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Headlights swung around the corner into Fulham Road, lighting a tight path as a vehicle rapidly approached. Blinded after the lack of light on the street, Meg shaded her eyes and blinked until she could see the ground. A jeep pulled up and Dr Ransom handed her into the back seat of the vehicle. She hadn’t got an answer to her question, but she wasn’t sure she wanted one. If only Seamus were here to talk about the idea with her. As much as her comment was based on a genuine belief that women who had the necessary skills should be assigned to theatres of war, she feared that, with the possibility of her pregnancy, she was mouthing nothing more than bravado.
Pondering how honest she had been filled the journey. The jeep pulled up near the American servicemen’s recreation hall from which light spilled through wide double doors. No one seemed concerned that, when the doors opened, bright yellow light streamed through, flouting blackout orders. Loud jazz music filled the air and, when Meg reached the doorway, the blare of music and the jumping dancers vibrated up through her soles. Music and an almost forgotten anticipation washed over her, seeped through her pores and insinuated itself into her feet. All at once, she was glad she had been given no choice about coming.
At the coat-check desk, Dr Ransom leaned towards her, a necessary closeness if he wanted to be heard over the mix of music and loud voices. ‘Can I fetch you a glass of punch, Sister, or would you like to hit the dance floor first?’
Meg collected the ticket for her bag and tucked it in her pocket. Her foot was tapping as a jitterbug finished and a new song began, one she recognised as a new Frank Sinatra song from the Armed Forces radio show back in Adelaide River. ‘I’d love to dance since you’re asking, thank you.’
He led her towards the dance floor. The song was a ballad and the dance was slow—perfect if Seamus were here. But he was far away, and tonight—well, it would be good for her morale if she let it. Smiling at her partner, Meg focused on the music, and the joy of dancing once more.
Dr Ransom danced well, considerate of her in the crush of dancers. A few slow turns into the dance, he smiled at her. ‘Thank goodness.’
Wondering what had caught his attention she looked around then met his eyes. ‘Who or what are you thankful for, Doctor?’
‘You look as though you’re enjoying yourself, Sister. Finally. I admit I was a bit concerned that you only accompanied me because you felt it was your duty. I may have fudged the truth a little to get you to come tonight.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘HQ didn’t really say we had to come, but you’ve worked hard assisting with the setting up of the theatre and I thought you deserved a night out. This invitation came from an American doctor I recently met. It seemed just the ticket. Forgive me?’
Struck by this social side of Dr Ransom and increasingly comfortable in his company, Meg saw no problem. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. It’s very kind of you to offer this treat, Doctor.’
‘Geoffrey, please, or Geoff if you prefer. While we’re here, at least.’
The song ended and the bandmaster informed them the orchestra would be taking a ten-minute break. ‘But don’t go far, folks. We’ll be back with another new one from the 1942 hit parade.’
‘Doctor—’
‘Geoffrey.’ He looked past her, waved then took her elbow. ‘Come and meet Dr Newton. He’s a surgeon with the American hospital at— ‘Don, hello.’ Geoffrey extended a hand to the man who had stopped beside her.
‘Don, this is Lt Margaret Dorset who is my new theatre nurse. Margaret, Dr Newton.’
She smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, Doctor.’
He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, held it between both of his.
‘Margaret. And do they call you Meg for short?’ His smile was wide and white and even, like the film stars in her favourite movies. Like Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. But his accent was more like John Wayne’s drawl in the last cowboy movie she’d seen. The name of the movie escaped her.
‘Margaret?’ Geoffrey’s use of her name brought her back to earth.
‘Most people call me Margaret.’ Meg belonged to Seamus, and to her family. ‘I prefer Margaret.’
Dr Newton offered his arm and smiled. ‘May I escort you to the refreshments, Margaret? If that’s okay by you, Geoff?’
Geoffrey looked to her for her agreement. When she nodded, he stepped aside. ‘I’ll see you later, Sister.’
As they approached a long trestle table laden with food, and bowls into which a cook was tipping what looked like miniature hamburgers, Meg’s tastebuds woke up and yahooed. The Americans had more variety of food than she’d seen in months. ‘I’d heard you weren’t on rations, but this is amazing. There’s even oranges!’
‘Help yourself. Take a couple back home if you like. Would you prefer a glass of punch, or something with more of a mule kick to it?’
‘Punch please.’
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bourbon. I can add Coke if you don’t want it neat.’ Behind the bar, a bartender rested his knuckles on the wood, waiting for the doctor’s drink order.
‘Just punch, thanks.’
While the American doctor ordered a bourbon for himself and a punch for the little lady, Meg selected one of the small hamburgers and an orange and—just because she could—added a slice of some kind of sticky, nutty tart.
When Dr Newton returned with their drinks, he nodded towards the rear of the dance floor. Once there, a wall and the edge of the stage created a small space around them. Meg set her plate on the edge of the stage and gratefully sipped her punch. ‘It’s hot in here with so many bodies, isn’t it? Hotter than where I come from at this time of year.’
