On the back of the card Danny had printed two words: Stay Put. Nothing more: no promise to return to London or send money or that he had any plans to involve himself in her future.
Just: Stay Put.
She showed the postcard to no one, not even Nora and certainly not to Matt. She kept it hidden under the blanket she used as a pillow. When the lights were switched off and the bombardment raged upstairs, she would fish out the postcard and a pocket torch and, hidden beneath the blanket, study the pretty picture and Danny’s enigmatic instruction and puzzle over what, if anything, it signified.
She knew that Danny had her interests at heart and she was determined to sit tight in Shadwell and scratch along as best she could until the situation improved.
Sooner or later the council would have to start repairing the damaged houses, though whether they’d do so while the skies were filled with German bombers was doubtful. Ronnie would probably have told her that borough councillors don’t think like ordinary men and women and were quite capable of ordering Shadwell’s broken houses and warehouses razed to the ground and starting all over again after the war.
After the war, after the war: Breda was already sick of hearing about after the war. Now her daddy’s legacy had been stolen from her the future had lost its gilt. It offered only the same sort of drudgery that had gone on before Britain had entered the war – except that she wouldn’t have a husband. With her breasts sagging, her face turned to mince and a kid to contend with she’d be unlikely to find anyone to take her on.
The prospect of escaping to neutral Ireland with her mother and Matt Hooper held no appeal. She regarded Ireland in somewhat the same sort of way as she regarded Canada, somewhere distant and inhospitable. And the very idea of lodging in a stranger’s house filled her with horror.
No, she thought, tucking her head beneath the blanket, here we are, Billy and me, and here we’ll stay.
But the next afternoon, at approximately half past four o’clock, she suddenly changed her mind.
The bulldog spirit had finally taken hold and, to mix one of Basil’s favourite metaphors, the stiff upper lip was much in evidence within the confines of Broadcasting House. No more weeping over the porridge plates, no hysteria, no signs of panic, just a general air of determination to make the best of it, whatever ‘it’ might be.
Filling up the schedule for Basil’s twice-weekly programme had become more difficult as September wore on and the nightly blitzkrieg continued without let or halt. Rail and road links suffered. The West End was slapped, theatres closed and visiting celebrities were few and far between. Fortunately there were still a few brave souls willing to risk their necks trekking to Portland Place to venture an opinion on the progress of the war or, prodded by Robert Gaines, predict if Adolf would attack before winter set in or hold off until spring.
Figures from CBC and cables from the BBC’s New York office indicated that Speaking Up was gathering an audience across much of North America. The postbag, too, increased in size and a fair portion of Basil’s mornings were taken up dictating replies that Susan, aided by a couple of secretaries, typed up and dispatched.
Late one week night, just as Baz was brushing his teeth before hitting the mattress, a call came through from no less a person than the Prime Minister and Basil was hastily summoned back to his office to listen to Churchill’s barking voice thanking him for his efforts on behalf of the nation. Though he was by no means the first producer to receive a personal call from the PM, Basil was very pleased and tottered off to bed in the shade of the grand piano purring like a pussycat.
Five days on and a weekend off became the pattern for Basil Willets’s crew. Bob, a free agent, spent less time in the House and, in spite of pleas from Basil and Susan, struck out for the Lansdowne no matter how late the hour or how intense the bombing. He did not invite Susan to join him, for if she was injured or, God forbid, killed because of him he said he would never be able to forgive himself.
To compensate for his neglect, he invited her to lunch at L’Étoile, only to discover that Charlotte Street was closed; a solitary bay tree in a pot in the middle of the road bore a warning notice: ‘Police. Danger. Unexploded Bomb’.
‘We could go to Scott’s, I guess,’ Bob said. ‘The oysters don’t know there’s a war on.’
‘Too much of a man’s club,’ Susan said. ‘I’m not dressed to impress.’
‘You look just dandy to me,’ Bob said.
‘Do I?’ Susan said.
‘Sure you do.’
‘Sometimes I wonder.’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Don’t,’ and gave her a kiss. ‘Hatchett’s?’
‘A little too far. I have to be back by three.’
‘You work too hard.’
‘Not as hard as you.’
‘The point’s moot,’ Bob said. ‘Hey, what’s going on down there in the alley?’
In the lane at the rear of a characterless building a brace of cooks in white jackets and a chef in a tall white hat were fussing over a battery of pots and pans balanced on two Calor gas stoves while a couple of pretty young waitresses in traditional black and white dresses stood by to carry the dishes indoors.
The rich aroma of beef stew filled the alleyway.
‘Good lord!’ said Susan. ‘They’re cooking outside by the look of it. Now that’s what I call enterprising.’
‘Kitchen must be out of commission,’ Bob said. ‘What place is this and where’s the front entrance?’
‘Taylor’s Hotel, I think, on Goodge Street.’
‘Then that’s the place for us,’ Bob said.
The window table, set for two, provided a view of sandbags and rubble and, now and then, the blink of a bus going by, barely visible between the lattice of brown paper strips that all but covered the glass. The lights were off but some enterprising person had seen fit to place a fat wax candle in a saucer on each of the tables which, when lit, gave the low-beamed dining room a cosy air more suited to a winter night than a warm autumn afternoon.
Bob disposed of a Scotch and soda before the soup arrived and insisted on ordering an expensive bottle of claret to wash down the stew.
‘You’re drinking a lot these days?’ Susan said.
‘Steadies the nerves.’
‘You don’t have a nerve in your body, Mr Gaines.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Bob said. ‘I’m just as scared as everyone else. Well, maybe not everyone. I’ve been through this sort of thing before, remember.’
‘In Madrid?’
‘Yep, and elsewhere.’
‘And you love it, don’t you?’
He grinned, poured wine into her glass and into his own. He raised the glass and offered her a casual toast. ‘You’ve sure got my measure, Mrs Cahill.’
‘If it’s excitement you’re after,’ Susan said, ‘perhaps you should join the London fire service.’
‘Ouch!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Susan said. ‘That’s unfair.’
‘Nope, it’s perfectly fair. How are they bearing up?’
‘They?’
‘Your folks. The widow. Your pappy.’
‘Oh,’ said Susan. ‘They’ll survive.’
‘Sure they will. They’re cockneys, oin’t they?’
‘Please, don’t mock them.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Bob said. ‘I’ve nothing but admiration for the way the poor are putting up with the vicissitudes of all-out war.’
‘They’re not poor,’ Susan said. ‘Whatever you may think of them, they’re not poor.’
He reached out and touched her hand. ‘Look, Susan, I didn’t bring you here to argue.’
‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘To relax and enjoy yourself.’
‘Not an easy thing to do these days.’
‘A glass or two of wine might help.’
‘I think not,’ Susan said. ‘Red wine and shorthand do not go well together.’ She hesitated. ‘How are things at the Lansdowne? Is Mr Slocum st
ill throwing wild parties?’
‘No, that’s all come to a grinding halt,’ Bob said. ‘We’re busy boys these days.’ It was his turn to hesitate. ‘It’s not that I don’t miss you. I do. But you’re safer in Salt Street with Vivian. Goering’s gang seems to have taken a special shine to Berkeley Square. We’ve been fire-bombed four times this week. An oil bomb put three apartments out of commission – ours not among them, fortunately – but the whole place stinks.’ Another pause: ‘You are okay at Vivian’s, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Susan said wryly. ‘I’m okay at Vivian’s.’
‘If you need a few bucks …’
‘You’re the last person I’d ask.’
‘How come?’ Bob said.
‘Because I’m not a tart.’
‘No, but I’m your friend and friends pitch in.’
‘A friend? Is that all I am to you?’
‘Damn it, Susan, I’m doing my best to be reasonable.’
‘Reasonable?’
‘Helpful. Helpful. I mean helpful.’
She stared at her untouched glass, at the hue of the wine, the shape of the candle flame showing through it. There were tears somewhere within her but she would not let them out, wouldn’t let him see just how vulnerable she had become.
She said, ‘Vivian made me a loan. I’ll pay her back, of course.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘What about him?’
‘Is he still mad at you?’
‘Would you blame him if he was?’ Susan said.
‘I guess not,’ Bob said. ‘I just want to be sure if I do have to go away, you’ll be taken care of.’
‘Are you going away?’
‘Maybe. God knows what’s coming up next. If the Union Post decides it needs a correspondent in Cairo or Algiers …’
‘You’re their man.’
‘Yeah, I’m their man. That’s what I am. That’s what I do. You knew it when you took me on.’
‘Took you on? Really? I was under the impression you did the taking.’
‘Now that,’ he said, ‘that is unfair.’
‘English girls are easy; isn’t that how it goes?’
‘One thing you’re not, kiddo, is easy.’
‘That’s good to know.’
‘Oh, cut it out, Susie, for Chrissake,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into you.’
‘Don’t you?’ she said. ‘You should.’
He paused, head cocked. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
‘No, Robert, I’m not pregnant. If Cairo calls, or Libya, you may depart without a qualm. The only thing you’ll be obliged to terminate is your contract with the BBC.’
‘I don’t much care for broadcasting, you know.’
‘You are good at it, though.’
‘That’s what Quent told me.’
‘Quent? Who’s Quent?’
‘Quentin Reynolds, the best journalist in the business. You met him once in the Lansdowne.’
‘Did I?’ Susan said. ‘After a while all you journalists begin to look the same.’
‘Like penguins?’ Bob said.
She smiled. ‘Yes, like penguins,’ then, feeling marginally better, reached for her glass of wine.
31
The stallholders were packing up early. You never quite knew when Jerry would send over a few spotters and drop the odd incendiary just to spread a bit of panic before dusk settled in and the heavy bombers appeared in force.
It looked like any other weekday street market, a little busier than most, perhaps, for those folk who had been bombed out were in desperate need of clothing and, this being the East End, there were plenty of suppliers eager to meet demand.
Handcarts, donkey-drawn flat carts strewn with second-hand garments, penny-whistle men, scam-artists with three greasy cards and tables you could fold in a wink if a copper appeared shared the street with fruit sellers, pie-men, purveyors of drinks, hot and cold, and, bizarrely, one old woman with a washing basket filled with cracked mirrors and chipped vases that, to Breda’s surprise, seemed to be selling like hot cakes.
Breda was on the scout for a warm second-hand coat to see her through the winter and a half-decent pair of boots that might fit Billy. She had seven shillings and eight pence in the pocket of her one and only dress, a floral-patterned cotton rag that she’d happened to be wearing on the night Pitt Street had been hit. It was too light now for an autumn afternoon and had been made all the lighter by the amount of scrubbing she’d had to do to get the mud stains out of the material.
Hidden under a blanket in St Vee’s were a pleated knee-length skirt, one respectable blouse and a spare underskirt that her mother had retrieved from the bedroom in Stratton’s, plus the underwear that Danny, without a blush, had bought for her at Crossland’s. From various charitable sources Billy had acquired quite a decent wardrobe of cast-offs, including a brand-new pair of stockings. Unfortunately, he was still hopping around in shoes at least a size too small for him. She should have brought Billy with her but he’d been such a handful of late that she’d left him with Ma and had slipped out alone to search for affordable bargains which, up to now, hadn’t exactly fallen into her lap.
Further up Fawley Street were the barrows of optimistic booksellers ridding themselves of ‘damaged stock’ which, as far as Breda could make out, was just the same old stock as it had always been: dog-eared copies of Dickens and Thackeray and cheap yellow-backed novels that fell apart as soon as you opened them. On the step of a bomb-blasted building that had until recently housed an insurance office an elderly gentleman in a top hat and a morning coat that had seen better days was loudly touting the miraculous properties of a pill that would settle stomach upsets, soothe the nerves and cure constipation which, at a shilling a box, seemed to Breda just too good a bargain to be true.
Pausing at the rear of the jeering little crowd to listen to the old charlatan’s florid spiel, she felt a hand on her arm and the point of a knife blade prick her hip. Her first thought was that some swine was after her seven shillings and eight pence. She clamped her elbow over the pocket of her dress and opened her mouth to give the bugger a mouthful.
‘Keep your trap shut, girly,’ Vince said quietly, ‘or I’ll carve out your kidneys. Now, smile nice an’ take a walk with me, all lovey-dovey, like. You got me?’
‘Yeah,’ Breda said. ‘I got you.’
He palmed the knife and snared her arm. Breda had no doubt that if she made any kind of fuss he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out his threat and leave her bleeding on the pavement.
‘Where you takin’ me?’
‘Somewhere nice an’ quiet where we can ’ave a little chat.’
‘I thought you was in the army?’ Breda said.
‘The army’s for mugs.’
He wore a rumpled battledress without regimental markings, a beret instead of a helmet and shoes, not boots. He had none of the sort of equipment Breda thought a soldier should have, no belts or pouches, not even a gas mask.
‘Where’s Steve?’ Breda said. ‘Why ain’t he with you?’
‘Steve’s stuck in camp in bloody Durham pissin’ his pants an’ keepin’ his nose clean case they call ’im to Harry King’s trial.’
‘Will they?’
‘How the hell do I know?’ Vince said. ‘They might have Steve Millar by the balls but they ha’n’t got me no more.’
‘In other words,’ Breda said, ‘you’re a deserter. They shoot deserters, don’t they?’
‘Only if they catch them,’ Vince said. ‘Won’t make no difference to you what I am, not when I get through with you.’
‘What you gonna do to me?’
Vince tightened his grip, knife blade flat against her arm. . ‘I ain’t had a woman in weeks,’ he said, ‘so what you think I’m gonna do to you?’
‘You don’t want me, you want Leo’s money, don’cha?’
‘That’s the second thing on my list.’
‘I don’t ’ave it. I never ’ad it.’
‘Lyin’ bitch,’ Vince said. ‘You’re the only person in the world that greasy little Eye-tie would trust with his loot. Well, I’m gonna make you squeal, girly, believe me, I am.’
Up ahead where Fawley Street split round the old clock tower, she caught sight of Ronnie’s friend, Clary Knotts. He was in fireman’s uniform and was walking briskly across the corner heading, she thought, for Oxmoor Road.
She wrenched at Vince’s arm and opened her mouth to scream but Vince was too quick for her. He grabbed her, hugged her, thrust his face into hers in a mock kiss and, with the knife pricking her belly, pushed her into an alley between the houses and shoved her through an open doorway into what had once been someone’s back parlour.
Gelid light from a broken window showed an iron grate spewing cold ashes, a battered armchair and a patch of torn linoleum littered with fragments of glass, ceiling plaster and broken bricks. The room had been used as a lavatory and stank to high heaven. Two brown rats that had been feeding on something unspeakable rose up, squeaking, and streaked between Breda’s legs out into the alley. Breda let out a yell. Vince wrapped a forearm around her throat and, wasting no time, rammed a hand under her dress and dragged down her knickers.
Elbows pumping like pistons, Breda pummelled his stomach and hips and tried to kick his shins. He pulled her closer, smothering her frantic attempts to defend herself, then dropped down, bent his knees and tossed her on to the floor. He disentangled her knickers from her shoes and threw them away, furled her dress up to her waist then sat back on his heels, grinning.
Breda said, ‘I had it, yeah, but it got stole.’
He called her a filthy name, told her she was a liar, then, sliding his hands up under the top of the dress, yanked her brassiere over her breasts and stroked her nipples.
Breda said, ‘Stole. All of it. They took it all.’
He leaned into her and brought his mouth close to her ear. Mention of money had distracted him, if only for a second. Breda spread out her arms as if to brace herself, to capitulate in what he was about to do to her and, groping, closed her hand round a chunk of broken brick.
The Wayward Wife Page 26
