WWI hero Sam Hines is used to wearing a face that isn’t his own. When he’s not in the trenches, he’s the most popular female impersonator on the front, but a mysterious note from an anonymous admirer leaves him worried. Everyone realizes—eventually—that Sam’s not a woman, but has somebody also worked out that he also prefers his lovers to be male?
When Sam meets—and falls for—fellow officer Johnny Browne after the war, he wonders whether he could be the man who wrote the note. If so, is he the answer to Sam’s dreams or just another predatory blackmailer, ready to profit from a love that dare not speak its name?
Original Review February 2015:
A nice little tale of war, post war, romance, and a bit of "what's he after?" thrown in for good measure. Sam is such an interesting character but as himself and as Madeline, who brought such joy to the men during the war. Now that the war is over and he's put Madeline behind him, he is reunited with one of the men he met after one of his Madeline's shows. I just love watching Sam trying to figure Johnny out and what he's after. Of course, there's a bit of "if they just communicated" but then the story would be even shorter and where's the fun in that? Definitely a great addition to my library and once again, I was not let down by the writings of Charlie Cochrane.
A nice little tale of war, post war, romance, and a bit of "what's he after?" thrown in for good measure. Sam is such an interesting character but as himself and as Madeline, who brought such joy to the men during the war. Now that the war is over and he's put Madeline behind him, he is reunited with one of the men he met after one of his Madeline's shows. I just love watching Sam trying to figure Johnny out and what he's after. Of course, there's a bit of "if they just communicated" but then the story would be even shorter and where's the fun in that? Definitely a great addition to my library and once again, I was not let down by the writings of Charlie Cochrane.
Re-Read Review November 2018:
Not much more I can say about Awfully Glad that I didn't say when I originally read it back 2015. Watching Sam and Johnny navigate the whole "is he or isn't he" debate is just as fulfilling as it was over three years ago. Like I said before, if they just communicated more clearly so many answers would have been discovered but then not only would that make this little gem way too short but not very accurate either. Nobody wants their nose broken if they got the assumptions wrong and it was also illegal to be in a homosexual relationship so its no wonder they were edging around the question. Once again Charlie Cochrane has proven her respect for the era as well as her respect for her readers with her storytelling in this little gem.
2nd Re-Read Review November 2020:
Not much to add that hasn't already been said so I'll just reiterate that Charlie Cochrane's love of the era shines through in all the tiny moments. Don't get me wrong, they shine through in the big moments too but it's the small details that some might "forget" or don't fully research that make her one of top 1-click authors and her WW1/post-war stories are some of my absolute favorites.
Not much to add that hasn't already been said so I'll just reiterate that Charlie Cochrane's love of the era shines through in all the tiny moments. Don't get me wrong, they shine through in the big moments too but it's the small details that some might "forget" or don't fully research that make her one of top 1-click authors and her WW1/post-war stories are some of my absolute favorites.
RATING:
A makeshift stage. An audience. An entirely male audience, in khaki. A high sense of anticipation. The Macaronis concert party about to perform. Music starts, curtain is pulled across—to an outbreak of applause—revealing a group of men in evening dress, who take up the tune. The show begins.
They’d reached the part where the comic had finished his rendition of “Gilbert the Filbert,” leaving the stage to guffaws of laughter and thundering applause, and the tenor had come on to the opening strains of “Roses of Picardy.” The audience settled down, lulled by the familiar tune but with the first buzz of expectation starting to rise. They’d been briefed about this concert party by a couple of the officers whose friends had seen them perform before. So far, the advance information had been correct—good singing, good jokes, a couple of things slightly near the knuckle but not going too far.
And now, the much-vaunted and long-awaited “Roses of Picardy.” That song could only mean one thing—the imminent appearance of the lovely Miss Madeleine.
Second Lieutenant Hampson nudged his fellow officer in the ribs. “She’s on her way. I wonder if she’s really as hot a piece of stuff as they say.”
Lieutenant Browne shrugged. “I hope so. I’ve been looking forward to this a long while.”
An agitated “Shh!” from somewhere along the line of spectators put a stop to conversation as the tenor’s rendition of the verse began. The holding of breaths within the audience became palpable, especially when the curtain to one side of what passed for a stage twitched slightly. The chorus came, and with it Madeleine, gorgeous in a lavender dress to match her eyes and a sumptuous hat, worn at a coquettish angle. An outbreak of wolf whistling, a single shout of “Cor!” and more “Shh!”s, mainly from the colonel in the front row who’d leaned forward to get a better view of the trim ankles that appeared as she sashayed across the stage.
“What a peach,” Hampson whispered, staring up at the stage, spellbound.
“Not bad at all.” Browne tipped his head to one side to set up a better line of observation of the trim waist, the pert backside, and the well-proportioned décolletage. Those curves were just what you wanted in a woman.
The song came to an end among rapturous applause, whistling, and stomping of feet. The tenor kissed Miss Madeleine’s hand and led her upstage, where she prepared for her solo, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at the colonel. She looked like a nice girl, dressed like a nice girl, was rumoured to have no truck with any of the officers who beat a path to her stage door, but there was a roguish twinkle in her eye which belied all of that.
The first few bars of “Home Fires Burning” welling up from the small orchestra stifled any expectations of a saucy song to match the saucy twinkle. Her voice was clear, bell-like, incredibly moving. By the time the song had finished, sleeves were being drawn across faces and noses blown. Even Hampson, who had never been known to show much in the way of emotion—apart from getting worked up over a shapely, slim-waisted form—had a tear in his eye.
“Marvellous,” he said, clapping wildly. “And think. We’re the lucky blighters who’ll get to meet her afterwards.”
Browne laughed. “She’ll never look twice at you. Not with that shock of hair—she’ll think a scarecrow’s come in.”
“Is it that bad? Could you lend me a comb?” Hampson tried—in vain—to flatten his locks into submission.
“We’ll have you turned out like the Queen of the May.” Browne grinned. “Now hush.”
Madeleine had been joined by the tenor for a haunting love duet, one which soon had the audience thinking of home and happier times, far away from trench foot and whiz-bangs. They’d be back to that soon enough, but for now they had a glimpse of something heavenly, and not just in the form of Madeleine’s shapely arms.
They’d reached the part where the comic had finished his rendition of “Gilbert the Filbert,” leaving the stage to guffaws of laughter and thundering applause, and the tenor had come on to the opening strains of “Roses of Picardy.” The audience settled down, lulled by the familiar tune but with the first buzz of expectation starting to rise. They’d been briefed about this concert party by a couple of the officers whose friends had seen them perform before. So far, the advance information had been correct—good singing, good jokes, a couple of things slightly near the knuckle but not going too far.
And now, the much-vaunted and long-awaited “Roses of Picardy.” That song could only mean one thing—the imminent appearance of the lovely Miss Madeleine.
Second Lieutenant Hampson nudged his fellow officer in the ribs. “She’s on her way. I wonder if she’s really as hot a piece of stuff as they say.”
Lieutenant Browne shrugged. “I hope so. I’ve been looking forward to this a long while.”
An agitated “Shh!” from somewhere along the line of spectators put a stop to conversation as the tenor’s rendition of the verse began. The holding of breaths within the audience became palpable, especially when the curtain to one side of what passed for a stage twitched slightly. The chorus came, and with it Madeleine, gorgeous in a lavender dress to match her eyes and a sumptuous hat, worn at a coquettish angle. An outbreak of wolf whistling, a single shout of “Cor!” and more “Shh!”s, mainly from the colonel in the front row who’d leaned forward to get a better view of the trim ankles that appeared as she sashayed across the stage.
“What a peach,” Hampson whispered, staring up at the stage, spellbound.
“Not bad at all.” Browne tipped his head to one side to set up a better line of observation of the trim waist, the pert backside, and the well-proportioned décolletage. Those curves were just what you wanted in a woman.
The song came to an end among rapturous applause, whistling, and stomping of feet. The tenor kissed Miss Madeleine’s hand and led her upstage, where she prepared for her solo, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at the colonel. She looked like a nice girl, dressed like a nice girl, was rumoured to have no truck with any of the officers who beat a path to her stage door, but there was a roguish twinkle in her eye which belied all of that.
The first few bars of “Home Fires Burning” welling up from the small orchestra stifled any expectations of a saucy song to match the saucy twinkle. Her voice was clear, bell-like, incredibly moving. By the time the song had finished, sleeves were being drawn across faces and noses blown. Even Hampson, who had never been known to show much in the way of emotion—apart from getting worked up over a shapely, slim-waisted form—had a tear in his eye.
“Marvellous,” he said, clapping wildly. “And think. We’re the lucky blighters who’ll get to meet her afterwards.”
Browne laughed. “She’ll never look twice at you. Not with that shock of hair—she’ll think a scarecrow’s come in.”
“Is it that bad? Could you lend me a comb?” Hampson tried—in vain—to flatten his locks into submission.
“We’ll have you turned out like the Queen of the May.” Browne grinned. “Now hush.”
Madeleine had been joined by the tenor for a haunting love duet, one which soon had the audience thinking of home and happier times, far away from trench foot and whiz-bangs. They’d be back to that soon enough, but for now they had a glimpse of something heavenly, and not just in the form of Madeleine’s shapely arms.
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.
NEWSLETTER / KOBO / RIPTIDE
EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
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