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GOOD NIGHT IRENE GOOD NIGHT

Youth Remembered

By Walker Jackson/All Rights Reserved

Nineteen-fifty-one: seems like eons ago. Well, it has been fifty-three years. Pretty good years I might add. I'd been in England about a year serving Uncle Sam (AF), and I was slowly falling in love with the English and their ways. And those friendly pubs were irresistible: warm beer, crackling fireplaces, piano sing-a-long, pinches of snuff, dry English humor, and lively conversations. London, only seventy miles away, was the fun capital of the world: what with all those dance halls, West End theaters, the Palladium where Big Bands played, and tea rooms that served gypsy violin music to warm the atmosphere. And I could go to London with twenty bucks and have a blast. I loved it. It doesn't get any better than that.

I'd celebrated my twenty-first birthday. I could drink alcohol legally. And I was tending bar nights at the Brize Norton, AFB, NCO Club (near Oxford, England) to save money for a much needed furlough. I've not forgotten those nickel-dime nights at the club. You could get drunker than a Lord with fifty cents in your pocket. Let me explain. Imported German beer cost a nickel and a large shot of any kind of booze cost a dime. Actually, it was nearly impossible to spend a dime. Everyone was really generous hearted. Unbelievable. Genie…take me back to those years.

Now, the pressing question became where to venture. Of course, Paris flooded my empty cerebrum immediately the stimulation being all those sea stories I'd heard from the returning GIs after World War Two. Weekends in London had quenched my thirsts for amour, theatre and crowds. Did I say that? I needed a romantic haven where I could relax in the sun and rejuvenate my spirit: away from the beaten path. Especially the places GIs went.

While talking with friend Sergeant Bill Taylor one night at the club, I mentioned my upcoming furlough, and he suggested I consider a sojourn to Jersey the largest of the four Channel Islands.

"Why would I want to do that?" I asked him.

"It's an island paradise located fourteen miles from the Northwest coast of France. It's sparsely inhabited and it's a duty free port. Prices are ridiculously cheap. Consequently, hordes of English citizens take their holiday there. You know families and their sons and daughters. Day trips to France's wine country are available. You'll love the cheeses and le vin. And those French femme fatales. Ooh! La! La!" His expression was exaggerated, but I got the message. His suggestion immediately appealed to my fancy and frugal nature. So, I booked a roundtrip train ticket to England's coast where I purchased a roundtrip boat ride to Jersey eighty miles away.

That was how the story began. Irene came into the picture the night I went to a dance hall. I really loved to dance. I'd spent most of the day at the beach swimming in the chilly ocean surrounding this serene island and drinking ale at an antiquated pub nearby at four pence a pint (five cents). Vim and vitality gushed through my veins. I went alone dressed in civvies: a sporty suit, white shirt and no tie. The night was warm and the overhead fans offered little relief from the dank environment. We'll call the place The Starlight Room. I really don't remember, but is it important? It was located on the second floor of a century old building in the middle of St Hellier the only town on the island.

I arrived early. The place was half full, but people were coming in parties. A waiter came. I ordered a pint of ale. It was placed in front of me seconds later. After two gulps, a party of five, three ladies and two gentlemen came and sat at a large table nearby. I knew they were Irish. Their accent and joy on their faces gave them away. I figured out by observation that the petite lady with long, dark curls, blue eyes, and a sedate smile on her peaceful visage was single. She was delicate and pretty. I was excited with the possibilities. I'd ask her to dance the moment the band started, which was minutes away 'cause they were warming and tuning their instruments: saxophone, bass, drums, and piano.

Minutes later the band started playing the ballad "I'll Walk Alone." People rose and went to the dance floor. I rose and went over. As though she expected my advance, she looked up smiling warmly when I stopped. "Would you like to dance?" I asked with as much charm as I could bring forth. Oh! My! Those blue sparklers were captivating.

"Yes, I'd love to." Her voice was sweet and sincere. And I knew right away that she was all the things I'd heard about the colleens of Ireland.

I learned she lived in Dublin, her name was Irene, and she'd be going home in the morning. After the dance she invited me to join her, which I did with pleasure. I leaned that she was an accomplished pianist, having studied practically all of her life, which I'd guessed was twenty-three years. Well, we danced and talked and danced and talked.

Just before the second intermission the bandleader said, "Is there any talent in the audience. We usually have a contest after this intermission. I'll wait at the bandstand for any of you who'd like to enter the competition."

I'd been practicing and playing the trumpet again. My lip was in good shape. And I wanted to impress my Irish lady friend. So, I went to the bandstand after several others had preceded me. "I play the trumpet, but I don't have it with me."

"Wonderful! It just so happens that there's a trumpet backstage. Go have a look."

Backstage I found the trumpet case, opened it, and found a silver trumpet that looked to be thirty-year-old if it was a day. I took it out of the case. I pushed the valves and they wouldn't budge. I took all three valves out and spit on them. After returning them, I worked them a few times. They moved now, but not too freely. I had a notion to spurn my ego and return to the table, but some Divine compelling shouted…Do it Walker!

I blew some muted sounds to warm up the instrument and limber my lip. Then I went back to the bandstand. The musicians were back. "So, said the leader," are you going to have a go?"

"Yes. Why not" About six reasons flashed before my eyes: embarrassment headed the list. The mouthpiece was different. But it's very difficult to sit-in with a group of strange musicians. And the valves were sluggish, but Stardust is a slow number, so that wasn't too big a concern.

"What would you like to play?"

"Stardust in D-flat."

"You got it, maaan. Give the man a tuning note, Fred."

"The piano man played a B-flat." I blew the C-note. The trumpet plays one note higher than the piano. The horn was sharp. I was pleased. That meant the piano was tuned. I pulled out the tuning slide and blew again. "Close enough I think. I'll take the three pickup notes slowly and slur into the chorus."

My gut started revolving inside my gut. I remembered all those times I'd played the bugle calls for flag lowering at the military college I'd attended for a year. I stood in front of the battalion near the flag knowing that every one of those demons hoped I'd screw up. And I did occasionally. But they dare not snicker.

Hey man, you can't back out now. Bite the bullet," demanded my alter ego.

I pressed the mouthpiece against my lips, took a deep breath, and hit the first note sharply…the second note came easier…the third one even easier. I now felt confident as I slid into the chorus. And I played the hell our of Stardust.

I felt a bit cocky…maybe proud better defines my feelings…when I rejoined Irene at the table. She glowed. "Walker, that was so beautiful." She said taking my hand.

"Thanks, Irene. The tune is my favorite."

"I guessed as much."

Well, we listened to a lady singer, a comic, and several others. I felt as though I might win the prize of five-quid ($14). I could surely use it. I was thinking about riding the rails to Scotland when I left Jersey.

Announcement time came. I waited anxiously… "And the winner is Walker Jackson. Let's give him another well deserved round of applause."

The magical night passed sublimely into submission. We'd held hands once briefly. But I felt the warmth and admiration she felt for me, and I hoped to meet her again; I saw it in her true Irish eyes. And for some mystical reason I felt certain there was a future meeting for us.

And there was. I went to Ireland at Christmas time to visit her. That's another story.

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Red beans and ricely,

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