Chapter I - The Jazz Singer

Monday, 18th of May, 1953

Bertie checked her lipstick. She twisted one of her dark curls back into place. She placed her mirror back into her pocket book and adjusted her cardigan and skirt. “Who’s the performer tonight?”

Porgy - a short and stocky but fancy gentleman - squinted as he tried to make sense of the name on the sign but the club door. “A JC Chases.”

She stood on tiptoe as she read over his shoulder. “You mean Chasez?”

“Chasez?”

She nodded. “It’s French, possibly derived from chasseur - meaning hunter.”

“Do you think they’re from France?” Porgy said in a faux European accent.

“I would imagine so.”

“Do you think they’re going to sing in French?” He played with the cuff on his jacket. “If they’re going to, I might as well have stayed home.”

“Porgy, I don’t know how someone who’s the third son of an Earl can be so uncultured.” She checked her watch. “Anyway, if you had stayed home, you would be complaining all week that you missed out on whatever fun was to be had tonight, even if it was only a few drinks and a jazz singer from France.”

They were distracted by a motorcycle coming to a stop across the road. The rider took off his helmet and slipped between them. He smiled as he brushed his dark curls back off his face. “Excuse me.”

Bertie watched him as he greeted the doorman, his blue eyes shining as he nodded before he slipped through the club door.

“Oh, my,” she commented under her breath.

“Why does he get to go in before the doors open?” Porgy wondered out loud. “Maybe a bartender or something?”

“In that case, I’m buying the first round.”

Bertie and Porgy sat at a table in the middle of the tiny jazz club. The club was a former storeroom converted into a bomb shelter during the war. Now with deep red curtains draped to hide the manky paint job on the brickwork, it was a little hole in the wall place with no real name, only an address. No one knew if it was a legal operation, but they knew it was a decent place to get a drink and hear a tune or two.

“This Chasez person sure is taking their time.” Porgy huffed.

Bertie spotted the motorcyclist come through the doors behind the bar. “Look, it’s him.”

They watched as he made his way through the crowd, stepping onto the tiny stage in the corner of the club with an upright piano. He bowed, sat down and started playing, softly caressing the keys as he began playing ‘Stormy Weather.’

Porgy clicked his tongue. “An amateur at best.”

Softly the motorcyclist began to sing, a gentle croon becoming mournful cries as he begged for his love to return. Bertie began to feel something she had never felt before, a feeling she couldn’t quite place. It was a bundle of nerves in her gut whilst also being magnetically pulled to him. 

Bertie sat dumbfounded as he finished his set, bowing again before he quietly stepped off stage towards the bar. She tuned in and out of Porgy’s droning on about the gossip around town and at The Times, turning to take quick glances at the motorcyclist as he sat at the bar. It soon became obvious that he had noticed her looking, making a quick wave. She quickly turned away, hiding her blushing face. Drat! she thought to herself. He’s seen me. She tried as hard as she could to take another quick glance. He smiled when they made eye contact, beckoning her to him.

She delicately made her way to the bar, offering her hand. “Bonsoir, monsieur Chasez.  Félicitations pour une performance aussi fantastique.”

He made a light chuckle as he took her hand to shake it. “I don’t speak French.”

She made an embarrassed squeak. “Oh. You’re not French, are you?”

“No, I’m American. Washington, D.C.”

“Are you perhaps here on tour?”

He shook his head. “No, I live here.” He gestured vaguely to his right. “A little apartment up the block.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to see it?”

Bertie gasped, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of her. She knew exactly what he was inviting her home for, something no refined ladies ever did, but she also felt the compulsion to take him up on his offer.

They left immediately, she followed him in silence as he wheeled his motorcycle up the road, parking it in the garden of an old Victorian townhouse.

“Is this it?” she asked.

“Mmm.” He nodded, smiling. He held the front door open, overtaking her to start the climb up to the top floor.

“What kind of view do you get up here?” she asked, trying to make small talk.

“Mainly brick walls. If you crane your neck in the right direction in the bathroom, you can see the steeple of the church a block over.”

“Oh. Do you go there?”

“No. There’s not much Mennonite presence in London I’m afraid. My religious practices are wholly independent.”

“Mellonite?”

“Mennonite.”

“What are they?” she asked at the door of his apartment, biting her lip as she took in his scent.

“A nonviolent sect of Anabaptists, to summarise it,” he said as he unlocked the door.

She looked around the tiny bedsit apartment. The walls were a white plaster, stained by over a century of rain.  An iron bed sat under the window with a walnut upright piano stripped of most of its panels sitting opposite. A record player and a few boxes full of records sat in front of a tiny and faded pink loveseat, whilst a table with two chairs sat by the window next to a row of cabinets with a gas ring settled on top.

“Tea?” he asked as he took a kettle into the bathroom to fill it.

She tried to continue the conversation. “I must confess that I don’t know what that means.”

He responded in confusion. “No one’s ever offered you tea before?”

“I mean the Anabaptist thing you mentioned.”

“Oh.” He lit the stove and placed the kettle on top. “Nonviolent sect of Anabaptists. I think you can work out what nonviolent means, sect is a small Christian church, and Anabaptists means that we prefer to baptise when you’re old enough to consent to it.”

“When were you baptised then?”

“1940, when I turned 14. You?”

“1930, six weeks old.” She sat down on the loveseat, placing her pocketbook beside her.

“It doesn’t bother you how young you were?”

“I mean, everyone gets baptised as a baby.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, they do in the Church of England. So does the Roman, Scottish and Greek churches. It’s just normal here.”

“Well, where I’m from, it’s normal to be baptised at the beginning of manhood, or womanhood if you’re a girl, after a few years of study.” 

He took the kettle off the stove when it had boiled, scooping a few large spoonfuls of tea leaves directly into the kettle.

“You’re preparing the tea incorrectly. You put the tea leaves into a teapot, then pour on the water.”

“I don’t own a teapot.” He started to shift through his cupboards for cups and a plate.

“You need a teapot if you’re to correctly prepare tea.”

“It comes out the same for me.”

“But you’re still doing it wrong.”

“If you keep sassing me, you won’t get any cookies,” he said in a teasing manner.

“You mean biscuits?”

“No, biscuits are very different things in the South.”

“I’m pretty sure biscuits are the same in the south of England.”

“I mean the southern U.S.” He placed two cups of black tea and a saucer of four shortbread biscuits on the chair in front of the loveseat, using it as a coffee table.

“You don’t have any sugar or milk?”

“I added honey. It’s good for the throat.” He took off his suit jacket and draped it behind her.

“You’re not a very good tea host, just so you know.”

“Would you prefer something harder?”

She folded her hands into her lap as he sat across from her. “No, I’m quite content.”

“Tell me, how does an American end up in London? Did you come here to study?”

“No. I was stationed in Europe during the war, fought on The Western Front. I didn’t feel like going home after my service ended, so I stayed here.”

“You would think that the only thing you wanted was to return home after a war.”

He leaned his head onto the back of the sofa. “To be honest, I felt disgusted in myself for what I had done, considering everything I had been raised to believe. I couldn’t bear to face my family afterwards.”

“You must have known what you were getting yourself into when you joined up.”

“You mean when I was drafted? I didn’t choose the service; they sent me a letter ordering that it was my duty as an American to serve my country. Of course, it was my choice to not state that I was a conscientious objector on religious grounds, as most Mennonites do, but I wanted to see the world.”

A tension filled the air. “I’m sorry if I’ve bothered you.” He placed his hand on her knee.

“No, it’s fine. I was curious as to why you’re living over here. It was naive of me to assume considering your age that you didn’t fight in the war.”

“I guess...” His hand moved to hers, wrapping her fingers with his. “What did you do during the war?”

“We mostly stayed up at the country estate. My papa thought it was too dangerous to be in London, so we kind of hunkered down up there.”

“I see. You didn’t want to get out and do your bit?”

“I honestly never thought of it. I was too young at the time and...I don’t know. You must hate me.”

“Why?”

“You were pulled up to fight in the war, all whilst I was sipping tea up at my family’s country estate. It must feel insulting.”

“Not really.”

“I mean, even the princesses served. Imagine the future queen of England doing her bit driving trucks and I didn’t even look into it.”

“Do you feel guilty about it?”

“About what?”

“Not helping?”

“I’m not sure. I should’ve, everyone did. Would you prefer if I did?”

“I don’t care what you did. I only care about what I did.”

“What did you do then?”

He sat in silence for a moment. “Nothing worth talking about.”

“Why did you bring me up here?” she asked.

“I’m not sure anymore.”

“You didn’t bring me up here...to have”—she thought of a way to say it delicately—“relations with me.”

He chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “You don’t strike me as the kind of girl to sleep around.”

She looked down at her sensible peach cardigan and black skirt. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean...” He gestured up and down. “You can usually tell if a girl’s up for it. You don’t seem like one.”

“What does one who’s ’up for it’ look like and why don’t I look like one?”

“Let’s just say this: you’re a Princess Elizabeth, not a Princess Margaret.” He got up, untying his bow tie and slipping off his suspenders and shirt.

She scoffed. “I would rather be an Elizabeth than a Margaret.” She stood up, storming towards the door in offence. “I would rather have a lieutenant commander than a...a...jazz musician!” She pulled the door, grunting when it jammed, yanking it a second time so it would shut.

He listened as she stomped down the boarding house steps, sitting when he heard the front door slam shut. He sighed as he slumped onto the sofa. “Pity you want a lieutenant commander, ‘cause what you need right now is a good fucking,” he muttered as he took a sip of his cold tea.

Tea Time with JC and Bertie

Tuesday, 19th of May, 1953

Bertie was awoken by the low growl of a motorcycle engine and the flurry of barks of her father's pack of labradors. Porgy had whisked her away immediately after he had spotted her walking back to the club from JC's apartment. He hailed a cab and took her home.

She rolled over and stretched, groaning as the morning sun shone through her gossamer curtains.

A light tapping came at her bedroom door. "Miss, there's a gentleman caller downstairs for you." Marjorie, her governess turned lady in waiting squeaked through her bedchamber's door.

Bertie sighed in exhaustion. "Tell him I'll be down in a moment."

With as much urgency she could muster, Bertie arose, dressed and made her way down from her quarters to the entrance hall, grumbling that she hadn't even had her morning tea as she gracefully floated down the grand staircase.

The butler, Tommy, stood at the foot of the stairs and announced the caller. "A Monsieur Chasez."

"Mr. Chasez will be fine." JC batted away the formality as he removed his motorcycle gloves. He looked rather dashing though he was only wearing a leather jacket, jeans and boots, Bertie silently observed.

"Good morning, Mr. Chasez." Bertie curtsied as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Um, hey." He smiled, slightly bowing.

"What brings me this pleasure?"

JC took a light lilac pocketbook out from inside his jacket. "You left this at my apartment last night."

"Oh..."

"Your address is on the front cover of your ration book. It's good to know that someone of such..."-he looked around the room at the gilded ceilings and gold panelled walls-"stature complies with rationing."

She snatched the pocketbook off him. "We all have to, even Yanks like you."

"Of course."

Tommy cleared his throat to gently remind Bertie of her manners.

"Oh, would you like a tour of the grounds?"

"Um, OK," JC accepted.

"Tommy, organise some tea and sandwiches for afterwards."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you." Bertie softly guided JC through to the back garden.

"Fairly nice digs you've got here," JC commented.

"Thank you. My great-grandpapa had the house built when he expanded the business into London."

"And why did your grandpapa-"

"Great-grandpapa," she corrected him.

"-Great-grandpapa build such a... palace."

"It is only a modest place. I wouldn't call it a mansion."

JC chuckled. "It's a mansion in comparison to the house I was raised in."

"I'm sure."

"Well, if you want to know, the house I grew up in had two rooms. A living area downstairs with a stove for cooking, a table for eating and there was a loft upstairs with two beds, one for my parents, and one for me and my younger brother and sister."

Bertie paused. "I think I would die if I had to share a bed with any of my sisters, let alone two."

JC chuckled. "Imagine how difficult it was when I started interfering with myself."

"Real gentlemen don't do that."

"Well according to my time in the army, I can assure you that all men of every stature do."

She sat down on a swing tied to the boughs of a willow tree. "If you don't mind me asking, since we've moved to such sensitive topics, how was one to bathe in such a... limited situation?"

"In the army, or back home on the farm?"

"Either, I guess..."

"Well, in the army, at least at the training camp, there was a shower block. Basically a building with just showers and lavatories. Whilst out in the field, at base they put up a tent with showers, and built lavatories nearby. In the foxhole, you were rationed soap and you gave yourself a sponge bath when you could. Either that or you just... stank. As for taking a shit, you just tried to do it away from everyone else. At home, we had a basin mother would fill up with hot water throughout the day. As for the other, us boys could use the chamber pot in winter, but during the summer we just... shat in the woods. And you?"

"Pardon?"

"You asked how I bathed as a child. What was the bathroom situation for you?"

"We had bathrooms with lavatories. Everyone I knew growing up did."

"Well, there's a few acres of rural Maryland sprinkled with my fossilised shit."

"I imagine it would've been absorbed by the earth, most likely eaten by the worms."

"Why do you figure that?"

"Well, that's what happens to horse droppings in the field."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I guess."

He gently started to push the swing. "Did you grow up around horses?"

"Yes. I'm quite the accomplished rider myself. Did you?"

"Yeah, my folk have an aversion to modern technology, so they use horses for everything."

"Why?"

"Because it's the work of the devil."

"Really?"

"To simplify it."

"And yet you have a motorcycle?"

"I need it to get around somehow."

"Do you miss America?"

"I miss my family. I don't miss the farm, though. If I grew up as well as you did, if the war didn't happen, I imagine I would've gone to college and found work in the city somewhere. Hell, if I wanted to go back home, I could use the G.I. bill to do that."

"Why don't you?"

"I like it here."

He motioned for her to scoot over, sitting next to her. "Do you prefer it here, or your fancy country estate?"

She swallowed as her body tensed up. "Well, the country estate has my horses, but London is so much more full of life."

"And your friend from last night?" he asked in barely a whisper.

"Oh, Porgy. What about him?"

"Am I to expect a wedding announcement? If so, would it be the Times... or...?"

"Oh, no. I don't see Porgy settling down for a while." She bit her lip at the sensation of his breath on her cheek. She squeezed her legs together, trying to subside her arousal. "I mean, I guess if he found the right girl one day, but he currently prefers the company of men, if you get what I mean."

"I think I do."

He took her hand in his. "I guess that means I have a chance then."

Bertie snickered. "I don't see my father giving my hand to someone outside of our social circle. Even if you were upper class, the fact that you're a complete stranger works against you."

JC slowly slipped his hand up her dress , squeezing her thigh. "But you are your own woman. Why do you need daddy's permission for everything?"

"Because I'm living off his money."

He leaned his lips as close to hers as he could without touching them. "I don't need your father's money to fuck you," he growled.

Tommy cleared his throat, interrupting them. "The tea is ready in the drawing room."

"Shit!" Bertie brushed him off her, starting towards the house. She practically locked herself in the drawing room as she waited for her guest. She dug her teeth into her bottom lip and her fingernails into the tablecloth, almost about to rip it off. No man had made her feel this way: her heart was racing and her breath short. She had goosebumps even though she felt like she had a fever. The only thoughts she had were how caught off guard she was and the faint images of the incredibly animalistic things he could do to her that she barely knew of.

A light tapping came at the door of the drawing room. "Yeah, I mean, yes, Tommy?" she answered.

"You left your guest in the garden, Miss," Tommy replied as he bowed to JC as he entered the drawing-room.

"Thank you, Tommy."

"You're welcome." Tommy bowed once again as he closed the door behind him.

Bertie took a deep breath, making a tight smile. "Tea?"

"Thank you, yes." JC pulled a chair out for her, waiting for her to sit down. He took a seat perpendicular to her.

It took a while for Bertie to catch her breath. "You're quite the singer."

"Thank you."

"I've never heard anyone sing like that..." She tried to find the right words to finish her compliment as she poured them cups of tea. "I've never heard someone sing with so much... sadness in their voice. Everyone's so cheery when they sing, like they're trying to show off. Something about you is different." She stirred a teaspoonful of sugar into her cup.

He smiled. "Thank you. I guess you're not well acquatinted with the blues."

She delicately tapped her spoon. "The blues?"

He struggled to find the best way to put it. "Well, think of it this way: It's pretty hard out there for a lot of people. All some people have to express their sadness is the ability to perform music. That's where the blues come from. That aching sadness in their hearts that they have no other way of getting out."

"And you have that same aching feeling?"

JC sputtered, "No, no, no, no." He placed his cup in its saucer. "As hard as it is for me sometimes, it's not as hard as other folks have it."

"But your heart aches?" She watched as he sipped his tea. "If you're so sad, why don't you go home then?"

"Because I had this heartache at home."

"Was it a girl?"

"At one point. My sweetheart didn't want to wait for me to come home so she found someone else, but it was there further back than that." He leaned his head onto his hand. "The best way I could put it is that for a long time, I've just never felt like I fit in anywhere. Not at home on the farm, not in the army, nowhere. It feels more apparent here, ‘cause I'm a foreigner in another country, but I've always felt it."

Bertie sat in silence, trying to express her own feelings. "I'm not saying I feel the same way, but I do feel like I've been left behind a little. All of my sisters and friends are now married or coupled up, or they're enjoying what careers they can have before they choose to marry. I honestly don't feel like I have a purpose, you know? I'm too stupid to go into the family business. I'm not a good enough rider to compete at a high level, I mean I'm no Lis Hartel."

"And I'm no Duke Ellington, but I still play because I enjoy it."

"Yeah, but you still have a purpose."

"Do I? I was raised to believe that my purpose was to serve God, then I was drafted and my purpose became to either kill as many Nazis as I could or die trying. Now my usefulness to the U.S army has passed, what else can I do? I have no education beyond simple reading and arithmetic, and my only other skills are tending to poultry."

"You can sing."

"Yeah, singing. That's only good for a few bob here and there. Barely enough for board and food. I'm lucky if I can afford gas for the bike."

A depressed tension grew between them, neither of them wanting to continue on in their conversation, nor silently wallow in their individual miseries.

"What kind of poultry does your family keep?" Bertie finally asked to break the silence.

"Oh...all kinds I guess. Mostly waterfowl like ducks and geese."

"I thought you Americans preferred turkey."

"For Thanksgiving? Anything would do honestly. It's just that my father finds turkeys to be too aggressive for his liking."

Bertie paused for a moment. "Aren't geese rather aggressive?"

"Yes. I don't understand that either."

After tea, Bertie escorted JC back out to his motorcycle. "Tell me, what does the ‘A' stand for on the front cover of your ration book, Miss Myer?"

"Alberta."

"Well, thank you, Alberta."

"Please, Bertie's fine. Everyone calls me Bertie."

"But that's a boy's name."

Bertie chuckled. "I know. When I was born, my mother swore that she was finished having children. My father, having been denied the son he always wanted to name after himself, he named me Alberta."

JC nodded. "OK."

"Yeah, so," she explained as she rolled her fingers through each ancestor she shared a name with, "I was named after my father, who was named after his father, who was named after the Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha."

"So you're named after a prince?"

"Well, now... quite a few princes and kings. My parents seem to like royal names, my older sisters being Georgina, Mary and Elizabeth-not at all a coincidence that they share names with two of the most recent kings and the two former queens and our current queen, though Elizabeth was born before her royal highness. Are you named after a royal?"

"Technically," he explained as he put his gloves on. "In the Old Testament, Moses had an assistant, an Egyptian named Hoshua, but Moses named him Joshua. After Moses died, Joshua became the leader of the Israelites."

"Oh, OK. Not a prince, though." She tucked her hands into the pockets of her dress. 

"Why do you go by JC then?"

"Well, apparently, no one in the US forces can pronounce Chasez, so they just call me by my initials." He straddled the bike.

"Wouldn't the initials JC be rather common though?"

"It is. I actually served under a Lieutenant called Joshua Crowley, but he was just Lt. Crowley to everyone."

"What was your rank, after you were discharged?"

"I didn't get much higher than private."

"How long were you in the service?"

"Until ‘48, so four years. I've been in England ever since. I was supposed to fly home immediately after my tour of duty was up, but I had a little bit of money, so I came here for a little while. Got caught up in the bohemian lifestyle and never left." 

He tapped the fuel tank. "As for this baby, I learned to ride in the army. Saved up a little playing here and there and got her secondhand."

"I didn't ask about the bike."

"I know, but I think you were still curious."

"I think you're just trying to impress me, and frankly, unless you have a thoroughbred between your thighs, I'm not going to be very impressed."

JC made a coy smile. "I might not have any experience riding competitively, but I can handle a filly if I need to. On the topic of riding things, I can think of one thing I would like to see in between your thighs." 

She pursed her lips in amusement. "If it's you, I'm not interested."

He leaned forward, like a puppy in a playful stance. "I think you are."

"I'm not, really."

"Sad, ‘cause horse-maidens fuck the best."

"Why are you flirting with me if you said that I wasn't easy?"

"I said you weren't easy; I didn't say that I was turned off. Sometimes the chase can be as fun as the catch." He turned the key in the ignition. "Anyway, if you're not into it, I'll stop," he said before he strapped his helmet on. "Do you want me to stop?!" he yelled over the hum of the engine.

Bertie looked around as the groundskeeper ran to the gate to open it. "I beg your pardon?!"

"Do you want me to stop?!"

"Want me to what?! I'm sorry, I can't quite hear you!"

He bit his lip as he smiled coyly. He jump-started the bike, taking her hand out of her pocket and squeezing it. "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when. But I know, we'll meet again some sunny day," he purred underneath the roar of the engine. He saluted her, and rode off.

She stood and watched him ride off down the road, confused by his motives.

Chapter III - Breakfast Tea for Two

Bertie heard him before she saw him. She scanned the countryside. There he was, sitting on his bike on a road parallel to the field where she stood mounted on her horse. He revved the engine, challenging her to a race. She whipped her bridle and clicked her heels into her ride staring off as he did. She leaned forward in her saddle, clutching her thighs as the motions of her horse sent waves of excitement through her body. They continued their race, neck and neck. She needed to come first. She ground her pelvis into the hard leather seat, her heart in her throat as she gasped for air. She knew to stop at the open gate, dismounting. He swerved in front of her, leaving the bike on its side as he started to chase her on foot. She screamed as she felt his arms around her waist as he flung her to the dewy grass of the paddock. They wrestled playfully as she pinned him by his hands, straddled him. He looked so sexy as he grinned up at her, his dark curls and crystal blue eyes shining in the sun.

“I thought all you wanted was to be in between my thighs,” she purred in his ear, his scent driving her insane.

He freed his hand and cupped her groin through her riding pants.

Bertie awoke. She had never dreamt like that about a real man in her life, just movie stars here and there, one about Prince Phillip for some reason, but never a man she knew as flesh and blood.

Something was exciting about JC she couldn’t quite process. It wasn’t that he was a musician: every boy with a good upbringing played the piano or another instrument. It wasn’t that he was a veteran: her brother-in-law was a flying ace in the Royal Air Force and couldn’t shut up about his missions so much that her father joked that he was glad the war was over, otherwise they would all be imprisoned for breaching confidentiality. It wasn’t that he was American: England was infested with Yanks during the war and she found all of them brutish and unbecoming. 

It had been a few weeks since their meeting and she couldn’t stop thinking about him, dreaming about him. His very existence seemed to occupy every thought in her dear head. But she also hadn’t seen him, but his absence only made his siren song stronger to her. 

She had to see him again.

Sunday, 31st of May, 1953 

With a trip to the department store, Bertie had brought home an inexpensive tea set, a black turtleneck, and a scheme to see JC again. Wearing the turtleneck, a skirt printed with large purple flowers and patent leather pumps, Bertie set off on the bus down to the jazz club where she met him. She followed the street down to the boarding house where his bedsit was and checked her lipstick before she carried the tea set box wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string up the stairs to his front door. 

She knocked on the door covered in peeling mint paint, sighing as she finally smelled how stale the building was. She tapped her foot as she waited, checking her watch. Nothing. She set the box down on the floor and checked her watch again, the seconds melting away like years. She knocked a second time, with more force and a growing impatience. She checked her watch again. An eternity had passed as she pounded on the door a third time.

“JUST WAIT A MINUTE, I’M COMING!” he yelled from inside the apartment. He pulled the door open, standing in only a pair of white cotton boxers, his hair messy from sleeping long into the afternoon and his jaw peppered with stubble. He licked his lips as he processed her standing at his door, his eyes still heavy with sleep. “I’m sorry, why are you here?”

She lifted the box to show him. “As a thank you gift for returning my pocketbook, I thought I would buy you a tea set so you could make tea correctly for your guests...” She trailed off as she watched him adjust himself through his shorts.

He apologised as he pushed past her, not bothering to close the door as he peed.

She couldn’t stop herself before she asked, “Were you dreaming of me?”

“Sorry?”

“Your...um...turgidness.” She gestured downwards.

It took him a moment to catch on. “It always does that. It’s always done that. Even before...everything else.”

“Before what?”

He pushed past her again until he was back inside the apartment. He sat down on his bed, swallowing before he continued. “Puberty. It just happens sometimes.” He wiped his face with his hands. “You haven’t spent the night with a man, have you?”

She paused in shock, not able or willing to respond.

“How old are you?”

“23, 24 in November.”

“And you’re still a virgin?”

“I’m unmarried! You’re only supposed to do... those things...with your husband.”

He flung himself backwards onto the bed, sighing. “Good thing I’m not to take a husband then.”

She watched him as he lay in front of her, watching his chest rose and fall with every breath. She thought about going over and placing her hand onto him, running her fingers through his chest hair, following it down to underneath his waistband, to hold his very essence in her hand.

“Can you do me a favour?”

Anything she thought to herself, only nodding and squeaking in response.

“Since you’re the expert, do you want to make up a batch of tea whilst I go shower?”

Can I join you? her mind begged as she dutifully filled the kettle and started the process of making tea.

She watched from the kitchen as he stumbled back out to the bathroom, carefully following him so he wouldn’t catch her peeking. She angled her head to peer through the slightly ajar bathroom door and watched him pull his shorts down. She gasped at the sight of his arse, not at all expecting him to turn around enough so she could see his full manhood. Her breaths grew heavy as she watched him get under the shower, washing his perfect form under the cascading water. How she wished to join him, to wrap her arms around his muscles and beg him to defile her for her future husband. He turned his head as the kettle whistled. She jumped, thinking he might have seen her. She ran back to the kitchen and tried to busy herself with the task of making a pot of tea. She gripped onto the kitchen counter as she heard him open drawers and cupboards behind her, closing her eyes in modesty as he dressed in a pullover and trousers.

She tried to think of something to say. “Um...do you have any plans for the coronation?”

“The what?”

“The coronation. They’re going to crown Queen Elizabeth on Tuesday and my parents are throwing a huge party to celebrate. Papa bought the biggest TV in the shop especially for it. We’re going to watch it, then have a garden party to celebrate. Anyone who’s anyone but wasn’t important enough to be invited to the actual coronation will be there.”

He stood beside her and started rummaging around in the cupboards. “Frankly, I don’t have any plans. I really don’t give a flying fuck, but if you’re inviting me and it’s a free feed, sure.” He started to cut slices off a loaf of bread. “Are you hungry?”

“I guess...” she said as she tried to mask her disappointment at his disinterest.

“Is a grilled cheese OK?”

“Sorry?”

“A grilled cheese, a cheese sandwich fried. I’m sorry I don’t have a lot in the way of food”—he retook a can of Myer’s Pilchards out of the larder—“unless you want pilchards.”

She looked at the familiar rectangular tin wrapped in yellow and navy blue wax paper. There he held the key to her family’s fortune and she had no idea whether to be offended at his joke or scared he might realise her embarrassment. “No, just the sandwich will be fine.” She carefully balanced the teapot over to the table.

He looked down at the wrapper. “Hey, funny thing: you’re named Myer, and the pilchards are also Myer’s. Small world, hey?”

Fuck, she thought to herself. “Not really.”

He finally made the connection. “Wait...does your family own Myer’s Pilchards?”

She sighed in defeat. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“Why would that be unfortunate? You seem to have grown up well. It’s not like you went out every day to catch every individual one.”

“I guess not, but it was still embarrassing growing up ‘tinned fish girl.’”

She sat down at the table and watched him. “You didn’t grow up with any major embarrassments?”

“No. Everyone I knew was like me. We didn’t fraternise with outsiders.”

She leaned her chin in her hands. “Why?”

“Because we just don’t. Sometime, a long time ago, some elders just decided that their way of living was superior to everyone else’s, and instead of integrating into modern society, it was better to be isolated and behind everything.”

“Is that why you don’t want to go home, you don’t want to give up living like this?”

“Yes and no. Think of it this way, your family has a record player, right?”

She nodded.

“Well, I didn’t have that when I was growing up. If you wanted to hear music, you either had to play it yourself or hope someone was willing to play for you.” He strode over to his stack of records, flipped through them and put one on, George Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue” beginning to play. “That clarinet opening: I can’t do that. No one I grew up with could do that. And that bombast of the orchestra: you don’t get that with one guy with a banjo and another playing the spoons. And that piano line?” He leaned onto his piano. “That piano line is incredibly complex. I’m not that good of a pianist. My grandfather, who is the best piano player in my family, couldn’t play that riff.” He walked back to the kitchen. “Worse thing is, we were never exposed to secular music. This piece is about America. Now, we can theorise about how it’s a place of sin, but the piece is a love letter to his country. It’s not about sex or evil; it’s just a guy writing about his homeland. But because it doesn’t praise God, it’s not holy enough, meaning it is evil and forbidden.”

He pulled her from her seat. “Dance with me.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and led her into a two-step. “You see, we’re not even allowed to do this.” He pulled her closer. “I wouldn’t even be allowed to do this with my wife when we were married.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “It’s stupid, really. The best part of courting is dancing. It’s how you figure out if you’re physically compatible.”

He stepped back and led her into an inside turn. “I wouldn’t even be able to choose who I married.”

“Is that why you don’t want to go back?”

He dropped her hand and became silent. “No.” He sat down at the table. “I’ve done things over here that would get me excommunicated from my family and community. They can’t do that if I never go back.”

“Like what?”

He smirked as his eyes glazed over in distant thought. “Just drinking and sex.” 

He stopped the record. “I don’t know why you would want to hang out with me.”

She leaned on the back of the chair. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged her shoulders and sat down. “I don’t know. It’s not even the Mennonite...?”

He nodded. “Mennonite.”

“...Business. I can’t explain it, I just want to get to know you better.”

“So, I'm just some novelty to you.”

“You haven't made friends with many strangers, have you?”

“And what would tell you that?”

A peaceful quiet fell over them as he got up to finish cooking. She rested her head in her hands as she thought of something. “How often do you go out?”

“Like leave the apartment?” He lifted one of the sandwiches to check how it was browning. “I only really leave home to work or do my shopping.”

“Why?”

“I don’t really earn enough money to go out. Plus, since I work in mainly nightclubs and bars, I usually negotiate a complimentary drink when I play a gig.”

“So, you don’t go out dancing, or out to dinner?”

“Not really, no.”

“And none of your friends host dinner parties?”

“I don’t have many friends, to be honest.”

She started tapping the table in excitement. “OK, here’s a plan: once this whole coronation business has calmed down and London’s returned back to normal, Porgy and I will take you out to a proper night on the town. We’ll go to a supper club with a bandstand and dancing. We’ll dress up all nice and you’ll absolutely love it.”

He pointed his spatula at her. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“It’s not a date if Porgy’s coming,” she said with an embarrassed smile.

“It’s not a date if Porgy’s coming,” he repeated in a mocking tone. “What if Porgy can’t come?”

“We’ll just have to fend for ourselves then.”

“How ever will I survive?”

“I promise, I will be nothing more than a complete gentleman.”

He paused. “That’s good, ‘cause I can’t promise I will be...”