The Very Thought of You by Mary Fitzgerald Page B

us in France. It’s someone you know.’
    â€˜Who?’ asked Frances.
    â€˜Robert Lennox.’

Chapter 7
    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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜It’s alright,’ she assured him. ‘It’s fun.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Alright,’ she’d said. ‘I can tell Maman that I’m working.’
    â€˜Good.’ He sounded