It was then I heard, ‘Airman’, being called feminine on the breeze. And I knew it was she. But not until she used my name – not until I knew she remembered me as Gilbert – did I turn round to where she stood on the street. With the sun behind her the silhouette of Queenie Bligh’s shapely legs was delivered like a saucy picture show on to her flimsy dress. Oblivious to this intimate display she waved at me like we were old friends. Ugly GIs instantly forgotten. Man, I thought, your luck has just changed!

‘Gilbert, have you seen Arthur?’ She hurried towards me on the street, enchantingly breathless.

‘Don’t tell me you lose him again.’

‘It’s not funny, Gilbert.’

‘But you too careless with this man.’ Not since I had asked Auntie May if she had ever been kissed had a face looked on mine with such inscrutable blankness. I had gone too far. Man, I was losing me touch.

‘You’re a cheeky beggar,’ she said. But what a relief when in answer her eyes flashed levity instead of the whack round the head I got from Auntie May.

‘You need a lead for that man.’

‘You’re right, I could string him up by it.’

‘Such a pretty woman could never do such a thing.’

There was the trace of a blush at her neck as she said, ‘Don’t try me.’

‘So how you lose him this time?’

‘Same as always.’

I having met Queenie and her father-in-law on only one occasion, ‘same as always’ meant little to me. But the familiarity of that phrase was so sweet I made no further enquiry. ‘He will come back.’

‘He tries my patience.’

‘He’ll probably bring you someone for tea.’ Queenie looked so dismayed I had to say, ‘That was a joke.’

‘If it was, Gilbert, I would have laughed. Ruddy little sod.’

‘Who me?’

‘Not you – him.’ Her face relaxed, anxious to adorable in one move.

‘Well, seeing how your father-in-law has brought us together again, can I offer you a cup of tea?’

‘You got one in your pocket?’

‘No, but I would be honoured to escort you to the tea-shop.’

‘It was a joke, Gilbert.’

‘A joke? But, Mrs Bligh, if it had been a joke I am sure I would have laughed.’

I swear I could still feel the fingertip touch of Queenie’s hand on my arm from that afternoon when we first met. Sitting at the table in her mother’s kitchen she had served me with a cup of milky tea. I had gratefully taken it from her hand but declined to add the sugar she offered even though, as everyone is aware, tea is disgusting without it. She had then presented me with a large delicious-looking hunk of crusty pork pie. Despite my mouth watering so that my drooling was visible as a dog before a bone, I refused this repast. Why? Because of Sergeant Baxter. It was this man who taught me, and all his colony troops, that owing to shortages and rationing in Britain if invited for food into someone’s home the polite response was to say no, thank you – perhaps with the excuse that you had eaten already. ‘They can’t go giving the likes of you all their precious food,’ this sergeant reasoned. ‘So act like you don’t need it.’

‘No, thank you. I have already eaten,’ I had said.

‘Are you sure?’ Queenie asked me.

‘Tell me of pork pie?’ I then asked. ‘Is it an English delicacy?’

There came that laugh from nowhere – an alarming sound, which suddenly filled every corner of the dull and dour room with dazzle. ‘Well, I think we’re the only ones daft enough to eat it, if that’s what you mean?’

I hoped my envious eyes were not protruding too obviously as I watched her take the first mouthful of her slice. But as she chewed, this pretty woman began to smile. It was then that she had gently laid her hand on my arm. Looking mischievous wide blue eyes into mine, she’d said, ‘A word of advice, Airman Gilbert. Never be polite in a butcher’s house. You eat as much as you like.’ Oh, she was so charming that afternoon. With Sergeant Baxter ignored, I just had to surrender.

For the sake of Queenie, if I had seen them before we stepped into the little tea-shop I might have made an excuse for moving no further inside. But I had just finished seating Queenie into a chair and was half-way into my own when they became apparent to me. Three white American GIs. As I took my seat, Queenie joking loudly to me said, ‘You’re a gentleman, Airman.’ She slipped off her cardigan, placing it on the back of the chair. The three GIs noticed us, as I knew they would. One nudged the other’s arm, nodding towards our table while another stared directly on me with a blinkless gaze that did not falter. Queenie, with her back to them had no reason to feel their curiosity. Oblivious she began reading the menu, ‘I bet that scrambled egg’s not real egg,’ while I, knowing fear can animate a face, returned to them an expressionless stare.

Everyone fighting a war hates. All must conjure a list of demons. The enemy. Top of most British Tommies’ list would be the army that hated them most – the Nazis. They were, of course, men who would smile to see a Tommy’s head blown into mush. But from that first uneasy hospitality at the American base in Virginia to this cocky hatred that was charging across the room to yell in the face of a coloured man whose audacity was to sit with a white woman, I was learning to despise the white American GI above all other. They were the army that hated me most! Out of place in the genteel atmosphere of this dreary tea-shop these three aggrieved GIs twitched with hostile excitement, like snipers clearing their aim at a sitting target. Surrounded by grey-haired old ladies – cups tinkling like bells as uncertain hands placed them on saucers, the clip of cutlery on floral plates, a gentle gurgle of pouring tea, a little slurping, a hushed conversation – these poor GIs were in murderous mood watching a nigger sitting with his head still high. If the defeat of hatred is the purpose of war, then come, let us face it: I and all other coloured servicemen were fighting this war on another front.

‘Would you like something to eat with your cup of tea?’ I asked Queenie, louder than was required.

‘I don’t mind if I do.’

‘Now, that is one long tortuous way of saying yes,’ I commented. ‘Why English people say all this “don’t mind” business when a simple yes will do? Is it to confuse we Jamaicans?’

‘You know, I’ve never thought about it. It’s just something you say. I’ve always said it. Don’t mind if I do. But now you mention it . . .’

Queenie was unaware that our polite conversation caused these GIs to flex their fists. One of them whispered an urgent word into his friend’s ear. Another, smoking a cigarette, lips pinched, holding it with his finger and thumb like a shrunken Bogart – blew his smoke in our direction.

I don’t know why the fusty waitress posed with a pad and pencil. This woman, looking anywhere but at us, said, ‘That’s off,’ to the teacake, the toast, the muffin, the crumpet, the drop scone.

‘What, they all turn bad?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said, lazily raising her eyebrows. ‘They’re finished. We haven’t got them.’

‘I always thought when something was off it gone bad.’

‘Well, I dare say. But here we say it’s off. Off the menu.’

‘But it is written here.’

‘Yes, but it is off.’

I looked to Queenie who was giggling into her hand. ‘So, Queenie, would you like tea?’

‘I don’t mind if I do, Gilbert,’ she said, and the poor old ladies jumped as she began to laugh.

Meanwhile those GIs were concentrating on us like we were an exam they must pass.

‘We’ve got rock buns,’ the waitress said.

One of them had tight black curly hair – man, this white boy should never dig too deep in his past: who knows what strangeness could be uncovered?

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said. ‘Then may I have two rock buns as well, please.’

She wrote this down on her pad while telling me, ‘There’s only one left.’

‘One then, for the lady, thank you.’