The Wayward Wife

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Who did?’ Vince said.

  ‘The rescue squad,’ she said. ‘Our ’ouse got bombed, bad. The rescue squad found the money in the debris an’ stole it ’fore I could get there. It’s the truth, Vince, honest to God, it is.’

  ‘Yeah, an’ I came up the Thames in a canoe,’ he said. ‘You willin’ to die for a lousy three grand, girly? ’Fore I’m done with you, you’ll be wishin’ you was dead.’

  And, Breda thought, they’ll find me lying in this dirty hole, torn and bleeding and write me off as just another poor cow who lured a man here to earn a few bob; another corpse nobody cares about, like the girls they find in the corners of shelters, round the back of bombed buildings or floating, bloated, in the dock.

  ‘You ask me,’ she said, ‘you’re all mouth an’ no trousers.’

  ‘What you say?’

  ‘You ’eard me, big boy. You gonna show me what you got or just brag about it?’

  He removed his hands from her breasts, sat back and fumbled with his trouser buttons. He rose awkwardly into a half squat and dug his member from his underpants. He was short but very thick and very ugly. Breda had seen lots of men before Ronnie, some sleek and shiny, some large, some small, but all the same down there when roused.

  Smirking, Vince glanced down and touched himself.

  It was the moment, the one moment, her one and only chance. Breda cocked her knee to her chest and caught him off balance. He performed a little Cossack dance to right himself. Breda drove the heel of her shoe into the pale, upstart part that protruded from his fly and, more by luck than aim, struck the target head on. Vince roared and fell back.

  Breda rolled out and away from him before he could recover and, on her knees, swung the half brick in a scything arc that caught him on the side of the head. Then rage overtook her, a great welling surge of rage at all the humiliations that had been piled upon her, all that she had sacrificed: Ron, her house, her daddy and damned near her mother and her son.

  She raised the broken brick above her head in both hands and brought it crashing down.

  It struck Vince midway between the bridge of the nose and the hairline. Blood started from his nose and his eyes rolled back in his head. He let out a cry that in other circumstances might have aroused her sympathy then slumped on to his side and lay motionless, legs drawn up and arms crushed beneath his chest.

  Breda got to her feet. Rage still burned in her like a gas jet. She raised the piece of brick once more and was on the point of smashing it into his skull when sense took over. She prodded Vince with the toe of her shoe. Blood came from his mouth as well as his nose. Taking him by the shoulders, she flopped him on to his belly, face down, so that he wouldn’t choke. When he spluttered and coughed she knew he wasn’t dead but, to her relief, showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

  Fear and rage drained out of her. For a moment she felt as if she might swoon. She closed her hands into fists and stretched her arms stiffly down by her sides to stop herself shaking.

  ‘Right,’ she said aloud. ‘All right,’ and fished about on the floor to find her knickers. She shook the knickers free of dirt and, still unsteady on her pins, carried them to the doorway and, leaning against the jamb, put them on.

  The air that filtered down the narrow alley was cool and, clinging to the door jamb, she drew in several huge, deep breaths to clear her head. The odd thing wasn’t that she felt bad but that she didn’t feel worse. It was as if the sudden storm of anger had purged her guilt and released her from uncertainty.

  She glanced round to make sure that Vince was still out cold, then, taking her time, brushed grit from her dress, front and back, tidied her hair and, spitting on her fingertips, gave her face a bit of wash to restore some colour to her cheeks.

  She drew herself up, braced her trembling knees and walked down the narrow passageway and out into Fawley Street in search of a policeman.

  It didn’t take long to find one. He was hanging about the kerb on the curve of the cobbled area in front of the old clock tower and he looked, Breda thought, quite bored.

  She approached him boldly, doing her best to strut with a little of her youthful self-confidence.

  ‘Wonder if you could ’elp me?’ she said.

  ‘Certainly do my best, miss.’

  ‘Lookin’ for a place I can send a telegram.’

  ‘Post Office do that for you,’ the constable said. ‘The one up in Shannon Street’s still open. Better get a move on, though, they closes at half past five.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Breda smiled, made as if to step off the kerb, then hesitated. ‘By the way, Officer,’ she said, ‘ain’t really none o’ my business but there’s a chap down there in that buildin’ an’ I don’t think he’s very well.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Saw ’im stagger in there bleedin’ pretty bad.’

  ‘Did you now?’ the copper said. ‘Soldier?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Breda said. ‘I do believe ’e was.’

  ‘Better see about that then, hadn’t I?’ the copper said and, with a nod to a good citizen, strode off towards the alley while Breda, letting out her breath, whisked round the side of the old clock tower and, in a flash, was gone.

  ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ Griff said. ‘It doesn’t look like a shady nook to me. Looks more like a farm track.’ He put down a foot to brace himself and leaned into the handlebars of the bicycle. ‘Mr Pell may have got it wrong.’

  ‘Mr Pell never gets anythin’ wrong,’ Danny said. ‘Anyhow, I’ve tried everywhere else an’ there’s not a bloody room tae rent within twenty miles of Wood Norton.’

  ‘We’ve seen to that, I suppose. I mean, the BBC,’ Griff said. ‘Between evacuees from Birmingham and bearded gentlemen from Outer Mongolia you’ll be lucky to find an unoccupied rabbit hole. From what you’ve told me your friend from London isn’t going to be too happy stuck up a farm track miles from anywhere.’

  ‘There you’re wrong,’ Danny said.

  ‘Is that what the telegram was about, the one that Harrison tossed on your desk with such contempt?’

  ‘Aye, it was,’ Danny said.

  ‘Would it be stretching friendship too far to ask what it said? I mean, what’s got you into such a lather?’

  Danny paused. ‘Well, if you must know, the telegram said, “Get me out of here.”’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Breda can be quite laconic when she’s bein’ charged per word,’ Danny said. ‘Somethin’s obviously changed her mind about quittin’ London.’

  ‘Nightly air raids, perchance?’ said Griff wryly.

  ‘At least, she’s seen sense at last an’ I won’t have to twist her arm to do the right thing. “Get me out of here,” sounds pretty desperate to me.’

  ‘Desperate or not,’ Griff said, ‘I still question if a big city girl will appreciate being totally cut off from civilisation.’

  ‘Hell’s bells, Griff, it’s only a quarter of a mile from Deaconsfield,’ Danny said. ‘You can walk to the Pells’ front door in ten minutes. Besides, farm tracks usually lead to farms an’ unless I’m off beam the farm where Femi an’ Ursula an’ some of the other girls live is just across that field.’

  ‘Femi?’ Griff said. ‘Now, if I weren’t engaged to the loveliest girl on earth I wouldn’t mind lodging with Femi myself. I assume you’ve knocked on every door in the village?’

  ‘What do you think I’ve been doin’ every spare minute for the last few days?’ Danny said. ‘I even asked the bloody billeting officer to see if he could help. He just laughed. Now if only you’d do the decent thing, wed Kate an’ move into married quarters, I could bring Breda down to stay with the Pells.’

  ‘Have you seen the so-called married quarters?’ Griff said. ‘In any case I’ve already arranged with Mrs Pell to shift you into Kate’s room and Kate and I will have the one we’re in now.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘November,’ Griff said. ‘By the by, I’d be awfully grateful if you’d b
e my best man. Harrison may not be keen to let us both take leave at the same time but if we give him plenty of warning I’m sure he’ll come round.’

  ‘Are you sure you want me for a best man?’

  ‘It’s either you or a sheep shearer from Brecon. A difficult choice, I admit, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

  ‘What does Kate have tae say about it?’

  ‘It was her idea.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘So there you are, boyo. You can hardly refuse a request from the blushing bride, can you? In any case, it’ll be good to get away for a couple of days and I guarantee the Cottrells will lay on a feast fit for a king.’

  ‘It’s not happenin’ here in the Greenhill then?’

  ‘Coventry,’ Griffith said. ‘Kate’s parents are insisting on a proper church wedding. As they’re paying for it – well, why not?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘November 15th. It’s a Friday. Will you do it?’

  ‘Of course I’ll do it,’ Danny said. ‘But it’ll cost you.’

  ‘Cost me what?’

  ‘Three quid for a new blue suit.’

  ‘You could always turn up in your kilt, I suppose.’

  ‘Very funny!’ Danny said and, hoisting himself back on to the saddle of his bicycle, added, ‘Now, if you don’t mind, let’s forge on an’ see if we can find this place Mr Pell talked about.’

  ‘Shady Nook.’

  ‘Aye, Shady Nook,’ said Danny.

  32

  It was a little after nine on Saturday evening when Vivian slumped over the desk and rested her brow on the typewriter. ‘Done,’ she said aloud, though there was no one in the room to hear her. ‘Bloody well done.’

  The book was finished and the top copy would be on its way to her literary agent, Charlie Ames, first thing on Monday. He had already persuaded The Times to publish an extract, though just how much attention an article on British injustice would attract when London was lying in ruins and half the population were living underground was debatable. Ted Carr, The Times assistant editor, had liked what he’d seen of the book but, as Charlie Ames pointed out, Ted Carr was a supporter of Joe Stalin and highly critical of Churchill’s ‘Collar the Lot’ policy which he saw as a ruse to cleanse the country of Communist sympathisers.

  Vivian didn’t care. She’d done her best, more than her best. The book, Charlie assured her, had flair and passion, by which he meant piss and vinegar, an assessment with which Vivian was all too willing to agree. Now came the tedious slog of ensuring that her all footnotes were accurate and compiling an index. Even so, An Enemy in Our Midst? – she’d added the question mark at Basil’s suggestion – would be published in the spring and some useful dollops of cash would flow into her bank account.

  She wondered what sort of reception the book would have, where and by whom it would be reviewed and how many public appearances Charlie might be able to arrange on the back of it. Then she sat up. What the devil was she dreaming of? Charlie and Ted Carr and the publishing chaps might continue to ply their trades as if the future were as staid as the past but the Germans had other ideas. Long before An Enemy appeared in Foyle’s window there might be no Foyle’s, no publishers and no future at all for books like hers.

  ‘Oh, bollocks!’ she said and, leaping up, bundled the typescript into a box file and thrust the file into the small fire-proof safe that Basil had bought for the purpose. She closed the safe door, locked the handle, then, swaying slightly, stood in the middle of the room and listened to the wind whistling down the mews and the faint sound of gunfire and aeroplane engines that came riding along with it.

  The raid had started at a little after eight.

  Viv had ignored the warning and, absorbed in her work, had carried on typing. She had no fire watch duties tonight and, no matter how Basil fussed, would eat an unhurried supper, drop into bed for a good night’s sleep, and be damned to the bloody Jerries and their policy of obliteration.

  She lit a cigarette and wandered through the hall into the living room in search of her husband.

  The blackout curtains were closed. Basil had left one light burning, the standard lamp with the big parchment shade.

  The men were outlined against the light, Basil in shirtsleeves and waistcoat and his brother, Derek, in naval uniform. They had their backs to her and were looking down at Susan who was stretched out on the davenport fast asleep and showing rather a lot of leg.

  Vivian cleared her throat. The men swung round.

  ‘Enjoying the view?’ Viv said.

  Commander Willets was not in the least embarrassed.

  ‘Every sailor’s dream,’ he said, then, coming forward, kissed Vivian on the cheek. ‘The poor girl must be exhausted.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ Vivian said. ‘Are you staying for supper?’

  ‘Supper, yes, please. But I must be on my merry way as soon as the all-clear sounds. I rather expected to find you cowering in the cellar. It’s pretty fierce out there tonight.’

  ‘We’re learning to ignore it,’ Basil said. ‘At least Vivian is. Didn’t you hear the doorbell, dearest?’

  ‘No,’ Vivian said. ‘I was otherwise occupied,’ then to Derek, ‘I gather you’re just passing through.’

  ‘I was my way to the station from a meeting at the Admiralty when the siren sounded. I hope you don’t mind but I decided to seek shelter here instead of hanging about a railway station. If the worst comes to the worst there’s an early train at five thirty. I’ll make a run for that, come what may.’

  ‘Well,’ said Basil, ‘however brief your visit, it is good to see you, old chap. Vivian, will you wake Susan, please.’

  ‘Why not let Derek do it?’ Vivian said, then added, smiling, ‘But not with a kiss, old chap. Please, not with a kiss.’

  In spite of, or perhaps because of the air raid it turned out to be one hell of a party, one whale of a party, the best damned party, Jake Tucker, linchpin of the United Press, declared since Chuck Rainer’s farewell lunch at Horcher’s in Berlin; a lunch that had lasted all afternoon and far into the night and had wound up with Chuck being arrested and having to bribe some snot-nosed gauleiter to call the American embassy to send someone round to bail him out before he wound up in Dachau.

  There was no excuse for the party that took place in Pete Slocum’s apartment that night. It just grew, like little Topsy, from a rowdy crowd of journalists and broadcasters who happened to be dining in the Lansdowne’s restaurant so far below street level that you could barely hear the explosions let alone the whistle of any bombs that might be heading your way.

  Bob shared a big table with Pete, Chuck and Tucker, some guy from the Daily Mail and three women, two of them young, that Pete had winkled out of the Union Post’s London office.

  They began with lobster cocktails and aquavit, moved on through beefsteaks and breaded partridge, washed down with a nice selection of wines, and finished up with ice cream and macaroons. When, at length, Pete got up to leave, the others followed, not just the gang at Pete’s table but half the guys of both sexes in the dining room, for it was Saturday night in London town and, raid or no raid, no one was going to bed before dawn.

  George, the valet, kept his nerve long enough to pour one round of martinis, cut up lemons and fill a number of bowls with salted peanuts and stuffed olives. He even laid out coffee makings in the kitchen and a tray of fresh eggs for anyone who might be crazy enough to want breakfast. But when, shortly after midnight, one whistling scream was followed by a loud explosion and even the chaps who were shooting craps on the shag pile got up and galloped into the corridor, George threw in the towel, left the foolhardy idiots to get on with it and fled downstairs to the basement.

  In theory you had ninety seconds’ grace between the bomb leaving the bomb bay and the bomb striking its target. Ninety seconds was surely enough for any reasonable person to down a last martini, kiss a pretty girl or, if religion was your thing, mutter a prayer before you piled out into the corridor to put an extra wall be
tween you and the blast in the hope that the Lansdowne wouldn’t suffer a direct hit that would put you out of the game for good.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if you remember me?’

  ‘Sure, I remember you,’ Bob said. ‘Who could ever forget?’ Leaning on the corridor wall, the girl looked up at him with big, round eyes. There was nothing innocent about her, Bob guessed, except that look, child-like and knowing at one and the same time.

  ‘Tina, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Hmm.’

  And then she fell silent like everyone else in the corridor as the whistle of another falling bomb grew louder and louder.

  The explosion was close and violent.

  For a moment it seemed the building might crash down and bury them all. Later Bob would swear that not only did the ground move beneath his feet but that the biggest steel and concrete apartment house in the city swayed like a tree in the wind.

  ‘Ooo,’ the girl said, pursing her lips. ‘Too close for comfort, wouldn’t you say?’ and, before Bob could stop her, insinuated herself into his arms.

  They ate supper in the kitchen tucked away at the back of the mews house, sheltered from what was going on outside. Vivian did most of the talking. She was glad to have an audience, Susan guessed, for she was pleased with herself for ‘polishing off’ her book in double-quick time and chattered on and on about the relevance her exposé might have when it came to rebuilding Britain in a post-war world.

  On that September night the post-war world seemed as far away as the planet Neptune but the brothers Willets were sufficiently considerate not to draw attention to the distinct possibility that Britain would be invaded, or to the raid that rattled the slates or the fact that in an hour or two Derek would be returning to convoy duty on the dark Atlantic.

  When he had wakened her out of a deep, deep sleep at first Susan had mistaken him for Danny. Rubbing her eyes and yawning, she’d been quite unaware that her dress had ridden up and that she was showing not only her slip and stocking tops but bare thighs as well. Saying nothing, Commander Willets had leaned out of the light and, with finger and thumb, had tugged down the hem of her dress to protect her modesty.