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.
“’Bout time, girly,” he grumbles, and I mutter an apology, not even offended at his judgmental inflection. Pauly Jones, the thirtysomething piano player unable to enlist because he lost a leg in a combine accident when he was a kid, winks at me. It’s the reassurance I need. I run a flat palm over my hair and turn to the microphone with a smile.
As the words flow out, gliding over my punch-coated throat and likely red-stained tongue, I feel her arrive—Miss Snow. My nerves calm; the sixty or so sets of eyes on me make me feel like being wrapped up in a warm blanket—the opposite of how I feel when I get attention offstage.
During slow songs like this, the hostesses allow the boys to hold them a little tighter than the manual suggests, and Carly Tawny, our senior hostess, resident mother figure, and my kinda-sorta voice teacher, turns a blind eye and goes into the kitchen.
As I croon to the slowly swaying crowd, I look for Tom. He’s leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed, staring right at me, which sends an odd thrill through my body in a curiously enjoyable way.
As the song ends, the crowd applauds, and I step back from the microphone, looking toward Tom’s towering figure. Seeing my interest, he peels his body away from the wall and takes a step toward the stage. He looks like he wants to say something, and I want to know what it is.
But I won’t find out yet.
Because when the slow song comes to an end, I call out, “Lets pick it up a little, boys!” like I always do at this point in the night. “Shoo-Shoo Baby” starts to play. I sway to the beat, holding on to the microphone stand, and Tom settles back into his place on the wall. I can see him, and he can see me.
I’m onstage for an hour, and during that time, I sing the fifteen or so songs listed on my crib sheet. I dance and joke around with Tony as a part of a small bit we improvise from week to week. I banter with the soldiers in between numbers, ask where they’re from, tell little jokes.
When I’m onstage, the time goes by in a flash. I close out with the sultry, heartfelt ballad “We’ll Meet Again.” If there were any wallflowers before, they’re gone. And when voices from the swaying mass join in at the chorus, I blink back tears like I do every week, even though my father and sister are safe at home and no soldier has claimed my heart.
One thing both Vivian Snow and Vivian Santini agree on—war is terrifying, and many of these uniformed men won’t return from it.
The music fades, and my tears recede. I give a slight bow and a wave.
“Thank you and good night.”
The applause swells, and I gesture to the band so they get their share of the praise. The band will play a second set after a short break, and the men will trickle out and return to base in shifts. The girls have an obligation to stay until the end of the dance to guarantee enough dance partners and to add to their recorded service hours.
I can’t leave either. Though I’m paid a small fee for my performance each Saturday, I spend the rest of my time here as a volunteer, so I follow the same rules of conduct. But Carly’s given me permission to freshen up after my sets each week in a quiet spot in the kitchen where I can powder my nose and get a bite to eat and maybe a drink of water away from the heat and the crowd.
I skirt the always-congested refreshment table. A few servicemen tip their hats or give me a shy compliment, but most watch from a distance as I disappear through the set of swinging doors. I find Carly inside, arranging a platter of sandwiches and cookies in a pretty, geometric pattern.
“You were killer-diller out there, Viv. You’ve been practicing your runs; I can tell. And your breath control was banger. Everyone was on that dance floor. You know; I get asked every week how we ended up with a famous star here in Edinburgh.”
I’ve been singing in the back room of Carly’s apartment every Thursday night for a year. She was a music teacher at an elementary school before she got married, and though she’s not a professional, she’s helped me progress as a performer. I pay her back by babysitting a few nights a month. She’s a young widow, and though there are more and more of those these days, she’s been alone for longer than she was married. I look up to her for that—she’s a strong and independent woman. And at thirty-two, she’s more of a parental figure to me than my own mother.