by John Masters
The driver said, ‘Wonder what they’d do if we told them ’twas Margaret Cate in the jaunty.’
‘Why don’t we go back and kill them,’ Margaret said. ‘I have my pistol.’
‘Me, too, Peg … but I’m not here to kill the Royal Irish. Time enough for that when the war ends – if they don’t let us free. I’m here to watch the ships, so’s our friends can know where to find ’em.’
Margaret said, ‘You’re right, Doyle.’ Doyle, local crofter, and two other men living near Crosshaven and in Queenstown itself, kept tally of all comings and goings of ships into the great harbour – American, British, warships, merchantmen. The information was passed to German U-boat captains on lonely beaches in Kerry and Mayo, or from fishing boats rocking in the Atlantic swells off Aran. Increasingly, she knew, the submarines never appeared at the rendezvous – sunk by such as those destroyers sliding in now from the Atlantic, the Stars and Stripes streaming from their sterns.
Doyle had met her at Cork railway station, and was taking her back to his croft. Margaret, her hair dyed grey from its true dense shining black, bore the identity papers of Janet Doyle, his aunt, come to visit him from Limerick. Next week she would carry other papers, and she would be back at the movement’s headquarters, in Dublin. The British might catch her at any moment – she was stopped on an average of once every month, and her papers inspected, as she went about her business – but there was no definite identification mark, that they knew about. The scar on her right breast, where the bullets had passed through when she and Dermot killed the policemen two years ago; the entry wound in her shoulder blade and the exit above her collarbone, when she was wounded in the Easter Rising – these were clear and inerasable, but they were all hidden by her clothing; and the British did not know about them in detail – only that she had been wounded.
Doyle said, ‘There’s no hope now, is there really, Peg?’
She said fiercely, ‘There’s always hope! The Germans will make a great assault in the spring … They may actually win the war. Even if they don’t, the shock will be so great – they may sweep the British clean out of France – that there’ll be a great outcry to make peace, at any price. And then …’
‘We’ll have to take what the British choose to give us. That’s the truth of it,’ the man said gloomily, cracking his whip over the flagging little pony’s back.
‘Freedom – or the streets, the fields,’ Margaret said passionately. ‘This spying and sneaking around, without attacking, is a waste of time. We ought to be waging guerrilla war now. What’s the point of waiting?’
‘There’ll be hard times, whenever it comes,’ Doyle said. ‘Whoa there!’ The pony slowed, he turned it off into a narrow stone-walled lane, and headed it toward a sod and thatch cottage a quarter of a mile ahead, smoke curling from under the eaves – it had no chimney – and a woman leading a cow along a wall outside, on a rope.
Doyle said, ‘We heard you left a family in England for us, Peg.’
‘I did,’ she said shortly.
Damn him, why did he have to bring that up now, when she had been able to pass nearly a whole twenty-four hours without thinking of Laurence, her son? Christopher should have seen that he was not cut out for a soldier, but he wouldn’t have. He was probably out in France by now. What chance was there that he’d come home alive out of that? And would Ireland ever be his ‘home’? But then, what chance was there that she’d come out alive? … She tried to think of Stella, but that was never easy. Stella was married, and she’d had a baby, and the baby had died – her first grandchild. The news did not move her when she’d seen it in the obituary columns of the Irish Times, any more than when, a few days later, she’d seen the announcement of Boy’s death in action. Someone in the family was obviously putting those notices in the Irish Times for the benefit … She shook her head to make the thoughts fly away. She didn’t want to think about Christopher feeding the robins by the window at the end of the hall, playing his violin on summer nights, the windows open, the sounds sweeping out across the velvet green, toward the yellow moon hanging over the Weald. She wondered briefly whether he had found another woman. He was a passionate man. What did it matter? That was all from another, meaningless world.
She said, ‘Make your full report as soon as we get in, and I’ll give you your instructions for the next two months. And the cash you asked for.’
‘’Tis to pay Paddy,’ he said apologetically, ‘the night watchman at the docks. He sees goings and comings that we don’t. But he’s a mite greedy.’
The cart stopped outside the croft. The woman came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. The rain hissed gently on the thatch, and Margaret stepped down into the mud, careful to move like a woman of seventy years of age.
The big room was jammed with them – the managers of the thirty-five H.U.S.L. shops now in operation, all seated on little folding chairs Hoggin had hired for the occasion; rather, that Miss Meiklejohn had hired on his behalf. Nineteen of the managers were women, sixteen men. Some of them had spent the previous night in London, and would do so again tonight, being unable to reach Hedlington and return to their bases in the single working day of the conference – which had started at 10 a.m. and was now, at 4.15 p.m., drawing to a close.
Hoggin rose to his feet. Miss Meiklejohn closed the door and click-clacked forward through the massed chairs, to sit beside his desk, her stenographic pad at the ready.
Hoggin said, ‘All right, you blokes – and ladies. You’ve heard from the banker. You’ve heard from the accountant … and don’t think I ain’t got my eye on you, every one of you …’ He fixed a beady gaze on a man in the second row, held him for a moment, then moved to a woman, another, another – ‘Retail groceries is about the worst business there is for pilfering … until we get ways of keeping track of every tin of beans automatically, it don’t pay to try. So managers, and assistants, and every little slut who gets a job … not to mention the customers … ’elps themselves to a bit here, a bit there, a tin here, a jar here … Well, I’ve got fellows – and women – watching, who you don’t know is doing it. And first time they catches you with your hand in the till … out! And we’ll prosecute. It’ll be in the papers, your name and all … You’ve heard from me about buying in bulk, direct from the producers … and when this war’s over that’ll be easier … more goods, cheaper … You’ve heard from that New York Yankee, about getting people inside the shops, and when they’re in, selling – making them buy. Specials, advertisements in the local paper … regular, same day every week. Keep the shops open late, one night a week … Don’t pay any extra to the assistants who stay on late those nights, just sack ’em if they complain, or say they won’t do it … Mark prices plain, clear … and about a quarter of the goods on the shelves oughter be marked “Reduced from …” ’Course it hain’t really reduced from anything, unless you mark it up first, then mark it down from that, see? But that only works well for ’igh priced items and we don’t want many of them in H.U.S.L. shops … Keep the place clean. Everything easy to find. Everything in the same place all the time … and in the same place, as near as you can get it, in all the shops, according to the plan that bloke gave you this morning.’
He eyed the managers benevolently. He’d got ’em where he wanted ’em … looking forward to making a lot of money, because they were all sharing in the profits of their own stores and of H.U.S.L. overall; afraid of him, because they knew he was a wide boy, wide enough to hire experts to catch ’em out if they cooked the books, or did a lot of pilfering on their own accounts. They were going to hire the best people they could find, and see they did their work, because they’d lose their own profits if they didn’t … and, before you could say Jack Robinson, their jobs, too.
He stuck his thumbs into the waist band of his trousers, pushing up the waistcoat to do so. He said, ‘I’m going to America next year. They’ve got chains of stores what make little us look like children playing “Shop.” I’m going over to take a look-see. Whe
n I come back, we’ll do what they do, only better – before they get a chance to come over ’ere and take the bread out of our mouths, with bigger stores, more money, lower prices … Before I go I’m going to divide the shops into areas, and appoint Area Superintendents so soon you’ll be reporting through them, and they’ll be putting the ginger into you. It’ll cost me a packet, but it’ll be worth it … And we’ll have a new headquarters. This is too small … ’cos though there’ll be Area Superintendents, I’m going to get all the managers together once a year, at least, and that’ll need a bigger place than this. Anyway, we’re going to ’ave a bigger accounting department, with all sorts of ruddy electric machines … the buying department will be centralized in the new place … the inspection department, the secret service … my spies, see? … sales department, what decides on what we’re going to sell in all the H.U.S.L.s and ’ow to do it, and then tells you … personal department, no, that ain’t right, personnel… finding new people to put in your jobs when I give you the sack, ’cos you’re not making enough spondulicks … Well, that’s about all. Miss Meiklejohn, ring for taxis for these blokes – and ladies.’
‘They’re here now, Mr Hoggin,’ the secretary said. ‘Eight of them, waiting in the drive. Everyone will have to squeeze into those. The London train leaves in half an hour.’
The managers were all on their feet. One tall thin man near the back called out, ‘Mr Hoggin … sir … will this new headquarters be in London? It would be more, ah, convenient if it were, would it not?’
‘It might,’ Hoggin growled, ‘but it ain’t going to be. Rates there is too bloody high, by a long chalk. And they’ll keep going up. No, it’s going to be here … close to.’
‘Oh, that’ll be good,’ the man who had spoken said with sycophantic enthusiasm.
The room slowly emptied, Hoggin standing by the desk, watching, thumbs in his trousers. Miss Meiklejohn went out, closing the door behind her. A moment later it opened with a bang and Hoggin’s wife Ruth rushed in, followed slowly by the bent, creaking form of her mother, Jane Stratton. Ruth hurried up between the chairs to face him, then gasped breathlessly, ‘Bill! I have wonderful news! I’m going to have another baby!’
Bill took his thumbs out of his trousers and clapped his hands together, ‘Hey, Ruthie, that’s good! Though why it didn’t come sooner, I don’t know, the number of times I bang you.’
‘Oh, Bill! … I’m three months gone, the doctor thinks, and that’s what I say, too.’
‘You’re sure, then?’
‘Yes! Oh, Bill, isn’t it wonderful?’
He took her in his arms then, and hugged her, and smacked a kiss in the middle of her forehead. He leaned back, holding her at arm’s length. ‘All right, then, but this time I’m going to name the little bugger. No more Launcy Lotties.’
‘Oh, Bill.’ She sank forward, nestling her bosom against his bulk.
‘I’m so happy for you both,’ Jane Stratton said.
The door opened and the frigid voice of Miss Meiklejohn cut icily through the room. ‘Swallowford’s men have come to remove the chairs, Mr Hoggin.’
‘Well, tell them to fucking get on with it,’ Hoggin said, hugging his wife. Wait till New Year’s Day and would he give her a surprise!
Alice Rowland stretched her wooden leg with an audible creak. It hurt sometimes – sometimes, a lot – but she loved it, loved the creaking of its knee joint, the harness that attached it to her thigh and waist. Leaning over the little table beside her she poured a cup of tea and, reaching across, handed it to her visitor – Mrs Dave Cowell.
Mrs Cowell was not weeping at the moment, but she had been, both before coming to the house, and for the first quarter of an hour of her visit. So far she had not said much, for the maid had been in and out with the tea, poking the fire, drawing the curtains against the winter dark … and she obviously had something private and personal to share with Alice.
Alice said gently, ‘Well…?’
‘He’s gone and joined up, miss.’ The frumpy hat was askew, the skirt wrinkled and dragged up one side, the face mournful and tear stained.
Alice said, ‘Dave has joined up?’ Mrs Cowell nodded. ‘But he’s over age.’
‘For being conscripted, miss … but he’s volunteered.’
Alice thought, Dave didn’t believe in the war; he was antimilitarist; his family had no Service tradition; why had he done it?
As though answering her question, Mrs Cowell said, ‘It’s nothing to do with the war, miss – I think … he’s done it because he can’t abide to live here without seeing you. He’s hardly spoke to me since … since I told him you’d promised not to see him again. I don’t think he wants to live at all.’
‘Had he got a job … employment? I saw that he had been dismissed from the school because he allowed the No-Conscription Fellowship people to use his classroom for a meeting.’
‘He did odd jobs, miss. Tutored boys – and girls – for exams. But he didn’t make as much as he used to … and that wasn’t much.’
Alice sipped her tea. Mrs Cowell did the same, then took out a handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, and began to cry again. Through the handkerchief she sobbed. ‘He says he’ll be made an officer. They told him that at the barracks as soon as he joined up, so he is in a special course up there now, like an officer recruit.’
‘That’s good,’ Alice said.
Mrs Cowell’s weeping became louder, ‘Oh no, miss, officers get killed more than the soldiers … the lieutenants and 2nd lieutenants do, and that’s what Dave’ll be, isn’t it?’
Alice thought, she’s come for comfort; but what comfort can I give her? Dave’s gone and may never come back – to either of us.
Again as though speaking to her unspoken thought, Mrs Cowell mumbled, ‘If I’adn’t come to you, an’ said you shouldn’t go with him, he’d still be home. We’d both have him … instead of neither.’
Alice was about to reassure her but thought, that’s just what I was thinking; why deny it? Would it have worked? Perhaps, perhaps not. But it couldn’t be worse than this. She had kept to her promise, not to see Dave again. But that had not kept him out of her thoughts, her body. She loved him, wanted him, and needed him.
Mrs Cowell said, ‘I heard you were going to work for the Aircraft Company, miss.’
Alice nodded, ‘I am, starting in the new year, I’ve passed my accountancy exams, and I’m very much looking forward to it. I don’t mean I’m a Chartered Accountant – that will take years – but I’ve started toward it.’
‘How are you going to get up there and back, miss?’
‘I am buying a motor tricycle.’
‘And live here, with Mr Harry?’
Alice said, ‘I suppose so … I don’t have much to do with running the house nowadays. Mrs Stallings is housekeeper as well as cook … if she ever decides to retire, heaven knows what we’ll do.’
Mrs Cowell took a deep breath and her voice quavered as she spoke, ‘Miss … when … if Dave comes back … will you … I want you to see him, please see him … for my sake … he loves you, miss, I know it … An’ you love him, don’t you?’
Slowly Alice nodded, ‘I do … I shall never take him from you, though.’
Again Mrs Cowell took a deep breath – ‘If … when … he comes back, we could live in one ’ouse, miss. It would be yours, and Dave and I would be like butler and housekeeper, to other people, or perhaps they’ll take him on again at the school, but … we’d be together … and I could look after you proper, cook, clean, push you round to places you couldn’t go by yourself … I’d like to …’
Alice found that tears were welling in her own eyes. She said, ‘Thank you … do you know, I’ve never heard your Christian name …’
‘Daisy, miss.’
‘You are a saint, Daisy.’
‘You’ll do it, when, if …?’
Alice said, ‘We must wait until …’
‘ – he comes home!’
‘… and find out whether
we, and he, really want it … can make it work.’
Ethel Fagioletti sat in the tiny parlour of the little house in Soho, reading the letter, tears streaming down her face. Niccolo had never had a proper teacher, or school, what with his parents bringing him here from Italy, then having to learn English as well as history and geography at board school, all at the same time. So his letter was hard to read. But it was the first she had ever had from him that he had written in his own hand; the few earlier letters had been written for him by an educated soldier, Niccolo said. This was precious for that alone, and now that she had struggled through its misspellings and erasions and rewritings it was doubly clear. She read it again.
Dere Missus Fagioletti, I am saf I am platon sarjant to Mister Kate I lok after him he is a yung gent his cusn captin roland was kilt send me three ceks for crismus for men mi platon they ar god men mosli the CO ses I can sta on afte war if I wonto beta than wating eh im sori i send you away becas i luv you and we will have babi when war ove
She hugged the letter to her breast, crying happily. He had truly come back to her at last, his heart as well as his body, as she had always known he would – he must – because she loved him. Their brief time together in the Grosvenor Hotel on his last leave had been different from anything before. No baby had come from it, but after the war, there would, when there was time, time to love gently, not those furious, desperate attempts to forget the trenches. When he came home for good, then … why, he’d be Sergeant Fagioletti here in London, or Hedlington, not just in France! What a strange idea! What was the world coming to? But she must not leave matters to chance. They must have a baby. But who could she trust to help her? The gypsy women on the Heath always promised you’d have a baby, and gave you bad-tasting stuff to drink, and took your money – but mostly nothing happened. Why … Probyn Gorse’s Woman! Everyone down there knew she’d get rid of babies, if she felt like it. But Ruth had heard it whispered that she could also ensure that a woman had one. She’d go and see her, as soon as …
