The Wayward Wife

by Jessica Stirling

  The bed was strewn with tangled sheets and blankets. Susan’s nightdress and dressing gown had been tossed across a chair and a garter belt and stockings lay on the floor by the dressing table.

  He returned to the tiny kitchen behind the living room and found a half-pint of milk, a little piece of butter on a dish, some cheese wrapped in wax-proof paper, a couple of eggs and half a loaf fresh enough to cut.

  He grilled cheese, made a pot of tea and ate at the table in the living room. Then, at just after one o’clock, he washed the dishes, turned off the fire, made up the bed and fell into it and, within minutes, was fast asleep.

  She blew softly into his ear. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

  ‘Last minute,’ he said, stirring. ‘I tried callin’ your office but the line was always busy.’

  ‘Oh,’ Susan said. ‘Yes. It’s been a madhouse all day.’ She snuggled close to share his warmth. ‘Still, I’m here now and you’re here now and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know – after four. How long do you have?’

  ‘I’m due back day after tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Susan, where’ve you been?’

  ‘Viv’s. I partook of one gin too many and fell asleep on her couch. Aren’t you wearing pyjamas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘Underpants.’

  ‘That,’ she said, ‘is disgusting.’

  ‘I’ll take them off if you like.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘What were you up to at Viv’s?’

  ‘Working on her intonation. Mr Willets wants her to contribute to Speaking Up. Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘No,’ Danny said. ‘No, you didn’t.’ He rolled on to an elbow and peered at her. ‘What else haven’t you told me?’

  ‘Lots,’ she said. ‘Everything’s happening so quickly it’s impossible to keep up. Tomorrow I’ll tell you all about it.’

  She pulled him to her and, seizing his hand, pressed it between her legs. He wondered, vaguely, why she was naked and if this was how she slept when he wasn’t here. He felt her nipples stiffening against his chest and her lips already moist under his hand. Tenting the bedclothes over her shoulders, she straddled him and lowered herself on to him, something she had never done before.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a letter on.’

  ‘I don’t want to wait,’ she said and, tilting her hips, brought him into her.

  9

  ‘Brown coffee, please,’ he said, ‘an’ one o’ your rock cakes.’

  ‘Danneeee,’ Breda squealed. ‘You sneaky beggar!’ She spun round and, to the alarm of Stratton’s customers, yelled at the pitch of her voice, ‘Ma, guess who’s ’ere?’

  Wrapping an arm round Danny’s waist, she dragged him into the kitchen, chattering all the while. ‘By gum, you’re a sight for sore eyes. What they been feedin’ you down there in the country? Never seen you look so ’ealthy. Ma, it’s Danny. Danny’s come ’ome.’

  Ladle in one hand and a bowl in the other, Nora looked up from the cauldron that simmered on the stove.

  ‘Danny,’ she said. ‘Mother o’ God, it’s our Danny.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘Good tae see you again, Nora.’

  Wagging the ladle, she said, ‘Sure now and you’ll be wanting fed. Are you staying for your supper?’

  He laughed. ‘Time enough to think of supper after I’ve had lunch. How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ said Nora.

  ‘You up for the week?’ Breda asked.

  ‘Flyin’ visit. Back to the grind tomorrow.’

  ‘Have you seen ’er ladyship yet?’

  ‘Seen who?’

  ‘Your wife,’ said Breda.

  ‘Aye, I saw her last night.’

  ‘That would be fun,’ said Breda, then, when an angry male voice from the dining rooms demanded service, yelled, ‘Keep yer bleedin’ ’air on, ’Orace. I only got two ’ands.’ She set about loading a tray with bowls of soup. ‘Susie not come with you, then?’

  ‘No, she had to work.’

  ‘She should’ve called in sick,’ said Breda. ‘Here, make yourself useful.’ She handed him the laden tray. ‘Carry this out for me while I make the sarnies.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Danny, ‘it’s so good to be back.’

  ‘Get out there, big boy, an’ don’t give me no lip.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ Danny said, grinning, and carried the tray out into the dining rooms and served the startled customers with his own fair hands.

  She took neither coat nor cardigan from the hook behind her desk and with Mr Willets engaged in conversation on the telephone, slipped out of the office as if she were heading for the cloakroom and not the public telephone box in the street behind All Souls.

  Without her identity card or BBC pass she breezed past the doorman, calling cheerily, ‘Back in a tick,’ in the hope he wouldn’t go all official on her return.

  Fortunately, the phone box was unoccupied. She hauled open the door, plucked up the receiver, damp with some other person’s breath, dialled the Lansdowne’s number, fed pennies into the slot, pressed the button and, hopping like a schoolgirl, waited to be put through to Mr Gaines’s suite.

  The valet answered. In a voice stiff with disapproval, he asked if she wished to speak with Mr Slocum. She informed him that, no, she wished to speak with Mr Gaines and added that she was calling on behalf of the BBC.

  She waited, eyes closed, for the valet to tell her that Mr Gaines was not available but after a few tense moments heard Robert say, ‘Hey, Susan, what’s up? Has my contract of employment been approved already?’

  ‘No, Robert, I’m not calling about the contract.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘It’s about last night,’ she said.

  It seemed natural to take his arm as if he were her boyfriend or her husband. What with the war and half the men away – though you wouldn’t think it given the crowd of touts and louts who were out in force that breezy weekday afternoon – Nora’s neighbours had better things to gossip about than Breda Romano’s scandalous behaviour.

  She’d been pleased when Danny had said he’d walk her as far as Billy’s school before he caught the Tube back to Charing Cross. It had irked her to have to share him not just with Nora, which was fair enough, but with a bunch of customers yapping for attention as if their time were more precious than Danny’s.

  It was a mild afternoon with fluffy cloud and fragments of blue sky showing above the river. After the murk and slush of winter Breda felt quite liberated to be stepping out with Danny again, even if it was just to hoof up Cannon Street to pick up her kid. It crossed her mind that she might tell Danny about the mess her old man was in and ask his advice but she was reluctant to share a secret that might yet turn out to be profitable.

  She clung to his arm and matched his stride.

  ‘What’s she like, this floozy what got dumped on you?’

  ‘She’s hardly a floozy,’ Danny said. ‘First of all you don’t cop a First from Oxford if you’re the floozy type an’, second, the BBC won’t employ you.’

  ‘They employed Susan, didn’t they?’

  ‘Come off it, Breda.’

  ‘Okay, okay. This girl …’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Yeah, is she nice?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Oh, a spark there, is there?’

  ‘My pal, Griffiths, would like to think so.’

  ‘What ’e like then?’

  ‘Welsh,’ said Danny.

  ‘Nuff said,’ said Breda. ‘Susie pleased to see yah?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Danny. ‘Why wouldn’t she be?’

  ‘Well, we all know ’ow “busy” she is these days.’

  ‘What’re you drivin’ at, Breda?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ said Breda innocently. ‘Anyhow, you got your chance now, ain’t yah? Nice educated young thing sharin’ your d
igs. Got a figure, has she?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I suppose she has.’

  ‘Flittin’ about in ’er nightie, like.’

  ‘In winter in Evesham? Hardly likely.’

  They parted to give right of way to a young woman with a baby in a pushchair. When they came together again Breda said, ‘Susie ain’t the only one entitled to ’ave a bit of fun, Danny. This is wartime, right?’

  ‘Are you havin’ it off with somebody, Breda?’

  ‘Me? Crikey, no! Ronnie’s enough for me.’

  ‘An’ Susan’s enough for me,’ Danny said. ‘Let it go.’

  ‘Don’t you wanna know if she …’

  ‘Naw, Breda, I don’t.’

  ‘Never took you for a softy.’

  ‘I’m no softy. I just happen to be in love with my wife. What the hell’s wrong with you?’

  ‘I just don’t wanna see you get hurt.’

  ‘You don’t like me bein’ hitched to Susan Hooper, do you, Breda?’

  ‘Well,’ said Breda, ‘if you fancy a buttered bun, it’s got nothin’ to do with me.’

  ‘Tae hell with your nonsense, Breda.’ He unhooked his arm from hers. ‘Tell Ron I’m sorry I missed him an’ give Billy a hug from me.’

  ‘Where you goin’?’

  ‘Opticians for an eye test.’

  ‘I didn’t know you was blind.’

  ‘Half blind,’ Danny said. ‘Only half blind,’ then, kissing her perfunctorily on the cheek, turned off into Chater Street and headed for the Underground.

  ‘Far be it from me to tell tales out of school, Daniel,’ Vivian said, ‘but I think you’d better keep an eye on your wife.’

  ‘Really?’ Danny said. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘She’s becoming far too fond of the bottle. If she falls asleep on my davenport one more time I’m going to have to charge her room rent.’

  ‘Two gins, just two,’ Susan said. ‘I was, I admit, tired.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for nodding off,’ Vivian went on. ‘It’s all your fault, Basil, for convening meetings in the middle of the night.’

  ‘If I’d known Susan’s husband was in town,’ Basil Willets said, ‘I’d have let her off early. Contrary to what you may think of me, Vivian, I’m no Simon Legree. Compared to the average producer—’

  ‘No such animal exists,’ Viv put in.

  ‘Compared to some producers I’m a model of sweet reason.’ He turned to Danny. ‘What’s it like at Wood Norton? Is it still “Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir,” or are you all chums together?’

  ‘Might be a wee bit less formal than it used to be but the pecking order’s still intact,’ Danny said. ‘It’s tricky trying to explain BBC protocol to translators who’ve been top dogs in their own country. You’ve been a leading light in, say, Leipzig University an’ speak five languages fluently, naturally you find it hard to kow-tow to a bloke who looks as if he should be sellin’ insurance door-to-door.’

  ‘Someone like you, Basil,’ said Vivian, who, it seemed, had already gained the upper hand in that odd pairing.

  They were dining in a fish restaurant off Baker Street, not far from Mr Willets’s rooms in Gloucester Place. Susan would have preferred to spend the evening alone with Danny but could not, in conscience, refuse Mr Willets’s invitation.

  They had barely finished starters before, inevitably, the subject turned to Speaking Up for Britain.

  Basil Willets was keenly interested in what Danny had to say concerning the skill of German broadcasters in opinion-shaping. Susan had downed two glasses of wine and devoured most of the turbot on her plate before the producer drew her into the conversation.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we’ll soon be doing a little opinion-shaping on our own account now we’ve found our newscaster – all thanks to Susan.’

  ‘Susan?’ Vivian chimed in at once. ‘Susan had nothing to do with it. It was me who brought Robert Gaines into the fold. Credit where it’s due, Basil. In your cavalier fashion, you assume that because Susan added his name to your list, Bob Gaines is her friend when, in fact, he’s mine.’

  ‘My error.’ Basil Willets bowed graciously. ‘I knew, of course, that Gaines was using you as a source.’

  ‘A source of what?’ said Danny.

  ‘Information on home-grown fascist sympathisers,’ said Vivian without hesitation. ‘My crowd or, rather, my brother’s crowd until everything went haywire. Are you shocked, Basil? You were quite close to David at one time.’

  ‘A long time ago. I feel no loyalty to him now.’

  ‘Very wise of you,’ said Vivian. ‘My brother, dare I say it, is not a jewel among men. Oh, he can be charming when it suits him but, basically, he’s ruthless and has some exceedingly nasty habits. Isn’t that right, Susan?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to pass judgement.’

  ‘In that case,’ Vivian said, ‘you’ll just have to take my word for it. David is a grade-A shit who should be locked up in jail.’

  Basil Willets cleared his throat. ‘Bit strong, Vivian. Blood’s thicker than water, after all.’

  ‘Not in my book,’ Vivian said. ‘Not in any of my books.’

  ‘Speakin’ of which,’ Danny put in, ‘how’s the new book comin’ along. Alienation, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aliens, really,’ said Vivian. ‘I’m interested in tracing the ideological diasporas of the twentieth century that began with the Bolshevik revolution and spread like wildfire throughout Europe.’

  ‘Which by the twisted logic of history enabled Hitler and his henchmen to acquire power in Germany,’ Basil Willets said.

  And, to Susan’s relief, they were off and running on a topic that would keep them occupied for the rest of the evening.

  She’d known when she’d married him that Danny was no rugged Scotsman who would come charging out of the heather to take her willy-nilly. He didn’t lack strength or stamina but, if anything, was too considerate of her feelings, as if he felt it necessary to respect her modesty, a modesty that most women – she, at any rate – discarded with their stockings.

  She had restricted herself to two glasses of wine at dinner, had refused the liqueur that accompanied coffee and, soon after nine, had pleaded an early rise which, in the circumstances, probably seemed like a double entendre, though neither Vivian nor Mr Willets had been crass enough to remark upon it.

  Danny and she had left the couple at the table, not billing and cooing like would-be lovers but arguing with ever increasing heat about the ethics of government tribunals and the Acts that were currently being rushed through parliament.

  ‘Think she’ll spend the night with him?’ Danny said.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Susan said. ‘Mr Willets is too caught up in programming to waste time on sex. When it comes down to it Viv will have to make the running.’

  They’d found a cab to ferry them home, had made tea and, seated by the fire, had listened to the latest news on the wireless. Closing in on eleven, they’d found the wavelength for a broadcast from Hilversum that Danny had listened to while Susan bathed and laid out her clothes for the morning.

  Now he was seated on the side of the bed clad in vest and underpants. She had fished out a clean pair of pyjamas and placed them, neatly folded, on his pillow. She flitted about the room in the new chiffon nightdress that had cost her more than a week’s wages. The light of the little table lamp, reflected in the mirror of the dressing table, outlined her figure but Danny, lost in some dream of his own, seemed oblivious to it.

  ‘Aren’t you going to change?’ she asked.

  He glanced up, frowning. ‘Change?’

  ‘Into pyjamas,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  He got to his feet, stripped off his vest, stepped out of his underpants and, rolling them into a ball, put them into the wicker basket by the dressing table with the rest of the dirty laundry. Susan had half a mind to hop into bed and haul the blankets over her head but the fact was that in spite of everything she needed him.

&
nbsp; She watched him slip on the pyjama trousers and sit down on the side of the bed. He lifted the pyjama jacket, glanced at it as if he didn’t quite know what to do with it and put it to one side. He had put on weight, she thought, not fat but muscle. His skin was smooth and tight and his hair, longer than she remembered it, formed a strange blond halo in the light from the table lamp.

  He brought her to him, put his arms about her and dug his fingers into the small of her back. She pressed herself against him, shivering when he drew her closer and, trapping her between his knees, looked up.

  ‘Susan,’ he said softly, ‘who’s Robert Gaines?’

  PART TWO

  The Long Hot Summer

  10

  Early in the morning of Friday, 10 May, Griff, Danny and Kate were dragged from their beds by a messenger from Wood Norton and, half dressed and sans breakfast, were bundled into a billeting officer’s Morris Eight and driven at breakneck speed to the gates of Wood Norton estate where an armed sentry called out, ‘Advance and be recognised’ and, without awaiting a response, urgently waved them through.

  The new huts had been erected in the nick of time, for every monitor, editor and supervisor on the roster had been called out, even those poor devils who had just finished night shift. Within minutes of their arrival Griff and Danny were hunched at the long table in the editing room and Kate was seated on a bench in M Unit’s monitoring hut with a pair of earphones clamped to her head listening to a German announcer from Zeesen unleashing a torrent of justification for the Nazi attacks on Belgium and Holland.

  There was no question now of a watching brief.

  Every word of every bulletin from Germany was recorded, translated and transcribed, while French-speaking ‘legionnaires’ brought in the news from Paris, which, as Griff remarked to Danny, through a mouthful of cold coffee, was just this side of hysterical.

  In the open yard at the back of the Oxmoor Road substation, amid trailer pumps and coiled hoses, a Divisional Officer, smart as paint even at that hour of the morning, assembled both night-and day-shift crews at the change and, in formal tones, announced that at five thirty that morning Wehrmacht troops, accompanied by armoured and motorised divisions, had entered Holland, Belgium and Luxembourg.