‘Of course I can fix it. It’s the flange nut on the stopcock.’
‘Is it really?’
‘I’ll have pressure restored very shortly, I assure you.’
‘Jolly good!’ said Polly.
There was nothing seriously wrong with the plumbing. Falling water pressure was general throughout Manor Park, for an inexperienced crew from the Auxiliary Fire Service had ruptured a main pipe. A chap in a damp blue uniform had called round a couple of days ago to inform householders that full pressure would be restored as soon as possible which, these days, meant next month or the month after, or possibly not at all. Somehow, though, Polly had neglected to inform Fin of the fireman’s visit.
‘God, but it’s stiff.’ Metal scraped on metal. ‘Damn and blast it!’
‘If you can’t manage—’
‘I can manage. I can manage. Whoever installed this antiquated system should be shot, though. Why hasn’t the stopcock been greased? Didn’t your husband ever do it?’
‘He had a man come in to do it for him.’
‘Are you being sarcastic?’
‘Of course not,’ said Polly.
She watched the trouser leg lift in a spasm of effort, saw his hips twist and jerk on the carpet of newspaper that he had spread beneath the sink.
The useful little dribble of water from the tap dried up completely.
Panting, Fin said, ‘How’s that?’
‘Not good.’
‘Christ!’
‘Oh, do come out,’ Polly said. ‘You’ll only lose your temper.’
He had lost his temper before now, once with the lawn mower and twice with the cistern in the upstairs bathroom. His legs straightened and relaxed. Polly guessed that he would be staring up at the knot of lead and copper piping on the underside of the sink and plotting some face-saving excuse.
‘Is anything happening, anything at all?’
‘It’s stopped,’ said Polly.
‘Oh!’
‘Might I suggest you turn the flange of the wing nut on the stopcock in a clockwise direction.’
He said nothing. The long leg in the worsted trousers bent again and, a moment or so later, the cold water tap released a gush that settled into a weak barley-sugar-shaped coil.
‘Is that better?’
‘Somewhat better,’ Polly said. ‘Awfully clever of you. Do come out now.’
He emerged cautiously, piece by piece. She relieved him of the spanner and offered her hand. He pulled himself to his feet, brushed his trouser legs and scowled at the cold-water tap.
‘That is better, isn’t it?’
‘A little bit,’ Polly conceded.
‘Well, it’s the best I can do without proper tools.’
He washed his hands with a thoroughness that would have put a surgeon to shame and dried them on a towel that Polly gave him.
She didn’t thank him for his efforts with a kiss. Except in the bedroom upstairs or more rarely in Fin’s flat, they never kissed. She did not love Carfin Hughes and he did not love her. He did, however, appreciate her and that, in the midst of a miserly war, was quite enough for Polly.
He took the newspapers from under the sink and the collection of spanners and went out through the back door. She heard the rattle of the garage door and the clang of the bin lid and felt dank air from the garden seep into the kitchen. She shivered. She was cold. She was seldom anything but cold these days for the house in Manor Park Avenue was far too large now that Dominic and the children were gone, and in an unusual fit of altruism she had persuaded Margaret Dawlish, her housekeeper, to move to Blackstone Farm.
Fin returned. He washed his hands again, dried them carefully, ran a comb through his thinning hair, took his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair, slipped into it and glanced at his wristwatch.
‘Art thou ready, my Polly?’ he said.
It was precisely one o’clock. It was always precisely some time as far as Fin was concerned. He lived his life by the clock, which Polly assumed was a lawyer’s habit and not something for which he could be blamed. She shared office space with him on the fifth floor of the Baltic Chambers in Glasgow and had witnessed first-hand the volume of business that flowed through the practice.
‘We should really be moving,’ Fin said.
‘Yes, yes, I heard you.’
‘Don’t forget the eggs.’
She’d made up a small packet of shell eggs, precious as gold these days, that she had bought from Dougie Giffard to give to her mother. She carried the packet out into the hallway and placed it on a chair by the door while she put on her coat, hat and scarf and unhooked her gas mask from the hallstand.
The dark, cloud-ridden day made the house seem even more empty than usual. She would be glad to be out even if it was just to visit Mammy and Bernard for a couple of hours. Fin would pick her up again round the corner from the Peabodys’ terraced cottage at half-past four. By then he would have made his weekly pilgrimage to check on his elderly parents and before they went their separate ways he would take Polly to tea in a tiny café tucked into a side street off Byres Road.
Polly enjoyed the hour they spent together in the café, sipping weak tea and eating toast. Many Italians had returned to Italy to fight for the Fascists or had been interned. Some had been shipped to the Isle of Man, others to Canada to sit out the war. She wondered what would have become of her last lover, Tony Lombard, if he’d stayed in Britain; what would have become of Dominic too; what might become of them yet if America entered the war.
She followed Fin down the drive to the motorcar parked behind the hedge. The big black Vauxhall Cadet looked suitably ‘official’. Fin had picked it for that reason. The Cadet was hardly economical but Fin always seemed to have a tankful of petrol when he needed it.
Polly slid into the passenger seat and closed the door. Fin fired the engine, rolled the car out into Manor Park Avenue and turned left, heading for the city and the Clyde bridges.
Polly sat back, knees together, coat collar, fur trimmed, pulled up to warm her cheeks and ears. She watched the park glide past. The iron railings had been removed and the flowerbeds converted into vegetable allotments. Without railings to protect them the trees seemed larger and figures in the distance – young boys, old men – smaller, as if war had altered the scale of one’s perception.
‘I hear your sister has taken a lodger,’ Fin said.
He drove with great authority, almost dashingly, like a man more used to sports cars than ten-year-old saloons.
‘Who told you that?’
He tapped the side of his nose with a gloved finger. ‘Little bird.’
‘Rosie?’
‘Lord no. Little bird. Enough said.’
‘Well yes, it’s true. Some fellow she met at the Recruitment Centre.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Fin said.
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘Have you met him yet?’
‘Why would I want to meet him?’ Polly said.
The streets were quiet, even the thoroughfare. Trams were few and far between and no other cars were visible down the long straight stretch that led past Ibrox. Fin gave the accelerator a firm tap and brought the speed up to forty.
‘Curiosity,’ Fin said. ‘Have the billeting officers not been on at you again to open your house to strangers?’
‘I think they’ve given up.’
‘They never give up,’ said Fin. ‘It’ll be a requisition order next.’
‘And you’ll deal with it.’
‘I will.’
They drove in silence for a quarter of a mile.
Then Polly said, ‘Did your little bird tell you Babs’s lodger is American?’
‘My little bird did.’
‘Is that why you’re so interested in him?’ Polly said.
‘Am I interested in him?’
‘Of course you are. If you hadn’t been interested you’d have brought up the subject last night.’
‘I had more on my min
d last night than your sister’s lodger.’
‘Be that as it may, darling, you’re fishing, aren’t you?’ Polly said. ‘You think I’m holding something back.’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’
Tenements closed around them and the road narrowed. Sunday shift at the shipyards filled the air with a secular racket and the outskirts of Govan, Dominic’s old stamping ground, were almost as busy as a weekday.
‘Are you fishing because he’s an American?’ Polly said, at length.
Fin changed gear and gave most of his attention to the road.
There were no traffic lights, no policemen on points duty but the threatening rumble of an army convoy in the vicinity rendered him extra vigilant.
Fin said, ‘What part of the United States does he call home, I wonder.’
‘Didn’t your little bird—’
‘Could it be Philadelphia, do you suppose? Or New York?’
Polly pressed her knees together and tucked her elbows into her sides. ‘It did occur to me that this chap might be connected with Dominic,’ she said, ‘but no, it’s pure coincidence that he’s turned up here.’
‘I’m not so sure I believe in coincidence these days.’
‘Perhaps I should make a point of meeting him.’
‘No,’ Fin said. ‘Wait and see if he comes to you.’
‘Do you think he will?’ said Polly.
‘I think he might,’ said Fin, and, spotting the army convoy up ahead, fisted the wheel of the Vauxhall and drove down into the docklands in search of a back route to the bridges.
* * *
Sunday afternoon in the Alba Hotel in Greenock: Christy was waiting for a guy codenamed ‘Marzipan’. Marzipan and the owner of the Alba obviously had some kind of arrangement for when he’d first arrived in Scotland he’d been condemned to spend a week in the fleabag hotel before they’d shipped him out to the bunker in the disused aerodrome near Paisley.
He stood in the bay window looking down on the streets where his old man had run wild as a kid. You didn’t have to be a genius to see why the Clyde was an important waterway. Try as they might, German U-boat captains had failed to penetrate its boom defences, even on explicit orders from Hitler, a guy, so Christy’d heard, who got seasick just crossing the Rhine. There’s sweet irony for you, Marzipan had said, if you happen to be a Bootsmann lying on the seabed in a punctured tin fish, gasping for air. Christy didn’t want to think about anyone drowning, even a German. He hated the sea. He hated Europe and longed to be back in Manhattan with his fellow photo creatures.
Gloomily he contemplated the wave-streaked waters of the estuary. His father had been born and raised on one side of this river, his mother on the other. His brother, Jamie, an ambitious son of a bitch, had used the Scottish connection to persuade him to accept the assignment.
The array of ships was impressive, though: Clyde-built corvettes, MTBs and destroyers were tucked into every cove behind the boom defences, a gigantic steel net that stretched between the Cloch lighthouse and the weed-strewn rocks of the Gantocks hard by the little town of Dunoon.
The door of the lounge creaked open.
Figuring it would be Marzipan at last, Christy turned.
It was only a girl, very young, very nervous. She brought in a tray with two bottles of light ale, two glasses, and a plate of what looked like ship’s biscuits. She put the tray on a knee-high table in the window bay, bobbed a curtsy, and went out again.
No sooner had the girl left than Marzipan entered.
He closed the door, and said, ‘Refreshment?’
‘No thanks,’ Christy said.
‘What’s the matter? Don’t you like our Scottish beer?’
‘Not much.’
Marzipan lifted one of the brown bottles and fiddled with the cap, then, changing his mind, put it down on the tray again. ‘I hear you’ve left the aerodrome, struck out on your own, sort of thing,’
‘Yep.’
‘Have you made contact yet?’
‘Not with the target,’ Christy said. ‘With her sister.’
‘The one who works in recruitment?’
‘Yeah, I’m lodging with her.’
‘My, my! You are a fast worker.’
Marzipan was a beanpole with sunken cheeks, a hawk nose and a little sand-coloured moustache. His hair was set in tight curls, sand-coloured too. He wore no topcoat and his tweed jacket had seen better days. His shirt was spotless, though, the knot in his tie as small and tight as a peanut. Christy wondered if he was a naval officer like Jamie, and struggled to recall what he’d heard about navy regulations; no moustaches, no moustaches without beards, something like that. He knew better than to ask.
‘Do I have a codename yet?’ Christy asked.
‘Would you like a codename?’
‘Not especially.’
‘You don’t need one.’
‘But you do?’
Marzipan smiled. He had small, foxy teeth.
Christy figured him to be about forty, maybe a weathered thirty-five. He spoke in a clipped Scottish accent, snipping the words into sentences as if he were used to dictating to a secretary.
‘I do, alas,’ said Marzipan. ‘Tell me about the sister.’
‘What’s to tell,’ said Christy. ‘She’s not important.’
‘Are you sleeping with her?’
‘Nope.’
‘It doesn’t matter to me if you are.’
‘I’m not,’ said Christy. ‘I’m just approaching from the rear…’
‘Really!’
‘… like you told me to.’
‘What about the husband?’
‘In the army. Tanks. In Devon.’
Marzipan nodded. He knew that already, of course.
Christy said, ‘Did he work with Manone?’
‘He did, but he was small fry, very small fry.’
‘There’s a brother-in-law too – Dennis.’
‘He’s at sea,’ Marzipan said, ‘serving on an aircraft carrier.’
‘If you already have all the answers, what do you need from me?’
Marzipan seated himself on the arm of a broken-down sofa. He said, ‘Unfortunately we don’t have all the answers. Even more unfortunately we aren’t calling the tune. After you make contact with Manone’s wife, we should have a clearer picture of what’s going on.’
‘Just what is going on?’ Christy said.
‘That’s what you’re here to find out.’
‘When do I get my clearance to sail with a convoy?’
‘All in good time,’ Marzipan told him. ‘Meanwhile, is there anything we can do for you? Anything you need? Money?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘The London office is coming through then?’
‘Like clockwork,’ said Christy.
‘Where do you deposit the cheques?’
‘No cheques. Postal orders.’
‘Good.’
‘Is that it?’
‘For the time being.’
‘You brought me down here just to pat me on the head?’
‘Progress report,’ Marzipan said. ‘Candidly, I had hoped for a little more. Do you still have the number I gave you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll be gone for a week or two,’ Marzipan said. ‘But the person at the other end can be trusted to take messages. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get back.’
‘From where?’
Marzipan laughed. His blue-grey eyes became wet. He wiped them with a knuckle as if Christy had just told him the funniest joke in the world.
‘The States?’ said Christy.
‘Not the States, no.’
‘If you happen to bump into my brother—’
‘It’s highly unlikely.’
‘Yeah, well, if you do,’ Christy said, ‘tell him to go shoot himself.’
‘I’m sure you don’t mean that,’ said Marzipan, still laughing.
‘I’m goddamned sure I do,’ said Christy.
* *
*
Lizzie should have been pleased to see her daughters but she had become so set in her ways that she was quite disconcerted when all three turned up at once.
They were no longer bright young things. They had husbands, children and worries of their own, and sometimes seemed to converse in a language she could not now understand. The war had snapped the natural chain of events by which women her age anchored themselves to the past. She was confused by what was happening in the world, and Bernard and the girls tried to protect her from its harsher realities, which made her feel even more stupid.
Babs breezed in about a quarter past one o’clock, April and a litter of bags and boxes in her arms. Puffing, she dumped the lot on a chair in the living room, stood April on the dining table and began to undo the layers of wool and flannel in which the little girl was wrapped.
‘Let me do that,’ Lizzie offered.
‘It’s okay,’ said Babs brusquely. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘Mum’s got it,’ April said.
Leaning placidly on her mother’s shoulders, she gave Granny a careful scrutiny that may, or may not, have ended with a smile.
‘Have you had your dinner?’ Lizzie asked.
‘Nope,’ said Babs. ‘I’ve brought stuff. It’s in the brown bag, that one.’
‘You don’t have to bring food,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ve enough to go round.’
April said, ‘We never went to see Angus an’ the pig today.’
‘Did you not, darlin’?’ said Lizzie.
‘We comed here instead.’
‘Hold still, honey.’ Babs avoided her mother’s eye. ‘You’re gettin’ too big for this old coat. Arms up, please.’
Stripped of her scarf, balaclava and overcoat, April allowed herself to be lifted from the table and placed in one of the fireside armchairs. She sat back against the cushions, legs sticking out. She wore long stockings, crimped with elasticised garters, and patent leather shoes. When she was April’s age, Lizzie thought, Babs would have killed for a pair of shoes like that.
‘Where’s Grandpa?’
‘Yes,’ Babs said, ‘where is Bernard?’
‘Out.’
‘I can see that, Mammy, but where?’
Lizzie shrugged.
Bernard had pitched himself into the war effort with energy and enthusiasm. He was some years younger than Lizzie. He had fought in the last war and was irked at not being able to fight in this one. Lizzie couldn’t shake off the conviction that if the war lasted long enough, however, she would lose Bernard on the battlefield as she had ‘lost’ her first husband, Frank Conway. Frank hadn’t died for king and country, though; he had deserted the army, abandoned her and the children without a qualm, and fled to America to work for Carlo Manone’s outfit in Philadelphia.
Wives at War Page 5
