The Very Thought of You
Read The Very Thought of You Online
Authors: Mary Fitzgerald
Contents
In the wake of D-Day three very different women join a touring variety company, performing to factory girls, hospitals and serving troops.
Catherine
's husband has been reported missing in action and she needs a job to support her mother and daughter.
Della
, a Liverpudlian show girl, is ambitious for fame and hides her problems behind a devil-may-care attitude.
Frances
, titled but impoverished, will do anything to keep the family home safe for her brother, a POW in the Far East.
Travelling from show to show, the three women form a strong bond. But when they follow the advancing army through France, their friendship deepens as the company is stalked by lies and betrayal, and it's clear that nobody will come home the same.
Mary Fitzgerald was born and brought up in Chester. At eighteen she left home to start nursing training. She ended up as an operating theatre sister in a large London hospital and there met her husband. Ten years and four children later the family settled for a while in Canada and later the USA. For several years they lived in west Wales, northern Scotland and finally southern Ireland until they settled again near Chester. Mary had long given up nursing and gone into business, first a children's clothes shop, then a book shop and finally an internet clothes enterprise.
Mary now lives in a small village in north Shropshire close to the Montgomery canal and with a view of both the Welsh and the Shropshire hills.
The Love of a Lifetime
When I Was Young
What Tomorrow Brings
Mist
Knight on the Potomac
Traitor's Gate
The Fishing Pool
London, Spring 1944
She watched the boy as he cycled slowly up the street. He was looking at the numbers on the doors of the red-brick terrace; then, satisfied that they were properly running in order, he speeded up.
There was no hesitation in her movement away from the window because she knew. She'd been expecting it for two years, and when the knock came, Catherine opened the door and held out her hand.
âAre you â¦' the telegraph boy hesitated, studying the name on the brown envelope, âMrs Fletcher? Mrs Catherine Fletcher?'
âYes,' she said. Strangely, she felt quite calm, but her mother, Honorine, who had come from the back kitchen with six-month-old Lili in her arms, whispered, â
Mon Dieu, mon Dieu
,' and sat down heavily on the second step of the flight of stairs.
âI'm sorry,' the telegraph boy said awkwardly, as he put the envelope in Catherine's upturned palm. He was fifteen, and this was his second week at work, but he knew what the telegram contained and he wouldn't look Catherine in the eye. But this woman was composed, quiet, almost normal and he was the one who felt unnerved and gripped the handlebars of his bike tightly as he climbed on it.
âTa-ra,' he said, and didn't look back as he cycled rapidly down the street and round the corner.
Catherine turned the envelope over in her hands. I have to open it, she told herself. Now, this minute, but, oh God, if I do, it will become real. She closed the door and walked back into the small front room. It was a room she was proud of, clean and well furnished with two comfortable armchairs and an Afghan rug.
Fitted bookcases filled the gaps on either side of the fireplace, full of books, mostly unread now, but dusted every day. There were two photographs on the cream tiled mantelpiece. One was of her in a long dress standing in front of a microphone, while arranged behind her was the band Bobby Crewe's Melody Men. She'd been their singer and had been so good that other bands had started sniffing around, eager to poach her.
But it was the other photograph she lingered over. It was of her on her wedding day, and she stood for a moment, staring at it. What a lovely day it had been, and how happy and proud she'd felt in her neat suit, with her arm tucked securely in Christopher's. The photograph was in black and white, but she saw the scene in colour. Her sky-blue suit with its narrow belt and box pleats, and Christopher's khaki uniform and his maroon cap with the winged badge of the Parachute Regiment. Everyone said what a handsome couple they were. Catherine so pretty with her shiny dark hair and enigmatic brown eyes, and Christopher tall and strong with an athleticism that belied his peacetime job as a college lecturer. He looked as if nothing could ever hurt him. But now?
She swallowed and turned round to face her mother and her baby daughter. Both were silent, but tears were beginning to spill from her mother's eyes.
âOpen it,
chérie
,' her mother whispered. âYou have to know.'
A hundred miles away from that street in London, Frances Parnell groaned as she heaved a sack of potatoes into the larder. She'd just driven it from the Home Farm, where Seth, the old tenant, had told her it was the last he had. âThe rest's gone to the military,' he said, chewing on his empty pipe. âThe buggers have taken everything.'
âI hope they paid you,' Frances said. She was concerned because Seth and Bessie, his wife, were on their own now. Both their boys were in the services, and although they did have a farmhand, he was older than Seth and no real help at all.
âGave me a chitty,' Seth grunted. âI'll get the money, but it'll take a few weeks.'
They were in the farmhouse kitchen and Bessie put a pot of tea and a plate of scones on the table. âTake one, lovey,' she smiled at Frances. âI've got more in the pantry. And take a couple home for Johnny.'
âThanks,' Frances said, and smiled back at this woman she'd known all her life. âHave you heard from young Seth or Eddie?'
Bessie nodded happily. âWe had a note from Eddie. He's here in England, I think. And he's well.'
âGoing on about some girl he's courting.' Seth snorted. âNo better than she should be, I dare say.'
Bessie frowned. âYou old fool,' she growled. âOur Eddie wouldn't even look at someone like that.'
Frances could feel a row brewing. This was exactly how her mother and father started one of their monumental arguments. âAnd young Seth? Have you heard from him?'
The old couple shook their heads.
âHe's overseas. Don't know where,' Bessie sighed.
âWell' â Frances got up â âI must get moving.' She put half a crown on the table. âThis is for the spuds, Seth. See you soon.' And with a wave she went out into the yard and drove home with the potato sack lurching around in the bucket of the old tractor.
All the way home she thought about money. How the hell were they going to manage? The electricity bill was enormous, and somehow she'd have to find enough cash to pay Maggie, the housekeeper, and Janet, the youngster her mother had just employed to do the rough work. Once again, Frances wondered if her mother really understood that the family was close to being broke, that living in their great house cost a fortune and that having a title counted for nothing with the coal merchant.
âYou'll have to tell her, Pa,' Frances said to her father, when she'd washed her hands and joined him in the library. He was sitting in his leather chair struggling to make sense of a mounting pile of bills. âShe's taken on a girl from the village and we'll have to find the money for her.'
âI know, darling, and I have had words with your mother.' John Parnell raised his hands in a gesture of desperation and ran them through his salt-and-pepper hair. âBut she doesn't understand. We should have got rid of this bloody house long before the war. It's nothing but a millstone hanging round all our necks.'
âWe mustn't get rid of the house,' Frances said fiercely. âHugo had really workable plans to raise money. The farms could be run more efficiently, he was sure of that, and he was going to improve the shooting. It's ridiculous raising the birds for only our friends to shoot when wealthy people from the city would pay for the opportunity. And then he was going to turn the stables into mews houses and rent them out.' She drummed her fingers on the desk to emphasise the point. âOther people with houses like ours have done this sort of thing. We can't go under, not now.'
Her father sighed and leant back in his chair. âHugo's plans will have to go on hold until the war is ended, and, God willing, that won't be long now. The air war is over, and Hitler is retreating from the East. Invasion must be the next step. With our troops fighting on French soil, surely the Germans won't hold out, and then we'll be able to concentrate on the Japs. Then the boy will come home.'
Frances said nothing. Her elder brother, Hugo, was a prisoner of war in the Far East; at least, he had been when they'd last heard of him, eight months ago. Awful stories were coming out about the treatment of prisoners in Burma. Her breath caught in her throat. Oh God, she prayed. Let him be alright.
Lord Parnell cleared his throat. He knew what Frances was thinking because that was what preyed on his mind too. âAnyway,' he said, âsomehow we have to get our hands on extra money.' He gave her a sideways glance. âOf course, we could do something about selling the paintings in the long gallery. I mean, they would raiseâ' He got no further.
âAbsolutely not, Pa,' Frances said hotly. âHugo would be furious. They're his inheritance.'
The two, so alike in looks, glowered at each other until Frances broke the silence. âLook, Pa,' she said, âI've decided I'm going to get a job. Beau Bennett offered me something when he came down last weekend.'
âA job? With Beau Bennett? Rolly Bennett's youngest?' Lord Parnell looked up in astonishment. âWhat sort of a job?' He furrowed his eyebrows. âIsn't he connected to the theatre? Some sort of actor? My God, Frances, you can't be serious.'
âI am,' she said with a grin, crinkling up her hazel eyes and tossing her long red hair. âWe need the cash.'
Della Stafford sat in the steamy cafe opposite the theatre and ordered cheese on toast. She was on her own, by choice, having grown tired of the constant chatter of her fellow chorus girls.
âTea?' the waitress asked, and Della nodded.
âAlright.' The girl walked to the next table to pick up some dirty cups. A newspaper had been left on the seat and she held it up. âD'you want this?'
âThanks,' said Della, and reached over to take it. She put it on the table while she searched in her bag for her cigarettes. Damn, they weren't there. She must have left the packet in the dressing room she shared with the other girls. That's the last she'd see of those. Oh hell, she sighed, this day had gone from bad to worse.
Arriving at the theatre for the matinee, she'd been called into the manager's office. âMiss Stafford,' he'd said, not getting up, but spreading his pudgy hands on the desk in front of him and giving her one of his leering stares. âWe're making changes. Changing the act. Something fresh for the punters. And I'm thinking of you, sugar, because you're not bad-looking and you got a cracking figure. I love that blonde hair, never mind that it comes out of a bottle.'