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...”