The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frances. ‘That’s something they won’t tell us, but we will have a liaison officer. I do know that we’ll be going by sea so that we can take the bus with us.’ She handed a cup to Catherine. ‘Are you going to work for the government when we’re there?’

  ‘What?’ asked Catherine, a feeling of panic rushing over her. How on earth did Frances know what Robert had suggested?

  ‘You know. Translating.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her heart slowed to a normal beat and she gave a little smile. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘If I’m needed.’

  ‘I bet you will be,’ said Della. ‘Who else speaks French? You’re a godsend.’

  ‘I know a bit,’ Frances said. ‘Only what we did at school and what my—’ She stopped that sentence quickly before admitting that she and Hugo had been brought up by a Belgian governess. She swiftly changed the subject, and smiling at Della, she asked, ‘Are you going home for a few days while we’re on leave?’

  Della shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I could, but I’ll only fight with Ma over Paddy and his job with Jerry Costigan.’

  ‘Is he really a gangster?’ asked Frances.

  ‘I should say so.’ Della’s mouth turned down. ‘You don’t know the half.’

  Frances turned to Catherine. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll spend time with Lili.’ She stood up. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve an appointment.’

  Della was curious. ‘Who with?’

  ‘It’s nothing important,’ she said. ‘I have to take Lili to the clinic for a check-up. Maman gets confused at the doctor’s.’

  ‘Can’t your father go with her?’ asked Della.

  There was a pause and then she answered, ‘No, it is not possible. It is not possible because my dear papa died nearly three years ago. He was an ARP warden working in the East End and had just got everybody into an air-raid shelter when it was bombed.’ Her voice broke slightly and Della got up and put her arms around her friend.

  ‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she said angrily. ‘Those bloody Jerries.’

  Catherine picked up the paper parcel that contained her new uniform. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening,’ she said. ‘At the Savoy Theatre? Our show goes on before the play?’

  Frances nodded.

  ‘Alright, then.’ She smiled at her friends. ‘Bye.’

  She was on the pavement outside Beau’s flat walking towards the bus stop when Della and Frances caught up with her. ‘Shall we come with you?’ Della suggested. ‘We’d love to meet your little girl, and your mother, of course. Besides, you seem to be a little down today.’

  Catherine was surprised, but at the same time quite moved. It was good to have friends. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you, and then you can come home and have a cup of tea. Maman would love to see you.’

  They met Catherine’s mother and her baby outside the church hall, where the children’s clinic was held. Catherine immediately picked the baby up out of her pram and gave her a cuddle.

  ‘Oh, give her to me,’ said Della. ‘I love babies.’ She held the little girl up and cooed into her face. ‘Hello, darling,’ she warbled. ‘What a lovely girl you are.’

  Lili gave a delighted squeal and reached out to grab a strand of Della’s hair.

  ‘Dépêche-toi,’ urged Catherine’s mother. ‘Hurry up!’ and urged them towards the door.

  Inside, about forty women with their babies sat on hard chairs waiting to see the nurses and one tiny, birdlike lady doctor, who looked as though she should have retired years ago.

  ‘She’s a bit terrifying,’ whispered Catherine. ‘She shouts if the babies cry. They seem to know too – haven’t you noticed how quiet it is in here?’

  ‘The old witch,’ Della snorted, nodding towards the doctor, who was poking her bony finger into the little mouth of a bewildered baby. Della didn’t bother to keep her voice down and one or two of the mothers sitting beside them grinned. Catherine’s mother, however, clucked her tongue in dismay and whispered, ‘Silence, mademoiselle.’

  Frances laughed outright, and even Catherine giggled.

  ‘Shall we give them a song?’ Della asked. ‘They must be bored hanging about for Madam Crippen to get round to them. What d’you think?’

  But it was Lili’s turn next and Catherine picked up her daughter and took her to the table at the front of the church hall, where the doctor was waiting. Della and Frances got up too and followed. These days, they were used to doing things together.

  ‘This child looks pale,’ the old doctor growled. ‘Does she get enough fresh air?’

  ‘But of course,’ Catherine said. ‘My mother or I take her out every day. She is not pale. That is her natural colouring.’

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Frances said, touching Lili’s soft cheek. ‘There can’t be anything wrong with her.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ snapped Dr Crippen. She pulled up Lili’s vest to look at her chest and then, grabbing one of her little arms, pulled her onto her face to have a look at her back.

  A howl of protest erupted from the baby and Catherine, horrified, pushed the doctor’s hands away. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried.

  ‘I’m looking for a rash, of course. There’s a lot of measles about. Stop interfering at once, you silly girl. Really, you young mothers are hopeless. None of you knows how to look after a baby.’

  ‘She hasn’t got a rash,’ said Della, a hint of menace in her voice. ‘And there’s no need for you to be so rough.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. There might be a war on and you should be at home doing your knitting or drowning kittens, or whatever it is you do in your spare time, but in here, you’re a bloody doctor, and these women and babies deserve to be treated right.’

  ‘Here, here,’ said Frances, and Catherine pulled down Lili’s vest and picked her up. The women in the hall had given a collective gasp of shock and were leaning forward, eager to hear more.

  The doctor stared at the three girls, her hands flat on the table and her grey head bobbing up and down like a toy bird’s. She picked up Lili’s medical card. ‘I believe you’re in show business, Mrs Fletcher,’ she hissed. ‘And I suppose these are friends of yours.’

  ‘They are,’ said Catherine. ‘My best friends.’

  ‘Well, we all know what goes on among that fraternity, so I’m not surprised that your bottle-blonde friend has a foul mouth.’ She tossed Lili’s card in the bin beside the table. ‘I suggest you go to a different clinic.’

  ‘I will.’ Catherine grinned, suddenly emboldened. She looked at Della and Frances. ‘How about a song?’

  ‘Yes,’ laughed Frances. ‘“Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”? Time us in, Della.’

  So in that bleak church hall, surrounded by mothers and babies, and an angry doctor and startled nurses, Della called, ‘One, two, three, four,’ and they started, ‘He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way …’ standing together with Lili in Catherine’s arms.

  Chapter 6

  Frances alighted from the train at the station closest to Parnell Hall. She’d telephoned the evening before to say that she was coming home on leave, and her father, sounding a little absent-minded, had agreed to meet her. But there was no sign of him, or anyone else, on the platform.

  ‘Damn,’ she muttered, and picking up her suitcase, walked through the gate and onto the lane outside the little country halt. She would have to walk the three miles home.

  It was a hot afternoon; bees and flies were buzzing around taking nectar from the wild flowers that grew in abundance at the edge of the dusty road. In the old days, before the war, the hedges and ditches had been managed properly, but now there weren’t the men to do it and the hedges were overgrown and the ditches blocked with rotting vegetation.

  As she walked along, Frances found herself singing the latest number that she, Catherine and Della had been rehearsing. ‘It had to be you, wonderful you,’ she sang, mentally counting the
beats in the way Catherine and Della had taught her, pleased with her effort. It had been a revelation to her that she could sing well enough to perform on stage, and although at first she’d been nervous of letting the others down, they’d assured her that she was good. ‘You’ve got a super mezzo voice,’ Catherine had said, and Della nodded enthusiastically. ‘And now that we’ve got matching frocks, we look the business.’

  Surprisingly, for she never wore clothes like these new frocks, Frances loved dressing up for the show. The dresses were in a lavender blue, with tight halter-neck bodices and long, swirling skirts. Della had gone to a dressmaker she knew in Soho and had them made up. ‘Ginger Rogers wore something very similar to this in The Gay Divorcee, or one of those films. I can’t remember. Anyway’ – she held up one of the dresses – ‘what d’you think?’

  ‘I like it,’ Catherine said, fingering the fabric, and Frances had nodded, ‘Me too.’

  Now Frances was belting out the song and practising the few steps that Della had incorporated and was so lost in her performance that she didn’t hear the ancient tractor that was coming up behind her until it was almost on her heels. Her song came to a sudden halt as she squeezed herself into the hedge, scratching her bare arms and legs on the hawthorn branches.

  ‘Lady Frances.’ The old man who leant out of the tractor cab looked at her in amazement. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here, prancing about like that?’

  ‘I’m walking home, Jethro,’ Fran said, ignoring the reference to ‘prancing about’. ‘My father was supposed to pick me up from the station, but he hasn’t come.’

  ‘His mind’s taken up with his new troubles, I dare say.’

  ‘What troubles?’ Frances asked. Her father was always short of money, so that couldn’t be something new. ‘What are you talking about?’

  But Jethro was not forthcoming. He scratched his beard and spat a glob of phlegm onto the dusty road. ‘Get up on the trailer,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll drop you by the back gates.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Frances heaved herself up and leant against the sweet-smelling hay. Oh God, she thought to herself, what’s Pa done now?

  There was no sign of her father’s Rolls as she walked past the outbuildings and garages at the back of the hall. The battered old shooting brake, which had a temperamental clutch and wouldn’t start at all if there had been even a hint of frost, was standing by the door to the boiler house. That meant that Pa had gone out, and Frances wondered if he was now outside the station, waiting for her arrival.

  She walked in past the back offices and into the kitchen, and found Maggie at the scarred wooden table, skinning a rabbit, and Johnny sitting on the floor beneath the table, building a tower out of cake tins and copper jelly moulds.

  ‘Lady Frances,’ Maggie beamed. ‘Oh my word, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ She put down the rabbit and wiped her hands on a cloth before coming round the table to give Frances a hug. She looked at the little boy. ‘And this young man will be really pleased to see you.’

  Frances knelt down and held out her arms. ‘Darling, come and give me a cuddle.’

  He crawled out from under the table and then, standing up, ran over to where Frances was kneeling. ‘Hello, Mummy,’ he said. ‘You’ve been away for ages.’

  ‘Yes, my little love,’ Frances said, holding him close and planting a kiss on his smooth pink cheek. ‘Have you been a good boy?’

  He nodded and Maggie grinned agreement before picking up the skinned rabbit again and starting to chop it into pieces ready for the casserole. ‘He has, Lady Frances. He’s a lovely boy and no trouble at all.’

  Frances smiled and got up. ‘I’ve got something for you, sweetheart,’ she said to Johnny. ‘Come and look.’

  Opening her handbag, Frances pulled out a red-painted wooden car and put it in the little boy’s hand.

  ‘Oh!’ he cried. ‘A car!’ He sat down again on the floor and pushed the little car along the quarry tiles, laughing in delight as the wheels went round and he discovered that the driver could be taken in and out of his seat.

  ‘He likes that,’ Maggie said.

  ‘He does,’ smiled Frances. Then watching the child, she asked, ‘Where’s my father gone? He was supposed to meet me at the station, but he didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Gone?’ said Maggie. ‘He hasn’t gone anywhere. He was in the library when I took up the tea tray about half an hour ago.’

  ‘But the car isn’t there.’

  ‘Ah.’ Maggie shook her head. ‘The Rolls. It’s in the garage, up on bricks. Not to be used.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Maggie frowned. ‘I thought his lordship would have told you.’ She slapped the rabbit pieces into seasoned flour before putting them into a black cast-iron casserole dish. ‘Constable Hallowes caught him buying black-market petrol. He would have come up in court, which would have been a scandal, him being the magistrate and all.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ cried Frances. ‘I told him months ago not to do it. Those spivs were in and out of the village all the time. But it was just too risky. I warned him.’ She shook her head, exasperated. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Well, he was let off, wasn’t he. Bert Hallowes said that as your father has allowed the folks on the estate and in the village to help themselves to the fallen wood in the copses while the war is on, he’d turn a blind eye. But he made his lordship promise to put the Rolls up on bricks.’

  Maggie started chopping carrots and onions, and throwing them in the casserole dish along with the rabbit. ‘The countess is not best pleased, I can tell you. She’s been stamping around the house for days now, saying she won’t go out in the shooting brake. Anyway, his lordship couldn’t get it to start this morning.’

  ‘Oh hell.’ Frances could imagine her mother’s fury. She was a woman who stood permanently on her dignity. Even with war raging and the family going broke, she expected to live in the style she’d enjoyed all those years ago at her father’s New York mansion. Then, she’d been a dollar princess, a good catch for anyone, and both her father and Lord Parnell’s had been thrilled with the match. But it hadn’t taken long for the Parnell estate to eat up her fortune, and the title she’d acquired when she married now seemed worthless.

  ‘Look,’ Frances said, ‘I’d better go and see them. Will you keep an eye on Johnny?’

  ‘Of course I will, lovey. Off you go.’

  As Frances walked towards the stairs that led up to the main hall, she had a thought. ‘Where’s that girl – Janet, was it? The one my mother took on.’

  Maggie snorted. ‘Her? Pregnant. Her dad came to take her home.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ Frances said. ‘She can’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen.’

  ‘She isn’t. The father is one of those soldiers that were in the village before D-Day, but she doesn’t remember his name.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ Frances said, as she went towards the stairs; she and Maggie didn’t look each other in the eye. There was no need.

  She found both of her parents in the library when she opened the door and went in. ‘Hello,’ she said, and her father, with a big grin, sprang to his feet.

  ‘My dear girl, what a pleasure.’ He gave her a hug and then turned to his wife. ‘Look, Opaline, Frances is home. She’ll sort things out.’

  ‘I can see her,’ Lady Parnell said coldly. ‘I’m not blind.’

  Frances bent and gave her mother a kiss on her thin, rouged cheek. ‘How are you, Mummy?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ her mother replied, and bent to pick up the copy of Vogue that was on the threadbare rug at her feet.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Opaline Parnell flicked noisily through the magazine pages, refusing to look at her husband or her daughter. Frances thought she wasn’t going to answer, but suddenly her mother spat out, ‘Your father, that’s what’s the matter. Your goddam father. As usual.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, give it a rest,’ Lord Parnell said angrily, and with l
ess than his usual care crashed his teacup down on the tray and strode out through the French windows. Frances heard him whistling for Hero and Spartan, and soon the mad Irish setters came galloping up to him, ready, as always, for any activity.

  As she watched them walking off across the parkland, Frances sat down beside her mother on the sofa. ‘I heard about the petrol,’ she said.

  ‘Uh!’ Her mother dropped the magazine back onto the rug. ‘Who told you? Not your father – he wouldn’t. It was Maggie, I suppose. And did she tell you that we have no transport now and that we’re trapped in this mausoleum for eternity?’

  ‘Come on,’ Frances grinned. ‘There’s the shooting brake. It’s not smart, I grant you, but it goes. At least, most of the time.’

  ‘I absolutely refuse to go in that … that, vehicle. Hell, I’m supposed to be the goddam lady of the manor. What will people think if I’m seen in that piece of junk?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Frances. ‘They won’t think anything of it. We’re in the country; there’s a war on. Most people don’t have cars. Be reasonable.’

  Lady Parnell snorted. ‘I’ve been reasonable for twenty-five miserable years. And I’ve had enough. I’m going home as soon as I can.’

  Frances stared at her mother. She’d often made these threats before, but somehow this seemed real. ‘This is your home,’ she said cautiously.

  Opaline gave a cold little smile. ‘No, it isn’t. It never has been. It’s the place I was sent to in exchange for my fortune. An arrangement made by my father and John’s. And I’ve hated it.’

  ‘But what about Pa and Hugo and me?’

  ‘Face it, honey. Hugo is probably dead. You let the family down years ago and went your own way. You won’t miss me, and I know your father won’t either. He was forced into this marriage as much as I was.’

  Her words were shocking and Frances could feel her heart beating rapidly as she stared at this brittle, hard-faced woman who was her mother. Had she always felt this way? she wondered. Had she never been happy? Frances could think of nothing to say, but just as she was getting up to leave the room, there was a knock at the door and Maggie came in, holding Johnny by his little hand. ‘Can I take the tea tray, milady?’ she asked.