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
