It was then she took her torch to shine its searchlight beam up to the back rows of the picture house. For the briefest moment she ran her light along the faces sitting there. Queenie would not have seen: she would have asked, ‘What? What are you showing me?’ But I saw. As startling as exposing a horde of writhing cockroaches, that light, although searching for only a second, gave me an image that seared indelible into my mind’s eye. It flashed across lines of black faces, illuminating the heedless and impassive features of a large group of black GIs enjoying the film.

‘You have to sit with them.’

‘Madam,’ I told her, ‘I am not an American. I am with the British RAF.’

‘You’re coloured.’

Queenie was back. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Coloured, he’s coloured.’ She shone the light once more to the back rows, this time holding it there so Queenie, puzzled at first, would gradually come to see. Caught by the beam, some of the men seemed to awaken with the light.

‘This is England,’ I said. ‘This is not America. We do not do this in England. I will sit anywhere I please.’

‘Well, we do it here. It’s the rules. All niggers—’ She stopped and began again. ‘All coloureds up the back rows.’

‘Why?’ Queenie asked.

‘Because that’s their seats.’

‘No! Why do coloured people have to sit where you say?’

‘Our other customers don’t like to sit next to coloureds.’

‘Who are these other customers? Yanks?’ I asked.

‘They won’t sit next to you.’

‘What other customers? Who?’ I was shouting now.

‘They don’t like to be all mixed up.’

‘Americans?’

‘Not just Yanks. Anyone.’

‘We’ll sit next to him – he can sit between us,’ Queenie offered. I wanted so to be pleased that this sweet Englishwoman was speaking up for me. But, come, Queenie’s good intentions were entirely missing the point

‘In this country I sit where I like.’

‘Then you’ll have to go. It’s up the back or nowhere.’

‘Madam, there is no Jim Crow in this country.’

‘Who?’

‘Jim Crow.’

‘Well, if he’s coloured he’ll have to sit at the back.’

‘Segregation, madam, there is no segregation in this country. I will sit wherever I like in this picture house. And those coloured men at the back should have been allowed to sit wherever they so please. This is England, not Alabama.’

Like air escaping from an overheating machine, the sound of shushing came at us from all around. Along with the impatient ‘Be quiet, some of us want to watch the film.’

‘You’ll have my job. I don’t make the rules. Other coloureds don’t make such a fuss. It’s up the back or nothing.’

And I told her, ‘Madam, I will neither go to the back nor will I leave. My friends and I intend to enjoy the film from this spot.’ My heart thumped so I feared the toe-tapping beat would be told to shush. Cha, nah, man – is bareface cheek! We fighting the persecution of the Jew, yet even in my RAF blue my coloured skin can permit anyone to treat me as less than a man. I turned my back on the usherette, indicated for Queenie to sit and went to take my seat next to her.

It was an American voice – solid as thunder – coming from a few rows in front that called out to me, ‘Sit where you’re told, boy.’

I ignored it.

‘Hey, nigger, I said sit where the lady tells ya.’

I sat myself beside Queenie. This GI stood up – his silhouette rising like a mortal tempest before the screen.

‘Look, we don’t want any trouble,’ the now tearful usherette pleaded.

‘Nigger, do as you’re told,’ the GI shouted.

‘And you can put a sock in it,’ Queenie replied, standing up. Her fierce finger wagging.

‘Nigger, move.’

‘And you can shut up with your nigger,’ Queenie said, ‘I prefer them to you any day.’

A woman’s voice called, ‘You tell ’em, love – ruddy loud-mouth Yanks.’ I did not have to look, I could feel the edgy stirring in the back of the picture house as someone shouted, ‘Shut up, whitey. We ain’t taking that no more.’

The air trembled with the muttered grumblings from the rest of the audience while a white GI yelled, ‘Stand up, nigger.’ From the back came a harmony of voices shouting, ‘Who you calling nigger? Who you calling nigger?’

‘Jigaboo suit you better?’ another voice called from the front.

‘No, it ain’t,’ came the volley of reply.

The usherette fled, calling, ‘I’ll have to get the manager – we don’t want trouble,’ while Queenie, still ranting at these white men, said, ‘You can sit down, what’s it got to do with you?’

‘Shut up, nigger-lover,’ the man answered.

‘Please sit down, Queenie,’ I tried, but she had long ceased to hear me.

‘Any time over, you lot,’ she shouted.

And again a female voice said, ‘Tell ’em, love.’

Two GIs from the front began to shift along their row, forcing others to stand to let them out. I was ready for them.

A woman called to the GIs, ‘Hey, leave him alone. Big bullies, the lot of you.’

There was chuckling from the back. ‘Man, the woman gonna whop ya.’

Another white GI stood up to tell me, ‘Just move, boy, and we can all get back to watching the movie.’

‘Stay, man, stay,’ came a chant from the rear.

‘Where’s the blinking manager? I’ve not paid to watch this.’ Many people were on their feet now – I could no longer see the screen. Until, without warning, the film went off and the lights came up.

As if painted by a master, this technicolour tableau of a room simply froze. Why? Because everyone saw. Rows of black GIs at the back. Rows of white GIs at the front. And a rump of civilians in their dowdy clothes sitting guileless in the middle. Now there were a few women sitting with the white GIs and some uniforms in with the civilians but, as sure as Napoleon and Wellington before Waterloo, that usherette had drawn us up a battlefield. And every GI was now on his feet.

Black shouting: ‘Who you calling nigger? We ain’t taking that from you no more.’

White screaming: ‘Fucking uppity niggers. Shut your mouths.’

‘You gonna make us, whitey?’

‘Fucking right we’ll make ya.’

While the locals, with the trepidation of picnickers before a stampede of bulls, looked one way then the other. The manager came running on to the stage arms waving like a drowning man. Trying to be heard above the din he yelled, ‘Everyone is to leave the theatre. Please leave this theatre in an orderly fashion now.’ Adding when no one seemed to be listening, ‘We’ll have no trouble here – the authorities have been notified.’

A white GI galloped over seats towards the back. He tripped and fell into a row pushing two women who, domino effect, stumbled. Two black GIs jumped the rows to reach where the man lay. Women crying, ‘Get off,’ mixed with the savage hollering of male battle cries. As the fool manager enquired if everyone might just ‘Please calm down and leave by the exits at the back.’

Queenie put her hand in mine, nails clasping tight as talons. She held Arthur the same way – him baffled, looked to be wondering if he was still watching a film.

‘Come on, come on, you want it, nigger?’ A black man was running from four whites while several more black men chased them. The ground tremored under their big boots. I found myself envious – man, I was ready to bash someone today! Only when I tried to release Queenie’s aching grasp a little did I recognise that this woman was not seeking my protection. No, Queenie Bligh believed herself to be safeguarding me. Over on the far side a white GI had a black man by the scruff, yanking this bent-double man round, beating upwards into his face; the two men growled, zealous as warriors. A woman set about this brawl, her handbag flailing. Soon both these burly army men were ducking her blows. Until she found herself tripping and falling as three more GIs – one black, two white – waded in. Man, how her friend screamed! People came running, ‘Get off her! Get off!’ till all were caught up in this thrashing.