‘This will do.’ Della sat on one of the beds and lit a cigarette. ‘Home sweet home, I don’t think. Where are the boys?’
‘They’ve got rooms on this floor. Tommy and Colin are sharing. Godfrey’s on his own, and so is Eric. Beau is in the house next door. It’s been commandeered by the army and they’ve found a place for him with the officers.’
‘Who’s a lucky boy, then,’ Della smiled. ‘I don’t suppose he’d consider a swap?’
‘Before we go into sleeping arrangements,’ said Catherine, sitting on the bed next to Della, ‘tell us about Harry Stafford. We thought’ – she looked at Frances, who nodded eagerly – ‘that Stafford was only a stage name. You never said that you’d married.’
‘Didn’t I?’ Della drew on her cigarette. ‘Well, it was a while ago now. He was an illusionist who I met when I was doing a summer season in Brighton.’ She stood up and walked over to the window, which looked out onto the street. ‘What can I say? I fell in love. So did he, I think. He was an American, you know, from Brooklyn, New York. He kept telling me how much I’d love it there. We were going, emigrating – well, I was. But I kept putting it off: there was Ma and Maria and Paddy. My money was helping. Then war was declared.’
She turned back to face them. ‘And d’you know what that silly bugger did? He joined the army, the British Army, for Christ’s sake. Said he believed in doing something against Hitler. He went to France right at the beginning and that’s the last I heard. Reported missing, just like your bloke, Catherine. One of his friends told me he’d been blown up.’ There was a choke in her voice as she said that last and Catherine walked over to put an arm around her, followed swiftly by Frances. They stood, arms wrapped about each other for several moments, gaining comfort from their friendship until Della broke away.
‘Enough,’ she said. ‘The boys will be talking about us. Well, at least Eric will.’
‘Oh Lord,’ grinned Frances. ‘We’d better get moving. Beau’s arranged that we can rehearse in the theatre this evening at six o’clock, which we might need, and also he said something about a soldier joining us. He was a comedian before the war – worked all over, apparently.’
‘What’s his name?’ asked Della.
‘Um …’ Frances tapped her lip. ‘I’ve forgotten. Davey something, I think. Anyway, he was wounded in Italy, and when he came out of hospital, he was transferred to the Entertainments Division. He’s been offered to us.’
Della frowned. ‘There was a Davey Jones. I remember him at the Palace in Manchester, but he was the straight man for Lenny Locker. I don’t think it can be him.’
‘Anyway’ – Frances went to the door – ‘I’m going to ask the boys to gather on the pavement at half five. I’ll find Beau and he can tell me where the bus is.’
‘Any chance of a cup of tea downstairs?’ asked Della.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Frances. ‘We can use the NAAFI and the officers’ mess. Major Lennox will give us the info.’
At half past five, the Players gathered on the pavement outside the hotel. Catherine and Della sat at a table sipping brandy, which was the only drink that Della recognised. Catherine warned her against the absinthe, which the workmen at the next table were drinking. ‘That’s the green fairy. It’s a dangerous drink,’ she said. ‘It makes people mad.’ But even as she said that, she looked over to the table where Eric sat with Captain Fortescue on his knee and saw him pour water from a dusty carafe into a glass of the feé verte.
The theatre was an old building that had seen many changes over the centuries, but it had a fine stage and Catherine enjoyed stepping out onto it to rehearse her first number. In discussion with Beau, she’d added a couple of different songs to her list and now, nodding to Tommy, who sat at a battered upright piano, she launched into the first one.
Some local workmen were in the theatre. They’d carried the wicker hampers from the bus and, under Frances’s instructions, put them in the rather dingy dressing rooms backstage. As the rehearsals started, they had been noisy, shouting instructions to each other while they manoeuvred the hampers through the narrow corridors. But when Catherine started to sing, they gradually began to come to the wings, silenced now, and listening entranced as her voice floated across the theatre.
‘Bravo, mademoiselle!’ one of them called, and the others clapped their hands furiously.
‘Praise indeed,’ said Beau, grinning. ‘From people who’ve seen and heard it all.’
‘Thank you,’ Catherine smiled, and turning to the workmen, said, ‘Merci beaucoup, messieurs.’
‘Can we get on with it?’ Eric snapped, dragging a wooden chair to the centre of the stage and sitting down. He put Captain Fortescue on his knee and looked up to where a technician was adjusting the spotlights. ‘Have you got me?’ he called in the captain’s voice. ‘After all, old fruit, this is a review, don’t you know? Not a one-woman show, no matter how much she likes to hog the limelight.’
The rest of the company, who had been waiting for their turn to rehearse and listening with pleasure while Catherine sang, looked shocked.
‘Bad show, sir,’ said Godfrey, and Tommy and Colin muttered their disgust.
Frances looked at Beau to see if he would say something, but he merely walked away to talk to the stage manager. What is the matter with him? thought Frances, and taking Catherine’s hand, she whispered in her friend’s ear, ‘Ignore him. He’s just vile.’
‘He’s a bastard,’ said Della, not bothering to lower her voice, ‘but don’t you worry. Let’s look forward to the show, and somehow I’ll find a way to do for him.’
‘Della!’ A voice came from the back of the theatre, and turning to face the soldier who was walking up the aisle, her angry face dissolved into a welcoming smile.
‘Davey Jones, as I live and breathe.’
Chapter 10
‘Well, well. Della Stafford. As glamorous as ever, and in uniform.’ Davey Jones bent to give her a friendly peck on the cheek. He was tall, very tall, with sandy hair and pale skin. A livid scar ran down the side of his face and extended beneath his collar. It was puckered in places, which dragged his eye down slightly and gave him a look of constant sadness. But he wasn’t sad, and when he was introduced to the rest of the Players, he had a cheery word for each of them.
‘Mr James, how are you?’ he grinned. ‘D’you remember me?’
‘I do, indeed, young man,’ said Godfrey, and confided to Frances, ‘Davey was a boy when I first met him. At Blackpool, wasn’t it, Davey?’
‘Yes, Mr James, we were on the same bill.’
Godfrey chuckled. ‘You’ve grown a span since then.’
Colin hadn’t met him before, nor Tommy or Catherine. ‘You’ve got a lovely voice, Mrs Fletcher,’ he said, when they were introduced. ‘I could hear it as I came into the theatre.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and please, call me Catherine.’
‘So, this is the company,’ he grinned, glancing around, and then his face fell when he saw Eric, who was arguing with the French workman who was adjusting the spotlight.
‘D’you know him?’ asked Frances.
‘Oh God, yes,’ Davey said. ‘I know him. What’s he calling himself these days?’
‘Eric Baxter,’ said Tommy, joining in. ‘And the doll is Captain Fortescue.’
‘Baxter, eh. He was Eric Lawford when I knew him, and I was told that he’d been Farley before that.’
‘Why does he keep changing his name?’ asked Frances.
Davey frowned. ‘We all change our names. I was David Hardcastle before I teamed up with Lenny Locker.’ He stared at Eric and then said in a lowered voice, ‘He was a blackshirt, you know, before the war. One of Mosley’s mob, and there was a rumour about him having been in prison.’
As the others turned their heads to gaze at Eric, Davey added in an urgent hiss, ‘Look, I don’t know that for sure, and I beg you, for God’s sake, don’t quote me.’
‘He’s not a bad ventriloquist,’ said
Godfrey, generous as ever. ‘I’ve seen plenty worse.’
‘That’s as maybe,’ Davey conceded. ‘But years ago, before he had the doll act, he was an actor in rep and got terrible notices. Then the next thing, he was in variety. Singing, tap-dancing, all sorts. I was on the same bill once when he bombed and they actually dragged him off stage with the hook.’
Della laughed. ‘Oh, I do hope you remind him of that.’
He grinned. ‘You haven’t changed.’
The rehearsal went well; Beau rearranged the running order so that Davey came on after Della’s first song and then again later before Catherine closed the show. He was quite good; he told a few jokes and did a couple of funny monologues. His act was nothing spectacular, but it did fit in nicely with the rest of the show. Afterwards, they all went to the NAAFI for a meal. It was next to army headquarters.
‘What’s happened to Lenny?’ asked Della, as she wiped the remains of her plate of pie and chips with some bread. ‘Did he join up?’
‘No.’ Davey shook his head. ‘He didn’t fight at all. Cleared off to the States as soon as war was declared, tried to get into pictures, but I don’t know how he did. I never heard from him again.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘What about you? Where’s old Harry these days?’
‘Killed,’ said Della shortly.
Catherine and Frances, who were sitting on either side of her, edged closer, comfortingly.
‘God, I’m sorry,’ Davey said, looking embarrassed. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘D’you know’ – Frances hurried to change the subject – ‘they’ve got loose tea and tinned milk for sale here? I saw that there was a stove at the back in the theatre. We could have a cuppa before we go on. What d’you think?’
‘Good idea,’ Della agreed, grateful for her friend’s tact. ‘Let’s all get some.’
That night, Catherine slept deeply. The iron bed was uncomfortable, but she was tired after the long journey on the landing craft and the excitement of the rehearsal. She tried, as she often did, to imagine that Christopher was lying beside her. That his arm was around her and that she could feel his body pressed into hers. Am I near to him? she wondered, as she closed her eyes. Is he close by? Somewhere in the French countryside, being hidden by kind friends, waiting to be rescued? Oh, please God. Then, as she was drifting off, she found herself thinking about Robert and how impressive he’d looked in his uniform. Stop it, she told herself. Don’t let him, of all people, invade your mind; you’re being stupid.
In the morning, she was the last to wake up. ‘Come on, sleepyhead,’ Della said, pushing her on her shoulder. ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’
‘However did you get that?’ asked Catherine sleepily, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her eyes. She picked up the cup and saucer that Della had plonked on the rickety table between the beds.
‘It’s the tea Frances bought last night,’ Della said, sitting on the next bed. ‘I took it down to Madame Défarge and persuaded her to put a couple of spoonfuls into a coffee pot. I think she was scandalised, but as we couldn’t understand each other, it doesn’t matter. She didn’t have any milk, so I opened the tinned stuff.’ She took a sip from her cup. ‘I’ve had worse,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘But not often.’
‘It’s fine for me,’ said Catherine. ‘My French grandparents make tea with tinned or sterilised milk, so I’m used to it.’ She looked at Frances’s bed. ‘Where is she?’
‘Out already. Beau came knocking for her before eight. They’re fixing up for us to do some matinees in the field. She’s gone to talk to the military.’
Catherine got out of bed and, stretching her arms above her head, pulled a face. ‘I feel sticky,’ she said, ‘and I’m sure I smell. I’d love a bath.’
‘Ah,’ smiled Della. ‘I’ve found out that we can get a shower at the NAAFI. How about us going there? We can have some breakfast too. It’s not far – we can walk.’
The streets were busy, full of civilians who seemed to be heading towards a covered market, and soldiers who strolled along the narrow thoroughfares and gave the girls the eye as they passed. There was a rumbling in the air and Della looked at Catherine. ‘Thunder,’ she groaned. ‘It’ll rain in a minute.’
Catherine looked around. ‘I’m not sure,’ she frowned. People had stopped walking and were standing staring towards where the sound was coming from, and then a siren started wailing in the air. She clutched Della’s arm and started to say something when suddenly there was a louder boom, followed by a sickening crump, which made the buildings beside them shake. ‘It’s shelling,’ she shouted. ‘We must get under cover.’
‘Should we go back to the hotel?’ Della asked, wildly looking backwards and forwards as the people, who had a minute ago been strolling down the street, started to run.
‘No.’ Catherine hurried her along. ‘The NAAFI. It’s just round the corner. They must have a shelter.’
A group of soldiers who had just passed them turned and started to run back. ‘Come on, girls,’ said one of them. ‘You need to get away from here. Bloody Jerries are at it again.’
Della and Catherine ran down the cobbled street, surrounded by the phalanx of young men from the Pioneer Corps, while in the near distance a constant barrage of explosions rattled the old buildings and caused panic to the few people who were still about.
‘Whoosh!’ A boom, followed by another crash and another and another, and finally they reached the building that housed the NAAFI and ran inside and down into the packed cellar.
‘Wow!’ said Della, her face white. ‘I thought this town was supposed to be safe.’
‘It is, mostly,’ said the sergeant who had run with them. ‘And there’s probably nothing damaged in the town. The Jerries are too far away. But better safe …’
‘… than sorry,’ Della finished the sentence, and grinned at the young man. ‘I’m Della Stafford,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘Part of the Bennett Players. We’re giving a performance in the theatre after lunch. You should come and see us.’
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘We heard about you, didn’t we, lads?’
They nodded and grinned, and one of them said, looking at Catherine, ‘Is she in it too?’
Della laughed. ‘You bet,’ she nodded. ‘Just wait till you hear her sing.’
The shelling stopped almost as soon as they’d reached the shelter and they went upstairs into the canteen, where the NAAFI workers were already pouring tea from steaming urns and scrambling dried eggs.
‘Look,’ Catherine said, pointing towards the back of the room. ‘The gang’s already here.’
They joined their friends at a table and ate fried tomatoes on toast and drank dark tea out of thick china cups.
‘Did you get caught in the raid?’ asked Godfrey.
‘Yes,’ Della nodded. ‘We were in the street and ran here for the shelter.’ She frowned. ‘We didn’t see you down there. Where were you?’
‘Here,’ laughed Davey. ‘The NAAFI girls didn’t bother to move, so neither did we. Some bugger might have eaten our breakfast if we’d left it.’
‘Aye,’ Colin agreed. ‘I’ve paid for this.’
‘There’s Beau and Frances.’ Catherine stood up and waved. Spotting the company, the pair came over. Beau was limping badly, as though he’d further damaged his leg.
Catherine put a gentle hand on his arm. ‘What’s happened to you?’ she asked, her voice full of concern. She could see that as well as the more pronounced limp, his face was pale and he didn’t look well.
‘It’s nothing.’ He shrugged off the enquiry, but Frances wasn’t having it.
‘He fell,’ she said, ‘or so he says. I think he should go to the military hospital and see what the doc says, but he won’t.’
‘For Christ’s sake, stop fussing,’ Beau growled. He was leaning heavily on his stick. ‘Now …’ He took the rolled-up paper that Frances had been carrying and showed it to them. It was a brightly coloured advert
for the show, with a list of their names and the times of the performances. ‘Robert Lennox got this done,’ he said. ‘I’ll put one up in here and a couple at HQ. As well as this, I have to tell you that we’re going to a field hospital tomorrow afternoon, to give a show, and then at the end of the week, we’re moving on.’
‘Not back home?’ Godfrey asked, his face falling.
‘No.’ Beau smiled at him. ‘I’m afraid that the redoubtable Mrs James will have to do without you for some time yet. We’re going to the front. Well, as close to the front as is safe.’ He waited for questions, but they were all slightly stunned and he said, ‘Look, I’m going to get these posters put up and I’ll see you at the theatre. One o’clock, alright?’ He limped away to talk to the woman who was in charge at the NAAFI.
It was exciting news and the Players looked at each other with a mixture of apprehension and delight.
‘This is what we volunteered for,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m glad we’re going.’
‘There speaks a man who hasn’t been at the sharp end,’ Davey muttered.
‘No, I haven’t.’ Tommy’s face reddened. ‘But it’s not for want of trying.’
There was an awkward silence; then Davey grinned. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean anything.’
Tommy nodded, but Catherine could see that he was still simmering. She turned to Frances. ‘What happened to Beau?’ She looked over to where he was talking to the NAAFI woman behind the counter and showing her the poster.
‘He says he fell,’ Frances murmured, ‘but, you know, I don’t believe him. He has bruises on his arms as though …’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t know, but one of the officers in the billet told me that he was brought back last night by a bloke from our troupe. Apparently Beau was in a bit of a state.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Tommy, ‘or any of us boys here. We were playing cards until late.’
‘Oh God,’ Della snorted. ‘We all know who it was. That bloody Eric Baxter, or whatever his name is.’
The Very Thought of You Page 12