CHAPTER ONE MEGAN AND THE KING’S HEAD
CHAPTER
ONE
Megan and the King’s Head
Roscoe took Megan’s hand and hurried her along the street.
There was a rumor going around that the men would be shipping out soon, so everyone was eager to enjoy their last days of being safely tucked up in Wales.
The pubs and dance halls were bustling with GIs drinking just a little bit more and dancing just a little bit harder, trying not to think about what was coming.
Roscoe and Megan pushed into the King’s Head, a pub at the far end of town and up the hill, and threaded their way through the crowd of people.
Roscoe spotted Dally and Thompson from the 320th at the bar, deep in conversation with the church vicar.
Passing them with a nod, he found a table along the far wall, and they sat, shifting their chairs closer and leaning in to each other.
Time, they knew, was in short supply, and they were desperate to make the most of every second.
‘Mum said to pass on her thanks,’ Megan said, ‘for helping with the garden. She said the rhododendron never bloomed so full.’
‘I was glad to do it,’ he said. He threaded his fingers through hers and ran his thumb over the back of her hand. The closer he got to shipping out, the stronger his need to be near her grew.
‘And Dad wanted me to ask if you fancied a kick around this weekend. He and some of the men from the factory are trying to get up a game. Sunday, I think.’
Roscoe smiled. ‘Yeah. Sure. If he doesn’t mind having a player who doesn’t know what he’s doing.’
She laughed. ‘You’re getting better.’
He leaned in closer, enjoying the slight scent of lavender she always carried. ‘There’s a lot of room for improvement.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘You’re better than you give yourself credit for, Roscoe.’
He loved the way she said his name, round and light and flicked up at the end. He sounded like someone else, the way she said it. He felt like someone else too.
‘I’ll go order,’ he said.
He made his way to the bar as a loud whooping from the doorway stole his attention.
He looked up to see a group of rowdy Americans, loud, brash, white and uniformed, coming in, letting off a little too much steam.
One walked in already holding a bottle of beer, but they’d clearly all been drinking.
They moved through the pub like a feral pack.
‘What can I get you?’ the barman asked, pulling his focus back.
‘Evening,’ Roscoe said. ‘Can I get two—’
‘Give us five more of those so-called beers,’ one of the feral GIs hollered, leaning across the bar.
Roscoe’s jaw clenched, and he saw the muscles tighten around the barkeep’s eyes. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, mate,’ he called, and nodded at Roscoe to continue.
‘Two pints of beer, please.’
‘Hold on a second,’ the soldier bellowed, pushing his way closer. ‘Are you serving this coon before you serve me?’
‘It’s first come first served here, boyo, and I won’t have you insulting my customers.’ He turned back to Roscoe. ‘Sorry, friend. Two pints, did you say?’
‘He shouldn’t even be a customer,’ the GI said. ‘He shouldn’t be in here. None of them should.’ He waved his hand at Dally and Thompson.
The vicar stood and came forward. ‘You’re being disruptive and rude, son, and interrupting a very nice conversation I’ve been having with these gentlemen.’
‘They’re supposed to segregate. They’re not supposed to be where we are. Those are army rules.’
‘Well, we’re in the country of Wales, in the town of Pontypool, in the King’s Head pub, and none of those, I’m happy to say, have anything to do with the United States Army or its rules.’
The customers around murmured their agreement.
‘We have other rules here, though,’ the barkeep said. ‘Here, we show each other courtesy, and we mind our manners. And if you can’t abide by those rules, there’s the door.’ He jabbed his finger in its direction and the whole pub cheered.
Roscoe saw the anger that pinched the soldier’s face into a scowl, and the shift of tension in his shoulders that signaled he wanted to fight.
Back home, he would win even if he lost, Jim Crow made sure of that, but his eyes had widened at the cheer that went around the pub, and Roscoe saw it dawn on him that he was far from home.
‘Do we need to call your commanding officer and report you for disturbing the peace?’ the vicar asked. ‘Or will you go quietly?’
The soldier shoved his empty beer bottle off the bar so that it came crashing down and shattered on the stone floor.
‘The beer here is lousy anyways,’ he said, storming out, the four others following.
The pub erupted into more cheers and clapping as they crossed the threshold.
‘He does make a point about segregating, though,’ another man behind the bar said, ‘to keep a certain type out.’ He got a square of cardboard and a thick pen and wrote Locals and Coloured Soldiers
Only and held it up for the crowd, who cheered their approval as he went to slide it into the front window. For Roscoe, something clicked into place, like the feeling of finally coming home.
He made his way back to Megan, stunned. This town and these people were more than he’d ever thought to hope for. And finding Megan here was like walking right into heaven.
They drank slowly, stretching out the night, swapping secrets and dreams. She wanted to see the Great Wall of China and the Pyramids and the Taj Mahal; he fantasized about becoming a pilot.
Dreams so crazy they hadn’t dared tell anyone but each other.
With their glasses twice refilled and emptied, and the night too quickly coming to an end, she asked tentatively, probingly, the thing they had avoided talking about.
‘Will you come back when it’s all over?’
Roscoe’s heart sank. He was in no position to make her any promises. He might not survive whatever was coming, and if he did, there was Cora. His wife.
He hadn’t meant to fall for Megan. He should have stepped away as soon as he started to catch feelings, but staying away would have been like turning off the sun.
He shoved aside his guilt and shame every time he answered one of Cora’s letters and neglected to mention her.
And he told himself it was best not to tell Megan he was married, because it could distress her, or make her doubt his feelings.
She might not understand that his marriage had been an impulsive, practical arrangement.
A favor. A promise he should never have made.
‘It’s a bad idea to make promises in a war,’ he said to Megan. ‘All I know is that this is the happiest I’ve ever been, and I’d like nothing more than to come back here when it’s all over and be with you for the rest of my life.’
Her eyes welled up. ‘I’d like that too,’ she said, beaming and blushing deep crimson. ‘Very much.’
She let her hand run up his thigh and leaned over to kiss him, and in that kiss, he understood that she believed he had just proposed.
Roscoe said nothing. The time to explain about Cora had long passed, so instead he told her another truth.
‘I love you, Megan.’ And he laid his hand on her thigh, as high and familiar as hers lay on his, and leaned in for another kiss.