Fic: European Theatre
Title: European Theatre
Summary: It's their last night in London before their seven-day pass runs out. Skinny, Webster and Christenson go to the theatre, with unexpected results. (Gen, with a dollop of het. You can blame Skinny's libido for that.)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3430
Disclaimer: Not my property, not for profit. All characters based on depictions in the miniseries, and no disrespect intended to anyone real.
Notes: I've been trying to write an Easy-go-to-London story for months. This is absolutely nothing like my original plan. The title and my final realisation as to how to make this work was inspired by #8 in this fic, which you should go and read anyway because it is good.
Three men wandered across Piccadilly Circus with only the moonlight to show them the way.
"This place must be beautiful when it's lit up," Webster said, trying to make the hoardings out through the gloom. Christenson nodded, not that anyone could see him doing so.
"I'd like to come back some day when they've got it all fixed up," he said.
"Whenever that is," Webster said.
London was eerie at night. By day it was impressive but shabby, like a stately home left to fall into disrepair; when darkness fell it changed, became alien and unfathomable. Too many men had fallen foul to the combination of poor visibility, unfamiliar surroundings and heavy alcohol consumption. They were lucky that tonight the sky was clear and the moon was full, glinting brightly off the silver barrage balloons that floated overhead like ghostly whales.
All that said, London might have been dark at night but it was by no means quiet. While Webster and Christenson gazed skywards, Skinny's mind was on more prosaic things, anticipating the evening's entertainment. He led the way, out of the square and down Shaftesbury Avenue, the several pints of beer he'd had beforehand putting him in a decidedly merry frame of mind. He cheerfully raised his garrison cap to a pair of young women loitering on the corner, before suddenly realising why they were loitering and hastening onwards.
It wasn't that he had anything personal against them. It was just that during basic they had all been made to watch a luridly graphic filmstrip about the dangers of VD which had left most of the company startled, queasy, and swearing never to have sex again. They swiftly overcame that, of course, but a certain suspicion of streetwalkers remained. And anyway, why pay for it, when there were so many nice young women in London willing to give a boy a good time for no price other than a couple of dances and maybe fare for the cab home?
Skinny led the group down another street, trying to restrain himself from skipping as they approached their destination. Talbert had spoken of this place in glowing terms and at great length, having been the only person to pay it a visit the last time anyone had had the chance to go to London. Ever since he'd heard about it, Skinny had been itching for the chance to see it himself. It seemed just right to do something special for the final night before their seven-day passes ran out. It was just a shame Tab himself wasn't there to see it -
(-but was instead lying in bed in a hospital somewhere in the countryside, reading comics and whistling at all the nurses.
"Gee, Tab, you ever get tired of that?" Smokey said, amused by Tab's enthusiasm.
"Nope," Tab said, moving to fold his arms nonchalantly behind his head and immediately regretting it. Wincing, he slowly lowered them, relaxing as the skin stopped tugging at his stitches.
"Boy, I can't wait to get out of here and have the leave I'm owed. I've been dreaming of Rainbow Corner for months."
The men around him issued a collective sigh.
"Who hasn't?" Smokey said. All of them were extensively familiar with the home comforts offered by Rainbow Corner, the American Red Cross club in Piccadilly Circus, and more to the point, the boundless supply of sociable females it provided.
"I'm doing the poor love-starved ladies of London a valuable service," Talbert said. "Someone's gotta keep up the spirits of the British people."
"As long as they keep you up, huh?" Smokey said.
"You got it."
Smokey shook his head.
"Personally, I'm thinking of heading up to Edinburgh. I've heard it's a beautiful city, and I'd love to see the Highlands, too. Maybe I'll go hunting the haggis."
"That a metaphor?" Talbert snorted. Popeye glanced up from his book, awkwardly twisting to get a better view of them both.
"I heard 'bout that," he said. "Apparently haggis have got one leg shorter than the other 'cause they run round the mountains all day. The trick is to make 'em run in the other direction so they fall over."
"Now, what I heard was that they were fierce little things," Smokey said, "And you've got to stay real still and quiet in the heather and take them by surprise."
"I thought -"
The men went quiet. Blithe had spoken. He'd barely said a word since he'd been taken in, merely lain in bed, drifting in and out of sleep.
"I thought," Blithe repeated uncertainly, "That haggis was just like sheep guts and stuff in a bag."
Popeye and Smokey gave him unimpressed looks. Blithe closed his eyes and went back to sleep again.
"That kid ain't no fun at all," Smokey said.)
"Here we are," Skinny said, with an expansive sweep of his arm. "The Windmill Theatre."
Webster peered at the sign.
"It doesn't say what they're showing," he said. He was still privately a little put out that nobody had wanted to come with him to see the Noël Coward play that was on at the Apollo. Guarnere had laughed. Nobody in this company had any appreciation of culture.
Skinny shook his head.
"It ain't that kind of theatre," he said. "It's more sort of..." He paused, chewing his lip, thinking of the right word. "Sorta vaudeville. You'll like it. C'mon."
They entered.
It was surprisingly small, but warmly furnished and with a convivial atmosphere. The audience was sizable and they were by no means the only soldiers present. Uniformed men from a wide array of nations were mingling with civilians, waiting for the show to begin. Here a pair of British engineers flirted with a nurse, there a Canadian officer picked diffidently at a small tub of ice cream, at the back a Polish airman lounged with his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. A gaggle of military policemen lurked in a corner, regarding the rest with a baleful eye; the joke going round was that the MPs would be getting a Presidential Unit Citation for the sheer weight of work they'd been faced with in keeping hordes of rowdy soldiers in line all week.
They'd timed their arrival well, as they'd barely taken their seats when the lights dimmed and the show began. It started slowly, a comedian telling jokes that had probably been old when Dickens was alive being followed by a jazz singer who seemed to have only a passing familiarity with the concept of staying in key. The audience began to get a little restless. The acts were slowly improving in quality, but it wasn't what most of the people were there to see.
"Hm. I'm not sure why Talbert made such a big deal out of it, I'm not seeing any -" Christenson whispered, but stopped short as the compere gambolled onto stage and announced the next act.
"What's a tablow vivont?" Skinny said. Webster frowned.
"Tableaux vivant? That means 'living pictures'," he said. "But I've never heard of a stage act called that before."
Christenson grinned.
"Oh, I think I get it," he said, and reached into his pocket to take out a small sketchbook and a stub of pencil. Webster looked baffled. Skinny squirmed with excitement.
The curtain rose to reveal a selection of young women arrayed in a variety of poses probably intended to be vaguely artsy, lying completely still but, more importantly, completely naked. Christenson's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward for a better view, opening his notebook and starting to loosely sketch curved forms. Webster had gone pale.
"Oh my god," he said. "You didn't tell me this was a burlesque house."
"It's not," Christenson said, focus never leaving the stage. "It's art."
"How is this art?" Webster said, in a voice an octave higher than usual.
"It's the law," Skinny said. Christenson nodded.
"If the women get up and move, that's classed as obscenity, and it's banned. But as long as they stay still, it counts as artistic, so they can show it," he said. "Don't ask me why. The Limeys are crazy. Just go with it."
Men came out and moved the props so the women were displayed from all possible angles; scenery was changed and different 'living pictures' constructed, but throughout it all, the women themselves remained motionless. It was a bit odd, but nobody was complaining. After the initial shock, even Webster had to concede that it was rather clever.
The girls were finally wheeled offstage, to deafening applause and no small measure of whooping. After a few moments of clattering around backstage and some rather strained banter from the compere, the curtain rose on the next act. This time the girl did move - but she was carrying two huge feathered fans which she manoeuvred in such a manner to give the constant promise of exposure without ever delivering. Although technically less explicit than the act before it, it was somehow more enticing. Christenson laid aside his notebook and just watched. Webster desperately tried to maintain an expression of studied indifference. Skinny, lacking such self-consciousness, was utterly enraptured. He hadn't blinked in minutes.
"Are you okay?" Webster said, nudging him.
"Leave him be," Christenson said, picking his sketchbook back up and seeing if he could capture Skinny's expression of open-mouthed wonder.
Skinny was in another world. He didn't think he'd ever seen a girl so beautiful - well, apart from the one he'd danced with at the Red Cross club last night, and the bus driver he had up against the wall behind the depot on Tuesday - but even so. This girl had curly red hair and knockout hips and a smile that made his insides go all wiggly. When she left the scene, so did he, making his excuses and darting off backstage.
Skinny managed to find her with surprisingly little trouble, the men in charge of security being more preoccupied with watching the show. The rest of the theatre was a maze of narrow, gaslit corridors, but after a couple of false starts, he managed to find her door. He took a deep breath, and knocked.
The door opened, and there she was, wrapped up in a silk dressing gown, her hair unpinned and falling loosely to her shoulders. Skinny suddenly realised he didn't know what to say. He snatched off his hat and clutched it to his chest, swallowing hard before attempting to speak.
"I, uh, I just wanted to say that I really liked the show," he said, avoiding her gaze. "You're a real good dancer."
He cringed, waiting for her to slam the door in his face. He hadn't really thought this out. But to his surprise, she just laughed.
"Well, aren't you just the sweetest thing?" she said. "Come in."
Skinny slid inside the tiny dressing room and closed the door behind him. She moved aside some jars of goodness-knew-what on her dressing table and hopped up onto it, gesturing for him to take the only chair. Skinny cautiously sat down, and tried to explain a little further.
"This is real kind of you, you didn't have to... I just wanted to say I thought your act was really good, was all, I don't want to make a fuss 'cause I'm sure you're tired and -"
"Oh, don't be a silly ass," she interrupted. "I wouldn't have invited you in if I minded." She leaned forward and grasped his chin between finger and thumb, tilting his face up so their gazes met. "Now, soldier, tell me all about yourself."
Skinny fidgeted.
"Ain't much to say, miss," he said. "My name's Wayne, but everyone calls me Skinny. I'm in the Airborne."
"Just back from France?" she said. "Was it bad out there?"
Skinny hesitated.
"Well, it wasn't exactly a picnic, but I probably shouldn't say too much in case you're a spy or something. I mean, I'm sure you ain't a Kraut, but -"
"I should bloody well hope not," she said, laughing. "But no, I understand. Got to keep mum."
"What about you?" Skinny said. "I don't even know your name." The girl smiled.
"My stage name is Marie-Suzanna Montmartre, but my real name's Doreen. I'm from Surrey. Came to London to try and make it as an actress, and well..." She paused, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "I'm on the stage, but it wasn't quite what I'd been aiming for."
Skinny shrugged.
"I thought you were real good. You might just be the prettiest girl I've ever seen."
Doreen laughed.
"You Yanks! Only one thing on your minds." She paused. "That said, you are really rather handsome. I'm meant to do another turn after the interval, but I don't think people will suffer too awfully if I stay here with you."
She held up a finger.
"Hang on a moment."
Doreen slipped off the dressing table and turned to rummage in a drawer, giving Skinny a startlingly close-up view of her backside. He could have happily slipped into a reverie and watched that all night, but Doreen swiftly surfaced, bearing two glasses and a bottle of wine.
"The finest the black market can provide," she said, starting on the cork. "You should consider yourself very honoured."
Skinny grinned. He loved this city.
Unfortunately, Doreen's absence was minded rather more than she'd anticipated. No amount of searching could find her, no amount of hammering on her door would bring her out, and with the show short of an act and the running order thrown into disarray, the audience swiftly grew restless. The compère desperately tried to maintain order and keep things moving on, but when a theatreful of drunk and horny men decides it's in the mood for a fight, nothing can calm it.
"Do you think we should go?" Webster said.
"Skinny's not back yet," Christenson said.
"Screw him," Webster said, and hastily ducked a boot thrown in the direction of the stage. "It's not safe here."
He got to his feet and tried to pick his way along the row of seats, stumbling over the feet of a very large man in a slightly silly hat with a bobble on it.
"Watch it, you stupid bastard," the man said, or something along those lines. Webster could speak three languages to some degree of competence, but he was not qualified to decipher Glaswegian. Webster just scowled and elbowed the Scottish soldier out of the way as he tried to scramble back to his feet. This was a terribly bad idea. The Scotsman drew himself to his full, terrifying height, and promptly punched Webster in the stomach. Christenson, feeling honour-bound to defend his friend, rolled up his sleeves and loped over to sort things out.
By this point, the rest of the audience had picked up on the outbreak of violence and decided that in lieu of naked girls, senseless violence would have to do. They turned on each other swiftly, each man for himself. The compere fled the stage. The curtain was lowered. Webster made an unhappy gurgling noise and crawled under the seats while Christenson did his best to fend off thirteen stone of furious Scot. In short, things were a shambles.
Meanwhile, Skinny and Doreen had no idea of the chaos they'd caused, being far too happily absorbed in knocking back glasses of wine and sharing increasingly incoherent anecdotes.
"...and Sobel went around with it stuck to his back all day," Skinny finished. Doreen giggled so hard she lost her balance; Skinny caught her and pulled her onto his lap. She tapped him on the end of his nose.
"You're funny," she said, smiling widely.
"You're pretty," Skinny said, though he'd told her that an awful lot already. They paused, looking at one another. Doreen chuckled to herself.
"You know, I think I really am very fond of you," she said, and slipped forward enough that their foreheads were pressed together. Skinny reached out blindly and managed to find the dressing table so he could put his glass down on it, and moved to put his arms around her waist, pulling her close.
"You're - you're just -" He was lost for words. Deciding actions spoke louder than words, Skinny closed his eyes and tilted his face upward.
However, before their lips met, they were startled by an unholy screaming noise from overhead. Skinny jerked his head away, gazing wildly upwards, though still holding Doreen close to him. They froze, clinging hard to one another, as the noise suddenly cut out. In the brief moment of eerie silence, Doreen said quietly,
"Oh dear, not again."
And then it hit.
The entire theatre shook. Plaster rained down from the ceiling. Pots of make-up went flying from Doreen's dressing table. The two of them were knocked to the floor and sent sprawling. Back in the theatre itself, the fight stopped dead in its tracks.
"What the fuck was that?" Webster said, tentatively poking his head up from under a chair.
"Doodlebugs," the Scotsman said, somewhat shaken though still holding Christenson in a headlock. "Quick, we'd better get to shelter."
The theatre was swiftly evacuated, the audience running through the streets and pouring down into Piccadilly Circus Underground station. Webster and Christenson followed the crowd, herded through the tunnels by tin-hatted ARP wardens, finally reaching the relative calm of one of the platforms. People were packed in like pickles in a jar, sat all across the platform, huddled together down among the rails. Some of them actually looked fairly happy, playing cards, passing around sweets, singing songs. Then again, to many of them, this sort of thing had become second nature.
From overhead could dimly be heard the scream and ensuing thunder of other bomb hits, but muffled and distant enough that it felt like no danger. They were safe here.
"Jesus," Webster sighed, wiping his forehead. "So much for getting a bit of rest and relaxation." Christenson just shook his head sadly, then perked up when he noticed a few recognisable faces.
"Hey, look," he said, pointing ahead. "Some of the others are down here."
They approached. There were quite a few men from Easy down on the platform, none of them looking especially happy with their lot. Most of them had been out that night in the pubs and dancehalls in the vicinity of Piccadilly, and weren't pleased that the Luftwaffe had spoiled their fun.
"Fuckin' Krauts," Guarnere scowled. "Don't they know we're on our goddamn holidays?"
"What the hell's going on? I thought the Germans had stopped bombing London," Webster said, making a space for himself in amongst the others. Luz emerged from underneath a blanket.
"It's V1 rockets," he said. "Bombs that fly themselves. Which ain't fair play if you ask me. Though I wasn't having the best of evenings anyway." He nodded in the direction of the blanket, which was covering a huddled-up mass. "I've had to look after Hoobler all night. Apparently he got attacked by a pelican and still hasn't recovered."
"Hah!" Guarnere said.
"A pelican?" said Christenson.
The blanket shuddered.
"In St James' Park. Loads of them. Too many. I was just trying to eat a sandwich. There were beaks everywhere."
"Hey, hey, calm down. No pelicans here," Luz said, reaching under the blanket to pat Hoobler's back. Webster pulled his knees up to his chest and sighed. It looked like it was going to be a long night. He just hoped Skinny was alright.
Skinny, as it turned out, was more than alright. In a stroke of luck, the Windmill happened to have some deep cellars which they'd made good use of during the Blitz. Doreen had led him down there to weather out tonight's raid.
"How long are we going to have to stay here?" Skinny said, huddled up with only a stub of candle for light. Doreen shrugged.
"All night, probably," she said, sighing. "Once they get down to it the Jerries do like to get properly stuck in."
"So we'll have to be cooped up in here all night long? Just the two of us?" Skinny said.
"I'm afraid so," Doreen said.
"What are we going to do all night?" Skinny said. Doreen smiled wickedly, and blew out the candle.
"Oh, I can think of a few things," he heard her say, as she began to unbutton his jacket. In the darkness, Skinny smiled. Might as well see out his final night in London with a bang. So to speak.
Summary: It's their last night in London before their seven-day pass runs out. Skinny, Webster and Christenson go to the theatre, with unexpected results. (Gen, with a dollop of het. You can blame Skinny's libido for that.)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3430
Disclaimer: Not my property, not for profit. All characters based on depictions in the miniseries, and no disrespect intended to anyone real.
Notes: I've been trying to write an Easy-go-to-London story for months. This is absolutely nothing like my original plan. The title and my final realisation as to how to make this work was inspired by #8 in this fic, which you should go and read anyway because it is good.
Three men wandered across Piccadilly Circus with only the moonlight to show them the way.
"This place must be beautiful when it's lit up," Webster said, trying to make the hoardings out through the gloom. Christenson nodded, not that anyone could see him doing so.
"I'd like to come back some day when they've got it all fixed up," he said.
"Whenever that is," Webster said.
London was eerie at night. By day it was impressive but shabby, like a stately home left to fall into disrepair; when darkness fell it changed, became alien and unfathomable. Too many men had fallen foul to the combination of poor visibility, unfamiliar surroundings and heavy alcohol consumption. They were lucky that tonight the sky was clear and the moon was full, glinting brightly off the silver barrage balloons that floated overhead like ghostly whales.
All that said, London might have been dark at night but it was by no means quiet. While Webster and Christenson gazed skywards, Skinny's mind was on more prosaic things, anticipating the evening's entertainment. He led the way, out of the square and down Shaftesbury Avenue, the several pints of beer he'd had beforehand putting him in a decidedly merry frame of mind. He cheerfully raised his garrison cap to a pair of young women loitering on the corner, before suddenly realising why they were loitering and hastening onwards.
It wasn't that he had anything personal against them. It was just that during basic they had all been made to watch a luridly graphic filmstrip about the dangers of VD which had left most of the company startled, queasy, and swearing never to have sex again. They swiftly overcame that, of course, but a certain suspicion of streetwalkers remained. And anyway, why pay for it, when there were so many nice young women in London willing to give a boy a good time for no price other than a couple of dances and maybe fare for the cab home?
Skinny led the group down another street, trying to restrain himself from skipping as they approached their destination. Talbert had spoken of this place in glowing terms and at great length, having been the only person to pay it a visit the last time anyone had had the chance to go to London. Ever since he'd heard about it, Skinny had been itching for the chance to see it himself. It seemed just right to do something special for the final night before their seven-day passes ran out. It was just a shame Tab himself wasn't there to see it -
(-but was instead lying in bed in a hospital somewhere in the countryside, reading comics and whistling at all the nurses.
"Gee, Tab, you ever get tired of that?" Smokey said, amused by Tab's enthusiasm.
"Nope," Tab said, moving to fold his arms nonchalantly behind his head and immediately regretting it. Wincing, he slowly lowered them, relaxing as the skin stopped tugging at his stitches.
"Boy, I can't wait to get out of here and have the leave I'm owed. I've been dreaming of Rainbow Corner for months."
The men around him issued a collective sigh.
"Who hasn't?" Smokey said. All of them were extensively familiar with the home comforts offered by Rainbow Corner, the American Red Cross club in Piccadilly Circus, and more to the point, the boundless supply of sociable females it provided.
"I'm doing the poor love-starved ladies of London a valuable service," Talbert said. "Someone's gotta keep up the spirits of the British people."
"As long as they keep you up, huh?" Smokey said.
"You got it."
Smokey shook his head.
"Personally, I'm thinking of heading up to Edinburgh. I've heard it's a beautiful city, and I'd love to see the Highlands, too. Maybe I'll go hunting the haggis."
"That a metaphor?" Talbert snorted. Popeye glanced up from his book, awkwardly twisting to get a better view of them both.
"I heard 'bout that," he said. "Apparently haggis have got one leg shorter than the other 'cause they run round the mountains all day. The trick is to make 'em run in the other direction so they fall over."
"Now, what I heard was that they were fierce little things," Smokey said, "And you've got to stay real still and quiet in the heather and take them by surprise."
"I thought -"
The men went quiet. Blithe had spoken. He'd barely said a word since he'd been taken in, merely lain in bed, drifting in and out of sleep.
"I thought," Blithe repeated uncertainly, "That haggis was just like sheep guts and stuff in a bag."
Popeye and Smokey gave him unimpressed looks. Blithe closed his eyes and went back to sleep again.
"That kid ain't no fun at all," Smokey said.)
"Here we are," Skinny said, with an expansive sweep of his arm. "The Windmill Theatre."
Webster peered at the sign.
"It doesn't say what they're showing," he said. He was still privately a little put out that nobody had wanted to come with him to see the Noël Coward play that was on at the Apollo. Guarnere had laughed. Nobody in this company had any appreciation of culture.
Skinny shook his head.
"It ain't that kind of theatre," he said. "It's more sort of..." He paused, chewing his lip, thinking of the right word. "Sorta vaudeville. You'll like it. C'mon."
They entered.
It was surprisingly small, but warmly furnished and with a convivial atmosphere. The audience was sizable and they were by no means the only soldiers present. Uniformed men from a wide array of nations were mingling with civilians, waiting for the show to begin. Here a pair of British engineers flirted with a nurse, there a Canadian officer picked diffidently at a small tub of ice cream, at the back a Polish airman lounged with his feet propped up on the seat in front of him. A gaggle of military policemen lurked in a corner, regarding the rest with a baleful eye; the joke going round was that the MPs would be getting a Presidential Unit Citation for the sheer weight of work they'd been faced with in keeping hordes of rowdy soldiers in line all week.
They'd timed their arrival well, as they'd barely taken their seats when the lights dimmed and the show began. It started slowly, a comedian telling jokes that had probably been old when Dickens was alive being followed by a jazz singer who seemed to have only a passing familiarity with the concept of staying in key. The audience began to get a little restless. The acts were slowly improving in quality, but it wasn't what most of the people were there to see.
"Hm. I'm not sure why Talbert made such a big deal out of it, I'm not seeing any -" Christenson whispered, but stopped short as the compere gambolled onto stage and announced the next act.
"What's a tablow vivont?" Skinny said. Webster frowned.
"Tableaux vivant? That means 'living pictures'," he said. "But I've never heard of a stage act called that before."
Christenson grinned.
"Oh, I think I get it," he said, and reached into his pocket to take out a small sketchbook and a stub of pencil. Webster looked baffled. Skinny squirmed with excitement.
The curtain rose to reveal a selection of young women arrayed in a variety of poses probably intended to be vaguely artsy, lying completely still but, more importantly, completely naked. Christenson's eyes narrowed and he leaned forward for a better view, opening his notebook and starting to loosely sketch curved forms. Webster had gone pale.
"Oh my god," he said. "You didn't tell me this was a burlesque house."
"It's not," Christenson said, focus never leaving the stage. "It's art."
"How is this art?" Webster said, in a voice an octave higher than usual.
"It's the law," Skinny said. Christenson nodded.
"If the women get up and move, that's classed as obscenity, and it's banned. But as long as they stay still, it counts as artistic, so they can show it," he said. "Don't ask me why. The Limeys are crazy. Just go with it."
Men came out and moved the props so the women were displayed from all possible angles; scenery was changed and different 'living pictures' constructed, but throughout it all, the women themselves remained motionless. It was a bit odd, but nobody was complaining. After the initial shock, even Webster had to concede that it was rather clever.
The girls were finally wheeled offstage, to deafening applause and no small measure of whooping. After a few moments of clattering around backstage and some rather strained banter from the compere, the curtain rose on the next act. This time the girl did move - but she was carrying two huge feathered fans which she manoeuvred in such a manner to give the constant promise of exposure without ever delivering. Although technically less explicit than the act before it, it was somehow more enticing. Christenson laid aside his notebook and just watched. Webster desperately tried to maintain an expression of studied indifference. Skinny, lacking such self-consciousness, was utterly enraptured. He hadn't blinked in minutes.
"Are you okay?" Webster said, nudging him.
"Leave him be," Christenson said, picking his sketchbook back up and seeing if he could capture Skinny's expression of open-mouthed wonder.
Skinny was in another world. He didn't think he'd ever seen a girl so beautiful - well, apart from the one he'd danced with at the Red Cross club last night, and the bus driver he had up against the wall behind the depot on Tuesday - but even so. This girl had curly red hair and knockout hips and a smile that made his insides go all wiggly. When she left the scene, so did he, making his excuses and darting off backstage.
Skinny managed to find her with surprisingly little trouble, the men in charge of security being more preoccupied with watching the show. The rest of the theatre was a maze of narrow, gaslit corridors, but after a couple of false starts, he managed to find her door. He took a deep breath, and knocked.
The door opened, and there she was, wrapped up in a silk dressing gown, her hair unpinned and falling loosely to her shoulders. Skinny suddenly realised he didn't know what to say. He snatched off his hat and clutched it to his chest, swallowing hard before attempting to speak.
"I, uh, I just wanted to say that I really liked the show," he said, avoiding her gaze. "You're a real good dancer."
He cringed, waiting for her to slam the door in his face. He hadn't really thought this out. But to his surprise, she just laughed.
"Well, aren't you just the sweetest thing?" she said. "Come in."
Skinny slid inside the tiny dressing room and closed the door behind him. She moved aside some jars of goodness-knew-what on her dressing table and hopped up onto it, gesturing for him to take the only chair. Skinny cautiously sat down, and tried to explain a little further.
"This is real kind of you, you didn't have to... I just wanted to say I thought your act was really good, was all, I don't want to make a fuss 'cause I'm sure you're tired and -"
"Oh, don't be a silly ass," she interrupted. "I wouldn't have invited you in if I minded." She leaned forward and grasped his chin between finger and thumb, tilting his face up so their gazes met. "Now, soldier, tell me all about yourself."
Skinny fidgeted.
"Ain't much to say, miss," he said. "My name's Wayne, but everyone calls me Skinny. I'm in the Airborne."
"Just back from France?" she said. "Was it bad out there?"
Skinny hesitated.
"Well, it wasn't exactly a picnic, but I probably shouldn't say too much in case you're a spy or something. I mean, I'm sure you ain't a Kraut, but -"
"I should bloody well hope not," she said, laughing. "But no, I understand. Got to keep mum."
"What about you?" Skinny said. "I don't even know your name." The girl smiled.
"My stage name is Marie-Suzanna Montmartre, but my real name's Doreen. I'm from Surrey. Came to London to try and make it as an actress, and well..." She paused, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. "I'm on the stage, but it wasn't quite what I'd been aiming for."
Skinny shrugged.
"I thought you were real good. You might just be the prettiest girl I've ever seen."
Doreen laughed.
"You Yanks! Only one thing on your minds." She paused. "That said, you are really rather handsome. I'm meant to do another turn after the interval, but I don't think people will suffer too awfully if I stay here with you."
She held up a finger.
"Hang on a moment."
Doreen slipped off the dressing table and turned to rummage in a drawer, giving Skinny a startlingly close-up view of her backside. He could have happily slipped into a reverie and watched that all night, but Doreen swiftly surfaced, bearing two glasses and a bottle of wine.
"The finest the black market can provide," she said, starting on the cork. "You should consider yourself very honoured."
Skinny grinned. He loved this city.
Unfortunately, Doreen's absence was minded rather more than she'd anticipated. No amount of searching could find her, no amount of hammering on her door would bring her out, and with the show short of an act and the running order thrown into disarray, the audience swiftly grew restless. The compère desperately tried to maintain order and keep things moving on, but when a theatreful of drunk and horny men decides it's in the mood for a fight, nothing can calm it.
"Do you think we should go?" Webster said.
"Skinny's not back yet," Christenson said.
"Screw him," Webster said, and hastily ducked a boot thrown in the direction of the stage. "It's not safe here."
He got to his feet and tried to pick his way along the row of seats, stumbling over the feet of a very large man in a slightly silly hat with a bobble on it.
"Watch it, you stupid bastard," the man said, or something along those lines. Webster could speak three languages to some degree of competence, but he was not qualified to decipher Glaswegian. Webster just scowled and elbowed the Scottish soldier out of the way as he tried to scramble back to his feet. This was a terribly bad idea. The Scotsman drew himself to his full, terrifying height, and promptly punched Webster in the stomach. Christenson, feeling honour-bound to defend his friend, rolled up his sleeves and loped over to sort things out.
By this point, the rest of the audience had picked up on the outbreak of violence and decided that in lieu of naked girls, senseless violence would have to do. They turned on each other swiftly, each man for himself. The compere fled the stage. The curtain was lowered. Webster made an unhappy gurgling noise and crawled under the seats while Christenson did his best to fend off thirteen stone of furious Scot. In short, things were a shambles.
Meanwhile, Skinny and Doreen had no idea of the chaos they'd caused, being far too happily absorbed in knocking back glasses of wine and sharing increasingly incoherent anecdotes.
"...and Sobel went around with it stuck to his back all day," Skinny finished. Doreen giggled so hard she lost her balance; Skinny caught her and pulled her onto his lap. She tapped him on the end of his nose.
"You're funny," she said, smiling widely.
"You're pretty," Skinny said, though he'd told her that an awful lot already. They paused, looking at one another. Doreen chuckled to herself.
"You know, I think I really am very fond of you," she said, and slipped forward enough that their foreheads were pressed together. Skinny reached out blindly and managed to find the dressing table so he could put his glass down on it, and moved to put his arms around her waist, pulling her close.
"You're - you're just -" He was lost for words. Deciding actions spoke louder than words, Skinny closed his eyes and tilted his face upward.
However, before their lips met, they were startled by an unholy screaming noise from overhead. Skinny jerked his head away, gazing wildly upwards, though still holding Doreen close to him. They froze, clinging hard to one another, as the noise suddenly cut out. In the brief moment of eerie silence, Doreen said quietly,
"Oh dear, not again."
And then it hit.
The entire theatre shook. Plaster rained down from the ceiling. Pots of make-up went flying from Doreen's dressing table. The two of them were knocked to the floor and sent sprawling. Back in the theatre itself, the fight stopped dead in its tracks.
"What the fuck was that?" Webster said, tentatively poking his head up from under a chair.
"Doodlebugs," the Scotsman said, somewhat shaken though still holding Christenson in a headlock. "Quick, we'd better get to shelter."
The theatre was swiftly evacuated, the audience running through the streets and pouring down into Piccadilly Circus Underground station. Webster and Christenson followed the crowd, herded through the tunnels by tin-hatted ARP wardens, finally reaching the relative calm of one of the platforms. People were packed in like pickles in a jar, sat all across the platform, huddled together down among the rails. Some of them actually looked fairly happy, playing cards, passing around sweets, singing songs. Then again, to many of them, this sort of thing had become second nature.
From overhead could dimly be heard the scream and ensuing thunder of other bomb hits, but muffled and distant enough that it felt like no danger. They were safe here.
"Jesus," Webster sighed, wiping his forehead. "So much for getting a bit of rest and relaxation." Christenson just shook his head sadly, then perked up when he noticed a few recognisable faces.
"Hey, look," he said, pointing ahead. "Some of the others are down here."
They approached. There were quite a few men from Easy down on the platform, none of them looking especially happy with their lot. Most of them had been out that night in the pubs and dancehalls in the vicinity of Piccadilly, and weren't pleased that the Luftwaffe had spoiled their fun.
"Fuckin' Krauts," Guarnere scowled. "Don't they know we're on our goddamn holidays?"
"What the hell's going on? I thought the Germans had stopped bombing London," Webster said, making a space for himself in amongst the others. Luz emerged from underneath a blanket.
"It's V1 rockets," he said. "Bombs that fly themselves. Which ain't fair play if you ask me. Though I wasn't having the best of evenings anyway." He nodded in the direction of the blanket, which was covering a huddled-up mass. "I've had to look after Hoobler all night. Apparently he got attacked by a pelican and still hasn't recovered."
"Hah!" Guarnere said.
"A pelican?" said Christenson.
The blanket shuddered.
"In St James' Park. Loads of them. Too many. I was just trying to eat a sandwich. There were beaks everywhere."
"Hey, hey, calm down. No pelicans here," Luz said, reaching under the blanket to pat Hoobler's back. Webster pulled his knees up to his chest and sighed. It looked like it was going to be a long night. He just hoped Skinny was alright.
Skinny, as it turned out, was more than alright. In a stroke of luck, the Windmill happened to have some deep cellars which they'd made good use of during the Blitz. Doreen had led him down there to weather out tonight's raid.
"How long are we going to have to stay here?" Skinny said, huddled up with only a stub of candle for light. Doreen shrugged.
"All night, probably," she said, sighing. "Once they get down to it the Jerries do like to get properly stuck in."
"So we'll have to be cooped up in here all night long? Just the two of us?" Skinny said.
"I'm afraid so," Doreen said.
"What are we going to do all night?" Skinny said. Doreen smiled wickedly, and blew out the candle.
"Oh, I can think of a few things," he heard her say, as she began to unbutton his jacket. In the darkness, Skinny smiled. Might as well see out his final night in London with a bang. So to speak.