GI Brides: The Wartime Girls Who Crossed the Atlantic for Love (5 page)

Margaret laughed, for a moment forgetting her misery over Taylor Drysdale. Her boss soon came back from lunch, and the captain disappeared into his office. But on his way out, he stopped at Margaret's desk again.

‘Would you do me the honour of accompanying me to dinner Wednesday night?' he asked.

Margaret was about to say no. Since Taylor, she had lost all interest in other men, and while the captain was perfectly pleasant-looking, he was no tall, chiselled Adonis. He was of medium height, and although he had very dark, striking brown eyes, they were set in quite a large face, and there was a scar across his nose.

But she liked his manners, which were those of a Southern gentleman and made him seem rather old-fashioned, even though he couldn't have been more than thirty. Then she had a thought that made up her mind: if she went out with the captain and Taylor got to hear of it, he might feel jealous and try to get her back.

‘Certainly,' she said, with a winning smile.

The following week she accompanied Captain Lawrence McCaskill Rambo to Kettner's restaurant in Soho. It was a glamorous place, with mirrored, panelled walls and a pianist tinkling away in the corner, and Margaret felt a stab of longing as she thought how good she and Taylor would have looked there together.

Lawrence was the perfect gentleman, however, pulling out her chair and ordering for them both. As they ate he regaled her with stories about his time in the Canadian forces. ‘They told us you can't get seasick in a hammock, because it rolls with the ship,' he said. ‘Well, I can tell you, it's an outrageous lie! Three of the men were hanging so far over the rails being sick that their false teeth are now sitting on the Atlantic seabed!'

Margaret learned how, after arriving in Britain, Lawrence had been sent to the Scottish highlands with the Forestry Corps. ‘Now, this is a Georgia boy who thought thirty degrees was a cold day,' he said, shivering at the memory.

‘So, how did you end up in the American Army?' she asked him.

‘Well, when Uncle Sam finally decided to join the war, I was shipped back to America,' he told her. ‘I was so darn angry I threw my papers overboard before we got into New York, hoping they'd send me back to England. Sure enough they did, but when I arrived they wouldn't let me off here either. I went back and forth across that ocean six times!'

Margaret was soon in tears of laughter. The captain was clearly quite a storyteller, and he certainly seemed to be enjoying himself, laughing loudly at the end of each tale, even though he hadn't had a drop of wine. What he lacked in looks he made up for in confidence and charisma, and she felt she could listen to him talk all night. Afterwards, she went back with him to his flat in Kensington and did her best to lose herself in his embrace, trying to block out thoughts of her previous boyfriend.

The next day at the office, however, she made sure to tell Grace all about her date with Captain Rambo, counting on her to spread the news around the office. Margaret hoped it wouldn't be long until it reached Taylor's ears.

In the meantime, Lawrence proved to be a welcome distraction from her broken heart. His job was in purchasing and contracting, and he was constantly going back and forth between ETOUSA HQ and Whitehall to liaise about equipment that would eventually be needed for the invasion of Europe. As a result he came into her office all the time, asking her out on many more dates over the following weeks.

She soon learned that he came from an old land-owning family in Blakely, Georgia, where his late father had been the judge of the city court. She couldn't help being impressed by this, and by the fact that he was university educated. He also turned out to be a book lover like herself, and soon started lending her novels.

But despite all the time Margaret was spending with Lawrence, Taylor still hadn't made any attempt to win her back. She decided the only way forward was to contact him herself, so one evening after work she called him at his flat.

‘Oh, hi, Margaret,' he said, sounding surprised. ‘How are you?'

‘I'm very well,' she replied. She chatted for a little while, and then dropped in nonchalantly, ‘I've been dating a captain in the Engineer Service, Captain Rambo. Perhaps you know him?'

‘No, I don't think so,' Taylor replied, unconcerned. ‘Well, I've gotta go. See ya.'

After she hung up, Margaret felt almost as wretched as she had done when Taylor had thrown her over. He clearly wasn't the slightest bit jealous, and all she had done was embarrass herself again.

When Lawrence called later asking if she was free, she ran to him. She didn't want to be alone that night, and it felt good to be in the arms of a man who she knew really wanted her.

The following week, Margaret was surprised to find she had missed her period. She put it down to the distress caused by Taylor and forgot all about it. But a month later, still it hadn't come, so she made an appointment with a doctor.

‘I'm afraid to say you're pregnant,' he told her.

‘How is that possible?' Margaret cried. ‘I used the cap.'

‘Oh, those things don't always work,' he replied.

Margaret couldn't believe it. She rushed out of the doctor's surgery and hurried home as quickly as she could, afraid she might burst into tears in the street. Once in the house she ran up to her room and locked the door behind her, before collapsing on the bed and crying bitterly into her pillow.

Margaret felt beside herself with fear and regret. She had only really gone out with Lawrence to make Taylor jealous, and now not only had her plan failed, but it had backfired in the worst way imaginable. To give birth to an illegitimate baby would utterly ruin her, and her family would never get over it.

The next day was a Sunday, and Margaret spent the whole day locked in her room. The landlady came and knocked on the door, worried about her. ‘I'm all right – just a slight cold,' Margaret called out. But inside the room she was in hell. She hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours and she had been crying all night long. To make matters worse she was feeling nauseous, and wasn't sure if it was the pregnancy or her dread of it that was making her want to vomit.

Once again she felt how alone she was in the world. If only she had a normal mother, perhaps she could have turned to her and confessed what had happened. But she hadn't had any contact with Mrs Boyle since she had left Ireland. The thought of her military father finding out about the pregnancy filled her with dread. Margaret knew abortions were illegal, and that backstreet abortionists were often little better than butchers. If she was going to find a solution to this problem, she would have to find it for herself.

She went to the cupboard, took out a wire coat hanger and untwisted it. Then she lay down on the bed, took a deep breath to steady her sobbing and inserted the hook.

In July 1943 the US Army took over the port of Southampton, putting the docks under the control of their 14th Port Transportation Corps, who would handle the huge influx of cargo necessary for the invasion of Europe. Before long, the city had become the chief supply centre for the Americans in Britain.

One local girl had a perfect vantage point from which to study the American officers as they zoomed in and out of the forecourt of the grand, red-bricked Polygon Hotel, where they were billeted. Gwendolyn Rowe counted herself lucky, at seventeen, to have scored a job as a shorthand typist at the Chamber of Commerce just opposite the hotel, where she and her female colleagues watched the new arrivals with great interest. When she cycled into work, her glossy black hair streaming in the wind, she always drew calls of, ‘Hey, baby – slow down for me!' But she responded with a curt ‘I'm
not
your baby.'

Watching from afar was one thing, but Gwen's first real encounter with an American soldier had been something of an embarrassment. A young GI, slouching along her road with his hands in his pockets, had made her almost jump out of her skin by suddenly pulling out a small box and waving it in her face. ‘Hey, want some talc, miss?' he asked.

Gwen was infuriated. What did he think she was – a charity case? ‘No, I do not,' she snapped. ‘I don't take presents from strangers.'

The young man's face fell. ‘Sorry, miss, didn't mean to cause no harm,' he said.

Gwen's mother Mrs Rowe, a forthright Scottish lady with raven hair just like her daughter's, had witnessed the scene from the doorway of their house on Padwell Road. As soon as Gwen reached the doorstep, she reprimanded her: ‘Those men are here to help us. You go back at once and say thank you.'

Gwen let out an irritated sigh, and went after the young man. ‘Sorry,' she said, as she caught up with him. ‘I didn't mean to be rude.'

‘No problem, miss,' he replied with a smile, pushing the talcum powder into her hand. When she got the gift home, Gwen was secretly thrilled. Rose scented and luxurious, it was the most wonderful thing she had been given in four years of rationing.

Gwen and the girls at the Chamber of Commerce found that American officers were frequently coming in to ask them for local information, and it was sometimes difficult to know whether their enquiries were genuine. The Americans seemed particularly keen to solicit local information from Gwen, although so far none of them had actually asked her out – perhaps because, being very slender, she looked younger than her seventeen years. But one day, as she was going into work, a jeep screeched to a halt beside her. The driver called out ‘Hey, sugar!' and Gwen, turning to give a smart reply, was caught speechless.

There, with one foot on the dashboard and a large cigar hanging languidly from the corner of his mouth, was a stunningly attractive GI with sparkling brown eyes and exotic good looks. ‘What you doing tonight, baby?' he asked.

‘Um, I don't know,' replied Gwen, flustered.

He laughed. ‘Come to the dance at the Polygon with me. What's your name, sugar?'

‘Gwen.'

‘I'm Ed. See you at eight, Gwen.'

His beautiful face zoomed off with a big smile on it.

That evening Gwen peddled home from work faster than she ever had before. A date at the Polygon would require a sophisticated outfit, and she knew there was only one dress that would be up to the task: her emerald-green one. Handmade by her mother from curtain material, since dress fabric was rationed, she knew the colour complimented her dark eyes and jet-black hair.

With relief she found the dress hanging up pressed and immaculate in the cupboard. After bathing in the regulation five inches of water and dousing herself in her rose-scented talc, she put it on – and immediately felt like a princess. Unfortunately, with no carriage and horses to transport her, she would have to make do with her bike to get her to the hotel, so she hitched up the dress with safety pins and rode off.

When Gwen arrived at the Polygon, she stowed her bike out of sight and walked through the grand revolving doors. The hotel had long been frequented by passengers from the grand ocean liners that came in and out of Southampton, including many from the fateful
Titanic
. Its elegant dinner dances were legendary, and had continued throughout the war, providing American officers with an upmarket setting in which to entertain the local female population.

As Gwen entered the room, Ed stood up to greet her and she felt giddy at the sight of him. ‘Just stand still for a moment,' he said, looking her up and down. ‘My, that is such a beautiful dress. And you have such pretty eyes.'

Gwen smiled. Clearly the green dress was having the intended effect.

Sitting opposite Ed, she found herself hardly able to eat her dinner – he was just too distracting, and she was trying too hard to be sophisticated. But it was dancing in his arms that she was really looking forward to.

When the resident band struck up, Gwen and Ed moved onto the dance floor, and as she spun around the room with him she felt as if she were in a fairy tale.

The musicians took a break, and Gwen caught Ed looking at her again. ‘My, you really do look beautiful in that dress,' he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘But I can't see you again.'

Gwen was confused. ‘Why not?' she demanded.

‘Because', said Ed, drawing slowly on his cigarette, ‘I'm thirty years old. And you're just a child.'

Gwen felt indignation rising in her. ‘I can handle it,' she said. Then, grabbing at a phrase she had heard some of the GIs use, she added, ‘I've been around the block a few times.'

‘I'm not sure you know what that means,' Ed laughed.

‘Of course I do,' Gwen said, crossly.

‘All right then,' he replied. ‘Do you want to come upstairs and show me?'

Gwen was horrified. ‘Oh
no
,' she blurted out.

Suddenly, she felt very young indeed, despite the green dress. It wasn't long before she was peddling as fast as she could back to Padwell Road.

Despite the unsuccessful date with Ed, the glamour and elegance of the Polygon Hotel had taken hold of Gwen, and now she couldn't stay away from it. Some of the girls from work went to the dinner dances every Saturday night, and she started going with them. It required her mother's expert sewing skills to keep Gwen in suitable outfits for these nights out, often pulling apart her own old dresses and turning them into skirts with a more fashionable cut for her daughter. After the humiliating experience with Ed, Gwen was determined to look as sophisticated as possible on the dance floor.