Chapter 17

14 November, 1916

I exited the Charing Cross Station in order to walk the short distance to the Strand Palace Hotel. I understood why Eric had chosen this location; it was accessible by the Underground, then by foot, a requisite since taxis and buses did not operate after dark. Due to London’s being the target of zeppelin bombing raids, street lights were shut off or kept dim. In fact, the streets were so dark in places that sometimes pedestrians collided.

The crowded, smoke-filled club held patrons of all kinds, as many military as civilian. The round tables, each covered with dark cloth and a center lamp, were crammed, many with ten patrons seated in the eight available chairs. Daisy saw me enter before I had my coat off and pushed her way through the crowd. “Hello, Robert,” she sang. “Over here. Come, we have a table!”

I was surprised, pleasantly so. “I did not expect to see you. I thought it was just Eric coming.” We shared a long, loving hug.

“Mum’s babysitting.”

Following Daisy to the table, I looked around the night club, admiring the wonderful décor and feeling the beat of the four-piece band playing in the corner. As we arrived at the table, Eric, in uniform, stood up to take my hand and pulled me toward him for a slap on the back. Over his shoulder, I noticed a naval officer, a gentleman in civilian clothes, and a young lady strikingly dressed in the vogue of the day.

I was awestruck by this young lady smiling directly at me, hopefully not so absorbed that the others thought me rude. Her yellow dress, which offset her dark brunette hair, was clasped at the shoulder with delicate fasteners, leaving bare shoulders, arms, and neck. The finely pleated material flowed like a waterfall from her bustline, down through a tightly cinched belt and on to mid-calf.

“Robert,” chortled Eric. I knew he had caught me red-handed, staring as I was startled back to reality. “Thanks for coming. It is so wonderful to see you after all these years. And spiffy for us to get together after serving time in that dreadful French mud, I daresay. And how are you, cousin?”

I knew I was blushing, forced myself to direct my attention to Eric. “Rather quite well. Recovered from a month in hospital and feeling mended. What about you? How long is your leave?”

Eric shrugged, accepting his destiny. “I return in two weeks, I’m afraid, so am making the best of it, being able to spend time at home with Daisy and Stanley. I’m so glad you popped over to see them. He was quite intrigued by your hospital pajamas, I daresay. Now, might we know anyone at this table?”

I extended my hand to the civilian gentleman, who looked at me with a grin. “Robert, it’s Tom, Tom Wellum from Blackhorse Road. You surely remember?”

I recognized him through his more mature features before looking over to the naval officer and then placed both of them. “Percy Wellum from our Marsh Street Academy, and your big brother, Tom! After all this time! How are you both?”

I suppressed the mixed feelings I experienced with so recently losing one Percy in my life, then meeting up with another. I shook hands and semi-embraced Percy Wellum, my Walthamstow school chum, as the excitement of the evening grew.

“Robert,” said Daisy, “we can’t forget my very good friend, Miss Cissy Anne Taylor. She lives near Eric and me.”

If Daisy only knew the restraint I was keeping while waiting to be introduced. Surely this was the munitionette friend she had spoken of. I tried to keep my composure and not splutter her name, but was unable to shed a silly grin. “Hello, Miss Taylor, it’s very nice to meet you.” I hoped that stick-in-the-mud look I had given Daisy didn’t re-emerge.

“Hello, Lieutenant. I have heard so much about Eric’s younger cousin. Oh, but do please call me Cissy. I find those Victorian formalities a tad boring.”

“In that case, Cissy, call me Bob, which is my Canadian name now.” I glanced around the table. “I’d be pleased if everyone called me Bob.”

Cissy was delightful, full of that new self-awareness that so many young women were expressing. She was slender, of medium height with a round face and blue eyes under long eyelashes. Her brunette hair—in contrast to the upswept Edwardian pompadour look—was cut short, meeting her collar at the back and sweeping up under her chin to a point on each cheek, highlighting her upturned mouth, with bangs covering her forehead. Her skin was white and satin-like, her whole look sharpened with lip salve of a rouge tint. She was beautiful.

“Well,” said Eric, “now that’s settled, let’s have a drink, shall we?” His timing was good. I am guilty of not knowing how long I may have been staring and smiling. When the drink order was placed, we all got to talking. “Cissy is a munitionette,” said Daisy, “doing her bit for the war and all.”

“I certainly am, and not just for the war, I might say. I’m quite happy to pocket the wages from the Brunner Mond munitions factory over in Silvertown, which are much more than I earned working in service for a Belgravia family from ‘09 to ‘14. This freedom is wonderful! And what about you, Bob? You are Canadian, I understand?” I’m not sure if I could have brightened any more, but hearing Cissy say my name seemed to make it that way. “English by birth, now living in Saskatoon, Canada, which is why volunteering for service was an easy choice. Like you, I am enjoying newfound freedom to pursue dreams over there.”

After more familiarization, I turned to the Wellum brothers to learn more about their current lives. Tom, being four years older than Percy, was now holding a mechanical engineering degree and employed for strategic war purposes at a supply factory in Sheffield. There was little disclosure beyond that, presumably due to the Defence of the Realm Act. Percy, my schoolmate who was born only one month later than I, attended university like myself, which is why he was chosen as a naval officer. He expressed displeasure that his service thus far was with Home Establishment in London. He wanted to see action on the Continent.

Shortly thereafter, Sam arrived. As expected, he fit in well with everyone and soon had them laughing about tales of the war and other exploits. I envied how he could go through the same experience yet retain such lightheartedness. Perhaps it was because he was a career soldier, or more likely it was his inherently pleasant, breezy demeanor.

Sam was relating a story about training in boot camp, making the bayoneting of straw-filled sacks seem as interesting as a night at the pictures, when I saw Cissy rise from the other side of the table and move toward me. “Well, Lieutenant Pitman, I suppose if you are not going to ask a girl to dance, then a girl must do the asking!”

I knew I was blushing—again—but eagerly stood up to take the challenge. “Of course, Cissy. How inconsiderate of me to leave you sitting there listening to war stories.” It was obvious that Daisy had arranged this meeting, but I didn’t mind one bit. We laughed to mask the bit of awkwardness as we stepped onto the dance floor.

Cissy and I danced a couple of numbers until Tom excused his way in to dance the one-step, which was fine as I needed to direct some attention to my friends. In this way, Eric, Sam, and I were able to catch up. The conversation migrated at times to more somber talk about the dread of war and of returning to France. Sam enlightened all of us to the excitement of serving in the RFC with its fast-paced tempo and less formal regimen, at least compared to the infantry.

Yet I wasn’t going to let any of the men steal away my chance of having the last dance with Cissy. I joined her on the floor for a slow waltz that allowed us to talk. Holding her, feeling her toned body—presumably from laboring at the factory—was tonic better than a month’s stay at the Maudsley. We spoke of her lifelong friendship with Daisy and their enjoyment together while attending sewing club or stepping out to London nightlife. We agreed to have tea the next day. We both knew things were moving fast, but that was expected in war-torn Europe when family and friends didn’t know when they would again see each other, if at all.

Sam and I left the Strand together for the walk to the Underground, both of us taking the Piccadilly Line, he traveling west while I was headed north to Finsbury Park. “You didn’t tell me about your cutie, you ole dog, you!”

“I had nothing to let on about, at least until this evening when Daisy introduced me to Cissy.”

Sam lightly punched my arm in objection. “Aw, come now. She was all over you! There must have been some history there, chappie!”

“No, really,” I protested. “Although I admit that Daisy let on about a friend of hers who was quite fun—”

“That she is, Bob!”

I smiled mockingly. “Truthfully, when Daisy mentioned a munitionette friend, I expected a well-built bruiser dressed in trousers and carrying a wrench!”

“Ahem,” Hardy scolded. “If you didn’t see for yourself, she is well built!”

“Not in that manner, you silly goat,” I kibitzed back. “Soooo?”

I grinned from ear to ear. “So what, Hardy?”

He jumped in front and turned, walking backward with the mischievousness of a Cheshire Cat. “So, when will you see her again?”

“Uh, perhaps tomorrow?”

“I knew it, you sly dog! I knew there was something there.”

“Well maybe, but we have a war to fight, don’t we?”

He moved beside me again. “A little diversion is a good thing, Pitman!”

We entered the station while still in animated discussion. Sam’s train was pulling up to his side of the platform. “Enjoy, my friend, do really enjoy yourself. For once let things go and throw caution to the wind. I needn’t tell you that we only have one life, Bob. Seize everything about this girl.” He grinned as he saw me recognize his double meaning.

“All right, Sam. Let’s stay in touch. And thanks for being a good friend!”