GI Brides: The Wartime Girls Who Crossed the Atlantic for Love (6 page)

She had also made a decision: she would no longer go by the name Gwen. Her family might have called her by the nickname for as long as she could remember, but she had decided that Lyn sounded much more grown up. The girls at work soon adapted to the change, but her mother, despite repeated reminders, still insisted on calling her Gwen.

One Friday morning, Lyn was daydreaming about the weekend to come when an American ensign came into the Chamber of Commerce. ‘Do you know where I could get some invisible mending done?' the man asked. His enquiry struck her as falling into the spurious category, but nevertheless she did her best to advise him.

Afterwards, he lingered, his brown eyes gazing at Lyn. It was only then that she noticed how deep they were, and what beautiful tanned skin he had. Like Ed, he had something exotic about him that elevated him beyond the brashness of the usual Yanks, but his eyes seemed clearer and more open in their gaze than Ed's had.

‘Say, miss,' he said. ‘Would you like to have tea with me?'

He must be at least in his mid-thirties, Lyn thought, impressed, and agreed to his request.

The next day, she met the GI, whose name was Russ, at a little tea room. As they sat down, he put his hat on the table and Lyn caught sight of a photograph tucked inside the rim.

‘Who's this?' she said, pulling the picture out. The woman in the photo was a beauty, with tumbling dark curls and a flower in her hair.

‘Oh, that's my wife,' Russ said, sounding wistful.

‘You're married?' Lyn asked, shocked. ‘Why are you having tea with me then?'

‘Because I trust you, and I think you trust me,' he replied. ‘And I think we could be friends.'

As he poured the tea, Russ poured out his heart about his beloved Larina. They were both of Mexican origin, he told Lyn, and she was a singer in a mariachi band.

Their life together in Florida, surrounded by sunshine and orange trees, sounded idyllic, and the tear in his eye as he spoke of her was very affecting. By the time she had swallowed the last of her tea, Lyn was so impressed by Russ's apparent devotion to his wife that she felt overcome with warmth towards him.

Soon she and Russ were meeting regularly. As he stared into her eyes, talking about another woman, Lyn found herself squeezing his hand in consolation, her heart overcome with feeling. But she couldn't help wishing it was she, not Larina, who was the lucky recipient of his idolisation.

‘You know,' he said one day, ‘if you lived in the US you would never date a man like me.'

‘You mean because you're married?' asked Lyn.

‘No, because I'm a Mexican.'

Lyn thought this the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard.

‘It's true,' Russ continued mournfully. ‘American girls don't date Mexicans.' He smiled sadly at her.

‘I would!' Lyn felt like saying, but she managed to stop herself.

After a while Mrs Rowe noticed that Lyn wasn't going out on the town as much as she once had. ‘Have you met someone special?' she asked.

‘Not really,' Lyn replied, ‘we're just friends. He's married and he really misses his wife.'

‘Well,' said her mother, ‘why don't you invite him home for tea?' She knew that all Americans loved to be invited into British homes, and local families were actively encouraged to host them.

When Lyn passed on the invitation, Russ accepted immediately.

On the appointed day, he arrived at Padwell Road, his black hair combed back and greased even more than usual. Just as they were all about to take their seats in the front room, Russ said, ‘Mr and Mrs Rowe, I must tell you that I am married. But I would never hurt Lyn for anything – we are just friends.'

‘Well, Russ,' said Lyn's father, ‘we appreciate your honesty.'

Mrs Rowe enjoyed having a new visitor to the house, and loved listening to Russ's tales of Florida and the beautiful wife waiting there for him as much as her daughter did. He was soon a regular dinner guest, and he told the Rowes tearfully, ‘I feel like you're my family now.'

Lyn's parents seemed blissfully unaware, however, that their generosity was encouraging their daughter's hopeless crush all the more. The fact that Russ was unavailable only made her longing for him stronger, and she wondered if he felt the same about her. There had been signs that he did, Lyn thought, but despite her confident front she was woefully inexperienced with men, so it was difficult to know if they meant anything. When her parents were out of the room, and he rubbed his foot against hers, saying wistfully, ‘This is what Larina and I used to do,' surely he was simply thinking of his wife?

As they said goodbye at the door after dinner one warm evening, he brushed her hair back from her face with his hand. ‘You know, it would be very easy for us to get involved,' he said.

If he tries to kiss me now, thought Lyn, I
am
going to kiss him back. She looked up into his eyes.

‘But', continued Russ suddenly, ‘I'm not going to do that. Goodnight!'

‘Goodnight,' mumbled Lyn. She closed the door and ran to the window to watch him disappear into the darkness of the blackout.

Once again, she thought, Russ had proved himself the most honourable of men – which only made poor Lyn adore him all the more. While the girls around her were having fun dating the GIs, her love life was in limbo.

Sylvia's first GI date, Andy, who had been such a hit with her mother, was soon posted elsewhere. But there was no shortage of keen young men at the American Red Cross club where she volunteered, and she soon had so many dates that she rarely had a night to herself. Among those who took a liking to her was a swaggering Texan called Wally Benson, who liked to impress her with talk of his life back home. ‘My dad's got a real big ranch,' he told Sylvia, who listened wide-eyed.

‘What's it like being a cowboy?' she asked.

‘Oh, you know, like it looks in the movies,' he replied vaguely. ‘Texas is so big you could fit this little country inside it four times over! I'd like to show it to you someday . . .'

Wally often came into the club, and repeated his wish to take Sylvia back to Texas with him. ‘Hey, baby, how about you and me get hitched, and when this war's over you can come live on the ranch with me?' he asked one day.

Sylvia didn't know what to say, so she gave an embarrassed giggle and hurried back into the kitchen. ‘I think Wally just asked me to marry him!' she told one of the other volunteers.

‘Oh, they're just after a bit of hanky-panky when they say that,' the other girl replied. ‘It doesn't mean anything.' She knew that in war a man was likely to seize his pleasures where he could, not knowing what tomorrow might bring.

Sylvia soon began to accumulate marriage proposals at the rate of about one a week. Since she always thought the best of people, she preferred to believe it was a little bit of permanence and security the men were looking for, in the midst of so much uncertainty. But she learned to bat away the proposals all the same.

Wally continued to be a regular visitor to the club, however, and when he had some leave coming up he asked if he could come and visit her and her family in Woolwich. Sylvia's mother was all for the idea, and Wally duly turned up, bringing with him a bottle of expensive perfume for Sylvia. She felt like a movie star when she put it on, and walked back and forth for the sheer pleasure of wafting the divine scent around.

Mrs Bradley insisted on the two of them joining her and her husband at the pub, and while Sylvia stuck to her usual shandies, her mother became increasingly tipsy. She was on top form, and had Wally laughing at everything she said.

On the way home they were still having a good giggle when Mrs Bradley said, ‘Oh, I'm going to wet meself laughing if I don't find a loo.' At the top of the street was an empty air-raid shelter, and they waited as Mrs Bradley ran in to use the toilet. They chuckled as they heard strains of ‘Swanee' coming out of the shelter, as she sang away merrily to herself on the toilet. Then suddenly there was a screech of ‘Oh my Gawd!' and a flustered Mrs Bradley came racing out, followed by a homeless man waving a stick and shouting, ‘Can't you be quiet? I'm trying to get some sleep in here!'

The sight of Mrs Bradley hitching up her skirts and legging it up the road had them all in stitches again, and even Sylvia's usually reserved father had to clutch his belly with laughter.

Wally was transferred soon after, but he wrote to Sylvia, ‘I can still hear your mother's voice in my head, singing “Swanee” on the “loo”. I don't think I'll ever forget that evening.'

Sylvia read the letter aloud to her mother, who was tickled pink at her conquest.

After that, Mrs Bradley even began bringing home soldiers for her daughter herself. ‘This is Frank Dunphy,' she announced when she got home one evening, introducing an English soldier quite a bit older than Sylvia. Frank accompanied the Bradleys to the pub, and after that took Sylvia to the pictures a few times. She didn't mind – since he was older than her, it felt a bit like having a big brother around. Frank came from Nottingham, and one day he mentioned that he had some leave coming up and was planning to go back and visit his mum. ‘Would you like to come with me?' he asked.

Sylvia had never been to Nottingham before, and thought it might be fun to see a new place. ‘All right then, why not?' she replied.

They took the train up that weekend, and had a pleasant time with Frank's mother, who seemed very pleased to meet Sylvia. ‘Your mum's nice,' she said, once they were back on the train.

‘Oh, I'm so glad you liked her,' replied Frank, ‘because when we're married I thought we could –'

‘When we're what?' asked Sylvia in surprise.

‘When we're married. We are getting married, aren't we?'

Sylvia thought back to Mrs Dunphy's eagerness to meet her, and it suddenly dawned on her that the whole trip had been arranged with very different intentions to those she had imagined.

‘Frank, you're like my big brother,' she told him, feeling terrible as she saw the disappointment on his face. ‘I like you and all that, but I can't marry you.'

‘Well,' Frank replied, ‘I'm going to keep on trying.'

Unfortunately, they were only halfway back to London, and Sylvia had to endure the rest of the awkward train ride with him.

When Frank was sent to Africa, he wrote to Sylvia constantly, and to her surprise so did one of his friends, Tom, whom she had met only briefly in London through Frank. She now had several soldier pen pals and kept up the correspondence religiously, feeling she couldn't let the boys down in their hour of need.

So far, Sylvia had enjoyed her dates, but most of the men she had gone out with she regarded, like Frank, as little more than brothers. One day, however, a young sailor walked into the Red Cross club who changed all that.

She spotted Carl Russell immediately. With his flame-red hair he was hard to miss, and he was clearly the comedian of his group, doing all the talking as his fellow sailors laughed at his jokes. He didn't look much older than her – around eighteen or nineteen – and he had a big smile that made her feel warm all over.

Sylvia was used to being watched as she went about her work, but this time, it was she who was looking on longingly. After a while Carl noticed her and came over. ‘Would you like to go out with me?' he asked, confidently.

‘Oh, yes,' she replied, blushing at the idea that he had guessed her thought.

‘You know what I'd like to do?' he said. ‘I'd like to visit one of your English tea rooms. I've never done that before!'

Sylvia knew there was a Lyons Corner House close to Charing Cross station, where she took the train home every day, so she suggested they go there. As she sat drinking tea with ‘Red', as his friends called him, he told her about his hometown of Boston.

‘So, do they drink tea where you come from?' asked Sylvia. She had noticed at the American Red Cross club the men always seemed to drink coffee.

‘Oh, sure,' replied Carl, smiling. ‘We had a pretty famous tea party in Boston in 1773!'

Carl was just a regular sailor, but he was from a wealthy background, and lived in the exclusive Beacon Hill district. Sylvia knew a rich Englishman would be unlikely to take her out to tea, but the Americans were oblivious to distinctions of English social class and treated all girls they liked equally. Carl seemed fascinated to hear all about her life in Woolwich and her job at the Piccadilly Hotel. He was intelligent and lively, and Sylvia couldn't help feeling she was having a much more interesting time with him than she had with her previous dates.

When he kissed her goodbye at the station she felt tingly all over, and as she rode the train back to Woolwich she couldn't stop smiling.

Carl was a cultured young man, and the next time they met up he insisted on taking her to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. Sylvia had never been to a gallery before, but she didn't want to seem unsophisticated, so she agreed to go.