‘I don’t blame you for going through my stuff,’ he said. ‘I’d have done the same in your position. It’s all so goddamned sneaky. I hate being sneaky. I wasn’t brought up that way.’
‘Were you in love with the girl in Warsaw?’
‘No.’
‘Did you – were you an’ she…?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Babs said, softly.
‘Believe what you like.’
‘Did you try to get her out of the country?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘She wouldn’t leave her family.’
‘Will you go back for her when the war’s over?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she won’t be there. She’ll be gone. Dead, most like. There can be no happy endings to this story. For all any of us know there may be no endings at all.’
‘You did love her?’
‘Maybe I did.’
‘That’s sad.’
Babs rested her brow on his shoulder. The tension had gone out of her. She felt sorry for him. She had mothered Jackie and stood up to Dennis but she had never felt sorry for a man before. She leaned on him, saying nothing, listening to the crackle from the stove and, far off, the pam-pam-pam of anti-aircraft guns in the hills to the west.
‘How long will you stay with us?’ Babs asked at length.
‘As long as I have to,’ Christy answered.
‘As long as you can?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, sighing, ‘as long as I possibly can.’
* * *
Kenny rode home in an RN gharry with Sir Charles Huserall and two young Wrens who had wangled forty-eight-hour passes and were determined to reach the big city as soon as possible.
The second wave of heavy bombers hadn’t materialised. Perhaps British air defences had proved too much for the German pilots or perhaps the Luftwaffe had just been flexing its muscle. The all clear sounded about half-past three a.m. and the gharry left Greenock soon after. Over the river several small fires were visible and on the long stretch past Inchinnan the railway line was up and a fire crew was working to put out a blaze in a clump of scrub alder. There were fires in Paisley too, but not many.
Kenny was almost dead for want of sleep. Sensing his fatigue, Sir Charles said little during the two-hour drive and had Kenny and the Wrens dropped off in George Square.
Bubbling with excitement, the girls said ta-ta and set off, arm in arm, along Cathedral Street while Kenny slogged up hill to Cowcaddens.
Small debris, mainly slates and broken chimney pots, scattered the cobbles, but all the tenement windows were intact and there were no fire engines or ambulances in the vicinity.
Relieved, he climbed the stairs and let himself into the flat.
He peeped into the bedroom.
The bed had been made and clothing put away. A freshly ironed shirt hung from a wire hanger on the wardrobe door. Folded neatly on a chair were clean stockings, a vest and underpants.
Rosie was home, safe and sound.
He went into the kitchen.
She stood at the sink under the blackout, back to him. She wore her best pleated skirt, stockings and heels and a frilly apron. She was washing clothes in the big sink, and singing to herself. She had learned the lyrics of popular songs by plastering her better ear hard against the wireless set but it had been months since Kenny had heard her sing.
Sensing his presence, she swung round.
‘Uh, there you are,’ she said.
Kenny propped an elbow on the draining board.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’
‘Did you have an air raid?’
‘Uh-huh. Mr McVicar wakened me and tuh-took me down to the shelter.’
‘How long did it last?’
‘Couple of hours, closer to three, come to think of it.’
‘No damage, no injuries?’
‘Nuh, none.’
He nodded then, with a little frown, said, ‘What are you doing, Rosie?’
‘Washing your shirts.’
‘Aren’t you tired?’
‘I had a little nap in the shelter.’
Kenny watched her remove a shirt from the suds, rinse it in a separate basin, wring it out and hang it on a clotheshorse near the fire.
Drying her hands and forearms on a towel, she faced him.
‘When are you due on duty?’ she asked.
‘Two this afternoon.’
‘Greenock?’
‘No, I’m finished in Greenock for the time being.’
‘Is there much damage down there?’
‘Some, not much,’ he said. ‘Rosie, are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Fine. Starved, that’s all.’
She stepped to the stove and lit a gas ring, slid a knob of lard into a frying pan and shook the pan over the flame. She had placed four rashers of bacon on waxed paper and whipped up a jug of dried-egg mix. She put two slices of bread under the grill and the kettle, already filled, on the big back ring by the bubbling porridge pot. She seemed alert and energetic; too energetic perhaps. Kenny studied her, seeking signs of a frenetic edge to her benign mood, something to account for the sudden change in her.
She glanced over her shoulder, smiling. ‘You must be hungry too?’
‘Rosie…’ He checked himself, too eroded by fatigue to pursue the obvious line of enquiry. ‘Yes, I am hungry.’
‘Porridge to start with?’
‘What? Yes, porridge too, please. Thank you.’
‘Sit then. Sit.’
Obediently he seated himself at the table.
Spoons, forks and knives were all in place, milk jug, sugar bowl, marmalade and sauce bottle. He felt awkward, almost embarrassed, as if he had stumbled into someone else’s kitchen and was about to scoff someone else’s breakfast served by someone else’s wife.
‘Rosie?’ She ladled porridge into two large plates. ‘Rosie?’
‘Uh?’
‘Why are you all dressed up?’
‘I am going back to work.’
‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’
‘Oh yah,’ she said, ‘I’m up to it.’
And coming round behind him to deliver the porridge plate, she stooped and kissed him brusquely right on the top of his head.
* * *
Heavy taping had protected the glass only in part. One entire pane had fallen into the parlour and lay like a mosaic in the window bay under the torn curtain. An orange vase of some antiquity and one heavy-framed painting of a Dutch sea battle had been shaken from their moorings and lay in pieces in the hearth. The piano lid had been scarred and the back of the big black leather sofa, once Dominic’s place of repose, had a gash in it but, all in all, Polly thought, the old homestead had got off pretty lightly.
She surveyed the damage from the parlour door, sniffed the early morning air that filtered in from the park, then with no more than a little sigh, went back to the telephone in the hall and lifted the up-turned receiver.
‘No, Bernard,’ she said, ‘not much damage. Lost a window, that’s all.’
‘I take it you’re not injured?’
‘I slept through most of it,’ Polly said.
In fact, she had slept through all of it, snug in the cot in the larder. Only the persistent ringing of the telephone had wakened her. She was reluctant to leave her den below stairs but had a feeling that Bernard might call and knew it would be unfair to ignore him. She was clad only in a pair of slacks and a cashmere jumper, her feet bare. She shivered a little in the breeze that weaselled through the broken window.
‘Your mother was terribly worried,’ Bernard said. ‘Have you been round to check on Babs yet?’
‘No, actually – what time is it?’
‘Gone seven.’
‘Really!’ Polly said. ‘Are you in the phone box on Anniesland Road, or are you at work?’
‘In the box,’ said Bernard. ‘I’
ll have to report to Lizzie before I leave.’
‘Well, it’s kind of you to call,’ said Polly. ‘Tell Mammy I’m perfectly all right and I’m sure Babs is too. As far as I can make out there hasn’t been much damage in this neck of the woods – or have you heard news to the contrary?’
‘The Jerries were after something further down river, I imagine,’ Bernard said. ‘They may have been attempting to breach the boom defence system to let U-boats into the Firth.’
‘Umm,’ said Polly, diffidently.
‘They dumped some stuff on Paisley; tail-enders probably.’
Polly looked down at her feet. She had amused herself last evening by painting her toenails. It had crossed her mind that someone from New York might be used to girls with painted toenails and might even find them attractive. Her feet were still dainty and the pink-tinted polish made them seem more so. She arched her left foot, put it on the chair by the telephone table and waggled her toes while Bernard droned on about the Luftwaffe. He had probably picked up the BBC’s six o’clock bulletin and put Mammy into a panic by exaggerating the importance of the news.
At length, Polly said, ‘I gather Knightswood escaped unscathed?’
‘Yes, pretty well.’
Consorting with councillors had added an officious note to Bernard’s voice. The clumsy old Glaswegian consonants had been pared away and, Polly thought, if the war lasts long enough Bernard would wind up sounding like all the other local government twerps she’d ever known.
‘Did you spend the night in the shelter?’
‘Three or four hours,’ said Bernard, ‘quite comfortably.’
‘Was Mammy upset?’
‘Not greatly, but she’s worried about the children. You will pop round to Babs’s, won’t you, just to make sure she’s safe?’
‘I have work to do too, Bernard. Besides, Babs has probably left for the office, or will have by the time I get there.’
‘Please, Polly.’
Polly admired her painted toenails and wondered again what a certain person from New York would think of them; wondered too if she should call Fin and have him send someone round to help clean up the mess in the parlour and fit boards over the broken window, or if that certain person from New York might turn out to be a handyman as well as a spy.
‘Oh, all right, Bernard,’ she said. ‘All right.’
* * *
Babs was never at her glorious best in the morning, and that morning in particular she looked, she thought, a right sorry mess after a sleepless night in a soaking wet, smoke-filled shelter.
When the tramcar dumped her at the Cross she was dismayed to find Archie loitering outside the greengrocer’s shop. One arm was folded across his chest and he was puffing on a cigarette as he peered short-sightedly at the tram. As soon as Babs appeared, however, Archie lobbed away the ciggie and darted across the cobbles to greet her.
‘You’re all right, are you?’ he enquired anxiously.
‘Do I look all right?’ Babs answered.
‘Well, I confess I have seen you looking more chipper,’ Archie said.
‘What’re you doin’ out here, anyway?’ Babs said.
He executed a little pivot on the ball of one foot. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Absolutely nothing. I – erm – I got here early and thought perhaps you wouldn’t show up today so before I plunged single-handed into the hectic tide of paper work I decided to—’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Babs said. ‘Point is, do we still have an office?’
‘We do,’ said Archie. ‘Mercifully we still have an office and, by the grace of God, a staff to run it. What happened to you?’
They were walking towards Cyprus Street. The morning was doing its best to be crisp but dampness wouldn’t leave the air and the mist over the river seemed more dense than usual.
‘What d’you mean – what happened?’ said Babs. ‘What happened was, I spent the whole bloody night cowerin’ in a steel shelter.’
‘Me too,’ said Archie. ‘Mother and I and two cats, one dog and a parrot.’
‘A parrot?’
‘Skipper.’
‘Skipper?’
‘My father’s final legacy.’
‘I didn’t know your mother was a widow,’ Babs said.
‘Has been for years,’ said Archie. ‘The damned parrot’s older than I am. It simply refuses to do the decent thing and die. Are you really as chewed up as you appear to be?’
‘Are you kiddin’?’
‘Everything’s all right, though: I mean, the house, your daughter?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said Babs.
He put a hand on her arm and, breaking stride, held her back from turning into Cyprus Street. Babs had been too weary, too focused on Archie to notice that a host of strange men in various shades of uniform were scuttling about the junction.
She scowled. ‘I thought you said—’
‘The office is unharmed, quite intact, I assure you,’ Archie said. ‘However – look, I don’t want you to be unduly alarmed by what you’re about to see. It’s not as bad as it looks, just another CD fuss, in my opinion, but I suppose they do have the right to be just a mite concerned, really.’
‘What the heck are you babblin’ about?’
She tugged on his arm, dragged him round the corner – and stopped dead in her tracks. It was, she thought, like a scene from that old Clark Cable picture about the San Francisco earthquake. Even the firemen and the fire engines didn’t look real. The great mound of earth that banked the end of Cyprus Street just a hundred yards from the door of the Welfare Centre seemed more like painted cardboard than genuine rubble.
High above the earth embankment jets of water curved into the air and two firemen in oilskins were perched on top of the mound, directing operations with expansive gestures, like semaphore signallers who had lost their flags.
‘They missed; the bombers, I mean,’ said Archie. ‘They left a footprint, but, thank God, they missed the obvious target.’
‘If they…’ Babs’s throat was sticky with fear, ‘if they missed, how come half the fire crews in the county— Archie, is that an ambulance?’
‘It may be, it may very well be.’
‘Dear God! Are you tellin’ me the fuel dump’s on fire?’
‘Only a teeny weenie corner.’
‘Archie!’
‘Now, now, dear,’ he put an arm about her, ‘it’s no cause for alarm.’
‘They aren’t gonna let us in, are they?’
‘Well, I admit there was a certain reluctance on the part of the fire chief to acknowledge that we had an important job to do and that any delay would be detrimental to the—’
‘Archie!’ Babs howled.
Both hands on her shoulders, bottle-bottom glasses and greeny-blue eyes in what seemed like four dimensions, pressed close to her nose, Archie explained, ‘I talked them into it. I persuaded them, yes, but you can be sure they wouldn’t let us anywhere near the building if they thought there was the slightest risk of an explosion.’
‘An explosion!’ Once more, piercing and outraged: ‘Archie!’
‘Putting out the fire in the emergency fuel depository is their responsibility,’ Archie said. ‘Protecting the files in the Recruitment and Welfare Centre is ours. Are you with me on that, Mrs Hallop?’
‘Oh God!’ Babs thumped her brow against his chest. ‘What kind of an idiot do you take me for?’
‘One very much like myself, I imagine,’ said Archie.
‘Oh, God!’ said Babs again. ‘Oh, God!’
Then, without quite knowing why, she let young Archie Harding steer her over the hoses and round the pumps into the office in Cyprus Street.
* * *
Polly was glad that Fin had insisted on giving her driving lessons. She suspected that Fin had it in mind that if the Germans did invade then he and she would motor to one of the distant North Sea fishing ports and sail off to a safe haven in neutral Sweden.
The threat of invasion had receded these past few months,
though, the lessons had tailed off, and Polly had only an imperfect knowledge of what to do once she’d hauled off the dustsheet, filled the tank with petrol from a two-gallon can and checked the oil and water levels. She opened the garage doors as wide as they would go, climbed into the driving seat, settled the folds of her coat around her and switched on the engine.
She had watched Fin, and Babs too, do this often enough and wished she’d been as bold and far-sighted as her sister and had taken proper driving lessons while the going was good. She drew a deep breath, tapped the clutch, manipulated the gearshift and released the handbrake.
Rather to her surprise the Wolseley rolled sweetly down the driveway and bumped out into the avenue. She glanced back at the open doors of the garage – an invitation to looters and thieves Fin would have told her – decided to heck with them and, gripping the steering wheel, set off on the circuit of suburban roads that ringed the park.
She could readily understand why Fin was so addicted to motoring, why he loved lean, fast open-top sports cars. If she had any money left after the war ended, she promised herself she’d take proper professional instruction and buy a Morgan or a Riley Sprite – or let Dominic buy it for her.
She didn’t know if she’d ever see her husband again, of course, or if by settling in New York Dominic intended to end their marriage. She could hardly blame him for wanting to be rid of her. She had been deceitful and disloyal, had betrayed Dom’s trust by embarking on an affair with Tony Lombard. She had thought herself in love with Tony, but it hadn’t been love at all, only wilful self-indulgence, made all the more lurid by being conducted under Dominic’s nose.
There was no sign of the bomb that had blown out her front-room window, no crater, no smoke and all the trees in the park were still upright as far as she could make out. There were queues at bus stops and children wending off to school and women out with shopping bags, scavenging for off-ration foodstuffs and extra little luxuries to salt away for Christmas; all quite normal for a weekday morning. She drove past the telephone box on the corner of Raines Drive, glanced at it out of the corner of her eye, hastily applied the foot brake and brought the Wolseley to a halt.
She opened the passenger door and, leaning across the seat, looked back.
Wives at War Page 11
