The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘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.

  Chapter 2

  ‘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.

  ‘You’re singing better than ever,’ Tommy had said a
dmiringly 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 kno
w 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.’