Finding Henry Applebee. Celia Reynolds

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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