Work Text:
1939
~~~
The dance hall stood in a tall brick building within walking distance of the waterfront. Outside, the streets were still and quiet, but from the lit windows spilled the bright clash of brass and drums. A swing band crowded a small stage at one end of the room, trumpets flashing under the lights as couples turned and spun across the polished floor. Laughter rose over the music. Tables stood along the walls, where groups leaned close together, talking over the noise. The air hung thick with perfume and cologne and cigarette smoke.
Frank had taken a table near the edge of the room with Tiny. Their uniforms still felt stiff on their shoulders, the fabric still sharp at the seams. He kept his back straight without meaning to, aware of how the khaki caught the light. Every so often he tugged at his sleeve, smoothing it down as if it might suddenly sit right. He had barely recognized himself earlier when he glimpsed his reflection in a dark window.
His mother, too, had looked at him differently the last time he’d stood in the kitchen wearing it. She had always loved him–he never had any doubt of it–but she had also never hidden her disappointment about him working at the wharf. Members of their family simply didn’t do that. But there was no denying that she was proud of the uniform.
He hoped other people would see it the same way.
Across the room, a cluster of young women stood around a tall table, their dresses pale against the darker crowd. His eyes kept drifting back to one of them—a blonde who held herself straight, laughing at something one of the others had said, her hair catching the light from the wall sconces. He’d seen her around Hobart before—on Elizabeth Street once, stepping out of a shop with a parcel tucked to her chest; another time near the waterfront, walking with a group of friends. He’d always meant to speak to her. But every time the words had slipped away before he reached her.
But he was in the Australian Imperial Force now. That had to count for something.
“You going to talk to her?” Tiny asked, nodding toward the table. “Or are you going to just keep staring?”
“I’m not staring.”
“You’re staring, mate.” His friend took a long drink and set the glass down with a thud. “And you’re not being subtle about it.”
Frank rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel the heat creeping up from his collar, sweat prickling under the stiff wool of the uniform. He hadn’t meant to stare. He’d only looked over once. Maybe twice. “I wasn’t—“
“Just go on, mate,” Tiny cut in, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve got the kit on. That’s half the job done. A woman loves a man in uniform. It’s universal.”
“Fine.” He set his glass down carefully, wiped his palm against the side of his trousers, and stood. His heart thudded so hard he was certain Tiny could hear it over the band. It was only a dance. He’d faced live ammunition in training. Crawled through mud with a pack digging into his shoulders. This shouldn’t have frightened him.
Still, as he crossed the floor, weaving between spinning couples, he felt every eye in the room. Or imagined them.
She saw him coming.
Her smile faded.
It was small, almost imperceptible, but he caught it. The corners of her mouth dropped. Her laughter died in her throat. One of her friends leaned in and whispered something; the other glanced at him, then quickly away.
He tried to ignore it. “Hi,” he said. His voice sounded too bright in his own ears. “I saw you from over there.” He gestured vaguely toward Tiny without looking back. “Reckon you might like a dance?”
She looked him over carefully, her eyes lingering a moment on his uniform then landing on his face. “I don’t think so.”
“Right,” he replied, nodding once. “Fair enough.”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to pretend it was private. “It just wouldn’t be proper, you know?”
He frowned. “Proper?”
“Yeah, proper,” she said. “I mean you’re...well.” She gestured vaguely to him. “My father would have a fit.”
There it was. Not said outright, but clear as day. The room seemed to narrow around him. The music carried on, bright and brassy, but it felt farther away. He’d heard it before. Different words, same meaning. Not our sort. Not suitable. Not proper.
He swallowed. “I’m not asking you to marry me,” he said and he hated how stiff he sounded. “It’s only a dance. I’m in the AIF.”
As if that should count for something. As if putting on khaki made him equal.
She gave a tight little smile. “All the same,” she said. “And I’d rather you didn’t stare.”
That stung worse than anything. As though he’d done something wrong. As though he were the one out of line.
Frank stood there a second too long, staring at the back of her head as she turned her back on him, returning to her friends. The music was still playing, couples still danced and laughed together. Everything went on as though nothing had happened. From across the room, Tiny caught his eye but Frank didn’t return to their table. Instead, he walked straight out of the dance hall into the night, careful not to look as though he cared at all. As if he didn’t feel like he’d just been stripped down in front of half the room.
The music dulled as the door swung shut behind him. He drew in a long breath, filling his lungs with salt and damp and the faint smell of the harbor. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and struck a match. He inhaled hard, held it, and let the smoke burn down his throat.
Stupid. Uniform or no, he was still himself. He still had the same face that half the world seemed to think so little of. It didn’t even matter that his parents were highly respected, well-to-do…no. Adopted parents, he corrected himself. He might’ve only been a newborn at the time, his parents were the only parents he had ever known, but, to some people, that still didn't matter.
The door opened again and he heard the light taps of heels on the pavement.
“Do you have a light?” a woman asked.
Frank turned his head. A young woman stood a few feet away, chestnut hair loose around her shoulders. She held a cigarette between her fingers.
Without a word, he stepped closer and struck another match. The flame lit her face from below, throwing soft shadows across her cheekbones, the light catching her dark eyes. She leaned in, one hand cupped around the tip of her cigarette. He could smell her perfume—something clean, not too sweet.
She straightened, studying him through the first curl of smoke. “Bit rough in there, eh?”
He huffed a breath through his nose. “You saw that?”
“I think half the room saw it.”
“Well, fuck me then,” he said. “Might as well leave Hobart.”
A corner of her mouth lifted. “Forget Hobart. I’d think Tasmania. Australia. You’re going to need a lot more distance than that. You might have to enlist to get away.”
“Yeah, that’s an idea,” Frank said. He glanced down at his uniform. “Don’t know where I’d get the uniform.”
“Maybe you could borrow your mate’s,” she said. “Might be a bit small on you though.”
Frank laughed. Tiny was only called Tiny because he was anything but small.
“Now, there’s a laugh,” she said, grinning. “So, your night’s not a total loss then.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“I mean it. Don’t let her get under your skin,” She flicked ash to the ground. “I think you can do better.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t quite believe it.
“Yeah,” she said again. “I’m sure there’s plenty of girls out there who’d like to go out with you.”
He studied her then, properly. The way she stood square to him. The way she looked at him—really looked at him—without that flicker he was used to. No quick calculation. No tightening at the mouth. No polite discomfort. It unsettled him more than the rejection inside had. “Would you?”
The question hung there between them. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so plainly. His fingers twitched at his side, resisting the urge to smooth down his sleeve again.
She didn’t answer straight away. Her eyes moved over him slowly, not cruelly, not appraising in that way that made him feel judged, just curious. He felt the weight of it all the same. The khaki jacket across his shoulders. The shine on his boots. The face he knew so well in the mirror. He resisted the urge to look away first.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said at last, one corner of her mouth tipping up. “I think I’d have to get to know you a bit better. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m in the AIF.”
“I meant before that.”
Frank hesitated. And for a second he considered lying. Something vague. Something that sounded better in a dance hall doorway. He could picture it—owning a shop, working in an office, something clean and respectable. Something his mother would approve of repeating. “I work at the wharves,” he said instead.
She nodded. “You like the work?”
“It’s not bad.” He shrugged. “I like working hard.” There was no lie there.
She nodded again. “And you’re in the AIF,” she said. “What are you doing in there?”
“Training to be a machine gunner.”
“Do you need a lot of training to do that?”
He shrugged. “The AIF seems to think so.”
“So they don’t just hand one over to whoever wants one?”
“Not unless they want trouble.”
She smiled at that. “And you? Are you trouble?”
“Only when provoked.”
“And were you provoked in there?” The question landed softer than the others. Not teasing this time.
Frank held her gaze. “No,” he said. Then, before he could stop himself, before he could dress it up into something lighter: “I’m used to it.”
“That’s terrible.” There was no pity in her voice and she looked almost angry on his behalf.
She finished her cigarette and dropped it, crushing it beneath her heel. Then she straightened and offered him her hand. “I’m Edie,” she said. “Well, Edith but no one calls me that so you better not either.”
He looked at her hand for half a second before taking it, conscious suddenly of the roughness of his palm against her skin. “Frank.”
“Frank,” she repeated, like she was testing how it sounded. “Are you going back in or are you planning to sulk out here all night?”
“I wasn’t sulking.”
“You were,” she said. “You were standing just like this.” She hunched her shoulders and scowled dramatically.
Frank laughed despite himself. “That’s not what I look like.”
“No, I had it perfect,” she said. “And you can stay here as long as you like but I need a dance partner and unless you want me to ask your friend…”
He pictured Tiny’s broad shoulders, the way he barreled across a dance floor without apology. A flicker of something sharp and possessive moved through him before he could stop it. “Are you asking me to dance?”
“I suppose I am.” She met his eyes without wavering. “What do you say?”
He dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot, grinding it into the pavement. The sting from earlier hadn’t vanished, but it no longer felt like the only thing in his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” She smiled. “Just try and keep up.”
“I’ll do my best.” He opened the door for her and followed her back inside. The music swelled as a new song began, faster than the last. The room didn’t look quite so hostile now. He was still aware of the looks, still aware of who he was. But as Edie took his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor, something inside him had shifted. Like a door opening a fraction wider than it had been before. He didn’t know what it meant yet. He only knew he didn’t want the song to end.