He fumbled with coins, frowned, asked the conductor a question, shook his head, paid his fare, moved inside and seated himself on the long bench as far away from Babs as possible. The tram started up and, gathering speed, rattled along the edge of the old aerodrome between the melancholy potato fields.
Babs glanced along the aisle and gave the stranger a tentative smile. He did not respond. He stared down at his shoes, not shoes but thick-soled rubberised half-boots laced up to the ankle. His trousers, corduroys, were tucked into the top of his boots. A folded newspaper was stuck down against his calf like a splint. He wore a heavy reefer jacket of navy-blue flannel and a thick roll-collar pepper-and-salt sweater, no cap or hat. He was short in stature, sallow, with a mop of curly black hair. Babs thought he looked vaguely Italian.
The tram didn’t stop again and the man didn’t look up until the tram reached St Jerome’s Cross.
‘End o’ the line, Jim,’ the conductor shouted.
The man leapt to his feet and got off.
Babs stepped down to the cobbles by the side of the tracks and glanced right and left. Something about the guy disturbed her, something odd, something alien. In spite of his haste to leave the tram, he seemed to be in no hurry now. He wandered to the pavement in front of the greengrocer’s and looked about him with an air of bewilderment.
Babs was tempted to go over and ask if he were lost but she was already five minutes late and didn’t want to give Archie a stick to beat her with.
She turned on her heel and set off for the corner of Cyprus Street.
When she glanced round again the man had gone.
* * *
It was an exceptionally busy spell in Cyprus Street and three days slid past before Babs had an opportunity to put the question to Archie Harding.
Changes to the schedule of reserve occupations had thrown several spanners into several works and Archie had been glued to the telephone all morning trying to placate an assistant labour supply officer from Clydebank, who had somehow got it into his head that the south shore of the river was lined with highly trained, able-bodied men that Archie was keeping to himself.
Shortly after two o’clock Babs heard the telephone slam down and the long, wolf-like cry that Archie emitted when he’d had enough of bureaucracy. A moment later he came trotting out of the office and went into the toilet.
Babs filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring. She unwrapped the sandwiches that Archie’s mother had made for his lunch, very genteel sandwiches with soft brown crusts. Archie’s Mama was proud of her one-and-only, for he was the first Harding ever to obtain a university degree. He had been two years into a teaching career at Paisley Grammar when war had broken out and because of his bad eyesight he had been conscripted into the civil service instead of the army.
Drying his hands on a damp towel, Archie appeared from the toilet, glasses hanging from one ear. He peered in her general direction, groped about his cheek, found his glasses, resettled them on the bridge of his nose, glowered at her and said, ‘Is there no tea?’
‘There will be in a minute,’ Babs said. ‘Go on, sit down. I’ll bring it in when it’s ready – and your sandwiches.’
‘Corned beef,’ Archie sighed. ‘Ah well, better than nothing, I suppose.’
He returned to the inner office but left the door ajar.
Babs made tea, placed the sandwiches on a plate and carried the lot into the office on a tin tray. Archie had taken the telephone off the hook and was sprawled in the chair with his hands behind his head. Babs slid the tray carefully on to the desk, poured tea into the cup.
Archie watched her warily.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Eat,’ Babs instructed him.
He lifted the teacup in both hands, blew on the surface of the liquid, steaming his glasses. He sipped, then said again, ‘What?’
‘May I ask you a question?’
He grunted. ‘I knew you’d something on your mind. You’ve been hovering all day just waiting to catch me unawares. Out with it.’
Babs seated herself on the interview chair and tugged her skirt over her knees. She watched him lift a sandwich, sniff it, bite into it.
‘Archie,’ she said, ‘do you believe in spies?’
‘Spies?’ He chewed reflectively then said, ‘Might as well ask if I believe in fairies. Spies, do I believe in spies?’
‘How about an answer?’ Babs said.
‘Yes certainly, assuredly, I do believe in spies. The enemy is everywhere. That Belfast woman who came in the other day, the one with the moustache, she was probably a spy. The old bloke with the limp and the glass eye – one of the Gestapo’s finest. And I’ll swear Hermann Goering was seated behind me on the bus this morning, peering over my shoulder at my Times Educational Supplement.’
‘Be serious.’
Archie filled his cheeks with bread and beef. ‘All right, it’s been a long morning and I could do with a good laugh. Tell me, dear, where did you run into this spy of yours?’
‘On the tram, on the Aerodrome Road.’
‘It isn’t called that now. It’s been renamed to confuse Jerry pilots.’
‘Damn it, Archie!’
‘Go on, go on.’
‘I’ve seen him every day this week,’ Babs said. ‘He gets on at a stop in the back of beyond and gets off at the Cross. He doesn’t appear to be doing anything. He rides the tram to the Cross then just sort of hangs around.’
‘Perhaps he’s starting a queue for bananas.’
‘Arch—’
‘What’s suspicious about him?’
‘I’m sure he isn’t British.’
‘Italian?’
‘Possible but hardly likely.’
‘He could be a Greek,’ Archie suggested.
‘I wouldn’t know what a Greek looks like,’ said Babs.
‘Well, lots of foreign seamen are hanging round the port these days,’ said Archie. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’
‘He has a camera.’
‘Ah!’ Archie sat up. ‘Now that’s different.’
‘I only noticed it this morning. He keeps it hidden under his jacket. It’s a tiny wee thing, the camera. Never seen one like it before.’
‘How small?’
Babs squared a postage stamp of air with her fingertips. ‘’Bout this size.’
‘God, that is small,’ said Archie.
‘Secret weapon?’ Babs said.
‘Could be,’ Archie admitted. ‘Could just be. When you noticed the camera – I mean, did he see you?’
‘Yep.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Sort of…’ Babs shrugged.
‘Furtively?’
‘That’s it – furtively,’ said Babs. ‘He stuck it up his jumper real quick. What could he possibly be photographing round here? There’s nothing round here but shipyards.’
‘And an aerodrome. And an ordnance factory. And the fuel dump.’
‘Fuel dump?’
‘In the warehouses over the wall.’
‘You’re kiddin’ me,’ said Babs.
‘Packed to the roof with emergency fuel. Didn’t you know?’
‘No.’
‘What did you think those big lorries were delivering – ginger beer?’
‘What if there’s a daylight raid and a bomb falls on—’
Archie cut her off. ‘Don’t be morbid.’
‘But if it happened, if it did, what would become of us?’
‘They’d be sweeping us up with a dustpan,’ Archie said. ‘However, just so long as your spy doesn’t have a detonator stuffed up his jumper at least he can’t do us much harm – if he’s a spy at all, that is.’
‘What should we do?’
‘Tell you what,’ Archie said, ‘tomorrow morning, you challenge him.’
‘Challenge?’ said Babs. ‘Like, “Halt, who goes there?”’
‘Not precisely the phrase I had in mind,’ said Archie. ‘More like “Fine morning, is it not, kind sir?”’
‘What if it’s raining?’
‘Barbara, please, do not be obtuse,’ said Archie. ‘What we need to ascertain is whether he is or is not a foreigner. When he answers, you should be able to tell, A: if he speakada English; B: if he has a sound grasp of colloquialisms.’
‘Of what?’
‘Never mind,’ said Archie. ‘Just tell me what he says, how he responds.’
‘Like – furtively?’
‘Precisely.’
‘An’ if he does?’
‘I’ll contact the proper authorities.’
‘Who are the proper authorities?’
Archie looked blank for a moment. ‘The cops, I suppose.’
‘My sister Rosie’s husband – he’s a copper. He’d know what to do.’
‘What beat’s he on?’
‘He isn’t on a beat. He’s with the CID.’
‘Really!’ Archie was impressed. ‘You never told me that.’
‘You never asked.’
‘Friends in high places,’ said Archie. ‘Well, well! Might come in handy if this chap on the tramcar does turn out to be a wrong ‘un.’
‘So you don’t think I’m making a fuss over nothing?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Archie.
* * *
As a rule Babs was untroubled by the sort of deep-seated anxieties that tormented her sister Rosie, but that Friday morning she was so nervous that it was all she could do not to snap at poor April during breakfast. She’d been awake half the night rehearsing how she would approach the stranger and lure him into revealing his intentions, and by the time she boarded the single-decker she’d smoked four cigarettes and her throat hurt.
The interior of the tramcar was dank, the windows dripping with condensation. The smell of stale smoke and unwashed bodies clung like sticky tendrils to the worn upholstery. The driver had a streaming head cold, the conductor a hacking cough. Fat lot of use they’d be, Babs thought, if she happened to need protection.
The tram hurtled towards Aerodrome Road. Familiar landmarks whizzed past – a derelict farmhouse, potato sheds, a wrecked and rusting tractor – then the tram began its grinding descent and finally jerked to a halt. Her handsome stranger, her spy, her Johnny Foreigner, neat and self-contained, hopped aboard and seated himself on the long bench.
The camera was well hidden. Babs could see nothing of it. He glanced down the aisle, gave her the ghost of a smile then fished in his jacket pocket and produced a packet of cigarettes, an odd-looking packet, all soft and crinkly. He flicked his wrist, knocked out a single cigarette, put the pack into his pocket and brought out a big metal lighter.
Babs found herself stumbling down the aisle.
He glanced up, the soft yellow flame of the lighter flickering under his nose, the tip of the cigarette dabbing about in space. His eyes were dark, not like Dominic Manone’s or Angus’s, but liquid black, like engine oil. The skin around his eyes crinkled a little as she lurched towards him and, shaken by the motion of the tram, toppled into his lap.
‘Hey, lady,’ he said, ‘take care now.’
Babs thrust herself away, legs wide apart, shoulders sliding against the window glass then, raw and breathless, cheeks scarlet, plonked herself down on the seat beside him and growled in unabashed Glaswegian, ‘’Scuse me. Huv youse gotta light?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘A light, a light, for God’s sake. Don’t you speak English?’
‘Sure I do’ he said. ‘Would you care for a cigarette too?’
‘I’ve got my own cigarettes,’ Babs said. ‘What are those anyway?’
He brought out the packet and held it up between finger and thumb. ‘Lucky Strike,’ he said. ‘I guess you don’t have them over here.’
‘American?’
‘Sure. American,’ he said. ‘Take one. Take a couple if you want.’
‘You’re an American.’
‘That I am.’
The Americans were our allies and an American wouldn’t lie; it didn’t cross Babs’s mind that he might be a German or an Italian pretending to be an American. Engulfed by a wave of relief, she snuggled closer.
‘My brother-in-law lives on Staten Island. Do you know where that is?’
He laughed. ‘Every New Yorker’s been to Staten Island.’
‘New York!’ said Babs. ‘I’ve always wanted to see New York.’
He tapped out a cigarette and offered it to her. She took it. He lit it, cautiously holding the big scarf-like flame of the lighter at a safe angle. She inhaled deeply, smothered a cough, and blew out smoke in a breathy cloud.
‘Maybe you know my brother-in-law. His name’s Dominic Manone.’
‘I don’t think I do.’
‘He took the kids away when the war started.’
‘Because he’s Italian?’
It dawned on Babs that perhaps she’d been a little too generous with the personal stuff and that mentioning Dominic’s name had not been a good idea.
She said, ‘Are you an Italian?’
‘You’re not the first person to ask that.’
‘You look Italian,’ said Babs, adding lamely, ‘or Greek.’
‘Believe it or not,’ the man said, ‘I’m almost as Scottish as you are. My old man was born in Greenock, my ma in Helensburgh. They emigrated soon after they got married.’
‘So where were you born?’
‘Milwaukee, me and my brother both.’
‘Before you moved to New York?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And,’ said Babs, as casually as possible, ‘how long ago was that?’
‘I’m thirty-five,’ he said. ‘You work it out.’
She was too caught up in the conversation to suspect that he might be trying to give her the brush-off. He had a little gold cap on one of his front teeth. She had never met anyone with a gold-capped tooth before. It seemed to fit with his liquid black eyes and curly hair and the faint, rich smell of American cigarettes that clung to his reefer jacket. It was the smile, though, particularly the smile about the eyes that really deceived her.
‘Huh!’ Babs said. ‘An’ I thought you were a spy.’
‘Really! What made you think that?’
‘The camera.’
‘Aw yeah, the camera.’
‘An’ because you got on where you did. What are you doing here? Are you a sailor?’
Before he could answer, the conductor lurched back from the platform and bawled, ‘End o’ the line. All off, all off,’ and coughed in staccato fashion, filling the damp air with germs.
Babs dropped her cigarette and made to rise. Her newfound friend offered his arm like one of the gentlemen at a ball in a Bette Davis film. Babs let him squire her on to the platform and down on to the cobbles.
Reluctantly she lifted her hand from his arm and stepped back. There were a dozen questions she hadn’t asked yet, a hundred things she wanted to know, but Archie would be standing in the office doorway, champing at the bit. He had a nine o’clock appointment with a Labour Supply Board investigator over at Ostler’s Engineering and required her to man the office. He would also, no doubt, be keen to learn if she had really unmasked a spy and if there would be glory in it for both of them.
‘I – I have to go,’ Babs said. ‘Thank you for the – the cigarette.’
‘My pleasure,’ the American said.
‘Tomorrow – maybe see you tomorrow.’
‘Sure.’
He didn’t turn away, didn’t head for the pavement.
The tram trundled on, the conductor walking ahead with a long iron key to change the points. Babs felt space behind her, the moist sky bearing down on cranes and scaffolding and half-built ships, felt too the tug of Cyprus Street and Archie’s impatience.
‘I really do have to go,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ he said again and, without moving, watched her leave.
She trotted across the cobbles to the corner of Cyprus Street before she checked and turned. She expected to find that he had van
ished – but he hadn’t. He was squatting on his heels in the middle of the road, pointing the camera at her. Babs opened her mouth to protest, then, on impulse, flung up an arm, flared her fingers and gave him the long haughty over-the-shoulder look that Jackie said made her look like a tart.
The delicate cocking of the photographer’s middle finger was too discreet to be visible. He went on snapping, shot after shot, until Babs, suddenly and unexpectedly shy, dismantled her pose and darted round the corner out of sight.
* * *
Archie was hopping mad. He paused only long enough to enquire, ‘Well, what is he? Is he a Greek or Italian? What did he have to say for himself?’
‘He’s American.’
‘Oh, is he? What’s he doing over here then?’
‘Visiting relatives in Greenock,’ said Babs, ‘I think.’
‘Huh!’ Archie snorted. ‘Is that all?’ then grabbing his gas mask from the hook behind the front door, sprinted off to catch the tram.
It wasn’t the first time that Archie had left her in sole command and she was much more assured than she had been a couple of months ago. The telephone was already ringing in Archie’s office. Babs answered it. Shaken by her encounter with the American and puzzled as to why he had taken her photograph, she listened with only half an ear to the complaints that sizzled down the line, complaints about the inappropriateness of three young women whom Archie had sent over to the Riverside Bolt, Rivet & Nut Company yesterday, young women who didn’t fancy working on a packing line and wanted a job that wouldn’t damage their fingernails.
She remembered the girls vividly, three sisters, a bit like Polly, Rosie and she had been at eighteen, nineteen, unwilling to conform, unwilling to compromise and always on the look out for the easy option. There had been few easy options in the Gorbals, though, which was why Polly had given in to Dominic Manone and she had surrendered to Jackie Hallop.
She held the receiver away from her ear and let Riverside’s personnel officer rant on for a while before she informed him that Archie would be out all day but would attend to the matter as soon as possible tomorrow.
Wives at War Page 2