"I DIDN'T SWOON"

New Zealand Listener, Volume 10, Issue 244, 25 February 1944, Page 18

"I DIDN'T SWOON"

The Girl Who Listened To Frank Sinatra HEN I was six I wrote to Santa Claus. Now I am 26 I write to Frank Sinatra. It all began with that article in The Listener, "Women Swoon When They Hear Him." Now I am not the swooning type. I have always been noted for Sense rather than Sensibility. But you never know. Frank Sinatra might succeed when all else (including wet blotting paper in the shoes during third form assembly) had failed. "T’d like to listen to the U.S. Forces programme to-night at ten past ten," I told my aunt. "Certainly, dear," she replied, and went on, quite calmly, with her knitting. "It’s Frank Sinatra," I explained. "How nice," said my aunt. At 10.9 I tuned in to 1YA. Sports results. "I’ll turn it off," I volunteered. "No, dear, it would be too bad if you missed the beginning of what you want to hear. We can put up with it for a minute or two, can’t we, William?" My uncle grunted. * * * T 10.14 a fanfare of trumpets, the strains of "Star-spangled Banner" and a loud voice proclaiming "Your Hit Parade, featuring America’s No. 1 Heartthrob, Frank Sinatra!" Then a great crescendo of whoops, yells, and the dull thud of swooning bodies. My aunt’s voice sounded faint. "You must have got on ‘the wrong a ie dear." "No," I assured her, "this is Frank Sinatra." "Oh," said my aunt, "I thought you said Franck’s Sonata." There was an uncomfortable pause. On the air the shrieks and-yells gavs place to silence, then the yearning-laden strains of "Some Day, One Day, reedl floated into the living room. My aunt rose, turned to my oan "l’d forgotten all about that shirt of yours for to-morrow." "But it’s Sunday!" protested my uncle feebly. She was, however, already in the kitchen. (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) "Perhaps she’s feeling faint," said my uncle. The song finished. More shrieks, yells, oohs and ahs of ecstasy. "And now your own Bea Wain, to give you ‘Can I Forget You?’" Diminished oohs and ahs, an octave lower. The men of the audience were reacting. My uncle looked uncomfortable. The song was only half-way through when he rose. "I suppose it’s the way I was brought up," he ‘mumbled apologetically, "but it hurts me to hear a woman moaning when there’s nothing I can do to help her." He left the room. I was alone with Frank Sinatra. * * xs ] FELT my pulse. It seemed normal; if anything, slower than usual. My forehead and hands were cool. My feet were hot. Could this be symptomatic? But after all, Bea was still singing. I couldn’t be expected to react to her. I moved closer to the radio. Probably swoonability varied inversely with square of distance. I must give Frank every chance. Here he was again. This time I timed my pulse. It was depressingly, exasperatingly normal. I moved still closer and put my ear to the speaker. I forgot to withdraw it in time for the subsequent applause. I rubbed it ruefully. A great murmurous wave of emotionladen ecstasy flowed into the room. I sat, silent and apart, a rock above the swirling waters, coldly analysing the sounds. The usual oohs, ahs and yells. The shrieks of "Frank, Frank!" The firm tread of ambulance men in the passageways. My feet now were quite cool. I picked up my knitting and did a whole row of complicated pattern while Frank sang "Night and Day." I then turned off the tadio and went to bed. * % * HEN I came home from work the following Monday my uncle and aunt met me in the hall. "We've a surprise for you, dear," said my aunt, and preceded me into my bedroom. On the bedside table stood a radio. "So much more comfortable to swoon in bed," said my uncle. My aunt quelled him with a look, then turned to me. "We meant to give it to you for Christmas, but your uncle didn’t it fixed up in time." "Thanks awfully, uncle," I said. "Don’t thank me," chuckled my uncle. So to-day I wrote my first fan letter to Frank Sinatra.

M.

B.