The Very Thought of You (10 page)

‘My dear girl, what a pleasure.' He gave her a hug and then turned to his wife. ‘Look, Opaline, Frances is home. She'll sort things out.'

‘I can see her,' Lady Parnell said coldly. ‘I'm not blind.'

Frances bent and gave her mother a kiss on her thin, rouged cheek. ‘How are you, Mummy?' she asked.

‘Don't ask,' her mother replied, and bent to pick up the copy of
Vogue
that was on the threadbare rug at her feet.

‘What's the matter?'

Opaline Parnell flicked noisily through the magazine pages, refusing to look at her husband or her daughter. Frances thought she wasn't going to answer, but suddenly her mother spat out, ‘Your father, that's what's the matter. Your goddam father. As usual.'

‘For Christ's sake, give it a rest,' Lord Parnell said angrily, and with less than his usual care crashed his teacup down on the tray and strode out through the French windows. Frances heard him whistling for Hero and Spartan, and soon the mad Irish setters came galloping up to him, ready, as always, for any activity.

As she watched them walking off across the parkland, Frances sat down beside her mother on the sofa. ‘I heard about the petrol,' she said.

‘Uh!' Her mother dropped the magazine back onto the rug. ‘Who told you? Not your father – he wouldn't. It was Maggie, I suppose. And did she tell you that we have no transport now and that we're trapped in this mausoleum for eternity?'

‘Come on,' Frances grinned. ‘There's the shooting brake. It's not smart, I grant you, but it goes. At least, most of the time.'

‘I absolutely refuse to go in that … that, vehicle. Hell, I'm supposed to be the goddam lady of the manor. What will people think if I'm seen in that piece of junk?'

‘Nothing,' said Frances. ‘They won't think anything of it. We're in the country; there's a war on. Most people don't have cars. Be reasonable.'

Lady Parnell snorted. ‘I've been reasonable for twenty-five miserable years. And I've had enough. I'm going home as soon as I can.'

Frances stared at her mother. She'd often made these threats before, but somehow this seemed real. ‘This is your home,' she said cautiously.

Opaline gave a cold little smile. ‘No, it isn't. It never has been. It's the place I was sent to in exchange for my fortune. An arrangement made by my father and John's. And I've hated it.'

‘But what about Pa and Hugo and me?'

‘Face it, honey. Hugo is probably dead. You let the family down years ago and went your own way. You won't miss me, and I know your father won't either. He was forced into this marriage as much as I was.'

Her words were shocking and Frances could feel her heart beating rapidly as she stared at this brittle, hard-faced woman who was her mother. Had she always felt this way? she wondered. Had she never been happy? Frances could think of nothing to say, but just as she was getting up to leave the room, there was a knock at the door and Maggie came in, holding Johnny by his little hand. ‘Can I take the tea tray, milady?' she asked.

Opaline nodded and, getting up, went to the door. ‘I'm going to my boudoir,' she said. ‘I'll have my supper on a tray there.'

‘Oh Lord,' Frances said, picking up her son for a hug and then taking him to look out of the window onto the parkland. ‘Things are worse than I thought.'

‘I know,' Maggie sighed. ‘I think the petrol business was the last straw.'

In the five days that followed, Frances saw her mother only a few times. Lady Parnell stayed in her room, reading and smoking, and whenever Frances passed her room, she could hear her talking on the telephone. Once, when it rang and Frances picked it up in the hall, a man's voice, said, ‘Opaline, honey, Mabel said you were coming up to town next week. Great. We'll do the shows.'

‘Er … it's not Opaline,' Frances said, and would have gone on to explain that she was the daughter, but her mother came on the line.

‘Put the phone down, Frances. This is my call.'

The coldness in her mother's voice was chilling. She sounded like a stranger. Frances tackled her father about it when they were together leaning over the pigsty wall, looking at the big Tamworth sow that had recently farrowed. Ten piglets were attached to her teats, grunting and squealing over the abundant milk, and the old sow had a dreamy expression of contentment on her brown, whiskery face.

‘By God, those are healthy-looking pigs,' Lord Parnell said with a grin. ‘They'll bring in a few bob.'

‘Mm,' Frances nodded. ‘That's good.' Then she looked up at him and took a deep breath. ‘Mummy is talking about leaving,' she said. ‘I think she means it.'

‘She won't go,' he said. ‘She's just restless, that's all.'

‘Not this time,' said Frances. ‘It's different. She's different.'

It was if he didn't care. ‘Well,' he said, turning away from the pigsty, ‘it's up to her, isn't it? I can't stop her.'

The phone call Frances got that evening from Beau was a welcome relief from the strained atmosphere at the hall. ‘Fran, darling, you have to come back to London,' he said excitedly. ‘Our plans have been altered. We're going to France earlier than we thought and I need you here to organise the gang.'

When she went back into the library, her father was on his hands and knees playing with Johnny and his cars. He had accepted the little boy absolutely, even if her mother hadn't. Only this morning he'd been talking about buying him his first pony.

‘I have to go back to London tomorrow morning, Pa. Beau needs me,' Frances said, coming to sit on the arm of the sofa.

He sat back on his heels. ‘Must you, dear girl? You're such a help on the farm. The land girl isn't bad, but she needs telling what to do all the time. Not like you.'

‘I must,' she said. ‘We need the money. It's not much, I know, but it's something. Besides, what I'm doing is helping the war effort. You've no idea how much the servicemen and the factory people appreciate us.'

He sighed. ‘I'll miss you, and so will Johnny.'

Frances sat on the rug beside them and gathered the child into her arms. ‘I'll miss him too, but I know that you and Maggie will take care of him.'

‘We will,' he said, and gave her a kiss on her cheek.

She went up to see her mother. Opaline was sitting at her dressing table painting scarlet varnish onto her fingernails.

‘What d'you want?' her mother asked. ‘If you've come to try and persuade me to make up with your father, you're wasting your time.'

‘I hadn't, actually,' said Frances, ‘but that would be good. I wish you would.'

‘I won't.' Opaline looked at Frances through the mirror. Her elegant face was as hard as stone when she said, ‘The bastard's cooked his goose this time.'

Frances felt sick. This was horrible, and not for the first time, she wished that Hugo was here. He'd always got on better with Opaline than she had. But he wasn't and she would have to deal with it on her own. Growing up, she'd always known that her parents had a rocky relationship, but something had tipped her mother over the edge. Surely it couldn't only be the black-market petrol; it had to be more. For a moment, she considered asking her, but what would be the point? Instead, she said, ‘I'm going back to London in the morning, so I've come to say goodbye.'

Opaline looked up from her nails. ‘Are you still staying with Beau Bennett?'

Frances nodded. ‘I've got a room in his flat.'

‘I wouldn't hold out any hopes there, honey.' Opaline gave a short, sour laugh. ‘He sure ain't a lady's man, you know. Not like his father.'

Frances thought about that last remark as she sat on the train back to London. She had guessed that Beau preferred men, but that was beside the point. Had her mother had an affair with Rolly Bennett, Beau's father? That brought further thoughts about the reason her mother appeared to be leaving Parnell Hall. Could it be that she had a boyfriend in London, a lover?

‘God, I'm glad to see you,' said Beau, when she walked into the flat.

‘That's nice,' she grinned, taking off her coat.

‘Here' – he went to the sideboard – ‘have a drink.' He poured a large measure of gin into a glass and a minuscule amount of Angostura bitters. ‘How were the folks?'

For a moment, Frances was tempted to tell him, but only for a moment. ‘Alright,' she said lightly. ‘The same as ever.'

‘Good. Now, let's get down to business.'

The Bennett Players' travel plans had been finalised. ‘We get a troop transport ferry from Gosport,' Beau said. ‘That'll take us to Arromanches, and then you'll drive the bus to our first venue. It's a field hospital and transit camp near Bayeux. They'll be glad to see us; at least, I hope they will.'

‘Have you told everybody?' Frances asked. ‘They all think they've got another four or five days off.'

‘Not all of them. I sent a telegram to Colin Brown in Glasgow and he's coming to London tomorrow. I phoned Godfrey and had to speak to that dreadful wife for five agonising minutes before she let him on the line.'

Frances laughed. ‘What about the girls?' she asked.

‘I'm leaving that up to you. I've got their addresses. I did phone Catherine's house, but her mother answered and we didn't understand each other at all. She seemed to think that Catherine was away performing with the Players. So perhaps you can go round there first thing in the morning. As for Della, she hasn't answered my phone calls either.'

‘She did say once that the phone was in the hallway of her digs and that she didn't always hear it. I'll go round.' Frances took a gulp of her drink. ‘And Tommy?'

‘Got him. I went to the Criterion the other night and he was playing with the band, so he knows.'

‘And that leaves the hateful Eric Baxter,' sighed Frances. ‘Can't we just forget to tell him and go to France without him? Everyone would thank you.'

‘No, we can't.' Beau's face lost its normal pleasant expression. ‘Don't worry about him. I'll do it.' He cleared his throat and then said, ‘By the way, we're having a liaison officer. He'll be meeting us in France. It's someone you know.'

‘Who?' asked Frances.

‘Robert Lennox.'

She could hear the rain beating against the window as she lay in bed with her eyes closed. It was time to get up, she supposed, but a few more minutes wouldn't matter, and she needed time to think about the last three days. About the new people she'd met and the things she'd been told.

It had started when Robert Lennox had met her at the station at Sevenoaks and had driven her the few miles out of that little town and into the lush Kent countryside. He had an open-top roadster and Catherine, surprised, because she'd imagined he would have something more sober, found herself enjoying the sensation of the wind blowing through her hair. It made her feel young and carefree, although considering the circumstances, carefree was the last thing she should have felt.

‘Are you sure you don't mind this?' Robert asked again. He'd offered to put the top up when he'd led her out of the station to where the car was parked. ‘It'll take us about twenty minutes to get to our destination, and it's a lovely day. I thought you'd quite like it.'

‘Yes,' she'd said, staring at the well-polished red car with its big headlamps and shiny bumper. ‘Leave the top down.' And now, with her hair streaming out behind her, he'd flicked a look at her and asked again.

‘It's alright,' she assured him. ‘It's fun.'

‘Good,' said Robert, and grinned.

Catherine immediately felt uncomfortable. Should she be having fun when Christopher was missing or – she forced herself to think it – dead? And this outing to the Kent countryside was certainly not for fun. It was deadly serious. She swallowed the nervous lump that kept forcing its way into her throat and looked up to the blue summer sky. She could see vapour trails criss-crossing the heavens and wondered if they were enemy fighters.

Robert caught her looking. ‘They're ours,' he said, glancing up briefly. ‘The German bomber force is just about finished, but it's the doodlebugs we have to worry about now.' He frowned. ‘We're struggling to counter them and the people in south London are paying a terrible price.'

‘I know,' said Catherine. ‘My mother has friends in Croydon who escaped from France in a fishing boat at the beginning of the war. They attend the Church of Nôtre-Dame in Leicester Square, where Maman goes. Last week, the priest told her that her friends were injured in a rocket attack two weeks ago.' She shrugged. ‘Their neighbours were killed, so I suppose they were lucky. But I think life is very cruel: they thought they would be safe in England.'

‘Yes,' agreed Robert. ‘Life is cruel. But we're coming close to the end of the war and we'll be able to go home and get on with our lives.' He was quiet for a moment, concentrating on the narrow, winding roads, shaded with heavily leafed overhanging trees. Then he added, ‘If there's a life worth getting on with.'

Catherine glanced round at him. He was looking straight ahead at the road, his face expressionless. Did he mean something by that? Something personal?

He cleared his throat. ‘This place we're going to is a training school for our agents. You won't be doing the full course, as it takes months, but you will be given an idea of what you might be able to do for us.'

Catherine bit her lip. She phoned him a week ago and told him that she would consider doing something in France. He'd sounded surprised but pleased at the same time. The next day, he'd phoned her back and asked her if she could get away for two days.

‘Alright,' she'd said. ‘I can tell Maman that I'm working.'