The Very Thought of You (13 page)

Maman put her head on one side and said in French to Catherine, ‘Your friend, she has a family?'

Catherine started to shake her head, but to her astonishment, Frances smiled at her mother and replied in French, ‘I have a little boy, madame. Johnny's nearly four.'

Catherine didn't know what surprised her more, Frances's admission that she had a child or the fact that she spoke and understood French. She remembered the photograph of the red-headed boy that had been beside Frances's bed at Beau's flat. That must be him. She stared at Frances. ‘You didn't say anything.'

‘No.' Frances shook her head. ‘I've got used to not talking about him.' She looked down at Lili and muttered, ‘You can guess why.'

Catherine leant over and touched Frances's arm and her friend looked up with eyes that were brimming. ‘His father's dead,' she said bleakly. ‘He was killed at Dunkirk.'

Catherine felt her own tears coming. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘I should be used to it,' sighed Frances. ‘It's more than four years ago. But I loved him so much.'

Catherine remembered the conversation on the train to Liverpool. Beau had mentioned Johnny Petersham, describing him as d'Artagnan to their ‘Three Musketeers', and Frances had looked a little lost. Della noticed it and had given Catherine a meaningful look.

Maman, looking from one girl to the other, whispered in French to Catherine, ‘Your friend is sad. Has something happened?'

‘We were talking about Frances's little boy. His father was a soldier, but he was killed.'

‘
Oh là, là. Pauvre petite.
' She kissed both of Frances's cheeks. ‘War is terrible, yes?'

Frances smiled and thanked her, and then, standing up, put Lili into Honorine's arms. ‘We should go,' she said. ‘We have to find Della.'

They took a bus to Della's flat. On the way, Catherine asked, ‘Does anyone else know about your boy?'

Frances shook her head. ‘My parents, of course, and our housekeeper, but as far as anyone else is concerned, he's an orphan whom I adopted. My mother told everybody in the village that he's the son of a distant cousin who was killed at the beginning of the war and that his mother died soon after.' She sighed and looked out of the bus window as they journeyed through the centre of London. It was a busy morning; people were out and about, housewives queuing at the shops and men, some in uniform, others civilians, walking to and from their offices, but all, she thought, moving rather slowly. People were tired, tired of the war, tired of being frightened and, most of all, tired of hearing bad news. The exhilaration that had swept the nation after the invasion had filtered away. She was glad that she had a job that cheered people up, if only for an hour or so.

‘Who looks after him when you're in London?'

‘Oh, Maggie, our housekeeper, and my father too.'

‘Not your mother?'

‘No. She can hardly bear to look at him; besides, she's left. Left my father. She's here in London somewhere.'

Catherine said nothing for a few moments. She couldn't understand Frances's family at all. It sounded so different from hers, but Frances was her friend and she put an arm around her. ‘I think you're very brave,' she said. ‘And I'd love to see him.'

They grinned at each other, and Frances said, ‘I'll tell Della, but not the others. It would involve too much explanation. And anyway, they might be shocked. I think Beau wouldn't be, but he'd tell his parents and then everyone in Wiltshire would know.'

Della's flat was above an empty shop in Soho, and as the girls alighted from the bus and walked into the narrow street, they looked around in surprise. It was so different from the West End, where Catherine normally worked, and Frances had no knowledge of this rather seedy part of town. They came across Gerrard Street, which seemed to be entirely populated by Chinese and where wonderfully exotic smells emanated from several restaurants, but turning into Della's street, the atmosphere changed again to one where pubs abounded and not a few women stood purposefully on the street corners.

‘Goodness,' said Frances. ‘It all goes on here.'

Catherine laughed. ‘I shouldn't think Della worries about it much. She can hold her own in any situation.'

‘Yes,' Frances agreed. ‘I hope she's in. I tried to phone, but I got no reply.' She looked at Catherine. ‘I meant to ask. Where have you been? When Beau phoned your house two days ago, your mother said you were away with us.'

Catherine blushed. ‘I told her a lie,' she said. ‘And please don't ask me where I was because I can't tell you.'

‘Alright,' Frances said slowly. ‘But you aren't in trouble, are you?'

‘No. No trouble. I just can't talk about it.' Catherine swallowed the nervous lump that had come into her throat. ‘Now,' she said brightly, ‘where's Della's place?'

Frances looked at the piece of paper on which she'd written the address. ‘It's here somewhere … er … number 24.' She stopped and grabbed hold of Catherine's arm. ‘Good God. Look who's over there.'

‘Where?' Catherine asked, but almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she saw who it was that Frances was looking at.

Jerry Costigan was standing in front of an open door, beside an empty shop, having what sounded like an argument with whoever was inside.

‘Shall we stop?' whispered Catherine, but it was too late. A shoe came flying out of the door, followed by Della, who was still in her dressing gown and wagging an angry finger at Jerry.

‘You're a bastard and a bastard's son,' she was yelling. ‘Get out of here and take the next train back to the 'Pool.'

Jerry was laughing and bent to pick up the shoe. ‘Give over, Delia,' he said. ‘It was a perfectly reasonable suggestion.'

‘No,' she shouted. ‘You leave my family alone.' It was then that she looked over and saw Catherine and Frances, who were standing across the street watching in astonishment. One or two passers-by had also stopped to take in the entertainment. Jerry Costigan turned to see what Della was looking at and, spotting the girls, gave them a big grin.

‘Hello,' he called, and tossing the shoe back to Della, took off his hat. ‘Well, this is a nice surprise.'

Della scowled. ‘Bugger off,' she said, and turning to her friends, beckoned, ‘Come on inside.'

Jerry was still grinning when they walked past him to Della's door. Frances looked back over her shoulder as she got to the step. He gave her a wink and she found herself smiling back. He might be a crook, as Della had said, but there was something awfully attractive about him. She kept smiling as she followed Della and Catherine up the stairs.

Della's flat was really only a large room with a bed pushed into the corner, an old-fashioned mirrored wardrobe against the wall and a table and a couple of chairs beside the window. In the opposite corner was a sink and a wooden cupboard, which held a two-ring Baby Belling cooker. Della filled a small kettle from the tap and set it on the cooker. ‘Tea?'

The girls nodded. There was a plate of toasted teacakes and a small covered butter dish on the table, a bottle of milk and two dirty cups. Frances picked up the cups and went to the sink to wash them.

‘What was that about?' asked Catherine. ‘In the street. And why are you in your nightclothes?'

‘Did he stay over?' Frances grinned, running hot water from the wall-mounted boiler into the sink.

‘No, he bloody didn't,' snapped Della. ‘He's just got off the train and came straight here. I suppose Paddy gave him my address, the silly idiot.'

‘What did he want?'

Della frowned. ‘He said he'd come to London to do a bit of business but wanted to look me up first. He had a bag of teacakes that he'd bought at the station, so I gave him a cup.'

The cold teapot stood on the sink and Frances picked it up to wash it. ‘Where shall I put the tea leaves?'

‘Give it here,' said Della, and went out of the room. After a moment, they heard a lavatory flushing and Della reappeared. She opened the cupboard underneath the cooker and, pulling out a tea caddy, put two generous spoonfuls into the pot before elbowing Frances aside to pour boiling water into it. ‘Here,' she said, putting the teapot on the wooden table. ‘Help yourselves. I'm going to the bathroom.' She took her underwear from the end of the bed and a dress from the wardrobe. ‘I won't be a moment.'

Catherine and Frances looked at the teacakes and then, laughing, dived in. ‘Good old Jerry Costigan,' said Frances. ‘There's nothing like railway teacakes.'

‘You've already had cakes at my house,' Catherine said. ‘Didn't you have any breakfast?'

Frances shook her head. ‘No, I don't generally bother. D'you know,' she said, licking her fingers, ‘this is real butter.'

‘It'll be him. Black market, I bet.'

‘Mm,' Frances nodded, and then pouring tea in both cups, said, ‘He's rather good-looking. Don't you think?'

‘Listen to you,' laughed Catherine. ‘I thought Della was the one for the boys.'

‘I'm allowed to look,' Frances protested indignantly, and then burst out laughing too. They were still smiling five minutes later when Della returned, dressed and made-up.

‘I heard you talking about Jerry Costigan.' Della sat down with the other two at the table. ‘Yes, he is good-looking, but he's a right bastard and a criminal. You don't know the half.' She held up a brown paper bag. ‘Guess what he brought me?'

‘We know,' Frances said, pointing to the plate, where only one teacake remained.

‘No,' Della groaned, ‘besides those bloody cakes. These.' She upended the bag and two pairs of fishnet tights fell out.

‘Stockings?' Frances looked puzzled.

‘They're fishnet tights,' breathed Catherine. ‘Gold dust. Wherever did he get them?'

‘I told you. He's a criminal. Black market, fell off the back of a lorry or just plain stolen. Whatever, it makes me an accomplice.' She looked so angry that Catherine and Frances glanced at each other with raised eyebrows.

‘Are you going to give them back,' said Frances eventually, ‘or report him to the police?'

‘Well, of course not,' Della scowled. ‘But he's still a bastard.' She picked up the teacake and took an angry bite out of it. The others watched her, and then Frances cleared her throat.

‘I suppose it would be nosy of me to ask what his “perfectly reasonable suggestion” was?' she asked. ‘And why did it involve your family?'

‘Yes, it is nosy,' Della snorted, ‘but if you must know, he wants Ma to make her tonic on a larger scale. He would sell it and divide the proceeds.'

‘But I think that it must be against the law, if your mother's tonic is, well, really alcohol.' Catherine looked puzzled.

‘It is,' Della said angrily, ‘but as long as she keeps it local, nobody minds. If Costigan gets involved, the bobbies will be sniffing around.'

‘Calm down,' Frances urged. ‘You told him it wasn't going to happen, so it'll be alright.'

‘Oh God, I hope so. But Paddy can persuade Ma to do anything, and he's under Jerry Costigan's spell. I'm going to write to Ma today and tell her to have nothing to do with the stupid idea.' She stood up and paced the room, still trying to simmer down. She stopped in front of the mirror on the wardrobe and glared at her reflection. ‘I do need to get my roots done,' she grumbled.

‘You'd better be quick,' said Frances. ‘We're crossing the Channel on Friday. That's what we've come to tell you.'

‘What!' Della turned to face her friends. ‘Oh wow! Now I really must go to the stylist.' She grinned. ‘Why don't you come with me? She's only down the street. We can all get our hair done.'

Frances and Catherine looked at each other.

‘Do you want to?' asked Catherine.

‘Yes,' Frances said. ‘It's fun doing things together, and my hair does need a trim. Then we can grab a bite to eat at a Lyons Corner House.'

That afternoon, they ate macaroni cheese at a Lyons cafe. Della kept looking at herself in the wall mirrors, and even Frances touched her hair, pleased with the trim, which had smartened up her heavy neck-length bob. Catherine had only had hers washed and dried, but the stylist had massaged a little dab of special cream through it that made it shine.

‘I might go to that place again,' said Catherine. ‘They do a nice job.'

‘Yes, they do.' Della flicked at her hair again. ‘Now, let's talk about France.'

‘Well' – Frances opened her large handbag – ‘I've got forms for you to fill in and insurance policies that you must have, apparently. The forms are temporary passports, in case you don't have one.' She waved another piece of paper. ‘These are will forms. We have to do them just like the soldiers do.'

Christopher had made a will and told her about it before he went away that last time. ‘The house is yours,' he'd said. ‘And what I've got in the bank. Not much, I'm afraid, but you'll get a pension.'

I didn't listen properly, Catherine thought, angry with herself. I was so besotted with the baby that I'd almost forgotten how much I loved him. And now, I have to write a will too.

‘I've got nothing to leave.' Della's voice broke into Catherine's thoughts. ‘Apart from clothes and a few sticks of furniture. Why should I bother?'

‘You must,' said Frances. ‘Anyway, who knows? You might meet a millionaire general in France.'

‘Good thought,' grinned Della. ‘I'll be on the lookout.'

‘Then I've a list of bits and pieces we must take with us.' Frances lowered her voice. ‘Women's things, you know.'

‘What about our performance clothes?' asked Della.

‘They'll go in the big baskets that Beau's organised. If you bring your stage outfits and make-up round to his flat tomorrow morning, then we'll pack them up. I've got in touch with all the boys and they'll do the same. Then we set off at six o'clock on Friday morning. We're sailing from Gosport and we'll be based near Bayeux.'