The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  In the middle of July, Beau gathered the troupe together after they’d finished a lunchtime performance on a London dock. The show had gone well, particularly when the girls sang as a trio. The dockers cheered and drummed their feet on the wooden floor of the huge warehouse, causing clouds of dust to rise up and fill the air with choking particles from the ancient cargoes.

  ‘That was great,’ said Beau, when they’d finished and stood beside the truck, grinning at each other and still breathless from excitement.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ Della laughed. ‘I thought you weren’t keen on us doing it.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ he confessed. ‘I didn’t think it would work. Especially with Frances singing. I mean, come on – she was hired as my assistant, not an artiste.’

  ‘But she’s got a good voice,’ said Catherine. ‘You heard her.’

  ‘And I can still do the organising,’ Frances protested. ‘I haven’t let you down, have I?’

  ‘No, you haven’t, and I wouldn’t dare argue with you. You three girls have become something of a formidable force.’ Beau sat down suddenly on a packing case. Catherine thought he looked tired; his leg was obviously causing him trouble. She watched as he rubbed his hand on his thigh and massaged his knee. He’d been on his feet all through the show, introducing the numbers and encouraging the audience to join in with the singing. She’d also noticed that when they’d first arrived at the dockside, Eric had taken hold of his arm and spoken directly into his ear. Whatever he’d said had caused Beau’s face to fall, and he’d shaken off Eric’s hand quite sharply.

  Now he looked exhausted. ‘I think you need a rest,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to get home too.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but hang on a minute, before you get in the truck. I’ve a couple of announcements to make.’ He stood up and nodded to Frances.

  ‘Gather round,’ she called. ‘Beau’s got something to tell us.’ Her voice was drowned out by the sound of a crane moving overhead, and she waved at the Players to move back towards the warehouse, where it was quieter. The dockers had gone back to work as soon as the show had finished, but some were still working inside, at the far end of the building, moving crates around and shouting instructions to each other.

  Catherine leant against a wall of boxes and took out her handkerchief to wipe a faint sheen of sweat from her forehead. A hot smell of oil combined with the other odours of machinery and packing bales filled the air and she could feel her stomach turning over. She was wearing a light coat to cover her stage dress and, after the heady excitement of the show, was feeling the summer heat of July. The weather had improved in the weeks that had passed since D-Day, and it added to the joyful mood that filled the nation; everyone seemed to have a grin on their face. She didn’t feel like grinning, though. Christopher was still missing, and even though she’d written to the War Office for more news, she hadn’t received a reply.

  But she’d had another visit from Robert Lennox.

  He’d called one morning, a week ago. She was in the scullery, doing the washing and singing along to Al Bowlly on the wireless, when she heard the gentle rap on the front door. Drying her hands on a towel, she’d opened the door thinking it was the postman, perhaps with a letter from Christopher, but her heart sank when she saw who it was.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Fletcher,’ Robert said, tipping his hat. ‘May I come in?’

  Honorine had taken Lili for a walk to the shops and Catherine was alone in the house. She was tired. They’d done a show at an army camp the night before, somewhere north of London, and it had been a long drive back, down unlit country roads, before they’d reached the city. And tonight, she’d promised to sing with the Melody Men at a club in the West End. The last thing she needed was a visit from Mr Lennox, and for a second she considered saying, ‘No, you may not come in,’ and shutting the door rudely in his face. But she didn’t and instead stood aside and indicated the front room.

  He wasted no time. ‘We wondered if you’d changed your mind,’ he said. ‘Because now that we’ve invaded France, I expect you’ll be crossing the Channel to entertain the troops.’

  ‘Will I? How d’you know?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s my job. We all have jobs to do. All of us.’ This last was said casually, but Catherine knew what he was inferring and frowned. He had his back to her and was picking up the photographs on the mantelpiece and examining them. He stared at the wedding photo and then, turning round, saw that she was looking at him and put it back in its place.

  ‘He looked like a nice chap,’ he said slowly.

  ‘He is,’ Catherine replied, her eyes steely with determination. ‘He is, not was, a nice chap, and he’s going to come home.’

  ‘A junior lecturer before the war, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine nodded. ‘He taught modern languages.’ She thought back to when they’d been courting and she’d made fun of his French accent. ‘You sound like a Parisian street trader,’ she’d laughed.

  ‘Do I?’ Christopher had been surprised. ‘I suppose I picked that up from my tutor, although God knows where he got it. You must tell me how to improve. I can’t pass that on to my students.’ He’d pushed a hand through his untidy straw-coloured hair and looked so worried that she’d laughed again, and after a moment he’d relaxed and laughed with her. Oh, how she had loved him, how happy they’d been.

  She was brought back to the present by Robert Lennox’s voice breaking through her thoughts. ‘Mrs Fletcher, Catherine. Did you take your husband to your grandparents’ farm?’

  ‘To Amiens?’ she said, bewildered. ‘How could I? We were already at war when I met him. The Germans were in Amiens. They still are.’

  ‘Yes,’ Robert said, ‘of course. You didn’t know him before.’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘And his parents, did you meet them?’

  Anger was beginning to flood through her. ‘They’re dead,’ she said sharply. ‘You must know that. You know everything else.’

  Robert nodded slowly but said nothing, and she felt forced to add, ‘They lived in Hereford. Christopher’s father was a teacher. Languages like Chris.’

  ‘And they died before you were married?’

  ‘Yes. Together, in an accident. They were abroad on holiday and were killed in a car crash.’ Catherine remembered Christopher telling her about them with tears in his eyes. He’d loved them very much.

  ‘So after that, Lieutenant Fletcher joined the army?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Christopher’s parents died before the war, about a year before, I think. He didn’t join up until after it started.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Catherine frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean. He did what everyone else did. Training and joining a regiment. When he came home on his last leave, he said nothing about doing anything else.’ She bit her lip. ‘It was just after Lili was born. We could only speak about the baby. He said that he knew that I would be a wonderful mother.’ She tried to keep the wobble out of her voice, but judging from the look of concern on Robert’s face, she hadn’t succeeded.

  He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one, and then, when she shook her head, put the packet back in his pocket. ‘The thing is,’ he said, not really looking her in the eye but turning to stare out of the window onto the street, ‘I … er, I know a little about what your husband was doing. It was something similar to what I’m suggesting for you.’

  ‘What?’ Catherine asked, astonished. ‘No, no, you’ve got it wrong. He was with his regiment. I don’t know where, but somehow I thought it was in Italy. I’ve been following the war news and that seemed the most logical place. He’s a soldier, not a …’

  ‘Spy?’ Robert raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that what you were going to say? Well, my information seems to suggest that he was one of our operatives, gathering information for us. He was in France, close to Caen when we last heard from him. Then he simply disappeared. We think he was
captured by the Gestapo.’

  Catherine felt as though the room was whirling round her and sat down suddenly on the armchair. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Robert said, and reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘But it is true. The fact is that Lieutenant Fletcher was a man of the highest calibre, utterly brave and who believed in freedom, but’ – Robert’s hand was firm on Catherine’s shoulder – ‘now we have every reason to believe that he has been lost.’

  Every word of that conversation had imprinted itself on Catherine’s brain and even now, a week later, she couldn’t stop going over it. Christopher in France? Surely that was wrong? But at the same time, a niggle of doubt began to worm its way into her mind.

  I know you’ll look after our baby girl, always. I love you. And whatever happens, my darling girl, try and remember that I loved you both. That’s what Christopher had said before he kissed her goodbye. And she’d been so wrapped up with the baby that she only heard his words as the usual loving farewells that he always gave. Now, standing in the hot warehouse, she could only dwell on how stupid she’d been, how careless in not recognising that there was something different about him. He’d looked stronger, fitter, but now that she thought about it, there had been a sadness in his eyes. He was saying goodbye forever, she now realised, and as that thought hit her, her hand went to her mouth, and tears welled up in her soft brown eyes.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Della whispered, touching her arm and looking at her.

  Catherine took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I am,’ and giving her friend a smile, turned her attention to Beau.

  ‘First,’ he was announcing, ‘you’ll be pleased to hear we’ve obtained a bus.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Della. ‘That bloody truck was killing me. I’m covered in bruises.’ The rest of them nodded in agreement.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Beau grinned. ‘It should be much more comfortable, and Frances has assured me that she can drive it.’

  ‘It can’t be harder than the truck,’ Frances said, and grinned. She glanced at Beau, waiting for him to tell the next piece of news. He’d told her earlier, before the show started, that he’d been to the War Office, but hadn’t said what it had been about.

  ‘Now for the really exciting news,’ Beau said. ‘In three weeks’ time, we’ll be in France.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Della, and Tommy Rudd raised a joyful fist in the air. Catherine took in a quick breath. Robert Lennox must have known. Maybe he even organised it.

  Colin Brown punched Godfrey on the arm. ‘There’s no way the wee wifey can follow you there, eh, man?’ He nodded to the dockside, where Godfrey’s old Sunbeam was parked. Mrs James, banned from the show, was sitting in the driving seat, waiting for him. When they were performing in London, she always drove him to the venue and waited angrily for the show to be over.

  Godfrey took a quick glance at her and then nodded happily. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, trying to keep the joyful bellow out of his voice. ‘She will be cross.’

  Only Eric Baxter made no comment. He stood slightly apart from the rest of the company, watching and listening, but refusing to join in with the conversation. The Bennett Players had become friends, enjoying each others’ company and keen to help with lost greasepaint or outfits, if necessary. Della even performed as Colin’s ‘lovely assistant’ when he was doing his act, posing beside his magician’s table and pretending to be just as amazed at his tricks as the audience. Catherine had sung with Godfrey when he did pieces from popular musicals, and Tommy had brought along a drum and did drum rolls when Beau introduced the acts. The group had melded together, all except Eric.

  ‘Beau should get rid of him,’ Tommy had whispered. ‘There’s something funny about him.’

  ‘He won’t,’ Frances replied. ‘Eric’s never missed a show, and he’s popular with the audiences.’

  But the rest of the company found him difficult. Della loathed him and made no secret of it.

  ‘Hush,’ said Beau, holding up his hand. ‘I haven’t finished. Now, because we’re going into what is a war zone, we’ve been issued with uniforms. It’ll be army officer’s, not that we’ve been commissioned or anything, but apparently we can take advantage of the officers’ mess wherever there is one. Look …’ He paused. ‘When we’re in France, we must wear uniform, for our own safety, so I think we should wear it at home too. It’ll show people that we’re doing our bit. On stage, we can change into our performance clothes, but otherwise it’s uniforms. Alright?’

  The group nodded and Beau looked relieved. Catherine wondered if he’d imagined that anyone would object. She glanced quickly at Eric Baxter, but he had his face turned away and had picked up the case containing Captain Fortescue, ready to leave.

  ‘Good. Then we’ll meet again tomorrow morning at Victoria Station, nine o’clock sharp. Our venue is close to Windsor and another lunchtime performance. Frances will have the bus by then, so it should be an easier journey.’ Beau started to walk out of the warehouse and then stopped. ‘We’ve got three performances this week, all in the London area, and then you have ten days off. Get some rest, because I think the next few weeks will be hectic. And Frances will tell you where you can pick up your uniforms. I’ll give her the chitty.’

  Two days later, the girls were in Beau’s flat in Knightsbridge, where Frances had a room, trying on their new uniforms.

  ‘What d’you think?’ asked Della, looking at herself in the dressing-table mirror, then turning this way and that, and giving a little twirl.

  ‘Very nice,’ grinned Frances, ‘but all the buttons have to be done up, and the skirt pulled down to regulation length. If you want to see yourself properly, go into Beau’s room. He’s got a long glass.’

  ‘Oh good,’ she said, dashing out of the door.

  ‘We’re not soldiers,’ said Catherine, who was trying on the cap. ‘So does it really matter?’ She turned round to look at Frances. ‘I don’t know why we have to wear uniform, anyway. It won’t make me sing any better.’

  ‘But you heard what Beau said,’ Frances protested. ‘It’s a precaution. Besides, I think it’s rather smart.’

  ‘You would,’ Della laughed. She had come back into the bedroom. ‘Anyone would take you for the real McCoy.’

  It was true. The khaki jacket and skirt looked completely right on Frances. She’d tucked up her red hair under the cap, which she wore straight on her head, and with her ever-present clipboard could have been a real officer.

  Catherine wore her cap at an angle, and Della, catching sight of herself again in the mirror, realised that she’d put hers on the back of her head and that her blonde hair was hanging to her shoulders beneath it. She looked as though she was in fancy dress and she laughed. There was no reason she couldn’t adapt it to wear on stage.

  ‘It’s really for when we go abroad, just in case,’ Frances said, taking off the cap and putting it down on the bed. ‘If we wander away from the front line and are captured, we could be shot as spies.’

  Della giggled. ‘Some spies,’ she smirked. ‘I’d like to see the spy who looks remotely like any of us.’

  Catherine said nothing as she took off the uniform and pulled on her summer frock. Robert Lennox had suggested that she could be a spy. He must think that she looked exactly like one.

  ‘You’re quiet today,’ Della broke into her thoughts.

  ‘Am I?’ Catherine smiled. ‘Well, you do enough talking for all of us, doesn’t she?’ She raised her eyebrows at Frances, who laughed and went to the door.

  ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ she said. ‘Let’s go into the living room. Beau’s not here and we can have it to ourselves.’

  She went out and Catherine waited for Della to get into her slacks and blouse, and to comb her hair. Frances’s bedroom was small, with a single bed and a few other bits of furniture. On the bedside table, there was a studio photo of a small, red-haired boy, and a black-and-white snap of two youngsters, a girl and an older boy, with
a pony.

  ‘I expect that’s Frances and her brother,’ said Catherine. ‘They’re very close.’

  ‘Mm,’ Della replied, busy with her lipstick. She turned her head and whispered, ‘You don’t suppose they’re sleeping together?’

  ‘Who?’ Catherine was astonished. ‘Frances and her brother?’

  ‘No, you idiot. Her and Beau.’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?’

  Della stood up. ‘I might at that,’ she laughed. ‘I saw …’ She stopped mid-sentence and then said, ‘It doesn’t matter, but now that I come to think about it, I’m pretty sure his fancies lie elsewhere. Haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Noticed what?’

  ‘Beau and Eric Baxter.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Catherine gasped, her cheeks going pink. ‘He couldn’t – Eric is vile.’

  Della laughed and was still smiling when they went to join Frances in the living room. ‘Wow!’ she exclaimed, looking at the photographs that were scattered around the rather good furniture. They were of Beau with his famous show business friends. ‘My God,’ she exclaimed, picking up one glossy picture in a silver frame. ‘This is Noël Coward with his arm around Beau’s shoulder, and this’ – she pointed to another – ‘isn’t it Laurence Olivier?’

  ‘Come and have your tea,’ Frances said, but Della was still intrigued by the photos.

  ‘Look at this. Isn’t he a member of the royal family? And this? Good God, it’s George Formby with Beau,’ she laughed excitedly. ‘I know him, been on the same bill, but I didn’t think Beau would. My God, he knows everyone.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Frances smiled. ‘He was on the stage for a few years before the war, and even did a couple of pictures. If it hadn’t been for his injury, he might have been a Hollywood leading man. I mean, he’s got the looks and is pals with everyone.’

  Della gave Catherine a meaningful wink, but didn’t say anything. Catherine had the uncomfortable feeling that Frances had caught the wink, and so quickly started a conversation about their tour into France.