‘Shut up, Matt, just shut up,’ Nora said. ‘You’ll be safe with Danny, dear. He’ll look after you.’
‘She’ll be a lot safer with us in Ireland,’ Matt said.
‘Sure an’ you’ve no say in the matter,’ Nora told him.
‘No, but I bloody well know who has.’
‘Who’s that then?’ Nora asked.
‘Susan,’ Matt answered. ‘Our Susan.’
Some of the boys and girls from the News Department were having a party of sorts in the canteen to celebrate the announcement that ferocious storms were due to pound the coast of Britain and that any plans Adolf might have to use the full moon and high tides of the 24th to launch an invasion would surely be swept away.
One stately newsreader had popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and the minions, Susan thought, were pretending to be merrier than they really were just to please the old buffer. When they called out and invited her to join them, she forced a smile, shook her head and hurried on to buy a couple of sandwiches to eat upstairs.
She felt relieved, almost light-hearted now that the inevitable had happened and Robert Gaines had displayed his true colours. He had, she told herself, been just too good to be true, too good in bed, too good at the microphone but, in the end, not good enough for her.
Four or five years ago she would have blamed herself for his betrayal, would have believed herself to be inadequate, unattractive, lacking in sex appeal, a failure. She was not as she’d been five years ago, thank heaven, so unsure of herself that she would knuckle under and let some man, a virtual stranger, drain her of self-confidence as a vampire might drain her of blood. The fact that Bob Gaines had dared cheat on her only strengthened her belief that she deserved better.
In the end he was nothing but an opportunistic, fly-by-night foreign journalist who had caught her when she was at her most vulnerable – which, now she thought of it, was really all Danny Cahill’s fault for leaving her alone in London in the first place. Nor was Vivian entirely blameless. And Basil, yes, Basil had positively encouraged her to embark on an affair for the sake of his blessed programme.
After the first flush of shock and anger had subsided she’d swiftly gained control of herself and, on the short walk through the windy streets from Berkeley Square to Portland Place, had begun to construct her defences.
Even before the doors of Broadcasting House had closed behind her she knew precisely how she would treat him, how her aloof indifference to his excuses and apologies would turn the tables until it appeared that she was rejecting him, that he, not she, was the fool.
She was hungry: a good sign, a sure sign that her strategy was sound and that whatever hurt Bob Gaines had inflicted upon her was already beginning to heal.
She carried the sandwiches and a mug of tea up to the third-floor office and placed them on her desk. The damaged window, under the metal shutter, had been repaired or, rather, replaced by a huge sheet of plyboard that cut out all the light. All to the good, she thought, for the transition from daylight to dusk was a melancholy time, even before the sirens sounded warning of the inevitable raid.
She cut the sandwiches into manageable quarters with a paper knife and ate them; egg and cress, not her favourite filling but palatable enough. At least the bread was fresh. She found a handkerchief in her handbag, wiped her mouth and fingers, lit a cigarette and sipped lukewarm tea. Her typewriter, the telephone, the wallboard with the week’s schedule pinned to it, the tray on Basil’s desk with letters waiting to be signed: all the comforts of home, really.
She finished the tea and the cigarette and, tipping back her chair, rested her head against the wall and easily, effortlessly, drifted off to sleep.
The persistent ringing of the telephone wakened her. She tipped the chair forward and blinked. Her neck ached and she had a bad taste in her mouth. She waited for the phone to stop ringing but it didn’t. She glanced at the wall clock and realised that she’d slept for the best part of two hours. Small wonder, she thought as she crossed the room, that her neck ached.
She stooped over Basil’s desk and stared at the telephone. She knew who the caller would be, the despicable Mr Gaines, no doubt, telling her what a mistake he’d made, that he’d been drunk, that nothing had happened, that he hardly knew the girl, that she meant nothing to him, that he …
She picked up the receiver and said, ‘Well?’
For an instant, she failed to recognise his voice. Then it dawned on her that she had never heard him speak on a telephone before. He sounded different, hesitant and apologetic and, curiously, more refined, as if he feared that his call might somehow be broadcast to the nation.
‘Dad?’ she said.
‘Is that Mrs Cahill? I’m looking for Mrs Cahill.’
‘Yes, Dad, it’s me. It’s Susan.’
A pause, some muttering, a fumbling with coins, the clash of coppers as he found the right button, then, shouting, he said, ‘Is that you, Susan?’
She was amused by his inability to deal with the implements of the modern world that were so familiar to her but she was also uneasy. The effort it must have cost him to enter a public telephone box and place a call to the BBC, the holy of holies in his book, suggested that something was seriously wrong: another death, another tragedy – Billy or Nora, perhaps – another problem she must deal with when she barely had time to deal with problems of her own.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Is it Billy?’
‘No, it’s me. It’s your father.’
‘I know it’s you, Dad. You don’t have to shout. I can hear you perfectly well. Why are you calling me at work?’
‘You won’t get into trouble, will you? I wouldn’t want to get you in no trouble. I told them it was urgent.’
‘For God’s sake, simmer down and tell me what—’
‘He’s leavin’ you.’
Bewildered, Susan said, ‘How do you know that?’
‘Danny. He’s leavin’ you.’
‘Danny?’
‘Your ’usband.’
‘I know who Danny is, Dad. What makes you think—’
‘You gotter stop ’er, Susie. It ain’t right.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop who?’
‘Her. Breda,’ her father said, then, in a rush, ‘They didn’t want me tellin’ you. They said you wouldn’t be interested.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘She’s goin’ to stay with ’im in this country place.’
‘Evesham. Is she? Does Danny know about it?’
‘He told ’er to come. He’s got a place for ’er to stay. He’s even sendin’ ’er money for the fares. I mean, Ron’s wife, our Ron’s wife goin’ to live in a strange town with Danny Cahill. You ask me, the cow was at it behind Ronnie’s back. Now Ron’s not ’ere to sort ’er out it’s up to me to do it for ’im.’
‘Is Billy going too?’
‘’Course ’e is. She won’t go without ’im.’
‘I think Danny’s just making sure Billy gets out of London. At least I hope he is. What about you, you and Nora?’
‘Not invited.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, we’re goin’ to Ireland.’
‘Ireland?’
‘To stay with Nora’s niece, least till me foot heals up.’
‘And you want Breda to go with you, is that it?’
‘It ain’t right for Billy to be took away. It just ain’t right,’ he said. ‘It’s up to you to stop ’er, Susie. He’s your bleedin’ husband. You can put your foot down.’
‘I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure I even want to.’
Obviously no one had told her father about her affair with Robert and that her marriage to Danny Cahill might be on its last legs. Now Breda, Breda with her swagger and her big chest, would finish it off for sure. Breda had one card in her hand that she could never hope to trump: Billy, the stubborn, pathetic little boy who was already more like her father in temperament than Ron had ever been.
‘Susan?’ her father said. ‘
Susie, are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m runnin’ out of money ’ere.’
‘Do you need cash?’
‘What? No, pennies.’
‘What about cash to get you to Ireland?’
‘Nora’s got some savings in the bank. She can get the money without ’er bank book, she says. The book went up in smoke but the banks know what to do about that. Susie, you there, Susie? What you gonner do about—’
And the line went dead.
She replaced the receiver and waited, motionless, for her father to ring back. A minute passed, then two. The phone remained resolutely silent, her father’s final question hanging unanswered in the air.
‘Shady Nook?’ Kate said. ‘I wonder who dreamed that up?’
‘Someone with a great deal of imagination,’ Griff said. ‘They can call it Shangri-La if they like, it’s still nothing but an old railway carriage.’
‘How on earth did they get it here?’ said Kate.
‘Tractor, I expect,’ Danny said. ‘Once you’re inside it’s not as bad as it looks.’
‘It couldn’t possibly be as bad as it looks,’ Kate said. ‘I hope your friend knows what she’s coming to.’
‘My friend,’ Danny said, ‘won’t care what she’s coming to. Anywhere’s better than London right now an’ poor old Breda doesn’t have much choice.’
‘You’re pretty cocky about all this, aren’t you, boyo?’
‘I’m not cocky at all,’ said Danny. ‘Somebody’s got to look out for her now she’s a widow with a kid an’ nowhere to live. Her mother took me in when I was homeless, least I can do is return the favour.’
‘This may not be time or the place – especially not the place – but what,’ Griff said, ‘does your wife have to say about it?’
Griffiths and Kate were leaning against the bicycles which, with pails, brooms and mops hanging from the handlebars and jutting out from the saddlebags, made them look like gypsies peddling hardware door to door.
Griff’s sheepskin coat and patched old cords fitted the image of a rural mendicant, aided by a pair of Mr Pell’s wellington boots flopping on his feet, which, Kate said, might endear him to the odd one-eyed milkmaid but would definitely not go down well in Coventry High Street, though she, in baggy slacks and rubber galoshes, with a beret pulled tight over her hair, didn’t look much like a fashion plate either.
‘Good God, Cahill!’ Griff said. ‘Don’t tell me your wife doesn’t know?’
‘Know what?’ said Danny.
‘That you’re setting up a little love nest for—’
‘I think that’s enough, Silwyn,’ Kate said. ‘It’s really none of our business.’
‘Given that Jock here has blackmailed us into sacrificing our valuable leisure time to skivvy for him,’ Griff said, ‘I believe I am entitled to ask, not,’ he added hastily, ‘that you, my dear old chum, are in any way obligated to answer.’
‘Doesn’t matter what my wife thinks.’ Danny hesitated. ‘She’s been livin’ her own life for a while now.’
‘You mean she’s still with the American bloke?’
Kate cut him short. ‘Silwyn, enough!’
The railway carriage was securely propped on bricks and heavy wooden sleepers and to judge by the profusion of weeds that had grown up around it had been there for some time. The windows were smeared with grime and the paintwork on the sides of the coach was peeling, but the interior had been neatly partitioned off to provide two comfortable bunk beds, a tiny end kitchen with a Calor gas cooking ring and a little parlour with a coal-burning barrel stove. A lean-to hut with a chemical toilet inside had been added at one end of the coach and at the other a big wooden shed to store firewood and coal.
‘Who lived here?’ Kate said.
‘Farm labourer,’ Danny told her.
‘What happened to him? Did he die?’
‘Naw,’ Danny said. ‘He joined the navy.’
‘He was probably a young cowman,’ Griff suggested. ‘Mr Pell told me that Gaydon, the landowner, got rid of his dairy herd when the war started and turned the land over to arable. How much is Gaydon rooking you for rent, Danny?’
‘Three bob a week.’
‘Highway robbery. But it isn’t going to break you, is it?’
‘Mr Gaydon seemed glad enough to get the place off his hands,’ Danny said. ‘When I told him it was for evacuees he even threw in a free load of coal. I’ve a feelin’ Mr Pell might’ve put the elbow in. Gaydon an’ he drink in the same pub.’
‘How long has the place been empty?’ Kate said.
‘Six or seven months, apparently.’
‘And when is your friend arriving?’
‘Thursday.’
‘In that case’ – Kate detached a pail from the handlebars – ‘we’d better not stand around chatting. Where’s the water supply? We don’t have to carry it up from the Avon, do we?’
‘Naw,’ Danny said. ‘I doubt if Breda’d put up with that. There’s a well round the back. Sweet water, Gaydon assures me.’
‘A well?’ said Griff. ‘Good Lord!’
‘You can make a wish, if you like,’ Kate said.
‘I wish I’d never got into this,’ said Griff. ‘Too late to back out now, I suppose.’
‘Far too late,’ Kate told him and, handing him the pail, sent him off to find water while Danny and she, armed with brooms, attacked the coach’s musty interior to make it ready for Breda and her son.
34
On Sunday afternoon a small formation of German bombers flew into the Thames estuary only to be turned back by anti-aircraft fire before it reached London. The warning siren had been followed, ten minutes later, by the all-clear and Basil, on his way over from Salt Street, had barely broken stride. He had, he confessed, slept later than he’d intended and apologised to Susan who, he seemed to assume, had been at her desk for hours. Susan did not disillusion him.
When Basil asked if she’d heard anything from Bob Gaines, she shook her head and carried on typing in spite of the fact that her fingers no longer seemed to be properly connected to her brain. The call from her father had thrown her for a loop. His insistence that she put a spoke in Breda’s wheel was motivated by pure selfishness, of course. He wanted to keep Billy for himself. She could hardly blame him for that; nor could she blame Danny for persuading Breda to quit London before winter set in.
She might write to Danny or try to reach him by telephone, she supposed, tell him she’d broken off with Bob Gaines and depend on Danny’s sense of honour to keep Breda out of his bed. The alternative was to swallow her pride, forgive Bob his indiscretion, move into the Lansdowne and become ‘officially’, as it were, his girl. Forgiveness seemed like weakness, though; a step too far just to have a man in her life.
Basil said, ‘Have you had lunch yet, Susan?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Best go soon,’ he said. ‘Before you do, however, I’d be grateful if you’d put through a call to Gaines and see what the devil he’s up to. I thought he’d be here by now to deliver his piece for Tuesday. It’s going to be a scramble as it is.’
‘Why don’t you call him? At least he listens to you.’
‘Doesn’t he listen to you?’ Basil said. ‘I thought—’
‘What do you think, Baz?’ Bob Gaines said from the doorway. ‘That Susie has me by the tail? You don’t have me by the tail, sweetheart, do you?’
Leaning against the doorpost, hat tipped back and trench-coat belted tightly about his waist, he might have stepped from one of the gangster films that Ronnie had been so fond of. He spoke in a laconic tone of voice, as if he had rehearsed his lines.
In that moment Susan knew there could be no possibility of forgiveness.
Bob pushed himself away from the door and handed Basil a cardboard folder. ‘That’s your stuff for Tuesday,’ he said. ‘Timed to nine minutes but you may want to chop it down since I won’t be reading it.’
Basil held the folder in two hands and pre
ssed it to his chin as if he intended to open it with his teeth. He said, ‘Just what’s going on here?’
‘I’m resigning.’
‘You can’t,’ Basil said. ‘You have a contract.’
‘With an in-built, iron-clad separation clause,’ Bob said. ‘You should’ve paid more attention to the small print before you signed me up.’
‘Tuesday, what about Tuesday?’
‘I’ll be on my way to New York.’
‘You’re going home?’ Susan said.
‘I sail for Lisbon tomorrow morning to pick up a ship for the States. God knows how long it’ll take me but – yeah, I’m going home.’
‘Why, Bob? Why?’ Basil said.
‘I’ve had enough of England, enough of the BBC and—’
‘You’ve had enough of me,’ Susan heard herself say.
‘Too much of you, maybe,’ Bob said.
‘Are you taking her with you?’ Susan asked.
‘Who?’
‘That – that girl?’
‘Tina? Are you crazy? She was good between the sheets but that’s an end of it. She knew it was just a fling. At least she didn’t bore the pants off me.’
‘What?’ Susan got to her feet. ‘What did you say?’
‘She didn’t try to lay her guilt on me or make me out to be a bastard because I couldn’t fix her life for her. She knows how to have fun and let go. No boring pap about commitment. The only thing I’m committed to is my career and right here, right now in this sticky old flytrap you call the BBC, my career is foundering.’
‘That,’ Basil said, ‘is one of the most ridiculous excuses for resigning I’ve ever heard. Whatever may be going on between you and Susan—’
‘He’s a coward,’ Susan said. ‘Don’t you see, Basil? He’s a moral coward. What will you do, Robert, when you can no longer remain uninvolved? Where will you hide then? Cairo, Marseilles, Casablanca …’
‘Russia,’ he said. ‘The Post has promised me Russia.’
‘Perfect!’ Susan said. ‘Ideal! When you pick up a girl in Leningrad you won’t even have to talk to her.’
‘At least she won’t be made of ice.’
The Wayward Wife Page 29
