The Wayward Wife

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Is Congleton Grove in Nottingham?’ Susan asked.

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ Vivian answered. ‘I suspect it may be a half-built council estate that the War Office has requisitioned. The fact that we’ve been “offered” – for want of a better word – access to a camp three hours out of London suggests it’s not exactly Devil’s Island.’

  ‘We are expected, aren’t we?’

  ‘Oh, you can bet your bottom dollar we’re expected,’ Vivian said, ‘and that our welcome will not be warm.’

  On that score Vivian’s prediction was correct.

  Three men in civilian suits and a junior army officer formed a posse on the platform. Their disapproval was palpable. No introductions were forthcoming. Vivian and Susan were marched out of the railway station and across a yard to a Post Office sorting bay where two motorcars were parked.

  The drivers, army privates, snapped to attention and one, rather ungraciously, Susan thought, opened the rear door on the larger car and allowed Vivian and her to slide inside. One of the civilians took his seat in front by the driver while the others piled into the car behind.

  The private started the engine. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, we’re ready. You may go.’

  The private released the handbrake and steered the car smoothly through an unguarded gate on to a road that Susan took to be a high street. The second car followed close behind.

  ‘You haven’t asked for our credentials,’ Vivian said. ‘I have a letter signed by Lord Hobhouse, if you wish to see it.’

  The man swung round and planted an elbow on the back of the seat. He was about thirty-four or -five, sallow-skinned and tired-looking. ‘I know all about the letter,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re not happy about it,’ said Vivian.

  He smiled, showing a row of small, stained teeth.

  ‘I do as I’m told, Miss Proudfoot. I follow orders. I trust you will do the same. By the way, my name is Rudd.’

  ‘Hobhouse’s man on the spot, I take it,’ Vivian said.

  A pause: ‘Eden’s man, actually.’

  ‘One of the glamour brigade,’ said Vivian.

  ‘Hardly that.’ Mr Rudd’s smile blinked on and off. ‘There are certain rules we must ask you to obey and, need I add, any article intended for publication must be approved.’

  ‘To prevent Mr Eden getting egg on his face now the Home Office has taken over responsibility for the internment situation,’ Vivian said. ‘Please, continue.’

  ‘There are no German prisoners of war at Congleton Grove which is basically only a transit camp for B- and C-class prisoners. You will be permitted to talk to a selected number of internees and interview the commandant, Major Hargreaves.’

  ‘Tell me, Mr Rudd,’ Vivian said, ‘will I be permitted to quote the prisoners’ views verbatim?’

  ‘That,’ said Mr Rudd, ‘hasn’t been decided yet.’

  ‘How many men and women, guilty or innocent, are currently under War Office jurisdiction?’

  ‘In the region of thirty thousand, I believe.’

  ‘And you clearly don’t know what the devil to do with them now you’ve rounded them up,’ said Vivian. ‘I find it astonishing that the government was able to evacuate a million children in less than a week but can’t cope with thirty thousand men and women arrested on suspicion of – of what?’

  ‘Oh, you’re one of those, are you?’ Mr Rudd said.

  ‘One of what, pray?’

  ‘A bloody Communist,’ he blurted out.

  Vivian laughed. ‘First time I’ve ever been mistaken for a Communist. No, Mr Rudd, I belong to a faction the government fears more than the Communists.’

  ‘What faction might that be?’’

  ‘The fourth estate.’

  ‘You reporters—’

  ‘I’m a journalist not a reporter.’

  ‘Whatever you are, you’ve no right to jeopardise the security of the nation in the name of free speech.’

  ‘The right to free speech is about the only thing that separates us from the Nazis right now,’ said Vivian.

  ‘That’s an outrageous thing to say.’

  ‘I’m an outrageous person, Mr Rudd, which is why I’ve been sent to see what you’re up to.’

  ‘Mr Rudd, sir,’ the driver interrupted. ‘We’ve arrived,’ and braked the car to a halt in front of a huge, decaying building that smelled, Susan thought, like a brewery.

  There had been several ‘false alarms’ during the early summer months but as July wore on the alerts became more frequent and urgent. If Breda happened to be serving at Stratton’s when the siren sounded she led her mother and any customers who were on the premises to shelter in the larder and, soon after the all-clear, returned to dishing out soup and sausages again as if nothing had happened.

  What concerned her more than the prospect of being blown to bits was how to keep her son in clothes. Billy seemed to grow out of shirts and trousers as soon as she’d purchased them and his shoes pinched long before they required repair. Her own wardrobe was adequate. A bit of letting out made her old frocks and coats fit for purpose and, as Ron kept reminding her, no one ever got to see the patches on her knickers.

  The Romano family had never been rock-bottom, spare-us-a-crust-mister poor and Breda had never known real hardship. But the responsibility of having a fortune in cash hanging above her head every time she went to the lavatory wasn’t lost on her. The veiled threat that Steve Millar had made hung over her head too, no matter how often she tried to reassure herself that Steve knew nothing for certain and that he would surely not allow any harm to come to her.

  Uncertainty sharpened her temper, though. She was snappish with Ron, with Billy and especially with her father-in-law, and woe betide any customer in Stratton’s who dared complain that the tea was weak or the soup too salty.

  When school closed for the holidays, Breda had no option but to take Billy with her to Stratton’s where, against her better judgement, she allowed him to play in the street with the other children; play that seemed to consist of yelling, screaming and rolling in the gutter or, huddled in furtive little groups, in devising original ways of getting up to mischief. The sole benefit of allowing her son to run wild all day was that, come supper time, he was so tired out he went to bed without protest which gave Breda some extra time to herself.

  The stars were out and the shadows in the yard as soft as caramel when Breda, clutching cigarettes, matches and a wad of toilet paper, made her way to the outhouse to check on Leo’s cashbox and speculate just how much it might cost to turn Billy into a gentleman.

  Fortunately she had completed her business and had almost finished her cigarette when the air-raid warning sounded.

  She stuffed the cashbox into the space behind the cistern, jumped down from the seat, pulled the chain and came out of the water closet at the double.

  Far off, she heard the pounding of guns from the battery downriver at Deptford. Fearing that Billy might be roused by the racket, she made a beeline for the back door and almost ran into the man leaning against the doorpost.

  ‘Dad?’ she whispered. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Me, it’s me, Breda.’

  ‘Danny.’ She let out her breath. ‘Thank God!’

  ‘Where’s the wee chap?’

  ‘Upstairs asleep.’

  ‘Best dig him out an’ get to a shelter.’

  ‘It’s probably another false alarm.’

  ‘Can’t be sure of that.’ Danny took her arm and led her into the house. ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  ‘What you doin’ here anyway?’

  ‘Twenty-four-hour pass. By the way, you were right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Susan. She is havin’ it off with another guy.’

  Breda counted to five then said, ‘You really suit those glasses, Danny. They make you look real posh.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment,’ Danny said. ‘Where is your shelter?’

  ‘Under the stairs.’
>
  18

  It was after eight that evening when Vivian, with Susan on her heels, barged into Basil’s office and started shouting the odds. Basil got up and closed the door, Robert poured a shot of whisky and Susan, travel-stained and weary, slumped into a chair behind her desk.

  ‘As for bloody Major Hargreaves,’ Vivian plunged on, ‘he should have been pensioned off years ago. Miserable old beggar is completely out of his depth, although, to give him his due, he did apply for five hundred beds, and the War Office sent him ten. Ten beds for seven hundred men. Ye Gods! The young lads don’t mind sleeping in tents, all a bit of an adventure, but half the prisoners are frail old men.’

  When Vivian paused to catch her breath, Basil said, ‘I gather it was not a fruitful excursion, my dear?’

  ‘Fruitful?’ Vivian cried. ‘Of course it was bloody fruitful. Good God, Basil, I’m about to deliver you a piece for broadcast that will bring the government to its knees.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,’ Basil said. ‘Tell me about Congleton Grove.’

  ‘Congleton Grove is an abandoned brewery, a rotting, rat-infested shell filled with bewildered old men coughing their guts out. Outside, four or five hundred prisoners are sleeping in tents with little or no sanitation beyond a cold water tap and a couple of shallow trenches dug in the ground.’

  ‘Mr Rudd did say it’s only a transit camp,’ Susan said.

  Vivian rounded on her. ‘Don’t tell me you were fooled by that little weasel’s lies. You’re not on their side, surely? I mean, you can’t be on their side, not after what we saw today.’

  ‘You’re right, Vivian, absolutely right,’ Susan hastily agreed. ‘Conditions are appalling, but the Home Office—’

  ‘Will do nothing. Do you hear me – nothing.’

  ‘Interviews?’ Bob Gaines asked. ‘Quotable stuff from the prisoners? How did that go?’

  ‘I was only permitted to talk to a few hand-picked chaps who were as uncritical as it’s possible to be when you’ve spent six weeks cut off from any word of what’s happening in the world. News, that’s what they wanted most of all, news and cigarettes.’

  ‘Are they being properly fed?’ Basil asked.

  ‘Bread and porridge, vegetable stew, mostly potato, a cube of cheese for supper,’ Vivian answered. ‘Oh, they gave us a lovely lunch in the barracks; all those grinning jackanapes in army uniform scoffing mutton chops and treacle pudding and congratulating themselves on how well their prisoners are treated compared with other camps.’

  ‘Oh, now,’ said Basil, putting an arm around her. ‘We can’t have this, dearest. I’ve never seen you so upset.’

  ‘I’m not upset. I’m furious that such things are allowed to take place in Britain. What’s more I’m not going to let the government get away with it.’

  Basil said, ‘There isn’t much you can do, I’m afraid. If we do try to put together a radio piece we’ll have to tread very, very carefully.’

  ‘Damn it, Basil, you’re as bad as the rest. You’ve seen the stuff the newspapers are publishing; tissues of lies spread on blankets of silence. Aliens. Traitors. Fifth columnists – a few, perhaps, but the vast majority of those arrested are entirely innocent. I don’t really expect you to use my material. I’m not without influence in publishing circles, if you recall. First I need to find out who convenes these damned tribunals, who sits on them, where they meet, and how often.’

  ‘Be careful you don’t wind up behind bars, Vivian,’ Bob Gaines said. ‘All you’ll be doing is adding a few extra feathers to Hitler’s cloak of righteousness and that won’t get you anywhere.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ Basil told her. ‘Why don’t I take you home and—’

  ‘Tuck me into bed? What do you think I am: a child?’ Vivian reached for her overcoat and, rejecting Basil’s offer of help, shucked it over her shoulders. ‘Enough damned mollycoddling. You’re not my husband yet.’ She pecked Basil’s cheek. ‘Call me tomorrow,’ then, yanking open the door, she flounced out of the office.

  ‘Are you really going to marry her, Basil?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Basil answered. ‘We’ll slip off to a registry office for a special licence some time soon.’

  ‘Rather you than me, pal,’ said Bob. ‘I wouldn’t marry Vivian Proudfoot if she was the last woman on earth.’

  ‘Fortunately for you,’ said Basil stiffly, ‘she’s not. Susan, fetch your pad and pencil. We’ve a schedule to revise.’

  ‘Ron’s done a good job on this place,’ Danny said. ‘Did he put in that baulk all by himself?’

  ‘Matt helped,’ Breda said. ‘They shored up the larder in Ma’s place too. It’s bigger than this an’ can take ten people, easy. Is his majesty asleep?’

  ‘Out like a light. He’s quite happy on my lap.’

  ‘You was always Billy’s favourite. Remember when Ron was off in Spain an’ you came with us to the park?’

  ‘Aye, I remember,’ Danny said. ‘Good times.’

  ‘They were, they were,’ said Breda. ‘We got sandbags the other side of that wall. Ron bought them from a builder’s yard. The whole of that back wall – blast-proof. This used to be the coal ’ole, though you’d never think it. We ’ave our Primus, a storm lamp an’ two electric torches with spare batteries.’

  ‘Ron’s thought of everything.’

  ‘Bein’ a fireman he knows all about this stuff,’ Breda said. ‘See that thing up there? That’s a vent to let the air in.’

  ‘How often have you been in here?’

  ‘Four, five times: all false alarms.’ She tilted her face towards the ceiling. ‘Hear anythin’?’

  ‘Nope, not a thing.’

  ‘Stray plane goin’ over, most like. Our boys’ll make short work of it.’ She leaned on Danny’s shoulder, paused, and said, ‘Danny, are you sure about Susie?’

  The bench seat was broad enough to serve as a bed but with Billy asleep in his arms Danny had settled for the floor, Breda on the blanket next to him.

  ‘I walked in on them,’ he said. ‘Red-handed.’

  ‘What about the bloke?’

  ‘Journalist. American.’

  ‘The one on the wireless?’ Breda said. ‘Oh, yeah, too good an opportunity for our Miss Fancy-pants to let slip. You’re not still in love with ’er, are yah?’

  ‘That’s the problem. I don’t know if I am, or not.’

  ‘I never liked Susie Hooper but I never reckoned she’d do this to you. Wait till Ron hears about it. He’ll be livid. Matt, too. Not,’ Breda added hastily, ‘that I’m gonna tell them. It’s bound to come out sooner or later, though, unless you want to pretend it never happened.’ She paused again. ‘What about this girl who shares your digs?’

  ‘Kate. What about her?’

  ‘Somethin’ goin’ on there?’

  ‘Nah,’ Danny said a little too quickly.

  ‘Ooo,’ Breda said. ‘You can’t fool me, Danny Cahill. You like her, don’cha? Come on, admit it. What does she do?’

  ‘She translates German radio broadcasts.’

  ‘A clever clogs,’ said Breda approvingly. ‘Have you kissed ’er yet?’

  ‘Naw.’ Danny laughed. ‘Not yet.’

  Breda reached over and tapped a fingertip to the bridge of his glasses. ‘Not even one liddle peck?’

  ‘Not even one.’

  ‘I’ll bet she’s dyin’ for you to kiss ’er.’

  ‘Kate’s not that sort of a girl.’

  ‘We’re all that sort of a girl when it comes to havin’ a feller fancy us. Go on, Cahill, tell me you don’t wanna clasp ’er to your manly bosom an’ smother ’er with kisses.’

  ‘Cut it out, Breda,’ Danny said, grinning. ‘I’m not some joker out o’ one of your soppy novels.’

  ‘Oh, but you are, Danny Cahill, you are. You’re not gonna ride off on a camel an’ leave a girl in the lurch. That counts for a lot these days.’

  Billy stirred. Danny drew the blanket over his knees and stroked his hair wh
ile Breda watched, soft-eyed.

  ‘The thing is,’ Danny said, ‘I’ve got a free pass to do what the hell I like now. Susan can’t say a bloody word.’

  ‘Yeah, but a leg-over’s never gonna be enough for you, is it? What about marriage?’

  ‘Marriage?’

  ‘To this Kate.’

  ‘I’m still married to Susan in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘But if you get ’alf a chance with this Kate …’ Breda sat up. ‘Hey, she’s not married too, is she?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Well, then, there you are. Off you go.’

  The sound of the all-clear drifted into the bunker.

  Cradling Billy to his chest, Danny got up. ‘The only place I’m goin’, sweetheart, is up the road to your ma’s house for a good night’s kip.’

  ‘You don’t ’ave to go, you know,’ Breda said. ‘You can stay ’ere with me an’ Billy.’

  ‘What’s Ronnie gonna say about that?’

  ‘He won’t mind.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ Danny tugged open the door. ‘Anyhow, Nora’s expectin’ me.’

  Breda let Danny precede her into the darkened kitchen, then, taking her sleepy son from his arms, kissed him.

  ‘Yeah, maybe you’d better go,’ she said, ‘before I forget I’m a happily married woman.’

  ‘See you soon, kid,’ said Danny.

  ‘Not so much of the kid,’ said Breda.

  The party in the Lansdowne had barely got under way but the living room and corridor were already crowded with Pete Slocum’s friends and acquaintances.

  The valet had gone for the night and a small, feisty woman, Time magazine’s London correspondent, was cooking spaghetti on the stove in the kitchen while swigging from a straw-wrapped bottle of Chianti and puffing on a cigarette.

  Four or five men were hanging about in the kitchen but whether in pursuit of supper or the feisty little blonde Susan neither knew nor cared.

  She’d had a long, stressful day and would have preferred a quiet dinner alone with Bob before slipping off home to catch up on sleep. Bob had insisted that she tag along to Slocum’s party, though, and had assured her that what she needed to take her mind off the ‘horrors’ of Congleton Grove was a few drinks in the company of men and women whose experiences in the hell-holes of occupied Europe made a British internment camp look like a picnic.