cinched at the waist and falling below my knee. I have the new heels on, the ones from my first day of work, and a pair of lace-trimmed white socks, which look a touch childish but are necessary for dancing.
I usually don’t like it when men give me this sort of once-over, thinking who knows what about my figure and features. But from this man, it bothers me less.
“I’m Tom. Tom Highward. I saw you dancing with Peter and thought I might squeeze a word in with you before he claimed you again.”
“Well, hello, Tom. I’m Vivian.” I smile like I was taught in the junior hostess training.
“Vivian, I feel like I owe you a real drink after that whole debacle. I can’t complain, though. The prettiest girl in the room is standing here talking to me, so . . .”
“You’re sweet,” I say, blushing. The only way I know how to talk to these young men without stuttering is to pretend I’m a Hollywood vixen, like Rita Hayworth with Fred Astaire.
“You’re sweeter than that punch, that’s for sure,” he says.
“There are plenty of things sweeter than that punch.”
“Like, ice cream. Ice cream is a lot sweeter than that punch.”
“I guess so,” I say, clasping my hands in front of me as he shifts us farther away from the punch table. “Sometimes we have ice cream here. We even have hot fudge and peanuts when we’re lucky.”
What I don’t say is that the USO dances are the only place I get those luxuries. I can’t afford such things with the expense of my father’s injury and my mother’s condition. For me, even a little dish of ice cream is like heaven.
The quick swing song fades away, and a gentle intro from the band announces the first slow song of the night. Tom puts out his hand like Clark Gable and asks, “Would you do me the honor?”
I reach out to take his offer when the song intro fades and starts again.
The song finally registers—Vera Lynn’s “You’ll Never Know.” The perfect song for a room full of soldiers all far from home. It’s also my song—the one I’m supposed to be singing. Right now.
“Oh!” I jump back. “I’ve gotta go.”
How could I have let myself get so distracted? I’ve danced with a hundred GIs in my time as a junior hostess. I’ve talked to countless more. But never, ever have I missed a cue.
I dash through the crowd of slow-dancing couples—GIs in their perfectly pressed uniforms, clasping girls in swaying skirts close and likely pretending they’re the girls they left behind. When I get to the empty mic, the band is vamping the intro one more time, and Frank, the band director, a middle-aged farmer who takes his position very seriously, scowls at me.