The Very Thought of You (46 page)

He was sitting on a chair by the window, his shoulders covered by a thin brown blanket. As she walked nervously towards him, Catherine could see a scar on the back of his head, which had scored a line through his straw-coloured hair. For a moment, she thought, I can't do this, and looked back over her shoulder to where Robert was standing by the door, but he nodded his encouragement and she took a deep breath and walked on.

The nuns had put a chair in front of Christopher's and she sat on it and gazed at her husband for the first time in eighteen months.

He looked exactly the same. His strong face, untidy, thick blond hair and intelligent blue eyes were just as she remembered and had dreamt about.

‘Hello, Chris, darling,' she said, smiling. ‘I've found you at last.'

Her heart thumped in her chest while she waited for him to turn towards her and give her that old familiar grin. He'd wake up from his dream and grab her, holding her in a firm grasp, and kiss her face, her neck, and tell her how much he loved her.

But nothing happened. It was as if she hadn't spoken. He stared ahead, moving his head slightly so that she wasn't in the way of what he was looking at. Catherine turned to see what it was. There was a hook on the door to the cell bedroom on which someone had hung a string of rosary beads, which glinted slightly where the light from a small lamp caught them.

‘Chris,' she tried again. ‘It's me, Catherine.' And taking his hand in hers, she leant forward to kiss him on the cheek.

He didn't move, didn't acknowledge the kiss and let his hand lie limply in hers.

‘Chris, Christopher!' She raised her voice. ‘Look at me. I'm Catherine, your wife.'

‘Madame.' Mother Paul had come to stand beside her and put her hand on Catherine's shoulder. ‘Please don't shout. It will make no difference. He has … turned off, inside.'

‘No,' she cried, shrugging off the nun's thin hand. ‘He must know me. Look.' She opened her handbag and took out a photograph of Lili. ‘This is our daughter,' she said, and held it up in front of Christopher's eyes. ‘It's Lili. She can walk now. She says “Mama” and “Papa”. You would love her.'

But he looked straight through the picture as though it was invisible to him. ‘Christopher,' she wailed, ‘please, please look at it.' But it made no difference, and with tears welling into her eyes, her shaking hand dropped to her lap and the photograph slid to the floor.

She was sobbing now and Robert walked in and took her into his arms. ‘We'll take him home,' he said. ‘With the right treatment, who knows? He might return to you.'

Catherine nodded, but, still sobbing, tore herself away and knelt in front of Christopher and wrapped her arms around him. ‘I love you, Chris,' she whispered, burying her head in his neck, and felt dizzy as the remembered clean smell of him filled her nostrils. For a moment, she thought she had got through to him, for he lifted his arm as though to hold her close, but his hand went past her back and onto his face to brush her hair out of his face. She seemed to be only an annoyance to him.

‘I think that is enough for now, madame,' said Mother Paul, and her voice softened. ‘For both of you.' She raised her finger and the nun who had been hovering in the corridor came forward and, putting her arm under Christopher's elbow, raised him up and walked him towards the bedroom.

‘Come on, Catherine,' said Robert quietly. ‘Let's go.'

Back in Mother Paul's office, Catherine and Robert filled in the forms that would allow Christopher's transfer to a military hospital in England.

‘Do you know how he got to the hospital in Amiens?' Robert asked.

‘I believe, Major,' Mother Paul said, ‘that he was picked up by a citizen who was clearing the rubble. He was taken to a monastery south of here, where the brothers, bravely assisted by surgeons from the hospital, cared for him. After the liberation, he was transferred to the hospital for further treatment. I think, perhaps, that his condition deteriorated in that time. It was not the brothers' fault. They had little equipment, only love for their fellow man.'

She turned her attention to Catherine. ‘And dear Madame Albert. She is well?' she asked.

Catherine nodded. ‘She is very well, in England with my mother. They will be coming back to France soon.' She couldn't bring herself to smile at the reverend mother. The memory of Béatrice being force to swallow chloral hydrate was still burning in her mind. ‘Why did you drug her?' she asked suddenly, and Robert, who was writing on the form, heard the distress in her voice and looked up.

Mother Paul frowned. ‘I was following Father Gautier's instructions. He told me that the memories of what she'd seen were too hard to bear. She should not have to think about them.'

‘What had she seen?' Robert's question cut through the sterile atmosphere.

The nun folded her lips and looked down at her empty desk. Eventually she said, ‘Father Gautier was a good man. He was forced to do the things he did. It was one death or fifty deaths. At the end, Monsieur Albert offered to be the one. He saved the village.'

‘That's not what my grandmother says,' Catherine spoke hotly.

‘She didn't know. Father Gautier told me that she was held inside the house when Monsieur Albert was shot. She didn't see or hear the conversation. Only the shot. She saw her husband when he was already dead and the Germans were taking her to prison.'

Catherine looked at Robert. ‘I don't believe that,' she cried. ‘What sort of man or priest lies to a bereaved old woman?'

‘A frightened man,' said Robert. ‘One who knew that his crimes would haunt him for the rest of his life.' He looked at Mother Paul. ‘He was the one who shot Monsieur Albert, yes?'

She nodded slowly. ‘He had begged for the lives of the villagers, and that was the condition. But, madame, monsieur, believe me' – a passion had come into her voice for the first time – ‘he was a good man. A man of faith.'

As they drove away, Catherine leant her head on Robert's shoulder. She felt tired and unable to think clearly any more. Seeing Christopher, the person she'd yearned for, so changed, and so unresponsive to her, had been devastating. She didn't know how to live with it. My husband is alive, she told herself, and I must care for him, but … I love Robert. How can I bear it?

August 1945

‘I've been asked to be in a film, starting next year,' said Catherine. The three girls were at Parnell Hall for the weekend. ‘But I can't act. At least, I don't think I can.'

‘None of them can,' Della had said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Not in the sort of films you'll be doing. But you'll look beautiful and sing like an angel.'

‘And, of course,' Frances added in her practical way, ‘the money will be fantastic.'

Catherine laughed. Frances always worried about money, even now when she had more coming in.

Guy had settled an allowance for Frances, a sort of dowry in reverse, which John Parnell had been too proud, at first, to accept. But Guy had persuaded him and the hall and the farms were much improved. They had a beef herd, which Frances managed, and her father was becoming devoted to his pigs once more.

‘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.