The Very Thought of You (2 page)

Della narrowed her eyes. She didn't trust him. ‘What changes?'

He had the grace to look away from her, swivelling his chair round so that he could look out of the window onto the grimy roofs and chimney pots of Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘Well,' he said, ‘I was thinking of something along the lines of what they do at the Windmill …'

‘What?' Della said, horrified. ‘A nude show? Striptease? Here?'

Abe Carson swivelled back to face her. ‘Calm down, ducky. I've already put it to some of the other girls and they don't mind. What's the matter with showing a bit of flesh? I expect you've shown it to one or two boyfriends, so what's the difference?'

Della had stared at him. He was utterly loathsome, but she'd known that already. ‘You'll never do it,' she said, as she walked towards the door. ‘You won't get permission.'

‘But if I do,' he called after her, ‘you could be my lead girl, and there'd be more pay for that.'

Not bothering to reply, Della slammed the door after her and walked away. Now, after the normal matinee performance, she was still furious. How dare he? How could he imagine that she would be prepared to strip? To be part of a tawdry show when she was a trained dancer and had worked in the business since she was a youngster? I'm better than that, she told herself. So much better, and I'll have a career in the theatre if it kills me.

Was it fate that the paper the waitress had passed to her was the
Stage
? And that the first advert she saw was for performers to join a new company that was being formed specially to entertain the troops? She read the advert three times before getting up and going down the street to the telephone box.

‘Sid?' she enquired when the phone was answered.

‘Who's this?' the old man's breathless voice answered.

‘Della. Della Stafford. Listen, Sid, I'm thinking of leaving the show and joining another company. One of these ENSA sort of groups. What d'you think?'

There was a long silence and Della could imagine what was going on at the other end. He'd be shuffling papers around on his desk, a thin cigarette drooping from his lips and a glass of lemon tea steaming gently beside him. Sid Wiseman, her agent, was really well past it. He should have retired years ago. God knows he was already old when he'd taken Della on as a sixteen-year-old, dancing in a variety show. But he'd become a father figure and she clung to his opinion.

‘I hear Abe Carson is thinking about a nudey show,' he gasped. ‘Is that why?'

‘Yes.'

‘Mm. Not for you, darling.'

‘I know, Sid. So if you've nothing for me, I'm going to this audition.'

Della heard the slurp as he took a gulp of tea. ‘Nothing's come in, girl. Who's running this troupe?'

‘I don't know,' she replied. ‘It was only a small advert.'

‘Well, then,' Sid grunted. ‘My advice is to go for it. If it works, you'll be seen by thousands, and I did hear that impresarios are on the lookout for new talent, now that the theatres are up and running again.'

‘Thanks, Sid.' Della smiled at herself in the phone-box mirror. ‘Take care.'

The auditions were held in a bleak church hall in a bombed-out street near the docks. This part of London had taken a battering a couple of years ago and many of the buildings, including the church, had been destroyed. But now, as weeds grew up through the ruined houses, people were going about their business and even a few shops were open. A man getting off the bus in front of Catherine shouted a cheeky greeting to a middle-aged woman who was, incongruously, among all the surrounding rubble, sweeping the pavement outside her shop. He got a cheeky reply and a grin. As Catherine alighted, she heaved a sigh. Life went on … for some.

It was cold in the church hall. The winter had been cold and wet, and early spring no better. Now, it was starting to rain again. It pattered through the holes in the roof and down onto the stone-flagged floor, where, mixed with bird lime dropped from the sparrows who were flying about the rafters, it formed a damp, slippery surface. Catherine looked at it in distaste and pulled her green coat closer. She was wearing a maroon shantung dress underneath the coat, one that she wore sometimes when she was on stage. And after all, this was an audition, wasn't it? But she did wonder if it was a bit showy. Looking around at the other performers who had drifted in, it seemed that nobody else had bothered to dress up.

They all stood close together in the only dry area. Catherine counted twelve of them, eight women and four men. She recognised one of the men, Tommy Rudd, a piano player, who'd been an occasional member of Bobby Crewe's band. She smiled at him and he gave her a wave. Catherine tried to remember why he hadn't been called up. The band members were generally older men or had some disability, but Tommy Rudd was her age and looked perfectly healthy.

‘Hello.' A tall blonde girl came to stand beside her. She wore a black suit with a fur tippet over her shoulders. ‘It's bloody freezing in here,' she said. ‘You'd never think it was nearly April.'

‘Yes, it is cold,' Catherine agreed. ‘I don't think the rain and the holes in the roof help.'

‘I'm Della Stafford,' the girl said, and held out her hand.

‘Catherine Fletcher. How d'you do?'

Della grinned. ‘You've got an accent,' she said. ‘What are you, French or something?'

‘My mother is French, but I grew up here in London. Holidays with my grandparents at Amiens, though, so I suppose there's a trace of an accent. Most people don't hear it.'

‘Oh, I did.' Della adjusted her tippet. ‘There were lots of foreigners where I lived. By the docks, you know, in Liverpool. The whole place is buggered now. Like this place.' She looked at the other people waiting for the auditions to start. ‘Let's see. Who's here? Oh look, the Miller sisters.'

‘Who?' asked Catherine.

‘The Miller sisters. Those over there.' Della jerked her head towards three middle-aged women who were standing close together. ‘They do novelty songs. Getting a bit past it, I'd have said.' She gave a throaty laugh. ‘D'you know anyone?'

Catherine pointed to Tommy Rudd. ‘I know him. He's a pianist, plays sometimes with Bobby Crewe's band.'

‘He's a bit of alright,' smiled Della, giving him the onceover. ‘Wonder why he's not in the services?'

‘I can't remember,' Catherine replied. ‘I was told, I think.'

A man and a woman came from the door at the back of the hall. She was young, with red hair and wearing brown slacks and a corduroy jacket. Her companion looked a little older, and Catherine noticed that he walked with a stick, dragging one foot along the floor as though he'd lost the ability to lift it. Poor devil, she thought, he probably has.

The young woman jumped onto the little stage and clapped her hands. ‘Hello, everybody. Thank you for coming. I'm Frances Parnell, assistant to Mr Bennett.' She pointed to her companion, who was standing beside the steps leading to the stage. He was in his late twenties, perhaps even thirty, Catherine decided, and good-looking with fair, brushed-back hair.

‘I know him,' Della whispered. ‘Beau Bennett. He was an actor before the war. I saw him in a Noël Coward.'

Frances held up her hand. ‘I suppose you all read the advertisement, but I'll tell you a bit more. We're forming a troupe to entertain the military. Now, you've all heard of ENSA and we're going to be rather like them, but perhaps a little more adventurous. We hope to be going abroad, but we will entertain at home too, and not only soldiers. There are factory workers, dockers and miners who are all doing important war work and deserve attention and entertainment. We have government approval and the ability to pay a decent fee.'

She looked down at Beau, who gave her a nod, and then he turned to face the crowd.

‘Listen,' he said. ‘This won't be a cakewalk. We might go to places that are still war zones, and there won't be special facilities for changing or making up. That might have to be done in the back of a lorry. We'll probably have to sleep in tents and go behind a bush for the necessary. So anyone who isn't prepared for that, please leave now.'

There was the tip, tap of high heels on flagstones as the Miller sisters bustled out. ‘Behind a bush,' one of them said in an indignant voice. ‘I never heard the like. We're artistes.'

Frances watched them go. ‘Oh dear,' she said. ‘But never mind, let's get on. We've got a piano' – she indicated an ancient upright, which stood rather unsteadily on the floor beside the steps that led up to the stage – ‘but sadly, no pianist. He's cried off. I don't suppose …'

Tommy Rudd held up his hand. ‘I'm a piano player. And guitar, when necessary.'

‘Oh jolly good.' Frances smiled and waved her hand towards the piano. ‘If you don't mind, Mr …?'

‘Rudd. Tommy Rudd.'

Beau Bennett leant against the piano. ‘I'm looking for singers,' he said. ‘Anyone?'

Catherine walked forward. ‘I'm a singer,' she said. ‘I've been appearing with Bobby Crewe's Melody Men. I'm Catherine Fletcher.'

‘I've seen you,' Beau grinned. ‘At the Kit Kat Club. You were brilliant. But I thought you'd retired.'

‘No, not really. I had a little girl and my husband was overseas. Now I'm looking for work again.'

Beau grinned and grasped her hand. ‘We'll start off with you, then, Mrs Fletcher. Set the standard for us, eh?'

She took off her coat and gave her music to Tommy Rudd. There was a murmur of appreciation as he played the opening bars, and then when she sang ‘The Very Thought of You' in her wonderfully melodic voice, the room fell silent. Even the birds, perched on the rafters, seemed to stop their twittering. Despite her steeling herself to remain professional, Christopher was foremost in her mind, and that gave an extra poignancy to her performance.

‘Oh my God,' Beau said, when she'd finished. ‘That was just perfect, and if you're prepared to join our little venture, we'd be honoured to have you.'

‘Thank you.'

Catherine smiled and looked over to Della, who gave her a thumbs-up sign and then, pushing herself to the front of the group, shouted, ‘I'm a singer too.'

‘Come on up – let's see what you can do,' said Beau, and without a moment's hesitation Della handed Catherine her fur tippet and stepped out of her skirt. Underneath, she was wearing a pair of red taffeta shorts over fishnet tights. When she sang ‘Ain't She Sweet?', it was clear that she hadn't much of a voice, but she tap-danced in between the second verse and the chorus, and ended with a twirl and the splits.

‘Wow!' Beau laughed. ‘That'll cheer up the boys. You're hired. Give your details to Frances.'

In the end, six of the performers were hired. Catherine and Della, along with Tommy Rudd and a ventriloquist, a magician and an older man who had a fine tenor voice. The rafters of the old church throbbed when he sang ‘On the Road to Mandalay'.

On the bus going home, Catherine smiled to herself. She had a new job and had made a new friend. Best of all, she had been able to say out loud to Frances that her husband had been posted missing in action without bursting into tears. This is what I need, she told herself. Then perhaps I'll be able to come to terms with it.

Della lit a cigarette as she sat on her bus back to her room in Soho. Thank Christ, she thought. I can go and tell Abe Carson where to stick his striptease show. I've joined a new company, and Beau Bennett has good theatre connections. This is a definite step towards stardom.

And Frances, driving the truck back to Beau's flat with him asleep in the passenger seat, grinned. She'd had her first ever pay, in cash, and half of it had gone in an envelope and been sent to her father. It wasn't much, but it would help. Somehow, she'd have to work out how to get more.

‘Where are we going?' Della asked, looking from one to the other of the Bennett Players, who were lurching around in the back of the truck. ‘Anyone know?'

‘Er … Frances said something about Kent. An airfield, I think,' Godfrey James, the tenor, said hesitantly. ‘Don't take my word, though. It isn't gospel.'

He was always hesitant, although he often bellowed when he spoke. Della guessed that it was a nervous habit and that someone was regularly putting him down. His wife, obviously. She'd been with him at the meeting point at Victoria Station and Della had taken an immediate dislike to her. She was a gaunt woman with an over-powdered face, taller than Godfrey and evidently under the illusion that she was coming on the trip too.

‘Sorry,' said Frances. ‘Performers only.'

‘But I always accompany Mr James to the theatre,' Gertrude James had said indignantly. ‘He needs me.'

‘I'm afraid that isn't possible.' Frances was checking off the members of the company on her clipboard as they drifted in and gathered on the pavement outside the station. The truck was pulled up ready for them, and Beau was sitting impatiently in the passenger seat and tapping his watch. Frances waved her arm. ‘All aboard,' she called.

Mrs James opened her mouth to argue, but Frances turned her head to look at her. ‘Yes?' she enquired sharply. ‘Was there something else?'

Della dug Catherine in the ribs. ‘D'you see that?' she whispered. ‘She sounds as if she's speaking to one of the servants.'

Catherine smiled and started to climb into the truck. She was excited. This would be the first time she'd sung in front of an audience for nearly a year, and although part of her felt that she might be letting down the memory of Christopher, she was looking forward to the show. Tommy Rudd had a feel for her style and the couple of rehearsals at the church hall they'd had between the auditions and this, the first performance, had gone well.