The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘Lovely,’ said Frances, and Della gave a little whoop of joy.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like performing, you know,’ she told Beau. ‘But I just love being at that chateau. It makes me feel like a proper lady.’ She caught his grin. ‘And don’t you say anything, Beau Bennett. I’m changing my ways. You won’t know me soon.’

  ‘I’ll always know you, Della Stafford,’ he smiled. ‘Didn’t George Formby say you had the best legs in the business?’

  ‘What about my grandmother?’ said Catherine. ‘I can’t leave her here on her own. I’ll have to stay with her.’

  Beau frowned. ‘We won’t be coming back this way, and next week we’re going up to the front again. We can’t take her there.’

  Robert finally stopped drumming his fingers and stood up. ‘Take her with you to the chateau, Catherine. I’m sure the housekeeper will look after her when you go on tour. And then a couple of weeks after that, we’re going back to England, so she’ll be safe at home with you and your mother.’

  As Robert was leaving, Catherine ran after him and took his hand. ‘Are you coming with us to the chateau?’ she asked.

  ‘Not immediately,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  She found her cheeks growing pink. ‘Oh, I just wondered,’ she muttered.

  He looked into her eyes. ‘I’ll be there in a couple of days,’ he said. ‘Unless something happens.’

  ‘What sort of something?’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t ask me, sweetheart, because I won’t tell you.’ And with that he dropped a kiss on her cheek and walked away.

  ‘It’s all on again, is it?’ asked Della, coming up behind Catherine.

  ‘No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know,’ said Catherine impatiently. ‘And there shouldn’t be anything going on at all. It’s so wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think falling in love is wrong.’ Frances had joined them. ‘I think it’s wonderful and should be grabbed with both hands whenever it happens and with whoever it happens.’

  ‘Who would have guessed that you were a romantic?’ Della laughed.

  ‘Not you, I suppose,’ Frances sighed. ‘Anyway, enough of this. We’ve got about three hours before we have to get on the bus. What shall we do? A bit of sightseeing?’

  ‘Not me.’ Catherine had spotted Guy de Montjoy entering the hotel. The smart black Citroën was parked outside, and he was dangling the keys from his hand. An idea occurred to her, and waving her hand, she walked towards him.

  ‘Guy,’ she said after they’d shaken hands, ‘can I beg a favour from you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I see you still have the car. Will you take me to my grandmother’s farm so I can pick up some clothes for her and a few other bits and pieces? She’s coming back to England with us so that my mother can look after her. The company won’t be returning to Amiens, so I have to get her things now.’

  Guy nodded. He lifted his wrist and looked at his watch. Catherine noticed that it looked expensive, as did, now she came to look at him properly, all of his clothes. What a difference from the tramp-like person he was when they’d first met.

  ‘When d’you want to go?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, right now, if that’s possible.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes,’ Guy said. ‘I have a phone call to make and then I’ll be glad to take you.’

  Catherine ran upstairs to her room. Grandmère was still deeply asleep and Catherine quickly packed her bag and wrote a note for Béatrice, which she put on the bedside table on top of the old lady’s rosary beads. She’d certainly find it there. Then she hurried along to the girls’ room. ‘I’ve begged a lift from Guy,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘He’s going to take me to the farm so I can pick up some of Grandmère’s things. She’s only got the stuff of hers that we took from the convent, and I’m sure she’d like some warmer clothes and possibly something of my grandfather. A photo, perhaps.’

  ‘Can I come too?’ Della pleaded. ‘I’m all packed, and if I stay here, Frances will drag me around the cathedral or some other bloody place.’

  Catherine laughed. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘of course.’

  Frances grumbled, ‘You miss all the culture of these places we visit. It’s such a waste.’

  ‘Never mind that.’ Della put on her cap and set it at a jaunty angle. ‘Are you coming with us, or are you going to wander around a freezing old church?’

  ‘Oh hell.’ Frances got her coat. ‘I’m coming with, but I know I’ll regret missing the opportunity.’

  They were laughing when they walked into the lobby and were immediately stopped by a couple of officers who wanted their autographs. It was still a strange sensation for Frances, being asked to sign her name on odd pieces of paper, but Catherine and Della were used to it and could dash off several signatures in seconds.

  ‘You girls put on a cracking show,’ one of the officers grinned. ‘Better than anything I’ve seen in the West End.’

  ‘Thank you,’ giggled Della, and pursing her lips, gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Wow,’ he said, and would have moved in for more but Frances saw Guy standing by his car and rattling the keys at them.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Della laughed. ‘Different fish to fry.’

  It was another cold day. Soggy grey mist hung in the air, obscuring the view so that the trees and buildings in the distance were wavering images, only becoming real when they drove close to them. They passed the village church, grey stone melting into the mist, looking almost insubstantial, as though if they came back tomorrow, it would have disappeared.

  ‘This is a weird day,’ Della shivered. ‘The fog seems to be sucking the life out of everything.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ Frances grinned. ‘Is that the sort of stuff you write to Tim?’

  Della stuck out her tongue but made no other reply.

  The farm buildings appeared out of the mist and they drove into the yard. There was another car parked in front of the barn, a small black Fiat, and the girls stared at it as they got out.

  ‘Is that your grandfather’s car?’ asked Guy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Catherine. ‘He always had a van, as I remember, but maybe this was his too.’

  ‘It wasn’t here when we came last time,’ Frances called. She’d gone over to it to have a look through the windows. ‘I wonder to whom it belongs?’

  ‘Maybe that cousin, Jacques? Was that his name?’ Della said.

  Guy suddenly looked worried. He grabbed Catherine’s arm and softly called to the other girls. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll go in first. You never know.’

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ whispered Della, as they stood by the barn, watching Guy stop outside the back door. ‘Jesus, look,’ she squeaked, as they saw Guy take a pistol out from under his jacket. ‘He’s got a gun.’

  ‘Everybody’s got guns,’ hissed Frances, trying to calm her down. ‘There’s a war on.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ Della moaned, and then, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he’s going inside.’

  They waited, staring at the back door for several minutes, and then Catherine said, ‘There’s nothing happening. Let’s follow him.’

  ‘Alright,’ Frances agreed, and with Della clutching on to her hand, she walked towards the door.

  Suddenly a shot rang out, followed almost immediately by another. The girls froze and instantly a figure stumbled out of the door and started to run across the yard.

  ‘Stop him!’ Guy was at the door, waving his pistol towards the running man, and without thinking, Frances dived at him and caught him round the ankles, just like Hugo used to do to her when he was practising rugby tackles. The man fell heavily to the ground, air expelling from his chest in a loud groan, and he uncontrollably rolled over and over, ending up with a sharp crack as his head made contact with a stone horse trough. A gun flew out of his hand and Frances yelled, ‘Get it!’ and watched as Della, stepping delicately through the mud in her high-heeled shoes, picked it up.

  She pointed it at the man
with a shaking hand and screamed, ‘Shall I shoot him?’

  ‘No, for Christ’s sake, don’t,’ grunted Frances, scrambling to her feet. ‘And give me that bloody gun.’ Almost reluctantly, Della surrendered it, but stood over the man, staring down at him.

  Catherine stepped forward to look at the person lying on the ground, his eyes closed and blood spurting from a wound in his chest. ‘Mon Dieu,’ she cried. ‘It’s Father Gautier.’

  Guy ran over. ‘He shot at me,’ he said. ‘I shot back. Did I hit him?’

  ‘I’d say.’ Frances unwound her scarf from round her neck and stuffed it under Gautier’s black jacket and pressed down hard on the wound. ‘We’d better get him to hospital.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Catherine. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No.’ Guy shook his head. His voice was shaky. ‘He missed.’

  ‘What the hell was he doing’ – Della had found her voice and was now furious – ‘in the house?’

  ‘He was upstairs,’ Guy said. ‘I think he’d been in the roof. Look, he’s covered in dust.’ He gave himself a little shake. ‘He shot at me as I came up the stairs.’

  Frances looked up. ‘We’ve got to get him to the hospital, now. Catherine, you go and get your stuff and Guy and I will get him into the back of the car.’

  ‘We could leave him and call the police and an ambulance,’ said Guy. ‘I saw a phone box in the village.’ It was as though Guy couldn’t bear any more contact with the priest.

  ‘But he could die while waiting for an ambulance,’ Frances said, staring hard at Guy. ‘If we take him, he might have a chance.’

  The battle going on in Guy’s mind was obvious on his face. He wanted nothing more to do with Father Gautier. He’d made up his mind that the man was a traitor.

  But Frances stood firm. ‘We have to,’ she said.

  ‘Alright,’ said Guy, giving in, ‘but get him into the back of his own car. I don’t want him bleeding all over mine.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Frances, you drive his car, Della can hold the scarf in place, and Catherine can hold the gun on him. I’ll drive mine and lead you to the hospital.’

  ‘We didn’t sign up for this,’ Della wailed, as they manoeuvred the helpless body of Father Gautier into the back of his little car. She got in beside him and pressed her hand over his wound. ‘What if he dies?’

  ‘Then he’ll be dead. Stop moaning,’ Frances said, the fright of the shooting making her angry. She looked down at Gautier. ‘Is he still unconscious?’

  ‘Yes,’ Della whispered, ‘and I hope he stays that way. I couldn’t bear to talk to him.’

  Catherine hurried through the house, picking up clothes for Grandmère and some toiletries. She found Béatrice’s favourite Coty talcum powder, in its ivory shaker, and wrapping it in a towel, added it to the collection of clothes. Finally she picked up the photo frame with the picture of her with Béatrice and Jean, and put everything in an old leather travelling case. With a last look round, she went outside, and carefully locking the door, put the key in her purse.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Guy. He still looked shocked.

  ‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

  ‘Mm,’ he nodded. ‘It’s just that we trusted him and now … I don’t know.’

  The drive back to Amiens was the worst twenty minutes Frances had ever known. Apart from finding the Fiat difficult to drive, she kept looking in the driving mirror, trying to see if Father Gautier was still alive. Catherine held the gun, but it was unnecessary. The man was motionless.

  ‘Is he still breathing?’ she asked, and Della nodded.

  Then she gave a little scream. ‘He’s opened his eyes.’

  Catherine leant over the front seat and looked at him. His eyes were flickering, opening and closing as though he was coming round and wasn’t sure where he was. Blood was seeping onto his white dog collar and onto his chin, and he slowly lifted a hand to wipe it away. As he did so, he gave a little groan of pain and Della looked up at Catherine. ‘What shall I do?’ she whispered.

  ‘Do nothing,’ commanded Frances, from the driving seat. ‘Except what you’re doing.’

  Gautier opened his eyes properly; they were brown, which sat oddly with his fair hair and pale skin. He looked puzzled, as though he couldn’t remember what had happened, and when he raised his head to Della and then across to Catherine, they could see the recognition dawning.

  ‘You are Catherine,’ he whispered, looking directly at her. Strangely, he didn’t try to move. He seemed to have given up entirely.

  She nodded, hating him speaking to her.

  ‘You have Béatrice?’

  She nodded again and Frances, looking in the driving mirror, spat, ‘No thanks to you.’

  He coughed and a trickle of blood slipped from between his lips and onto Della’s hand. ‘Oh God,’ she squealed, ‘the bugger’s spitting blood on me.’

  ‘I am sorry, mademoiselle,’ he murmured, still staring at Catherine. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘I can never forgive you. You’re a traitor,’ she answered, her voice choking. ‘And a murderer.’

  ‘Not a murderer.’ His eyes closed again, his voice fading away.

  ‘He knew who I was,’ Catherine whispered. She shivered and her hand shook so that the gun waved in the air.

  ‘Put that bloody gun down,’ shouted Della. ‘You’ll kill me, not him.’

  ‘But how did he know?’

  Frances, concentrating on following Guy through the now pouring rain, said, ‘He saw your photograph in the farm. You haven’t changed much since then.’

  Catherine nodded and looked down at the unconscious man. He was barely breathing, and blood continued to dribble down the side of his mouth. He’ll be dead soon, she thought, and wondered why she wasn’t triumphant.

  ‘I think we’re nearly at the hospital,’ shouted Frances. ‘Guy is turning through some entrance gates. And, Catherine, make sure you’ve still got that gun on him.’

  ‘I don’t think it matters,’ she answered. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  ‘I’m going to be sick!’ Della screamed, and tried to push Father Gautier off her lap.

  ‘Hush!’ commanded Frances, as she parked behind Guy’s car, outside the hospital entrance. It took a couple of minutes for him to go inside and come out with a doctor and two nurses, who were wheeling a trolley.

  Catherine put the gun in her handbag as the medics approached and Frances nodded. ‘Good idea,’ she whispered.

  The back passenger door was opened and the doctor looked in. ‘How long ago did this happen?’ he asked, removing the scarf and looking at the bloody mess that was Father Gautier’s jacket and shirt.

  ‘As I said,’ Guy replied, ‘we found him like this beside his car about fifteen minutes ago. These ladies have bravely driven him back into town.’

  ‘Right’ – the doctor nodded to the nurses – ‘get him onto the trolley. No time now for further explanations, but if you’ll wait inside, monsieur, and also the ladies, I’m sure the police will have some questions.’

  They watched for a moment as Father Gautier was wheeled into the hospital; then Guy said, ‘Come on, into my car. Let’s get away from here. We don’t need to be involved.’

  The girls looked at each other, then without further comment got into the black Citroën and were silent on the short drive back to the hotel.

  ‘Will you tell Major Lennox?’ asked Frances, as they got out.

  ‘Of course,’ said Guy. ‘If I can find him.’

  Grandmère was cross that they’d been to the farm without her, but pleased that Catherine had brought her clothes. She clutched the photograph to her heart and shed a few tears. ‘I don’t know where Jean is buried,’ she sobbed. ‘How can I mourn him?’

  ‘We will find him, after the war,’ promised Catherine. ‘And he’ll be buried in the churchyard with the other war heroes.’

  They sat together on the bus and Catherine explained that they were going to a big house that was the company’s base in France.
‘You’ll like it,’ she said. ‘The housekeeper, Madame Farcy, is very kind and cooks lovely food.’

  ‘Lovely food, eh?’ Some of Béatrice’s old spirit had returned. ‘We’ll see about that.’

  After a while, she closed her eyes and drifted off. Catherine got up and went to sit beside Della. She had changed out of her uniform skirt and was wearing a pair of green slacks.

  ‘D’you think that blood will sponge off?’ she said miserably. ‘That bugger bled all over me.’

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ Catherine smiled, and thinking back to her conversation with Béatrice, she said, ‘Just think, now you’re a real war heroine. Bloodied in battle.’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ said Della, looking more cheerful. ‘But what a thing to happen. I can’t quite believe it. Me, holding a dead body.’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that he was dead. I wonder what Robert will say when Guy tells him.’

  ‘If he tells him. He didn’t seem too keen to me.’

  No, he didn’t, thought Catherine. He’s another one playing a strange game.

  ‘The tarts are subdued today!’ Captain Fortescue’s fruity voice broke into Catherine’s head. ‘What can have happened?’

  She looked across the aisle and there, a couple of seats ahead, the doll’s wooden eyes were staring at her. Baxter himself was looking to the front, but she could see his arm and shoulder move as he worked the levers on the doll.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ groaned Della, and made to get up, but before she could, the lumbering figure of Godfrey hove into view.

  ‘Stop your bad manners, immediately, sir,’ he roared, pointing his finger at Baxter. ‘Your behaviour is unforgivable. Beau’ – he walked unsteadily up the bus until he was beside the leader – ‘sack him now or I’m finished. This cannot go on.’