Wives at War

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘What’s she doing in Scotland?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Archie.

  ‘Perhaps we should ask her?’

  ‘I already did,’ said Archie. ‘She doesn’t know herself.’

  ‘Could the husband – the daddy, I mean – could he be lurking somewhere in the vicinity?’

  ‘It’s possible, of course,’ said Archie, ‘but somehow I doubt it.’

  ‘What are we expected to do with her?’

  ‘Find her a billet and a job to keep her going.’

  ‘Untrained?’ said Babs. ‘With a baby?’

  ‘I’ve been racking my brains to think where we could put her and I’ve come up dry. Perhaps,’ Archie hesitated, ‘perhaps your stepfather might be able to help out again, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Babs. ‘From what Bernard’s told me the last one we dumped on him gave him enough trouble. Anyway, the girl’s our problem.’

  ‘What a big heart you have, Barbara,’ Archie said. ‘Who’ll take in an Irish girl with a kid, even if we guarantee the rent?’

  At that moment the door of the toilet swung open and Doreen Quinlan emerged with the baby, a very robust and buxom baby, slung over her shoulder.

  The baby, a boy, was warmly dressed in a romper suit with a pointed hood. The suit had been knitted from blue wool that had faded with washing, and looked, Babs thought, like a tiny suit of chain mail.

  The girl wasn’t much older than eighteen. She had broad, open features, blue eyes and a dimple – my God, Babs thought, a dimple – on each cheek. She was as blonde as a cornstalk and almost as slender. She wore a short red flannel jacket and a long, trailing skirt of a sort that had gone out of fashion thirty years ago. Her blouse was baby-stained but otherwise she was clean and tidy and very pretty in a naïve kind of way.

  ‘I was havin’ to change him,’ the girl said. ‘I was havin’ to use the sink for to wash his bott. I cleaned up, like, afterwards.’ Her voice had the casual attitude to vowels that Glaswegians were used to. ‘He’s a right greedy guts, his majesty, so he is now. I’ll be needin’ to find milk an’ an egg for him soon.’

  ‘You’re weaning him, I take it?’ Babs said.

  ‘I am, I am.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Eighteen months, close to.’

  ‘He’s a big chap for eighteen months.’ Archie walked around the girl to peer through his spectacles at the child. ‘Has he got a name?’

  ‘David. I call him Davy.’

  ‘After his dad?’ Babs said.

  The girl gave her a little smile, more mysterious than patronising. ‘Nah, nah,’ she said. ‘Now you won’t be catchin’ me out that way.’

  Archie extended a forefinger and wiggled it, a gesture that young Master Quinlan ignored. He was sleepy and sluggish, at least for the moment.

  ‘I’ll – erm – put on the kettle, shall I?’ said Archie.

  ‘Aye, I could be doin’ with a cup o’ tea, so I could,’ said Doreen Quinlan and, hoisting the baby down from her shoulder to her lap, seated herself on Babs’s chair and gave a weary sigh. ‘It wasn’t much o’ a breakfast they were showin’ me at that hostel place.’

  ‘It was probably the best they could do,’ said Babs and then, on impulse, detached Davy from his mother’s arms and lifted him up.

  He reared back and glared at her as she tugged down the chain-mail hood and stroked the fringe of dark hair that hung over his brow. He gave Babs a thorough scrutiny then used, perhaps, to taking succour where he could find it, settled against her shoulder and closed a fist over her breast.

  ‘Not me, pal,’ Babs said.

  Gently detaching Davy’s fingers from that tempting part of her anatomy, she strolled up and down the length of the office with him in her arms while an idea, a fine malicious little notion, tumbled softly into her head.

  * * *

  ‘I take it,’ Polly said, ‘that this is some kind of a joke.’

  ‘Homelessness is no joke, Poll,’ Babs informed her.

  ‘You,’ said Polly, ‘what’s your name?’

  ‘Walter George,’ said the area council officer whom Archie had summoned with one telephone call. ‘I think we’ve met before, Mrs Manone. Would you care to inspect my credentials?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about your credentials,’ Polly said. ‘I don’t give a damn if you’re acting on orders from Winston bloody Churchill, I am not – let me repeat myself – I am not taking that woman and that child into my house.’

  Mr George was much older than Archie. He had been an ambulance driver on the Somme during the last conflict and a dedicated worker in the Church ever since. He was, so Archie said, an inspirational lay preacher and as honest as the day was long. Though well over sixty, he was handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, with a mop of fine white hair and a trim moustache. If Polly’s profanity offended him, he gave no sign of it. No doubt, thought Babs, he had heard a lot worse in his day. He reminded her a little of Bernard, though Mr George wasn’t as pompous as her stepfather, wasn’t pompous at all, in fact.

  It had been a stroke of genius on her part to think of dumping the Belfast girl and her baby on Polly, but an even greater stroke of genius on Archie’s part to insist that she take Mr George along for support.

  Without Mr George’s gentlemanly presence, Polly would probably have kicked her out by now. As it was, the Belfast girl and her baby were downstairs in the kitchen, tucking into a second breakfast that Christy had rustled up.

  Christy hadn’t been in the least put out by the arrival of a stranger with a baby or a council officer brandishing a hastily drafted requisition order. He had been sloping about in pyjama bottoms, thick stockings and a reefer jacket at ten thirty in the morning. Polly hadn’t been in much better shape, all tousled and baggy-eyed and without a scrap of make-up to emphasise her superiority.

  Babs wondered, rather maliciously, if they had actually been ‘at it’ in Polly’s foxhole in the basement when Walter George had rung the doorbell.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Manone,’ said Mr George, ‘but I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter.’

  Polly pulled her dressing gown about her with an angry flick of the wrists. ‘Do I not? Well, we’ll just see what my lawyer has to say.’

  ‘If you mean Mr Hughes,’ said Walter George, ‘I question if Mr Hughes will be able to do much about it.’ He glanced at the paper in his hand. ‘What I have here is a draft requisition to utilise a portion of your house. It is, I stress, only a draft, and draft documents are notoriously tricky to revoke, as Mr Hughes will, I’m sure, be first to acknowledge.’

  ‘Draft documents,’ said Polly, ‘aren’t worth the paper they’re written on.’

  ‘True, they’re not binding,’ said Mr George, ‘but in my experience they represent an important first step to legal enforcement.’

  Sunlight streamed through the windows and made the big front parlour look like a museum. The furniture was scarred and the wallpaper showed white where two framed paintings had been removed. The carpet was gritty underfoot and little splinters of wood and plaster littered the ledge of the mantelpiece. Even the huge leather sofa upon which Mr George and Babs were seated felt greasy and unwholesome.

  Polly paced up and down, her agitation palpable. If she hadn’t stolen Christy Cameron away, Babs might even have felt sorry for her sister.

  ‘I will not take in lodgers,’ Polly said.

  ‘What about the guy downstairs then?’ Babs said. ‘Isn’t he a lodger?’

  ‘Oh, so that’s it,’ Polly snapped. ‘It’s revenge, is it? Do you think you can land me with some snotty-nosed brat just to pay me back for taking in…’ She caught herself in time and reverted to a flat, dead tone of voice. ‘Mr Cameron is not a lodger. He is a guest. His stay here is only temporary.’

  ‘I see.’ Mr George took a small notebook from his pocket, extracted a pencil no thicker than a darning needle, licked the lead and made a note before hiding the notebook in his pocket
again. ‘I assume that your guest occupies a separate bedroom from your good self?’

  A dusky red flush spread from Polly’s throat to her cheeks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Two rooms out of ten,’ said Mr George with a little cock of the head, ‘one in temporary occupancy.’

  ‘Babs, you’re a complete and utter bitch,’ said Polly. ‘I will not let you do this to me. I’ll – I’ll sell the place first.’

  Babs glanced at Mr George, who cocked his head again, in the other direction this time.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘is your prerogative, Mrs Manone. However, I should warn you that the asking price will be controlled by the council housing committee and that council will have first refusal to purchase.’

  ‘What?’ Polly cried. ‘First refusal on a price they set?’

  ‘I know it seems unfair—’

  ‘Unfair!’ Polly shouted. ‘It’s criminal, bloody criminal.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ said Mr George, almost casually, ‘if you were to take in a temporary guest or two then I expect the requisition order would not be enforced. Thus, when the situation eases and restrictions are lifted you would be at liberty to put the property on the market and get what you can for it by private barter.’

  ‘Are you telling me I can’t even sell my own house?’

  ‘Mrs Manone, the war—’

  ‘Damn the war!’ Polly threw herself down in an armchair and stretched out her legs. She stared at the plaster chips on the mantelpiece and then, chin tucked to her chest, said, ‘This girl you’ve brought me, she isn’t sick or anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr George. ‘She isn’t sick.’

  ‘What about the kiddie?’

  ‘Master Davy appears to be in bounding good health,’ said Mr George.

  ‘Where did you find her?’ Polly asked Babs.

  ‘I didn’t find her; she found us.’

  ‘Oh, wasn’t that convenient!’ said Polly.

  ‘You’ll be paid for housing her,’ Babs said. ‘There’s a scale of payment to cover billeting costs. Am I not right, Mr George?’

  ‘Quite right, Mrs Hallop,’ Walter George said. ‘The girl will be given a ration card and work papers but billeting fees will be paid directly to you.’

  ‘What does she do, this girl?’

  ‘She’s a housekeeper,’ Babs said.

  ‘Oh, is she now?’ said Polly.

  Mr George slapped his hand on his knee and got to his feet. He glanced at his watch, buttoned his overcoat and, looking a lot less impartial than he had done a moment ago, put the papers down on the sofa table.

  ‘I see you’re not amenable to negotiation, Mrs Manone, so I’ll leave these documents for your solicitor to examine. I’m sure he’ll confirm everything I’ve told you. Meanwhile, Mrs Hallop and I will take the girl and the child back to the hostel in Paisley until we can find—’

  ‘Wait,’ Polly said, chin still stuck to her chest. ‘Is there a husband?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Babs. ‘No husband.’

  ‘How much will you pay me to take her in?’

  ‘For the child,’ said Mr George, ‘ten shillings and sixpence. For the mother, billet without board, eight and sixpence.’

  Polly gave a little snort of disgust. ‘You certainly have a nerve, Babs, given that I’m shelling out more than that every week to keep your kids at Blackstone.’ She glared up at Walter George. ‘Take your papers away. I haven’t time to be bothered with that nonsense right now.’

  ‘And the girl?’ Mr George said.

  ‘Leave her. I’ll find a place for her.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to inspect the accommodations, Mrs Manone.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, inspect them and get out of here.’

  ‘With your permission?’

  ‘Go on. Do it. Get it over with.’

  The sisters watched the council officer leave the room and head downstairs. Polly didn’t move until a lusty wail floated up from the kitchen, then she thrust herself out of the armchair and stalked to the window.

  Babs watched her warily. She had been so enraptured with the idea of taking revenge that she had forgotten all about Polly’s generosity in allowing May, June and Angus to stay at Blackstone. She had also forgotten that Miss Dawlish was officially Polly’s housekeeper and that Polly would be quite within her rights to summon the woman back to Manor Park.

  She felt mean now, mean and rather despicable at what she had done, yet a little niggling part of her was glad that she had put one over on Polly and forced her sister to face up to harsh reality.

  Staring out at the ragged hedge and shabby evergreens, Polly said, ‘You don’t have to worry, Babs. I won’t throw your children out of Blackstone. I’m surprised at you, though. I didn’t think you were so spiteful.’

  ‘It isn’t spite,’ Babs said.

  ‘What is it then?’ Polly glanced over her shoulder. ‘Is it because you lost Jackie? Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to lose a husband?’

  ‘It hasn’t seemed to bother you much.’

  ‘Oh, it has. It has bothered me.’

  ‘I see: you can’t stand to be without a man. Is that why you took up with the lawyer chap?’ Babs said. ‘Is that why you won’t let Christy come back to stay with me?’

  ‘Christy and I are doing business together. It’s just business, Babs.’

  Babs said. ‘Well, Polly, console yourself with the thought that what I’ve done today is just business too – my business, my job.’

  ‘I hope you realise that you’re ruining my life,’ Polly said.

  ‘What life?’ said Babs, and, rising, followed Mr George downstairs.

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry, Polly.’ Christy flopped on to his back. ‘I guess I’m too tired.’

  ‘Would you be less tired if we went downstairs?’

  ‘I don’t think it would make much difference.’

  ‘It’s them, isn’t it?’ Polly said. ‘It’s having strangers in the house?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose it might be.’

  In fact she had no more desire in her tonight than he had and when she’d wrapped her arms and legs around him it had been out of a sense of obligation, almost defiance, rather than sexual need.

  She sat up and switched on the little bedside lamp.

  ‘Look at me, Christy, look at me.’

  He lifted his head, nose barely visible above the blankets.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m looking at you.’

  ‘Have I changed since this morning? Have I become old and ugly?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then why are you so reluctant to share a bed with me?’

  ‘I am sharing a bed with you.’

  ‘But you’re not listening to me.’

  ‘Yeah I am.’

  ‘You haven’t paid me a blind bit of attention since that girl arrived.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘Can’t help what?’ Polly demanded.

  She didn’t really require an answer. She knew that Christy Cameron was no boor, no callous philanderer. American or not, he was burdened by scruples. He had spent most of the day amusing the baby, trying to make the baby and the girl like him. That was his flaw: he wanted everyone to like him. He’d cooked for her, had found toys for the kid to play with, had even taken the kid out into the park for a half-hour and let him toddle about on the grass. But when the girl had bared her breast to feed her greedy little monster, he had hurriedly left the kitchen and had vanished upstairs.

  ‘Look,’ Polly said, ‘that girl doesn’t care whether we’re married or not. She’s not going to be shocked by anything we do. In any case, for all I know she thinks we’re married. I mean, I do have a wedding ring on my finger – which is more than she has.’ She nudged him with her foot under the bedclothes. ‘You didn’t tell her we weren’t married, did you?’

  ‘I figure she knows,’ Christy said.

  ‘You told her, didn’t you?’
/>   ‘Nope.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it?’ Polly said. ‘It isn’t your house. It isn’t your children’s nursery that’s been possessed by some half-witted tart from Belfast. It isn’t your daughter’s cot that—’

  ‘You told me to dig out that cot and fix it up.’

  ‘What else could I do? Let the baby sleep on the floor?’

  ‘The kid’s all right,’ said Christy. ‘He doesn’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘And the girl? I suppose you feel sorry for the girl too?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Christy admitted.

  ‘It’s those damned dimples, isn’t it? I’ll bet you wouldn’t feel half so sorry for her if she was a warty old hag.’

  Christy laughed and, in spite of herself, Polly gave a rueful little snort.

  ‘Oh, very well,’ she said, ‘I admit that the dimples are—’

  ‘Cute?’ said Christy. ‘Yeah, they’re cute all right.’

  ‘Would you prefer to share a bed with her and her dimples?’

  ‘Right now,’ Christy said, ‘I just wanna get some sleep.

  ‘Well, I don’t. I’m not in the least sleepy.’

  Christy sighed and sat up.

  Polly glanced at him critically. ‘Are you wearing a vest?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s disgusting.’

  ‘What’s disgusting about it?’

  ‘It’s unhygienic.’

  ‘It’s also goddamned freezing,’ Christy said.

  ‘How can it be freezing?’ said Polly. ‘It’s March.’

  ‘That’s practically high summer here in the Highlands, right?’

  ‘This is not the Highlands.’ Polly paused then asked, ‘Does she remind you of your Polish girl, the girl you left behind in Warsaw?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure.’

  ‘She isn’t a refugee, you know. She’s just – feckless.’

  ‘Feckless?’

  ‘Flighty,’ Polly said. ‘Irresponsible.’

  ‘She looks after the kid well enough.’