Читать книгу Finding Henry Applebee - Celia Reynolds - Страница 17

The North Pier is almost deserted apart from Henry and Francine, who stand at its furthermost tip, four-penny bags of cod and chips in their hands, a crisp wind whipping about their ears. The sky is leaden and eerily still, while below them waves slosh and break repeatedly against the pier’s wooden ballasts. The water is washday grey, streaked with menace. Henry is aware it’s a testament to their desire to see each other again that they find themselves here at all, blown about like sea-drift, when most people have retreated indoors to the comfort of a cosy tearoom, a favourite armchair, a lover’s tender embrace.

Francine’s presence beside him feels rare, disarming. She’s wrapped in a powder-blue coat a shade or two lighter than her eyes. Her cheeks glow with a wintry flush, and a dab of soft-hued coral-coloured lipstick enhances the natural lustre of her mouth. Henry thinks she looks gorgeous. She took his arm when she met him at the station, and he – unsure whether she would be there or not, but hoping for the best – offered to take her to a restaurant for lunch, so they could chat and get to know one another better, but she said no, not to worry, fish and chips would do just fine.

‘I know a good place down by the pier,’ she said, a faint, nervous breathlessness to her voice. ‘You’d never find it without me. Come on, I’ll show you the way.’

They talk in quick, excited bursts. Like the day before, the conversation flows in an effortless current between them. It is, Henry thinks, a tacit commitment on both their parts to share as much of themselves as possible, conscious that they only have today before he has to return home to London and face the responsibilities of a brand-new civilian life.

Around them the wind thickens and roils in great swirling eddies, whisking the waves to a pearly-white froth. Between the cold and the lingering spectre of disorientation, Henry’s hunger is acute. He wolfs down the last of his chips, pausing only to steal shy, sideways glances at Francine. Lying on his bunk in Kirkham the previous evening, he was certain he’d be able to visualise every contour, every quirk and subtle complexity of her face. But it was her eyes – her fearless, wild, liquid blue eyes – which had branded themselves so indelibly on his brain.

‘I’m glad you came back today. I had a nice time yesterday,’ she says, squeezing in close against his arm.

At the gentle pressure of her body, Henry feels the gravitational pull between them intensify. His stomach flips, and a jolt of electricity sparks like tinder along his spine. He takes a breath. Reins it in.

‘I was looking forward to seeing you again,’ he replies. ‘In fact, I was afraid you might not be able to get the day off.’

When she told him what she did for a living she’d seemed almost apologetic at first. But then, in the delicate arching of her neck, in the involuntary upwards tilt of her perfectly formed chin, he’d seen a flash of defiance, of self-preservation. Being a waitress wasn’t something she’d aspired to, she told him, but it paid the rent, and it was better than doing the exact same thing for less in Sheffield where she grew up.

‘I always knew I’d like to try my luck somewhere new,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘And Blackpool seemed as good a place to me as any. Plus –’ she added with well-appointed irony – ‘at least here I can get a bit of sea air.’

The wind whistles through the railings and flies under the skirt of her coat, sending swathes of powder-blue fabric fanning like an accordion around her legs. Francine screams and grabs hold of Henry’s arm with one hand, while with the other she tries frantically to preserve her modesty by wedging a fistful of pleats between her knees.

‘Anyhow, you needn’t have worried,’ she says when she’s composed herself. ‘Getting time off wasn’t a problem. February’s off season. If it weren’t for the Americans and the lads like you visiting from Kirkham, Blackpool would be a ghost town at this time of year.’

Henry scrunches his empty chip paper into a ball and looks around for a waste bin. On the roof of the Pavilion Theatre immediately behind them, a turbo-sized gull stretches its wings and follows his movements with immense, twitching eyes. Henry slips a protective arm around Francine’s shoulders, and with a forced air of nonchalance says, ‘The Americans have always had more money to throw around than we have. I suppose here’s the obvious place for them to spend it.’

Francine stares evenly at the horizon. In the daylight, away from the twilight shadows of the Tower Ballroom, her skin appears even more radiant, even smoother and more unblemished than he’d recalled. And there’s a freckle, he sees now; a small brown beauty spot nestled just below her jawline at the side of her neck. Henry manages to stop himself from leaning in and kissing it. Instead, he tries to intuit what she’s thinking, what unknown visions are unfolding behind her eyes. He doesn’t want to think about all the other servicemen who’ve passed through the town as he is doing, least of all now, when his own uniform is due to be handed back in in just twenty-four hours’ time.

He leans his torso against the railings, swivels his head to catch her eye. ‘You look very pretty today, by the way.’

‘Thank you! It’s a new coat.’ She smoothes the fine, woollen fabric over her hips and smiles. ‘I’ve been saving up for it for ages. Mam says I like to kid myself I’m Rita Hayworth.’

‘Oh, Rita’s a bombshell all right,’ Henry shoots back, ‘but she doesn’t have your eyes.’ He sees the look of delight on her face and laughs. ‘I’m not sure where that came from… I mean I meant it, obviously – but I’ve never said anything smooth before in my life.’

‘Come on, I don’t believe it!’ she cries. ‘I’ve never met an airman yet who didn’t have a ready line, though that was a particularly flattering one, I’ll be honest.’

Henry shakes his head. ‘I’m serious! Despite all my brother’s efforts to educate me, I can guarantee that any smooth-talking genes in our family went exclusively to him.’

A small wound, calloused over the years, briefly makes its presence felt in Henry’s chest. It’s ingrained in him by now – this terrible ache of being in thrall to someone he looks up to so much, and yet can never match, never live up to, no matter how hard he tries. Devlin has always had such a seductive charm about him. Obstacles – be they romantic or otherwise – just seem to disintegrate in his path. Never in a million years could he know the agony, or inevitability, of always feeling second-best.

‘Well,’ Francine assures him with a smile, ‘I think you’re sweet.’ She throws him a long, penetrating gaze. ‘Henry? Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘What time do you have to be back at your billet?’

All at once, her smile wavers. Henry catches her by the hand and pulls her towards him. ‘Not for hours and hours yet. Let’s not worry about that now. But we should get inside out of the cold. Your hands are freezing.’

They walk arm-in-arm along the pier towards the promenade, the pleats of Francine’s coat brushing against the side of Henry’s leg as she moves. On the beach below them a cocker spaniel races along the shoreline, pawing at the water, sending flecks of surf cartwheeling into the air. Francine turns to watch it, and the same lock of hair which slipped loose from her bun the day before tumbles against her cheek. It flutters momentarily in the breeze before whipping round and catching on her lipstick.

Henry grins.

‘Hey! What’s so funny?’ She digs him in the ribs, plucks the strand of hair from her mouth, and with the same relaxed ease clips it back behind her ear.

‘Have you ever had your tea leaves read?’ she asks, as they approach the entrance to the pier. Directly ahead of them is an elaborately painted sign advertising the clairvoyant skills of a woman with the rather dubious name of Madame Futuro. ‘A girl at work read mine the other day – just for fun. I didn’t believe what she told me, though.’

‘Why not?’ Henry replies. ‘Did she tell you that you were going to meet a handsome stranger?’

Francine draws to a stop. ‘Yes. One who would change my life. How did you know that?’

‘I don’t know…’ He clears his throat. ‘I mean, honestly, I was just kidding. Isn’t that what they tell everyone?’

‘Probably.’ Francine rolls her eyes. ‘She said I was going to meet a man in uniform. Which in this part of the world doesn’t exactly narrow it down… And then she said something about a farm, and that part made no sense to me at all. I just kept nodding. No way was I going to let on what I was thinking, and then –’ She breaks off, squeezes Henry’s arm.

‘And then what?’

‘Nothing I choose to believe in. I’m sure she was making it all up as she went along. Anyway, you’re from London, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he replies. I’ve lived my entire life in a neighbourhood called Chalk Farm.

‘So I was right! It was all nonsense.’

‘Why?’ Henry asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. ‘What else did she say?’

For a second, the light in Francine’s eyes dims. She steps towards him and kisses him on the cheek. ‘I’m just really happy to see you.’ Her voice is so unexpectedly tender, it sends shivers along Henry’s spine. ‘Forget I mentioned it. It was silly of me to bring it up.’

They pull away from each other, and holding hands, leave the entrance to the pier. Henry weighs the silence – the first one he’s been conscious of since they met. He glances sidelong at Francine. Her gaze is fixed straight in front of her, her features composed, but Henry senses that whatever she’s left unsaid is lingering, still, between them.

‘Million-dollar question,’ he says, in an effort to lighten the mood. ‘You find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There’s a card attached with your name on it. What do you do?’

‘Anything?’ Francine says at once.

‘Anything.’

‘That’s easy. I’d open a dance school. I’d hire someone to teach me, then I’d run classes of my own. I’d be the Ginger Rogers of the North. I’d be in heaven, Henry! No one would even recognise me back home. Either that, or I’d give it all away and join the circus.’

Her delivery is so deadpan that Henry doesn’t dare ask her if she’s being serious.

‘I don’t see either one happening, though,’ she adds with a touch of sadness. ‘But the dreams themselves cost nothing, do they? What about you? What will you do when you leave the RAF?’

Her question, natural as it is, catches Henry off-guard. ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he replies. He raises his hand to his neck and fiddles needlessly with his tie. ‘My father died not long after I volunteered, and my brother, Devlin, saw active duty in the end, though it was only for a few months. Thank God he made it back in one piece, his ego fully intact…’ He smiles, a rush of anticipation seizing hold of him. ‘So much has changed since I’ve been away. It’s the oldest cliché in the book, but whatever I end up doing, I’d like to make a difference if I can.’

The second the words are out of his mouth he fears he’s said too much, when in reality, he knows perfectly well he hasn’t said enough. He lowers his eyes and stares with studied intensity at the tips of his boots. Tell her. Tell her, you idiot. You know she’ll understand.

‘What is it, Henry?’

He lifts his head and smiles. ‘Before I volunteered I was doing pretty well with my studies. Devlin never showed much interest in school, but he’s always been charisma on a stick, so somehow it didn’t seem to matter.’

‘Charisma on a stick?’ Francine cuts in. ‘Are you sure you two are related?’

Henry bursts out laughing. ‘Yes – although Devlin was first in line when they were handing that out, too.’ A flicker of insecurity flares inside him all over again. ‘Trust me, I speak from experience when I say you’d understand if you met him.’

‘But I haven’t met him,’ she says. Her gaze zeroes in on him with laser-sharp focus. ‘I’m right here – with you. Anyway, I think charisma is for film stars, and highly overrated for everyone else.’

Henry realises he’s beaming like a prize fool.

‘Stop trying to distract me,’ she says, smiling back at him. ‘Go on, tell me what you were going to say about your studies.’

‘You really want to know?’

‘Yes!’

‘Okay, well, discovering I had a gift for languages was a revelation, almost like acting in a way – a chance to reinvent myself and shine. So I’ve been thinking I might go in for a career in teaching. Maybe then I can inspire others the way my teachers inspired me.’ He pauses. ‘I didn’t actually say that out loud, did I? God, the clichés are just pouring out of me today.’

‘No they’re not!’ Francine replies. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’ She steps towards him and presses her hands against his chest. ‘You have to promise me you won’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You’ve got that look about you, Henry! You might even be one of the greatest teachers London’s ever seen!’

She slips away and runs along the promenade. Henry chases after her, catches her by the waist and lifts her into the air. As he swings her round, her face, the pier, the sky, the Tower, blur and merge before him. Francine screams, and with a lightning swipe, she grabs hold of his cap and brandishes it like a trophy above her head.

‘Come on,’ he says, lowering her to the ground, ‘let’s go inside somewhere and have a cup of tea to warm up. What about over there?’

Henry motions towards an imposing building with an elegant red-brick façade on the opposite side of the road. The Shore Hotel looks decidedly grand, a watering hole for the privileged no doubt, a whiff of the silver spoon about them, but Henry doesn’t care – right now he’d be happy to go just about anywhere as long as he’s with Francine.

She follows his gaze and quickly shakes her head. ‘No, Henry, we can’t go there. That’s where I work. I don’t want my colleagues waiting on us. It wouldn’t feel right on my day off.’

‘Of course, how stupid of me. A film, then? Some place warm and cheery?’

‘Yes. The Winter Gardens! If we’re quick, we’ll be just in time for the matinee.’

She waits for a Fleetwood-bound tram to rattle past them, then she takes Henry’s hand and leads him in the opposite direction from the hotel. When they reach the other side of the road she comes to an abrupt stop and looks at him with an expression of such startling gravity, he wonders what can possibly have transpired to unsettle her in that briefest of journeys from one side of the promenade to the other.

‘What’s wrong, Francine? Have you changed your mind? We could always do something else if you prefer?’

Her arms fall like a rag doll’s to her sides. ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she replies.

‘Then what is it?’

Henry scans her face. Her eyes are laced with such intricacy of emotion that every attempt he makes to interpret them proves utterly beyond him.

Francine glances at the pier, at the Shore Hotel rising large and grandiose behind them. Turning slowly to face him, she floors him with the most ingenuous of smiles.

‘Okay, Henry, here it is: I’ve never met a boy like you before. I’m just a regular Yorkshire lass, not like the London girls you’re used to. I don’t have fancy tastes. I’m smart, and I’m passionate about the things I like, but I’m not cultured or clever like you.’

She holds her palms out from her sides and shrugs. ‘I’m a waitress who scrubs up well and only owns one good coat, and this is it. But I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I swear it’s every bit as hopeful and fragile as the next girl’s.

‘You won’t break it, will you?’