The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘This is my grandfather’s cousin,’ Catherine said to the girls, who had followed her out of the house. ‘I’ve known him all my life.’ She turned back to him. ‘Where are they? Tell me, please.’

  To her dismay, tears welled up in the old man’s eyes and she knew that he was going to say something dreadful. Frances and Della came to stand beside her, and each took a hand.

  ‘My cousin Jean,’ he sobbed, ‘is dead. He was shot, by the Germans, in April. He hid Allied soldiers in the barn and in the cellar. No one knew, not even me. But he was given away and they took him and your grandmère.’

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ Catherine cried. ‘They shot them both?’

  ‘No. Béatrice was put in prison, but now she has been freed.’

  ‘Where is she? I must go to her.’ Catherine turned towards the car.

  ‘Wait, wait, little one. She is with the sisters at the convent in Amiens. The prison did something to her mind. She knows no one. I think she will not know you.’

  The words were devastating and Catherine could barely take them in. Her poor grandfather, how frightened he must have been when they took him away. And Grandmère? Did she see him being shot? She shuddered at the thought.

  She could hear Frances translating to Della what had been said and heard Della’s sad cry.

  ‘The Jerries are pigs,’ Della spat. ‘Absolute pigs.’

  Catherine struggled to gain control of herself. We must go back to Amiens, she thought. I have to go to the convent, and then something else struck her. She took Jacques’s arm. ‘My mother, Honorine, has written here several times to find out. Why are there no letters in the house?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘But she should have known by now. All the letters that came to the house were collected. I was told that your mother would be told, so I waited for her to come if she could, or perhaps you. And’ – he gave a sad smile – ‘here you are.’

  Catherine stared at him, trying to take in all the information that was bludgeoning her brain. She looked at Guy, who was looking back at her with a puzzled frown. There was a question to be asked. ‘Who,’ she asked finally, ‘collected the letters?’

  ‘Oh.’ The old man put on his cap. ‘It was Father Gautier.’ She heard the sharp intake of breath from Guy as Jacques continued. ‘He is our priest. A man of great honour.’

  On the road back to Amiens, Catherine asked Guy to stop the car so that she could get out and stand for a moment in the cold air. Her head felt as though it was bursting. The news she’d received was so terrible that it was almost too much to take in. She wanted to cry for her grandfather, but found that she couldn’t. Not yet. Jacques had said he was buried in the churchyard in a grave that was only marked by a small wooden cross and a number. She would come back to visit and arrange a headstone, but first she must find her grandmother.

  ‘Are you alright, darling?’ asked Della, getting out of the Citroën to stand beside her. ‘It was awful news you had.’ It had started to rain again and Della held her coat over her newly styled hair.

  ‘Yes, I’m alright,’ said Catherine. ‘But there are so many questions.’

  ‘Not least for this Father Gautier,’ Frances joined in. ‘What on earth was he playing at?’

  ‘Let’s get back in the car,’ Catherine said. ‘I want to show you something.’

  When they were in their seats, with the rain driving against the steamed-up windows, Catherine opened her handbag. But before she took out the flimsy piece of paper, she turned to Guy. ‘Why did you gasp when Father Gautier’s name was mentioned?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t think I gasped.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Frances, and when she translated it to Della, she too nodded vigorously.

  ‘I heard you, and I saw you. You looked quite sick.’

  He was smoking a Gauloises Bleu and its strong aromatic smell filled the car, but after a moment he unwound the window and threw it out. ‘Father Gautier’s name is familiar to me,’ he said at last. ‘And I have met him. He was trusted by the Resistance fighters, and he was with me the night before I was arrested. What I do not understand is why he didn’t let you know about your grandfather’s death.’

  Catherine took out the letter she’d had some weeks ago. ‘Look at this,’ she said. ‘It came for me last month. And I don’t know who sent it.’

  It was handed round and Catherine translated the sentence into French for Guy. Find Father Gautier somewhere south of Amiens. He’ll tell you about your husband.

  ‘Who sent you this?’ Guy asked.

  Catherine shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I’ll tell you something. I’m certain Robert Lennox has read it.’

  Chapter 19

  The convent was in the quiet part of the old city, which had escaped the devastation of the invasion. Small houses, painted in pastel colours, lined the canal sides, lending a surprisingly bright note to the dreary day. Catherine, who had been mostly silent on the journey, gazed out at them and marvelled at the sight of a few market stalls, which had been set up. Winter vegetables were being sold, mostly cabbages, turnips and a few potatoes. Apples, taken from the store and slightly wrinkled, were fingered carefully by tired-looking housewives, and she even saw a few bottles of what she supposed was cider or even Calvados.

  Half an hour before, they’d stopped at a cafe on the edge of the city for omelettes and a glass of wine. ‘Eat up,’ commanded Frances to Catherine, who was listlessly pushing her omelette around with her fork. ‘You’ve had a terrible shock, but you’re going to need your strength for the next bit.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it’s so hard getting it all straight in my head. My grandfather being shot dead, and my poor grandmother losing her mind. I can hardly believe it.’

  Frances and Della looked at each other. They didn’t know what to say.

  But Guy did. He put his arm around Catherine’s shoulders. ‘Listen to me,’ he said firmly. ‘Your grandfather was a very brave man. Braver than many of us could be, because I have to tell you that I was frightened all the time, and it would have been the same for him and for your grandmother. You never knew who to trust or who to turn to for help.’ He frowned. ‘People you thought were on your side often weren’t. I know now that there were many collaborators, not just the ones we saw, day in, day out, helping the Nazis, but those who were in the shadows, who pretended to be our friends.’ He took her hand. ‘Take comfort, Catherine. Jean Albert’s name will never be forgotten. Not as long as I and the others who fought alongside me are alive.’

  ‘Thank you, Guy,’ she murmured, and wiped away the tears that were finally beginning to flow.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Frances said, after finishing her wine and leaning back, ‘is who this Father Gautier is. Why hasn’t he got in touch with Catherine’s mother? It’s months now since the liberation – surely the post is working again.’

  ‘Mm,’ Guy frowned. ‘That is strange.’ He turned to Catherine. ‘Was Father Gautier the parish priest of the village when you were last visiting?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. It was Father Bernard. I remember him so well. He would often come to the farmhouse for dinner. I don’t know this Gautier at all. But remember, it was five years ago.’

  Frances was translating the conversation to Della, who said to Guy, ‘You know him. You said so. What’s he like?’

  Guy lit yet another cigarette. ‘He’s a priest – what is there to say? He’s young, though, and not from around here. From the east, I think, by his accent. He collects food and clothes for the refugees who have been bombed out, and he let us store our weapons in the vestry. He’s a good man, I think.’ Then added, ‘Everybody likes him.’

  Frances nodded. ‘That’s exactly what old Cousin Jacques said. Father Gautier is well respected; everybody likes him. He does sound like a good man. Anyway’ – she got up from the metal cafe chair – ‘let’s get moving. Catherine wants to see her grandmother, and we’ve got a show tonight, in case you’
ve forgotten. Beau will kill us if we’re late.’

  They left then and got into the car and drove quickly into Amiens.

  ‘D’you know where we’re going?’ Frances asked Guy. He’d stopped for directions a few streets back, asking a woman with a shopping basket the way to the Convent of the Grey Sisters. He seemed confident that they were heading the right way, but after driving down a few streets, she’d pointed out that he’d missed the turning and he had to reverse and go back.

  ‘It’s down here, I think,’ he said. ‘A brick building with a stone chapel at the side – that’s what the woman said.’

  ‘Is it there?’ called Della, pointing ahead. ‘There’s a couple of nuns going in. It must be it.’

  It was the right place. A small painted sign beside the oak front door announced that it was the Hôpital des Sœurs Grises.

  ‘Hospital?’ said Della. ‘Is this a hospital?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Frances replied.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Guy, when he’d parked in front of the convent. ‘They won’t appreciate a man who isn’t a priest going inside. I’ll walk up the road to the tabac. I need cigarettes.’

  The girls climbed out of the Citroën and went up the broad stone steps to the door. When Catherine knocked, a square grille at eye level opened and a face looked out. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I believe Madame Béatrice Albert is staying with you. I’m her granddaughter and I would like to see her.’

  The face gazed at Catherine for a moment and then the grille banged shut.

  ‘Crikey,’ said Della. ‘What did you say?’ But as she was speaking, the door was opening and the nun who had peered through the grille beckoned them inside.

  ‘Wait, if you please.’ Leaving them by the door, the little nun folded her hands into her grey sleeves and walked swiftly away from them down the corridor.

  ‘It doesn’t look much like a hospital,’ said Frances, frosted breath coming out of her mouth when she spoke. She gazed around at the spotless, unadorned walls and down to the shiny tiled floor. ‘I’ve never been in a convent before. Are they always so cold and so … stark? And that disinfectant smell … I swear it’s the same stuff we use in the glasshouses at home.’

  ‘Oh Christ, yes,’ answered Della. ‘It was just like this where I was. Jeyes Fluid and floor polish. The nuns believe that not scrubbing the pattern off the floors is a mortal sin. And as for lighting a fire? Not a cat in hell’s chance.’ She shuddered. ‘I hated them.’

  ‘Shush,’ said Catherine as the little nun returned.

  ‘You must speak to Mother Paul,’ she whispered, and indicating that they were to follow her, walked before them towards a door at the far end of a bare and icy hall. Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the door.

  After a moment, a deep voice begged them to enter and the nun opened the door and ushered them through.

  Mother Paul was a tall, imposing woman with strong, almost mannish features, which her religious habit didn’t soften. She was standing behind a large oak desk, which was bare of papers but had a telephone and a small brass bell. She gave each of the girls a long stare, her eyes taking in their uniforms, before saying, in English, ‘Which one of you is Madame Albert’s granddaughter?’

  Catherine stepped forward. ‘I am. My name is Catherine Fletcher.’

  ‘And your companions?’

  ‘They are my friends. Frances Parnell and Della Stafford.’

  To Frances’s surprise, Della bobbed a little curtsey when she was introduced, keeping her eyes lowered, and Mother Paul acknowledged it with a brief nod before drifting her hand to the chairs that were placed against the wall. The girls sat down.

  ‘I see you are in the British Army. Are you nurses?’

  ‘No,’ said Catherine. ‘We are entertainers.’

  The atmosphere in the room got even more chilly, and Mother Paul folded her lips together as though to stop herself from yelling, ‘What!’ Instead, she said, ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I want to see my grandmother,’ said Catherine. ‘I have only today been told that she is here with you. We, my mother and I, have been very worried about her and, of course, my grandfather. I have now learnt that he is dead.’

  Mother Paul nodded slowly. ‘He has been remembered in our prayers. But, mademoiselle’ – she looked at Catherine’s hand and saw the wedding ring – ‘er … madame, your presence is a surprise, perhaps a shock. We believed that dear Béatrice had no family left. That you and your parents were killed in the bombing.’

  The girls looked at each other. ‘As you see, Reverend Mother,’ Frances said, not in the least awed, ‘Catherine is very much alive. As are her mother and her daughter.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mother Paul’s strong eyebrows drew together in a slight frown. ‘Of course, I have no proof that Madame Fletcher is who she says she is. And you say she is.’

  ‘But I am,’ Catherine said angrily. ‘However could you doubt me? I have my identity papers, and my father’s cousin, Jacques Albert, could vouch for me if you don’t believe those. He was the one who told me to come here.’ She stood up. ‘My grandmother, if you please, Reverend Mother. Take me to her.’

  The nun didn’t move from her chair, but brought one of her hands from her lap and opened the drawer in front of her. She withdrew a small black notebook. ‘I will telephone to get permission.’

  ‘Permission?’ asked Frances. ‘I think not.’ Her voice was very much that of an earl’s daughter. ‘Catherine is Madame Albert’s next of kin. She doesn’t need permission. If you refuse to let her see her grandmother, we will return with the authorities.’

  Della, finally overcoming her nervousness, stood up. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘enough of this nonsense. Let’s go and find her. This place isn’t very big, so we’ll look in every room.’

  This last galvanised Mother Paul into action. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘That won’t be necessary.’ She picked up the small brass bell that was on her desk and gave it a determined ring. The door was immediately opened and the little nun came back in. ‘Take these ladies to Madame Albert.’

  As they were going out of the door, Frances stopped and turned back to Mother Paul. ‘Who were you going to call for permission?’ she asked. The black notebook was still on the desk, and the reverend mother’s hand was hovering over the receiver.

  ‘Father Gautier, of course. He is Madame Albert’s legal guardian.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Frances. ‘Her family have found her. Madame Fletcher will make the decisions now.’

  As she left the room and followed the girls up a broad, uncarpeted staircase, she knew that in the room below Mother Paul would be dialling Father Gautier’s number.

  They found Grandmère Béatrice in a cold, bare day room. She was sitting on a hard chair by the window and was leaning forward, looking out at the buildings opposite and the road below.

  Frances grabbed Della’s arm. ‘Let Catherine go alone to her,’ she whispered, and the two girls stood by the door as Catherine went to kneel beside the old lady.

  ‘Grandmère,’ she said softly. ‘It’s me, Catherine.’

  At first, Béatrice didn’t move and Catherine took hold of her gnarled, veiny hand. ‘Grandmère,’ she repeated. ‘It’s me.’

  Slowly, the old woman turned her head away from the window and gazed at Catherine. As her eyes scanned her face with seemingly no recognition, Catherine was certain that what Jacques had said was true. Poor Grandmère had lost her mind. She didn’t know her.

  Catherine looked over her shoulder to her friends, who were standing by the door. ‘She doesn’t know me,’ she said, with a sob in her voice, and they nodded sympathetically and moved forward to comfort her.

  But as they did, the old woman suddenly spoke. ‘Catherine, chérie? Is it you?’ Her voice was filled with wonder. ‘Are you a dream?’

  ‘Oh no, Grandmère.’ Catherine put her arms about her and held her tight. ‘I’m here. I’ve found you.’

  In the minutes that followed, th
ere was much kissing and many tears. ‘How have you got here?’ asked Béatrice. ‘Is the war over?’

  ‘It is in this area,’ Catherine said, smoothing back Grandmère’s tight grey chignon, which had become dislodged with all the hugging. ‘I’m going to take you back to England. Maman has been so worried about you. And you have a great-granddaughter to meet.’

  ‘Lili,’ said the old lady, and Catherine looked at her in amazement. ‘How—’

  The door opened suddenly and a different nun came in, carrying a small steel tray that contained a medicine bottle and a little glass. She wore a stiff white apron over her habit, as though she was afraid that her clothes were about to be stained. ‘Madame Albert,’ she said briskly, ‘it is time for your medicine.’

  Béatrice clung to Catherine’s hand. ‘No,’ she cried. ‘I don’t want it. I have told you, over and over.’ She was shaking and Catherine held her and scowled at the nun.

  ‘What medicine is it?’

  The nun ignored her and measured a dose into the glass. ‘No spitting it out, this time, if you please, madame.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Catherine angrily. ‘What is the medicine?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’ Della stepped forward and grabbed the bottle off the tray. She held it up to the light and peered at the label. ‘It says, “L’hydrate de … something,”’ she muttered, and Frances had a look.

  ‘“L’hydrate de chloral,”’ she read. ‘Chloral hydrate.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Della spluttered. ‘I’ve heard of that. It’s a Mickey Finn. It’ll knock her out.’

  The nun approached Béatrice with the glass of medicine and Catherine stood up. ‘Take that horrible medicine away,’ she said, giving the nun a steely glare. ‘I refuse to let you anywhere near her.’

  ‘But, madame,’ the nun faltered, looking confused, ‘it is my duty. Madame Albert must have this three times a day.’

  ‘Three times?’ cried Della. ‘No wonder they say she’s losing her mind. They’re poisoning her.’ She snatched the glass off the tray and upended the contents onto the polished floorboards. An unpleasantly musty smell rose up and Della shivered. ‘Jesus and Mary,’ she said, ‘do I remember that stink.’