The third GI was an ugly brute – look like the Lord above had put him face on in the dark: nose flattened to one side, eyes sitting too close. A boxer, maybe.

Queenie was talking about her father-in-law. ‘We’re going back to London. We’ll take our chances. You see, he’s getting on Father’s nerves. You know, the way he is, Father can’t stand it, says he acts like a girl.’

The rock bun landed on her plate with such an almighty thud – hear this – I thought the GIs had thrown a grenade. Queenie picked it up and turned it in the air, leaning forward to me to whisper loudly, ‘This has seen better days.’ And one of the GIs rose from his seat only to be restrained by one of his buddies.

I beckoned Queenie to lean even closer towards me. I could feel her hair on my chin, her breath warm on my cheek as I said, ‘Dare we taste it?’ Sitting back I looked directly on the three. Man, they were snorting like beasts, looking around this cage for justice. Two MPs strolled by the window and the ugly brute motioned their presence to the other two. More furtive discussion passed between them as we calmly sipped our tea.

‘Rock by name, rock by nature,’ Queenie said, trying to break the cake into edible pieces.

‘Tell me, this rock bun, is it an English delicacy?’

‘Well, I’m daft enough to eat it. Excuse me, but there’s a war on,’ she said, as she dipped the bun into her tea to soften it. Then this beautiful blonde-haired woman held up the bun across the table for me to take a bite. And all the time Queenie had no idea that every move she made, every gesture towards me, every friendly word and now this – allowing a black man to bite food from her hand – was reddening the necks and boiling the blood of those GIs. The hothead GI had to be restrained again. I was captivated by the impotent rage in their eyes. What sport!

‘Are you all right, Gilbert? What are you looking at?’ she asked, glancing around. But to her, of course, there was nothing menacing that she could see in this room.

I placed my hand on her arm to say, ‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ When the ugly brute, sure I was watching his threatening move, slowly drew his hand in a line across his throat.

I had to get Queenie out of the tea-shop fast. I knew I could not pass these men to get to the door without a punch being thrown from somewhere. Three against one, I still fancied my chances. But Lady Luck is a fickle woman and I did not wish to be humiliated in front of my impressionable companion. She was talking and, let me admit, I did not know what she was saying so busy was I trying to plot our escape. She was not safe from their animosity. Oh, no. GIs as vulgar as these would have no consideration for a white woman whose afternoon is spent with a nigger.

It was then I saw him in the fading light. Arthur – the wonderful man who had brought me to Queenie’s door – was walking across the road looking, as always, a little lost.

‘There is your father-in-law,’ I said.

She ran from the tea-shop and over to where he stood without even an ‘Excuse me’. There was something indecent about the way Queenie wagged her finger in this grown man’s face while he, head low, kicked at imaginary stones on the ground.

I stood to leave. And so did the GIs. Paying the waitress I tipped her so handsomely she almost smiled on me. The GIs were blocking the door. I needed a plan. It was too late to don a disguise – they would still know me in a blond wig. All my mind could conjure was squeezing myself through some back-entrance window. ‘Do you have a WC?’ I asked the waitress.

‘No, but down the street . . .’ the waitress began. Then, turning to point, she stopped her instructions when she saw the GIs making themselves ready to leave.

‘Excuse me, I’ve got eggs here for you three. You can’t go just like that. You’ve ordered.’ She hurried over to them. ‘In this country you have to wait for your order.’ She shooed them back into their seats, and those Mummy-fearing boys grudgingly submitted. ‘It’s just coming, now sit down. We haven’t got food to waste like some. There’s a war on, you know.’ With she, standing over the table of these pitifully cowed men I, with a kiss for Lady Luck, slipped out of the door. All three GIs eyed me through the window as if vermin were escaping. So I gave them a little wave. Come, who were the pantywaists now?

But still I worried to leave the road quickly. I hurried to Queenie and her father. ‘Gilbert,’ Queenie began saying, ‘Arthur and I were wondering about going to the pictures.’

Lady Luck was still smiling. Linking my arms through theirs, ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Come, let us go.’ And, with them bamboozled by my enthusiasm, I managed to frogmarch them away.

Seventeen

Gilbert

How Clark Gable make every woman swoon so? Gone With the Wind. Queenie was so thrilled she jump in joy, ‘Oh, Clark Gable’s in it!’ Forgetting all sense she squealed delirious at the thought of being in the the dark with this puff-up American star. How Clark Gable turn every woman’s head so? Foolish young English girls would see a movie star in every GI with the same Yankee-doodle voice. Glamour in US privates named Jed, Buck or Chip, with their easy-come-by gifts and Uncle Sam sweet-talk. Dreamboats in hooligans from Delaware or Arizona with fingernails that still carried soil from home, and eyes that crossed with any attempt at reading. Heart-throbs from men like those in the tea-shop, who dated their very close relatives and knew cattle as their mental equal. Thanks to Mr Gable’s silver tongue, this bunch of ruffians mistakenly became the men of Englishwomen’s dreams. The picture had already started, we had missed the music and the Movietone news. Yet still this Gable star – even with him face six foot high and luminous – could not light up the room enough to guide us as we walked.

‘Tickets?’ the uniformed usherette asked. ‘Follow me.’ Even in the dark she was scruffy – her ample bosom having been configured for a larger garment. As if trying to escape her, the gleam from her torch wriggled frantic on the floor before resting on some empty seats. Queenie patiently guided Arthur by the elbow into the row. Him mesmerised as a baby sat before he should, while Queenie nudged him along two more seats. As I went to follow them the usherette tugged at my sleeve. I turned to her and she momentarily dazzled me, flicking the torchlight up on to my face.

‘You have to go up the back,’ this woman said, lighting the ground to indicate the path I should take. I had misunderstood. I tapped Queenie to whisper, ‘The usherette say we have to go to the back.’

The girl shook her head as Queenie backed out from the row. ‘Not her. You. You have to go up the back.’

‘But we are all together,’ I said, beckoning Queenie to take her seat again. I followed. But again this usherette caught my arm. Enunciating as if speaking to an imbecile, she said, ‘No, you. You have to go up the back. She and him can stay there.’

‘But there are plenty seats for me to sit here.’ I was whispering so as not to disturb the other people’s enjoyment of the film.

‘But it’s the rules,’ she said.

‘Rules, what rules?’ She had me confused now. The orchestral music from the film was howling as wind does on a runway. Queenie, looking to me, was half in and half out of her seat. The woman behind her told her to sit down. From somewhere I was told to shush. I apologised. Instead of sitting down Queenie once again backed along the row to where I stood with the quarrelsome usherette.

‘What’s the problem, Gilbert?’ she asked. So tumultuous was the music she looked to Arthur, fearful he might have thrown himself to the ground.

‘He has to go up the back,’ the usherette said.

‘But there are seats here,’ Queenie responded.

‘I just tell her that – she say it’s the rules.’

‘Rules, what rules?’ Queenie asked.

I quieted her with a hand placed gently on her arm – I would take care of this myself. ‘You sit, Queenie – I soon come.’ Then, turning to this usherette, I asked the same question, ‘What rules?’