The Very Thought of You (15 page)

Catherine and Della looked at each other. ‘I thought it would be safe,' whispered Catherine.

‘He's probably only saying that to make him seem more important,' Della whispered back. ‘Anyway, with all these soldiers about, the Krauts won't come anywhere near us.' Since being on dry land, Della's sickness had abated. She still looked washed out, but her confidence had returned, as had her enthusiasm for the venture. She looked through the bus window as they drove along the cobbled street beside the Gothic cathedral. ‘Look!' she squealed, grabbing hold of Catherine's arm.

‘What?'

‘Yanks!'

Catherine followed Della's pointing finger and saw what she was looking at. A group of GIs were standing beside the cathedral door. Nearby was a Jeep and Catherine guessed that they'd come to have a look at the sights during their few hours off duty. They turned round when Frances braked to let a military truck pull out in front of the bus and, spotting them, started to whistle; a couple of them ran over and banged on the windows.

‘Hi, honey!' A young sergeant jumped up to Della's window.

She giggled, then daringly blew him a kiss.

The rest of the Players grinned at him and at his companions, who had got into their Jeep and driven it alongside the bus. The young sergeant hauled himself aboard and shouted, ‘What's your name, good-lookin'?'

‘Della!'

‘What?'

She opened her handbag and, finding a pencil and a piece of paper, wrote,
Della Stafford … theatre tomorrow p.m.
, and held the paper up to the window as Frances drove on to their hotel.

‘It takes me to drum up an audience,' said Della triumphantly.

The Hôtel Côte de Nacre was on a narrow street behind the cathedral. It was small with grey-painted shutters on the first- and second-floor windows, and a cafe at street level. A striped awning hung over the tables and chairs, which crowded the pavement on either side of the door, and even at now, at mid-afternoon, several people were sitting on the metal chairs, casually drinking glasses of wine and reading the newspaper. This, added to the relatively undamaged town that they'd driven through, was astonishing.

‘You'd hardly think that there's a war on,' said Godfrey.

‘It was the first town we liberated,' Robert agreed. ‘The Jerries put up virtually no resistance. You'll see later that some of the others have been almost obliterated.'

Catherine felt a shiver run down her spine. She thought about her grandparents, further north at Amiens. What had happened to them?

‘Stop here,' said Robert, pointing to the hotel. Then, turning to Frances, he continued, ‘Beau and I will find somewhere to park the bus. You go inside with the others and find your rooms.'

The boys got out first and unloaded the suitcases. They left the baskets with the stage clothes and props where they'd been stored at the back of the bus.

‘We'll unload them at the theatre,' Beau said. ‘We'll be there for the next week, before moving on. Just like the old days.'

They laughed. Most of the company had done the circuits, Glasgow one week, Birmingham the next, always on the move.

Della grinned. ‘Audiences of fit young men, night after night. What could be better?'

‘Della, you're mad,' smiled Catherine, as they picked up their bags.

‘Why?'

‘Flirting with an American soldier before we've hardly got here. A couple of hours ago, you were dying.'

Della grinned and walked towards the hotel door. ‘I like Yanks,' she said. ‘Harry was a Yank.'

‘Harry?' Frances had joined them.

‘Harry Stafford, my husband.'

Catherine and Frances looked at each other.

‘Husband?' Frances stared at Della. ‘Did you say “husband”?'

‘Yep.' Della gave a little grin and leant on the shiny wooden reception desk that doubled as the hotel bar. A stern-looking older woman, dressed in black with her thin grey hair scraped into a high knot, stood in front of the rows of bottles. Della gave her a grin and then turned to her friends. ‘Catherine,' she said. ‘Come and do your stuff. Ask Madame Défarge here about our rooms and, more importantly, where the conveniences are. I'm absolutely bursting.'

The woman scowled. She patently understood a little English. ‘
Madame
' – she sniffed – ‘
les toilettes sont là
.' She pointed to a door beside the bar.

‘Thanks.' Della nodded politely and then, turning to her amused friends, said, ‘I'll join you in a minute … Find out where our rooms are.'

When she finally did join them in the room that the three girls had to share, she was bubbling with indignation.

‘The lav,' she grumbled, ‘it was outside.'

‘For goodness' sake.' Catherine shook her head. ‘You must be used to that. I bet there aren't any inside toilets in the Courts.'

‘No, there aren't, but it's years since I've lived at home. And worse than that, these French ones don't have a seat! You have to, well, you have to squat.'

Frances and Catherine burst out laughing, and after a moment, Della joined in. ‘Oh God,' she gasped, wiping her eyes, ‘what have we let ourselves in for?' She unbuttoned her uniform jacket and pushed off her shoes. ‘Which is my bed?'

Frances looked around the room. It was furnished with three narrow iron beds and not much else. In one corner was a curtain and, behind it, a decorated porcelain washbasin and a bidet. ‘Whichever one you want,' she answered. ‘They all look uncomfortable.'

‘This will do.' Della sat on one of the beds and lit a cigarette. ‘Home sweet home, I don't think. Where are the boys?'

‘They've got rooms on this floor. Tommy and Colin are sharing. Godfrey's on his own, and so is Eric. Beau is in the house next door. It's been commandeered by the army and they've found a place for him with the officers.'

‘Who's a lucky boy, then,' Della smiled. ‘I don't suppose he'd consider a swap?'

‘Before we go into sleeping arrangements,' said Catherine, sitting on the bed next to Della, ‘tell us about Harry Stafford. We thought' – she looked at Frances, who nodded eagerly – ‘that Stafford was only a stage name. You never said that you'd married.'

‘Didn't I?' Della drew on her cigarette. ‘Well, it was a while ago now. He was an illusionist who I met when I was doing a summer season in Brighton.' She stood up and walked over to the window, which looked out onto the street. ‘What can I say? I fell in love. So did he, I think. He was an American, you know, from Brooklyn, New York. He kept telling me how much I'd love it there. We were going, emigrating – well, I was. But I kept putting it off: there was Ma and Maria and Paddy. My money was helping. Then war was declared.'

She turned back to face them. ‘And d'you know what that silly bugger did? He joined the army, the British Army, for Christ's sake. Said he believed in doing something against Hitler. He went to France right at the beginning and that's the last I heard. Reported missing, just like your bloke, Catherine. One of his friends told me he'd been blown up.' There was a choke in her voice as she said that last and Catherine walked over to put an arm around her, followed swiftly by Frances. They stood, arms wrapped about each other for several moments, gaining comfort from their friendship until Della broke away.

‘Enough,' she said. ‘The boys will be talking about us. Well, at least Eric will.'

‘Oh Lord,' grinned Frances. ‘We'd better get moving. Beau's arranged that we can rehearse in the theatre this evening at six o'clock, which we might need, and also he said something about a soldier joining us. He was a comedian before the war – worked all over, apparently.'

‘What's his name?' asked Della.

‘Um …' Frances tapped her lip. ‘I've forgotten. Davey something, I think. Anyway, he was wounded in Italy, and when he came out of hospital, he was transferred to the Entertainments Division. He's been offered to us.'

Della frowned. ‘There was a Davey Jones. I remember him at the Palace in Manchester, but he was the straight man for Lenny Locker. I don't think it can be him.'

‘Anyway' – Frances went to the door – ‘I'm going to ask the boys to gather on the pavement at half five. I'll find Beau and he can tell me where the bus is.'

‘Any chance of a cup of tea downstairs?' asked Della.

‘I shouldn't think so,' said Frances. ‘We can use the NAAFI and the officers' mess. Major Lennox will give us the info.'

At half past five, the Players gathered on the pavement outside the hotel. Catherine and Della sat at a table sipping brandy, which was the only drink that Della recognised. Catherine warned her against the absinthe, which the workmen at the next table were drinking. ‘That's the green fairy. It's a dangerous drink,' she said. ‘It makes people mad.' But even as she said that, she looked over to the table where Eric sat with Captain Fortescue on his knee and saw him pour water from a dusty carafe into a glass of the
feé verte
.

The theatre was an old building that had seen many changes over the centuries, but it had a fine stage and Catherine enjoyed stepping out onto it to rehearse her first number. In discussion with Beau, she'd added a couple of different songs to her list and now, nodding to Tommy, who sat at a battered upright piano, she launched into the first one.

Some local workmen were in the theatre. They'd carried the wicker hampers from the bus and, under Frances's instructions, put them in the rather dingy dressing rooms backstage. As the rehearsals started, they had been noisy, shouting instructions to each other while they manoeuvred the hampers through the narrow corridors. But when Catherine started to sing, they gradually began to come to the wings, silenced now, and listening entranced as her voice floated across the theatre.

‘
Bravo, mademoiselle!
' one of them called, and the others clapped their hands furiously.

‘Praise indeed,' said Beau, grinning. ‘From people who've seen and heard it all.'

‘Thank you,' Catherine smiled, and turning to the workmen, said, ‘
Merci beaucoup, messieurs.
'

‘Can we get on with it?' Eric snapped, dragging a wooden chair to the centre of the stage and sitting down. He put Captain Fortescue on his knee and looked up to where a technician was adjusting the spotlights. ‘Have you got me?' he called in the captain's voice. ‘After all, old fruit, this is a review, don't you know? Not a one-woman show, no matter how much she likes to hog the limelight.'

The rest of the company, who had been waiting for their turn to rehearse and listening with pleasure while Catherine sang, looked shocked.

‘Bad show, sir,' said Godfrey, and Tommy and Colin muttered their disgust.

Frances looked at Beau to see if he would say something, but he merely walked away to talk to the stage manager. What is the matter with him? thought Frances, and taking Catherine's hand, she whispered in her friend's ear, ‘Ignore him. He's just vile.'

‘He's a bastard,' said Della, not bothering to lower her voice, ‘but don't you worry. Let's look forward to the show, and somehow I'll find a way to do for him.'

‘Della!' A voice came from the back of the theatre, and turning to face the soldier who was walking up the aisle, her angry face dissolved into a welcoming smile.

‘Davey Jones, as I live and breathe.'

‘Well, well. Della Stafford. As glamorous as ever, and in uniform.' Davey Jones bent to give her a friendly peck on the cheek. He was tall, very tall, with sandy hair and pale skin. A livid scar ran down the side of his face and extended beneath his collar. It was puckered in places, which dragged his eye down slightly and gave him a look of constant sadness. But he wasn't sad, and when he was introduced to the rest of the Players, he had a cheery word for each of them.

‘Mr James, how are you?' he grinned. ‘D'you remember me?'

‘I do, indeed, young man,' said Godfrey, and confided to Frances, ‘Davey was a boy when I first met him. At Blackpool, wasn't it, Davey?'

‘Yes, Mr James, we were on the same bill.'

Godfrey chuckled. ‘You've grown a span since then.'

Colin hadn't met him before, nor Tommy or Catherine. ‘You've got a lovely voice, Mrs Fletcher,' he said, when they were introduced. ‘I could hear it as I came into the theatre.'

‘Thank you,' she said, ‘and please, call me Catherine.'

‘So, this is the company,' he grinned, glancing around, and then his face fell when he saw Eric, who was arguing with the French workman who was adjusting the spotlight.

‘D'you know him?' asked Frances.

‘Oh God, yes,' Davey said. ‘I know him. What's he calling himself these days?'

‘Eric Baxter,' said Tommy, joining in. ‘And the doll is Captain Fortescue.'

‘Baxter, eh. He was Eric Lawford when I knew him, and I was told that he'd been Farley before that.'

‘Why does he keep changing his name?' asked Frances.

Davey frowned. ‘We all change our names. I was David Hardcastle before I teamed up with Lenny Locker.' He stared at Eric and then said in a lowered voice, ‘He was a blackshirt, you know, before the war. One of Mosley's mob, and there was a rumour about him having been in prison.'

As the others turned their heads to gaze at Eric, Davey added in an urgent hiss, ‘Look, I don't know that for sure, and I beg you, for God's sake, don't quote me.'

‘He's not a bad ventriloquist,' said Godfrey, generous as ever. ‘I've seen plenty worse.'

‘That's as maybe,' Davey conceded. ‘But years ago, before he had the doll act, he was an actor in rep and got terrible notices. Then the next thing, he was in variety. Singing, tap-dancing, all sorts. I was on the same bill once when he bombed and they actually dragged him off stage with the hook.'