The Very Thought of You (3 page)

‘You're singing better than ever,' Tommy had said admiringly from his seat at the piano. ‘More depth, more emotion.'

‘D'you think so?' Catherine had asked. She leant over him to pick up her music, but he was taller than she remembered and her breast brushed against his head. ‘Sorry,' she said quickly.

‘Don't worry,' he grinned. ‘I liked it.'

Her face hardened. ‘I didn't,' she said coldly, and grabbing her coat, walked to the door.

Della watched her go. ‘You're out of luck there, Tommy,' she laughed, and moving up to the piano, handed him her music. ‘She's still in mourning.'

‘I thought he was only posted as missing.' Tommy took a quick drag on his Woodbine and put the music sheet on top of the battered piano. It had lost its stand.

‘“Posted missing” is a nice way of saying he's dead but they can't find the body.' Della shrugged. ‘He's probably been blown up.'

‘Christ,' said Tommy, running a hand through his black hair, ‘you're hard.'

‘Am I?' she asked. ‘Or perhaps I'm being realistic. I lost someone that way, right at the beginning. It's better to know straight away.'

Frances, who had been sitting on the edge of the stage, interrupted. ‘Get a move on, you two. We've only got this hall for another half-hour: the Home Guard meets here most evenings. And, Della, Beau wants you to open the show with an upbeat number, perhaps the one you did for the audition. It'll get everyone in the mood. He hasn't entirely worked out the rest yet, but rehearse at least one more number, because you'll be on again.'

Della did her song, belting it out as she'd done before and making the birds in the rafters fly about in alarm. An old man in Home Guard uniform, who'd walked in just before she started, gave enthusiastic applause and Della gave him an exaggerated curtsey.

‘What about us?' The fruity voice belonged to Captain Fortescue, the ventriloquist's dummy. It had a monocle and was dressed in uniform, and always spoke before Eric Baxter, his alter ego. ‘We've been first on the bill, don't you know? Not used to being overlooked, old girl.'

Frances turned her head towards Eric, who was sitting on the stage steps with Captain Fortescue on his knee. She gave him one of her haughty glares. ‘Mr Baxter, you will not be first on the bill in this company. Mr Bennett is thinking of putting you on third, after Signor Splendoso's magic act, and Mr James will follow you. Beau is determined that Mrs Fletcher will have top billing.'

Captain Fortescue's painted eyebrows jerked up and down angrily, and he gave what sounded like a growl. ‘I call that a poor show, young woman. A damn poor show indeed.'

Frances stood up. ‘Mr Baxter, when the order of performance has been decided, we won't be changing it, and what's more, I'd be very grateful if when you speak to me, you'd use your own voice and not that of the doll.'

Tommy Rudd gave a low whistle. ‘My God,' he whispered to Della, ‘she's treading on dangerous ground. Eric Baxter is not someone to cross. I've heard that he can be a bastard if he takes against you.'

Eric Baxter's own voice, when he answered, had a sort of indeterminate northern inflection, almost as though he'd forgotten what it was supposed to sound like. ‘It's called a dummy, Miss Parnell, not a doll, and I'd be grateful also if you could remember that.' He stood up then and, opening his large suitcase, carefully packed Captain Fortescue inside it with the dummy's head laid on a purple satin cushion. The suitcase was snapped shut, and picking it up and his grey trilby, Eric prepared to leave. ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, as he walked towards the door. He spoke in the captain's voice.

The rehearsal ended on that sour note as more members of the local Home Guard shuffled in. ‘Hello,' said one old man. ‘Who's going to give us a turn?'

‘Sorry, darling,' Della grinned, ‘I've got to get my bus.' She cocked her head at him. ‘Besides, my turn would give you a stroke.'

The man who'd been in earlier listening to Della's song chuckled. ‘You've missed a treat,' he said to his colleagues. ‘This one's a real saucy minx.'

Outside, the sun had come out, promising a lovely end to the day. ‘Fancy a drink?' asked Tommy. ‘There's not a bad pub on the corner.'

Della considered his offer. They'd be working together, so they ought to be pals; besides, he was a good accompanist and would be useful if she decided to take up singing full-time. ‘Yes, why not?' she smiled. ‘A quick one, though, and you can tell me why you aren't in the forces.'

She thought about what he'd told her as they sat in the rattling truck. ‘Dicky heart,' he'd said. ‘I forget exactly what the doc said, but it was enough to have me classified not fit for service.'

‘Crikey!' she'd laughed, looking for something cheerful to say. ‘I hope you're not going to peg out in the middle of my act.'

Tommy had taken a swig of his drink. ‘Depends what you do,' he said. ‘Start stripping and you might be in for a shock.'

He'd laughed it off as nothing important, but obviously it was, and when the truck slowed down at the guard barrier to the airfield, she noticed that he took a deep breath. Having to hang on as the truck lurched around the country lanes had not suited him.

They stopped in front of a large Nissen hut and a corporal came running out with a wooden block to help them step down. ‘We've cleared an area in one of the hangars for the performance and cobbled together a sort of makeshift stage,' he said, when everyone had emerged from the truck. He looked at Beau. ‘Are you Major Bennett, sir?'

Beau nodded and held out his hand. ‘Civilian now, Corporal. Are we alright for the show to go on at six?'

‘Yes, sir.' The corporal looked at Catherine and Della. ‘The ladies could change in one of the empty rooms in the crew quarters, and the men in another, and,' the corporal continued with a grin, ‘the Wing Commander wonders if you'd like a cup of tea in the mess before you start. I'll lead the way.'

‘Thank you, Corporal. We'll be with you in a sec.' Beau turned to the group. ‘Listen,' he said, ‘there's some people from the Ministry coming to see us tonight. If we impress, they'll keep us funded and, after we've done this tour, might … possibly … send us overseas. Which is what we want, isn't it?'

There was a murmur of agreement and Beau nodded. ‘Good,' he said. ‘You're all professionals, so I know you'll be fine.' He jerked his head to Frances and she shepherded the rest of the company to follow the corporal into the wooden mess hall. Catherine walked with Della and was just about to go inside when she heard her name being called.

‘Mrs Fletcher?' It was Beau. ‘Can I have a moment?'

Della raised her eyebrows and said under her breath, ‘What's this about?'

‘I don't know,' Catherine said. ‘Perhaps I'm getting the sack.'

‘Not you,' Della laughed, but she looked back over her shoulder as she followed the corporal into the mess hall.

Catherine walked back to where Beau was standing beside the truck. ‘Please call me “Catherine”,' she said, ‘and drop the “Mrs Fletcher”. If we're going to be in close proximity for the next few months, it would be silly to be so formal.'

‘I agree,' he smiled, ‘and I'm Beau. I'll tell the others too.' A spasm of pain washed over his face and he leant heavily on his stick for a moment. ‘Damn!' he gasped. ‘This bloody leg gives me gyp sometimes.'

She gently put a hand on his arm. ‘Can I do something?'

‘No, thanks.' He bit his lip and stood up straighter. ‘I'm alright. Now, Catherine, someone from the War Office wants to speak to you. He's here tonight, so before you go on, can you have a word with him?'

Catherine felt her stomach rising into her chest and for a moment thought she might faint. ‘Is it about my husband?' she whispered.

Beau immediately looked embarrassed. ‘Oh God, sorry. I forgot about your husband, and I didn't mean to upset you. Honestly, I don't know what he wants, but … if you could see him?'

She nodded, in control of herself now. ‘Where is he?'

‘In the Wing Co.'s office. I'll get Frances to go with you.'

Frances and Catherine waited in an outer office while a sergeant knocked on the Wing Commander's door and announced who they were. When they were shown in, Catherine was surprised to see only one man, not an RAF officer, as they'd expected, but a man in civilian clothes.

‘Good evening,' he said, looking from one to the other. ‘I'm Robert Lennox, and one of you two ladies must be Mrs Catherine Fletcher?'

‘That's me,' said Catherine, looking up at him. He was tall, with brown eyes and reddish-brown hair. He wore tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses that made him look middle-aged, but glancing at him again, Catherine decided that he was, in fact, quite young, perhaps thirty but not much more. There was a snort and a giggle from beside her and Frances stepped forward.

‘Robbie?' She stuck out her hand. ‘Don't you remember me? Fran Parnell. Hugo's sister. You used to come to our house during the holidays.'

‘Good God, yes.' He smiled and grasped her hand. ‘You've grown up. But what are you doing here? Don't tell me that Beau's got you working for him?'

‘Yes,' she laughed. ‘Needs must, I'm afraid. The old pile is falling down, and what with Hugo—'

‘I heard,' he said quickly. ‘It's tough.'

‘But what about you?' she asked. ‘I thought you'd joined up.'

‘Ah,' he coughed. ‘Long story with which I won't bore you.' He turned to Catherine and took her hand. ‘How d'you do, Mrs Fletcher? I wonder if we might have a little chat.'

‘Is it about my husband?' she asked. ‘Has he been found?'

‘I'm afraid not,' he said, and gave her an odd smile. ‘I don't suppose that you've heard from him and not told us?'

‘No,' Catherine said, astonished, and glanced at Frances to see what she thought of Mr Lennox's suggestion. Frances was frowning. ‘No, I haven't,' Catherine insisted. ‘That is a ridiculous suggestion.'

Robert nodded. ‘Yes, of course you would have let the authorities know. Sorry. But there is something else.' He glanced over to Frances. ‘Fran, d'you mind? This is rather private.'

She looked surprised, but giving Catherine's arm a squeeze, turned and left, closing the door behind her.

‘Now, Mrs Fletcher, shall we sit down?' He indicated the seat in front of the desk, and he took the wing commander's chair on the other side. ‘I understand from Major Bennett that you are half French. Is that so?'

‘Yes,' Catherine nodded. ‘My mother is from Amiens.'

‘And you are bilingual?'

Again she nodded.

He spoke rapidly to her in French, making a remark about her act and asking how she'd started singing. She answered him, a little hesitantly at first, and then more confidently, using the language that was as much used when she was growing up as English.

‘Very good,' Mr Lennox smiled. ‘I would say accentless.'

Catherine was bewildered. Did they want her to sing in French as part of her act? That was fine: she could do that. She knew quite a few ballads and had sung Rina Ketty's ‘I Will Wait' often.

‘The thing is, Mrs Fletcher, I work for a department in Whitehall that – how shall I put it? – er … gathers information.' He leant back in the chair and took off his glasses, then polished them on his tie. Without them, his face was younger, cleverer, not so owlish. ‘Now, Catherine … May I call you that? When you go abroad with the Bennett Players, you could be very useful to us.'

‘But how?' Catherine was alarmed. ‘Surely we'll only be going to the places that have been liberated?'

‘Yes, officially. But with your ability to speak the language, there's no reason why you couldn't do some work for us.'

She stared at him, confused. What on earth was he saying? Did he want her to go into occupied France and spy for him, putting her life in danger?

‘I couldn't,' Catherine said. ‘It's out of the question, Mr Lennox. I have a little girl. And with my husband missing … I couldn't possibly do anything like you're suggesting.'

Robert steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘I know about your daughter, Lili,' he said. ‘I know that your mother – Honorine, is it? – looks after her when you're away. Since Beau mentioned you, we've done some investigations and you seem to be perfect for our purposes. And the singing is excellent cover.'

Catherine gazed at him. He knew her mother's name and that of her little girl. He or someone else must have been watching her. Watching her home, and maybe even following when she went to the shops or on the bus to the church hall for rehearsals. Suddenly she felt angry. How dare he? Haven't I got enough to contend with?

Robert must have noticed the change in her expression because he replaced his glasses before saying slowly, ‘But, of course, Mrs Fletcher, nobody intends to make you do something you aren't comfortable with.'

Catherine stood up. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Lennox. This isn't something that I'm prepared to even think about. I'm a singer. Nothing else.'

‘So I can't persuade you?'

‘No.' Catherine shook her head.

‘Even though I can assure you that it would be vital for the war effort?'

‘No.'

‘Then' – Robert stood up – ‘this conversation is at an end. You will, of course, say nothing to your friends or to your mother.' Suddenly his charm seemed to have evaporated, and his brown eyes drilled into her face. ‘I mean it. Tell them that I wanted you to do some translation work when you go overseas.' He walked round the desk and put out his hand. ‘But I am very sorry.' His charm had returned, and his face softened into a smile. ‘Maybe we'll speak again when you've thought it over.' He ushered her to the door. ‘Now, I shall stay to hear you sing.' He grinned. ‘Beau tells me I'm in for a treat.'