‘Or what?’
‘Or you’re going to have to go to all the bother of shooting me, Tony, all the inconvenience of explaining away my disappearance to Dominic’s wife and Dominic’s mother-in law, to say nothing of the cops. Tell Dom what I want. He’ll see how reasonable I’m being.’
‘I had you figured all wrong, Peabody,’ Tony said.
‘You wouldn’t be the first,’ said Bernard and, with a nod to Penny, turned on his heel and left.
Chapter Seventeen
Books were Rosie’s salvation. If she had not had books around her in the gloomy weeks following her quarrel with Kenny then she would have broken down completely and been no use to anyone. Her deafness became a boon for she could shut herself away just by focusing all her attention on title-pages and foolscap and neat lines of copperplate writing. She catalogued like mad, filling slip after slip with descriptions of the volumes that Gannon hauled from the storeroom, pasting the slips into quires for the printer, for what, Mr Robert hinted, might be the last general catalogue that Shelby’s would produce for a very long time.
Hard work and reading allowed Rosie little time to brood. At night in bed, however, she couldn’t help but think of her father, her mother and her aunt and the odd triangle of betrayal and deception they had created between them. She pitied Janet in particular, Janet going about her dreary round with nothing to console her but the dairy, the church and the preposterous belief that one day Frank Conway would come back to reclaim her – a belief that had turned out to be not so preposterous after all. She wondered if she was destined to wind up like her aunt, a lonely old spinster clinging to dreams of what might have been and waiting foolishly for ‘her man’ to return and make everything right again.
She resisted her mother’s attempts at reconciliation and refused to stand still long enough to listen to her explanations. Bernard was much more firm and now and then would grip her by the shoulders and force her to read his lips. In this way she learned that Kenny had been put in charge of the Special Protection Unit and would not be enlisting in the army, not immediately. A few days later Bernard collared her again and informed her that he thought he had found a solution to their problem.
‘What problem?’ Rosie shouted.
‘The problem concerning your father.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No, not exactly but…’
‘Is he coming here to see me?’
‘No. No, no.’
‘Then there is no problem.’
‘Rosie…’
‘Leave me alone, Bernard, just leave me alone.’
Which, rather to her chagrin, he did.
* * *
‘There’s definitely something fishy goin’ on,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, for God’s sake, Polly, did you have to go tellin’ him we’d been to see Flint?’
‘I didn’t have to tell him,’ Polly said. ‘He already knew.’
‘Huh!’ Babs screwed up her face. ‘I’m disappointed in your Mr Flint, I must say. I thought he’d got more balls than that.’
‘Babs!’
‘All right then – bottle, if you prefer it.’
They were seated in a booth in the back of the Shamrock Café in one of the less salubrious streets in Ibrox. There was something comfortingly old-fashioned about the shabby parlour and the odours of coal-gas, coffee and ice-cream. It reminded the sisters of their girlhood when, out of Mammy’s reach, they could talk uninhibitedly about boys and boyfriends, sex and marriage.
Baby April, fast asleep, was strapped into a pushchair beside them. Sunlight, fresh air and a small ice-cream cornet with a squiggle of raspberry syrup had all but knocked her out. The sisters spoke quietly, heads together over the cups.
‘I never did understand your hubby,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, what does he think he’s doing handin’ you the business on a plate?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure.’
‘Is he gonna pull the rug out from under us?’
‘What?’ Polly was startled by the question. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, otherwise it’s weird, givin’ you what you always wanted just to prevent you takin’ it from him.’
‘It isn’t that at all.’ Polly shook her head. ‘Dominic is convinced that when war finally breaks out he’ll be picked up and sent away, not because he’s Italian but because the police will have special powers to lock up anyone they fancy without charge or trial.’
‘Really!’ Babs said. ‘I thought they only did that in Germany.’
‘Apparently not. Apparently in time of war…’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Babs. ‘I see what Dominic’s up to. Crafty, eh? Signs the lot over to you so you can keep the business tickin’ over until the war’s over and he can come back an’ pick up what’s left.’
‘If anything’s left,’ said Polly.
‘Hey, hey, what’s this I’m hearin’?’
‘There might be nothing but rubble and dead bodies.’
Polly’s statement dampened her sister’s enthusiasm for fully a half-minute then, with a smoky little sigh, she said, ‘Dennis is in uniform.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘Nope. He’s in camp, tents an’ stuff, in Ayrshire. Sends me postcards.’
‘What about his wife?’
‘Gloria? She cracked up totally. She’s been round at our house screaming abuse at Jackie for encouraging Dennis to enlist.’
‘Jackie didn’t?’
‘No, ’course Jackie didn’t. He had to offer her money, a lotta bleedin’ money, to get her to calm down and shut up. She wants me round there to help her sew black-out curtains, for God’s sake, wants them lined with red velvet to match her new Axminster. I told her to go chase herself.’
‘If Dennis is gone for long do you think she’ll find another man?’
‘I bet she will,’ said Babs. ‘She’ll shake her tail at the first likely-lookin’ handyman who crosses her path. Listen, have you got charge of Dominic’s books?’
‘Not yet.’
‘When you do…’ Babs hesitated.
‘Come on,’ said Polly. ‘Out with it.’
‘What Jackie pays him…’
‘I see, you want the debt cancelled.’
‘It ain’t a debt,’ said Babs. ‘It’s – what the word, Poll?’
‘Usury,’ said Polly.
‘Well, there won’t be much to “usury” with,’ Babs said, ‘not after Jackie closes the yard in Govan.’
‘Is that what he intends to do?’
‘No choice,’ Babs said. ‘With Dennis gone Jackie’s stranded. Besides, car sales have fallen off since the war scare before Christmas. One more like that, or a war itself, an’ we’ll be in the poorhouse.’ She stared at her sister out of innocent baby-blue eyes. Blinked. ‘Won’t we?’
‘Of course you won’t,’ said Polly.
‘Will you cancel the payments then?’
‘I can’t do that until Dominic…’
‘I thought you were in charge now, in command?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Babs,’ said Polly. ‘Dominic’s still running things. This isn’t like the garage…’
‘Salon,’ said Babs.
‘… isn’t like the salon then, not in the slightest. Dominic’s profits come from dozens of different sources, as well as the warehouse. Even if the authorities don’t catch up with Dominic you can be sure they’ll grab the warehouse.’
‘What else does he own?’
‘Apart from the warehouse, he doesn’t own much,’ said Polly. ‘It’s all investments, what Mr Shadwell calls capital deployment. As far as I can make out eighty per cent of the holdings are perfectly legitimate.’
‘What holdings?’
‘Shares in various firms.’
‘Like what?’
Polly may have been in a confidential mood but she was not about to tell her sister about the Manones’ complex financial affairs. It had already crosse
d her mind that if the worse came to the worse and all the menfolk were taken away then she might employ Babs to help her run what remained of the business. Babs would never be a queen of the boardroom but she had drive and initiative and a deviousness that would prove useful in dealings with men like John Flint. The threat of war might evaporate, of course, Hitler might sign a pact with Chamberlain or a peace treaty with the French, but somehow she doubted it.
‘Can you, I mean, handle this sort of stuff on your own?’ Babs said.
‘Dominic seems to think I can.’
‘What about Tony?’
‘Tony? What about him?’
‘Won’t he be around to – you know, help out?’
‘I don’t need Tony Lombard’s help.’
‘Aw, I thought you did. I thought you an’ Tony were – chums.’
‘Chums?’ said Polly, contemptuously. ‘Some chum Tony would make.’
‘Okay,’ said Babs. ‘Sorry. I think I got the wrong end of the stick there.’
‘I think you did,’ said Polly.
The fact that her sister had guessed that she was more than friends with Tony Lombard worried her. She had reconciled herself to resisting Tony. Perhaps she had expected too much from him but it had excited her to have two men in her life and in her heart, two men who loved her.
Babs glanced down at her daughter in the pushchair. The child was so deeply asleep that her lids did not even flutter. There were no dreams in April’s head, no longings, no memories, no desires or demands. Perhaps that was the only true innocence, Polly thought, an absence of memory and desire.
‘What are we gonna do about Daddy?’ Babs said.
‘Dominic says he’ll take care of it.’
‘I didn’t like the look of him, did you?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t really wanna meet him again, do you?’
Polly paused before she answered. ‘No, but Rosie does.’
‘Rosie doesn’t know what he’s like.’
‘Dominic says he’s dangerous.’
‘Now that,’ said Babs, ‘I can believe.’
‘Do you feel anything for him?’
‘Nope. I just want the bugger to go away,’ said Babs.
‘Honest injun?’
‘Honest injun!’
‘Then,’ Polly tugged on her gloves, ‘I think we can safely leave it to Dominic.’
‘To do what?’ Babs said.
‘Get rid of him,’ said Polly.
* * *
‘Where the hell are you?’ Tony shouted. ‘I’ve been trying to get you for two days. I even phoned the house but all I got was that damned nursemaid.’
‘Well, you’ve got me now,’ said Dominic. ‘What is it you want?’
‘Peabody turned up at Blackstone yesterday.’
Dominic adjusted the receiver and swivelled his chair to give himself a better view of the river. He’d been working alone in the office since early morning and Miss Seavers, his secretary, had been fielding all his calls.
‘I see,’ Dominic said. ‘Did he come alone?’
‘Yeah. Oh, yeah!’ said Tony, scathingly. ‘He wants a cut.’
‘A percentage?’
‘No, straight whack.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifty a week.’
‘That’s reasonable,’ said Dominic.
‘Peabody isn’t part of the deal, Dom, even though he is family.’
‘How does he want it?’ Dominic said.
‘Clean cash in a plain brown envelope delivered to his desk every week.’
‘All right,’ said Dominic.
‘Don’t you even wanna talk to him?’
‘No. Pay him.’
‘What with?’ said Tony.
‘I’ll pay him,’ Dominic said. ‘Leave it to me.’
He could hear Tony Lombard let out his breath. He knew it wasn’t just Bernard’s demand that had riled Tony; it was the other thing, the marriage. He smiled into the bakelite mouthpiece.
He counted to three slowly, then said:
‘How soon will Dougie have us in full production?’
‘Soon,’ Tony answered. ‘Real soon – so he says.’
‘What does “real soon” mean, Tony?’
‘He’s talkin’ about the weekend.’
‘Good,’ Dominic said. ‘You will let me know, won’t you?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Tony. ‘If I can track you down.’
‘How’s Penny?’
‘Fine,’ Tony snapped and to Dominic’s infinite satisfaction, hung up.
* * *
The baby had been crying. She was red-faced and pouty and her nose needed a wipe but she had been subdued by her mother’s attentions and clung on to Babs and buried her face in her shoulder while Babs tried to work her charm on Miss Dawlish.
Miss Dawlish did not find children enchanting and ignored April completely. She wore a Harris tweed jacket over a starched shirt-blouse and her steel-grey hair was cut in pudding-bowl fashion. She was not unfeminine, though, and had large brown eyes and oddly delicate fingers. Babs watched her punch the keys of the comptometer and scan the slip that emerged from the counting machine. She punched in more figures, spiked an invoice, then looked up.
‘He isn’t here. He’s out.’
‘I can see that,’ Babs said. ‘Do you happen to know where he is?’
Miss Dawlish hesitated. She was loyal less to Jackie than to her job. She reminded Babs a little of Aunt Janet McKerlie and she felt a strange sort of pity for the spinster as she waited for Miss Dawlish to decide how much or how little she, Babs, needed to be told.
‘Govan.’
‘At the yard?’
‘Yes,’ Miss Dawlish said.
‘When will he be back?’
‘He’s closing the Govan place down, you know.’
Babs transferred April from one hip to the other and said, ‘I knew it was on the cards, yeah.’
Miss Dawlish smoothed a rumpled invoice, peered at it for a moment then said, ‘Is he planning on selling this place too?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Babs said.
‘I shouldn’t be saying this, but it isn’t the same since Mr Dennis left.’
‘How bad is it?’ Babs asked.
‘Bad.’
‘Jackie – Mr Hallop won’t give up the salon until he’s forced to.’
‘We haven’t sold a vehicle in three weeks.’
‘Parts?’ said Babs.
‘A few.’
‘Are we still paying the bills?’
‘Oh, yes. I make sure of that.’
‘And the cheques don’t bounce?’
‘I transferred funds from the reserve to the commercial account.’
‘Really!’ said Babs. ‘How much is left in the reserve?’
‘It isn’t for me to say.’
‘That means damned little, doesn’t it?’ said Babs.
‘Only Mr Hallop can give you that sort of information.’
‘Does Mr Hallop realise how bad things are,’ Babs said, ‘or does Mr Hallop have his head stuck in the bloody sand, as usual?’
‘I’ve told him until I’m blue in the face that something has to be done to rectify the short-fall,’ said Miss Dawlish. ‘He doesn’t seem to listen.’
Babs leaned closer, the baby hanging off her arm.
‘I’m listening, Miss Dawlish,’ she said slyly. ‘Tell me.’
* * *
For the past few days Polly had spent almost as much time closeted in Victor Shadwell’s tiny office in the Global Building in Kinning Park as she had done at home. Mr Shadwell was a dry old stick but an excellent tutor. He had guided her through the ledgers and portfolios carefully, had explained what each entry represented and what the terms signified. Polly was startled by the extent of Dominic’s holdings, though Mr Shadwell wouldn’t reveal where all the bank accounts were housed and deftly evaded questions about Dominic’s overall worth.
Late in the evening, over supper, she tried to discus
s the day’s lessons with Dominic but he seemed less interested in what she’d learned than in larger issues, the German invasion of Czechoslovakia and the final victory of Nationalist forces in Spain among them.
The following morning Polly came downstairs and saw the children off to school before she went into the sunny back parlour to eat breakfast and linger, brooding and dreaming, over coffee and a cigarette.
She’d barely finished her bacon and eggs, however, when Leah rushed in, waving copies of the Glasgow Herald and the London Times. ‘They’re calling them up. They’re calling up the boys,’ Leah cried. ‘It’s all here in black and white, Mrs Manone. See for yourself. All the boys, all the boys goin’ off to die in the trenches.’
‘Calm yourself, Leah,’ Polly said.
She put down her knife, accepted the Herald and scanned the banner headline: Conscription Disclosures. She took the news in at a glance; young men, twenty and under, were subject to call-up for military training. War was closing in, no doubt about it. She felt no lurch of fear or panic, only a quickening of anticipation. Gloomy speculations, see-saw scares, unrealistic periods of relief were consolidating into inevitable conflict. Britain meant business after all. The government wasn’t going to knuckle under to lily-livered socialists who would do anything but fight, that at least was something to be thankful for.
Leah was crying. ‘I have brothers, Mistress Manone, two brothers an’ they’re going to die.’
‘Nonsense!’ Polly plucked up a napkin and thrust it at the stupid girl. ‘It will take months, maybe years for the government to start drafting young men into the services. It may not happen at all if Hitler backs down.’
‘We’re all going to die,’ Leah wailed. ‘We’re all going to be shot by the Germans or gassed or blown up.’
‘Stop it this instant,’ Polly ordered. ‘Take my tray downstairs and ask Mrs O’Shea to make you a cup of strong, sweet tea. Take your time drinking it. I don’t want to see you upstairs again until you’ve pulled yourself together.’
‘I’m – I’m so scared, Mrs Manone.’
‘Well, go and be scared downstairs, if you please.’
The day-maid, still sobbing, scuttled off to the kitchen to look for solace in the teapot and Polly, tossing the newspapers to the floor, returned to her breakfast. She had only just spread marmalade on a slice of toast, however, when the front doorbell rang and Polly, tutting in annoyance, got up to answer it.
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