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the_water_clock
Author: Clio
Title: A Dream That Could Not Last Chapter 4 of 12: Bringing Up Baby
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell, Amanda Overmyer/Carly Smithson, Kimberley Locke/Anwar Robinson
Chapter Rating: PG
Chapter Summary: A night to dance, and a day to give thanks.
Chapter Length: 7700 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: A Dream That Could Not Last is an AU romantic comedy set in 1939 London, when everyone knew war was on the horizon but no one was sure when or how it would arrive—which made love of all kinds that much more important. Follow a year in the life of three groups of (mostly) Americans: pilots who joined the RAF, singers and dancers in a swing music revue, and reporters for BBC Radio. As usual there will be plenty of songs along the way to set the mood, plus art by the amazing
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bhanesidhe.This was a big undertaking, and needed a team. If I was the writer/director, then
locumtenens was my editor, lillijulianne, musicforcylons and evil_erato my producers, dana_kujan the actually helpful studio executive; and ali_wildgoose my executive producer who kept the train on the tracks in ways so numerous I cannot list them here.Prologue | 1: The Lady Eve | 2: Adam's Rib | 3: His Girl Friday
21 November 1939
Carly Hennessey stood in the middle of Ryan and Joel's living room, modeling the fourth dress she'd tried on that evening.
"White is not your color," Simon said.
"A lot of women wear it," Ryan added, "so you won't stand out."
"And you don't look comfortable," Giuliana said. "You can't sell the dress if you don't feel good in it."
Carly smoothed her hands over the white satin that clung to her hips and waist. "Joel? What do you think?"
"You look like the cat's pyjamas—"
"No one talks like that anymore," Ryan muttered.
"—but I'd still like to see the blue one."
Carly nodded, and just as she was about to go back to Ryan's bedroom to change there was a knock on the door, which Joel answered.
"You must be Bill! Come in; have some champagne. I'm Joel."
Ryan walked up. "Hi, I'm Ryan, nice to meet you."
Bill had a very firm handshake and a square-jawed all-American handsomeness, like he'd walked out of one of those college films playing the football hero. He worked in real estate and had been sent to London to manage properties for some corporation in Chicago. He took the champagne Ryan offered and walked right over to Giuliana. From the look on his face he approved of her chocolate-brown gown.
"Just in time," she said. "What do you think of this dress for Carly?"
"Um, it's pretty?" he replied.
"Thank you, Bill," Carly said, and went to change.
"So," Bill said, turning to Ryan, "you're …"
"I'm?"
"With him?" he asked, pointing to Simon.
"Um … we're dating," Ryan said.
Simon nodded. "We're dating," he said, and Ryan was relieved—he wasn't sure what to call it.
"And you, Joel?" Bill asked.
"I have a lovely wife at home in LA, but thanks for asking!"
"I didn't mean—"
"No," Joel said, waving a hand. "It's fine. It's a reasonable assumption about show biz. Also France."
"Joel, that's not actually true," Ryan protested.
"C'mon, we've got you two, and we're fancying up Carly for some lady mechanic, and that's just in this room."
"No, I meant about the French. You have to be more careful. We're in Europe now."
"No you're not," Simon said, stamping out a cigarette. "You're in England. And I'd reckon the average bloke down the pub feels the same about the French as Joel does."
"What'd I tell you, Seacrest?" Joel said, waggling his fingers. "Magic!"
"Well, what about this one?" Carly said.
They turned and, it seemed to Ryan, all gasped at once. The gown fit her body much as the white one had, clinging and skimming as bias-cut satin does, but the color, a deep royal blue with a jade green design in the neckline, waist and sleeves, made it a different dress entirely. Her blue eyes, always striking, stood out even more.
"Now that," Simon said, "is more like it." He took her hand and twirled her around, making her giggle. "That white washed you out, but this blue makes you look bright and lively, puts a bit of color on those cheeks."
"I think that's because I'm blushing!" she replied.
"How do you feel in it?" Giuliana asked.
"It makes me want to stand up straight," Carly said. "I don't know—I want to say comfortable, but that's not right. It feels like my dress."
"And so it shall be," Simon said.
"Simon—"
"No, Carly, please. You're a very pretty girl and it pleases me to see you looking like one."
She reminded Ryan of the early color tests he'd seen of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara—dark hair, ruby red lips, bright eyes brought out by her dress. Her cheeks, rosy despite powder, kept her from achieving the "white look" all the glamour girls in Manhattan were going for, but it suited Carly. And yet, Ryan couldn't keep his eyes off Simon, sleek as a panther in his tuxedo, brown eyes shining with his usual delight in being right or at least in seeing a thing done properly. Ryan was falling with the usual speed, and yet despite that it didn't feel reckless or heedless like it usually did. But every time before had had its own feel, too. Still, he'd only be in London until the US entered the war, which he hoped would be very soon, so it probably wouldn't come to much anyway.
"We should get going," Giuliana said, and they all began grabbing wraps and coats.
"No, no," Joel said as Simon went to take Carly's arm. "The heterosexual gets to escort the pretty girl."
Backstage was humming with energy. The dancers couldn't wait to meet the soldiers and "show them a good time" as Paula had asked—though Kim was pretty sure that their idea of a good time and Paula's didn't match. The band was irritable that they would soon have some real competition: Americans with all the romance and masculinity of a soldier, rather than the namby pamby Brits who came to the stage door. Sure, some of them had money, but none were what they'd call real men except maybe a few limey soldiers. No, they were more like that Simon Cowell, the sort of fellow that floated around the entertainment business, talented enough that their peculiarities were tolerated so long as they stayed out of sight. Besides, it meant more girls for the real men.
Kim had been deemed a "real gal" by the band, one of the gang in a way, mostly because she'd steadfastly rejected their advances but wasn't deemed a miss priss like Kat. It was the kind of sisterly vibe she liked having with a band. Though she could do without hearing their opinions on sexual matters, they looked out for her at after hours clubs, intimidating unwanted suitors and making sure she got back to the house safely.
For herself, Kim was mostly interested in the soldiers as a new audience. Jen had heard from Paula that some of them were colored, even some of the pilots. Flying a plane took guts and brains; she'd known a boy at Morehouse who'd learned how, so Kim was interested in talking to this colored pilot. But she suspected that Kat, or Jen, or Paula would dictate with whom she spoke during the breaks.
Hearing her name, she turned to see her musical director. "Yes, Randy?"
He handed her some sheet music. "New song."
"Changing the show already?"
"No." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Cowell thinks you should go back into the station and sing it."
Kim nodded. "I see."
"Man. Kim, you know your song isn't the best one you could be singing."
"Good for the show."
"Yeah, well, the show isn't you."
She looked at the music. " 'Azure.' Okay."
"Okay? Yeah? Because I was thinking about a solo guitar arrangement, y'know, just you and me."
Kim smiled. "I'd like that."
"Great. I gotta get the boys on stage but y'know, don't worry about Cowell, man. He likes you. He just thinks you're ready for more—and so do I. You dig?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Randy."
He nodded, and off he went. She looked through the music, sight-singing softly. So Mr. Cowell thought she was ready for more, did he?
She'd show him. She was more than ready.
Considering the alternative, Amanda found she didn't mind wearing her dress uniform. At least she didn't have to wear any damned necklace or flowers in her hair. No, the cap, button-down shirt and necktie suited her just fine, and even the shoes were relatively sensible.
Chris, of course, looked like a movie star, but the other boys cleaned up pretty nice too. They'd all been working hard, and Captain Johns had let some standards slide, most noticeably shaving, and nearly all the boys had taken full advantage. What was it with pilots that they liked to be so scruffy? But now they were clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed—even their fingernails were clean.
Amanda and Chris of course had been to many a supper club in Charleston, Richmond, Boston while they were at school, even New York. But the other boys were dazzled just walking in the door, seeing men checking hats and top coats with the coat check girl, the myriad tables with their crisp white tablecloths and champagne in buckets nearby, being whisked by the maître d' to a spot right at the edge of the stage marked RESERVED.
She heard a cheery "hello" and there was Ryan Seacrest coming to shake hands with them. Giuliana was there, too, wearing a gown as well as Amanda hoped she might, chestnut hair in an updo that revealed bare, gleaming shoulders. She waved, and Amanda noticed the man behind her, looking solicitous. Ah well, can't win 'em all.
Giuliana tapped the shoulder of a girl who stood next to her, her back facing Amanda, porcelain skin in a blue gown with dark hair cascading past her shoulder blades. The girl turned in mid-laugh and she looked even better from the front, all rosy cheeks and blue eyes.
"Huh," Amanda said.
"What?" Castro asked.
"That girl looks familiar but—"
"Overmyer, you met that girl two days ago."
"No, not the one in brown, the girl in blue."
"Like I said. They came together."
Amanda looked back, cocked her head. "That girl in the suit?"
"Man, you girls, it's all hair and dresses and such," he said, gesturing vaguely. "But ya can't change your face."
"Huh," she said again as Chris pulled out a chair for her.
A small pretty woman came flying over to the table, her feathered coat floating as she moved, a rather serious man in tow. "Hello, hello," she said, waving. "I'm Paula Abdul and this is Simon Fuller, and we want to welcome you. His club, my show, with Randy over there on the bandstand." She gestured to the mid-sized combo, though the musicians seemed to be glaring at them. "Well," Paula went on, "the floor show will start very soon, and in the meantime have a drink on us!" She waved again, then hurried on to other tables, and as the boys sat back down Amanda realized the man with Paula hadn't said a word. Hadn't even tried.
A sidecar materialized at her elbow—being the woman in Chris's life had its advantages. He leaned in close. "That girl in blue's been giving you the not-eye," he said, using a term they'd coined for the deniable-ogling that often happened early in homosexual flirting. "She's a looker."
"She didn't look like that when she came to interview me," Amanda said. "She looked like that French tutor your sister had."
Chris shuddered. "Well, she certainly has her hair down now."
"Who?" Blake asked. He was on the other side of Chris, so he leaned back and put his arm across the back of Chris's chair, ostensibly to poke Amanda, but that was just a cover for an "accidental" stroke of Chris's back.
Amanda struggled not to smile a little at that, but she couldn't help glancing around the room to make sure no one noticed. "Her name is Miss Hennessey. One of the lady reporters. In blue."
Blake didn't bother with not looking obvious—he turned, gaining himself another brush against Chris, looked at Miss Hennessey, and let out a low wolf whistle. "That is one juicy tomato."
"Blake, we're in mixed company," Chris scolded.
Blake didn't answer, just smiled back, rakishly, and Chris shook his head.
"Show's about to start anyway," Amanda said, turning to face the stage.
Simon had placed himself at the end of the long table. He'd seen the show several times, after all; it would be more entertaining to watch the reactions of the soldiers. And for all the visual spectacle Paula had crafted so well, his highest compliment was that the show was also a joy to listen to. Ryan had challenged him earlier, saying that Joel was sure, in that odd way of his, that one of the American pilots was a homosexual. Simon was fairly positive he'd be able to tell by watching them watch, or really in a way, not watch, since the show was entirely female. He'd also been well positioned to see Sgt. Overmyer's reaction to Carly in her dress. She kept staring, as well she should, and her friend, a little blond pilot, had fairly openly ogled her—which, given what Simon knew about the military from personal experience, was a bit of a tell.
So he spent the show watching the blond—Lewis, if he remembered correctly from Ryan's intros, but he was shit for names which was why he'd jumped at the chance to move from journo to critic. The Captain was an Aussie, and the Lieutenant was regular Canadian Army, so they were right out. Two of the pilots were married, so if they preferred men that was their problem. He couldn't tell with colored men and he doubted Joel could either. That left four: the blond, his almost obscenely handsome chum, a happy pretty one with broad shoulders and muscular arms, and a quiet one who seemed rather intense. He watched them closely during the show, sneaking occasional glances at Ryan because he liked to and also because Ryan himself was having fun watching him watching.
He was a beat late in turning around to watch Katharine, who wouldn't take his lack of eye contact as well as the others, but the look on the intense pilot's face spoke volumes, and he had to draw Ryan's attention to it. He was like a googly-eyed cartoon, watching Katharine make her slinky walk to the microphone. Well, strike him off the list. And the pretty boy as well, who'd shown a great deal of interest in the dancers.
"So?" Ryan asked, when the show had ended. Their friends were dancing, Joel moving Carly about in such a way as to show her off to Sgt. Overmyer to best effect. The other pilots had gone to the bar, leaving the blond, his chum, and Overmyer behind.
"It's the little blond sitting there."
"Lewis. Pilot-Officer Blake Lewis. That's your choice?"
"Definitely. It isn't Joel's?"
"No. He said Lewis's buddy, Richardson."
"The handsome one?"
"Yeah. Childhood friends with Sgt. Overmyer. They barnstormed together."
"But I say—"
If they hadn't been watching at that precise moment and thinking about such things, they would have missed it. Overmyer stood up, no doubt to go to the powder room, and Lewis and Richardson rose when she did. As they sat back down, their hands tangled and they each squeezed before letting go. It had lasted only an instant, but it was there.
Simon and Ryan quickly looked at each other, not wanting the men to know they'd been seen. "Well," Simon said.
"I guess you and Joel were both right," Ryan replied.
Kim double checked her lipstick in the mirror. The dancers would have to change, but the outfits she, Jen and Kat wore for the final number were just evening dresses, so Paula was rushing them out to entertain the American squadron. They'd certainly been an appreciative audience, applauding and cheering for all the girls. She knew the boys in the band would be almost unfit for company after they spent a set watching the soldiers dance with the girls in the show, but they'd had it pretty good for a while now and they could use a little competition. Especially for Jen, and Kim was very sure that one or both of the colored soldiers would go for her beauty and confidence. Not that Kim wasn't both, but her particular combination of the two was not what men looked for in a woman, at least in her experience.
When Paula led the three girls back out onto the floor, Kim saw that chairs had materialized on the stage-side of the soldiers' long table. After the introductions Kim fought an urge to talk to that girl sergeant about her experiences and moved to sit opposite the married men, but Paula stopped her. "My place, sweetie. Now, you go on down there."
Kim had seen Pilot-Officer Daughtry's eyes light up when he was introduced to Kat, though he'd only nodded. Kat had a bad habit of not noticing when men noticed her unless they were very aggressive, so Kim guided Kat over to him, saying, "I like the look of that colored pilot. Stay with me and talk to his buddy?"
Kat looked over at Robinson, who was sitting next to Daughtry, and smiled. "Of course I'll stay with you."
"Really enjoyed your singing, Miss McPhee," Daughtry said, shaking her hand.
"Thank you. Daughtry, right?"
"Yes ma'am," he replied.
"Well," Kat said, smiling seductively, "which part did you like best?"
Kim turned to hide her grin, and a voice said, "Did you sit in front of me to talk to me, or to listen to Daughtry talk to your friend?"
She looked up, then leaned in. "A little of both, actually. I saw the way he looked at her—"
"The whole room saw that."
"Trust me, she didn't."
"So you're matchmaking?" he asked.
"Just nudging. I'm sure he can take it from here."
"Looks like."
Kim sat back. "You don't approve?"
"Not my place. You know your friend better than I."
She paused. "So, Pilot-Officer Robinson, how long have you been flying?"
"I learned at Morehouse oh, about seven years ago now?"
"Really? I knew a boy at Morehouse who flew. I was at Spelman, but I guess few years after you."
"And what is a Spelman girl doing singing in a supper club all the way across the Atlantic?"
"Instead of teaching school? Well, it pays more, which means more money to save and to send home. I can do this now—plenty of time for the law later."
"Lady lawyer? You are a Spelman girl."
"Are you teasing me, Robinson?" she asked
"Of course not," he replied, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. "Everyone knows Spelman girls have no sense of humor."
"Well, singers do. What kind of flying did you do before the war?"
"Cargo, mostly. Won't let us fly passengers, and it's a steady job—I'm sending money home, too, to my folks in New Jersey. These tough times, not many people can afford to pay the doctor."
"I grew up in Nashville but I've been living the past few years in Harlem. It's so different up north."
He nodded. "My folks moved up in 1917; I hadn't started school yet. Enough folks had come to Camden that they had call for a colored doctor, and he wanted to get us away from, well, he just called it 'the atmosphere.' Didn't want his sons bowing and scraping to anyone."
"But then you went to school in Atlanta."
"Let's just say that when I left campus I kept a low profile," Robinson replied.
Kim nodded, and changed the subject. "Fighter training must have been an exciting change from cargo."
"Not really. Lindbergh was a mail pilot. We'd go in all kinds of weather."
"'Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night?'"
"Something like that."
"Why do they let you fly fighters in the war but not passengers in the peace?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Canada's hard up," he said. "So's England. Guess I made it worth their while to take me."
"Is it worth your while?" she asked. "I imagine some of those pilots, well, might not agree with Canada."
"Happily those pilots aren't with us here tonight."
Kim cocked her head. "Oh," she said, realizing what he meant. "Guess they wouldn't think much of our revue."
Robinson nodded. "I'm not sure you can ever really get away from 'the atmosphere'."
"Especially not when your work puts you among the white folks," Kim agreed.
"Exactly," Robinson said. Then quickly: "Not that I—I mean, some of them are—"
"Yep, some of them are," Kim said.
Robinson looked at her, eyes twinkling devilishly, and they laughed. "Would you like to dance?"
She looked over her shoulder. Kim was dancing with Daughtry, and the dancers, now changed, were headed to the table. "You don't want to wait for the girls?"
He scrunched his nose. "They're a little young." He stood and held out his hand.
As she let him lead her to the dance floor, she reminded herself that Morehouse men didn't date Spelman women as a rule—after all, men bound for relative wealth and power could have their pick of pretty little society wives, all lighter than a paper bag. They didn't need to bother with the bluestockings at their sister school. She'd learned that the hard way, when the boy who'd loved her for being clever, or so he'd said, dropped her flat once he'd finished school because "no man wants to talk about books in bed."
But then Robinson's arms were around her, and he was awfully dashing in his uniform, and she thought, well, it won't hurt to pretend for one night.
"Smashing success," Simon was saying. "Glad I had the idea."
"You?" Ryan asked. He rolled his eyes, then leaned forward to get his and Carly's coats from the check girl. "The important thing is that the airmen had a nice time. Oh, here she is," he said as Carly approached, Joel in tow, Giuliana and Bill close behind. Ryan helped Carly into her cloak, and they were waiting for more coats when Sgt. Overmyer walked up and touched Carly on the arm. "Miss Hennessey?"
Carly's eyes were wide as she looked at Ryan, but when she turned to Sgt. Overmyer her expression was friendly, but neutral. "Yes, sergeant?"
"I—um—Miss Abdul invited us to their house for Thanksgiving."
"Yes. She invited us as well."
Overmyer smiled. "And will you be there?"
Carly put on her best Mona Lisa smile and said, "Yes. I'm looking forward to it."
"I'm glad. I didn't get a chance to talk to you tonight."
"Then we should try to find each other on Thursday. Good night, sergeant."
"Good night Miss Hennessey."
Carly turned and glided out of the club, the rest of the crowd following along. Once they were out in the street and the door shut behind them, Carly turned around, her eyes open wide. "Oh my god!"
"Well done!" Simon said, grinning around his cigarette. Ryan couldn't stop laughing, and he and Carly and Giuliana hugged on the sidewalk, giggling.
"Girls, please," Joel said, as Bill shook his head, smiling at them.
"I'm just glad it's late enough that the pavement is deserted," Simon said, "with all this show you're putting on."
"Oh stop being so bloody English," Carly said.
"Let's take these ladies home," Bill said.
"My things are at your flat, Ryan," Carly said.
"Come back with me," Joel replied. "You can take Ryan's bed."
"Hey!" Ryan protested.
"Well, it's not like you're coming home tonight, are you?" Joel said.
Ryan looked at Simon, who said, "No."
"We can stay up and gossip and drink cocoa and paint our toenails," Joel continued, wrapping an arm around Carly.
"Now who's the girl," Ryan said.
The little party broke up, the three couples getting into separate cabs, and then Simon said, "I knew he was strange, but he paints his toenails?"
"His wife does it," Ryan said. "She says since he won't have sex with his socks on, it's to remind him who he belongs to. She put a bottle of scarlet nail polish into his luggage."
"So it isn't just Joel that's strange, but his wife as well."
"Are you surprised?"
"Well, sometimes odd people end up with very normal people. I only wonder if they have children."
"They'll probably be more normal than any of the rest of us," Ryan said.
23 November 1939
Simon was, in general, dubious about American holidays that he considered "made up" like Mother's Day, or Thanksgiving. But Ryan was so excited about Paula's invitation for Thanksgiving that he insisted that Carly, Simon and Giuliana come along to the dinner on Thursday afternoon. Ryan and Joel had been invited, and Ryan was also bringing his teenaged charge, small David. Once they arrived at Paula's house, Simon realized why Ryan had been giggling about it since Tuesday.
Simon had never seen a table so groaning with food, nor heard of a holiday that was solely, and openly, just about eating. Leave it to the Yanks. With such a crowd of soldiers, reporters and performers, the meal was being served buffet-style. The large dining room table was covered with dishes, some Simon recognized and some he very much did not. The enormous mahogany-skinned turkey sat on a large platter in the middle of the table, and a large colored woman was stirring gravy in a boat. A few of the other girls in the show—Kimberley Locke and a few dancers—bustled in and out of the room as well, aprons covering their Sunday dresses. Simon greeted Kim with a peck on the cheek.
Ryan, of course, was beside himself. "Mrs. Studdard, this looks amazing," he said, hugging the woman. "I haven't had sweet potatoes since I got to England."
"Mr. Seacrest, thank you so much for sending this lovely bird," she replied. "It almost didn't fit in the oven!"
"Please, I was happy to do it. Thank you for inviting this crowd. I know it will mean a lot to the airmen."
Kim placed a basket of large, round rolls on the table.
"Ryan, where are those American biscuits you're always on about?" Simon asked.
"Not at Thanksgiving; Thanksgiving is rolls," Ryan said. "Biscuits are every day."
"Y'all should come by for dinner some other day," Kim said. "Mandisa's biscuits are almost as good as my mama's."
"Oh, now," Mrs. Studdard said, and when she grinned Simon could see how young she really was.
"What else should I look for?" Simon asked.
"Well," Ryan said, very seriously, "I always take a very small amount of everything the first time through, and then you know what you'll want the second time. But dressing and sweet potatoes and greens are a must."
"The second time?" Simon asked.
"Some of these boys will have thirds and fourths," Kim said, finding room for a pot of lima beans.
"And save room for pie," Mrs. Studdard added. "We have about fifteen pies on the sideboard."
One of the airmen popped his head in the door. "Miss Locke?" he asked.
She looked up and smiled. "Oh, hello," she said. "Mrs. Studdard, I'd like to introduce you to Pilot-Officer Robinson. Mrs. Studdard takes care of us here at the house."
"Pleased to meet you, ma'am," he said, nodding his head. "I don't mean to interrupt, I just wanted to bring Miss Locke a little something." He had his hat in hand, and from under it he pulled a small black-eyed susan. "We always gave our mama a flower for her dress, so I wanted to bring one for you."
"Oh! Well, thank you," she said, pulling the top of her apron off over her head so Robinson could pin the flower to her dress.
"I'm glad to see you already have one, Mrs. Studdard," he said, "or this would have gone to you."
Kim had to smile—such manners, such a change from the boys in the band!
"My husband takes good care of me," Mrs. Studdard replied, touching the red amaryllis pinned to her own dress.
"Mrs. Studdard, your husband is here in London?" Simon asked.
"Simon, you met him," Ryan said. "He's the bartender at the Pyramid. Ruben?"
"Right, sorry, no head for names I'm afraid. Well, we should get out of your way," he said, moving toward the door.
"If you could, ask Ruben to come in and carve the turkey, and we'll get started," Mrs. Studdard said.
"Of course, of course," Simon said.
"Where should we say the blessing?" Kim asked. "I don't think we can all fit in here."
"Mercy," Mrs. Studdard said. "Let's ask Miss Abdul."
Paula was in the living room with Katharine McPhee, Simon Fuller, owner of the Pyramid, and another man Simon didn't recognize, a small man with bright blue eyes and a brown beard, wearing a little scull cap. "Let's do that in here," she said, turning to the man. "Rabbi?"
"I believe you airmen have a chaplain here," the man said to Robinson in an accent Simon couldn't quite place—Turkey or Palestine, perhaps.
"Yes, that would be Reverend Sligh; I'll take you to him," Robinson said.
After they moved away, Kat said to Kim, "Rabbi Yamin was telling us all about the kindertransport. They're still bringing little Jewish children out of the Netherlands and Belgium. It's so tragic; I had no idea."
Ryan nodded. "Difficult story to get into America," he said. "No one wants to do the 'Jewish story', especially the Jewish reporters in the mainstream press, so it stays in the Yiddish papers."
Kat shook her head. "Well, I'm going to help on my day off," she said, "and mornings."
A large man in uniform, with close-cropped curly hair and glasses, was calling for their attention. "Rabbi Yamin and I have been asked to bless this gathering, and I want to start by giving thanks for the Rabbi and his work bringing children out of Europe."
There was a mixture of applause and amens. Rabbi Yamin added, "And I want to thank you men, including Reverend Sligh here, for coming across the Atlantic to help us in our fight, and hope that you will not be needed."
Then Reverend Sligh bowed his head, and the others in the room followed suit, many holding hands. Kim took hold of Simon's, with a little smile, and he smiled back. He looked about the room and many of the men standing next to each other were holding hands as well, so he boldly took hold of Ryan's hand. Ryan looked at Simon out of the corner of his eye and squeezed his hand. Simon wondered if it was wrong to use the excuse of prayer to hold hands with his—boyfriend? lover? something else?—but reckoned that they could benefit from a blessing just as much as anyone. And in all this woolgathering, he'd missed Sligh's beginning.
"Bless these men in their mission to protect us all," he was saying, every sentence seconded by scattered "amens" and "mm-hhms" from the group, "and Prime Minister Chamberlain and President Roosevelt for leading us through these hard times. Bless these talented artists for reminding us of all that we are fighting for. Bless these reporters for making the truth known. We all give thanks for friends and family and loved ones far away, and for our new friends here in London. Bless all of us assembled here, bless this country, and God bless America. Amen."
Heads came back up, and Ryan gave his hand another squeeze before letting go, which reminded Simon of those two young airmen in the club. He saw them across the room, with some others but standing next to each other, and wondered if they'd done as he and Ryan had. Simon stepped back into the stairwell, as manners dictated that the airmen ate first. Paula, Kim and Kat had gone into the kitchen, perhaps to help serve. He turned to Ryan. "So it's just food and a prayer?"
"It's enough," Ryan said, hugging small David about the shoulders with one arm. "When there's family."
Simon nodded. Joel, who'd been standing near Carly, walked over to them with one of the airmen. "I have someone who wants to meet you. David Archuleta, this is Lt. Cook. Cook, this is small David."
"I'm a big admirer of yours," Cook said, shaking his hand. He was handsome in a genial sort of way, and wore his dress uniform with the ease of a career airman. "I didn't realize they called you small David in real life; I thought that was just Mr. Seacrest's book."
"Well, my uncle is David."
"I'm David, too, so why don't you call me Cook and I'll call you Archuleta? Or even better, Archie, you know, like Archie Goodwin."
"Archie, wow, okay!" Small David smiled, blushing a little, and Simon couldn't help exchanging glances with Ryan.
"So what do you think of Thanksgiving?" Cook asked.
"Oh, I grew up in the States," small David said. "My dad worked at the embassy, until the war started and we had to return to Spain. The rest is in the book I guess." He leveled his gaze. "I'm going to sign up as soon as I'm eighteen."
Cook, to his credit, answered with no hint of condescension. "That's what McHale said. But you know, anyone can be an infantryman. I wonder if we can find a better job for you."
Simon felt his body tense, almost in spite of himself, and hoped that Ryan didn't notice.
"We have some time these days," Cook went on. "If you want, we can arrange to take you up and see if you'd like to fly. We could always use more pilots."
"Really?" small David asked, beaming. "Gosh, that would be super!"
"That is, if it's okay with Mr. Seacrest," Cook added.
"Please, it's Ryan, and of course it's okay," he answered.
"Terrific," Cook said, patting small David on the shoulder and pulling him slightly aside to discuss specifics.
Simon looked up and saw Carly across the room, and watched as Sgt. Overmyer approached her. Carly tossed her head, Overmyer smiled, and they turned to each other. "Careful, Carly," Simon muttered.
"What?" Ryan asked, and then looked across the room. "Ah. Well, they're girls, and most people don't have eyes."
"You never know," Simon said. "We're not in the military."
"True."
Simon saw Richardson and Lewis emerge from the kitchen, plates laden, and had An Idea. "Pilot-Officer Richardson?"
"Yes, sir?" he asked, approaching them with Lewis in tow.
"There's a sort of little shed out in the back garden, through the kitchen," Simon said in a low voice, thankful for the general din of the room. "Why don't you and Lewis meet Ryan and me there, say when the pie and coffee is going around? I have a question for you."
Richardson shrugged. "All right," he said, but his buddy, Lewis, was scowling slightly as they walked away.
The radio station folks all came in together, Miss Hennessey with them, pretty in a dark green dress. The gown she'd worn to the Pyramid had shown off her luscious curves to great effect, and now that Amanda knew to look she could just see them under the severe cut of the dress. Pity, that dress.
Amanda walked over to where she stood, a little apart from Miss DePandi and her gentleman friend. "Hello Miss Hennessey," she said. "I'm glad to see you here."
She turned to Amanda, her hair swinging, and smiled. "Hello Sgt. Overmeyer."
"That's a very pretty dress—"
"Why, thank you."
"—but I admit I prefer your gown of the other night."
Her cheeks grew rosier, and she laughed. "I don't have many dresses like that."
"Why ever not?"
She bobbed her head slightly. "I want people to listen, not just look."
Amanda smiled. "I know I can listen and look at the same time. For instance, you know a whole lot about me but I don't know a thing about you."
She shrugged. "I went to university in Dublin, worked in radio there for a year before coming to London for a better opportunity. I began as an engineer and writer, but then I started working with Simon—Mr. Cowell—and he's given me more responsibility. I have a bijou flat on a quiet little square. What else is there to know?"
Amanda bit her tongue, as the remark at the tip of it was inappropriate for mixed company. Instead she asked, "Why radio? And why not be a host like Ryan or Mr. Cowell?"
She made a face. "No one wants to hear a woman speak that they can't see," she replied. "Silent films yes, radio very much no. But it's still exciting, putting these shows together, and when it's live you have only one chance. As for engineering, I like knowing how things work. I'm sure you understand that, Sgt. Overmeyer."
Amanda's eyes lit up. "I do! Gee, reckon I shoulda showed you the insides of one of those fighters, that day you were at the base. Maybe next time?"
"I look forward to it."
"And please, call me Amanda."
"My name is Carly," she said.
"Carly," Amanda repeated, rolling the name around in her mouth, liking how it made her tongue move. "Well, Carly, I know I'd like to hear your voice on the radio. Then if I can't see you at least I can hear you." She smiled.
"Well!" Carly said.
And touch you and smell you and taste you Amanda thought. Aloud she said, "Have you ever been to an American Thanksgiving before, Carly?"
"I haven't, but it smells lovely."
"Well, allow me to be your guide?"
"I'd like that very much," Carly replied.
After everyone had been served, the pies sliced and the coffee set out, Mandisa and Paula shooed Kim out of the dining room, telling her to mingle. She looked around and saw Joel McHale talking to Lt. Cook and Capt. Johns, Daughtry making Kat giggle and blush on the couch, and chorus girls everywhere flirting outrageously. The band seemed to have got over the sulkiness of the other evening, mostly, Kim thought, because the pilots had siphoned off the white girls who didn't mess with the band anyway, so there was little direct competition. Some of them were talking to the smaller colored pilot, Rogers, and the mechanic Grigsby, who seemed of a type with the boys in the band now that she saw them together. Carly was deep in conversation with Overmyer, whom Kim still hadn't really spoken with though she was eager to, but when Paula wanted her to mingle it probably didn't mean to talk to the ladies. She saw some of the other pilots, including Robinson, standing in one corner, not near any girls at all, so she headed in their direction.
"Miss Locke," Lewis said, "that meal was really amazing."
"Thank you," she replied, "but Mrs. Studdard deserves the credit."
"Now you can't tell me," Richardson said, "that you didn't sneak one or two of your mama's recipes in there."
She laughed. "Well, maybe the lima beans."
"I can honestly say that I've never liked lima beans before now," Lewis said.
"Any of the pie?" Richardson asked, taking a bite from the piece on his plate.
"The pumpkin and the custard, and the chess pie" she replied.
"Well I can honestly say that this is the best custard pie I've had," Robinson said.
"Thank you! I wondered if it wasn't too old-fashioned now."
"I like old-fashioned things," Robinson said. "Some of them, anyway."
He turned to put his plate on the little table next to him, and she saw a paperback book sticking out of his pocket. "What are you reading?" she asked.
"Oh," he said, pulling it out. "The Grapes of Wrath. Have you read it?"
She nodded. "Very powerful."
Robinson cocked his head. "And the ending?"
"So you've finished it?"
"Yes—I only brought a few books with me, so I'm reading them again."
"I thought it was beautiful."
"Lotta folks found it hard to take."
"A lot of folks are blind," Kim said. "But after all that suffering, all those people dying, that one moment of hope—well, I'll admit it, I cried."
"So did I," Robinson said, looking her level in the eye. He was silent for a moment, and then went on. "What are you reading now?"
"I just finished Gone With the Wind. Had to see what the fuss was about."
"And?"
"Well, would you like to borrow it and read it for yourself? It's just up in my room."
"You know, I would appreciate that, Miss Locke, if you're sure it's no trouble."
"Not at all. I'll run and get it right now."
It only took her a moment, but when she returned Robinson was alone, staring out the window as he sipped his coffee. He smiled as he saw her and said, "I think we scared them away with our book talk."
"And Richardson a Harvard man?"
"Gentlemen's C's," Robinson said. "I bet you made A's, wanting to be a lawyer and all."
"Well, mostly," Kim said, casting her eyes down. She could feel herself flushing.
"I was a grind, too," he replied. "Engineering. Couldn't get enough of it. Built my own plane eventually."
She looked back up at him. "Why am I not surprised?"
"So," he said, taking the book from her, "tell me what else you're reading."
The shed had the usual tools in the corner, and odd bits of wood, but also two benches that Ryan wiped off with a pilfered kitchen towel before sitting down. He held a plate with slices of the apple, mincemeat and chess pies and Simon had their tea and forks and they ate, companionably, waiting for the other two men. The two of them had headed out quickly, to be sure, but they had finished the pie and were just lighting up after-dinner cigarettes when Lewis poked his head in the door.
"Please," Simon said, pointing to the other bench. "Sit down."
"What's this about?" Lewis asked.
"I'm going to cut to the chase here," Simon said. "We're aware of your ah, situation—"
"Situation?" Lewis asked, a bit wide-eyed. "What—ah, what do you mean?"
Simon pointed at the two of them, wagging his finger back and forth. "The two of you, together. But that's—"
The pilots started talking over each other then:
"You have no proof of—what a horrible accusation!" Lewis shouted.
Richardson was quieter: "If there's anything we can offer—my family has money, you can't—"
Ryan held up a hand. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please. I'm sorry Simon alarmed you; he gets impatient. We aren't going to tell anyone."
Richardson frowned. "How do we know that?"
"Well," Ryan replied, "we're in the same boat."
The two men looked at Ryan and Simon, and then at each other. "I see," Lewis said, though he still sounded suspicious.
"We're certainly in no position to expose you in any way, I assure you," Simon said.
"Then what is this about?" Richardson asked. "Because you're handsome and all, but we're—"
Ryan's eyes flew open. "No. No-no-no-no-no, nothing like that."
"We want to talk to you about Sgt. Overmyer and Miss Hennessey," Simon explained. "Neither of them are being perhaps as discreet as they might be."
Richardson's shoulders, which had been hunched with tension, slumped. "Oh god, Amanda," he said, putting his head in his hands, and Simon had a sense from his reaction that this was nothing new.
"Hold on," Ryan said, "it's not that bad yet. We just need to keep it from going further."
"It seems to me," Simon said, "that what they need is a place to be able to court more openly than they can at these sort of gatherings, or even at the Pyramid Club."
"And you know a place like that?" Lewis asked.
"I do."
"And how often is it raided?"
Simon smiled. "Never when I haven't been warned," he replied. "I wouldn't suggest anything that wasn't quite safe, of course, given that you're in the service."
"All right, what is your suggestion?" Richardson asked.
"New Year's, perhaps? Certainly the ladies can have dinner, or better yet tea, with no one the wiser—Carly knows of those places. But I think a nice evening party is called for. I know Paula wants to invite all you men to the Pyramid Club again, but I'm sure you can beg off."
"We can't wear our uniforms—" Lewis began.
"You can change in the city. Suits can be provided if necessary."
"No," Richardson said. "We can just bring them back from the house after Christmas, whenever we're there."
"Ah, that's right," Simon said. "I'd forgot. Ancestral home for the hols, then?"
"If leave permits," Richardson said.
"I'm sure his grace looks forward to seeing you all," Simon said.
Ryan looked at his watch. "You should go before you're missed," he said.
They rose, and Lewis asked, "If you don't mind, how did you know?"
"Well, Ryan's engineer has ESP when it comes to this sort of thing," Simon said. "And also, Lewis, one musn't overplay to the point of vulgarity."
"Really, we have special knowledge, and we were looking for it at the right time," Ryan added.
"All right," Lewis said, but he didn't sound entirely comfortable.
"We'll let you know about our leave," Richardson said, and then they were gone.
Ryan was shaking his head. "What?" Simon asked.
"What you won't do for that girl. She has you wrapped around her finger."
"Perhaps," Simon said, grinning. "She is the woman in my life. Has been for a while now."
"I see."
"Jealous?"
"Should I be?"
"Much as it would amuse me, no."
Ryan leaned over and gave Simon a quick kiss, then whispered, "I should go back inside."
Simon nodded. "Coming over tonight?"
"Of course," he said, smiling as he walked out of the shed, cup and plate in hand.
Simon sipped the last bit of his tea, cold now, and spent another cigarette wondering about Ryan before deciding that their status was entirely too complicated to contemplate while sitting on a hard bench in a chilly back garden shed. He'd think about it later.
Or not.
Chapter Five: Stella Dallas.
Notes:
Bringing Up Baby (dir. Howard Hawks, 1938) is a romantic comedy starring Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant.
"My folks moved up [to New Jersey] in 1917; I hadn't started school yet. Enough folks had come to Camden that they had call for a colored doctor, and he wanted to get us away from, well, he just called it 'the atmosphere.'"Black folks didn't really start moving up to the north in large numbers until the early 20th century. They didn't have the money, some southern landowners used force to keep their labor in town, and there weren't many jobs available to them even in the north, as they were kept out of most union and factory jobs. But WWI interrupted the flow of immigrants from Europe, and that plus the draft created a labor shortage that blacks could fill. 1.5 million blacks migrated from the south to the north and west between 1910-1940 in the first Great Migration.
Simon was, in general, dubious about American holidays that he considered "made up" like Mother's Day, or Thanksgiving.Presidents since Washington proclaimed national days of thanksgiving here and there, but it didn't become a national holiday until Lincoln made it so in 1863, in the middle of the Civil War. Originally the last Thursday of November, in 1939 FDR moved it to the fourth Thursday in order to extend the holiday shopping season and help out retailers during the Depression. WWII also standardized the turkey as the center of the meal, as many servicemen were served turkey in Army mess halls. Mandisa might have had a ham if not for Paula, but as Ryan had lived in the north he would have sent a turkey.
"Rabbi Yamin was telling us all about the kindertransport. They're still bringing little Jewish children out of the Netherlands and Belgium."British Jewish leaders started pulling Jewish children out of Germany after Kristallnacht, 15 November 1938. They obtained permission from the government to bring in unaccompanied minors, and brought them by train from Germany to the Netherlands, and then by ship to England, where they were put into foster families. Even after war was declared against Germany on 1 September 1939, they continued to bring children out of the Netherlands, France and Belgium. The final transport was just before the Dutch army surrendered in 14 May 1940. Because of German legal restrictions against Jews at the time, the actual transport in Germany was done by Quakers, who often accompanied the children all the way to their ship to England. Elliott would have been working with the camps the children stayed at while awaiting a foster home.
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Date: 2009-03-18 10:34 pm (UTC)I love ham, actually, but not at Thanksgiving. We always had it for Easter because Mom doesn't care for lamb.
I am so glad you are liking it! And it will be New Year's, um, tomorrow, so-to-speak!