An Orphan’s War. Molly Green

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      ‘It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘Right. Are you ready?’

      He took hold of her hand as they walked past the reception desk.

      ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

      ‘The Royal Opera House,’ he said. ‘It’s not far. Covent Garden.’

      ‘Oh, I thought you said we were going dancing.’

      ‘We are. They changed it into a dance hall at the beginning of the war – more likely to raise people’s spirits than going to the opera. They hold dances every night and it’s usually packed. Amazing, considering a bomb could drop on them any time.’

      He must go quite regularly, she thought. She wondered idly who he’d brought, then decided it was none of her business, and in any case it would have been before they’d started going out together. What was in the past had to remain in the past.

      She’d never been inside the Royal Opera House before, though she’d always given more than a glance at the columned façade when she’d passed in front.

      ‘I didn’t think there’d be quite this queue when we’ve come so early,’ Edwin grumbled.

      ‘It shows it must be good,’ Maxine said mildly, wondering if it stretched to the other side of the building. If so, they were in for a long wait.

      But fifteen minutes later they’d stepped inside. She drew in a quick breath, totally unprepared for the sight and sound that engulfed her. What had once obviously been a sumptuous interior had given over to a heaving mass of bodies. On the bandstand she was thrilled to see a group of female musicians belting out a swing number, and a glamorous woman leading on the saxophone.

      ‘Ivy Benson and her all-girls band,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, Edwin, I’ve always wanted to see them.’

      Edwin nodded with no seemingly particular interest. ‘Keep your eyes open for a table.’

      She followed him as he forced his way through the crowd.

      ‘Goodness, however many people have they packed in here?’ she asked as he took her jacket, somehow having managed to find a table to share with another couple. He draped her jacket on the back of one of the chairs and she removed her hat and balanced it on top.

      ‘They say the place holds fifteen hundred,’ Edwin said, eyeing up the floor and the people sitting high in the balconies.

      He was shouting above the cacophony and she barely caught his words. It was certainly not the right place to have a conversation.

      ‘What would you like to drink, poppet?’

      ‘A glass of white wine would be lovely, thank you.’

      After their drinks, he led her onto the dance floor. He was an excellent dancer, but she couldn’t relax, so terrified was she of making a wrong step.

      ‘Listen to the words,’ he whispered when Ivy Benson was singing ‘I’m Getting Sentimental Over You’. He gave her hand a squeeze, his breath tickling her ear.

      After two or three more dances – one being the jitterbug, which was the latest craze from America that even Edwin couldn’t master – he led her back to the table, where another couple had taken their places.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Edwin began, pointedly looking at them, pink with annoyance.

      ‘Oh, was this your jacket?’ A scarlet-lipsticked woman looked up at Maxine who nodded. ‘I had to sit down, love – my feet were killing me.’

      ‘Don’t worry.’ Maxine smiled. ‘We’ll find somewhere else.’

      ‘If you’re sure …’

      ‘Maxine!’ Edwin’s tone was a little irritable.

      ‘Come on, Edwin. People are coming and going all the time. There’s bound to be something.’

      But since they’d been on the dance floor, many more couples had come in and grabbed the few remaining tables.

      ‘Are you feeling tired?’ Edwin asked as they trailed round trying to spot a couple of spare chairs.

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Incorrect answer,’ he said, chuckling, his happier mood seemingly returned. ‘You’re supposed to say, “Yes, darling, I’m tired out and all I want to do is go to bed – with you.”’

      Now it was her turn to flush.

      He pressed her hand. ‘Shall we go?’

      She hadn’t known how to broach the subject of Edwin wearing something to protect her, but to her relief he brought out a small packet and swiftly covered himself. It was almost as painful the second time, mainly because Maxine was tense once more, made worse by Edwin telling her to relax and enjoy it. She tried to concentrate on him and his pleasure and was thankful the searing, throbbing pain began to subside the moment he pulled out of her.

      ‘You’re still as tight as a virgin,’ he said as they lay together afterwards. ‘It’s exciting for me but probably not so much for you.’ He kissed her swiftly on the lips. ‘You wouldn’t think you’d been married to your Johnny – for how long was it?’

      She was glad it was dark in the room and he couldn’t see the warmth rise to her cheeks. She wished he hadn’t mentioned Johnny.

      ‘He was away a lot and he was killed early on.’ She really didn’t want to talk about it; it made her feel she was being disloyal to Johnny’s memory.

      ‘It must have been awful for you,’ he murmured, ‘but I’m here now.’

      In the morning he made love to her again, and finally she told herself she was almost enjoying it.

      ‘It’s our secret, poppet,’ he said more than once. ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves. There’s too much gossip by far at the hospital and we both need to concentrate on our work.’

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