Shoes for Anthony (22 page)

Alf stood at the back of the van, doors open, and held up his hand towards Bethan. ‘Take my hand,' he said. ‘It's quite a gap.'

‘I'm fine,' said Bethan, steadying herself on the doorframe, but then, shooting a glance towards her heels, added, ‘Actually, I might need your help after all.' She held her hand out and let him take it.

Alf grinned. ‘There you go,' he said, helping her down. ‘Let's hope that's not the last time you need it.'

Bethan dusted down her jacket and ignored him. ‘Gwennie'll need a hand as well,' she said, not looking up. ‘She's got higher heels than I have.'

‘I'm not sure if I should try and jump it at all,' said Gwennie, twisting her mouth into an anxious knot. ‘If I break a heel, I'll have an emotional collapse. Perhaps,' she added, batting her eyelids towards the Americans, ‘you gentlemen could lift me down …'

Robert and Andrew leapt up, ready to oblige, but Alwyn appeared and held his arms out. ‘I can manage,' he said. ‘Come on Gwennie, down you come.'

Gwennie's face fell. ‘But …' she said, her disappointment palpable, as Alwyn stood waiting below her. ‘I asked …'

Alwyn reached up and grabbed her. ‘Come on,' he said, squaring a sharp look in the Americans' direction. ‘There's people waiting to get out.' Gwennie let out a small, high-pitched squeak and as Alywn placed her on the floor, she was a picture of indignation.

‘Really, Alwyn,' she said, smoothing her dress down. ‘If I want your help, I'll ask for it. Come on, Bethan,' she said, hooking her arm through my sister's, ‘let's go see who we can dance with.'

She shot a sharp, mean glance at Alwyn and flounced off. I looked towards my eldest brother, a dark shadow passing across his eyes. That wouldn't go down well, I thought, and a tiny knot of apprehension quietly tied itself in the pit of my stomach.

I noticed the noise first; it was incredible, and even louder close up. There was a piano, some drums, two lines of brass – trumpets and trombones – and a singer, hugging a microphone, leaning back and belting out a high note. The musicians were blasting out a relentless, uninhibited sound, while on the floor, in front of them, GIs, jackets off, hair slicked back, were dancing. It was like nothing I'd ever seen. They were jumping in the air, throwing girls over their backs, going crazy.

Welsh and American flags hung overhead, with red, white and blue bunting adorning every wall. Everywhere I looked, people were wide-eyed and animated. The atmosphere was joyous, alive with people crammed into every available nook and cranny, drinking, dancing, laughing or smoking. It was a large room, and there was a balcony above us – reached by a staircase – that looked down onto the dance floor. To the right of the room, there was a refreshment stand serving drinks, and ahead of us, at the far end, the stage.

‘What are they doing?' I said, staring at the dance floor.

‘Jitterbug,' said Emrys, reaching into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes. ‘They look like they've lost their minds.'

‘Look at them,' said Gwennie, eyes sparkling. ‘Look at their hips, Bethan. Look at them. Hopping. Bouncing. It's almost obscene.'

Gwennie and Bethan had taken up a vantage spot on the staircase above us, staring down into the bubbling mass below. Gwennie, I noticed, was wearing an expression of sheer determination. ‘Right, then, Bethan,' she said, primping the underside of her hair. ‘Let's mingle.'

‘Would you like to dance?' said a sweating GI, gliding over.

Gwennie's eyes lit up. ‘Delighted, I'm sure,' she said, letting her hand fall into his. ‘Hold that,' she added, thrusting her handbag backwards into my arms, and off she twirled.

Alwyn made a deep, guttural grunt and surged forward, but was held back by Emrys. ‘Steady, man,' he said, quietly, ‘it's only a dance.'

‘I need a drink,' said Alwyn, his face dark and brooding. ‘Where are they selling it?'

‘Bar's over there,' said Piotr, pointing off to the right. ‘I'll come help you. Bethan, can I get you something?'

‘Bitter lemon, please,' said Bethan. ‘And something fizzy for him,' she added, pointing in my direction.

‘Can you do that dance?' I said, nodding towards the gyrating couples below us.

Bethan shook her head. ‘Wouldn't know where to start,' she said, taking off her jacket. ‘Wait here,' she added. ‘I'm just going to the coat check.'

I stood and looked around me. Andrew and Robert had wandered over to a cluster of GIs they clearly knew. Andrew was being slapped on the shoulder by a laughing corporal. Next to him, another infantryman, cigarette hanging from the centre of his mouth, was clapping along to the music. Robert shook the hand of another, who then turned towards the stage, pressed his fingers into the sides of his mouth, and let rip with a loud whistle. Goodness, they were confident.

Welsh girls stood nervously around the edges of the dance floor, waiting to be swept up: some were swaying enthusiastically, others more apprehensive, not quite sure what they should be doing. They reminded me of the border flowers on the cigarette card, pretty girls all in a row.

The Welsh lads, on the other hand, looked mildly furious. They were being out-classed left, right and centre. They didn't have a hope. Some were trying to ask girls to dance, but were getting nowhere: the girls wanted to save themselves so they could be asked by an American. Instead, the Welsh lads stood in tight, angry clusters, beers in hand and staring. If there wasn't a fight, I thought, it would be a miracle.

I wandered away from the entrance, pushing myself gently through swaying hips and girls staring up towards the stage. A black trombonist had moved front and centre, clicking his fingers, smile dazzling, his head shaking from side to side. The drummer, just behind him, had his tongue out, and was pulsing out an almost manic beat, while the pianist, standing at the baby grand, was thumping the keys and tapping his foot on the wooden boards. Below them, there was a whirling sea of movement: girls being tossed into the air, skirts flapping, hands shaking, heads pecking. It was wild.

I stared down at my wellingtons. I wished I could dance.

The trombonist on the stage stepped forward and grabbed the microphone. ‘Ready for the group jive?' he yelled. A cheer went up. ‘I said, READY FOR THE GROUP JIIIIIIVE?' A roar.

As he clicked his fingers three times, the brass section stood and began to blare out a furious riff. Below him, couples organised themselves into lines, bobbing and swaying on the spot. Then, under the brass, came the drums and the piano, and the tempo quickened.

‘Send out!' yelled the trombonist. The boys took the girls by the hands and flung them forwards.

‘Through!' he yelled, and back they all curled.

‘Shoulder twist! Release!' he yowled. Everyone spun round.

‘Switch! Change places. Quick stop!' Everyone froze.

‘Now let's hit that jive!' The dance floor exploded, girls were spinning, being tossed sideways over thighs, GIs' hair flipping left and right, arms in the air. I was spellbound.

From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Gwennie Morgan. She was in the far corner of the dance floor, jiving with her partner. He was significantly shorter than her and appeared to be bobbing furiously just below her bosom. She was red in the face and looked mildly startled, as if nothing in her life to date could have prepared her for this sudden thrill.

I scanned the room for Alwyn, the small, tight knot in my stomach grumbling. He was standing by the refreshment stand, beer in hand and staring at Gwennie.

Emrys was a few feet in front of him. To my surprise, it looked like he'd found a girl to dance with, but he didn't know the moves so instead of leading, he had his head over one shoulder, trying to watch the Americans so he could copy.

‘There,' said Piotr, handing me a bottle of pop. ‘For you.' I locked lips round the straw bobbing upwards and sucked. Lemonade. ‘Where's Bethan?' he asked, his voice raised so I could hear him over the din.

‘Coat check,' I shouted. I thumbed over my shoulder.

Piotr glanced down to my other hand. Gwennie Morgan's handbag was trailing from it. He nodded and took a glug from his beer. ‘First I've had in ages,' he said, lifting the bottle upwards. ‘As you would say, proper treat!'

I smiled and cast an eye back in Alwyn's direction. He was still staring at Gwennie dancing, and taking large, hungry gulps from his beer. He was making me nervous.

‘What a queue!' declared Bethan, pushing her way back to us. ‘I don't think I've ever seen so many people at a dance. It's such a squash I'm amazed anyone can move. Oooh,' she added, as Piotr handed her the bitter lemon, ‘that for me? Lovely.'

They chinked glasses and drank. Piotr leaned in and whispered something into her ear. She took another small sip from her glass and shot me a quick glance. She whispered something back.

‘Stay here where I can find you,' she shouted towards me. ‘I'm just going outside for a bit. Need some air.' She mimed fanning herself and smiled, then, taking Piotr's arm, they headed back towards the door.

I watched them go, feeling a little disconcerted. I didn't know if I wanted to be left on my own. I looked around and noticed a group of GIs looking at me and laughing. One of them whistled and pointed down towards Gwennie Morgan's handbag.

I felt a flush of embarrassment. I wanted to do something with it, anything, so I didn't have to carry it a minute longer. I went up onto my tiptoes to see if Gwennie was still in the far corner but, unable to see her, I looked for Alwyn instead – he was still at the bar, having another beer, by the looks of it. Alf was with him, leaning against the pillar of the refreshment stand and talking animatedly, gesturing with an arm. Alwyn wasn't looking at him. I followed his line of vision and saw Gwennie Morgan in a tight clinch with the short American. They were dancing in a packed clutch of people, her meticulous topknot coming loose in the heat.

I pushed my way towards him.

‘Oi, oi! Little man!' said Alf, seeing me emerge. ‘Now, then. What's a fella like you doing with a bag like that?'

‘It's Gwennie Morgan's,' I said, screwing my nose up. ‘I feel proper stupid slinging it round. Fellas over there whistled at me.'

‘Are you sure that wasn't because of your fabulous hairdo?' said Alf, taking a sip of his beer and throwing me a smirk.

‘He's got his bloody hand on her arse,' said Alwyn, his jaw tightening.

I could feel him bristling, ready to blow. I knew my brother. There was a tension about him that felt dangerous, made me edgy. I looked back over my shoulder towards Gwennie. The little American was running his hands over her. I needed Piotr.

‘Steady, now, Alwyn,' said Alf, his face turning serious. ‘All these boys here, all of 'em, will be gone soon enough. Play the long game, man.'

‘When have you ever known me to be patient?' said Alwyn, downing his beer.

‘Never,' said Alf. ‘But seriously, man …'

Alwyn drained the last of his beer and slammed the bottle down on the counter behind him. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he snatched Gwennie's handbag from me. ‘Let's see how he likes this down his throat,' he grumbled and pushed himself roughly into the crowd. Alf made a lunge for the back of his shirt but Alwyn was too quick.

‘Find Emrys,' said Alf, putting his own bottle down. ‘And Piotr. Quick as you can. There might be some trouble.'

A nagging panic coursed through me and I turned, heart thumping, to weave my way back towards the last place I'd seen Emrys. Behind me, over the pulsing music, I heard a scream and the sound of something breaking. Male voices rose up and, above me, the band came to a slow, wilting stop. Whistles filled the air.

‘Emrys,' I called out, ‘Emrys!'

It was no good. People around me were pressing forwards to see what the commotion was. I was being squeezed in a direction I didn't want to go. I tried to fight the tide but I was pushed back towards the refreshment stand. I held back, allowing the press of people to go past me. Sounds of a full-blown fight were rattling off the rafters. I looked up, towards the stairs. ‘Piotr!' I called out.

He was standing with Bethan at his side, both of them staring down. Bethan raised a hand to her mouth as another almighty crash sounded below them. Piotr, holding on to the railing, made his way downwards as best he could. Bethan scanned the room. She was looking for me.

I raised an arm and waved. ‘Bethan!' I yelled. She saw me.

‘Emrys?' she cried out. ‘Where is he?'

There was another clatter, a loud, wooden crack, a scream.

I shook my head and made an exaggerated shrugging movement. She ran her eyes quickly over the room, skimming over the faces below her. Suddenly, she pointed. ‘There, Ant!' I could see her yell. I followed her finger. She was pointing off to my left. I pushed my way forwards.

‘Emrys!' I shouted, seeing him. ‘It's Alwyn! He's having a fight!'

There was another almighty crash. ‘Excuse me,' said Emrys, to the red-haired girl he was with. ‘My brother's making a fuss. Where is he?' he added, turning to me.

‘Down over b'there,' I said, my voice high and anxious. ‘Alf chased after him. But you know what he's like.'

Emrys pushed past me and began to thread his way through the crush of people. Following him, I held on to the back of his trousers so as not to get lost in the squash and suddenly, having been pummelled left and right, I found myself popping out into an open circle.

‘Christ, man,' yelled Emrys. ‘Leave it!'

I let go of his trousers and looked up. Alwyn, his lip bleeding, was being pulled off the small American by three other Americans and Alf. Around us there were jeers, whistles.

‘Come on, man,' Alf was yelling. ‘Leave him be!'

Gwennie was retrieving her handbag from the neck of the man she'd been dancing with. The small fella was slumped and unconscious. He seemed to be wearing a chair. Alwyn, struggling to have another go at him, broke free and rushed forward, fist raised, but another American, big and muscular, stepped forward and with one punch had Alwyn down.