Wives at War

by Jessica Stirling

  5

  Every weekday morning Dougie escorted the children to school at Breslin Cross. May and June strutted along in their Wellingtons and little green overcoats while Angus loped by Dougie’s side, prattling about the weather, the pig, barrage balloons, and the possibility that one of these days his dad would come back from repairing tanks and take him out for a ride on his motorcycle. When the children were safe inside the gates Dougie would buy a newspaper and ten Woodbine and stroll back to the farm, free until half-past three, when he would pick the little blighters up again.

  On Sundays Babs came visiting but left again in mid-afternoon to be home before dark. Polly came midweek, usually on a Wednesday afternoon. Polly thought nothing of picking her way down the farm track long after nightfall to catch the last train from Breslin railway station and more often than not, Dougie would walk a piece with her, for since he’d – almost – stopped drinking his legs had regained their youthful spring and being cooped up indoors even in winter made him restless.

  He was startled to see Polly in Breslin main street at nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, however. She stood under the faded canopy of the newsagent’s shop wearing a Rodex overcoat, a tweed hat and calf-length boots that made her look more aristocratic than half the titled landowners in the county. He sallied up to her, feigning nonchalance.

  ‘You’re up early. What happened? Fall out o’ bed this mornin’?’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ Polly said.

  ‘Are you comin’ up to the farm?’

  ‘No. I have to get back to Glasgow.’

  ‘Serious stuff then, is it?’

  ‘Probably,’ Polly said. ‘Is there somewhere we can take tea?’

  ‘At this hour?’ Dougie said. ‘I doubt it.’ At least it was dry, and since the sun had come up there was a hint of warmth in the dank November air. ‘Tearoom at the railway station might be open. We’ll walk down that way on the off chance.’

  Polly fell into step beside him. ‘I’ve had a message from Dominic.’

  ‘Telephone or letter?’ Dougie asked.

  ‘Neither – a messenger boy.’

  ‘Surely not old Tony Lombard?’

  ‘No,’ said Polly curtly. ‘A man I’ve never met before. An American.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘My money,’ said Polly.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Dougie. ‘For what?’

  ‘To send abroad.’

  ‘To New York?’

  ‘No,’ Polly said. ‘To Italy.’

  ‘Why are you talkin’ to me?’ Dougie said. ‘Why not ask your friend Mr Hughes for advice? Is that not what y’ pay him for?’

  ‘You’ve known Dominic longer than any of us.’

  Dougie said, ‘Has this got anythin’ to do with dud banknotes?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Dougie, and led her down the steep wooden steps to the railway tearoom, which had just thrown open its doors.

  * * *

  Kenny had never felt so trapped. Lizzie Peabody hadn’t shown up yet, the clock was ticking away like a time bomb, and he was stuck in the kitchen of the flat in Cowcaddens with dirty dishes piled in the sink, the bed unmade and little or no food in the larder. Perhaps he should have come home last night and tidied up but he’d been so weary and had so much on his mind that he’d selfishly sought refuge in the office. What he found most depressing, though, was that Rosie had been on his back since the moment he’d picked her up at Redlands. If she hadn’t been deaf he might have been tempted to forget himself and give her a telling off. He had been brought up to respect women, though, and under the layers of annoyance and anxiety, he was grieving too, grieving at last for Rosie and the lost infant.

  When he’d tried to put his arm about her in the taxi, she’d pushed him roughly away. He’d hesitated, then told her, ‘I’ve arranged for your mother to come over and take care of you.’

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘Rosie, I’m sorry but I do have to go to work.’

  ‘Work!’ she’d shouted. ‘You don’t cuh-care about me, do you?’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘You don’t cuh-care about the baby.’

  ‘Rosie, I didn’t know about the baby.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care about the baby. I’m glad it’s gone.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie, for God’s sake don’t say that.’

  ‘No place for babies in this world.’

  ‘We can try again, when you’re feeling better.’

  ‘Better! I never felt better in my life.’

  ‘You’ll have to rest for a day or two. Your mother—’

  ‘I am going back to work tomorrow.’

  ‘No.’ He’d shaped the words firmly. ‘No, you are not.’

  ‘No work, no pay.’

  Bolt upright, she had turned her head away and stared out at the streets and he had no means of reaching her. He had thought of the hollow place where the foetus had lain and for a split second had felt tears swell under his eyelids. Perhaps that’s what she wanted from him. Perhaps she wanted to reduce him to tears, to make him mourn in her stead.

  Rosie had elbowed him hard in the ribs. ‘Who else have you told?’

  ‘Nobody, just your mother and Bernard.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Polly?’

  ‘I couldn’t get in touch with her.’

  ‘What about Babs?’

  ‘I – I didn’t have time. I’ll telephone her at her office.’

  ‘Nuh-nuh.’

  ‘She’ll need to be told, Rosie.’

  ‘She nuh-needs to be told nothing of the sort.’

  ‘Rosie—’

  ‘Over. Done with.’

  She’d sunk back on the leather bench, shaking with the irregular rhythm of the wheels on the cobbles and had smiled a twisted little smile.

  ‘Back to work tomorrow,’ she’d said. ‘No rest for the wuh-wicked.’

  He’d no longer had the strength to argue with her.

  While he’d settled the fare with the cabbie, Rosie had run upstairs and before he’d reached the door, had let herself into the flat and was dumping a kettleful of water on to the stove.

  She lit the gas ring with a match.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Kenny said.

  ‘I can do it myself.’

  ‘What do you want, tea?’

  ‘Hot water. To wash away the hospital stink.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘let me do it. It’s freezing in here. I’ll make the bed and put in a hot-water bottle and you can—’

  ‘Why didn’t you come to see me?’

  ‘I did,’ Kenny said. ‘I told you, I did. You were sound asleep.’

  ‘You should have been there sooner.’

  ‘I couldn’t … I mean, the hospital couldn’t get in touch with me. I was in Greenock all day and half the night.’ She was at the sink, paddling her hands in tap water. He leaned on the board to make sure that she could read his lips. ‘I came to the hospital as soon as I heard. Didn’t the nurses tell you? Of course they told you. If they hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t have been ready to leave with me this morning.’ She pursed her lips. Water trickled through her fingers into the sink. ‘Rosie, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the baby, really and truly sorry.’

  ‘I’m not.’ She tried to mimic his voice but it came out as a quack. ‘I’m glad. I don’t want to bring a baby into this horrible world and if you think you’re going to have fun trying for another one, you can thuh-think again, Kenny MacGregor.’

  ‘I’ll make the bed.’

  ‘And you can bloody well lie on it,’ Rosie said and, quite violently, tugged at the blackout curtain and let milky daylight flood the room.

  * * *

  In the tearoom, talking:

  ‘Now hold on,’ Dougie said. ‘See if I’ve got this right. This man, this Yank, turns up out o’ the blue, worms his way into Babs’s good books an’ ca
mps in her house. When he meets you, he immediately claims he’s workin’ for the American Government an’ Dominic’s offered money to the partisans in Italy an’ expects you just t’ hand it over. When did he tell you all this?’

  ‘I met him for the first time last night.’

  ‘What’s his name again?’

  ‘Cameron.’

  ‘Did he show his papers?’

  ‘No, but then I didn’t ask to see them.’

  ‘Is he a chancer, d’you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Polly, ‘that’s why I’m here.’

  ‘What you’re askin’ me,’ Dougie said, ‘is whether or not your hubby is committed enough to the Communists to send all his dough to Italy.’

  ‘Communists? Nobody mentioned Communists. Dominic supported all sorts of political groups but he was never a member of any particular party.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dougie, ‘he was a great one for sittin’ on the fence, your Dom. Maybe now he’s made up his mind which way to jump.’

  ‘By declaring himself a Communist?’

  ‘Naw, naw,’ said Dougie. ‘By settlin’ in America.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Old Dom’s not offerin’ t’ help the US Government out the goodness of his heart,’ Dougie said. ‘There must be somethin’ in it for him. If you ask me the G-men are puttin’ pressure on Dominic an’ his family.’

  ‘His family?’

  ‘Carlo, the old man, the Philadelphia mob.’

  ‘Do you think Dominic’s trying to buy his way out of trouble?’

  ‘He’s done it before. Done it right here, didn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that,’ Polly agreed reluctantly. ‘It could, of course, be simple patriotism.’

  ‘Hah-hah!’ Dougie said sarcastically. ‘Anyway, patriotism’s never that simple. It’ll be some sort o’ deal, a deal so fishy the Yanks aren’t bitin’ yet.’

  ‘Is that why they’ve sent someone to spy on me?’

  ‘Hardly spy, Mrs Manone,’ Dougie said. ‘This guy might’ve come in by the back door, but he’s been direct enough in tellin’ you what he’s here for.’

  ‘I wonder if he has,’ said Polly.

  ‘Easy enough to find out,’ said Dougie. ‘Telephone Dominic. Do you have his number in New York?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Polly said, ‘no.’

  ‘Send him a cable then.’

  ‘Kenny MacGregor’s already quizzed Mr Cameron,’ Polly said. ‘Rosie thought he might have designs on Babs.’

  Dougie shook his head. ‘Typical.’

  ‘Typical of what?’ said Polly.

  ‘Women,’ Dougie said. ‘The world’s crashin’ down around our ears an’ all you can think about is who’s goin’ to go to bed wi’ who. I take it our lovely inspector boy doesn’t know the whole story?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not tell him? Ask his advice, instead o’ mine.’

  ‘You’re not being much of a help, Dougie.’

  ‘Bloody right, I’m not,’ Dougie said. ‘I’m havin’ a fine time feedin’ chickens an’ lookin’ after your sister’s bairns – keepin’ my head down, so to speak. Remember what I told you a wee while back? Dig in, I said, dig in. Well, I’ve heeded my own advice. I’m well an’ truly dug in an’ I don’t want t’ be undug, thank you very much.’ He paused, then asked, ‘How much money are we talkin’ about here?’

  ‘I haven’t done my sums yet,’ Polly said.

  ‘Round figures.’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds, give or take.’

  ‘Jeeze!’ said Dougie. ‘If you hand over fifty grand to this joker where will that leave you financially?’

  ‘Broke,’ said Polly.

  ‘Didn’t your hubby transfer his holdin’s into your name?’

  ‘Most of them,’ said Polly.

  ‘So he’s got no claim on any of it?’

  ‘Legally,’ Polly said, ‘no, I don’t suppose he has.’

  ‘Well, now we know why Mr Roosevelt shipped somebody across the Atlantic to size you up,’ Dougie told her. ‘Supposin’ you decide it’s all above board an’ that bringin’ down the Duce is worth fifty grand then how do you get the money out o’ the country? Stuff it into a suitcase an’ hand it over to this Yank? Nah nah, Polly, you’re not that daft.’

  ‘There are lots of channels for transferring large sums of money from one country to another,’ Polly said. ‘Lisbon, for example. Hard cash can still be shipped through Lisbon.’

  ‘Is that what your American friend told you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hard cash in what currency?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t agreed to co-operate yet so naturally he’s cagey. In addition to which,’ Polly said, ‘I’ve a strong suspicion that Christy Cameron doesn’t really know what he’s doing.’

  ‘You mean he’s an amateur?’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  ‘Somebody must be givin’ him orders.’

  ‘Who?’ Polly said.

  ‘Aye,’ Dougie said, ‘there’s the rub. Who?’

  ‘If I knew that,’ Polly said, ‘I’d know how to proceed.’

  Dougie said, ‘Why haven’t you confided in Hughes? Is it because you know he’ll be dead set against it?’

  ‘Probably,’ Polly said. ‘Look, Dougie, my husband trusted you. I admit I never understood what sterling virtues he saw in you, but trust you he did, and for that reason I’m willing to trust you too.’

  ‘You’re makin’ me blush,’ said Dougie. ‘Listen, if the Yank is just an amateur somebody must be pullin’ his strings. Bring him out to Blackstone. Let me talk to him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ Dougie said, carefully, ‘he may have the impression there’s a fortune in counterfeit banknotes still buried on the property.’

  ‘Which there isn’t, of course.’

  ‘You know what’s buried there, Polly, an’ it isn’t banknotes.’ Dougie moved on quickly. ‘Bring him out on Thursday when the kiddies are at school. Do you still have the motorcar?’

  ‘It’s stored in the garage.’

  ‘Can you scrounge some petrol?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Then drive over about lunch time.’

  ‘Why wait until Thursday?’

  ‘To give him time t’ contact his bosses.’

  ‘What a clever idea,’ said Polly.

  * * *

  When she returned home from Cowcaddens that evening, Lizzie was dismayed to find her husband crouched on the hearthrug with one knee over Irene Milligan. From the doorway she watched Bernard loosen the top button of the girl’s blouse then, sliding down a little, undo the fastening at the side of her skirt.

  The girl lay passively beneath him, eyes closed.

  ‘Now,’ Bernard said, ‘the next bit’s tricky.’

  ‘I’ll bet it is,’ said Mr Grainger.

  ‘I’m not going to do it,’ Bernard said, ‘I’m just going to pretend. Could you open your mouth a wee bit wider, please, Irene?’

  Obediently Irene displayed white teeth and healthy pink gums.

  Bernard said, ‘Once the victim’s clothing has been loosened then the mouth is opened and the tongue held to one side while any obstruction in the throat is cleared away. Shock can often cause vomiting so it’s crucial that the airways are cleared.’

  ‘What do you use,’ said Mr Heron, ‘one o’ them stick things?’

  Bernard swivelled round. ‘Highly unlikely you’ll be running about with a pocketful of tongue depressors, Gordon,’ he said, ‘so, as I’ve told you many times before, improvise, improvise, improvise. Use the blunt end of a pencil or a fountain pen if you have one, failing which, the finger, the good old-fashioned finger will do the job quite nicely.’

  ‘Infection?’ said Irene’s mum. ‘Germs?’

  ‘If the victim’s choking to death,’ said Bernard, ‘you haven’t time to worry about infection. Meet each crisis as it comes. And reme
mber,’ he climbed off the girl and got to his feet, ‘if there’s any sign of bleeding or immobilising injury do not, repeat do not attempt to move the subject.’

  ‘Why’s that then?’ said old Mr Heron.

  Irene sighed, opened her eyes and answered, ‘Because the end of a broken bone can puncture a vital organ and ex—exabertate the injury.’

  ‘Well done, young lady.’ Bernard helped the girl up. ‘A round of applause for our victim, please.’

  Lizzie caught her husband’s eye.

  He raised his brows in greeting.

  Bernard’s fortnightly ambulance class was popular and ten or a dozen neighbours from the cottage row were crammed into Lizzie’s living room. Some, like old Mr Heron, came only to see women lying on the floor on the off chance he’d catch a glimpse of knickers. Most of the others were there because the risk of injury from a bombing attack had not gone away and they hadn’t much faith in the ambulance service. The class was one of several that bolstered the community’s sense of self-sufficiency and fostered the hope that, come what may, the good citizens of Knightswood would survive the ravages of war.

  ‘Our thanks to Bernard too,’ said Mr Grainger. ‘Always instructive, always informative. Monday night, stirrup pump drill, half-past seven in the shed behind the bus garage.’

  Lizzie usually served tea and biscuits at this juncture but tonight the neighbours dispersed quickly, squeezing past her to the front door. They dabbed her arm, asked after Rosie and nodded sympathetically, even though they had no idea what was really wrong with Bernard’s stepdaughter.

  Lizzie did her bit by murmuring platitudes.

  She had no affinity with her neighbours, no authority over them. It wasn’t like the old days in the Gorbals when everybody had looked up to her and treated her with respect. She wondered what had happened to the fierce, fiery woman who would stand no nonsense from anyone, and just when she had shrivelled into meekness and apathy, lost in Bernard’s shadow.

  ‘He’s a grand man, a grand man, Lizzie,’ Ella Grainger said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without him.’

  Lizzie watched her husband help young Miss Milligan into her coat, though the Milligans lived only four doors down and the night was mild. He stood close to the girl and tucked in her scarf. It popped into Lizzie’s head that for all his uprightness, her husband was several years younger than she was and that these past few anxious months he seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for hugging, kissing and the other thing; that perhaps he, like so many others, was taking advantage of the war to help himself to a bit of excitement.