Beverly Stark
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An extract from Strong for the Journey Home
London, October, 1943
Francesca was already waiting, sitting at a table where she could see him come in, with a pot of tea and an open packet of cigarettes. The place was crowded and he’d forgotten how large and echoing it was. There were mirrors on the walls and the room was bright with chrome. At the far end, a pianist played to the diners, but it was hard to hear anything over the swell of chatter and the hiss of the huge metal urns behind the counter.
Francesca smiled when he came across to her. He stowed his pack against the wall and bent down to kiss her cheek. She still wore the same rich scent.
“What is it?” she said, after he’d sat down. She was so striking, with her fair hair and deep red lipstick.
“There just haven’t been many pretty girls around.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, Jamie. Whenever I’ve been to a party at Johnny’s squadron, there are lots of lovely girls,” Francesca pushed a cup of tea towards him.
“There you go then,” James said. “Between the RAF and the Yanks, there’s not a lot left for the poor infantry.”
“Shh!” she giggled. At the next table, two American officers were poring over the menu, but a third, dark, broad-shouldered, was sitting watching Francesca. James looked steadily at him until he turned away with a shrug.
Francesca was as fetching as ever, with waves of honey-blond hair and smooth, creamy skin, but there were faint shadows under her eyes.
“Do you want to order?” She surprised him with her briskness. “It’s just I have to get back to work.”
He had less than an hour with her. “Of course.” He signalled to the Nippy. The girl came to their table, smoothing her white apron, and held her notepad ready.
“What would you like, Francesca?”
“Actually, I’ve already had a sandwich. But you have something. Perhaps we could have a fresh pot of tea?”
He ordered an omelette and more tea. The waitress went to replenish the teapot.
“You look a little tired,” he said, taking her hand.
“I keep busy.” Her hand slipped from his. “You know how it is.”
He shifted, disconcerted. Had he annoyed her somehow?
James was grateful for the diversion when the girl brought the tea, and then returned with his omelette. But it was awkward eating while Francesca watched him. He ate quickly. She lit a cigarette and blew out a thin trail of smoke.
“How is the army? You are looking dashing, Jamie. An officer now, no less. That little Nippy was rather taken with you.”
The glow inside him vanished. The Nippy was taken with him?
The clatter of a tray dropped on the marble floor brought a moment’s hush, a woman laughed nervously, before the buzz of conversation started up around them again.
“The army’s been alright,” James said. “Too much waiting around, perhaps.” It was not even an approximation of the truth. The last few months had been the worst, knowing how little difference he was making to the war effort.
“But not for much longer?”
“I’m joining my battalion in a few days.” She wouldn’t realise how precious every moment felt.