Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  The work of the Criminal Investigation Department didn’t grind to a halt because Kenny MacGregor was falling in love. On days when he failed to appear, Rosie would assure herself that he had been called away on business or that his shift had been changed without warning. Even so she suffered dreadful doubts, wondering if he had grown tired of her already and had thrown her over for some other girl, one who wasn’t deaf.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie, really I am,’ Kenny would say next time they met. ‘I was sent out of town. I couldn’t even get to a telephone to let you know.’

  She longed to ask him where he had been and what crime he had investigated but she was well aware that she was Dominic Manone’s sister-in-law and that any questions on her part might easily be misconstrued. She stepped so warily around such thorny issues that it was only after eight café lunches that she learned that Kenny was thirty-four years old, shared a flat in Cowcaddens with his sister, and that his father and mother were tenant farmers on the Isle of Islay.

  ‘What does your sister do? Is she a teacher?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought she might be.’

  ‘She was a teacher, as a matter of fact, a teacher of languages. She works in police headquarters now in a civilian capacity. She translates foreign documents.’

  ‘Is there much call for that in Glasgow?’

  ‘More than you might think,’ said Kenny.

  ‘I have heard,’ said Rosie, ‘that preparations are being made for a war. I do not just mean talk about it, I mean practical stuff.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Kenny said. ‘Special departments and volunteer services are being set up all over the place. The Chief Constable’s in his element. You don’t happen to drive a motorcar, by any chance?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do not,’ said Rosie.

  ‘We’re looking for ladies who have a licence to drive.’

  ‘Drive what?’

  ‘Ambulances, tramcars, anything. Women’ll need to take over basic services when the rest of us are called up.’

  ‘The rest of you?’

  ‘Those of us fit to fight,’ said Kenny.

  Rosie experienced a sudden icy pang. It hadn’t dawned on her that men like Kenny, like Dennis and Jackie Hallop, might be called upon to fight and possibly die as her father and Bernard’s brothers had done twenty years ago. She’d glanced at the casualty lists from the civil war in Spain from time to time but the brigades there were made up of volunteers not conscripts and, rather heartlessly, she felt somehow that they deserved whatever was coming to them.

  ‘Hey, don’t look so solemn,’ Kenny said. ‘I’m not packing my kitbag yet.’

  ‘I cannot help it,’ Rosie said. ‘I do not want you to be killed.’

  ‘Heck,’ said Kenny, ‘I’ve more chance of being killed at a Rangers – Celtic football match than by one of Adolf’s snipers. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘You just took me aback,’ said Rosie. ‘I mean, my stepfather…’

  ‘That’s Bernard, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes – Bernard says that a war is still some way off.’

  ‘Your father, your real father, he was lost in the Great War, wasn’t he?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I think you mentioned it.’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Mr Shelby must have let it slip then. Anyhow, your father went missing in action, didn’t he? Missing presumed killed. Why didn’t your mother claim a widow’s pension?’

  ‘They wouldn’t give her one,’ Rosie said. ‘She couldn’t prove that my father had joined up. He wasn’t using his own name so there was no record, you see.’ She paused. ‘Are you opening a file on me at the CID? Look, if there’s anything you want to know about my family all you have to do is ask. I cannot discuss Dominic Manone, though, because I do not know much about him and I’m certainly not going to pump my sisters for information.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa!’ Kenny put a finger to his lips. ‘I’m not fishing for information about Manone. I’m just curious how your Mam managed to raise three daughters without any financial assistance.’

  ‘Simple,’ Rosie said. ‘For ten or twelve years she worked her fingers to the bone. After my sister Polly left school and got a job things became a bit easier. Those years were no picnic, Kenny, especially since I needed special schooling. That is why I resent your implication that my Mam has done anything wrong. It’s not her fault that my sister Polly happened to fall in love with an Italian. Anyway, you may think what you like about Dominic but he is a good husband and a good father and takes good care of the family.’

  ‘Not you, though, Rosie. Don’t you take care of yourself?’

  ‘I – yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘I’d like to take care of you some day.’

  ‘Are you proposing to me, Kenny?’

  ‘No, no. Oh, no, no.’

  ‘I thought not,’ Rosie said.

  He hadn’t even kissed her yet, though he had held her hand once or twice. They weren’t lovers, never would be lovers, perhaps, not if the war came. Besides, she doubted if the CID would be too happy at one of their officers marrying Dominic Manone’s sister-in-law.

  ‘My job,’ Kenny said, ‘is not just an ordinary job, you know. It involves long hours and awkward shifts. A copper’s wife has a lot to put up with.’

  ‘How long have you been in the Force?’

  ‘I joined when I was eighteen, took the sergeant’s examinations when I was thirty and applied for a vacancy in the CID. I was backed for promotion by the Chief Constable, Mr Sillitoe.’

  ‘Is he your boss?’

  ‘Not directly, no.’

  ‘Who is your boss?’

  ‘Inspector Winstock. We call him “Wetsock”. He’s okay, really.’

  ‘Have you caught any murderers?’

  ‘I’ve been on several cases in which fatality was involved.’

  ‘Don’t you have nightmares – about bodies and things?’

  ‘I’m used to it now,’ Kenny said. ‘I didn’t like it much at first. Nobody does. Fishing corpses out of the river, collecting body parts off the railway line. Grisly stuff, Rosie.’

  ‘Folk who have been burned to death in house fires?’ Rosie said.

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  ‘Children suffocated by smoke and fumes?’

  Kenny frowned and seemed about to ask her to explain herself but thought better of pursuing that line of inquiry.

  He said, ‘Have you ever been to a pantomime, Rosie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pan-toe-mime: have you ever…?’

  ‘I heard you the first time. No, I’ve never been to a pantomime.’

  ‘Because you can’t hear the music?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come with me to the King’s. They’re doing Mother Goose this Christmas. It’s very lively and there’s dancers to look at and I’ll tell you what the actors are saying. Would you like that?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because if I accept I’ll have to tell my mother that you’re a copper. I won’t lie to her, you know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ Kenny said. ‘It’s Christmas, Rosie. Perhaps she won’t mind because it’s Christmas. Will you think about it?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Rosie said. ‘Mother Goose, is it?’

  ‘At the King’s,’ said Kenny.

  * * *

  ‘A copper?’ Bernard said. ‘What sort of a copper?’

  ‘He is a sergeant.’

  ‘What division?’

  ‘He is a detective,’ Rosie said. ‘CID, St Andrew’s Street.’

  ‘Christ!’ Bernard said, and shook his head. ‘How long have you known this chap and how did you meet him?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you, Bernard?’ Lizzie said. ‘She’s twenty-four years old. Isn’t it about time she got out and about a bit?’

  ‘Oh, certai
nly,’ Bernard said, ‘but this isn’t just any old chap, Lizzie. She’s contemplating going out with a policeman.’

  ‘Look,’ Rosie said, ‘I do not need to ask your permission. I can go out with any chap I want to. Look at me, look at me: do you think I’m a prize?’ She opened her mouth and pointed her forefinger at her tongue. ‘I have never been out with a man in my life and I am not passing up the chance. God, it is only a night out at the pantomime, Bernard. He is not whipping me off to the casbah.’

  ‘The what?’ said Bernard, suspiciously.

  ‘If she isn’t going to be safe with a policeman,’ Lizzie said, ‘then who, I ask you, is she going to be safe with?’

  ‘Does he know who you are?’

  ‘Of course he knows who I am,’ said Rosie, angrily.

  ‘So how long has this been going on?’ said Bernard.

  ‘Going on?’ Rosie shouted. ‘Going on?’

  Bernard cleared his throat, folded his arms. ‘All right, keep your hair on, Rosalind. I’m your father, I’m entitled…’

  ‘You are not my fah-fah-father.’

  ‘Bernard only has your best interests at heart, dear,’ Lizzie said. ‘What’s the cop— the young man’s name?’

  ‘Kenny.’

  ‘Is he nice, is he a big chap?’

  ‘Bigger than him.’ Rosie gestured disparagingly at Bernard. ‘Six feet if he is an inch. Fair hair. He lives with his sister in Cowcaddans. She is a translator of fah-fah-foreign languages.’

  ‘We’ll have to meet him,’ Lizzie said. ‘If it’s gettin’ serious, I mean.’

  ‘Serious?’ said Bernard. ‘It’s serious enough for him to ask her on a date.’

  ‘Mah-mah-Mother Gah-goose,’ Rosie got out. ‘At the Kah-King’s.’

  Her tongue was tied in knots even though she’d known that Bernard would take it badly. She’d always been sure of his love but the comfort it brought her had diminished over the past weeks and he had begun to seem selfish and possessive. Look at him now, seated in the chair with a ghastly expression on his face as if she’d announced that she was expecting a baby to Kenny MacGregor and not just going out to the theatre with him.

  ‘Thursday,’ she said. ‘Kenny has already bought tickets.’

  ‘That,’ said Lizzie, ‘will be lovely.’

  ‘You won’t be able to hear a thing,’ Bernard said.

  ‘Oh, thuh-thank you,’ Rosie spat out. ‘Thuh-thank you for reminding me.’

  ‘How does he know what you’re saying?’ said Bernard.

  ‘He KNOWS,’ Rosie shouted. ‘He KNOWS.’

  ‘Listen to you now,’ Bernard said. ‘Shouting.’

  ‘Bernard, stop taunting her,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘You should be pleased that a nice young chap has asked her out.’

  ‘He can’t be all that young, not if he’s a detective sergeant,’ Bernard said.

  ‘Thirty-FOUR. Thirty-FOUR – if you MUST KNOW.’

  Bernard hunched his shoulders and tucked his hands into his armpits. He had turned a strange grey shade and his features seemed suddenly gaunt. She had not expected his reaction to be quite so extreme. She almost felt sorry for him. Then she thought of Kenny, the beautiful warm lift in her heart when he entered the shop, the firm clasp of his hand, the gentle touch of his fingers on her cheek. Bernard hugged her, Bernard took her hand, Bernard accepted her kiss every morning – but Bernard never made her feel the way Kenny MacGregor did.

  Bernard tapped her arm and signed, almost frantically, to get her full attention. She watched his lips shape the question.

  ‘Does he know that you are related to Dominic Manone?’

  ‘WHAH – WHAT does that huh-have to do with anything?’

  ‘Does he, Rosie?’

  ‘YES. YES, HE DOES.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ and Bernard. ‘Oh, dear God! I thought as much.’

  And, to Rosie’s astonishment, rocked forward in his chair and covered his face with his hands.

  * * *

  Their lovemaking was noisy and rumbustious. Babs always had a sneaky feeling that her daughters were lying wide awake, fully aware of what was going on in the bedroom at the end of the corridor.

  When it was over and Jackie had clambered off her, therefore, she got up at once and tiptoed into the children’s rooms, found the girls fast asleep and Angus snoring away like a piggy. Relieved, she hurried into the bathroom as soon as Jackie had vacated it and was back in bed beside him three minutes later.

  She accepted a cigarette and lay back against the pillows, the quilt tucked under her armpits.

  ‘Good, eh?’ said Jackie.

  ‘Good,’ Babs dutifully agreed.

  Good enough, she supposed. Satisfactory. She had matched his enthusiasm and responded without pretence. Now, though, was the best time with Jackie calm and drowsy. She glanced at him. By the light of the bedside lamp he had a raffish sort of handsomeness that wasn’t usually apparent.

  He tapped ash into the metal bowl on his chest, blew another smug circlet of smoke, slid his left hand down between her thighs and patted that part of her that was his and his alone. Babs did not resent his casual familiarity.

  She said, ‘Have you been talkin’ to Dennis lately?’

  ‘Sure, I talk to him all the time.’

  ‘I mean lately?’

  ‘About what in particular?’ Jackie said.

  ‘Dominic.’

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, smoked another half-inch of the cigarette before he asked, ‘What about Dominic?’

  ‘Has it occurred t’ you that Dom’s an Italian.’

  ‘’Course it’s occurred to me. Everybody knows he’s a bloody Eye-tie. I don’t need Dennis t’ tell me that, for God’s sake.’

  ‘What if there’s a war?’

  ‘What the hell’re you goin’ on about now, Babs?’

  ‘If there is a war an’ Mussolini sides with Hitler…’

  ‘Politics! Jeeze, when did you get interested in politics?’

  ‘They won’t let Dominic run a business if there’s a war on,’ Babs said. ‘That ain’t politics, Jackie, that’s common sense.’

  He stubbed out the cigarette, put aside the ashtray and rolled on to an elbow. ‘They won’t let me run my business neither,’ he said. ‘Don’t you go worryin’ about Dom when you should be worryin’ about us.’

  ‘What d’ you mean?’

  ‘Four kids ain’t gonna protect me,’ Jackie said.

  ‘From what?’

  ‘Bein’ called up.’

  She sat up abruptly. ‘They won’t call you up, will they?’

  ‘Not if I can bloody help it,’ Jackie said. ‘But what they definitely will do is drag me away from the garage an’ stick me in some bloody dead-end job.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Send me down the pit or into a factory or the ambulance service.’

  ‘What’ll happen to the garage?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What’ll we live on?’ Babs said.

  ‘Bread an’ bloody water, I expect.’

  ‘Dennis – Dennis an’ Billy, will they…?’

  ‘Soldier boys for sure.’

  ‘I never thought o’ that,’ Babs said.

  ‘There’s politics for yah,’ Jackie said. ‘They can do what they bloody like wi’ us when there’s a war on.’

  He leaned against her and put an arm about her, folding it over her breast. He smelled of tobacco smoke and perspiration and she loved him for it and felt the soft stirring of desire again.

  She wondered what it would be like not to have Jackie, not to have things as they were now and what would become of her children if Jackie and Dennis were far away or, come to think of it, dead. Her mind had been filled with calculations, a greedy anticipation of changes that would better her lot.

  Now she saw how wrong she’d been, how stupid.

  For once she closed her eyes when he kissed her.

  ‘We’re not gone yet, none o’ us,’ he murmured. ‘Anyhow,
bloody Adolf’s got more sense than t’ fight the British. I mean, Jeeze, we’d scuttle the bastard in a bloody fortnight, he tries his tricks on us.’

  ‘Is that true, Jackie?’

  ‘Sure, it’s true. Everybody knows we got the best army, the best navy in the world an’ Jerry can’t stand up t’ us for long.’ He kissed her again, cuddled her while she held the cigarette at arm’s length and watched smoke crawl over the rampart of the bed-head. ‘You wanna ’nother one, honey?’

  ‘No, dearest,’ Babs said. ‘I just want you t’ hug me for a while.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said and, without rancour, drew her against his chest.

  * * *

  The Wolseley was ten years old. It had been stolen in Sheffield, lifted in dead of night from the garage of a certain Lord Throgsten on a country-house estate on the edge of the city. It had passed through several hands before it wound up in the Hallops’ yard in Govan where Dennis and Billy stripped it, replaced most of the components and repainted it a handsome jade green colour that, as it happened, matched the registration details on another 1928 Wolseley tourer that had been come by honestly but had subsequently disappeared.

  The Throgsten version was now a safe commodity. There was no previous record of sale to give the police a clue to its origins. Necessary paperwork was done at the salon, the car re-registered in Jackie’s name and duly sold by private bargain, cash down, to his brother-in-law Dominic Manone.

  The Wolseley was less ostentatious than a new model van or estate car, given the sort of vehicles that were turning up on the roads these days; Dominic declared himself well pleased with the big 8-cylinder tourer, complete with all-weather equipment and, most important of all, a huge, detachable rear-mounted trunk that was ideal for the transportation of heavy goods.

  A week before Christmas he collected the car from the salon and drove across the river and out to the farm.

  He hadn’t been at Blackstone since the day he’d inspected the place with Bernard, nor had he had met Edgar Harker or the girl again. He had deliberately kept his distance, let Tony and Bernard take care of the arrangements. He regretted the necessity for keeping Tony in the dark but didn’t dare take Tony – or anyone for that matter – into his confidence until he had mastered the scheme’s intricacies and weighed up its dangers. The truth was that he enjoyed deviousness and secrecy, the return of a rapacious arrogance that had been all but smothered by marriage.