The Very Thought of You (26 page)

‘Oh Lord,' groaned Della, as they drove along a narrow lane where fat blond cows in the fields on either side of the road gazed at them over green hedges. ‘Where the hell is he taking us? It'll be some little hovel or another bloody campsite.'

She couldn't have been more wrong. Under Robert's instruction, Trevor turned in through stone entrance pillars. ‘Nearly there,' said Robert, as Trevor followed a long, winding drive. They turned the final corner, and magically, their accommodation came into view.

‘Wow!' shouted Della, and Frances and Catherine laughed.

A pretty eighteenth-century chateau lay before them, shimmering in the late-afternoon sun.

‘Will this hovel do?' asked Robert.

Della sat in front of the mirror on the rosewood dressing table in the huge bedroom she shared with Frances and Catherine, and stared at her reflection. Her face, with its high cheekbones and startlingly blue eyes under straight, dark brows, stared back at her. She examined her hair, darker at the roots now, showing up her natural chestnut colouring, and tried to remember how long it had been since she'd decided to become a blonde. ‘Donkey's years,' she muttered.

‘What?' asked Frances. ‘What did you say?'

Della swivelled round. ‘I said, “Donkey's years.” I was wondering how long I'd been a blonde.'

‘Oh,' said Frances. She was sitting on her bed with paper and envelopes on her knee. Mail had been delivered today, sent on from the PO forces box that the Players were told to use. Frances had two letters. One was from her father, with news about the farm and the village, and thanks for the money that she was having forwarded to him.

An owl got stuck in the library chimney and made a hell of a mess before we could get it out
, he wrote.
Mr Rogers, senior, the old vet, came with his gloves and yanked on its leg. It pecked the hell out of him before it was forced down; then it flew around the room, making more mess, before it saw the window was open. I had to give old Rogers a couple of bob.

Rainwater is dripping into the attics in the north wing, and part of the bell tower on the stables collapsed during the gales.

We're alright. Johnny is a boy to be proud of. I've got him up on a young Welsh cob I bought at the horse fair. He loves it. They can grow up together.

How much did that damn pony cost? Frances wondered, turning over the page. Had her father no sense?

In the few more lines on the back, he had written that there was no news from Hugo, but sent fondest love from him and Johnny. There was a little drawing that Johnny had done of a pony; at least, Frances thought that it was a pony and she got up to show it to Della.

‘My little boy did that,' she said proudly.

Della gave it a brief glance. ‘What is it? A train or something?'

Frances laughed. ‘I think it's supposed to be a pony. My father has gone and bought him one, though where he got the money from, I have no idea.'

‘He sounds as bad as my ma,' Della grumbled, and picked up the flimsy sheet of airmail paper that lay on top of her make-up bag. ‘She's taking Maria to London to see a new specialist, but unlike you, I'm pretty sure that I do know where the money is coming from. Jerry bloody Costigan.'

‘He does take a very close interest in your family,' said Frances. ‘Is he related to you in some way?'

‘No,' said Della. ‘He isn't.' She changed the subject abruptly. ‘Who's your other letter from?'

Frances's face lightened. ‘It's from Felix. Remember, Felix Strange? He's in a convalescent hospital on the south coast. And guess what?' She picked up her other letter. ‘He writes that he can now see light and dark with one eye and sometimes shapes. The doctors are pleased and think that he'll get some sight back.'

‘Good for him,' Della grinned. ‘You really got fond of him, didn't you?'

‘I suppose I did,' said Frances slowly. ‘He's another link to my brother.'

‘And that's all?' Della raised her eyebrows. ‘Looked like more than that to me … In fact, I'd say you were definitely sweet on him, you baby-snatcher!'

‘Shut up,' Frances growled. ‘He's only a year younger than me.'

‘He looks more like four.' Della grinned. ‘Anyway, let's go down. Catherine will be back any minute.'

Arm in arm, they walked down the long corridor to the grand staircase that led down into the magnificent rooms below. The chateau had been commandeered by the army as extra accommodation, but apart from the Bennett Players, it was practically empty. An elderly caretaker and his wife lived in a few of the back rooms, she popping out now and then with a broom and mop, and he doing mysterious things with the old hot-water boiler, but otherwise keeping themselves to themselves. Catherine had introduced herself to them and had persuaded the wife to come and cook some meals for them.

‘We will, of course, pay,' she said.

Madame Farcy had eagerly agreed. ‘But' – she'd shrugged, lifting her hands, palms up, in a gesture of resignation – ‘we have very little food. Some vegetables, yes, but meat is hard to get.'

‘We could supply the food,' Catherine said. ‘We can buy provisions from the army.'

Madame Farcy smiled. ‘I would be very glad for that. For tonight, Monsieur can take trout from the river, if that would suit.'

‘It would suit very well,' Catherine said, and on that first night, grilled trout and small sautéed potatoes had been served to the company in the echoing dining room.

‘This is delicious,' Frances had said. ‘Best meal we've had for weeks.'

Today, Madame Farcy had agreed to cook again, but only if Catherine would get hold of some rations. ‘Perhaps meat?' Madame had pleaded. ‘Could you buy some, from … the army, perhaps?'

‘I'll see what I can do,' Catherine said.

That morning, Robert had arrived at the chateau. He'd been staying in Caen so that he could use the communications centre. ‘This place is yours for the foreseeable future,' he told Beau. The rest of the company, who'd gathered to listen, stared at each other. ‘It is to be your base and you will tour from here.' He'd looked around the grand salon, with its magnificent plastered ceilings and huge fireplace. It also had a grand piano, which Tommy had been trying to tune. ‘Not bad, I suppose.'

‘Who does it belong to?' asked Frances. ‘It looks in pretty good condition, and surely now that the invasion has happened, the owners will want to return.'

‘I suppose they will,' said Robert, ‘but so far they haven't turned up, and in the meantime it's been taken over. Apparently, a German general lived here up until a few months ago. In some style, I believe. He's in a POW camp now.' He buckled the straps on his briefcase. ‘The caretaker should know more about the family, if you're really interested.'

‘So,' said Beau. ‘Where do we go next?'

‘You'll do the camps around Caen and the field hospitals. And we are liaising with our American colleagues, so some of your performances will be for them.'

‘Great,' said Tommy, giving Colin a punch on the arm. ‘They're good audiences, the Yanks.'

‘What about further afield?' asked Beau. ‘We're very willing to entertain at the front, you know.'

‘Yes,' Robert grinned, ‘I know you are, and we'll be pencilling that in for later. But things are a bit haywire at the moment. The “front” isn't always where it should be, if you understand what I mean.'

‘The Jerries broke through, didn't they?' said Della. ‘One of the boys at the last camp told me.'

‘I'm afraid so,' Robert agreed, ‘but we're pushing them back all the time. Now' – he opened his briefcase and withdrew a bundle of envelopes – ‘I've picked up your mail, and if you've any letters you want to send home, I'll get them this evening.'

He put the bundle on the table, letting Beau undo the string that was tying them and distribute them. Everyone had some mail, even Beau himself. Frances wondered who had sent him a letter and then decided it must be from his mother. It occurred to her that she knew nothing about his private life in London. His family in the country were near neighbours, and she'd played with Beau and his two sisters when they were all children. But in town? She knew nothing about his friends, and nobody had visited his flat when she'd been there. But of course, she reasoned, he'd been in the theatre and then the army. He'd have tons of pals.

‘Robert,' Catherine said, holding her letter from Maman tightly. She was anxious to read it, but had questions first. ‘What about food? The caretaker's wife here will cook for us, but she hasn't any provisions.'

‘I was coming to that. The NAAFI can supply what we need, and if any of you want something in particular, make me a list.' He looked at Catherine. ‘Perhaps you'll come back with me into Caen. We can get food and cigarettes and anything else from the NAAFI there.'

Frances and Della winked at each other. ‘He really is stuck on her,' Frances whispered.

‘What about her?' Della grunted. ‘She keeps giving him cow eyes.'

Catherine knew they were whispering about her, but she didn't care. A trip out with Robert was all that mattered.

Fifteen minutes later, armed with ration books and a lengthy list, they set off. In her handbag was the letter from Maman, which she had read twice and would read many more times.

Lili can walk two steps
, Maman had written.
She says ‘Mama' and ‘Papa' when I show her the pictures on the mantelpiece. Please come home; we miss you. Father Clement took this to remind you.
Enclosed in the envelope was a small black-and-white snap. It was of Lili in Maman's arms, outside the church, and Catherine's heart melted.

I should go home, she thought. They need me. I could easily earn enough money in London to keep us and then I would be able to watch Lili growing up. What is the point of me being here in France?

‘You're very quiet this morning,' said Robert. They were on the outskirts of Caen and she could see the devastated city in front of her. ‘I hope there wasn't bad news in your letter.'

‘No,' Catherine sighed. ‘Nothing bad, but …'

‘… but you feel guilty about leaving them.'

‘Yes. I do. Lili has walked two steps and I haven't been there. Her four front teeth are through and she's beginning to talk. All the things that matter in her little life and I'm missing them.'

‘All the things that matter in a little life,' Robert repeated. His voice was bleak and Catherine glanced at him. Was he making fun of her, or had he experienced something similar?

They were entering the ruined city. One side of the street they were driving along had been bombed or shelled to complete destruction. Only rubble remained. But a few buildings on the other side had survived. They were horribly damaged, but Catherine could see that people were living in them: washing hung out of the windows, and children were playing on the pavement, chasing each other and laughing, seemingly without care. The locals as well as the military were on the streets, walking along with purpose, all of them used now to the destruction and ready to carry on. She imagined that a couple of months ago, when the town had been fought over, these same people had been in a similar stunned and confused state as those she'd seen in the villages at the front. It is remarkable, she thought, how quickly the status quo becomes reality.

‘Are you married, Robert?' There. She'd said it.

At first, she didn't think he was going to answer, for he was silent, his face closed and unreadable. Then he drove to the side of the road and drew to a halt. It was a warm, late-summer day, with puffs of white cloud drifting across an azure sky, and as Catherine waited, she watched a young woman who was wheeling a battered pram along the street in front of them. Two infants sat up in the pram, and another toddled along beside her. The woman stopped frequently to let the toddler catch up and to switch the bag she was carrying from one hand to the other. It looked heavy, and Catherine kept thinking, Put it on the pram. It will be easier.

‘I am married,' said Robert, breaking his silence. ‘I have a wife and a son.'

It wasn't a shock. She'd guessed it all along. When he'd kissed her, it had been done with almost desperation, as though he'd known it was wrong.

‘I thought you might be,' Catherine said. She looked down at her fingers, twisting the leather handle of her bag, and at her wedding ring. ‘But my husband is missing, probably dead, as you keep insisting, while your wife lives in happy ignorance somewhere at home, bringing up your son. Perhaps I'm not as guilty as you.'

He sighed. ‘I don't think that either of us is guilty,' he said.

‘But your wife …' Catherine kept her eyes fixed on the pram. ‘Does she know?'

‘No.' Robert took off his cap and ran a hand through his thick brown hair. ‘How could she? I don't know where she is. I haven't seen or heard from her for five years, or my son. She took James to see his grandparents in Berlin in May 1939 and never returned.'

Catherine gazed at him. ‘Your wife is German?'

Robert nodded.

‘
Mon Dieu!
' And then another, terrible thought came to her and she took his hand. ‘Your wife, she is Jewish?'

He slowly shook his head. ‘No. She isn't Jewish. In fact, I rather think that like the rest of her family, she was in love with the Nazi Party. We had so many arguments about it, and in those last months we were drifting apart. Then she left.'

Catherine looked back at her fingers again and at her wedding ring. In a way, she and Robert were in the same boat. Christopher was missing and so was his wife. ‘I'm very sorry,' she said. ‘I shouldn't have asked.'

‘It doesn't matter.' The finality of those words signalled an end to the conversation, and Robert started up the Jeep and drove on.