‘That’s no’ a wa’.’
‘Antonine’s wall, a piece of it,’ said Miss Stewart. ‘Antonine was the name of the Roman officer who built it. It stretched all the way from Edinburgh to Glasgow and it had forts on it to keep out the marauding—’
‘That’s definitely no’ a wa’,’ Iain, the rebel, declared. ‘We’ve got a wa’ behind oor hoose an’ it never lookit like that in its puff.’
‘What’s left here,’ said Miss Stewart, patiently, ‘is only a fragment, a small part of Antonine’s wall. It’s nearly two thousand years old, after all, so we’re very lucky to have it.’
‘Aye, well, Miss, y’ can keep it.’
‘Enough lip out o’ you, son,’ said Mr Boyd in a voice that would have made the bravest Roman quail. ‘Listen t’ Miss Stewart an’ see if you canny learn somethin’ useful for a change.’
But the educational portion of the trip, such as it was, had ended.
‘Well,’ the headmistress said, ‘now you’ve seen it, you can tell all your friends there’s a piece of Antonine’s wall still here in Breslin.’ She paused then said, ‘I believe you have some business to attend to in the vicinity, Mr Peabody.’
‘As it happens, I do,’ said Bernard.
* * *
Angus was feeling rotten. The fact that his sisters were feeling even more rotten gave him no satisfaction.
The doctor, a lady, had called first thing. She had embarrassed him by stretching him out on top of the blankets without his pyjamas and lifting up his winkle with her big cold hands so that she could look at the spots on his thighs.
He had developed a rash, a serious one this time, on his back and arms, and almost overnight bigger spots had sprung out in his hair, on his face and the front of his chest, and the itch had got worse. He found cold air soothing and lay very still while the doctor examined him. His throat was sore too and when he spoke his voice sounded queer, like Ron grunting. He knew what the lady doctor was going to say, for Miss Dawlish had told Dougie last night what it was and Dougie had told him: ‘You’ve got the pox, son, the chickenpox.’
Angus had said, ‘Have they got it too?’
‘What, the chickens?’ Dougie had said.
‘My sisters?’
‘They have.’
‘Worse than me?’
‘Just as bad.’
‘Worse?’
‘Aye, worse.’
Angus had taken Dougie’s word for it for he could hear May whimpering through the wall that separated their bedrooms and, at an early hour of the morning, before daylight, he’d wakened to hear Miss Dawlish talking soothingly to the girls and May, or maybe it was June, retching.
Dougie had told him not to scratch with his fingernails and had shown him how to rub the rash lightly with the back of his wrists and he had lain awake in the darkness feeling rotten, rubbing away at his hair and chest with the back of his wrists until, with Miss Dawlish still talking to his sisters and a chink of light showing under the door, the itch had eased and he had fallen asleep.
Next thing he knew the lady doctor was coming upstairs.
After the doctor had gone next door to examine the girls Dougie came in to help him back into his pyjamas and tuck him into bed again.
‘Is it the pox?’
‘Aye, just chickenpox, not scarlet fever,’ Dougie said.
‘Can you die of chickenpox?’
‘Nah.’
‘Can you go to school wi’ chickenpox?’
‘Nup, no school for you this side o’ the New Year.’
‘Hurrah!’ said Angus, croaking.
‘No nowhere for any o’ you for a fortnight at least. You’re contagious.’
‘Am I?’
‘You are,’ said Dougie and stroked his forehead, soothingly.
Later Dougie brought up a paraffin stove and fiddled away until he got it going for the doctor had said Angus must keep warm.
Later still Miss Dawlish brought up porridge, two pieces of soft toast and a mug of milky tea. He was glad of the tea but couldn’t face the porridge, never mind the toast. Miss Dawlish took it all away without complaining about waste, which made him realise that he really was ill.
Then Miss Dawlish came back with a baking bowl half full of milky liquid, and a sponge. She bathed him with the stuff and told him it was boric acid and that it would take the itch away for a while.
While he was being bathed he could hear Dougie talking to his sisters next door, and May still whimpering.
Then after Miss Dawlish had gone away again he had to get up to pee but when he put his feet on the floor he felt as if his head was a barrage balloon floating on a cable and he shouted and Dougie came in quickly and brought him the pot, which was very embarrassing and made him feel worse.
He got back into bed as fast as he could and lay there, smelling the stink of the paraffin stove and the stuff Miss Dawlish had bathed him with and listening to the mouse sounds of his sisters fretting in the room next door.
Then Dougie opened the curtains and grey daylight filtered into the room and he said, ‘What time is it now, Dougie?’
And Dougie said, ‘Half-past nine.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Aye, son,’ said Dougie. ‘That’s all.’
* * *
Arthur Hunter Gowan was having breakfast in the big front room of his house on Antonine Way when the Anglia appeared out of the evergreens.
As a rule Arthur Hunter Gowan wasn’t given to breakfasting late but he had endured an overnight journey from London and even his wealth and influence had not been able to protect him from the vicissitudes of wartime railway travel. In addition, he had struggled to find a cab driver willing to take him as far out of the city as Breslin and even his equitable temperament had been challenged by the excess fare charged and the sauce the cabbie had given him when he had politely disputed it. When he’d finally reached home he’d found his wife, Miranda, in tears at something the day-maid had said and it had cost him the best part of a half-hour to smooth her ruffled feathers.
For these reasons Arthur Hunter Gowan was breakfasting at a quarter to ten o’clock instead of his usual hour of seven thirty when the Anglia crept up the long driveway and parked in front of the window.
Arthur called to Miranda to fetch the maid from the kitchen to answer the door but, receiving no response, hoisted himself from his chair at the dining table and went to answer it himself.
The man on the second step down was well enough dressed, though not, Arthur knew, a gentleman. He touched his hat but didn’t remove it, nor did he back down when invited to state his business.
‘Billeting,’ the man said.
‘Billeting?’ said Arthur Hunter Gowan. ‘Here?’
‘Four public rooms, seven bedrooms, two toilets,’ the man said, ‘and just three permanent residents, not counting serving personnel.’
‘Billeting what?’ said Arthur. ‘Whom?’
His eagle eye had already sighted the faded old woman in the front seat of the motorcar and the man, obviously her husband, crammed into the back fighting with what appeared to be a gang of unruly children.
When he scrutinised the faces pressed against the window he felt a curious pang of pity for the children who had been uprooted from their burrows in the warm dark heart of Glasgow and whisked without warning to this strange, no doubt alien environment. He had tended their like in hospitals all over the city and tended them still from time to time, for his scalpel neither knew nor cared whose flesh it cut into. Having a carload of the little blighters on his gravel driveway, however, lay close to the limit of his sympathy.
‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.
‘I do indeed, sir,’ said the man. ‘You’re Mister – have I got that right? – Mister, not Doctor, Hunter Gowan. I have you listed as a surgeon.’
‘You, I presume, are a council officer.’
‘Bernard Peabody, sir. I have identification if it’s required.’
One of the advantages of a privile
ged education is that it develops not only character but also perspicacity, and Arthur Hunter Gowan sensed immediately that there was something ‘off’ about this little charade but in spite of his weariness and the great load of more pressing concerns that weighed upon him, he was sufficiently intrigued to step out of the house and close the front door behind him.
‘How many children are in the vehicle?’
‘Six,’ Bernard Peabody answered.
‘Are they homeless?’
‘Uprooted.’
‘Evacuees?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you propose that they move into my house this very minute?’
The billeting officer frowned. ‘Not necessarily this very minute.’
Arthur Hunter Gowan stepped down on to the gravel and peered into the Anglia. ‘Tell me, Mr Peabody’, he said, ‘do you propose that I should also provide a billet for Miss Stewart, given that she has a perfectly good home of her own only a quarter of a mile from here?’
‘Ah!’ said Bernard.
‘My three sons,’ Arthur said, ‘are serving King and country at this present juncture but the first four years of their school lives were spent under the tutelage of that lady there who is, if memory serves, still headmistress of Breslin Primary. What do you really want from me, Mr Peabody?’
‘Your influence, sir.’
‘Influence? What sort of influence do you think I have when it comes to finding homes for your evacuees?’
‘It isn’t the evacuees,’ said Bernard. ‘I need to place a doctor and I thought that as you’re on the governing board of the new hospital at Ottershaw it might be possible—’
‘Good God, man!’ said Arthur Hunter Gowan. ‘I’m chief of surgery, not a damned personnel officer. What sort of doctor is he?’
‘It’s a she, in fact, a Belgian lady, a widow.’
‘Not Reeder’s widow?’ said Arthur Hunter Gowan.
‘Yes, sir. Do you know her?’
‘I know of her,’ the surgeon said. ‘I knew him – slightly. What’s she doing in this neck of the woods? I thought she lived in Renfrewshire?’
‘She does,’ said Bernard, ‘but apparently there are no openings for qualified female medical personnel in Renfrewshire, or in Glasgow, for that matter. She’s having to move to find work.’
‘I take it you didn’t know the husband?’
‘No, sir,’ said Bernard. ‘I never had that pleasure.’
‘An awkward customer, believe me, and frightfully ambitious.’
‘Isn’t that what they say about all of them?’ said Bernard.
‘Now how do I answer that,’ said Arthur Hunter Gowan, ‘without displaying prejudice? Yes, Mr Peabody, I’m well aware that the late Mr Reeder was a Jew. Does that answer your question?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Bernard.
‘What connection do you have with this woman?’
‘She turned up at the council offices and asked for assistance,’ said Bernard. ‘And just in case you’re wondering, no, Mr Hunter Gowan, I’m not one of the tribe of Israel.’
‘You’re not above a little bit of blackmail, though, are you?’ the surgeon said. ‘Did you really suppose I’d raise my hands in horror at the sight of a car full of snotty-nosed evacuees? For your information, Mr Peabody, I’ve just returned from a series of meetings at the War Office, arguing the toss with Treasury officials who seem to imagine that one can build, equip and staff a brand-new military hospital for half a crown. When it comes to blackmail, I’m a better hand at it than you will ever be. Is this woman available for interview?’
‘She’s ready and waiting.’
‘Bring her to Ottershaw at ten a.m. on Thursday.’
‘Will you be in attendance, sir?’
‘Of course I’ll be in attendance.’
‘And you will interview her personally?’
‘Yes,’ the surgeon said. ‘Personally. Now get those blessed ragamuffins out of my driveway, if you please.’
And Bernard, mission accomplished, left to drive his little band of accomplices back downhill to school.
* * *
Swimming in barley water and dozy with the fumes of paraffin and boric acid, Angus lay on his back with the blankets up to his nose and tried not to scratch. He was bored, tired and restless, and had no idea how much of the morning had passed since Miss Dawlish had last popped in to see him.
Dougie had brought him two comics but he hadn’t the strength to read them and left them on the blanket where he could look at the colourful covers. In the window he could see clouds passing and a fleeting smear of sunlight and was briefly diverted from his misery by a robin that hopped about on the sill and peeped in on him with its cheery little eye. He wondered if Dougie had remembered to feed Ron and who would help Miss Dawlish scatter grain for the chicks since May, June and he wouldn’t be allowed out of doors for a fortnight.
A fortnight! He couldn’t imagine a fortnight shut up indoors. He tried fixing his mind on Christmas by subtracting fourteen from twenty-five and adding on the number of days in the month that had already passed, but couldn’t remember what date it was today. He’d never really had to think about dates before. He was more at home with Mother Nature’s broad scale of things than clocks, watches and calendars.
His sisters were whining for Mum but Dougie had told him that his mother couldn’t visit in case April caught chickenpox too. He loved his youngest sister quite a bit more than he loved his middle sisters, though he didn’t recognise it as love, of course, and thought he was just looking after them while Dad was away fighting the war.
He turned his head and stared out of the window.
Two rooks flew past in strict formation, black against a pale blue sky.
He wished he could fly. He wished he was old enough to drive a tank. He wished they would let him join the navy and sail on the Illustrious and dive-bomb German battleships like his Uncle Dennis. He wished …
He scowled.
He sat up.
His head went whirly for an instant, then steadied. He scratched his ears frantically with his fingernails, listening to the sound in the distance.
‘Excelsior,’ he muttered. ‘That’s our Excelsior.’
Then with a wild leap that scattered comic books and blankets across the floorboards, he was out of bed and heading for the window.
‘Daddy,’ he shouted. ‘It’s Daddy.’
And it was.
* * *
Jackie had never been to Blackstone before. Dom had cut him out of the counterfeiting caper. Maybe Dom had thought he was too dumb to take part in a big money scheme. And maybe Dom had been right.
One thing Jackie had learned in fourteen months in khaki was the limit of his own intelligence. He wasn’t dumb, of course, but he wasn’t as near smart as he’d always supposed himself to be.
The blistering nervous energy that had driven him when he was a kid, plus all that false pride, would have landed him in real trouble sooner or later. The coming of war had been the best thing – next to marrying Babs – that had ever happened to him – to Dennis and Billy too he reckoned, for it had released them from the culture of moral laxity, of trying to get something for nothing.
Army ranks were sprinkled with spivs and fly men, sharp-witted Londoners who always had some black-market scheme or other on the boil, plus hard tickets from Liverpool, Cardiff or Newcastle who would nut you as soon as look at you. None of them had ever heard of Dominic Manone and didn’t give a toss about Jackie’s Italian connections or his motoring salon or his cutthroat life in Glasgow during the Depression. He was nothing to them but a bragging little twerp who couldn’t hold his liquor.
He had learned quickly to keep his mouth shut and his head down, and even before he’d emerged from basic training had begun to realise that he was better than they were, better at what he did under the bonnet of a staff car or the hull plate of a Crusader, and to appreciate that a wife and four lovely kids were worth a lot more than pie-in-the-sky dreams of easy mo
ney. He longed to see Babs and the kids again, if just to remind himself what he was fighting for and to make sure that Babs understood that when he returned to civvy street he would be content to earn an honest dollar doing what he did best.
That bloody photograph in Brockway’s had shaken his faith in the future, however. It had reminded him that he wasn’t the only one who’d been changed by the war. Dennis’s wife had left him for another guy. Billy’s sweetheart had had a kid to a married man twice her age. And now Babs, Babs and her Yankee reporter, this cuckoo whom she’d welcomed into her nest; Jackie didn’t know whether to believe her story or whether her hugs and kisses might turn out to be as dud as one of Dominic’s fivers. He couldn’t forget April’s face, though, when she’d found him in bed that morning, couldn’t put out of his mind her shrill little cry, ‘Where’s Christy? Where’s Christy?’
Now he needed to see the kids, was desperate to see the kids, just to make sure that they hadn’t forgotten him too.
He pulled the covers off the Excelsior with a sigh.
The bike was untouched, just as he’d left her.
He’d left her with a full tank of petrol and, even allowing for evaporation, she would have the best part of three gallons still inside her.
He took his scarred old leather coat from the hook on the back of the shed door and put it on. It smelled musty but that smell would soon go once he was out on the open road. He buttoned up the coat and belted it, hung a pair of goggles around his neck, tucked his trousers into his stocking tops, rammed his forage cap down over his ears, and flung a leg over the saddle.
She felt good, just right, just the way she’d always felt.
He switched on, turned her over, gently warmed her up.
Sweet as a nut she was, smelling of oil, his beloved Excelsior Manxman, 297 pounds of polished, well-preserved machinery waiting for him, unchanged.
He got off, kicked open the shed door, kicked up the stand, rolled her forward on to the paving, mounted her once more and roared off around the curve of Holloway Road and down the long straight to Paisley Road, down by the back ways and byways that he knew so well, down to the ferry that carried him over the river. Then out along the broad streets of Yoker, heading north-west to Breslin in search of his missing kids.
Wives at War Page 17