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( Chapter Nine: ❛ GORDON LOVE(LESS) ❜ ) NOVEMBER, 1943
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ACTUALLY, Bill Smith was feeling lucky enough that evening to attend a piano recital of Ginny's that next evening, preformed in an empty hall with her long-time partner Gordon Love. It was only a practice, but the two Australians still sat up on the stage together, behind the piano, and the American sat at the back of the hall rather threateningly, a cigarette hanging from his lip, like they were all caught up in some sort of standoff.
The blonde Gloyne girl was more than pleased when Bill showed up to watch after his day's training. There was something in this man that managed to impress her every time she saw him these days, over and over again. Though a reputed cynic and giver of one-liners, his fondness towards her was undeniable, no matter how much he shrugged it off to his comrades. He didn't like to talk about that sort of thing: about his feelings, not even to some of his closest friends, who couldn't help but feel like they knew hardly anything about him at all.
After a well-practiced duet performance of Heart and Soul by Hoagy Carmichael, Ginny was selecting their penultimate piece by rifling through the sheet music in her hands. Both of them were growing rather tired, having tickled the ivories for nearing two hours; she could have sworn her fingers felt whittled to the bone. Gordon, who had been paying more attention to the man looming in the back of the hall than he had the music, took the opportunity to utter, "Is he yours?"
"Who? Oh ... mmm," she responded bashfully, smiling to herself as she peered down at the music, an endearing flush dancing on the apples of her cheeks. She wasn't so much embarrassed as she was pleased with herself, so she made no effort to disguise it like she usually did. "Yeah, he's mine."
"He's scaring me," mumbled Gordon as he watched her leaf through the papers, exchanging glances from the task at her hand, to the Marine across the kerosene lamp-lit hall, and then back again. "He looks ... rough. Like the riff-raff. Like he'll beat me up for looking at him the wrong way."
"And as would you if you'd been through what he had," she speculated, "But if you want to run a blue dye on him, be my guest."
"Don't be another one of those girls, Ginny," the brunet replied warningly, diverting off-topic in a rather jarring way. His blue eyes were as cold and serious as Jackie's had been when she'd been scolding her on the same matter. "I know you're not. You've always told me you'd never do anything just because everyone else was doing it."
I may as well run away, she thought pitifully to herself as she looked at Gordon, her bright eyes growing dim and sad, all the stardust being replaced with rust. Nobody I love ever approves of my decisions. Nobody lets me do what I want. She knew they wanted the best for her, but Ginny couldn't help but feel like she was being restrained, like a bird in a cramped city cage, a dove waiting to be set free. I'll be free in the AWAS, she told herself, soon. I'll be free soon.
She pulled a face at him, "What do you mean, one of those girls?" — she'd been friends with Gordon since she was in primary school, after he'd stood up to some childhood bullies for her. They'd call her bossy, and tell her she looked like a bug with her big eyes. She soon began to cherish him like no one else in her life. He'd always looked out for her, for as long as she could remember. She used to cry when he fell over and cut his knee, and couldn't ever imagine him marching off to war. She knew he wanted to, though, and at some point, he would. Men work and women weep, they say.
"I think it's safe to say that those American city-slickers have enough female adoration as it is, especially from all those broads downtown," he grumbled, possibly even thinking of Jackie Badger as he said so, as she knew he thought ill of her. "Surely it isn't so hard as to just restrain yourself from courting."
Stubbornly, the blonde announced, "I'll have you know, I actually like Hoosier —"
"That's his name?" Gordon burst into a bark-like laugh at the notion, a hollow, tinny sound, like a lone penny rattling at the bottom of a glass jar. It sent shivers up her spine, and allowed a flurry of anger to set in. He pushed, "And he's met ol' Sam and Annie, has he?"
"No, but —"
"No, of course he hasn't," Gordon cut her off knowingly, his blue eyes glacial, full of cold water and ice, "Next thing I know you're going to tell me you're knocked up and have joined the UAP. I knew you'd be too ashamed to show pristine mum and dad all this business you've been getting up to with the Yanks."
"The last thing I am is ashamed," she spat, standing up immediately from their stool, whacking down the sheet music where she'd been sat with a smack. Sensing that they were arguing due to their hostile body language, Hoosier had stood up from his seat at the back of the hall and began making his way cautiously up the aisle, ready to jump to Ginny's defence. The blonde sneered, "There's no need to be cruel. Go home, Gordon. We're done here."
"Very well," Gordon complied, gathering up the sheet music Ginny had been rifling through and shoving it into the leather satchel that had been propped against the side of the piano, "I wouldn't want to be an obstruction to your blissful happiness now, would I? I'll leave you alone with your American lapdog. Have a good evening, Virginia. I'll sure you'll give me a bell to pick up the pieces soon enough."
Bill and Gordon crossed paths as the former of the men reached the stairs that went up to the stage. From what she could tell, they didn't interact — Gordon didn't even seem to acknowledge the American, rushing out with the satchel beneath his arm, a flurry of papers in his wake.
"He don't seem to happy. Why'd he snap his cap?" asked Bill, a good-natured spin on his words. He sat down and replaced Gordon on the right half of the stool, and Ginny took her seat on the left again. Their knees bumped against one another's for a fleeting moment, but she managed to keep to herself, wringing her hands together in her lap.
"He's not happy with me," she claimed, punctuating her words with a sigh, "He's just like my father. He thinks the real enemy of this war is within. They both harbour considerable disliking towards you American men. Have you heard about Battle of Brisbane in November 42'? Gordon's brother was shot there. He was the only fatality. And as for my father, well, he's just . . . one of those old money types. Doesn't so much like the changes you lot have brought to Melbourne."
"Am I gonna need to be wary of your old man?" he inquired, "I'm guessin' he ain't gonna be so approving of me."
"I mean, I'll be twenty next February. I ought to be moving out like Jackie already has, but as for now, I'm still only nineteen, and I still live under my parent's roof," she shrugged, "I'm still my father's little girl, aren't I? I mean, I'm an only child, so it's not like he's ever had a chance to deal with this kind of stuff before. He doesn't want a weeping war wife to be made out of me."
"We've all grown pretty damn fast 'cos of this war," Bill remarked, "Twenty-one and I feel one-hundred. Sid was only seventeen when he joined the Marines, for Pete's sake. He spent his eighteenth on some disgusting island that had a name we couldn't even pronounce: and with us guys," he huffed a half-laugh, "I gave him one of my grenades, but I don't know if he ever used it."
"I can't even begin to imagine," she told him softly, pressing her temple against his shoulder as she rested her head into the crook of his neck, her fingers running thoughtfully up and down the ivory keys in front of her, "In my dreams, you stay in Melbourne forever."
