The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  The rest of the show went well too; even Baxter with Captain Fortescue was a hit, drawing roars of laughter with his risqué jokes. Catherine did two more numbers, ‘As Time Goes By’ and finished with ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’. She called Frances onto the stage to sing the second chorus with her and invited the audience to join in. It worked well, and coming off after the performance, Catherine was satisfied that they hadn’t let anyone down.

  The nurse who had been on the ambulance came up to the girls when they were changing out of their performance dresses. ‘You were fantastic,’ she said. ‘Now, let me attend to those cuts.’ And when she was shaking sulfa powder onto the wounds, she said, ‘You’ll have bruises in the morning, and you, Miss Fletcher, will probably have a black eye.’ She laughed. ‘Not enough for Blighty but war wounds, nevertheless.’

  ‘Have you heard how our friend is?’ asked Frances.

  ‘She’s out of theatre, I believe. Not too good, I’m told.’

  ‘Can we see her?’ pleaded Catherine.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ the nurse said. ‘Dr O’Brien likes to keep the recovery tent germ-free.’

  After the nurse had gone, Frances said, ‘Did you hear that? Della’s in the recovery tent. Shall we go and look for it? I noticed that they’ve all got signs on them.’

  Dr Tim found them as they stood outside the tent marked, Recovery Ward. ‘Well, now,’ he smiled. ‘If it isn’t the two other legs of the tripod. I knew you two wouldn’t be far away.’

  ‘Can we see her, please?’ begged Catherine.

  ‘Only for a moment,’ Frances added.

  ‘Alright,’ he said. ‘But I warn you, she’s still a bit groggy.’

  She was lying on a hospital cot, her face, devoid of make-up, was as white as the sheets around her. A blood drip was attached to her arm, and a cage under the covers kept them off her leg. A rubber tube snaked down from her chest into a bottle under the side of the bed.

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ whispered Catherine.

  ‘Punctured lung,’ said Dr Tim, ‘among other things.’

  ‘Poor old Della,’ said Frances.

  ‘Not so much of the old,’ a voice whispered from the bed.

  They each kissed her and held her hand for a moment until they were ordered out. ‘You can see her tomorrow before you leave,’ said Dr Tim.

  ‘How long will she stay here?’ Frances asked.

  ‘Oh, we’ll get her stable and then fly her home. You can visit her in England.’

  As the two girls walked back to the tent they’d been assigned for the night, Frances said, ‘I have a feeling that our tour is over. We’ll be going home very soon.’

  Chapter 24

  December 1944

  They were back at sea, crossing the Channel in the same landing craft that they’d travelled on before. It was calm, no wind, and the sea was as flat as a mill pond, so different from the tempestuous journey they’d had four months before.

  ‘Della would have loved this,’ sighed Frances.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Catherine shook her head. ‘She said that she was sick on the Mersey ferry.’

  ‘Doesn’t it seem like a lifetime ago?’ They were sitting against the side of the craft on the upper deck with the small crew of sailors. Frances was staring out to sea. It was daytime, and a pale sun was shining in a winter sky. Only she and Catherine were on deck; the others, including Grandmère, were in the bus below them, Grandmère sleeping happily, quite able to ignore the poker school.

  ‘What, since we left England?’

  ‘Yes,’ Frances nodded. ‘So much has happened.’

  It was a week since Della’s injury. The two girls had managed to see her, briefly, on the morning they left the field hospital, but it had been an upsetting visit. Della was drifting in and out of consciousness, and when she was awake, she seemed dreadfully confused.

  ‘That bloody doll is staring at me,’ she shouted suddenly, and Catherine held her hand and told her that she was dreaming.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Della opened her eyes properly. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In the field hospital,’ said Frances gently. ‘With Dr Tim.’

  That calmed her for a while, and when she looked at her friends, there was recognition in her eyes. ‘They’re giving me some sort of Mickey Finns,’ she croaked, her voice hoarse and weak. ‘They’re knocking me bandy.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Frances grinned. ‘Your language is probably worse than the squaddies’.’

  Della smiled, but her eyes started closing again, and the Queen Alexandra nursing sister arrived and told them that the visit was over. They met Dr Tim by the door and asked him how Della really was.

  ‘I wouldn’t say first class,’ he sighed, ‘and I think a bit of infection has got in, but she’s a fighter. She’ll pull through.’

  ‘It’ll be a while before she dances again,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Ah, well, that’s another matter.’ Dr Tim shook his head sadly. ‘I think her high-kicking days are over.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ Frances argued. ‘This is Della we’re talking about.’

  He laughed at that, but the girls were sad as they went to board the lorry that was taking them away from the field hospital. Frances’s brave words were just those. It was hard to equate the floppy, doll-like figure in the hospital cot with the vibrant, funny Della that they knew and loved.

  ‘How is the dear girl?’ asked Godfrey, and when they explained what they’d seen, the boys looked as miserable as the girls felt.

  ‘We’ve never asked how you three are,’ said Catherine. ‘You must have damaged something.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Tommy. ‘Colin’s nose bled for a while, and I hurt my shoulder, but it’s alright now, and as for Godfrey, well, he was so full of booze that he didn’t feel a thing.’

  ‘Quite right, Thomas. Alcohol has its uses,’ Godfrey said, his voice quieter than usual. He ruminated for a moment before saying, ‘If only I could persuade Gertrude of that.’

  They arrived back at the chateau, relieved to be at a place they knew and felt comfortable in, but telling Guy and Grandmère the sad news about Della dampened their spirits, and when Béatrice exclaimed over the cuts on the girls’ faces, tears came into Catherine’s eyes.

  ‘Della is so much worse,’ she cried. ‘My black eye and Frances’s lip are nothing compared with her injuries.’

  ‘Pauvres petites,’ Grandmère crooned. ‘Come, eat!’ It was as though drinking a bowl of soup was a cure for everything, and strangely, after eating and going up to the big room to flop on the beds, Catherine and Frances did feel better.

  Frances was out in the fields with Guy early the next morning when Robert arrived. He’d parked round the back beside the bus and walked through the kitchens before finding Catherine in the salon. He’d brought the mail, but most importantly for her, he’d come to say goodbye.

  ‘I’m flying to England this afternoon,’ he told her. ‘And I won’t be back over here. My mission in France is done.’ They had walked out of the house and into the open-sided machinery shed where Guy kept his tractor. It was snowing again, and as she stood there with him, watching the flakes drift slowly down, Catherine realised that nothing would be the same again. The Bennett Players had suffered a blow that seemed almost insurmountable.

  ‘Are we being sent home?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘The authorities are scared of the propaganda that might ensue if anyone else gets injured.’ He put a finger under her chin and gently lifted her face. ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘that eye looks terrible. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not much,’ she answered, but she wasn’t able to say more because he was kissing her, and she clung to him desperately, as she’d wanted to ever since the bomb.

  ‘I do love you, Catherine,’ he said. ‘I will love you for the rest of my life. Whatever happens, remember that.’

  It was only after he’d driven away that she wondered about those last words. Was it some sort of a warning? But then she d
ismissed her fears. I love him too, she thought. I can’t imagine life without him.

  Going back to the house, she found Frances fresh-faced and happily reading a letter from her father. ‘He’s got some money,’ she said, reading through the first page, ‘and has started work on the roof.’

  ‘Where did he get it?’ asked Catherine absently. She was still thinking about Robert.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Frances turned the page to look at the scribbled writing on the back and started reading out loud. ‘I took a loan from a young man who says he is a close friend of yours. He appears to be a wealthy man, although certainly not of our class. I assume he is one of your show business friends. He’s interested in the paintings in the long gallery and thinks he can get a good price for them. I haven’t made a decision yet, but I have sold him the Meissen dinner service. It’s of no use to us, really, and it paid for repairs to the stable block.’

  She slammed the letter down on the table and looked up, her face working with rage. ‘How dare he?’ she exploded. ‘That dinner service has been in the family for a couple of hundred years. He’ll be selling the paintings next, and when Hugo comes home, there’ll be nothing left for him.’

  ‘Calm down,’ Catherine soothed. ‘Who is this man, anyway?’

  Frances, still simmering, picked up the letter again and read on. ‘Mr Costigan has many contacts, apparently, and can get anything. He even filled the Rolls with petrol, quite legitimately I might add. Although, I’m wary of upsetting Constable Hallowes and haven’t put the tyres on again yet.’

  ‘Jerry Costigan?’ Catherine said, puzzled. ‘Della’s friend?’

  ‘It must be.’ Frances glared at the letter. ‘And he isn’t a friend at all. She loathes him. Don’t you remember? She said he was a crook. Oh Christ! The sooner I get back home, the better.’

  She stayed angry all day, and when Guy came into the salon, she told him about her father’s letter.

  ‘This man, he is someone you know?’ asked Guy.

  ‘We have met him, a couple of times,’ Frances said. ‘He is a person Della has known for years. Her brother works for him.’

  ‘He is discharged from the army?’

  The girls shook their heads. ‘I don’t think he’s ever been in the army,’ said Frances, looking at Catherine for confirmation. ‘He’s well off, but Della says that the money comes from the black market or profiteering. Something like that.’

  ‘He does try to help the family, though,’ Catherine said. ‘Hasn’t he paid for Della’s sister to see specialists?’ Guy looked confused, so she explained, ‘The sister, Maria, has something wrong with her spine. She can’t walk.’

  ‘So, a good man and a bad one, but Frances’ – Guy looked puzzled – ‘how has this man got on to your father?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said fiercely. ‘But I’m going to find out.’

  ‘Good,’ said Guy, getting up. ‘So, now you can come and help me decide which would be the best place to put down a few hectares of corn.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Surely, Guy, you know more about this estate than Frances does.’

  He grinned. ‘No. My father spent his time in Deauville, mostly on the gaming tables. He left every decision to his farm manager, and I, then, wasn’t interested. I went to college, studied literature and politics, went to lots of parties, drank too much and saw myself as president of France one day.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘My father is dead. The farm manager is dead. And I’ve changed.’

  ‘We all change,’ said Catherine, with a sad smile. ‘The war has taken away all our certainties.’

  ‘But,’ Guy said, as he and Frances left the room, ‘I might still be president of France one day.’

  Beau came to the chateau at the end of the week. ‘We’re booked on board on Sunday morning, eight o’clock,’ he said. ‘Sailing from Ouistreham, so, Frances, it means either getting up very early or going Saturday night and parking up on the harbour.’

  Frances looked round the group, who’d gathered to hear Beau’s news. ‘Saturday night,’ said Tommy, and they all nodded.

  ‘Alright. You can pick me up at the officers’ club on the way. It’ll be good to be home, won’t it?’ he said, looking, for once, positively jaunty.

  ‘Aye,’ Colin agreed, ‘but, boss, you said “me”. Does that mean that effing Baxter will not be travelling with us?’

  Beau grinned. ‘It does, because he’s already gone. He flew home earlier in the week.’

  ‘The jammy bastard,’ Tommy growled. ‘Trust him to cadge a lift like that while we have to face the raging seas again.’

  ‘I have it on good authority,’ Beau smiled, ‘that we should expect a good crossing. The weather will be reasonable.’ He paused, watching them all chatting to each other, excited and pleased at the prospect of going home. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘while we are all here together, there is something else I want to tell you. You have been the finest group of people that I’ve ever worked with, and I can’t tell you how much your enthusiasm and commitment have meant to me.’

  ‘Well, thanks, Beau,’ said Tommy, ‘and speaking on behalf of the Players, you’ve been a pretty good boss.’

  Catherine thought she saw a tear in Beau’s eye, but he just grinned and said, ‘This isn’t the end. In the new year, we’ll be travelling on again. We’ll do shows all around the country, and if they let us, we’ll come abroad again. That is, if you’re up for it.’

  ‘By God, we’re up for it,’ roared Godfrey. ‘As soon as you like, sir.’

  While Frances stayed with Beau to go over the paperwork, Catherine went to find Grandmère to tell her the plans. She guessed she would be in the kitchen with Madame Farcy, the two of them having become cooking rivals but fast friends, and neither was pleased when Catherine announced their imminent departure.

  ‘You see, chérie,’ Grandmère said, ‘I thought that perhaps I could stay here a little bit longer and then perhaps return to my home. It has been so long and I miss it so very much.’

  ‘But, Grandmère,’ Catherine said, ‘you can’t manage there on your own – you know that. Come back to England with me, and then perhaps next spring or summer, Maman and I will come back with you and see what we can do. Maman might even want to stay – she was talking about it after my father died.’

  ‘Was she?’

  Catherine nodded, her fingers crossed behind her back. Maman had never mentioned the idea, but now she came to think about it, maybe she would like to go home.

  ‘Your granddaughter has spoken wisely,’ agreed Madame Farcy. ‘We have become good friends, yes, but your daughter needs to see you now. I think she has been very worried for years and your presence will comfort her.’

  Catherine nodded her thanks to Madame Farcy over Béatrice’s head, for it seemed that the housekeeper’s words held far more sway than hers.

  The day of their departure, Frances bumped into Guy in the bedroom corridor. He was coming out of his room, dressed ready for the fields. He was carrying a shotgun and Frances knew that he was going after rabbits. She longed to go with him.

  ‘We’re leaving after lunch,’ she said.

  ‘I know,’ he answered, and to her delight, he looked rather dejected.

  He lingered, awkwardly, the gun crooked over his arm as though trying to decide what to do next; then he turned and opened his bedroom door. ‘Frances,’ he said, ‘come in here. I have something for you.’

  ‘What?’ she asked, astonished.

  ‘Come.’

  She followed him into his room, half the size of the one she shared with the girls, and spartan to the point of being barely furnished. He propped the shotgun against the wall and opened the top drawer of his cupboard. ‘This is for you,’ he said, producing a square velvet-covered box. ‘To thank you for helping me.’

  ‘I don’t need thanks, Guy,’ Frances said. ‘Honestly, I’ve loved every minute.’

  ‘But I want you to have it.’ He pushed the box into her hands. �
�It was my grandmother’s. She left everything to me to be handed on to my …’ He didn’t finish the sentence.

  Frances gasped when she opened the box. Even in the poor light, the diamonds on the Edwardian tiered necklace sparkled. ‘I can’t take this,’ she whispered. ‘It’s beautiful but far too much to give away. It must be worth a fortune.’

  He shrugged. ‘Manon hid it in the well when the German general was here. She hid many things. Farcy is still digging up silver spoons and forks that she buried. But now it is for you. I can’t imagine it being worn by anyone better. You have the perfect neck to wear it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you so much. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well, perhaps,’ he grinned, ‘don’t speak. Just kiss me.’

  ‘My God, yes,’ she laughed, and allowed herself to be taken in his arms. They kissed until she was breathless, and then he broke away and went to lock the door.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said, looking at her and jerking his head towards the bed.

  The decision took a split second. Years of abstinence and longing needed to be washed away. ‘I’d love to,’ Frances giggled, knowing that she sounded like a silly girl, but at that moment, beyond sense.

  He was a virile lover, desire making him strong, and she, relieved of her customary persona of complete control, abandoned herself willingly to his touch. It was a joining of two like-minded people, each finding pleasure in the other.

  Afterwards, lying satiated in the narrow bed, he said, ‘It was not necessary to do that as a thank you. Please don’t think that.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Frances smiled. ‘What I’m thinking is … well, what I’m thinking is that it’s ages since a man made love to me. I’d forgotten how wonderful it felt.’

  ‘You have had lovers before?’

  ‘I have had one lover before,’ she corrected him. ‘He was someone I adored.’

  Guy propped himself up on one elbow. ‘He was?’ he repeated.

  ‘He was killed at Dunkirk. Four years ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ Guy lay back, and Frances thought about Johnny Petersham. God, we were so young, she remembered, but so in love. I thought I’d die when he was killed.