Where the Heart Is (6 page)

‘No shaking of mats or cloths out of any of the windows, no hanging of laundry out of the windows, no spooning on the front step, definitely no bringing men into the house, and no gawping at Lord Cadogan when he’s on home leave and you see him walking past,’ Gerry broke in again, this time leaving Hilda to explain.

‘Lord Cadogan–Earl Cadogan, actually–owns the property. He owns most of the houses here, in fact, although the War Office has requisitioned some of them.’

‘I’ll take you up to your room, shall I?’ Gerry offered, leaving Katie to follow her as she started to climb the first flight of stairs.

Katie’s room was two flights up and was a very good size indeed, with a window overlooking the street and the garden beyond.

The room was furnished with a narrow single bed, a utilitarian dressing table and a wardrobe. It had a fireplace and, to Katie’s delight and astonishment,
there was a door that led into her own personal bathroom. Luxury indeed, and yet after Gerry had left her to unpack, and despite her good intentions, Katie acknowledged that she was missing the cosiness of her room at Luke’s parents’ house quite dreadfully, and the loving kindness of Jean, and the company of Luke’s teenage sisters even more.

She must not think like that, she chided herself. She must put Liverpool and Luke behind her and get on with her life as it was now, doing all she could to play her own part in the war effort. perhaps right now this four-storey town house, with its cold air smelling of damp khaki and cigar-ettes, instead of being filled, as the Campion house had been, with the warmth of Jean’s cooking and her love for her family, might seem alien and lonely, but she must get used to it, and fit into it and with those living in it, and make a new life for herself. She was, after all, alive and in good health, and not suffering as so many people were in this war, and in so many different ways. All she had to live with was a broken heart. The newspapers were full of the most horrific stories of what was happening to others: the people taken prisoner by the Japanese, the Jewish people forcibly transported to Hitler’s death camps. She must put her whole effort into doing her bit instead of feeling sorry for herself.

Francine looked at her husband with some concern.

‘Are you sure you want to go to this reception at the American Embassy tonight, Brandon?’ she asked gently.

‘Sure I’m sure.’

They both knew that what she really meant was, was he well enough to attend the reception being given by the American Ambassador at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, to mark the arrival of the first American troops on British soil?

Their marriage was an unconventional one in many people’s eyes: Francine was older than her husband by nearly a decade, and he was wealthier than her by several million dollars. What they did not see or know, however, was that Brandon was a young man living under a death sentence because of a rare incurable illness, and that their marriage was one between friends rather than lovers. Brandon had chosen Fran as the person he wanted to accompany him to the end of his personal road, and she had willingly taken on the responsibility of that role. She had lost so much in her life already: her son, Jack; Marcus, the man she loved, the major with whom she had fallen in love in Egypt and who she had lost thanks to the spitefulness of another member of the ENSA group they were both in. She knew and understood what loss was. What she felt for Brandon was a combination of womanly pity and a desire to offer him what comfort she could in memory of the child–the young son–who had died without the comfort of her presence and the warmth of her arms around him. She could not go back and change things where Jack, her son, was concerned. For him she could only grieve and bear the burden of her guilt. But in doing what she was for Brandon, she was, she felt, making some kind of atonement in her own small way.

‘Besides,’ Brandon continued, ‘you don’t think I’m going to miss out on celebrating the fact that America has finally officially joined this war of yours, do you?’

Francine knew better than to try to dissuade him.

Neither of his divorced parents knew of his condition. His father, according to Brandon, would simply refuse to accept that his son could suffer ill health, and his mother would threaten to have a nervous breakdown.

‘Poor little rich boy,’ Francine had sometimes teased him when they’d first met, but now that she knew how apt the description was she no longer used it.

They had met the previous autumn when Fran, as the lead singer in a London theatre revue, had been invited to attend a diplomatic event to help entertain some visiting American top brass.

She knew that her sister Jean had been worried by the speed with which they had married–until Francine had taken Brandon home to Liverpool with her to attend Jean’s daughter Grace’s Christmas wedding and had had a chance to explain the situation honestly to her older sister. Her family might know that Brandon was poorly, but only Jean knew the reality of Francine’s marriage.

Francine had stopped working for ENSA. Brandon’s needs came before anything else now. And for that same reason she had felt that it was wiser for them to live in a service flat at the Dorchester rather than rent a flat of their own. As an entertainer she was used to living in hotels, and
Brandon’s service flat was positively palatial compared with some of the accommodation she had had. Not only did it have two double bedrooms, each with its own bathroom and sitting room, there was also a dining room, a small kitchen and a maid’s room. Not that they had or needed a maid, but they both knew that the time would come when the services of a full-time nurse would be required.

Francine was determined that Brandon would be nursed ‘at home’ and amongst the benefits of being at the Dorchester was that, along with room service meals, there was a doctor on twenty-four-hour call.

Brandon was insistent that no one outside Fran’s family was to know about his condition unless they absolutely had to.

Tonight was a very special occasion for Brandon, as an American, and Francine could almost feel his pride a couple of hours later when they were waiting in line inside the American Embassy to shake hands with the line up of American military top brass standing with the Ambassador.

The double doors to the room in which the reception was being held were guarded by American servicemen looking far smarter than their war-weary British counterparts. Just the sight of British Army uniforms, though, was enough to remind Francine of Marcus. So silly of her when it was all over between them …

The guests being, in the main, American airmen–commanding officers waiting impatiently for the agricultural land of Norfolk and the South East to be turned into the hard surface airfields on
which their huge bombers could land and take off,–there were far more men in uniform than there were female guests, although the Ambassador had obviously done his best to even up the numbers by inviting several women whom Francine recognised as senior members of the American Red Cross, as well as a sprinkling of women in uniform, along with other women such as Mollie Panter-Downes, the London correspondent for the
New Yorker.

Eventually it was Francine and Brandon’s turn to shake hands, the Ambassador discreetly stressing Brandon’s name, or so Francine, with her trained ear, felt, as though wanting to underline for the benefit of the Military top brass just who he was.

As an American billionaire, Brandon’s father was a hugely influential political figure, but Francine knew that despite his obvious pride in his country’s decision to join the war, later, when they were on their own, Brandon would be cast down by the sense of personal worthlessness he often felt, that came from being ‘the son of’ his father rather than being valued for his own achievements, however modest.

The American Embassy had originally been owned by the Woolworth heiress, who had given it to the American Government, and was an elegant backdrop for tonight’s well-dressed gathering. Not wanting to let Brandon down, Fran had decided to wear one of the outfits she had had made in Egypt: a beautiful full-length gown in palest blue slipper satin, which followed the curves of her body without clinging vulgarly. High in the neck
at the front, at the back the dress dipped down to below her waist, where it was embellished with embroidery in the shape of a butterfly sewn with tiny seed pearls, blue and green beads, and diamanté. A wrap of sheer silk organza dyed the same colour as the dress and sprinkled with seed pearls and diamanté covered her bare arms and back, and Francine carried with her an evening bag made from the same fabric as her dress.

She knew that her appearance–and no doubt her lovely dress, she thought with rueful amusement–was attracting a good deal of attention as they circulated amongst the other guests, but Francine was more concerned about Brandon. She was trying to keep a subtly careful eye on him, whilst at the same time concealing her concern for him beneath the ‘public’ cloak of charm and her well-honed ability to put other people at their ease, which she had acquired during the years of her singing career. Francine was not someone who would ever compromise her own principles or cultivate anyone’s friendship to aid her own prospects. She had far too much staunchly Liverpudlian independence and spirit to do that, along with a Liverpudlian sense of humour, but she did feel that easing the wheels of social discourse was an asset that it made good sense to acquire. Old-fashioned good manners, her own mother and her sister Jean would have called it, she reflected, as she listened politely whilst a general, smelling richly of bourbon, boasted to her about how the Americans were going to ‘show you Brits how to bomb the hell out of Hitler’.

‘Stands to reason you ain’t gonna hit much with them little toy planes of yours,’ he told her with a self-satisfied grin, ‘especially at night. Why, we’ve got bombers ten times their size, with a hundred times their accuracy, that we can send out in daylight raids to hit an exact spot.’

Francine had worked in Hollywood for a while and was familiar with a certain type of bombastically overconfident American attitude, so she held her peace.

Not so, though, Brandon, who immediately swallowed back his own drink and then announced grimly, ‘Sir, we might be able to outdo the Brits with the technical abilities of our bombers, but when it comes to sheer guts and bravery, we’ve yet to prove we’re one hundredth as good as the RAF.’

There was a small uncomfortable silence before someone, Francine couldn’t see who, started to clap their hands in agreement and then within a very few seconds the whole room was clapping, causing the general to propose a toast to ‘The brave men of the RAF’.

‘That was so good of you,’ she whispered to Brandon, her own eyes filming with silly tears. ‘As a British woman, I thank you; and as your wife, I am so very proud of you.’

‘Nowhere near as proud as I am of you,’ Brandon whispered back.

A pianist hired for the occasion had started to play some popular American numbers, and what with all the American accents, the music, and the bottles of Coca Cola that a Marine behind the bar was swiftly opening and handing out, the Embassy
felt very much like a small part of America, right in the heart of London.

Francine made a point of joining in the banter and bonhomie.

‘This is exactly the kind of homey American atmosphere we want to create for our boys here in England. After all, it’s the least we can do for them,’ one of the American Red Cross women told her enthusiastically, only to break off with an anxious exclamation that had Francine turning round to see what was happening.

Brandon had semi-collapsed and was being supported by the anxious-looking lieutenant he had obviously lurched into.

Excusing herself, Francine went immediately to his aid, her concern on his behalf not helped by the careless, ‘Damn fool boy obviously can’t take his drink,’ she overheard from a cigar-chomping Texan.

White-faced, with beads of sweat standing out on his pallid forehead, Brandon was making a tremendous effort to brush off the incident, and tears of pity and pride stung Francine’s eyes as she saw the looks of disapproval he was attracting as he tried to straighten up and then swayed as he made to reach her.

Her whispered, ‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ve got you,’ was for his ears only, her seemingly light touch on his arm, in reality a protective supportive grip that was straining her muscles.

As he leaned into her she could see that he was trying to say something, but his voice was so changed by his weakness that it took her several seconds to recognise that he was saying, ‘I’m sorry.’

As he spoke he tried to straighten up but somehow instead he lost his balance and crashed to the floor, his flailing arms sending glasses flying from a nearby table as he did so.

In the silence that followed it was possible to hear the sound of liquid from the broken glasses dripping onto the floor, accompanied by the occasional nervous clearing of a throat. These small sparse sounds gradually gathered volume and pace as they were joined by hushed whispers and speedy footsteps; then the Ambassador’s voice reaching down to Francine as she kneeled on the floor at Brandon’s side, asking curtly, ‘Is he all right?’

Knowing exactly how Brandon felt about his condition, and his determination that no one else was to know about it, Francine could only say shakily, ‘He hasn’t been very well,’

Above her she could hear other voices: ‘He must be drunk …’ ‘How dreadful …’ ‘Shameful…’ ‘But what do you expect? I mean, he’s married that showgirl …’

Ignore them, Francine told herself. They know nothing, mean nothing. Brandon was what mattered.

He wasn’t unconscious, thank heavens, but she could see how shocked and humiliated he felt from his expression. She reached for his hand and held it tightly in her own. His doctor had warned them about this happening: a sudden weakness that would rob him of the ability to move, and perhaps even speak, that would come out of nowhere and then pass–at first–a sign that his illness was advancing.

‘I’ll get you some help,’ the Ambassador was saying and within seconds two burly Marines had
appeared and were helping Brandon to his feet, their expressions wooden but their manner faultlessly correct and polite as they went either side of Brandon to support him.