The Very Thought of You Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Mary Fitzgerald

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Book

  In the wake of D-Day three very different women join a touring variety company, performing to factory girls, hospitals and serving troops.

  Catherine’s husband has been reported missing in action and she needs a job to support her mother and daughter.

  Della, a Liverpudlian show girl, is ambitious for fame and hides her problems behind a devil-may-care attitude.

  Frances, titled but impoverished, will do anything to keep the family home safe for her brother, a POW in the Far East.

  Travelling from show to show, the three women form a strong bond. But when they follow the advancing army through France, their friendship deepens as the company is stalked by lies and betrayal, and it’s clear that nobody will come home the same.

  About the Author

  Mary Fitzgerald was born and brought up in Chester. At eighteen she left home to start nursing training. She ended up as an operating theatre sister in a large London hospital and there met her husband. Ten years and four children later the family settled for a while in Canada and later the USA. For several years they lived in west Wales, northern Scotland and finally southern Ireland until they settled again near Chester. Mary had long given up nursing and gone into business, first a children’s clothes shop, then a book shop and finally an internet clothes enterprise.

  Mary now lives in a small village in north Shropshire close to the Montgomery canal and with a view of both the Welsh and the Shropshire hills.

  Also by Mary Fitzgerald

  The Love of a Lifetime

  When I Was Young

  What Tomorrow Brings

  Mist

  Knight on the Potomac

  Traitor’s Gate

  The Fishing Pool

  Chapter 1

  London, Spring 1944

  She watched the boy as he cycled slowly up the street. He was looking at the numbers on the doors of the red-brick terrace; then, satisfied that they were properly running in order, he speeded up.

  There was no hesitation in her movement away from the window because she knew. She’d been expecting it for two years, and when the knock came, Catherine opened the door and held out her hand.

  ‘Are you …’ the telegraph boy hesitated, studying the name on the brown envelope, ‘Mrs Fletcher? Mrs Catherine Fletcher?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. Strangely, she felt quite calm, but her mother, Honorine, who had come from the back kitchen with six-month-old Lili in her arms, whispered, ‘Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,’ and sat down heavily on the second step of the flight of stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the telegraph boy said awkwardly, as he put the envelope in Catherine’s upturned palm. He was fifteen, and this was his second week at work, but he knew what the telegram contained and he wouldn’t look Catherine in the eye. But this woman was composed, quiet, almost normal and he was the one who felt unnerved and gripped the handlebars of his bike tightly as he climbed on it.

  ‘Ta-ra,’ he said, and didn’t look back as he cycled rapidly down the street and round the corner.

  Catherine turned the envelope over in her hands. I have to open it, she told herself. Now, this minute, but, oh God, if I do, it will become real. She closed the door and walked back into the small front room. It was a room she was proud of, clean and well furnished with two comfortable armchairs and an Afghan rug.

  Fitted bookcases filled the gaps on either side of the fireplace, full of books, mostly unread now, but dusted every day. There were two photographs on the cream tiled mantelpiece. One was of her in a long dress standing in front of a microphone, while arranged behind her was the band Bobby Crewe’s Melody Men. She’d been their singer and had been so good that other bands had started sniffing around, eager to poach her.

  But it was the other photograph she lingered over. It was of her on her wedding day, and she stood for a moment, staring at it. What a lovely day it had been, and how happy and proud she’d felt in her neat suit, with her arm tucked securely in Christopher’s. The photograph was in black and white, but she saw the scene in colour. Her sky-blue suit with its narrow belt and box pleats, and Christopher’s khaki uniform and his maroon cap with the winged badge of the Parachute Regiment. Everyone said what a handsome couple they were. Catherine so pretty with her shiny dark hair and enigmatic brown eyes, and Christopher tall and strong with an athleticism that belied his peacetime job as a college lecturer. He looked as if nothing could ever hurt him. But now?

  She swallowed and turned round to face her mother and her baby daughter. Both were silent, but tears were beginning to spill from her mother’s eyes.

  ‘Open it, chérie,’ her mother whispered. ‘You have to know.’

  A hundred miles away from that street in London, Frances Parnell groaned as she heaved a sack of potatoes into the larder. She’d just driven it from the Home Farm, where Seth, the old tenant, had told her it was the last he had. ‘The rest’s gone to the military,’ he said, chewing on his empty pipe. ‘The buggers have taken everything.’

  ‘I hope they paid you,’ Frances said. She was concerned because Seth and Bessie, his wife, were on their own now. Both their boys were in the services, and although they did have a farmhand, he was older than Seth and no real help at all.

  ‘Gave me a chitty,’ Seth grunted. ‘I’ll get the money, but it’ll take a few weeks.’

  They were in the farmhouse kitchen and Bessie put a pot of tea and a plate of scones on the table. ‘Take one, lovey,’ she smiled at Frances. ‘I’ve got more in the pantry. And take a couple home for Johnny.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Frances said, and smiled back at this woman she’d known all her life. ‘Have you heard from young Seth or Eddie?’

  Bessie nodded happily. ‘We had a note from Eddie. He’s here in England, I think. And he’s well.’

  ‘Going on about some girl he’s courting.’ Seth snorted. ‘No better than she should be, I dare say.’

  Bessie frowned. ‘You old fool,’ she growled. ‘Our Eddie wouldn’t even look at someone like that.’

  Frances could feel a row brewing. This was exactly how her mother and father started one of their monumental arguments. ‘And young Seth? Have you heard from him?’

  The old couple shook their heads.

  ‘He’s overseas. Don’t know where,’ Bessie sighed.

  ‘Well’ – Frances got up – ‘I must get moving.’ She put half a crown on the table. ‘This is for the spuds, Seth. See you soon.’ And with a wave she went out into the yard and drove home with the potato sack lurching around in the bucket of the old tractor.

  All the way home she thought about money. How the hell were they going to manage? The electricity bill was enormous, and somehow she’d have to find enough cash to pay Maggie, the housekeeper, and Janet, the youngster her mother had just employed to do the rough work. Once again
, Frances wondered if her mother really understood that the family was close to being broke, that living in their great house cost a fortune and that having a title counted for nothing with the coal merchant.

  ‘You’ll have to tell her, Pa,’ Frances said to her father, when she’d washed her hands and joined him in the library. He was sitting in his leather chair struggling to make sense of a mounting pile of bills. ‘She’s taken on a girl from the village and we’ll have to find the money for her.’

  ‘I know, darling, and I have had words with your mother.’ John Parnell raised his hands in a gesture of desperation and ran them through his salt-and-pepper hair. ‘But she doesn’t understand. We should have got rid of this bloody house long before the war. It’s nothing but a millstone hanging round all our necks.’

  ‘We mustn’t get rid of the house,’ Frances said fiercely. ‘Hugo had really workable plans to raise money. The farms could be run more efficiently, he was sure of that, and he was going to improve the shooting. It’s ridiculous raising the birds for only our friends to shoot when wealthy people from the city would pay for the opportunity. And then he was going to turn the stables into mews houses and rent them out.’ She drummed her fingers on the desk to emphasise the point. ‘Other people with houses like ours have done this sort of thing. We can’t go under, not now.’

  Her father sighed and leant back in his chair. ‘Hugo’s plans will have to go on hold until the war is ended, and, God willing, that won’t be long now. The air war is over, and Hitler is retreating from the East. Invasion must be the next step. With our troops fighting on French soil, surely the Germans won’t hold out, and then we’ll be able to concentrate on the Japs. Then the boy will come home.’

  Frances said nothing. Her elder brother, Hugo, was a prisoner of war in the Far East; at least, he had been when they’d last heard of him, eight months ago. Awful stories were coming out about the treatment of prisoners in Burma. Her breath caught in her throat. Oh God, she prayed. Let him be alright.

  Lord Parnell cleared his throat. He knew what Frances was thinking because that was what preyed on his mind too. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘somehow we have to get our hands on extra money.’ He gave her a sideways glance. ‘Of course, we could do something about selling the paintings in the long gallery. I mean, they would raise—’ He got no further.

  ‘Absolutely not, Pa,’ Frances said hotly. ‘Hugo would be furious. They’re his inheritance.’

  The two, so alike in looks, glowered at each other until Frances broke the silence. ‘Look, Pa,’ she said, ‘I’ve decided I’m going to get a job. Beau Bennett offered me something when he came down last weekend.’

  ‘A job? With Beau Bennett? Rolly Bennett’s youngest?’ Lord Parnell looked up in astonishment. ‘What sort of a job?’ He furrowed his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t he connected to the theatre? Some sort of actor? My God, Frances, you can’t be serious.’

  ‘I am,’ she said with a grin, crinkling up her hazel eyes and tossing her long red hair. ‘We need the cash.’

  Della Stafford sat in the steamy cafe opposite the theatre and ordered cheese on toast. She was on her own, by choice, having grown tired of the constant chatter of her fellow chorus girls.

  ‘Tea?’ the waitress asked, and Della nodded.

  ‘Alright.’ The girl walked to the next table to pick up some dirty cups. A newspaper had been left on the seat and she held it up. ‘D’you want this?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Della, and reached over to take it. She put it on the table while she searched in her bag for her cigarettes. Damn, they weren’t there. She must have left the packet in the dressing room she shared with the other girls. That’s the last she’d see of those. Oh hell, she sighed, this day had gone from bad to worse.

  Arriving at the theatre for the matinee, she’d been called into the manager’s office. ‘Miss Stafford,’ he’d said, not getting up, but spreading his pudgy hands on the desk in front of him and giving her one of his leering stares. ‘We’re making changes. Changing the act. Something fresh for the punters. And I’m thinking of you, sugar, because you’re not bad-looking and you got a cracking figure. I love that blonde hair, never mind that it comes out of a bottle.’

  Della narrowed her eyes. She didn’t trust him. ‘What changes?’

  He had the grace to look away from her, swivelling his chair round so that he could look out of the window onto the grimy roofs and chimney pots of Shaftesbury Avenue. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was thinking of something along the lines of what they do at the Windmill …’

  ‘What?’ Della said, horrified. ‘A nude show? Striptease? Here?’

  Abe Carson swivelled back to face her. ‘Calm down, ducky. I’ve already put it to some of the other girls and they don’t mind. What’s the matter with showing a bit of flesh? I expect you’ve shown it to one or two boyfriends, so what’s the difference?’

  Della had stared at him. He was utterly loathsome, but she’d known that already. ‘You’ll never do it,’ she said, as she walked towards the door. ‘You won’t get permission.’

  ‘But if I do,’ he called after her, ‘you could be my lead girl, and there’d be more pay for that.’

  Not bothering to reply, Della slammed the door after her and walked away. Now, after the normal matinee performance, she was still furious. How dare he? How could he imagine that she would be prepared to strip? To be part of a tawdry show when she was a trained dancer and had worked in the business since she was a youngster? I’m better than that, she told herself. So much better, and I’ll have a career in the theatre if it kills me.

  Was it fate that the paper the waitress had passed to her was the Stage? And that the first advert she saw was for performers to join a new company that was being formed specially to entertain the troops? She read the advert three times before getting up and going down the street to the telephone box.

  ‘Sid?’ she enquired when the phone was answered.

  ‘Who’s this?’ the old man’s breathless voice answered.

  ‘Della. Della Stafford. Listen, Sid, I’m thinking of leaving the show and joining another company. One of these ENSA sort of groups. What d’you think?’

  There was a long silence and Della could imagine what was going on at the other end. He’d be shuffling papers around on his desk, a thin cigarette drooping from his lips and a glass of lemon tea steaming gently beside him. Sid Wiseman, her agent, was really well past it. He should have retired years ago. God knows he was already old when he’d taken Della on as a sixteen-year-old, dancing in a variety show. But he’d become a father figure and she clung to his opinion.

  ‘I hear Abe Carson is thinking about a nudey show,’ he gasped. ‘Is that why?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mm. Not for you, darling.’

  ‘I know, Sid. So if you’ve nothing for me, I’m going to this audition.’

  Della heard the slurp as he took a gulp of tea. ‘Nothing’s come in, girl. Who’s running this troupe?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘It was only a small advert.’

  ‘Well, then,’ Sid grunted. ‘My advice is to go for it. If it works, you’ll be seen by thousands, and I did hear that impresarios are on the lookout for new talent, now that the theatres are up and running again.’

  ‘Thanks, Sid.’ Della smiled at herself in the phone-box mirror. ‘Take care.’

  The auditions were held in a bleak church hall in a bombed-out street near the docks. This part of London had taken a battering a couple of years ago and many of the buildings, including the church, had been destroyed. But now, as weeds grew up through the ruined houses, people were going about their business and even a few shops were open. A man getting off the bus in front of Catherine shouted a cheeky greeting to a middle-aged woman who was, incongruously, among all the surrounding rubble, sweeping the pavement outside her shop. He got a cheeky reply and a grin. As Catherine alighted, she heaved a sigh. Life went on … for some.

  It was cold in the church hall. The winter had been c
old and wet, and early spring no better. Now, it was starting to rain again. It pattered through the holes in the roof and down onto the stone-flagged floor, where, mixed with bird lime dropped from the sparrows who were flying about the rafters, it formed a damp, slippery surface. Catherine looked at it in distaste and pulled her green coat closer. She was wearing a maroon shantung dress underneath the coat, one that she wore sometimes when she was on stage. And after all, this was an audition, wasn’t it? But she did wonder if it was a bit showy. Looking around at the other performers who had drifted in, it seemed that nobody else had bothered to dress up.

  They all stood close together in the only dry area. Catherine counted twelve of them, eight women and four men. She recognised one of the men, Tommy Rudd, a piano player, who’d been an occasional member of Bobby Crewe’s band. She smiled at him and he gave her a wave. Catherine tried to remember why he hadn’t been called up. The band members were generally older men or had some disability, but Tommy Rudd was her age and looked perfectly healthy.

  ‘Hello.’ A tall blonde girl came to stand beside her. She wore a black suit with a fur tippet over her shoulders. ‘It’s bloody freezing in here,’ she said. ‘You’d never think it was nearly April.’

  ‘Yes, it is cold,’ Catherine agreed. ‘I don’t think the rain and the holes in the roof help.’

  ‘I’m Della Stafford,’ the girl said, and held out her hand.

  ‘Catherine Fletcher. How d’you do?’

  Della grinned. ‘You’ve got an accent,’ she said. ‘What are you, French or something?’

  ‘My mother is French, but I grew up here in London. Holidays with my grandparents at Amiens, though, so I suppose there’s a trace of an accent. Most people don’t hear it.’

  ‘Oh, I did.’ Della adjusted her tippet. ‘There were lots of foreigners where I lived. By the docks, you know, in Liverpool. The whole place is buggered now. Like this place.’ She looked at the other people waiting for the auditions to start. ‘Let’s see. Who’s here? Oh look, the Miller sisters.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Catherine.