The Wayward Wife

by Jessica Stirling

  It was, she gathered, a floating party that had drifted from Madrid to Munich, from Stockholm to Marseilles and, in happier times, had dropped anchor in Paris; always the same sort of people, newshounds, photographers and hard-drinking, front-line reporters who had no fear of anything save censorship.

  ‘Well, that’s it for tonight, I guess,’ said a voice in her ear.

  ‘What is?’ Susan said.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the all-clear?’ Pete Slocum offered her a martini. ‘You’re too sober for your own good, Mrs Cahill. Here, drink this and give thanks with a smile.’

  ‘I don’t feel much like smiling.’

  ‘You’re very beautiful when you do,’ Pete said. ‘I can see why you’ve stolen Bob’s heart away.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing of the kind.’ She sipped from the glass and felt the gin sting her throat. ‘Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘Queuing up to grab a dish of Mary’s special spaghetti,’ Pete said. ‘Rough day at the office?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  Pete Slocum tapped the side of his nose. ‘It’s my business to know everything.’ He grinned. ‘And I do mean everything. Another of those?’

  Susan had drunk the martini without thinking. She held out the glass and watched Slocum refill it.

  ‘We’ve got onions but no olives,’ he said. ‘I’d sack that goddamned valet if only I knew how to do it. You don’t want to be too hard on the old boy. He’s running scared, you know.’

  ‘Who, your valet?’

  ‘Churchill,’ Pete Slocum said. ‘He’s afraid a fifth column will spring up like it did in Holland. He’s flying blind right now and has no ready spur to victory, no plan for a bright tomorrow. Not that tomorrow will count for much if your fly boys can’t keep Goering from bombing the bejasus out of your factories. If they fail then it’s all up with Merry England and bye-bye to a thousand years of history.’

  ‘And you Americans will retire behind your high walls and let us stew in our own juices.’

  ‘Our walls aren’t that high, Mrs Cahill,’ Pete Slocum said.

  ‘Why have you taken to calling me Mrs Cahill?’

  He changed gear without a hitch. ‘Because you’re a married lady and it behoves me to remind you of it.’

  ‘That’s rich coming from someone who sleeps with a different girl every night.’

  ‘Sure, but I don’t trade in commitment. With you – well, I guess you’re every woman’s ideal: footloose, fancy-free and able to pick and choose who you sleep with. You’ve got it all, Mrs Cahill, haven’t you?’ Pete Slocum said. ‘A responsible job, a devoted husband and an ardent lover. You’re covered every way.’ He raised his glass. ‘Good luck to you, Mrs Cahill.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Mr Slocum,’ Susan said just as Bob appeared at her side carrying two plates of spaghetti smothered in tomato sauce.

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘Politics,’ Susan answered. ‘Just politics,’ then, relieving him of one of the plates, headed for the living room to find somewhere to sit.

  She left him sprawled on the bed in his room in the Lansdowne. She washed and dressed quickly, picked her way through the glasses and plates that littered the hallway and, ignoring the early-risers nursing coffee and hangovers in the kitchen, made her way out of the building and set a course for Portland Place in the hope that a brisk walk would clear her head.

  In addition to the usual office workers and shop girls, Oxford Street was peppered with policemen and soldiers. She glanced at the headlines on newsvendors’ stalls but could make no sense of them and, drawn by the prospect of breakfast in the canteen, concentrated on dodging the traffic.

  She crossed the open corner of Langham Place where BBC staff hurrying towards the grey-green building rubbed shoulders with worshippers emerging from communion in All Souls’ soot-stained church. She would have walked straight past him if he hadn’t called her name.

  He was seated cross-legged on the steps of the church where the last of the morning’s communicants picked their way, disapprovingly, around him. He wore a donkey jacket and collarless shirt and had a greasy haversack tucked between his knees. He didn’t rise when she approached but, looking up, patted the stone step beside him.

  ‘Grab a pew,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll do nothing of the kind,’ Susan said. ‘What the devil are you doing here, Danny?’

  ‘God,’ he said, ‘you look like death warmed up.’

  ‘I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine. What do you want?’

  He leaned on an elbow and peered up at her. ‘A few quiet words, that’s all.’

  ‘Well,’ Susan said, ‘if you insist on ambushing me at this hour of the morning the least you can do is stand me breakfast. I assume you have your BBC pass with you?’

  ‘Never travel without it,’ Danny said.

  ‘Come along then.’

  ‘Rather not, actually,’ he said, rising. ‘Frightfully busy, darling, awfully pressed for time. You didn’t come home last night. By home I mean the flat we share in Rothwell Gardens.’

  ‘The air raid—’

  ‘One stray plane an’ a nuisance bomb in the City.’

  ‘Did you wait up for me all night?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ Danny said. ‘I stayed at Nora’s.’

  ‘Oh, how – how is she?’

  ‘Kind of you to ask,’ Danny said. ‘She’s recoverin’.’

  ‘Recovering from what?’

  ‘Susan,’ he spoke without heat, ‘you really are a stuck-up bitch. You can treat me like dirt if you like but your folks deserve better. Where were you last night? Were you with him?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes, at a party.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Lansdowne House. It’s a residential club.’

  ‘I know what it is. Did you sleep with him?’

  ‘That’s all I did: sleep,’ she said. ‘What about us? What do you want to do about us?’

  ‘Tell me the truth, Susan: does Gaines make you happy?’

  ‘I do believe he does.’

  ‘Well, if you want to be with him, I won’t stand in your way.’ Danny consulted his watch. ‘Look, I really do have to get back to Evesham.’

  ‘When will you be in town again?’

  ‘God knows!’ Danny said.

  ‘Next time, call me and we’ll talk properly.’

  He made no attempt to kiss her and was on the point of turning away when, on impulse, she said, ‘Danny, do you have a girl in Evesham?’

  ‘What if I have?’ Danny said. ‘It’s none o’ your business, Susan.’ Then, shouldering the haversack, he set off to catch a bus to Paddington.

  PART THREE

  Blitz

  19

  It came as a great surprise when Basil’s brother turned up at the wedding breakfast. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a breakfast at all but an intimate lunch in a side room in L’Étoile which – the restaurant not the side room – was conveniently situated for a quick sprint back to Broadcasting House where groom and bride would kiss and go their separate ways, Basil back to the office and Vivian off to the House of Commons to catch what promised to be a heated debate on the legality of the Home Secretary’s unlimited powers of preventative detention.

  In the past few weeks Vivian had spent much time in the gallery of the Commons and in meeting members of various bodies concerned with funding Czech and Slovak refugees, so much time, in fact, it was all Susan could do to drag her to a fitting for the suit that would substitute for a bridal gown and to the milliner’s to pick a matching hat.

  Vivian had never met anyone from Basil’s family. His widowed mother lived in the wilds of Scotland – Troon, was it? – and his sister, her husband and children were ensconced somewhere near Penzance. Basil had informed them of his impending nuptials but had politely discouraged them from coming up to London for the event. Naturally, Vivian had dropped no hint to her black sheep brother and Susan’s suggestion that she might invite one of her
nieces to be a bridesmaid had been greeted with a snort of derision.

  Susan had trimmed one of her old dresses for the occasion and Bob had stuffed himself into a rumpled three-piece suit. In old-fashioned morning dress, complete with topper, Basil looked decidedly out of place and the registrar’s temporary confusion as to just which couple he was expected to unite in wedlock didn’t help matters.

  After the deed was done, bride and groom, accompanied by Bob and Susan, trudged round to L’Étoile in Charlotte Street. Here, rather to Basil’s chagrin, a number of CBS correspondents were lunching and, swiftly putting two and two together, stood up and applauded the happy couple before the wedding party was shown into the side room where Commander Derek Willets, in full naval uniform, waited to greet them.

  ‘Good Lord!’ Basil exclaimed. ‘I thought you were somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. How did you know where to find us?’

  ‘Intuition,’ Derek Willets said. ‘Besides, you mentioned it in dispatches to Mother who mentioned it in dispatches to me. Now, please, introduce me to my brand-new sister-in-law.’ He bowed to Vivian. ‘Mrs Willets, I assume? I’m the dreaded brother, in case you hadn’t guessed. Welcome to the family.’

  To Susan’s surprise, Vivian blushed and the air of melancholy that had marked the proceedings vanished.

  Commander Willets signalled an elderly waiter to wheel in the champagne, bride and groom were duly toasted and everyone sat down to tuck into mock turtle soup and whitebait and dispose of the two bottles of Chablis that the maître d’ had been persuaded to produce from his dwindling stock.

  ‘By the bye,’ Derek Willets said, ‘there’s an account in your name in Heal’s to which we all contributed. We’d no idea where you’d be setting up house so an open account seemed like the best solution.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Commander,’ Vivian said.

  ‘Derek, please.’

  ‘Very kind of you, Derek. In fact, we’ll be living in my house in Salt Street and Basil will give up his flat. But, tell me, how did you contrive to be here today?’

  ‘Pure chance. My ship was damaged during an enemy raid and we put into Portsmouth for repairs. I wangled a day’s leave on compassionate grounds.’

  ‘Compassionate grounds,’ Basil said. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Your ship, sir?’ Bob asked.

  ‘A battered old rust bucket employed on convoy duty.’

  ‘Is it bad out there, Derek?’ Basil asked.

  ‘Well, shall we say it’s not too jolly.’

  ‘Invasion or blockade?’ Bob Gaines said. ‘What’s Adolf’s game, do you think?’

  ‘Naval officers aren’t really paid to think,’ Derek Willets said. ‘But it’s obvious that nuisance raids on London are a means of lowering morale and blitzkrieg bombing a way of testing the Luftwaffe’s superiority.’

  ‘A battle upstairs you seem to be winning,’ Bob said.

  Derek Willets raised an eyebrow. ‘You seem to be winning? I rather thought you might have aligned yourself with our cause by now.’

  ‘He has,’ Basil said. ‘He’s only pretending to be neutral.’

  ‘Point taken, sir,’ Bob said. ‘We’re all in it together.’

  Derek Willets was a model naval officer, Susan thought. Eight or ten years younger than his brother, he was tall, lean, tanned and had the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen. How easy it would be to fall for him. And how foolish. Even so, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had a wife tucked away somewhere. The thought had apparently crossed Viv’s mind too.

  She put the question bluntly. ‘And you, Derek, have you never been tempted to marry?’

  He laughed, not at all offended. ‘I’m biding my time and waiting for the right girl to come along.’

  ‘Best not bide too long,’ Basil said. ‘You’re not getting any younger, you know. Whatever happened to that Wren you were so keen on last summer?’

  ‘Grace? I haven’t seen her in ages.’

  ‘Where is she these days?’ Basil persisted.

  ‘Gibraltar, last I heard.’

  ‘The Rock?’ Bob said. ‘God help her!’

  ‘Have you been there?’ Susan asked.

  ‘On my way back from Spain, yeah,’ Bob answered. ‘Your friend, what’s she doing in Gib?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say,’ said Derek Willets and promptly changed the subject.

  At a little after 10 p.m. Deutschlandsender, Germany’s main radio station, abruptly went off air. Medium-wave stations soon followed suit and even talks in English from Hamburg and Bremen petered out.

  Kate and the other German monitors were quick to summon the supervisor, Mr Gregory, who put through a telephone call to London and returned, smiling slyly, to inform them that RAF bombers were out in force and, choosing his words with care, that the raids were not entirely confined to military targets.

  ‘In other words,’ Griff said over the breakfast table next morning, ‘deniability is a two-way street. If Hitler wants the gloves off then he can’t expect Churchill to fight by the Queensberry Rules.’

  ‘Kate,’ Mr Pell said, ‘what do you have to say? Is your boyfriend right?’

  Danny, more asleep than awake, cocked an ear and waited for Kate to deny that Silwyn Griffiths was her boyfriend.

  She said, ‘I think the stations went off early last night because the German Ministry of Propaganda got caught out. There was one bulletin only and it concerned itself with changes to the type of siren to be used in air-raid warnings. After that – dead air.’

  It was only just light outside. Summer was fading into autumn and quite soon no one in the Pell household would see much daylight. Mr Pell was used to early rising. He worked in a factory that had once produced parts for industrial washing machines but now turned out something – Mr P wasn’t saying what – more appropriate to the war effort.

  ‘It won’t be in the papers yet, will it?’ Mr Pell said. ‘I mean, they won’t give us the gory details. They seldom do.’

  ‘Oh, they might,’ Griff said. ‘You can bet the wires are humming in the Press Association offices. The Americans will have it well covered. If there was a big raid on Berlin we’ll hear about it one way or another.’

  Griff was in a jaunty mood which, Danny thought, was odd for someone who’d just finished a twelve-hour shift.

  No one seemed in any hurry to rush off, Mr Pell to work, Griff, Kate and he to bed. He dripped marmalade on to a piece of toast and nibbled it. He was so tired he could barely chew, so tired that he missed all the subtle signals that might have warned him what was in the wind.

  Mrs Pell appeared from the kitchen bearing a fresh pot of tea. Griff cleared his throat and said, ‘Oh, by the way, Mrs P, we’ll be away for a couple of days, Saturday through to Monday.’

  ‘Taking some leave?’ said Mr Pell.

  ‘While the going’s good,’ said Griff.

  ‘Going somewhere nice?’ said Mrs Pell.

  ‘Home to Brecon,’ Griff said, ‘to see my folks.’

  ‘We?’ Danny sat up. ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Kate’s coming with me,’ Griff said. ‘Dad can always use an extra hand dipping sheep.’

  ‘Dipping sheep,’ said Mr Pell, frowning. ‘Bit late in the year for that. Bit smelly too.’

  ‘I don’t think Silwyn meant it literally,’ Kate said.

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ Griff said. ‘Anyhow, it’s high time you had a taste of farming given that I might inherit the blasted place some day.’

  ‘You?’ Mr Pell said. ‘A farmer?’

  ‘A true son of the soil, that’s me,’ Griff said.

  ‘I can’t see you as a farmer’s wife, Kate,’ Mr Pell said, ‘not with your education.’

  ‘She can call in the cows in German,’ said Mrs Pell.

  And everyone laughed, everyone except Danny.

  There was really no need, Basil said, to go diving downstairs to the underground shelter every time a warning sounded. Most alarms were precautionary and only lasted ten or
fifteen minutes. You wouldn’t, he claimed, find a CBS or NBC broadcaster cowering in the basement of Broadcasting House. The American corporations’ mistrust of recorded material had their reporters chasing round bomb-sites and holding mikes up to the sky when, that is, they weren’t flying sorties with Bomber Command or clinging to the deck of a minesweeper.

  The Union Post’s London office, which had once been not much more than a guy, a gal and a telephone, was now home to an assortment of footloose European correspondents that Slocum had pulled together to supply New York with news.

  From this source Bob Gaines, with Basil’s encouragement, poached writers and reporters to enliven the output of Speaking Up which, in Bob’s opinion, was in danger of becoming too stuffy for a show whose purpose was to sell the war to uncommitted Americans.

  On that late August night the lion’s share of the programme was given over to Morley Richards, the Daily Express military correspondent, who Basil had personally buttonholed at lunch in the London Press Club.

  At Basil’s request Mr Richards had agreed to address the question of how Britain would turn defence into attack and just when this reversal might take place.

  A consummate professional, Mr Richards had timed his essay to the second and was in process of delivering it in a voice crisp enough to suggest not optimism but inevitability when the first warning siren sounded.

  At first no one in the control booth turned a hair.

  Mr Richards, at the mike, raised the volume but not the tempo of his delivery.

  Sharing the studio table, Bob lit a cigarette. He had before him a sheaf of questions culled from listeners’ letters from home and abroad but when a blast of high explosive shook the building it seemed that Joe Soap of Glen Falls and ‘Outraged’ of Tunbridge Wells might have to wait for answers.