Favourable comments in the press and reports from the CBC that several regional stations in North America had picked up the programme for re-broadcast indicated that Speaking Up’s blend of reportage, comment and discussion was having the desired effect and Basil vowed that, within the parameters required by military censorship, he would continue to deliver what the public wanted without treating listeners on either side of the Atlantic like dolts.
Susan barely had time to bathe, change her clothes and snatch a few hours’ sleep as crises piled on crises and the production staff struggled to keep on top of the news.
She saw little of Bob outside the studio save for an occasional snatched ‘lunch’ in the flat in Rothwell Gardens and heard nothing at all from Danny who was probably as busy as she was and not, she told herself, sulking.
‘Not a word?’ Vivian said.
‘Not so much as a postcard.’
‘You have written to him, haven’t you?’
‘A couple of letters. I haven’t had much time.’
‘Didn’t he reply?’
‘No.’
‘Why haven’t you telephoned him?’
‘He isn’t allowed personal calls.’
‘Doesn’t his silence concern you?’ said Vivian.
Susan hesitated. ‘I suspect he’s playing tit-for-tat and he’ll come round in his own good time.’
‘For God’s sake, girl, he’s your husband. You can’t just prance about as if you were footloose and fancy-free.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk.’
‘That’s the second time you’ve told me that,’ Vivian said. ‘May I point out that I’m an old maid and Basil’s a widower and that anything we choose to do hurts no one. Let me ask you one question and beg the favour of a straight answer: do you think Danny would do this to you?’
‘Do what to me?’
‘Take a lover,’ Vivian said.
‘He wouldn’t dare.’
‘I see,’ said Vivian. ‘What’s sauce for the goose is not – repeat not – sauce for the gander?’
‘Be all right if I were a chap, wouldn’t it?’ Susan said. ‘Give me one good reason why a girl shouldn’t have a little bit of fun too.’
‘Is that all it is, a little bit of fun?’
‘Not so little, if you must know.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re in love with Robert Gaines?’
‘Of course not. I’m not in love with anyone.’
‘What about Bob Gaines, what if he’s in love with you?’
‘He’s not that much of a fool,’ Susan said. ‘It’s a fling, that’s all, a nice little fling for both of us.’
‘Well, I just hope you’re right,’ said Vivian. ‘And I just hope that Danny doesn’t catch on.’
‘Fat chance of that happening,’ Susan said, ‘given that he’s chained hand and foot to a desk in Evesham.’
Monday, mid-afternoon: they lay together in sweltering heat in a few hours stolen from their hectic schedules.
‘Don’t fall asleep,’ Bob said.
‘If I do, I’ll never waken up,’ Susan said.
‘Have you anything round here to eat?’
‘Not much,’ Susan said. ‘Eggs, I think.’
‘Fresh?’
‘Probably not.’
He moved against her, cupped her breast and touched her nipple lightly with his thumb. The window was open an inch or two but there was no breeze and the air in the flat was stale and lifeless. Something was going on in Rothwell Gardens, some vaguely military thing, but neither Bob nor she had the energy to look out to see what the shouting was about.
‘Are you working this evening?’ Susan asked.
‘No option. I’ve promised the Post a piece on the paddle-wheelers that made the run to Dunkirk. It’s a gift of a subject and I have all the notes I made in Ramsgate so it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to knock off.’
‘We also need your material for Tuesday, remember.’
‘You never let up on a guy, do you?’
The sheet that had covered them had been discarded and she could see all of him, no part hidden. He was flaccid now and had carefully removed the rubber and, like a true blue gentleman, had wrapped it in a handkerchief and hidden it in his shoe to dispose of later.
She said, ‘Why did you never have children?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘With your wife: children?’
‘What the hell sort of a question’s that?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘What sort of a father do you think I’d make,’ he said, ‘when I spend nine-tenths of my life out in the field?’
‘Like a farmer.’
‘Foraging for news; yeah, right.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to have a son?’ Susan said.
‘You’re not trying to tell me you’re pregnant, are you?’
‘Not even in jest, darling; not even in jest.’
The sound of gunfire from the gardens was startlingly loud in the cloying afternoon heat.
‘Shooting traitors, I expect,’ said Susan.
‘Blanks,’ Bob told her. ‘Home Guard drill, maybe.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Pearl didn’t – let’s be polite about it and say she just wasn’t ready for motherhood.’
‘You mean she didn’t like sex.’
‘Oh, yeah, she liked sex well enough. She just didn’t like doing it with me.’
Susan sat up. ‘Why ever not?’
‘She thought I was too demanding.’
‘You are, you know, far too demanding.’
‘Is that a complaint?’
‘Far from it.’
‘Look,’ he said, not moving, ‘I really must shove off.’
She lay back on the pillow. ‘Me, too. Baz will have fits if I’m not back by four. The running order for Tuesday’s gone to pot. Major Cazalet’s been called away, apparently, and left us rather stranded.’
‘Who’s doing the piece on the Emergency Powers Act?’
‘At the moment, no one. The ministry are griping at the very idea. We’re trying to persuade Walpole to do it but he isn’t at all keen.’
‘Viv?’
‘Basil thinks it should be a man.’
‘That won’t please her highness,’ Bob said.
‘Wouldn’t know. She’s not speaking to me these days.’
‘Because of us?’
‘I think she’s worried about her brother.’
‘Have they arrested him yet?’ Bob said.
‘No, but they should have. He’s a black-hearted villain through and through.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not as well as he’d have liked.’
Another round of rifle fire peppered the air, followed, anomalously, by the blast of a whistle as if the drill were a football match governed by the rules of fair play.
‘Proudfoot wasn’t one of them then?’ Bob said.
‘One of them?’
‘One of your paramours.’
‘Just how many “paramours” do you think I’ve had?’
‘Dozens for all I know,’ Bob said.
‘One,’ Susan said. ‘Just one.’
‘And a husband?’
‘Husbands don’t count.’
‘Well, who am I to disagree?’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’ She tangled her legs with his and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘Forgive me?’
‘Nothing to forgive.’
‘Did you love her – your wife, I mean?’
‘She was the only girl in Paterson, the only girl for me.’
‘As it turned out she wasn’t, was she?’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ Bob said. ‘It was my mistake, not Pearl’s. Hey, enough with the Freudian stuff. I really do have to go home and do some work.’ He kissed her on the nose and swung his feet to the floor. ‘Who’s first for the bathroom?’
‘I am,’ Susan said.
&n
bsp; The building and its plumbing had baked in hot sunshine for weeks and the water from the taps was cool but not cold. She stood upright in the bath in the cramped half-tiled bathroom and, squeezing a sponge with both hands, trickled water over her breasts and belly.
Danny had nailed plyboard across the pebble glass window and the room, even in daylight, was dark. She had left the door to the kitchen open an inch to let in light but the flow of water from the taps and the gurgle of the cistern above the lavatory drowned out sounds from the living room.
Crouching, she splashed water into her lap, then, refreshed, stepped out of the bath and dried herself with the big bath towel that Danny had given her last Christmas.
She was relaxed after lovemaking but aware that time was pressing. If she couldn’t find a cab it would take her all her time to make it back to Broadcasting House by four o’clock. She had eaten nothing since breakfast. She would pick up a sandwich from the snack bar at Green Park or, if the worst came to the worst, scrounge something from Larry who always had food to spare. She pulled out the bath plug, wrapped the towel around her and padded through the kitchen into the living room.
Danny, motionless as a statue, stood in front of the empty hearth, arms folded across his chest.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
‘The glasses?’ Susan said. ‘They suit you. How long have you been here?’
‘Couple of minutes.’
‘Who told you? Was it Vivian?’
‘No one told me. I came up to town to collect my spectacles an’ dropped in on the off-chance you’d be here. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
The bedroom door opened. Barefoot and struggling into his pants, Bob came into the living room.
‘Susan, I thought I heard …’ he began.
‘Robert,’ she said, ‘I’d like you to meet my husband.’
‘Oh, peachy,’ Bob Gaines said, ‘just peachy,’ and, not knowing what else to do, stepped forward to shake Danny’s hand.
13
The tinkle of breaking glass in the front shop wakened Nora instantly. She dug Matt in the ribs and, reaching for her dressing gown, had just put one foot on the floor when the door of the bedroom burst open and a uniformed constable switched on the ceiling light.
Matt sat up, blinking. ‘What the …’
‘Mrs Leo Romano?’ the copper growled.
Nora, mouth hanging open, nodded.
‘Got her, sir. In here,’ said the copper and a man in a double-breasted lounge suit and snap-brim hat stepped past the constable into the room.
Matt reached for the alarm clock on the bedside table and squinted at the dial. Twenty minutes past five. For a moment he was convinced that the alarm would go off, his dream would end and he’d get up and make ready to go to work.
‘Put that down, please,’ the lounge suit said.
‘It’s just a clock,’ said Matt.
‘It’s a weapon,’ said the lounge suit and directed the constable to remove the object from Matt’s hand which, swiftly, the constable proceeded to do.
Matt knew then that it was no dream and, with a roar, pitched himself out of bed. One copper, then two, threw themselves upon him, locked his arms behind his back and jammed his face into the wallpaper.
‘This ’im, sir?’
‘No, it’s the woman we’re after, just the woman.’
Clad only in her nightdress and dressing gown, Nora was taken by the arm and hustled towards the door. Past the peeler’s broad shoulder Matt caught a glimpse of her terrified face and, enraged, kicked at the constable’s shins.
‘Now, now, you dirty old sod, you’ve ’ad your fun for one night,’ one said and, jerking Matt by the arm, forced him down into a praying position by the bed. ‘Stay there like a good lad, an’ be thankful your name ain’t Romano.’
‘Bastards,’ Matt shouted. ‘Nazi bastards.’
A gloved hand shoved his face into the mattress and a gloved hand whacked his ear.
And then they left.
Matt clambered to his feet, crept on to the landing and looked down the stairs into the corridor that led into the kitchen.
He crouched at the top of the stairs until the shop door slammed, then, clutching his pyjamas to his belly, leaped down into the corridor, ran through the kitchen into the shop and out through the open door into the street.
The motorcar was already halfway to the corner, a van with blacked-out windows hard on its tail. Matt pursued the van for a hundred yards, cursing at the top of his voice, then, badly winded, gave up the hopeless chase and limped back to Stratton’s to find help.
‘How the hell do I know where they’ve taken ’er, Dad?’ Ronnie said. ‘I’m a fireman, not a bloody copper.’
‘You want some more of this?’ Breda shook the bottle of brandy that she kept for emergencies.
‘Yer.’ Matt held up his tea mug. ‘I mean, what they want with Nora? She’s Irish, for God’s sake. She never done no ’arm to no one.’
‘Didn’t they tell you anythin’?’ said Ron.
‘Not a bleedin’ thing,’ Matt said. ‘Near tore me arm off, they did, when I tried to stop them.’ He raised his left arm to shoulder height and winced. ‘Lucky it ain’t broke. Didn’t even let ’er dress. I mean, nightie an’ dressing gown; what sort of a way’s that for a woman to go out in public? Where’s Billy?’
‘Still asleep,’ said Breda.
‘Not even a warnin’,’ Matt went on. ‘They broke the front door an’ just barged in. Can they do that, Ron?’
‘They can now,’ Ronnie said. ‘Musso declared war yesterday so it’s woe betide anyone Italian.’
‘Nora ain’t an Eye-tie,’ Matt said
‘No, but she’s married to one,’ Breda reminded him.
‘If she’d only married me, she’d be safe as ’ouses.’ Matt ran a gnarled hand over his face and scrubbed at his thick grey hair. ‘What they gonna do to ’er, Ron?’
‘First we got to find out where they’ve taken her, an’ that might not be so easy.’
‘It’s the law,’ said Matt. ‘Ain’t it? Habus Corpsus; they can’t keep ’er without a charge. We need a lawyer. You know any good lawyers, son?’
‘Not me,’ Ronnie said.
‘Susan might,’ Matt said. ‘Susan would.’
‘Forget about Susan,’ Breda said. ‘I can ’andle it.’
‘You?’ Matt Hooper said.
‘Yeah, me,’ said Breda.
She unfolded the scrap of paper that she’d kept hidden in the drawer with her rosary beads, the lace handkerchief that had once belonged to her Irish grandmother and the bone and silver teething-ring, a christening gift from Danny, that Billy had chewed through before he was a year old.
She dialled the number carefully, pressed pennies into the slot, pressed the button and in a clear, calm voice asked to be put through to Mr Jessop’s office.
‘Tell him,’ she said. ‘It’s Leo Romano’s daughter.’
The box was on the corner by the Co-op bank at the head of Docklands Road. The road was already bustling with drays, motor vans and the big tarpaulin-covered flat-bed lorries that always looked as if they were just about to shed their tottering loads. Even with the door of the box closed Breda could hear the traffic sounds vibrating in the summer morning air.
She was nervous, too nervous even to smoke. She didn’t really expect Jessop to be there so early. She was already planning what she might do next when a soft, soothing voice spoke into her ear.
‘Mrs Hooper, what a pleasant surprise.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet it is,’ said Breda.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Where is she? What’ve you done with my ma?’
‘Your ma?’
‘Come off it, Mr Jessop. I know you got her.’
‘I don’t have her here, lass. In fact, I’m not entirely sure who has her. I know my friends in the CID are interested but …’
‘It’s my dad you’re after, ain’t it?’
‘Of course, it
is,’ Jessop admitted.
‘How much tug you got, Mr Jessop?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘I mean,’ Breda said, ‘are you in a position to get my mother released?’
‘I am.’
‘Can I count on you to deal fair?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Okay, tell me where an’ when we can meet.’
‘I take it you know where your father is?’
‘Yeah,’ Breda said. ‘I do.’
‘He’s not with you right now, by any chance?’
‘He’s not that stupid.’
‘Tell me where he is and—’
‘You think I’m fallin’ for that one, think again, Mr Jessop,’ Breda said. ‘I’ll tell you what you wanna know when I see my mother face to face.’
He uttered a strange little sound, like a cat purring, as if her caution pleased him.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Holloway prison at ten o’clock.’
‘Inside or out?’
‘I’ll be at the gates at ten.’
‘See you there then,’ said Breda and hung up.
It took her all her time to persuade her father-in-law that he would be better off at work. Ronnie took no persuading; only serious illness or injury were accepted as excuses for ducking a watch.
‘Holloway?’ he said. ‘Nora’s no crook. What’s she doin’ in prison?’
‘She won’t be there long. I’ve been in touch with the Irish embassy,’ Breda said in a moment of inspiration and, rather to her surprise, saw her father-in-law nod as he swallowed the lie.
‘The Irish embassy?’ said Ronnie. ‘Really?’
‘Ma’s a – what-they-call-em?’
‘Alien national,’ Ronnie suggested, giving her a long look. ‘I suppose you’re gonna tell us the Irish ambassador’s taking up the case personally?’
‘That’s it,’ said Breda. ‘The Irish ambassador.’
‘He’ll do ’is stuff, won’t ’e, Ron? They’ll listen to the Irish ambassador, won’t they?’ Matt said.
‘You bet they will,’ Ron said, then, drawing Breda to one side, whispered, ‘What the hell’re you up to?’
‘Got a copper on our side.’
‘Copper? What copper?’
The Wayward Wife Page 11
