The Very Thought of You (18 page)

‘Nothing's up,' Catherine replied crossly. ‘It's just stuffy in here. I could do with some fresh air.' She got up and walked to a window that was slightly open and leant her face against the glass.

Rain was beating down hard, and under the low cloud, the tented hospital seemed sad and dismal. A few nurses ran from tent to tent, hands over their caps to stop the starch melting out, and now and then a patient could be seen, helped along on crutches or in a wheelchair, being taken along the metal tracks between departments. How terrible for them, Catherine thought. Only a few days ago, these had been healthy young men, and then, in a heartbeat, they'd been wounded and their lives altered, perhaps, forever.

She could see a soldier at the entrance to one of the big tents. He was in a wheelchair, with a red blanket covering his legs, and was looking up at the rain. His nurse was holding an umbrella over his head, and when she bent down to push off the brake, Catherine saw him attempt to pinch her bottom. The gales of laughter that ensued from the pair of them were carried on the wind so that Catherine could hear them clearly and she smiled too. How brave they both were, she thought, and then suddenly she felt ashamed of herself.

Why can't I be more like that? I'm not brave. I've been moping about for months now, drifting like a piece of flotsam on the tide of misery. If Christopher is gone, and, she steeled herself, that is the most likely thing, then I have to accept it and get on with my life. Lili needs a cheerful mother, not one who's always looking backwards. She looked over her shoulder into the room to see Della painting her nails and Frances with a book propped up on her coffee cup. They've got on with their lives, she thought, and now, so must I.

Pleased with herself for having to come to a decision, she looked back at the soldier and nurse, but they had gone – hurried across the walkway into another tent, she supposed. But something, or someone else attracted her attention.

In the room behind her, Della yawned. ‘This is so bloody boring,' she moaned. ‘How about us doing a bit of rehearsal?'

‘I'm up for it,' said Frances, putting down her book. ‘We could do that new number you suggested.' She looked over to the boys. ‘Tommy! Come and play for us. We want to rehearse.'

‘Give us a moment,' he called back. ‘I'm on a roll here.'

The boys were playing poker, a game that had been going on for weeks for three of them, and now Davey had become a keen participant. He was quite good but, surprisingly, not as good as Godfrey. The tenor gave off an air of being a bumbling old fool, but he was a clever player and often got the better of Tommy. Colin wasn't. Often he would forget the rules and complained when the others corrected him.

‘I was brought up a Wee Free,' he cried. ‘Card playing, along with drinking and music are works of the devil. You know fine well that you've tempted me. Led me astray.'

‘Rubbish,' cried Tommy. ‘Christ knows you do enough card tricks. You should be better than the rest of us.' He dropped a shilling onto the table. ‘Come on, show us what you've got.'

Della sighed. ‘It's hopeless. We're never going to get to rehearse.'

‘I know,' said Frances, and then, looking around, asked, ‘Where's Eric? He's disappeared again.'

‘Who cares?' Della snorted.

‘He's outside,' Catherine called from the window. ‘I can see him.' She'd been watching him for a while, curious to know why he was talking to a soldier who wore an orderly's white coat. As she watched, Eric delved into his army greatcoat and withdrew a carton of cigarettes. The soldier, after quickly looking around, put them in his own pockets and, after another few seconds of conversation, walked away. ‘He's doing a deal,' she whispered to Frances, who had joined her at the window.

‘What sort of a deal?'

‘I don't know, but it looks like it, don't you think?'

‘What were you whispering about?' asked Della when they rejoined her. Catherine quickly told her and Della raised her eyebrows. ‘Black market?' she asked.

The girls shrugged. It was war; everyone was doing deals of one sort or another. ‘Perhaps he's getting a supply of coffee to sell when we get home,' said Catherine. ‘I wouldn't mind some, and I know Maman would be delighted.'

‘Listen up.' Beau and Robert had been talking with the medical officer, who had returned to the Nissen hut. His cheerful face was downcast and remained so when Beau announced, ‘I don't think we can do a performance here today. The rain hasn't stopped and doesn't look as if it's going to. It's a pity, but there it is. Captain O'Brien here' – he nodded to the doctor – ‘can't let his patients lie outside and get wet.'

The company groaned. They'd endured a long ride in an uncomfortable lorry and now they were going to have to endure another one back without having done what they came for.

Tommy stood up. ‘Excuse me, Beau and Doctor. If the patients can't come to us, why can't we go to the patients? That piano' – he jerked his head towards it – ‘is on wheels, and I suppose it was going to be taken outside for the show. Why can't we wheel it into the wards? It'll be a smaller show than usual, and Della won't be able to do her somersaults, but the girls and Godfrey can sing, and Colin and Davey can do their turns. Even Eric, if he bothers to turn up. What d'you think?'

‘Grand,' said the doctor before Beau and Robert had a chance to speak. ‘We'd love it. That is, if you don't mind. Some of our boys are quite badly injured, so … well, there'll be some sights in the ward that the young ladies will find difficult.'

‘We don't mind,' Della said quickly. ‘Not at all. Anything to cheer up the troops.'

The doctor beamed at her, while Catherine and Frances raised their eyebrows at each other. Della was notoriously squeamish.

It was decided, and twenty minutes later, they were in the centre of the big tent, where recovering soldiers were lying on narrow cot beds.

The light was very poor inside, and when the company took their places beside the piano, they took up even more room in the packed tent. There was hardly any space between the beds, with the nurses squeezing this way and that to tend to their patients.

‘How can they bear the smell?' Della muttered, putting a hand to her face.

‘Shush,' said Catherine. She had noticed how young most of them looked, and how pale. Several had plaster casts, and one or two had extensive bandages over their heads. One man had both eyes covered, and a dressing over his jaw.

‘We'll be moving Lieutenant Strange back home tomorrow,' whispered Matron, noticing where Catherine was looking. ‘He's been blinded.'

Della opened the show as usual with an upbeat number, sitting on top of the piano, with her uniform skirt hitched up to her thighs. ‘You are my sunshine,' she crooned, and in the second chorus jumped down from the piano and walked around the beds, encouraging the soldiers to join in. They did, and cheered when she finished and begged for more.

‘Later,' she promised, and blew a kiss to a young man with a bandage round his chest who was lying flat on his cot.

The boys went on next, Colin doing a shortened version of his act, mostly card tricks, which intrigued the men, and then Godfrey sang ‘There'll Always Be an England', followed by ‘I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen'. Captain O'Brien joined in with that, singing in a high tenor voice, which harmonised brilliantly with Godfrey's rich voice.

‘Well done, sir,' boomed Godfrey to the doctor, and the soldier patients clapped and called out a mixture of congratulations and insults.

‘You'd never be out of work in showbiz,' laughed Della, punching Captain O'Brien on his arm. ‘If you decided to give up the doctoring, that is.'

He grinned. ‘Now wouldn't that be a great offer, Miss … Sorry, I didn't catch your name.'

‘Stafford, Della. Call me Della.'

‘I will indeed, and let me tell you, I thought you were grand.'

‘Flatterer,' she smiled, and punched his arm again.

Davey did his monologues and sang ‘Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major', which drew howls of approval from the men.

The nurses quietly moved from bed to bed while the company was performing, and at one point, during Davey's act, the matron requested a pause while they moved one patient, who was obviously in pain, out of the ward.

‘Poor man,' whispered Catherine, and Frances nodded her head and then she dug Catherine in the ribs.

‘Look,' she said, jerking her head to the doorway, where the patient had been wheeled out. Eric had come in, his hair black and slick with rain, and he was carrying the suitcase that contained Captain Fortescue.

‘He's going to do his turn,' said Catherine, and Della leant over and growled, ‘I hope Beau's spoken to him.'

Eric waited for Davey to finish and then, after a nod from Beau, walked forward. As he bent to open the case, Robert appeared by his side. ‘Remember what I said,' he whispered.

Eric ignored him, fiddling with one of the latches, which seemed to be stuck, when suddenly Robert jammed his foot on top of the case.

‘I mean it.' His voice was harsh and Catherine looked at him with new eyes. ‘I'm quite prepared to send you home, and' – he leant forward – ‘I can make sure you never work again.'

The girls, shocked, looked at each other and waited.

‘Alright,' Eric muttered, still refusing to look up.

‘Good,' said Robert, and lifted his well-polished shoe off the case, which immediately snapped open, revealing Captain Fortescue lying on his purple cushion.

The doll was picked up and settled on Eric's arm. Its head turned slowly to stare at Robert. ‘This won't be forgotten,' it said in the captain's fruity voice. ‘No, by God. Never forgotten.'

Eric did his act, keeping his remarks and jokes well within the bounds of decency, and the other members of the company breathed more easily. If Eric was sent home in disgrace, who knew what might happen to the rest of them?

‘Now,' called Beau, standing up in front of the row of beds when Eric had finished to a laughing round of applause, ‘we have a further treat for you. Catherine Fletcher, who some of you might have heard on the radio or even seen at various London clubs, is going to sing for us.' He turned to her and held out his hand to draw her forward.

She nodded to Tommy, who started the opening bars of ‘As Time Goes By' and a hush descended throughout the tent. When she opened her mouth and started to sing, the bedridden audience lay back on their pillows and listened. Somehow, in this small space, her voice seemed even more intimate, as if she was singing to each soldier individually, and they were spellbound.

‘Wow,' breathed Captain O'Brien, when she'd finished and the patients were clapping wildly.

‘She's good, isn't she?' Della said.

‘Not as good as you, Miss Stafford.' He pushed a hand through his untidy hair and grinned down at her.

‘Oh,' she said, pleased and surprised. ‘You really are a flatterer.'

There was no time for the conversation to continue, because Catherine was singing again. She decided to sing her French song, and when she started, one or two locals who had been delivering bread to the camp came in to listen to her.

It went down as well as the first, particularly when she walked between the beds and even along to the far end of the tent, where three beds were partially curtained off. She looked at the nurse standing by the curtain, and when she was given nodded permission, she walked behind the curtain to sing to the three patients who were there. One of the boys was sitting up. He was very young, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, and he looked as if he'd been crying. Catherine noticed the dried tears on his cheeks first, and then with a stab in her heart saw the blue-grey jacket that he wore over his hospital gown. It was a German uniform.

If there was a pause in the lyrics, it was unnoticeable. She had nearly stopped singing, such was the shock of seeing a German soldier, but her professionalism kicked in and she carried on. Turning, she walked back to the centre of the ward, singing now in English and smiling at the patients and nurses until she was beside the piano.

The tent rang with cheers and Catherine, acknowledging them with a bow and a wave, was concerned that it would make the patients worse.

Dr O'Brien had much the same worries and stood forward and gestured for them to calm down. ‘Enough, gentlemen,' he said. ‘The old blood pressure will be rising.'

‘More,' shouted a soldier lying close to the piano. ‘Let's hear the girls again.'

‘Yes,' more of them yelled, and the doctor looked hopelessly at Beau. ‘Perhaps one more song,' he said.

Beau beckoned Frances over. ‘The three of you, but go easy.'

‘Alright,' she said, and looking at Della and Catherine, said, ‘What'll it be? Got to be something quiet.'

‘What about “Lili Marlene”?' whispered Della. ‘You always like that, Catherine, because of baby Lili.'

‘The men behind the curtain are Germans.' Catherine's face was set in a frown.

Della shrugged. ‘All the more reason,' she grinned, and nodded to Tommy.

While they sang, Catherine couldn't keep her eyes off the Germans at the end of the ward. It was clear that they were enjoying it, but the youngster started to cry again, and some part of her felt sorry for him. The British patients joined in and Della grabbed the doctor and even made him sing with them.

The whole company was exhausted at the end of the show and Matron led them to the canteen, where sandwiches and beer awaited. ‘Lovely show,' she said. ‘You've really bucked up the blokes. One or two of them would like autographs, if you don't mind, and we thought a photograph would be good.'

Frances looked at the others and said, ‘We don't mind that, do we?'

They posed all together for the photograph in front of a row of beds, the girls sitting on chairs hastily arranged by the nurses and the boys at the back. Eric had disappeared again, much to Beau's annoyance, and he held up the photographer while they waited for him.