Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She rested her cheek against his back. ‘I don’t want to go home.’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘I know.’

  He stroked her hair then lifted her, took her in his arms and kissed her. She leaned her head against his chest. ‘I missed you, darling,’ she said. ‘God, you’ve no idea how much I missed you.’

  She heard him laugh. ‘I kinda got that impression,’ he said. ‘I missed you too – in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  He did not hurry her. After a moment, though, Polly released him, put both feet on the floor and tried to stand up.

  ‘Do you remember where it is?’ Tony said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bathroom.’

  ‘Yes, I…’

  ‘Let me put on the light.’

  ‘No.’

  He supported her as she groped on the carpet for her panties and suspender belt. Her handbag and shoes were where she had thrown them in her haste to be with him an hour – no, two hours ago. The children would be home by now. Dominic too perhaps. She tried to devise a credible lie to tell Dominic but couldn’t bear to think of Dominic while Tony was with her.

  Holding on to his hand, she stood upright. Clutching her clothes and handbag, she made her way to the bathroom and switched on the overhead light. She was blinded by its brightness, startled by the visage that blinked at her from the circular mirror above the wash-basin – a thin, pinched face, foxy and furtive, hair mussed, lips bruised, eyes dark and anxious.

  She turned her back to the mirror and fumbled with the hooks and rubber knobs of the garter belt. She washed, applied make-up, repaired her hair and only when she felt stronger and more in control did she return to the bedroom.

  Tony had switched on the light.

  ‘Better now?’ he asked.

  ‘Hmm.’

  He had remade the bed and closed the curtain. He was fully dressed, his scarf, overcoat and hat lying on the bedspread. On the bed too was a large brown-leather valise. He offered her his cigarette case. She took a cigarette, leaned into him while he lit it for her, dabbed the back of his hand with her fingertips, a stupid little gesture, far too flirtatious in the circumstances.

  The living-room was still in darkness. She could see nothing in the light from the bedroom save a rectangle of burnt-pink carpet and a shell-shaped standard lamp. She wanted to sit on the bed but the silk spread was too smooth to disturb. The pillows had been neatly tucked away, all house-proud and shipshape. At any moment Tony would pick up the valise, take her arm, lead her through the darkened living-room, down the cement staircase, out into the courtyard and into the motorcar to return her to her children and her husband.

  ‘Why haven’t you called me?’

  ‘I tried,’ Tony said. ‘Believe me, Polly, I tried.’

  ‘Where have you been? I mean, where are going with your case all packed?’

  ‘I’m having supper with my folks, then Mass at…’

  ‘And tomorrow? Will I see you tomorrow?’

  ‘No, Poll. I won’t be around for a while.’

  ‘I should have guessed that much, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Am I not entitled to ask?’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Can’t you? What am I to think then? That I’m just a bit on the side, a sort of interlude to something or someone else?’

  ‘That isn’t true, and you know it.’

  ‘Why won’t you tell me? I won’t blame you. Just tell me.’

  ‘I’ll be gone for a couple of months.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not far away,’ he said. ‘But…’

  She walked away from him, clipped over to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain. She looked down into the court, at puddles of pastel-coloured light on the macadam, the misty bloom around the lamps, at the motorcar waiting below. She gave him time to complete the sentence, to help her understand.

  He said nothing.

  Cigarette between her fingers, an elbow cupped with her hand, she swung round: ‘Are the police after you? Are you hiding out?’

  His surprise was genuine. ‘Hell, no! What makes…’

  ‘Where are you, Tony. I just want to know where you are.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette in the steel ashtray on the bedside table and did not look at her.

  ‘Breslin,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m camped over in Breslin.’

  ‘With Bernard?’

  ‘Bernard? No, not with Bernard.’

  ‘It’s the girl, isn’t it? Tell me. I won’t be angry. Is it that girl, that blonde? Are you having an affair, Tony? Are you living with her? It’s got nothing to do with Dominic at all, has it?’

  ‘Nope, that’s not true.’

  ‘What is true, then?’

  ‘I tried to call you. Three times. I got that damned girl, Patricia. I didn’t want to … Look, it is the girl, the blonde, but she’s only part of it. I’m not … Oh, Christ! She’s the one who’s hiding out, not me. I’m her damned nursemaid, Polly, not her lover.’

  ‘Is it Dominic?’

  ‘No.’ He closed his eyes for a moment before he told her. ‘It’s not Dominic either,’ he said. ‘She’s hiding out on a farm near Breslin. We’re looking after her. If you want the truth, Polly, I can’t stand her. It’s worse than you can imagine being cooped up with her all day long, day after bloody day.’

  ‘Is it really?’

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ Tony said. ‘Living with her and thinking about you. All the time, thinking about you, wishing I was with you, wishing…’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that you’re in love with me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘Yeah, I am.’

  He made no attempt to take her in his arms and Polly, satisfied at last, did not press herself upon him. She wafted her hand to disperse the smoke that hung in the bedroom, then nodded. ‘All right, Tony’ she said. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Now perhaps we really ought to go.’

  ‘Polly, I love you.’

  ‘Hush,’ she said, gently. ‘Hush, darling.’

  ‘I mean it, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘I know you do.’

  * * *

  ‘My, but it fair stinks in here,’ Lizzie said. ‘Now, remind me how I do it.’

  ‘Put out some money,’ Rosie said. ‘Four pennies.’

  She watched her mother fumble with the scuffed purse, thumb the brass clips that even after twenty years of constant use were still stiff enough to break the edges of your fingernails. Mammy stuck her nose into it, fished in the squirrel-store of old tram tickets and out-dated receipts and found four coins. She glanced at her daughter helplessly.

  ‘Put them on the ledge on top of the box,’ Rosie instructed.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Insert two pennies into the slot. That slot.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Hold the receiver…’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘This bit, hold it to your ear and when you have dialled – here, never mind, I will dial the number for you.’

  ‘I wisht you would,’ Lizzie said, gratefully.

  She stood back, jamming herself into a corner of the telephone kiosk as if the act of turning the silver dial would result in an explosion. It wasn’t the substance of the call that made her mother nervous Rosie realised but the mechanics. Lord knows, it had taken her long enough to persuade Mammy to make the call in the first place. She’d used all her wiles, all her charm, had even shed tears at one point until Mammy had crumbled, as Rosie had known she would.

  She dialled the number, adjusted the earpiece against her mother’s ear, instructed her where to put the pennies when she heard an answering voice. Rosie was nervous too, well aware that there might be repercussions. Love had made her careless, though, and she was dying to see her sisters’ faces when she walked in with a tall, hand
some man on her arm, a man of her own at last.

  Her mother stiffened, nodded.

  Rosie pressed the silver button.

  ‘P-Polly, is that you?’ Mammy said. ‘Can you hear me? I can hear you fine.’

  Cursing her weakness, Rosie watched her mother’s lips move.

  ‘What is she saying, Mammy?’

  ‘Ssshhh.’ Mammy spoke into the telephone again. ‘It’s Rosie. I’ve Rosie here with me. She wants to know if she can bring a friend to the Christmas party?’ Rosie bit her lip, clenched her fists. Mammy went on. ‘Aye, a boyfriend.’

  Rosie watched her mother’s plump cheeks quiver, the worried expression fade. She wondered what Polly had said, what particular remark had tickled her mother and relaxed her. She longed to snatch the speaking-piece from her mother’s grasp and shout into it. Useless, of course. She wouldn’t be able to decipher a word of Polly’s answer, not a blessed word.

  ‘Aye, it’s a sweetheart. We think it’s serious.’ Mammy chuckled. ‘One more won’t make much difference to you, will it, Polly? He’s on his own. Comes from the islands. We want to see what he’s like, Bernard an’ me.’ She nodded, listened, nodded once more. ‘Aye, I suppose we are just bein’ nosy.’

  ‘Tell her that Kenny is a policeman,’ Rosie said.

  Mammy held up a hand for silence. The earpiece was pressed into her hair, her hat askew. She was pleased to have mastered the intricacies of the telephone system, relieved that the miracle of communication had worked for her.

  Rosie plucked at her sleeve. ‘Tell Polly that Kenny is…’

  Mammy hunched and turned away and as she’d done so often in the past engaged in close conversation with Polly, her favourite.

  Rosie opened her mouth to protest but found that she could not utter a sound. An answer had been given, apparently. They would be talking about the children now, about Stuart and Ishbel, about Babs too perhaps, what Babs was up to, not about the most important thing, the only thing that mattered, getting her together with Kenny on Christmas Day and showing him off to her sisters.

  Rearing a little, Mammy shook the receiver. ‘Polly’s not there. She’s gone. I was just goin’ to…’

  ‘What did she say?’ Rosie shouted. ‘Did Polly say that it would be all right for Kenny to come to the party?’

  Mammy nodded. ‘Aye, of course she did.’

  Rosie closed her eyes and sank back against the glass, almost overcome with relief that her Christmas would be complete after all. When she opened her eyes again she found that Mammy had scooped up the unused pennies and snapped them away in her purse.

  ‘Are you pleased?’ Mammy mouthed.

  ‘I am. Yes, thank you, I really am,’ said Rosie.

  And Mammy said, ‘Now all we have t’ do is tell Bernard.’

  * * *

  Dougie had never seen the like before, a great tray of piping hot mince pies dusted with fine sugar. The aroma from the baking tray filled the house and, mingled with the fragrance of coffee, seemed to represent the rich, exotic life that he might soon be entitled to share – if, that is, he could keep himself off the booze.

  He was more sober than he had been in years. And not suffering. Why wasn’t he suffering? No nightmares, no uncontrollable fits of shaking, no clouding of the mind and, astonishingly, no great upsurge of grief. To his chagrin he found that he thought of Emma hardly at all, or of his dead sons. They seemed like phantoms now, like characters out of a storybook he had read when he was very young. Had Dominic Manone known that this would happen? Was that why Dominic had continued to feed him a bit of cash now and then, or had he been just too valuable all those years back to be allowed to rot away?

  When she poured brandy into large glass globes and handed him one, Dougie thought that he had died and gone to heaven.

  ‘What time is it now?’ the girl asked, in spite of the fact that the clock on the wall, which he’d wound for her that very morning, showed three minutes to midnight. ‘Is it Christmas yet?’

  ‘Nah, not yet,’ Dougie told her.

  The door was open and the cat had gone out. It didn’t matter to the tabby what day it was, Dougie thought, though Frobe would have her share of turkey tomorrow, and her share of cream.

  He carried the brandy glass out into the yard.

  The midnight clear? Hardly. But the sky was calm, almost serene, and through the clouds that sauntered over the vault of heaven he detected the odd star. God, it’s Sunday, he thought. Christmas falls on Sunday, and that’s why the mills and shipyards are closed, the steam hammers stilled. There would be no bells, no sirens or hooters to signal midnight as there would be on Hogmanay. The Scots were a backward people who still favoured the pagan ceremonies of New Year, all drink and family sentiment, over a celebration of the Saviour’s birth.

  Dougie walked on, the glass in his hand untouched.

  The girl would be pining for her people, for Christmas at home. It would be unnatural if she were not. He was grateful to her for putting up with him and to Dominic Manone for digging him out of his shell. He felt elated, almost exalted, by the strangeness of the experience, by being sober and sharp in his senses, by having a clean bed to sleep in and someone to cook his food, someone to remind him of the good things he had left behind, screened by a whisky haze.

  He imagined that he was alone out there at the end of the yard, staring at the curve of the field and the sky but the girl was just behind him, staring up at the sky too, expecting – what? A sign, a signal that Christmas had come down upon them, even if it was just a siren or a blast from a factory hooter? No, no, dear, he felt like telling her, not in Scotland.

  She expected something, though, and he turned as she closed on him.

  Behind her he could see the cobbles scribbled with warm light, the farmhouse door wide open, Frobisher sitting on the step like a picture in a book.

  ‘Is it Christmas?’ the girl asked, soft-voiced as a child.

  ‘Aye, lass,’ Dougie told her. ‘I reckon it must be by now.’

  She stood by him, touching his shoulder, looking out at the fields.

  She had a brandy globe in her hand and tears in her eyes. He could see them glistening in the light from the farmhouse door.

  He nodded and raised his glass.

  ‘Zum Wohl, Fraulein,’ he said. ‘Frohe Weihnachten!’

  And Penny, without pausing, answered him:

  ‘Zum Wohl, Mein Herr. Zum Wohl!’

  Chapter Eight

  It was just after two o’clock when Jackie arrived in a spanking new Austin four-door to pick them up and convey them across the river to Manor Park. He was even more garrulous than usual for he had been as excited as a child at the English-style Christmas morning ritual that Babs had adopted soon after their marriage.

  There were baubles, balloons and paper chains all over the bungalow – though Babs had drawn the line at having a tree – and Angus and his sisters had been awake since five a.m. and at five-thirty had been let loose on the presents that Santa Claus had piled up around the fireplace, a brand-new two-wheel bicycle for Angus and a huge doll’s house filled with miniature furniture for May and June prominent among them. Baby April, of course, had not been forgotten but she seemed less interested in cuddly toys than in wrapping paper and cavorted among it like a little puppy until giggling made her sick.

  By half-past seven Jackie had been out with the lad and the bicycle, steering his son along cold grey pavements, having almost as much fun as the boy. The rest of the morning, however, had been anticlimactic if all out war can be called an anticlimax. Angus had squabbled with the girls and the girls, very unusually, had squabbled with each other. April had reacted by howling and Babs had had to fight all the way to bathe and dress her little darlings, bathe and dress herself while Jackie, already sporting a hand-cut pale blue three-piece suit and pure silk necktie, had tried vainly to calm the kiddies down by reading from a big colour-plate storybook in which none of the little monsters had any interest at all.

  At one-thi
rty he loaded them all into the Austin, whizzed round to Manor Park Avenue, dropped off his family and a great stack of presents at Dominic’s house and headed back through Glasgow and across the bridge and out by the round route to Knightswood. He was still buzzing with the thrill of being Daddy Christmas, still searching optimistically for the missing ingredient – peace, perhaps, or goodwill – and had high hopes of finding it with Bernard’s bunch.

  But no. No. No. Bernard’s bunch were sullen and sulky and Jackie would have had more chance of uncovering the spirit of Christmas in a Sally-Ann hostel than in the bosom of this branch of the family.

  Bernard was done up in a black suit and overcoat and, of all things, a bowler hat. If it hadn’t been for his red-striped tie he might have been going to a funeral instead of a Christmas party. Rosie was no better. She looked, Jackie thought, good enough to eat in a sort of tea-gown thing with a fur-trimmed cape over her shoulders and a natty little hat, not unlike Bernard’s bowler, perched on top of her curls. But his big, smacking kiss of seasonal greeting was met with a shove and something akin to a snarl. Even Lizzie, his comfortable, consoling mother-in-law, wore a face like thunder as she sank down in the back seat and folded her arms over the parcels she had carried out from the house.

  ‘Give me those.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Who’s sitting in the back?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Where’s Rosie sitting?’

  ‘Here, with me.’

  ‘You in?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Bernard dumped himself into the front seat, slammed the door. Jackie swung the Austin away from the terrace, executed a three-point turn and headed out on to Anniesland Road.

  ‘Merry Christmas everybody, eh?’ he shouted cheerily.

  Nobody returned his greeting. Nobody uttered a word.

  ‘What’s wrong wi’ you lot then?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Bernard told him snappishly. ‘Just shut up and drive.’

  * * *

  Bernard was first out of the car, first to the door. He was not usually so lacking in courtesy but today he left Lizzie to extricate herself from the narrow seat unaided. He darted across the gravel, arrived at the front door just as Dominic opened it, clasped his boss by the elbow and drew him down the hallway.