The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  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.’

  The show went well and the aircraft hangar rang with cheers after each turn. Signor Splendoso’s magic act was received with gasps of surprise and much applause, and even Eric Baxter and Captain Fortescue found an appreciative audience. His jokes were very near the knuckle, but, Catherine supposed, from where she was standing with Della and Frances at the side of the stage, suitable for the young airmen and their girlfriends.

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Frances whispered. ‘He gives me the creeps.’

  ‘He’s popular with the audience,’ Della said, ‘but he’s a nasty piece of work. Take my advice – don’t cross him.’

  Catherine closed the first half of the show singing ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and the audience went wild. She could see Beau grinning like an idiot and Robert Lennox nodding slowly. Two civilians sitting in the front row applauded vigorously, and looking back to Beau, she saw him jerk his head towards them. She guessed that they were the men from the Ministry.

  ‘That was terrific,’ muttered Tommy after they came off. ‘It’s “The Very Thought of You” for the second half, yes?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘Hang on a minute while I get my music case.’ She always carried her old case containing sheet music, and she was sure that somewhere within the collection of scores was the one she wanted. ‘Look,’ she said, pulling it out. ‘Can you play this?’

  ‘Of course,’ Tommy grinned. ‘I can’t pronounce it, but I can play it.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll sing it first in French and then in English.’

  ‘You’ve cleared it with Beau?’

  She shrugged. ‘He’ll have to like it or lump it.’

  Myriad emotions were running through her when she went onto the stage as the last act. She felt exhausted by the whole experience of performing, and then, on top of that, there was the conversation she’d had with Mr Lennox. I’m not a fool, she thought. I know what he wants me to do. And I won’t.

  Tommy played the opening bars and she could see Beau frowning. This wasn’t what he’d put on the play sheet. She had a moment of panic, wondering if her decision was right. Turning her head to Tommy, she held up her hand to stop him playing and then faced the audience once more.

  ‘I’m going to sing something that means a lot to me. My husband, Christopher, who is a lieutenant in the Parachute Regiment, has been posted missing. I know he’ll come home to me, and this song conveys everything that I feel about him. In French, it is “J’attendrai”, which means “I Will Wait”.’ She paused and took a deep breath before speaking again, her eyes searching every face she could see. ‘Believe me, like wives and sweethearts everywhere, I will wait for him.’

  A ripple of applause sounded throughout the hangar as she turned and nodded to Tommy.

  Her wonderfully melodic voice soared to the rafters and not a few men had a tear in their eye as she sang. For a heart-stopping few seconds after she finished, there was silence, and then the place erupted in cheers. ‘Bravo,’ they cried, and men rushed towards the makeshift stage to shake her hand.

  ‘Well done,’ Beau, who had moved with the general rush, whispered in her ear.

  Catherine glanced across to Robert Lennox and noticed that he was blowing his nose furiously. When he saw her looking, he turned away and walked out of the door.

  ‘That was bloody good,’ said Della, when the show was over and the airmen and their girls had filtered away.

  ‘Thanks.’ Catherine had a quick look over her shoulder to Beau, who was talking to Frances. ‘I thought he’d be angry with me for changing the agreed song.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare. Just you see.’

  Frances joined them. ‘Beau wants you to keep that number in,’ she said, ‘and he’d like you to speak to the audience as you did just now.’

  ‘Alright.’ Catherine raised her eyebrows to Della, who gave a little ‘I told you so’ grin.

  ‘And’ – Frances put her hand on Catherine’s arm – ‘I thought your song was so right. It made me think of …’ She gave herself a shake. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter. Now, we’re off to Liverpool, so if you can get
into the truck, I’ll take you all to Euston Station. It’s a lunchtime show in a factory, so you can sleep on the train.’

  ‘Liverpool.’ Della’s eyes lit up. ‘D’you think I’ll have time to go and see my ma? I do hope so.’

  Chapter 3

  It was difficult for some of them to sleep on the train. Catherine, Della and Frances sat on one side of the compartment, with the men on the other. Eric Baxter and the captain were somewhere else on the train and Catherine wasn’t sorry. In the truck on the way to the station, he’d sat too close to her and rested his hand on her thigh.

  ‘Don’t,’ she’d said fiercely, and pushed his hand away.

  ‘A million apologies, dear lady,’ he’d said in the captain’s voice, but at the same time he was giving her a furtive grin.

  Della, who was sitting across from them, said, ‘I’d watch that wandering hand if I were you.’

  ‘Would you?’ Eric transferred his sly look to Della. ‘You’d know all about wandering hands, I don’t doubt. Welcomed quite a few of them in your time, I dare say.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she snarled.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ Tommy butted in. ‘Let’s cool it.’

  And now, on the train, Catherine was glad that she wouldn’t have to put up with Eric’s smirk and the captain’s weird voice all the way to Liverpool. But even so, she didn’t look forward to the long journey ahead in the company of people she barely knew. The performance earlier that evening had gelled them together a bit, and during the rehearsals she’d become friendly with Della, but apart from Tommy, the others were still strangers.

  She leant her head back against the velour-covered bench and tried to sleep, but it was impossible and she soon gave it up. Instead, she thought about baby Lili and her mother. The baby would be fine, she knew that: her mother was as loving as could be. But she did miss her, missed her little face and her chubby arms, which reached up so lovingly when Catherine bent over her cot in the morning. How Christopher would love her. Then those thoughts became too painful to continue and she turned her mind to Robert Lennox and the suggestion he’d put to her. It was too ridiculous to contemplate, really. After all, the war was nearly over – everyone was saying that – and anyway, she had to wait for Christopher.

  ‘What did that man want you for, before the show?’ asked Della, uncannily breaking into Catherine’s thoughts. The others all looked up, eager to hear.

  ‘Mr Lennox?’ Catherine was sure she was blushing, but she made an effort to sound casual. ‘Oh, he wanted me to do some translating, if and when we go to France. Beau told him I was half French.’

  Beau had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Yes, I did, and I’m sorry if it was wrong of me. I met him the other day, quite by chance, and I was telling him about the new company we’d formed. He was very interested.’ He looked into the distance, remembering. ‘You know, we were all at school together, him and me and Frances’s brother. “The Three Musketeers”, we called ourselves.’

  ‘And was there a d’Artagnan?’ Godfrey joined in.

  ‘Yes,’ Beau sighed. ‘Johnny Petersham. D’you remember him, Frances?’ He shook his head. ‘Poor Johnny. He was killed at Dunkirk.’

  ‘Mm. I remember him.’ Frances’s voice was a little husky and Catherine had a quick look at her and then at Della, who gave a meaningful nod.

  Signor Splendoso woke up suddenly, with a grunt. He’d been the only one who’d slept, his head jammed on Godfrey’s shoulder since five minutes after getting on board. Now he jerked upright and looked around. ‘We’re nae moving,’ he said in his Glasgow accent. He had close-cut grey hair, having removed the black wig he wore on stage. Without the wig and make-up, particularly the mascara-bedecked false eyelashes, he looked his age, which was the wrong side of fifty, Catherine thought.

  ‘No,’ said Godfrey, massaging his shoulder. ‘The train’s been halted for the last twenty minutes. God knows what it’s waiting for.’

  ‘Probably for an express to go through, and I wish I was on it,’ Tommy groaned. ‘This bloody train has stopped at every station so far.’

  Frances stood up. ‘I’ve got a picnic in that wicker case.’ She pointed to the luggage rack. ‘Just a couple of flasks of tea and a few sandwiches, if someone can get it down.’

  ‘Frances, darling, you’re a lifesaver. Signor, do you mind?’ asked Beau.

  ‘For the love of God,’ the magician said, standing up and reaching for the wicker case, ‘will you nae call me “Colin”, my given name? You know fine well that “Splendoso” is a stage name.’

  ‘So you’re not Italian, then?’ asked Godfrey.

  ‘No. Not at all. Colin Brown from Glasgow. I took the name “Splendoso” long before the war and it’s caused me no end of trouble. I was nearly bloody interned when the Ities joined in.’

  He looked so aggrieved that they all laughed, and when he got a half-bottle of whisky out of his coat pocket and poured some into everyone’s tea, the awkwardness of strangers began to dissipate. They were able to chat normally, comparing experiences and talking about theatres and people they knew in common. Catherine noticed that Frances seemed a little left out, but she kept smiling as she handed round the sandwiches.

  After they’d finished, she cleared away the picnic and they all settled down again. Catherine finally dropped off to sleep and had wild, puzzling dreams, which she immediately forgot the moment that Della jogged her arm.

  ‘It’s Crewe,’ she said. ‘Come on, we have to get off.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Catherine groaned, and standing up, reached for her suitcase.

  ‘I know,’ said Della. ‘I feel like hell too.’

  Crewe Station was nearly deserted, apart from a few youthful porters, who refused to leave the fireplace in the ticket office, and the troupe wearily lugged their suitcases over the bridge to find the platform for Liverpool. It was four in the morning and cold in the early dawn mist. The acrid railway-station smell of steam and coal bit the air, causing Della to wrinkle up her nose and search in her pocket for her packet of cigarettes.

  ‘I’m afraid our train doesn’t come in until seven,’ said Frances, consulting her clipboard, ‘but’ – she looked up and down the empty platform – ‘I see that the waiting room is open and we can go in there.’

  At six o’clock, the station cafe opened and they gladly went in for tea and toast. The girls sat together, yawning over the thick, white china cups, with Della resting her head on her hand and smoking copious cigarettes. Frances put her feet up on her leather suitcase. She was wearing laced-up brown shoes, the heels rather worn down and the toes scuffed, even though Catherine had seen her attempting to polish them when they were getting ready to perform last night. Those shoes looked as if they’d been worn daily and heavily. Despite her cut-crystal accent, she seemed to be as hard up as the rest of them. She was difficult to figure out, and the other day, at rehearsal, Della and Catherine had agreed that Frances was a bit of an enigma.

  ‘I think she’s a pal of Beau’s,’ Della had said. ‘Although not in show business like he was. She’s new at the game.’

  She was a pal, Catherine now decided, taking a sip of the tannin-laden tea. Hadn’t Beau said that he was at school with her brother? But what did she do? Where had she come from?

  ‘D’you live in London?’ she asked her.

  ‘No,’ Frances smiled. ‘I’m a country girl. Wiltshire.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get called up?’ Della gave her a calculating look. ‘You’re not married, and I’d have thought that you’d be officer material, any day.’

  Frances laughed. ‘Do you? I don’t think so. No, I was deferred. I’m a farm worker.’

  ‘A farm worker? You?’ Della patently didn’t believe her.

  ‘Yes,’ Frances insisted. ‘I work on my father’s farms. The men have been called up, so I had to do it. But I’ve organised a land girl to take over my duties.’

  ‘Did you say “farms”?’ Della was getting interested, but Frances looked at her watch and stood up. />
  ‘The train will be in any moment. Let’s get going.’

  The factory was in a bombed part of Liverpool. Like the destroyed areas of London, dandelion and rosebay willowherb grew up through the rubble, their yellow and pink flowers standing out defiantly among the mess of broken stone and bricks. In London, Catherine remembered, they called it ‘bomb weed’ because it survived in the most hopeless of conditions. Just like the people did, because surviving was the only thing that mattered. But as they walked into the factory, the members of the Bennett Players found that the Liverpudlians were doing more than just survive; they were full of beans.

  This resourcefulness was displayed by the cheerful receptionist who met them at the factory entrance. She grinned broadly at them and then yelled through the intercom for ‘Mr Jones’. ‘He’s the boss,’ she confided, ‘but he’s alright.’

  Soon a man in a tight brown suit came racing down the stairs and, with a jolly laugh, announced that he was Howard Jones, the factory manager, and that everyone was most welcome. After shaking hands with Beau, he beckoned the company to follow him back up the stairs.

  ‘Come along, do,’ he said eagerly. ‘My girls are really looking forward to the show.’

  ‘Girls?’ asked Beau. ‘Aren’t there any men?’

  ‘Well, there’s me and the chief engineer, and five or six others. The workforce is all women.’

  ‘What d’you make?’

  ‘Ah.’ The manager tapped his nose. ‘Can’t tell you that, sir. Official secret.’

  Beau shrugged. Nearly five years into the war, they were all used to official secrets and no longer asked questions. ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Lead on.’

  The show was to be held in the works canteen, a huge room on the first floor with large, dirty windows and an echoing wooden floor.

  ‘We’ll draw the blackout curtains for you, lad,’ the manager said, ‘and we borrowed those spotlights from the Playhouse.’ He pointed to two portable lights, which were connected by long, fabric-covered leads to an electric socket. ‘We’ve put some of the tables together to form a stage, as you can see.’ He looked over to Catherine and Della, who were standing together. ‘You young ladies will have to be careful. No high kicks.’