The Very Thought of You (23 page)

He was scowling again, that grim face that Catherine had seen before, and she stood up and leant on the veranda railing. She wanted to ask more about him, but not now – it seemed that he'd hit a raw spot.

‘How far away is the sea?' she asked, not looking at him. ‘My toes are dying for a dip.'

He looked up. ‘What?'

Catherine turned to him. His face was set as though unhappy memories had pushed themselves into the foreground. ‘Can we go on the beach?'

He gazed at her and then his face cleared and he stood up too. ‘Come on, I'll take you down.'

A winding, narrow track led down through the meadow as it fell towards the sea. Soon they were clambering through sand dunes and Catherine stopped to take off her shoes.

‘Give them to me,' said Robert, and stuffed each high-heeled shoe into the pockets of his battledress. The deserted little beach curved out before them, surprisingly untouched by military hardware, although in the distance to the left and right of them Catherine could see that the coastline was covered in barbed wire and wrecked bits of machinery.

‘The sand shelves away very quickly in this little bay,' said Robert, pointing out to sea. ‘The Germans knew that the marines couldn't jump out of a landing craft here. Half of them would drown, and you'd never get the vehicles off. So our beach was left alone and undefended.'

‘Well, I'm going for a paddle,' said Catherine, taking off her jacket and dropping it onto the sand. She held out her hand. ‘Come with me, Robert.'

‘Yes,' he said, and took off his jacket too and, bending down, rolled up his trouser legs. They held hands as they ventured into the sparkling water. It was cold and Catherine gasped at first and then went further in. She ignored the wind, which blew gently off the sea and sent her hair into a shining dark cloud around her face, and she laughed as she pushed it back with her free hand.

The little waves splashed against her legs, and as she went deeper, she had to hitch up her khaki skirt to stop it getting wet. ‘This is wonderful,' she said. ‘I can't remember when I last paddled.'

‘Nor me,' said Robert; then he grasped her hand tighter. ‘No further, Catherine. It is dangerous.'

She allowed him to lead her back up the beach until they reached the place where they'd dropped their jackets. The sand was warm on her bare feet and she sat down and pushed her legs out in front of her to let the sun dry them. ‘We should have brought bathing suits,' she said.

Robert sat down beside her, loosening his tie and opening the top buttons on his shirt. ‘Have you got a bathing suit in your luggage?' he asked.

‘No,' she laughed. ‘Have you?'

‘There was one at the house, I think. If it's still there. Agathe said that the Germans went through all the rooms when they came to the village, but surprisingly, as far as she can see, they didn't pinch anything. I'd imagined that the house would have been commandeered by some of the officers, but it wasn't. They took over the hotels further along the coast. We were lucky.'

‘Mm.' Catherine closed her eyes and put her face up to the sun. ‘It's a lovely house,' she said dreamily. ‘Will you live there after the war?'

Robert lay back on the sand and folded his arms under his head. ‘I don't know,' he answered. ‘It depends.'

Catherine opened her eyes and looked down at him. He seemed relaxed. The most relaxed she'd ever seen him, his glasses lying on the sand beside him and his hair, ruffled by the wind, dragged out of its usual neat side parting.

‘On what?' she asked. Half of her didn't want to hear his answer. It could be about whether he could earn a living, which would be reasonable, but what if it depended on what his wife wanted to do? There had to be a wife. Robert was – what? About the same age as Hugo and Beau, and pretty well off, she suspected. He would have a wife.

He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘On many things,' he said. ‘But' – he put a hand out and touched her face – ‘I don't want to talk about me. I want to kiss you.'

For the briefest of moments, she thought of getting up and walking through the dunes back to the Jeep, but she didn't. Instead, she put her face down to his and felt his lips cover hers. And when he put his arm around her waist and pulled her onto the sand beside him, she didn't struggle. It felt right. It was what she wanted.

She could hear the tide rolling in and gulls wailing overhead as Robert held her very close and explored her face and neck with his mouth. His hands ran over her back, pulling her to him, and she could feel that he was as aroused as she was. Let him. Let him take you, one half of her brain was screaming. It's been so very long. And she melted further into his arms.

But then, as Robert pressed his mouth on hers and started unbuttoning her shirt, an indistinct image of Christopher came into her head and, shocked, she drew back. ‘No,' she gasped. ‘No, Robert. I'm sorry. I can't.'

He stopped immediately, sitting up, breathing hard and running a shaking hand across his face. ‘Alright, Catherine,' he murmured. ‘Perhaps it's for the best.'

Without speaking further, they both got up and started to walk across the beach and through the dunes to the meadow. When they were nearly back at the house, Catherine grasped Robert's arm and drew him to a halt. ‘I wanted you to kiss me,' she said with a slight choke in her voice. ‘I wanted more than that. But the fact is, Robert, I'm not free.'

He gazed down at her troubled eyes. A curling strand of her brown hair trailed across her mouth, and lifting his hand, he gently hooked it behind her ear. ‘You are the loveliest girl I've ever seen,' he said. ‘And I think I'm truly in love for the first time in my life. But I understand what you say. You're not free, any more than I am.'

That evening in the hotel room, while she and the other two girls packed up their cases, ready for the morning's departure, Catherine thought about what Robert had said. He'd spoken of love. But what was it he'd said afterwards?
You're not free, any more than I am.
That's what he'd said. It could only mean that he has a wife, possibly children, and his feelings for me are no more than a wartime romance. They go on all the time, everybody knows that they do. Perhaps that's what he meant and I should simply treat it as that.

Putting Christopher and Lili's photos in her case, she sighed. Is that all it was?

‘That was a big sigh,' said Della. ‘Are you sorry to leave Bayeux?'

‘Not really,' Catherine answered. ‘Davey's death has cast a bit of a pall over this place.' She looked at the other girls. ‘Has anyone heard anything new?'

They both shook their heads. ‘I asked Beau,' said Frances, ‘but he said he was as much in the dark as we were.'

Della looked up from spitting into her rock-hard mascara. ‘Dr Tim said that Davey's body would probably be flown home. So that there could be an inquest and a murder inquiry, even though it happened here.'

Catherine turned down her mouth. ‘It's horrible,' she said, as she finished her packing and closed her suitcase.

‘But it won't put us off doing our best at the front,' Frances tried to cheer her up.

‘No.' Catherine sat on her bed. ‘I'm excited about going, really looking forward to singing to the troops.'

‘Me too,' said Della. ‘It'll be fun.'

‘Where did you go today?' asked Frances, glancing at Catherine, who was deep in thought. ‘We thought you were going to join us in the park, where, incidentally, we had a fabulous time.'

‘We did,' agreed Della. ‘We talked until I was hoarse, and we found out so much about each other.' She plonked herself down on Catherine's bed and, with one wicked eye on Frances, said, ‘Did you know that Frances is a lady?'

‘Of course I did,' Catherine smiled. ‘She has beautiful manners, she's very well behaved, and she doesn't swear all the time like you do.'

‘No,' Della laughed. ‘I don't mean that. She's a real lady. She's called Lady Frances. Her father is a duke or something.'

‘What?' Catherine stared at Frances. ‘Really?'

‘No,' growled Frances. ‘Della's got it wrong, as usual. My father is an earl. And Felix should have kept his mouth shut.'

‘Goodness,' said Catherine. ‘Are you terribly rich?'

‘Oh, I wish,' Frances sighed. ‘We've barely two pennies to rub together now. That's why I was working on the farm. We can't afford to pay men's wages.' She grinned at Della. ‘I bet your mother is much better off than my pa. 'Specially with the moonshine.'

Della frowned. ‘I just hope to God she hasn't gone in with that bastard Costigan.' She threw a pair of white high-heeled shoes into her case almost as though she was throwing them at Jerry Costigan. Then she looked at Catherine again. ‘Anyway, Catherine Fletcher,' she demanded, ‘what did you get up to today?'

‘Well, we went to the seaside. I paddled.'

‘And how was Robert? Did he manage to crack a smile?'

‘He was fine,' said Catherine. ‘He took me to his uncle's house, where the housekeeper made us omelettes. Then we went for a walk to the beach. All around, the coast was littered with wrecks and rubbish, but his little cove was lovely and clear.'

‘Was the uncle there?' asked Frances.

‘No, he's dead. It was just the housekeeper, Agathe. She was very nice and it was a lovely day.' A day I'll hold close all my life, thought Catherine, and the memory of Robert's mouth on hers and his hands running over her body made her heart beat a little faster.

‘I'd say you've taken the sun,' said Della, getting up and going for her wash bag. ‘Your cheeks are quite pink.'

The weather had changed again the next day, and rain spattered the windows of the bus as they were driven further inland. The Bennett Players were quiet: none of the usual shouting back and forth between them had happened this morning, and although the poker game was going on as usual at the back of the bus, the card players kept their voices down to an agreeable banter. Frances sat with Beau at the front, going over the schedule of performances and venues. She was rather alarmed to find that there had been nothing arranged for their accommodation.

‘They'll probably give us a tent wherever we perform,' said Beau, ‘or we'll have to sleep on the bus.' He looked back over his shoulder. ‘We could take out some of the seats, you know. We don't need them.'

The soldier driver who was manoeuvring the vehicle through the rutted and potholed roads turned his head. ‘Me and Walter can help with that, sir, if you want us to.'

His mate Walter, who was sitting on the opposite front seat, nodded. ‘Piece of cake, sir.'

‘Thank you, Corporal,' said Beau. ‘We'll certainly consider that.' He seemed more cheerful today, his hands weren't shaking, and Frances hadn't seen him reach for his pain medicine once during the journey.

‘What about the playlist?' she asked. ‘Shall we rejig it? Now that Davey's …' Her words trailed away. She didn't know how to put it.

‘Yes,' said Beau. ‘I think Eric should open the second half, followed by Della. What d'you think?'

‘I suppose that's alright,' said Frances, pencilling in names on her clipboard. ‘And who closes? Catherine?'

‘Oh, I think so. She's really the star, but for an encore, you three girls can do another number. Are you up for that?'

Catherine, sitting in the aisle seat beside Della, looked at the back of Frances's head as she and Beau discussed the running order. She'd caught some of the conversation and said to Della, ‘Beau wants us to do a third number. Can we think of something?'

‘I expect so,' her friend replied. She was quiet too this morning, quite unlike her normal gregarious self.

‘Did you have a lot to drink yesterday?' Catherine asked sympathetically.

‘No, not much.'

‘Then what's the matter? You seem a bit upset today.'

Della scowled. ‘There's nothing the matter with me,' she snapped. ‘Don't know what you're going on about. Minding everybody's business.'

Catherine was astonished; this was so unlike Della. She turned to face her friend. ‘Della,
chérie
, what's up?'

Her friend took out her packet of cigarettes and, lighting one, drew a couple of deep lungfuls before putting her hand on Catherine's. ‘Sorry, darling,' she said. ‘Didn't mean to snap. It's just that …'

‘That you're missing Tim?'

Della nodded. ‘Stupid, isn't it? Missing someone you've known for only a week. And someone like him too. I mean, he's so bloody … innocent.'

Catherine laughed. ‘What does it matter if he's different from all the other rogues you pick up? He's a nice man, and he seems to like you. In fact, from what I saw, he's crazy about you.'

‘D'you really think so?' Della pressed Catherine's hand. ‘D'you think he is?'

‘Yes,' said Catherine. ‘He's mad for you.'

Della relaxed then, and her usual grin lit her face. ‘D'you know, he was going to be a priest? That's what his mammy wanted, but after a year in the sem …' She paused. ‘I can't remember the name of the place where men go to be priests, but anyway, he left. His mammy was furious, he said, still is. Silly old cow. I'd like to give her a piece of my mind.'

By the time they'd reached the first roadblock, Della was back to her old self and had gone to sit beside Walter. ‘Where are you from?' she asked him.

‘Birkenhead, miss.'

‘Well, I never,' Della giggled. ‘We're neighbours. I'm from the 'Pool. D'you come across the water ever?'

‘Hold on, folks,' called the driver. ‘We're stopping.' They were on the edge of a wood, and a barrier had been placed across the road. It was manned by four guards, who were armed with rifles, and another two were at the edge of the trees with a machine gun, which was aimed at the bus. The Bennett Players stared out of the window at it as the driver climbed down and showed the guards their pass.