The Very Thought of You

by Mary Fitzgerald

  ‘He’s quite batty about those blessed pigs,’ grumbled Frances, as the three girls walked across the parkland back to the hall. ‘He talks of nothing else.’

  ‘He’s happy,’ said Della. ‘That’s what matters.’

  She was walking well now, with a slight limp, but earlier she’d demonstrated her tap-dancing skills on the Minton tiles in the hall, startling Lord Parnell and causing Catherine and Frances to beg her to stop in case she hindered her recovery. ‘Don’t be mad,’ she laughed. ‘It’s what Tim calls physio … physio … well, physio something. It’s good for me. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do the splits again.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’ll be much call for it in that place in Ireland,’ said Frances. ‘What would the mammy think?’

  Della scowled. ‘She’s a right old bitch. When I’m at their place, it takes me all my time not to fetch my hands to her throat. D’you know,’ she said reflectively, ‘there’s something about her that reminds me of Captain Fortescue. It’s those bloody black eyebrows jerking up and down every time she opens her mouth to say something nasty.’

  That description made the other two burst into laughter and soon Della joined in.

  ‘When’s the wedding, then?’ asked Frances. ‘You know we can’t wait to be bridesmaids.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Della, ‘not until next year. Tim’s being posted to the Far East, now that the Jap war is over. It seems that the POWs are in a hellish way and need all the care they can get.’ She stopped suddenly and put her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Frances. I didn’t think. Have you heard anything about Hugo?’

  Frances shook her head, tears coming into her eyes. ‘Nothing, really. The Red Cross had his name on a list at one camp and then he was moved and they’re still trying to track him down. But at least he was alive last year, so that’s something.’

  Her friends gave her a hug and she wiped her eyes and smiled. They are wonderful, she thought. Closer than family.

  ‘And wedding bells for you, Frances?’ Catherine asked. ‘When will they be?’

  ‘Again, next year,’ sighed Frances. ‘Guy’s mission in the Pacific hasn’t finished. I think it’s been more difficult than he or his government expected. But he writes all the time. Good letters, full of descriptions. He makes it all come so alive.’

  Johnny and Lili came running across the parkland. He was growing by the day and full of energy, and Lili, more delicate, toddled along behind him. She lived at the hall now that Honorine and Béatrice had returned to France. Catherine had paid for a nanny to take care of both children, and in return, Frances had given her an apartment in the house, so that she could make it her base. It suited them all. John Parnell was a loving grandfather to both children, and Maggie and young Thelma, the new maid, spoilt them desperately.

  ‘I wonder if we’ll have children. I mean, more children,’ said Della. There was a wistful tone to her voice. ‘I’d love to have a baby. One that I could bring up.’

  She had told them the thing that was the closest secret she’d had, but only after Tim had been told and had accepted it. One day, when they were reminiscing about their time in France, she blurted out, ‘You remember me being so scared of the nuns in that place where Béatrice and Christopher was?’

  ‘Yes,’ they nodded in unison.

  ‘Well, I was locked in a convent once.’

  ‘What?’ They looked at her in astonishment.

  Della swallowed. ‘I got pregnant and Ma sent me to Ireland to have it so that no one would know. It was the most terrible place; it makes me shudder to even think of it. And when it came time to deliver her, they wouldn’t call a doctor but just dragged her out of me. She was barely alive and so badly damaged.’

  Catherine and Frances looked at each other. ‘You can’t be talking about Maria,’ Frances said. ‘Your sister.’

  Della nodded.

  ‘But she must be eleven or twelve now.’

  ‘I was nearly fifteen,’ Della whispered. ‘Only a kid, really. Ma came to get me, and when she saw Maria, she had a fit. Called the nuns for everything and said we were bringing her home, even though they’d arranged for her to go into a mental hospital. That’s what they did for children who were like her.’

  ‘But who was her father?’ asked Catherine, bewildered.

  ‘No guesses there,’ Frances said. ‘Jerry Costigan.’

  Della nodded again. ‘I was stupid. I’d won some dance competitions and he said he could get me into show business, if I was nice to him. So I was.’

  ‘What did Tim say?’ Catherine asked, putting her arm around Della’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine about it.’ Della grinned, returning to her old self. ‘It happens all the time, he says, and it doesn’t stop him loving me. Isn’t he great?’ She got up and did a twirl. ‘But,’ she added, ‘we won’t tell the mammy.’

  Now, in the parkland, Frances thought about that conversation. Poor Della, she thought, having to keep a secret for so long, and then she laughed. Didn’t I do the same?

  ‘Have you spoken to Beau?’ Catherine asked her. ‘He wants us to tour again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frances said. ‘That’s why I wanted you two here this weekend. He’s talking about a four-month tour to the Far East, based in Singapore. He’s contacted all the gang. Godfrey and Colin are up for it, but Tommy has cried off. He’s not very well, and with his heart condition, the long flights would be murder, literally. But we’ve got a replacement,’ she smiled. ‘Someone you know.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Catherine. ‘Someone from a dance band?’

  ‘No. Felix Strange. He’s partially blind, but he can play anything. You should hear him – he’s brilliant, and he’s in uniform.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Della. She turned to Catherine. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I … don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve got nothing booked that I can’t get out of, but …’

  ‘It’s up to you, darling,’ said Frances.

  ‘But it wouldn’t be the same without our star,’ Della grinned.

  Catherine walked down the drive until she reached the gates. There was a soldier guarding the entrance and he grinned at her, recognising her as the young woman who’d visited every week. His mate said that she was a singer and showed him a cutting from a forces paper that had a photograph of the Bennett Players standing beside their bus.

  ‘Good afternoon, miss,’ he said, and she gave him a brief smile as he opened the gate for her.

  Robert was standing across the road beside his car. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked, and didn’t mention the tear streaks on her face. ‘How is he?’

  ‘You know how he is,’ Catherine replied. ‘You’ve seen him. There is nothing there. Nothing. He’s a ventriloquist’s dummy.’ She winced as the thought of Captain Fortescue came to her.

  ‘Did you speak to the doctor?’

  ‘I did,’ she sighed. ‘He said that one day things might change, but I wasn’t to hope. That was exactly what he said last time.’

  ‘You’ve got him back, Catherine. That’s what you wanted.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I haven’t got him, have I? Not really.’ I’m still in limbo, she thought. Nothing’s changed. She glanced at Robert, who was concentrating on driving through the London traffic back to the flat they shared near Regent’s Park. She loved him so much and knew that he felt the same. The fact that they were both trapped seemed to have brought them even closer, and she smiled and put her hand on his leg.

  He reached down to take it and drew it up to his mouth for a loving kiss. ‘I thought we might go to France for a few days,’ he said. ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘I’d love it,’ Catherine said. ‘And then, when we come back, I can get ready.’

  ‘You’re going, then?’

  She smiled. ‘I’m part of the Bennett Players. They can’t let them tour without me.’

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  Epub ISBN 9781448165438

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  Published by Arrow Books 2015

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  Copyright © Mary Fitzgerald 2015

  Mary Fitzgerald has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Arrow Books

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  Arrow Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9780099585459