The Very Thought of You (20 page)

‘D'you think I could have a go?'

‘Of course,' said Frances. ‘Why not? But I warn you, he's not in the mood to listen.'

For a moment, he looked as though he was going to say something else; then he smiled and said, ‘I suppose it can wait. Baxter's bound to make another mistake. Then he'll be finished.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Positive. Go on. Have a nice evening.' He started to walk away towards the bar and then turned back and said, in a lowered voice, ‘Don't say anything to the others just yet. I don't want to rock the boat, being the new boy and all that. If they ask, tell them I was wondering about putting a different monologue into my act.'

‘Alright.' She watched him go towards the bar and frowned. She hated the fact that a member of the company was so disliked by everyone else.

Della was still grumbling when she caught them up, but Tim was surprisingly good at calming her down, and by the time they'd been to the officers' mess and picked up Lieutenant Strange, she was in a happy mood again and skipping along the street.

At first, Felix Strange was reluctant to join them. He was sitting by himself in the officers' mess waiting for someone to bring him supper. Frances noticed that his fingers, placed on the table in front of him, were running over imaginary keys. He's playing the piano, she thought, and a wave of sympathy washed over her.

‘Hello,' she said, going up to him before the others. ‘It's Frances, Frances Parnell.'

‘Frances?' He moved his head towards her and smiled. The dressing that had been on his jaw when Frances had seen him at the field hospital had been removed and she could see the evidence of the shrapnel damage he'd suffered. Flesh had been torn out of his chin and the wound hastily stitched together, and she could tell that it still hurt, for he gave a little gasp of pain when he smiled at her.

‘What are you doing here?' he asked.

‘We've come to collect you.' Frances sat down beside him. ‘We're going to a cafe Robert knows, to have some dinner. Dr O'Brien has said you're fit enough, so come on.'

‘Who's “we”?' he asked.

‘Oh, me and Catherine and Della, plus Robert and Dr O'Brien.'

He took his hands off the table and nervously put them on his lap. ‘No, I'll hold you back,' he said. ‘Go and enjoy yourselves.'

‘Sure and I'm not having that, son.' Tim O'Brien had joined Frances. ‘You're fit enough to go to a cafe, and in my opinion it'll do you good. Therapy, of the best sort. On your feet, Lieutenant.'

He was going to argue, Frances could see that. ‘I'd love it if you came,' she said quickly, and took his hand. ‘I'd like to hear about Hugo at school. I miss him so much, and we haven't had a letter or any information for over a year.'

Reluctantly, Felix stood up. ‘If you're sure,' he said, ‘and you don't mind leading me.'

‘I don't mind at all,' said Frances, and tucked her hand under his arm.

It was quite late when they all walked in, late for England but not for France, it seemed, for the place was busy with locals, men in blue workmen's clothes and women with sleepy children on their laps, using spoons to drink up the heavy garlicky sauce in their bowls of mussels.

‘Oh Lord,' groaned Robert from where they were standing by the open door. ‘I don't think there's room for us.'

‘Wait,' said Catherine, and went over to the thin blackclad woman behind the counter. ‘Madame,' she asked in her perfect French, ‘perhaps you have room for us, for supper? We are six, and very hungry.'

‘Wait, if you please.' The proprietress used a bony finger to beckon a waiter who was placing tiny cups of very black coffee on a tin tray. She spoke rapidly to him and Catherine waited while they looked around the cafe. Eventually the waiter jerked his head towards a table where a mother and three children were beginning to get up and move away. Beside it was a smaller, empty table.

‘Mademoiselle, we will push the tables together, there.' She pointed. ‘Yes?'

‘Yes, thank you, madame,' Catherine smiled.

There was no choice of menu, but everything they ate was delicious. Onion soup, complemented with shavings of cheese, croutons and garlic mayonnaise, followed by bowls of steaming mussels.

‘I love this,' mumbled Della, in between mouthfuls. She had been suspicious at first, never having seen, let alone eaten, a mussel before, but persuaded by Tim O'Brien, she had dug in and squealed with laughter when spurts of liquid shot across the table. ‘I'm sorry,' she gasped. ‘I'm being so bloody clumsy.'

‘It doesn't matter,' laughed O'Brien. ‘Eat up.'

‘Let me help you,' Frances muttered to Felix. She had watched him feeling for his spoon when the soup was brought and then putting his other hand on the edge of the bowl.

‘I'm alright,' he said. ‘It's just that I don't know if I'm making a mess.'

‘You aren't,' she assured him, but when the mussels arrived, he struggled again. ‘I can open them,' he said, ‘but where do I put the shells?'

‘There's a big bowl in the middle of the table.' Frances guided his hand towards it.

After a minute, he got it right and laughed out loud.

‘Good,' she said. ‘Now, tell me how this' – she put her hand gently on his face – ‘happened.'

Robert and Catherine hardly spoke during the meal but sat in companionable silence. He said, ‘I suppose this is the first time you've been to France for years.'

‘Mm,' she answered. ‘I was here in '39, just before war was declared. It was difficult. My grandparents knew that it was coming and were so worried. Their farm, you know, is just outside Amiens, about a hundred hectares, mostly dairy.' She leant back and looked away, remembering. ‘It's a lovely place and I was always so happy there.' A deep sigh escaped her lips. ‘We haven't heard a word since the middle of 1940.' She paused. ‘No, that's not quite right. A young man who escaped to England in 1941 came to the house and gave us a message from them. Apparently they were well, but the Germans were in the village and taking all the milk from the farm. After that, nothing.'

‘Our armies are pushing forward,' Robert said. ‘Perhaps you'll hear from them soon.'

‘It is my hope, but I would love to see them for myself.'

Robert smiled. ‘Maybe we can arrange for the company to move north. The whole area is gradually being liberated.'

Della leant over. ‘What did you say? Are we going north?'

Robert shook his head. ‘Not yet. We're following the army. We'll go where they go.'

‘They're going east,' said Tim. ‘When I come back from leave, I'm being posted to a field station further on. On the front line.'

The girls looked at each other nervously. If the field hospital was on the front line, that was certainly where they'd be going.

‘Oh well.' Della took a swig from her wine glass. ‘I always said I'd probably peg out on stage.'

‘But not in your twenties,' Frances objected.

‘No, I hadn't planned that. Perhaps we shouldn't …'

‘You signed up for danger,' said Robert. ‘No backing out now.' He looked serious. ‘I mean, haven't you all signed the Official Secrets Act? Walk away now and you'll be sent to the Tower.'

‘What?' squeaked Della, a dripping mussel halfway to her mouth. ‘The Tower?'

Frances and Catherine stared at Robert and then Frances noticed the slight grin that was playing around his mouth. She giggled. ‘Robbie Lennox, you're an absolute rotter.'

He laughed. ‘Got you going, though, didn't it?' He wiped a thin, yellowy piece of bread round his bowl and with a contented sigh put it in his mouth.

Della watched him, still not entirely sure. ‘It'll be quite safe, won't it?'

Robert wiped his mouth. ‘I told you. Behind the lines at all times. Besides, Mr Churchill would be furious if we got you killed. Lord Haw-Haw would have a propaganda field day, and Winnie would hate that.'

Even Della laughed at that, and another carafe of wine was ordered. Frances was surprised at the availability of alcohol. She'd discovered that bread and meat were rationed here like they were at home, but there seemed to be no problem with drink.

‘Have some more wine,' she said to Felix. ‘It's not bad.'

‘Alright.' He groped on the table in front of him until he found the stem of his glass. ‘Is this mine?' he asked.

‘Yes,' she smiled. ‘Well done.'

He took a sip and then, turning to her, said, ‘They've told me that in a few weeks I'll be going to the training school for blind servicemen.' His voice sounded sad and Frances wished she could say something that would make him feel less despairing.

She glanced quickly at her friends. Della and Tim O'Brien were sitting very close, talking and laughing, taking no notice of the others. Catherine was telling Robert about her grandparents, describing their farm, and he was listening intently. She put her hand over Felix's long fingers. ‘Are the doctors certain that your sight has gone? In both eyes?'

‘Yes,' he nodded. ‘Or at least, in my right eye. That's certainly gone. The left too, probably, but apparently the eyeball is still there.' He gave a little shudder and she squeezed his fingers. ‘Sorry,' he whispered. ‘I'm being stupid.'

‘Nonsense!' she whispered back. ‘You have every right to be shocked by what's happened. Who wouldn't be?'

He turned his hand over and grasped hers. ‘Thank you,' he said, and grinned.

When they were all walking back to the hotel, Felix suddenly said, ‘Frances, what d'you look like?'

She smiled. ‘Do you remember Hugo? I look a bit like him.'

‘Red hair and all?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Good,' he said. ‘Now, when I'm back home and I think about this evening, I can picture you.'

‘Where is home?'

‘Well, my mother is in Salisbury. I suppose I'll go there after I've been in hospital.'

Frances, who had her arm tucked in his in order to lead him down the street, held it a bit closer. ‘That's good. We don't live too far apart. I'll come and see you when we get home.'

‘I'd like that,' he said.

When they reached the hotel, Della said, ‘How about us all going out tomorrow, a picnic or something? Tim and Felix are leaving on a night transport, so will have to hang around until the evening, and we've got a day off.'

‘I'm up for it,' said Frances. ‘What about you, Felix?'

‘I'd love it,' he said, and then, his face turning this way and that, asked, ‘Dr Tim, wherever you are, will that be alright?'

Tim stepped across and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Sure 'twill do you the world of good. And won't I be there too, so with me and Frances to look after you, you'll be in safe hands.'

That left Catherine and Robert. ‘I'd like to,' she murmured, giving Robert a quick glance, ‘but …'

‘I've got a meeting at nine,' he said, ‘but after that' – he looked down at her – ‘I'm all yours.'

When Catherine awoke, the sun was filtering through the slats in the shutters, lighting up the dusty shadows in the room. She could hear a church bell outside and then another and remembered that it was Sunday. At home, Maman would be pushing Lili in her big pram to church and then sitting with her on her knee while the priest intoned the prayers for redemption and peace. I haven't been to Mass since I heard about Christopher, Catherine thought. I couldn't. It seemed pointless. Devoid of hope. But now, lying here on the narrow bed, she wondered if she'd been wrong. Perhaps, if I'd prayed, things would have been different; Chris would be alive. Certainly Maman and Father Clement tried to persuade me. ‘Come to confession,' he'd said kindly. ‘It will cleanse your soul and you'll feel better.' And Maman had nodded anxiously, standing beside him in the little front room of their house. Catherine had shaken her head. ‘I don't want to feel better,' she'd said. ‘Leave me alone.'

But now, in this room, with her friends sleeping in adjacent beds, she felt at ease. I could go to church, she thought. I could pray for Christopher's soul and then get on with my life.

She rolled over and looked at the photographs of Christopher and Lili that she had placed on the rickety cupboard beside her bed. The one of Christopher had been taken in the park. She smiled, remembering that day when they'd planned their future. Chris was on leave, but he'd refused to talk about the war. ‘Forget it,' he'd said. ‘Let's talk about after.'

‘I've been to the doctor,' she said, as they strolled, hand in hand, beside the lake.

He'd stopped and turned to stare at her. ‘Oh God. Are you ill?'

‘No,' she'd laughed. ‘We are going to have a baby.'

‘You clever girl,' he'd said, and there in front of all the other Londoners who were enjoying the park, he'd picked her up and twirled her round.

‘Stop it,' she'd protested. ‘Everyone's looking.'

‘I don't care,' he'd said, and bent his head down to kiss her. ‘I want all the world to know how much I love you.'

Later, sitting on a bench, she'd told him that she wanted to give up show business. ‘You and the baby are the most important things now. I will be a proper housewife.'

‘In that case,' Christopher had said eagerly, ‘shall we leave London and go and live in the country? I'd like that, and I think country life would suit you. You're always saying how much you love your grandparents' farm, and anyway, it'll be a good place to bring up the children.'

‘Children?' she'd smiled. ‘Let me have this one first.' She'd leant her head on his shoulder. ‘I love you so much, Christopher. I want us to be together, always.'

‘I did mean it,' she whispered to the photograph, and Chris smiled back at her, his fair hair brushed away from his face and his spectacles dangling from his hand. I'd forgotten about the glasses, she suddenly thought, and swinging her legs out of bed, sat up. He wore glasses for reading. Why haven't I remembered that? Oh God. What else is drifting away?