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.