The Wayward Wife

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘How, pray tell,’ Mr Gregory was shouting, ‘am I supposed to supply over forty government departments with essential information when you’re purloining my best men?’

  The officer in charge, a uniformed copper with gold braid on his hat, ignored the supervisor’s furious protests and the cries of the prisoners who, Danny noted, were clad in shirtsleeves and braces as if they’d been dragged bodily from the benches.

  ‘That’s old Friedelmann. What the devil are they doing with him? Christ, is he in handcuffs? Don’t tell me he’s in handcuffs?’ Griffiths said. ‘Look, they’ve got Greiner and Olbrich too. Have we made a deal with Adolf to hand over all our Jews, or what?’

  A struggle in the doorway of M Unit’s hut revealed little Thomas Heckroth, a jovial imp of a man and one of the unit’s best translators. He was arm-locked by two burly policemen and backed by an MP with a baton which, even as Griff and Danny watched, was placed across Thomas’s neck with enough force to bring him to his knees.

  ‘Three years in a Nazi labour camp,’ Griff said. ‘How can they possibly mistake Heckroth for a fascist?’

  ‘My wife, please find my wife,’ Thomas Heckroth pleaded as he was bundled into the back of the van.

  Mr Gregory had been joined by Mr Harrison and three other supervisors, all clamouring to be shown warrants of arrest which, it appeared, were not forthcoming.

  Hanging on to their bicycles, Griff and Danny stopped some way short of the crowd.

  Kate appeared from behind the editing hut, accompanied by four or five young women who gathered about Griffiths and Danny. Griff lowered his bicycle to the grass then put his arm around one of the typists, Ursula, while Femi, a good-looking Finnish girl, rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘What’s goin’ on?’ Danny said.

  ‘They’re arresting all the Germans and Austrians,’ Kate informed him. ‘The police have already pounced on those in the village, Jews, non-Jews and anti-fascists all bundled in with Nazis, semi-Nazis and any other poor soul who might be considered a threat.’

  ‘What will they do with them?’ Ursula asked.

  ‘Stick them in internment camps for the duration, I imagine,’ Griff answered. ‘Guilty until proven innocent, that’s what war does to natural justice. No surprise, really. Thank God, I can trace my ancestry back to Gwyn ap Nudd or they’d have me in handcuffs just for riding a bicycle.’

  ‘Mr Gregory will sort it out, won’t he?’ said Ursula. Neither Griff nor Danny had the gall to inform her that Mr Gregory was just as helpless as the prisoners in the face of emergency orders. ‘What about their wives? Who’ll tell their wives? Or will they take the women too?’

  ‘Not you, Ursula,’ Griff said and, giving the beautiful Finn a squeeze, added, ‘Nor you, Femi. Danny’s right: Germans and Austrians only.’

  ‘Until Mussolini throws in with Hitler,’ Danny said, ‘after which there won’t be an ice-cream seller or spaghetti house waiter left in London an’ we’ll lose our four Italians.’

  Doors at the rear of the van slammed. On a signal from the policeman in the braided hat, the van reversed across the grass and, gathering speed, vanished down the driveway. The coppers scrambled into the motorcars and clambered into the back of the lorry and, within minutes, were gone too, leaving nothing behind but dust.

  Mr Gregory called out, ‘Translators whose second language is German please report to my office immediately. I know. I know. We’ve all had a shock and we’ve all lost friends, at least temporarily, but, please, people, remember why we’re here and how important our job is.’ He paused and then, gathering breath, shouted, ‘All of you, back to your desks.’

  Monitors, editors and typists, Kate, Griff and Danny among them, trailed obediently back into the huts which, without the presence of Friedelmann, Greiner and cheerful little Tommy Heckroth, seemed less like home than ever.

  Seated at the table in the kitchen, wolfing down a second ham sandwich, Leo Romano said, ‘So who told you I was on the run?’

  ‘Steve.’

  ‘He tell you why?’

  Breda poured boiling water into a teapot, swirled it around and tipped it into the sink. For a moment a cloud of steam hid her face from her daddy’s enquiring glance. He wiped mustard from his beard with his sleeve and crammed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

  Breda measured tea from a caddy and filled the teapot with hot water. She paused to squint from the window but the back yard was deserted; even the cat had gone.

  ‘You ’ad your ’and in Harry King’s till,’ she said, ‘an’ Harry wants his money back.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t gonna get it,’ Leo said.

  Breda put the teapot on the hob, washed a mug and dried it carefully on her apron. ‘How long you been wearin’ the face-fuzz?’

  Leo grinned and stroked his beard. ‘Like it?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘I needed a new look to fit my new identity. Thought I’d be long gone by now but the papers didn’t come through an’ I missed the boat.’

  Breda decided to say nothing about Vince’s midnight call or her visit to the Brooklyn or the geezers from Special Branch sniffing around Stratton’s. She trusted her father even less than she trusted herself.

  ‘What papers?’ she said. ‘What boat?’

  ‘Identity card an’ passport,’ Leo told her. ‘I thought it’d be easy but turns out half the crooks in England had the same idea so I had to join the queue at the forgers an’ wait for the right boat to turn up.’

  ‘The boat to Canada?’ Breda said. ‘You’ve been plannin’ this for months, you crafty old sod. That’s why you wanted me an’ Billy over there.’

  He picked crumbs from the plate with the ball of his thumb. ‘You’re all I got now, Breda, you an’ Billy.’

  Breda poured tea into the mug and put it on the table together with a milk jug and sugar bowl. She lit a cigarette and, leaning on the edge of the sink, sized him up.

  He didn’t look like her old man, not a shadow of the man she remembered from childhood, all brash and natty, never a hair out of place. Only his eyes were the same, those sexy dark eyes that told you he was all Italian, eyes that the ladies of Shadwell had found irresistible.

  She blew smoke. ‘So where you stayin’?’

  ‘A safe place.’ He sipped tea. ‘Safe as it can be. I’ve got my papers an’ a berth all bought an’ paid for on a cargo boat due to sail on the 27th.’

  ‘You can’t ’ave much dough left, Dad,’ Breda said. ‘I can lend you a few quid if you need it.’

  To her astonishment she saw his eyes fill with tears. He sniffed and tried to smile, sniffed again, then buried his face in the tea mug to hide his distress.

  ‘You’re a good girl, Breda. You was always a good girl. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter,’ he mumbled. ‘Breaks my heart to think how I treated you an’ your brother. Poor Georgie, gone now, poor kid. There’s only one person in this whole wide world I can depend on an’ that’s you, darlin’.’

  Breda crossed to the table and placed a reassuring hand on the crown of his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, Dad, you can always depend on me.’

  He fished the heavy paper-wrapped package from beneath his chair and placed it solemnly on the table.

  ‘What,’ Breda said, ‘is that?’

  ‘Money,’ Leo told her. ‘Cash money.’

  ‘Cash?’ said Breda. ‘For me?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What is it for then?’

  ‘It’s my life savings. I need you to keep it for me till the war’s over and I’m ready to start up again. I’ve taken what I need to see me through. The rest is gravy.’

  ‘How much gravy?’

  ‘Three grand, give or take.’

  ‘That’s an awful lot of give or take,’ Breda said. ‘What you want me to do with it?’

  ‘I told you, keep it till I come back.’

  ‘You got a bleedin’ nerve expectin’ me to stash money you stole from Harry King. Geeze, Dad, if he
ever finds out there’s no sayin’ what ’e’ll do to me.’

  ‘He won’t find out. Who’s gonna tell him?’

  ‘You might when he tickles your feet with a blow torch.’

  Leo laid a pale hand on top of the package. ‘I can’t put it in a bank, Breda. Too many funny folk asking too many funny questions about where money comes from these days. No, you gotta keep it for me, someplace safe.’

  ‘Where? In my knickers?’

  ‘Don’t be dirty.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk.’ Breda pressed her belly against the edge of the table. ‘In a shoebox, is it?’

  ‘Cashbox.’ He reached for her hand and, sensing her hesitation, squeezed her fingers and applied a dollop of the old Romano charm which, given his sorry state, was a lot more resistible than it used to be. ‘War’s over, I come back, I’ll see you right – you and Billy – see you both right.’

  ‘Unless Harry King sees me right before then.’

  ‘Steve won’t let that happen.’

  ‘Does Steve know you’re ’ere?’

  ‘’Course not.’

  ‘Where exactly are you ’oled up?’

  It was her father’s turn to hesitate.

  Breda said, ‘Bleedin’ hell, Dad, you don’t think I’m gonna shop you to Harry King, do yah? Come on!’

  ‘Brighton,’ Leo said. ‘I’m rooming in Brighton with a woman I know. She’s my go-between.’

  ‘What’s ’er name?’

  ‘You don’t need to know her name,’ Leo said.

  ‘Okay, but why Brighton?’

  ‘Brighton’s the one town on the coast where Harry’s boys ain’t welcome. Ada’s lot might not be as tough as they once was but they’re still tough enough to keep Harry’s boys from showing their faces in Brighton. Anyhow, Ada’s got all the necessary contacts at her fingertips.’

  ‘How much you payin’ this woman?’

  ‘An arm and a leg,’ Leo admitted. ‘I cashed in my retirement fund.’ He squeezed her hand again. ‘Say you’ll do it. Say you’ll look after my nest egg till the war’s over.’

  ‘’Course I will. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘And my money?’

  ‘An’ your money,’ Breda said.

  ‘Good, good,’ her father said. ‘Now all I gotta do’s say goodbye to Billy. Where is my little darlin’ by the way?’

  ‘Out with ’is dad – an’, believe me, you don’t wanna be ’ere when Ronnie gets back. Since ’e put on that uniform ’e’s gone all righteous an’ might even turn you in. I’ll say goodbye to Billy for yah. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Leo agreed and, rising, took her in his arms and hugged her. ‘You’re a good kid to do this for your old man, Breda, you really are a damned good kid.’

  ‘I know I am,’ said Breda.

  Ronnie would disapprove; that wasn’t guesswork, inspired or otherwise, but a fact as plain as the nose on your face.

  It was as if his fireman’s uniform had come complete with a whole new set of values that added up to Patriotism with a capital P. One thing Breda was glad of was that Ronnie was now far too principled to go chasing after skirt and far too conscious of his role as a public servant to go out of a night for a skinful.

  He hadn’t lost his sense of humour or his fondness for rolling his wife in the hay, thank goodness, but when it came to stashing stolen cash, let alone spending it, you didn’t have to be a genius to predict how Ronnie would react. She and Leo’s cashbox would be down the local nick before you could say Tommy Trinder.

  She hated deceiving Ron but her conscience was salved somewhat by the two thousand, eight hundred and fifty quid that her father had managed to stuff into the dented metal cashbox.

  At first she thought of taking the box up to Stratton’s and hiding it in the back of the larder. But Matt and Ron had converted the larder into an air-raid shelter that Matt visited from time to time to ensure that the bottled beer stored there for emergencies hadn’t gone off.

  In any case, she wanted to keep as close to the money as possible. She roved frantically about the house in search of a safe hiding place and, just minutes before Ron and Billy arrived home, while seated on the throne in the lavatory at the end of the yard, she found it.

  In the angle of the roof behind the cistern she prised out a loose plank and, balanced precariously on the pedestal, slid the cashbox into the cavity and carefully replaced the board. She had barely finished her task when Billy barged through the gate from the lane.

  ‘Mum,’ Billy shouted. ‘Mummy. You in there?’

  ‘Yeah. Won’t be a tick.’

  She smoothed her skirt, adjusted her bra and, smiling, opened the door to allow her son to bulldoze past her and, with no inhibitions, tinkle into the pan.

  ‘Flush,’ Ron called out.

  Billy obediently pulled at the ball on the end of the chain and, still fiddling with his trousers, emerged to the sound of rushing water. Breda crouched and helped him with his buttons then, patting his tail, sent him shooting off into the kitchen in search, no doubt, of something to eat.

  She linked arms with her husband.

  ‘Nice time?’ she asked.

  ‘Billy enjoyed it. You?’

  ‘Nice enough.’

  ‘Dad didn’t drop round then?’

  ‘Dad? Whose dad?’

  ‘My dad, of course,’ Ron said.

  ‘No,’ Breda said, ‘no one dropped round. All very quiet an’ peaceful, really,’ then, gripping his arm a little more tightly, steered him away from the water closet and safely into the house.

  Susan’s father had always been a modest man and had made sure that she hadn’t been subjected to a casual education in male anatomy. She’d seen him bare-chested, of course, when he’d washed off the grime of the docks at the sink and once, though only once, she’d caught a glimpse of her brother in the altogether and had been less than impressed by the twiddly little bit of flesh he’d tried to hide with his hand before, yelling, he’d chased her from the room.

  There had been statues and the unabashed nudity of males in paintings on show in the Tate, plus the distasteful drawings that the girls at school had passed about, giggling, and the sight now and then of a boy baby scampering about bare-bummed. But the first adult male Susan had ever seen naked had been her lover, Mercer Hughes, who, for better or worse, had become the yardstick, as it were, for the men who came after whom, to date, numbered only two.

  Bob Gaines might have scruples about bedding another man’s wife but when it came to lovemaking he had no inhibitions at all. Susan couldn’t shake the feeling that he was evaluating her in the light not of a small table lamp but of ten or twenty women who had gone before; women with unblemished complexions and perfect shapes to whom she, narrow-hipped and small-breasted, would never match up.

  He had kissed her in the taxi on the way back from the Blue Lagoon where they’d danced up close in the hour after midnight, so close that she could feel his need of her pressing against her stomach and, gratified, had rubbed against him in the half-dark in the centre of the dance floor where the rotating beam from the crystal ball did not fall and where all around in slow, swaying circles, young men and girls clung to each other as if there would be no partings, no regrets come morning.

  ‘Time to go,’ Bob had whispered.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘My place.’

  There were ten or a dozen people in the shared suite in the Lansdowne, all drunk or getting there. Pete Slocum was sprawled on the couch, two girls half lying on top of him, one of whom was already asleep.

  Bob took Susan’s hand and led her along the corridor to the bedroom. No one cocked an eyebrow or stirred themselves. Only Slocum’s hooded glance brought Susan a moment of guilt. Then she was safe in the bedroom, alone with Bob; fearful that she wouldn’t be good enough or bad enough or woman enough and that by shedding her clothes she would be revealed as a skinny little East End girl to whom Bob would make love only out of pity or because she was handy.

/>   He propped a wooden chair under the door handle to keep out unwanted guests and then, to Susan’s dismay, stripped off all his clothes.

  The pink-painted wickerwork chair seemed more suited to a Camden Town boudoir or a bijou nursery in Chelsea than an elegant room in Lansdowne House.

  It creaked under Bob’s weight when, naked now, he seated himself upon it and, leaning forward, invited her to undress. She had no nightgown, no pyjamas, no excuse to escape into the bathroom. He rested his elbows on his knees, head cocked, watching her. He looked huge in the slant of light from the lamp, more naked than nude, if such a thing was possible. He was heavy but not fat, his chest and belly sprinkled with dark hair, the shadow between his thighs dark too.

  ‘Don’t you want to?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s just …’

  ‘You don’t want me to look, is that it?’

  She nodded and, when he beckoned, went to him and stood meekly before him like a child awaiting a reprimand.

  Resting his brow against her, he buried his face in her skirt. She looked down at his broad shoulders and the curve of his back. He slipped his hands under her skirt, stroked her thighs and softly, almost teasingly, opened her with his fingertips.

  She sagged against him and closed her eyes.

  The first helpless rush rose and broke and immediately rose again. She kicked off her shoes and hoisting up her skirt showed him that she was ready.

  He rose from the chair, lifted her on to him and, locking her legs about his hips, rode her across the room until they fell, still locked, on to the big broad bed.

  12

  While much of Europe was falling to German advances and British soldiers were piling up on the beaches of Dunkirk, a number of ‘heap big pow-wows’, as Basil called them, took place in the smoke-filled offices of Broadcasting House in the course of which BBC administrators and representatives from the Ministry of Information sought to protect their personal agendas. Basil, of course, would have none of it. The subject of his programme, he said, was Britain on the brink and if that wasn’t dynamic enough for his overlords then he would gladly turn in his stopwatch and let someone else take the strain.