Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘I am,’ Dominic said.

  ‘Can’t do it.’

  ‘I think you’d better, Dougie,’ Dominic said and putting the little roll of counterfeit fivers into his overcoat pocket went downstairs without another word.

  * * *

  They had taken the boy out for a spin in the last of the Beezers that Dennis had stored in the Govan yard. It was Sunday again. The dank weather that had marred the week had eased and sunlight strayed over Warriston Braes and off to the west the high peaks of Arran were just visible under lifting cloud.

  The sandpits at Warriston remained soft, though. The dips and hollows between the miniature hills were puddled so that the three-wheeler snaked down the tracks and churned furiously on the steep up-slopes while Dennis, in the driving seat, thrashed the long gear stick and Angus, seated on his father’s knee, yelled delightedly and spurred his uncle on to greater feats of speed and daring. The car was mud-spattered, the windscreen smeared. Sand and shale sprayed up with every braking manoeuvre that flung the little car on to another tack on the circuit that Dennis had chosen for its humps and hillocks to give his little nephew one last thrilling ride.

  Tuesday, the Beezer would be sold well below market value: Wednesday, the money would be in the bank: Thursday …

  ‘Dennis, for Cripes’ sake, take it easy,’ Jackie said.

  The Beezer hit the base of the hillock nose down and pitched him forward. He slammed a hand against the unpadded dash and clutched Angus to him. The engine shrieked, the pitch of the car changed abruptly and the boy and he were flung back. Mounds of shale seemed to be coming at him through the glass, and Angus let out a ‘yeeeeeeeeeeeee’ of pure, unalloyed pleasure, and glanced at his Uncle Dennis who grinned at him and winked.

  The car sailed up into the dappled sky and stuck the track with such force that Jackie felt his teeth crunch. He gasped as Angus’s bottom thumped painfully into his stomach, and decided at that moment that he was getting far too old for this caper and that in future he would stick to the bike.

  ‘Again, again, again,’ Angus shouted, almost deafening his father.

  ‘One more, last turn.’ Dennis swung right and aimed the car straight at the straggling path that led up to the quarry and on to the back road that ambled down into Paisley. ‘Hold on to your hat, Gus.’

  Though he would never admit it, Jackie envied his brother his skill at the wheel and his cool nerve. He couldn’t rouse himself to perform acts of daring without anger or a knot of fear in his stomach the size of a football. Had been a time when he had thought himself smarter than his brother, had regarded Dennis as a dumb ox, but those happy, carefree days were long behind him. He knew now that his big brother had qualities he lacked, that he, not Dennis, was the Hallop who needed looking after.

  Jackie crossed his arms over his son’s chest and laced his fingers together as Dennis accelerated. Angus was panting with excitement. He’d been this route before, knew what to expect. He stared straight ahead, straight into the rushing landscape, seeing nothing, not hills or sunlight or the parcels of lambing ewes in the pastures, only the track ahead, the ribbon of shale.

  Dry-mouthed, Jackie watched the arrow of the speedo climb towards seventy. He felt the hammering of the engine all through his body, the feverish slaving of piston rods and cylinder heads while Dennis stroked the car up to maximum speed to hit the first of the runnels flat out.

  The Beezer leapt up and thumped down.

  Angus shouted, ‘Ow-Ow!’ – a ritual chant – and then again, ‘Ow-Ow-Ow!’ and, laughing, flung his little head about. This is what he’ll remember when he’s my age, Jackie thought, this sky-high point in his life when he is happy without knowing why.

  ‘OW!’ Jackie yelled, his voice united with his son’s, then again, with Dennis joining in the chorus too: ‘OW-OW-OW. OH-OW!’

  Then the car was sliding, sliding away broadside to the track, Dennis braking and releasing, hands fast on the wheel, letting it go, letting the car take them round in giddy pirouette. Jackie held on to his son, held his breath, eyes wide open. He saw a bank of coarse grass, a cluster of grey rocks, the sky, then a jumble of burnt heather and a great ashy, pattering cloud of shale as the car rode backside through its own trail and, steadying again, shot off straight as a bullet towards the loading table above the quarry.

  Dennis braked, eased down and drew the Beezer to a halt on an area of flat ground close to a stand of birches that were not yet in leaf. He applied the hand-brake, and sat back. He was smiling, smiling with his eyes as well as his mouth as the engine note died and relieved metal creaked back into place.

  ‘Again, again, Uncle Dennis. Again.’

  ‘Sorry, son, but that’s it.’

  ‘Again, please.’

  ‘No petrol left,’ Jackie said. ‘You don’t wanna have to walk home, do you?’

  Reluctantly Angus answered, ‘No.’

  Jackie opened the passenger door and Angus slid from his knee out and ran off to lie belly-down on the cliff top and look down at the great bestial machines that stood, tethered and passive, on the quarry floor below.

  Jackie stood up, a shade shaky on his pins.

  He lit a cigarette and leaned on the roof of the car, watching his son.

  Dennis clambered out too. He stretched his arms above his head. He was still smiling, wistfully. He let Jackie scout the boy and looked away towards the haze that even on Sunday hung over the towns that bled gradually into Glasgow.

  ‘Jackie,’ he said, ‘I’m quitting the garage.’

  ‘You what?’ Jackie said, only half listening.

  ‘I’m giving you a week’s notice.’

  Jackie lifted his head. He took the cigarette from his lips with finger and thumb, and said, ‘Don’t be daft, Den. You can’t quit. You’re a bloody partner.’

  ‘I’m enlisting.’

  ‘Enlisting?’

  ‘Joining up. Joining the army.’

  ‘You! A soldier! Don’t make me laugh!’ Jackie said.

  ‘Six months,’ Dennis said, ‘a year topper, we’ll all be in the army. Kid yourself not, Jackie, it’s definitely gonna happen.’ He moved around the bonnet of the car, propped an elbow on the metal roof. ‘I’m just gonna get in there first. If I take the plunge now I reckon I’ll have a choice.’

  ‘What d’ ya mean by a choice?’ said Jackie.

  ‘I want to apply for the Royal Engineers.’

  ‘You – an engineer!’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Dennis said. ‘By the time they start draggin’ Tom, Dick ’n’ Harry off the street, I’ll have a head start. Be a sergeant in no time.’

  ‘What’s Mam gonna say about it?’

  ‘Mam had better get used to it,’ Dennis said.

  ‘An’ Gloria?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Dennis sighed. ‘Gloria.’

  Jackie flipped away his cigarette. ‘Is it Gloria you’re runnin’ away from?’

  ‘She’ll have a big slice o’ my army pay, plus’ a piece o’ anythin’ you make from the garage.’

  ‘Salon,’ said Jackie, absently.

  ‘Gloria will do okay.’

  ‘You’re not comin’ back, are ya?’

  ‘’Course I’m comin’ back,’ Dennis said.

  ‘To what?’ said Jackie.

  ‘To whatever’s left,’ Dennis said.

  ‘You’re lettin’ me down, Den. Christ, how am I gonna run the place wi’out you. Billy? Billy’s a joke.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you maybe won’t have Billy much longer either.’

  ‘God Almighty! You’re serious.’

  ‘I am,’ said Dennis.

  He came closer, sliding his elbow along the car roof. He’d known that Jackie wouldn’t understand the logic of his decision.

  He said softly, ‘I want you t’ look after Babs.’

  ‘Babs?’

  ‘You got a good woman there, Jackie.’

  ‘Babs?’ Jackie said again. ‘What about Gloria?’

  ‘You daft bugger,’ said Dennis. ‘You�
��ll never know how lucky you are.’

  ‘Are you tellin’ me you fancy my wife?’

  ‘Nope, I’m just tellin’ you you’ve a lot to lose.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m losin’ you all right,’ Jackie said. ‘The army, Jesus!’

  He stood with arms folded, watching his son crawl on his stomach around the rim of the quarry crater, the rash, slap-dash boy cautious at last. He thought of his brother and the foolish wife he’d chosen for himself, unable to see past her figure, taken in by her simpering smile. Maybe it was as well that Gloria had never given Dennis kids, Jackie thought, not with a war coming, not with everything changing for the absolute worst. He took a step to his right, then, yielding to emotion, clasped Dennis in his arms and hugged him, a big-bear hug like the kind they’d used when they’d wrestled among the middens in back of the tenement in Lavender Court.

  ‘I don’t want ya t’ leave,’ Jackie said.

  ‘Yeah, but I have to,’ Dennis said, thickly. ‘I really have to.’

  ‘I know,’ Jackie said. ‘I know.’

  He broke away, shouted gruffly to Angus, climbed into the passenger seat and let Dennis herd the boy back to the car. He felt his son’s weight descend upon his lap, wriggle, settle. He put his arms about the lad, holding him tightly.

  Dennis squeezed into the Beezer and started the engine.

  ‘Dad?’ Angus turned. ‘Are you cryin’?’

  ‘Not me, son,’ Jackie said. ‘Not me.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  They had arrived a little after five o’clock, dressed up to the nines in Sunday best. Fiona had sense enough to realise that she must make a good impression on the Peabodys, if only for her brother’s sake. In the back of her mind, however, was the thought that she might be better placed than Kenny to take advantage of the invitation and unearth some valuable information to pass on to Winstock.

  The Peabodys too were all dolled up. Bernard wore a navy blue suit and a shirt with a scratchy collar while Lizzie, apron cast aside, was in a floral dress that fell almost to her ankles. She had raided her jewellery box and was draped with beads and bangles that clicked and jangled every time she moved. She was graceful for such a large woman, though, with a soft, cat-like face that reminded Fiona, rather, of her late-lamented grandmother.

  Rosie, the fiancée-to-be, had gone all ‘modern’ in a slim blue dress with a long vee collar of cream linen. She wore make-up, a touch on cheeks and lips, a little pencil to accentuate her eyebrows. She seemed pleased to see Fiona again and was, of course, delighted to have Kenny in her home at last.

  The first half-hour was awkward but by the time they sat down at table and Lizzie and Rosie served up soup the atmosphere had thawed and Bernard had been lured into talking about the perils and privations of army life, a subject broad enough, Fiona thought, to keep them going through supper.

  ‘A wee bird tells me,’ he said, as he carved away at the roast, ‘that you’re thinkin’ of a career in the army.’

  ‘I’d hardly say a career, Mr Peabody,’ Kenny answered. ‘But it occurred to me that if I’m going to be called up eventually I might as well go now.’

  ‘Now?’ said Fiona. ‘That’s a new one.’

  ‘Soon,’ Kenny said.

  Bernard slipped slices of hot roast beef on to warm plates and Rosie, smiling, handed them to the guests. Big bowls of boiled potatoes, tinned beans and bright green garden peas were already on the table and Kenny, not standing on ceremony, helped himself. He was rather too relaxed, Fiona thought. Mention of his plans didn’t throw him off his stride. He reached eagerly for the gravy boat.

  ‘Won’t you be able to stay put?’ Bernard said. ‘Surely the police will be a reserved occupation.’

  ‘There’s been no announcement to that effect,’ Kenny said.

  ‘Somebody’s got to keep law an’ order on the streets, war or no war.’

  ‘What about you, Mr Peabody?’ Fiona said, ‘Will you stay where you are when war’s declared?’

  ‘Maybe there won’t be a war,’ Lizzie said.

  ‘Oh, yes, there will be a war,’ said Fiona. ‘Hitler’s determined on it. He’ll push and push until Chamberlain’s left with no option but to take us into conflict. It’s the Teutonic cast of mind, you see.’

  ‘The what?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘The German press is filled with praise for the Chancellor and, on the whole, supports the precept of conquest rather than conciliation,’ Fiona said. ‘I was reading just the other day in Der Tag that Hitler’s about to deliver an ultimatum to Beran…’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘The Prime Minister,’ Bernard said.

  ‘I thought Mr Chamberlain was the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Prime Minister of Czechoslovakia,’ said Bernard.

  ‘Oh!’ said Lizzie. ‘Aye, I didn’t hear you the first time.’

  Bernard said, ‘Where will we make a stand, do you think?’

  ‘Poland,’ Fiona answered promptly. She was aware that she was showing off and had lost Lizzie Peabody entirely but was unable to check herself. ‘Soon our Foreign Office will make pledges and forge military alliances, after which we’ll be committed whether we like it or not.’

  ‘Unless Hitler honours his promises,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Hitler doesn’t know the meaning of the word “honour”.’ Fiona paused. ‘Franco’s got Spain in his pocket. Before you know it there will be a political and military pact between him and Hitler.’

  ‘And Mussolini too?’ Bernard said.

  ‘Oh, Mussolini won’t want to be left out,’ said Fiona. ‘He might be wishy-washy when it comes to making decisions and he’s worried about what Hitler might want to grab next but…’

  ‘Adolf would never invade Italy, would he?’ Bernard said.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Fiona. ‘He’ll save Italy for later.’

  ‘Later?’ Rosie said.

  ‘After he’s grabbed everything else,’ said Fiona.

  ‘You’re really very well informed, Miss MacGregor,’ Bernard said. ‘Tell me, why do you take such an interest in what the foreign newspapers have to say?’

  Fiona shrugged, a ladylike lift of the shoulders.

  ‘Part of my job.’ She gave Bernard a quick, almost flirtatious glance. ‘There’s a lot more to police work these days than quelling a bit of a rent riot in Gordon Street or keeping traffic moving along the Dumbarton Road.’

  ‘What are you interested in,’ Bernard said, ‘specifically?’

  ‘Italy, mainly,’ Fiona said.

  ‘Not Germany?’

  ‘Italians,’ Fiona said. ‘Mainly Italians.’

  And Kenny said, ‘Fiona, for God’s sake!’

  She sensed that she had overstepped the mark and concentrated on cutting up her beef for a moment or two before she glanced in Bernard’s direction once more. Far from being offended the man was smiling. He put down his knife and fork, rested his chin on his hand and stared at her with something akin to admiration.

  He said, ‘What about Americans?’

  ‘Americans?’ Fiona said. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘How about you, Kenny?’ Bernard said. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I’ve an inkling,’ said Kenny, ‘just an inkling.’

  ‘So it’s not merely the problem of the Italians we have to deal with, is it?’ Bernard said. ‘One Italian in particular.’

  Prudently Fiona said nothing while Kenny chewed and swallowed, put down his knife and fork and said, ‘I was going to wait until later to ask you, Bernard, but since you’ve raised the subject, now’s as good a time as any. I’d like to marry Rosie, if she’ll have me – and take it from me the Italian need not be a problem.’

  ‘How can you stop him being a problem?’ Bernard asked.

  ‘I’ll resign from the Force.’

  ‘Drastic, very drastic,’ Bernard said. ‘What about you, Fiona? Will you stay with the CID and continue to burrow into our family’s affairs when
your brother becomes part of that family?’

  ‘No,’ Fiona said. ‘I’ll go too.’

  ‘Go where?’ said Kenny, surprised.

  ‘Into whatever service will have me,’ said Fiona.

  ‘Haven’t you discussed this between you?’ Bernard said.

  ‘No,’ Fiona answered. ‘But if Kenny pulls out then I’ll have no choice but to do the same. It would be far too awkward otherwise.’

  ‘Isn’t it awkward now?’ Bernard said.

  Lizzie cleared her throat. ‘Can this not wait? Your dinners are gettin’ cold.’

  Bernard raised a hand, not threateningly, to quiet his wife. He said, ‘Tell me something, Fiona; how long do you think it will be before we go to war with Adolf?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘You’re the resident prophet,’ Bernard said. ‘What’s your forecast, your estimate – three months, six months, the end of the year?’

  ‘We’ll be at war before the year’s out,’ Fiona stated.

  ‘Yes, that’s how all the signs are pointing,’ Bernard said. ‘If and when it happens I’ll also be out of a job and won’t be working for the Italian any longer.’

  ‘Bernard!’ Lizzie said. ‘What d’ you mean?’

  ‘Who’s going to buy houses when bombs are falling?’ Bernard said, ‘The housing market’ll go into cold storage for as long as the war lasts. Lyons and Lloyd’s may as well close its doors for all the business it’ll do, an’ not even our mutual friend will be able to prevent it.’

  ‘Our mutual – who are you talkin’ about?’ said Lizzie.

  ‘He means Dominic, Mammy,’ said Rosie, quietly.

  Bernard said, ‘Rosie, do you want to marry this man?’

  ‘I – I – Yuh-yes.’

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Bernard said.

  ‘It’s not so simple as all that,’ Fiona put in.

  ‘Aye, but it is,’ said Bernard.

  ‘There are,’ said Fiona, ‘still impediments.’

  ‘Fiona, please,’ Kenny said.

  ‘That’s up to you, to you and Kenny,’ Bernard said. ‘If you want to make Rosie happy then it’s up to you to get rid of the impediments.’

  ‘I don’t know quite what you mean,’ Fiona said.