‘He’s gone to church,’ Lizzie said.
‘Shouldn’t he be back by now?’ said Babs.
‘Red Cross meeting.’
‘Bernard isn’t in the Red Cross, is he?’
‘Ambulance class, I mean,’ said Lizzie.
She really had no idea which of her husband’s activities had delayed him after morning service. Between his job as a billeting officer for Breslin town council and his volunteer work she saw very little of him these days.
‘He is a busy bee, our Bernie,’ said Babs.
‘Busy bee, busy bee,’ April repeated, and giggled.
It was good to have a child in the house again, Lizzie thought. She missed Stuart and Ishbel, Polly’s children, missed May and June too, and Angus most of all. She hadn’t been invited to visit Blackstone Farm; Babs had somehow never got around to taking her, not even in summer when the days were long.
She was on the point of picking up her granddaughter and carrying her off into the kitchen to ‘help’ make lunch when the front door opened and Rosie stuck her head into the living room.
‘Uh-anyone at home?’
April was out of the chair and across the room like a shot. She threw herself against her aunt and hugged her.
Rosie firmly disengaged herself and in a voice too loud for the small room, shouted, ‘Oh, you’re here, are you?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be here?’ said Babs.
‘I wanted to talk to Mammy.’
April tried again, hugging Rosie’s arm.
Rosie shook her off.
‘Oi,’ said Babs, ‘take it easy on the kid, okay?’
‘She didn’t hear you,’ Lizzie said.
‘She did an’ all.’ Babs faced her sister. ‘What the heck’s wrong with you, Rosie? If you want to talk privately to Mammy then go into the kitchen.’
April, near to tears, leaned disconsolately against the table.
Babs picked her up.
‘Have you had your lunch, dearest?’ Lizzie said.
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Rosie.
‘There’s soup in the pot,’ said Lizzie.
‘I don’t want anything,’ said Rosie. ‘I didn’t know she’d be here.’
‘“She” has a name, you know,’ said Babs. ‘An’ why shouldn’t I be here, for God’s sake? I’ve as much right to be here as you have.’
‘I thought you went to the farm every Sunday.’
‘Well, I didn’t, not today.’ Babs put April back in the armchair.
Rosie’s fingers trembled as she worked open the buttons of her overcoat.
‘Where is he then?’ she said.
‘Where’s who?’ said Babs.
‘Your fancy man, your Yuh-yankee doodle?’
‘Oh, so that’s it,’ said Babs. ‘You came to snitch on me, did you?’
‘I thought you might have brought him along to show him how the other half lives,’ said Rosie.
‘Other half? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Fancy man?’ said Lizzie, frowning. ‘Who’s got a fancy man?’
‘She has,’ said Rosie, with a cheap little smirk. ‘Couldn’t manage without a bit of the how’s-your-fuh-father so she’s found a man to move in with her.’
‘If you weren’t my sister,’ Babs said, ‘an’ if you weren’t such a pathetic little bitch, I’d smash your face in, so I would. Can’t you get it into that nasty wee head of yours that Christy’s a paying guest.’
‘Uh-huh, but what’s he paying for?’ said Rosie.
‘Christy,’ April put in, ‘is nice.’
‘See,’ Rosie said. ‘He has even got to the kid.’
‘Got to the … got to…’
Babs slapped her palm on the table, making the boxes jump.
Lizzie was not so naïve as all that. She was prepared to accept that, in spite of Babs’s denial, there might be some truth in Rosie’s accusation. Sensing trouble, she plucked April from the armchair and carried her through the kitchen, out the back door and into the communal garden that ran behind the terraced cottages.
‘What’s wrong, Granny?’ said April. ‘Why’s Mummy shouting?’
‘Because Aunt Rosie doesn’t hear very well.’
‘She’s deaf.’
‘Aye, deaf. Do you see what Grandpa has done with the shelter?’
April was not particularly interested in the border of broken roof tiles with which Bernard had decorated the mouth of the air-raid shelter. Eight identical shelters were humped along the length of the communal garden, all uniformly quilted with turf but individually ornamented, for it was in the nature of Knightswood folk to embellish conformity whenever they possibly could.
‘Mummy’s angry,’ said April.
‘I think we’ll go for a walk,’ said Lizzie. ‘Would you like to see Mrs Grainger’s cats?’
‘Cats.’ April nodded approval. ‘How many?’
‘Two,’ said Lizzie. ‘A daddy an’ a mammy.’
‘Do they like each other?’ April asked.
‘I’m sure they do,’ said Lizzie, and, taking her grandchild by the hand, led her away from the shouting match indoors.
* * *
‘Dear God!’ Polly snapped. ‘What’s got into the pair of you? You’re going at it like fishwives. I heard you halfway down the street.’
Polly had arrived unannounced at the height of the argument. Babs rounded on her older sister. ‘None of your damned business. It’s all your fault, anyway. I should never have told you about Christy.’
‘I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret.’
‘This way. Face me, both of you,’ Rosie yelled.
Obedient to habit they turned to face Rosie.
Polly wore a mannish-cut jacket with padded shoulders and a skirt with a front pleat. Her heavy fur-trimmed coat was draped over her shoulders like a cloak and she seemed, Babs thought, bone-brittle, her voice steely.
‘All this fuss,’ Polly said, ‘over nothing.’
‘It isn’t nothing,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s morally wrong.’
‘Morally what? Are you accusin’ me of cheatin’ on Jackie?’
‘Stop it. Stop it this instant.’ Polly glanced round. ‘Where’s Mammy? Don’t tell me you’ve chased her out of her own house with your squabbling?’
‘She’s taken April for a walk,’ said Babs, somewhat chastened. ‘Anyway, what are you doin’ here? Have you come to tell me I’m a dirty trollop too?’
‘I come every Sunday, as it happens,’ said Polly. ‘I had no idea you’d be here, either of you.’
‘What’s in the parcel?’ Rosie asked.
‘Eggs.’
‘Did you buy them from Dougie?’ said Babs.
‘Yes, I was out at Blackstone on Wednesday,’ Polly replied.
‘Did you see the kids?’
‘Yes.’
‘How are they?’
‘Perfectly fine.’
‘I should have been there today but I haven’t seen Mammy for weeks so I thought I’d better come here instead.’
‘You don’t have to apologise to me, Babs,’ Polly said.
‘I’m not apologisin’. I’m explainin’.’
‘Explain him while you’re at it then,’ said Rosie.
Polly stripped off her gloves and placed them on the table beside the eggs. She took a silver cigarette case from her handbag, lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling.
‘Doesn’t your husband talk to you, Rosie?’ Babs said. ‘He had a good poke about my house last week an’ even met the mystery man. I thought he’d have given you a full report.’
‘What if he duh-did?’ said Rosie, sulkily.
‘You’re here to cry on Mammy’s shoulder an’ tell her what a bad girl I am, aren’t you?’ Babs said.
‘Stop it,’ Polly said again. ‘First time we’ve been together in months, so I suggest we try to behave like civilised human beings and not alarm Mother any more than we have done already. Rosie, light the gas under the soup pot, then go outside an
d see if you can find Mammy and April and bring them in. It’s far too cold to be wandering about outside.’
‘Try next door,’ said Babs. ‘She’s got cats next door. April loves cats.’
Polly nodded. ‘Rosie, did you hear me?’
‘I heard you.’
‘Then do it. Please.’
Reluctantly Rosie pushed herself out of the armchair and drew the coat about her thin frame. She looked ghastly, Polly thought, unkempt and underfed, like a refugee. She watched Rosie go out into the kitchen.
Babs whispered, ‘She’s looks terrible, doesn’t she?’
‘Dreadful.’
‘What’s wrong with her? Is it the job?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, she’s certainly got it in for me,’ Babs said. ‘She sent Kenny round to our house to interrogate my lodger.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Polly. ‘What puzzles me is why you bothered to tell me in the first place.’
‘I thought it was somethin’ you should know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ Babs shrugged.
‘Because your friend’s American and you thought he might have been sent here by Dominic?’
‘It did cross my mind,’ Babs admitted.
‘Has he said anything about Dominic?’
‘Claims he never heard of him.’
‘And me, what about me?’ said Polly.
‘What about you?’
‘Has he suggested we might meet?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Do you see why I’m concerned?’ said Polly.
‘Kind of,’ Babs said.
‘It has nothing to do with morality.’
‘Be a hoot if it did, comin’ from you. You an’ your lawyer boyfriend.’
‘Well, Fin’s hardly a boy,’ said Polly, ‘but you do have a point.’ She glanced towards the kitchen. ‘Look, if I calm Rosie down will you do me a favour in return?’
‘Dependin’ on what it is – sure.’
‘If your lodger ever suggests that he and I meet, telephone me at home.’
‘Not at the office?’
‘No, at home.’
‘Will do,’ said Babs.
* * *
Babs left her mother’s house later than she had intended to and April feel asleep on the tram. She carried her daughter piggyback from Paisley Road to Raines Drive, April’s head bobbing gently against her shoulder. Fortunately the cloud had blown off, moonlight gave shape to rooftops and hedges and there were still plenty of folk out and about for it was only a little after nine o’clock.
Babs was relieved that she had made peace with her sisters, for it seemed that the hatchet had been buried, at least for the time being, and all in all Babs felt that the visit had been profitable in all sorts of ways.
She toiled up the steps of the bungalow and rang the bell.
Christy opened the door. He detached April from Babs’s back, carried her through to the bedroom and laid her gently on top of her bed.
The bungalow was filled with delicious smells. Christy had made doughnuts. April wakened up enough to eat one and drink a glass of warm milk while Babs popped her into her pyjamas. With the child settled Babs returned to the lounge. Christy had made chips and fried up thick slices of Spam. They ate at the coffee table, while Jackie’s big wireless set droned in the background.
‘So,’ he said, casually, ‘you got together with your sisters?’
‘Yeah,’ said Babs. ‘All three of us.’
‘What did you all talk about? Old times?’
‘We talked about you, actually.’
‘Really!’
‘My sisters are worried in case I’ve strayed from the straight an’ narrow.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Rosie, Kenny’s wife, in particular. Polly, less so,’ Babs said. ‘Polly’s pretty much a woman of the world.’
‘I’d like to meet up with your sister Polly,’ Christy Cameron said. ‘Think that could be arranged?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Babs.
* * *
Polly lay awake in the big double bed and listened to the silence. The bed was the only warm spot in the house. She spent as much time there as possible. She had no children to pack off to school, no husband to get off to work, no real job to go to, no one to cook for except herself. She even resented having to share her bed with Fin on Saturday nights for he would be up with the lark, baying for breakfast long before she was inclined to face the day.
The threat of air raids didn’t trouble her much. The big larder in the basement had been strengthened with wooden beams and was equipped with a cot, candles and a supply of ginger beer, even an ambulance kit and a policeman’s whistle. So far there had been no raids, only false alarms.
She was barely awake when the telephone rang that Monday morning.
She reached for the alarm clock, saw that it was four minutes after nine and, throwing back the covers, leaped out of bed and dashed downstairs.
The telephone rested on a carved chest in the hallway.
She snatched up the receiver. ‘Babs?’
‘Yep, it’s me. Were you still in bed?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was.’
‘Lucky bloody you,’ Babs said.
‘Where are you?’
‘Where do you think I am? I’m at work.’
‘Is there a point to this phone call?’
‘Nope, just thought I’d give you a—’
‘Babs!’
‘You’re standing there freezin’ in your nightie, aren’t you?’
Polly had almost forgotten how irritating Babs could be.
‘Is he coming, or is he not?’
‘If you mean Christy Cameron, yep, you were spot on, Poll. He is interested in you. No doubt about it. I wish he was as interested in me, I can tell you. No, I don’t really mean that. It’s all very well to have opportunity handed you on a plate but…’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
Polly had no idea why the prospect of meeting the American excited her. But it did. If he’d hailed from Sheffield or Shrewsbury she would have had no interest in him whatsoever. The fact that he came from New York rendered him intriguing, for, like Fin, she no longer believed in coincidence.
‘Why don’t you drop by this evening?’
‘Can’t,’ Babs said. ‘I’ve nobody to sit with April an’ I’m not draggin’ her over to your place after blackout. Why don’t you come here?’
Polly hesitated; a split second only. ‘Look, if Cameron does have some connection with Dominic there’s a fair-to-middling chance he’s up to something shifty and the sooner we find out what it is the better for all of us. Tell him to come on his own.’
‘What if he won’t?’
‘He will,’ Polly said. ‘At least make the offer.’
‘All right,’ Babs said. ‘I just hope you know what you’re doin’, Poll.’
‘I always know what I’m doing,’ Polly said. ‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’
‘Will you feed him?’
‘Of course I will,’ said Polly, and hung up.
4
From the outset Rosie had been determined not to let her handicap stand in her way. When she’d learned that Merryweather’s electrical engineering company was recruiting staff, she had immediately applied for a job.
Merryweather’s had won a navy contract to manufacture ultra-sensitive sounding devices for submarine destroyers and a special assembly line had been set up in a converted church in Little Street, close to Glasgow University. All applicants were required to pass tests in dexterity, intelligence and reliability but deafness was not considered an impediment to efficiency and Rosie was duly accepted for training.
Thirty cubicles furnished with straight-backed chairs and swivel lamps had replaced the church pews. The work consisted of fitting forty-seven tiny components into a stainless-steel drum the size of a jam jar. There was no piped music
in Little Street church and no intrusive Tannoy announcements to disturb concentration. Rosie, of course, couldn’t hear the rumble of traffic in the avenue or the vague sparrow-chatter of schools letting out. She had no indicators to tell her whether the day was passing swiftly or slowly, and even the rhythms of her body seemed to be on hold for the four parts of the eleven-hour shift. Tea was served from a trolley in the corridor; one break midmorning, a half-hour for lunch and a second short break in the afternoon. Rosie coped well with the finger-numbing labour, much less well with the tea breaks.
It was Rosie’s first experience of working with women and her co-workers weren’t at all like the loud-mouthed, soft-hearted, working-class women among whom she had grown up. They were doctors’ wives, dentists’ wives, the daughters of lawyers and teachers, middle-class ladies who, on the surface, epitomised respectability and decorum.
Individually they were pleasant enough but collectively they soon revealed a snobbish, almost vicious dislike of anyone who wasn’t as perfect as they perceived themselves to be, and as weeks passed into months and they shed their inhibitions all their coarse prejudices came to the surface. A mild young wife with a brace on her leg was teased unmercifully about her limp; a tow-haired girl with a nervous stutter was frequently reduced to tears. In October, in the midst of an afternoon tea break, a good-looking girl in her twenties suddenly shouted out that she was Jewish and that if this lot was typical of the British Empire then perhaps it was time Hitler’s storm troopers came marching up University Avenue. Then she stalked out. The women, unrepentant, brushed aside her accusations as pure hysteria.
They teased Rosie too, teased her unmercifully.
They mouthed words she couldn’t interpret. They pretended to be deaf. They ostracised her by covering their lips with their fingers when they spoke. They enquired about her husband, asked what she would do when babies came, hinted that it might be better not to have babies since her babies would surely turn out to be defective and impose a further burden on society.
Wives at War Page 6
