The Grafton Girls. Annie Groves

– so it is. Fancy me not noticing,’ Myra agreed, making big round eyes and then giving Diane an exasperated look. ‘Of course it’s full of men. Why do you think I’m heading for it? Come on.’

      ‘No,’ Diane told her firmly.

      Myra’s mouth hardened in a thin line. ‘All right then. Wait here.’ Determinedly she made her way to the table, saying something to the eager-looking GI who turned to her, and then calling out to Diane, ‘Come on, these nice boys are going to give us two of their spare chairs, so that we don’t have to sit at a table with men we don’t know.’

      Diane was so angry with Myra for the way she had drawn attention to her that she was tempted to turn on her heel and walk out, except she felt that doing so would make her look even more foolish. She would have something to say to her later when they were on their own, though – like she wasn’t going out with her again.

      The Grafton was obviously a popular venue, the tables set round the dance floor all filled and men standing several deep at the bar. The tables in the part of the ballroom Myra had made her way to seemed to have been taken over by the Americans, whilst the men seated at the tables on the other side of the room were wearing British uniforms or civvies. As she made her way to join Myra, Diane felt almost like a traitor. In Cambridgeshire she would never have gone to sit with a crowd of Yanks. The young women she could see sitting with the Americans seemed to have no qualms about making them welcome, though. There was a desperation in the eyes of some of the girls, which made Diane look away quickly. What was it they were desperate for? The luxuries that their American boyfriends could give them? Or did their need go deeper than that? The country had been at war now since 1939. Some women had not seen their men for a very long time; some women would never see them again. Was that the cause of the angry, bitter hunger Diane could see in their eyes? Despite the heat of the ballroom Diane gave a small shiver. The war had turned so many girls into women, its urgency breaking down all the old rules that governed relationships between the sexes. Girls who would never normally have let their young men give them more than chaste kisses had become desperate to send them off to war with ‘something to remember them by’. What did preserving one’s virginity for tomorrow mean when there might not be a tomorrow, when all one might have was tonight? And then with their men gone and their senses awakened, was it any wonder that those girls-turned-women yearned for the warmth of a pair of male arms to hold them?

      Diane shivered again, remembering the stolen nights of pleasure she and Kit had shared under the thatches of remote quaint village pubs, where the landlord had been prepared to turn a blind eye and accept their self-conscious claim to be a married couple. Would her body, deprived of what it had known, eventually fill her with a hunger and an anger that would take her into the arms of a stranger to seek oblivion? Pushing her disturbing thoughts aside, she made her way towards Myra.

      Myra patted her hair and cast a discreet look over her shoulder. Not that she was looking for anyone in particular, of course. She leaned down and pretended to check the seam of her stockings. She was pleased with the amount of attention she was attracting. The red halter-neck top showed off the smooth skin of her bare arms and shoulders, although it was on the shadowed valley between her breasts that she could see male glances lingering. She hid a triumphant smile. Next to her Diane looked nothing special at all, despite that blonde hair. That frock she was wearing was the dullest thing she had ever seen and you wouldn’t catch her wearing something so boring. Her own skirt followed the curves of her hips and her bottom; she had had it altered, to make it tighter and shorter, determinedly ignoring Jim’s comment that he didn’t like her wearing her clothes like that. ‘Supposed to be saving on fabric, aren’t we?’ she had told him, tossing her head. ‘At least that’s what the government says. Shorter skirts, we have to have.’ Jim had shaken his head but he hadn’t said any more. He was a real softie.

      Myra’s smile disappeared at the thought of her husband. The British Government had done her a favour sending him out to fight in the desert, and Hitler would be doing her even more of one if he never came back. She checked the surrounding tables again. Where was he? Hadn’t he picked up on her message? She’d made it plain enough, telling him where she was going to be and when. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t be easy to spot either, never mind that the Grafton was packed out tonight. Not with those good looks of his.

      The young fair-haired GI who had found her the chairs on which she and Diane were seated was gazing at her like a dumb puppy, all pleading eyes and eagerness to please. Myra put out her cigarette. She might as well dance with him. At least that way she’d get away from disapproving Diane and her haughty looks. Who did she think she was? Sticking her nose up in the air and refusing to let the GIs buy her a drink. Myra shot Diane a baleful look. She was sitting facing the dance floor, nursing a glass of lemonade.

      Myra looked at the fair-haired GI. ‘Well?’ she asked provocatively. ‘Who’s going to ask me to dance then?’

      It had been a mistake to come here with Myra, Diane admitted as she watched her dancing with a young GI who looked as though he couldn’t believe his good luck. The GIs had been drinking heavily, passing around a bottle of what Diane suspected must be spirits and adding some of its contents to their beer, as a result of which they had started yelling out encouragement to their friend. Already the table was attracting hostile looks from the British servicemen on the dance floor. The initial mood of the evening, which had been one of high but good-natured spirits, had somehow developed a darker, unpleasant undertone. Some of the comments being called out by the GIs as they assessed the girls who were dancing were going well beyond what was acceptable, and Diane was not totally surprised when a short, red-faced man in civvies left the dance floor, dragging his uncomfortable-looking partner with him and marched self-importantly up the table to remonstrate with them.

      ‘Hey, bud, if you don’t like it then go tell Uncle Sam. Seems to me you should be treating us with a bit more respect, seeing as how we’ve come to win your war for you.’

      The slurred voice of one of the GIs caused a surge of angry mutters from those near enough to hear it.

      To Diane’s relief Myra was returning to her seat.

      Standing up, Diane told her, ‘I think we should find somewhere else to sit.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Because I don’t like the way things are developing.’

      ‘Oh, don’t be such a bore. They’re only having a bit of fun.’ Myra said tetchily. Where was he? She had been so sure he would be here. She’d been depending on it. The only reason she’d danced with the clumsy farm boy with two left feet had been to make sure that she was seen. ‘Relax and have another drink,’ she advised Diane. If they moved away from this table right beside the dance floor she’d have no chance of catching his eye. The Grafton was well and truly packed with an influx of fresh American troops from their camp at Burtonwood, and naval men on twenty-four-hour leave from their convoy escort duties.

      ‘You can do as you please, Myra, but I’m not staying here,’ Diane replied sharply.

      Myra looked over her shoulder. She had sent her dance partner to get them fresh drinks and she could see him weaving his way back through the crowd. Like Diane, she had seen the bottle being passed round the table, and she too had guessed it contained spirits. There was no way she intended to leave, but she knew she couldn’t stay without Diane. Somehow she would have to find a way to make her stay. An idea suddenly came to her.

      ‘Clem’s bringing us some drinks. We can’t just walk off,’ she protested, standing up herself. ‘Stay there, and I’ll get them.’

      She intercepted Clem a few yards from the table, taking the tray from him and telling him, ‘Go and get some of whatever it is your pals are putting in their drinks, will you, Clem? My friend wants to try it.’

      ‘Are you sure? It’s pretty strong. Not a lady’s drink…’

      ‘She isn’t a lady,’ Myra told him sweetly. ‘Go get it.’

      He was back within a few seconds, brandishing a bottle.

      ‘What is it, anyway?’ she