Christy Cameron emerged from the telephone box and, pausing, lit a cigarette. He looked smaller in daylight, and shabbier. Even as she watched, he hunched his shoulders, stuck his hands in his pockets and, head down, trudged towards her motorcar, quite oblivious to her presence.
If he is a spy, Polly thought, he’s a very careless one.
She nudged the horn with her elbow.
He looked up and, to Polly’s astonishment, backed away. For a moment she thought he might even take to his heels but then, collecting himself, he came grudgingly up to the car and leaned down to talk to her.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Surprise.’
‘That much is obvious,’ Polly said.
‘What do you mean?’
She patted the leather seat. ‘Get in.’
He drew the jacket around him and slid into the car. She reached across and closed the door. He glanced down at the handle as if it were still in his mind to make a break for it.
‘Phoning home, were you?’ Polly said.
‘No.’ The irony was lost on him, apparently. ‘It was just – just business.’
‘How’s my sister? Did she survive the night?’
He said again, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I thought the question was clear enough,’ said Polly. ‘As you seem to be a bit dithery this morning, Mr Cameron, I’ll put it another way: was the bungalow damaged in the air raid and did my sister and my niece escape unscathed?’
‘Yeah, we – she – we’re all okay.’
‘Good,’ said Polly, flatly.
‘She’s gone off to the office.’
‘And April?’
‘School, nursery, whatever.’
‘It’s business as usual then?’ said Polly.
He was sullen and unsettled. She wondered whom he had been phoning and why her appearance had upset him.
‘Brockway’s,’ he said, as if he’d read her mind. ‘I was calling Brockway’s.’
‘Ah yes, you’re “served” by Brockway’s, aren’t you?’ Polly said. ‘What sort of instructions did you receive? Are you going to come at me with a gun, or just wheedle away until I give in?’
‘Jesus, Mrs Manone, you are some piece of work.’
‘I’ve never been called that before. Is it a compliment?’
He settled back in the seat and took the cigarette from his mouth. ‘I guess you’ve every right to be cagey.’
‘Cagey is putting it mildly,’ said Polly.
He smoked again, peered at the smoke. ‘All right, I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve a photographic spread due out, one I think Babs will like.’
‘Photographs? Don’t tell me you’ve photographed Babs?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In – I mean, she’s actually in the magazine?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Glamour girl stuff?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Your reticence is breathtaking,’ Polly said.
‘Most girls would die for a chance to appear in Brockway’s.’
‘My sister isn’t “most girls”,’ said Polly. ‘She has a husband, in case you’ve forgotten, and Jackie certainly isn’t going to be overwhelmed with delight when his wife turns up in a widely circulated magazine famous for its – shall we say? – candour.’ She hesitated, then asked, ‘When did you photograph Babs?’
‘Day we first met.’
‘How romantic.’
‘That’s cheap.’
‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re gonna make waves about my living with Babs?’ Christy said. ‘I thought you were a woman of the world.’
‘And I thought you were engaged on a mission of national importance,’ Polly said. ‘Perhaps we’re each deceiving the other. Be that as it may, if you’ve nothing better to do on Thursday I’ll take you out to lunch at Blackstone Farm.’
‘Why?’
‘Do bring your camera,’ Polly said. ‘There’s a very nice pig there.’
Christy was clearly in no frame of mind to be teased. ‘You don’t just want to show me round some crummy farm, do you?’
‘I want to get to know you better,’ Polly said. ‘After all, if you have been dispatched to Scotland to size me up I don’t see why I shouldn’t do a bit of sizing up too. I’ll pick you up at half-past ten.’
‘Can I tell Babs what we’re up to?’ Christy said.
‘Up to? We’re not “up to” anything,’ Polly said crisply. ‘By all means tell Babs where we’re going.’
Polly started the car, drove round the long curve of Raines Drive and stopped before the gate of the bungalow.
‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked.
‘Make breakfast,’ Christy said. ‘Want some?’
‘I’d better not,’ said Polly. ‘I have too much to do today.’
‘Like what?’
‘Tending my husband’s money,’ Polly said. ‘Thursday: ten thirty?’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ Christy said, and loped off up the steps of the Hallops’ bungalow as if, Polly thought, he already owned the place.
* * *
Polly had never been to Rosie’s flat before and had a little trouble locating it, for the tenement looked much the same as all the other tall tenements clustered on the hill. Eventually she found it and parked in the almost empty street outside. An old woman in a canvas apron was sweeping out the communal air-raid shelter and two council workmen with a handcart were clearing debris from the pavement, but the building itself appeared to be undamaged.
Polly climbed the stairs and knocked on the MacGregors’ door.
She didn’t really expect anyone to be home. Rosie would probably be at work, Kenny on duty. Polly was just on the point of turning away when her brother-in-law, whey-faced, opened the door an inch or two and peered blearily out at her.
‘Polly?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did I get you out of bed?’
‘What time is it?’
‘Almost eleven.’
He clutched the collar of the dressing gown to his chest.
‘Rosie isn’t here,’ he said. ‘She’s gone back to work today.’
‘It isn’t Rosie I came to see.’
He nodded sleepily, stifled a yawn, admitted her into the hallway and led her directly into the kitchen. He tugged open the blackout curtains, filled a kettle and placed it on the stove.
He looked terrible, Polly thought, a far cry from the dashing young bridegroom of eighteen months ago. He had probably been on night duty and she had wakened him before he’d caught up on his sleep. She didn’t feel guilty, though. She regarded policemen, even her brother-in-law, as a breed undeserving of sympathy.
‘How large is the flat?’ she asked.
‘Four rooms. Two bedrooms, kitchen and drawing room. We seldom use the drawing room. We live in the kitchen pretty much.’ He leaned over the sink, ran water from the tap, splashed his face and dried it on a hand towel. ‘Haven’t you been here before?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose you dropped in to ask about Rosie?’
‘Did I?’ said Polly. ‘What about Rosie?’
‘She’s all right again. I didn’t realise she would get over it so quickly.’
‘Get over what?’ said Polly.
‘The miscarriage.’
‘Miscarriage!’ Polly exclaimed. ‘Our Rosie had a miscarriage?’
‘Didn’t Lizzie tell you?’
‘No one told me,’ said Polly. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Monday. They whipped her into Redlands, kept her overnight and released her early next morning. The baby wasn’t very old. Seven weeks, that’s all. It just – I really don’t quite know what happened – it just came, I suppose, when she was at work and that – well, that was that.’
‘Did you know she was expecting?’
‘She hardly knew herself,’ said Kenny; an answer, Polly realised, that was both ambiguous and defensive. ‘She’s all right, though. She was keen
to get back to work and I couldn’t— I saw no reason to stop her.’
‘You couldn’t have stopped her even if you’d wanted to,’ Polly said with a rueful shake of the head. ‘Our Rosie has a mind of her own.’
‘It’s true,’ Kenny agreed. ‘I’ve been in the doghouse because I wasn’t here at the time. I was working on a case in Greenock and couldn’t be reached. Rosie feels I let her down.’
He shrugged, spooned tea leaves into a teapot and added boiling water. He was unkempt and hollow-eyed and seemed to emanate an air of resignation that was close to defeat. Though she had always loved and protected her little sister, Polly was well aware that Rosie, deaf or not, was a good deal tougher than any of them ever gave her credit for.
Kenny pulled out a chair at the table.
Polly seated herself, took out her cigarettes and lit one.
She watched Kenny produce two cups and saucers from the cupboard and fill each cup with tea. He seated himself at the table and lifted a cup to his lips. ‘If you didn’t know about Rosie,’ he said, ‘what brings you here?’
‘I believe you went to see Babs?’
‘I did.’
‘And her lodger?’
‘You know fine well I did.’
‘What did you make of him?’
Kenny let out breath. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to start—’
‘Come off it, Kenny,’ Polly said. ‘You’ve used your professional connections to check on him, haven’t you?’
‘What makes you think I’d do that?’
‘Because you’re a naturally nosy copper.’
He grunted, amused. ‘Cameron’s just what he says he is. His folks did come from Clydeside. Parish records are available if you’re interested.’
‘What else?’
‘I can’t divulge official information, Polly.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘He does have a contract with Brockway’s. Brockway’s will vouch for him right down the line.’
‘Of course they will,’ said Polly. ‘What about the brother, James or Jamie, back in the United States?’
‘I didn’t pursue things that far,’ Kenny said. ‘I’m not working up a case against Mr Cameron. As far as I can make out his one and only “crime” is landing himself on your sister.’
‘Didn’t it cross your mind that he might be one of Dominic’s associates?’
‘Of course it did.’
‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘that question remains unresolved.’
Kenny put down the cup and rested his chin on his hands. ‘I can’t have Cameron arrested just on your say-so, Polly.’
She laughed. ‘I don’t want him arrested, for heaven’s sake.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m just making you aware of the situation.’
‘Is there a situation?’ Kenny said.
‘There may be,’ Polly said. ‘I need to be sure I can count on your support if and when required.’
Kenny said nothing for a moment, though he didn’t appear perplexed by what she had told him or, indeed, by what she hadn’t told him. ‘Whose support do you need, Polly?’ he said at length. ‘Uncle Kenny’s or Inspector MacGregor’s?’
‘Inspector MacGregor’s.’
‘It is Dominic, isn’t it? He’s up to something. He’s trying to involve you and you’re not having it?’
‘It would be awfully helpful to find out precisely where Christy Cameron’s brother is and what he does.’
‘Can you give me a clue?’ said Kenny.
‘He’s an officer in the US Navy.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s absolutely all I can tell you.’
‘That’s probably enough to be going on with,’ said Kenny, and, helping himself to more tea, tactfully changed the subject.
* * *
Rosie followed the others to the door of the old vestry where the time clock and punch cards were housed. There was no stampede, no pushing to be first to the cast-iron turnstile through which each employee, even foreman Bass, had to pass to gain admittance to the church.
The women went in meekly, like bees into a hive. Some, Aileen Ashford among them, lingered outside to have a last puff on a cigarette or absorb a final mouthful of more-or-less fresh air before their long shift began. In addition to the dentist’s wife there were Mrs Findlater, a former schoolteacher, Doris Maybury, wife of a general practitioner, and twin sisters, Eleanor and Constance, the spinster daughters of an Episcopalian minister.
Rosie strutted past them with her head high. She punched in, walked down the corridor to the cloakroom, changed into her overall, stuck on her cotton mobcap and headed for her cubicle, which, mercifully, hadn’t been reallocated. The unit she’d been working on when she’d collapsed had been removed and the cubicle thoroughly dusted – not only dusted but disinfected, as if miscarriages might be contagious.
She seated herself on the swivel chair and swung around until her thin legs were sticking out into the aisle.
From the steps of the pulpit foreman Bass, whistle in hand, blandly surveyed the scene. He was an elderly gentleman who had been with Merryweather’s for years. He had white hair, white eyebrows and a fluffy moustache, badly tobacco-stained.
Aileen emerged from the cloakroom and trotted down the aisle.
She checked her step when she saw Rosie’s legs, checked again when she encountered Rosie’s sugary smile.
‘Good morning, Aileen,’ Rosie said, and got to her feet.
Aileen raised her slender shoulders and pressed her delicate little hands against her chest, like mouse paws. ‘Good – good morning, Rose.’
‘Rosie. My friends all call me Rosie.’
‘Rosie … Good morning, Rosie.’
‘How are you, Rosie?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Whuh-what you say next – how are you, Rosie? Rosie, are you well? Rosie, can you still have babies?’ Rosie’s voice cut through the sudden silence like an intercessory prayer.
Mr Bass stroked his stained moustache and kept the whistle in his fist.
‘Rose, I think you should sit down,’ Aileen Ashford whispered. ‘I don’t think you’re quite yourself this morning.’
‘Course I’m not quite myself,’ Rosie said cheerfully. ‘I’m not carrying any more. I lost it, if you recall, Aileen. I luh-lost it while you just stood there looking down at the dummy lying on the floor.’ Aileen Ashford would have turned on her heel and fled if Rosie hadn’t caught her by the sleeve. ‘Now, can you hear me clearly, can you make out what the dummy is saying?’
At least Mrs Ashford knew how to maintain grace under pressure. Five years of marriage to a bossy and merciless dentist had taught her how to take her medicine like a man. ‘I do believe I can hear you, Rose. Everyone can.’
‘Good,’ said Rosie. ‘I am vuh-very well, thank you, Aileen. I am still perfectly able to bear children and my husband and I will seize every opportunity to ensure that I do.’
‘There’s no need to … You are making such an exhibition of—’
‘I’m telling you now so you won’t have to go whispering behind my back. I am not going to let you lot chuh-chase me away. If you want to know how I am in future, ask me face to face.’
‘I’m sorry you feel you’ve been victimised, Rose. It has nothing to do with me, of course, but…’
Cheeks dappled rosebud red, the dentist’s wife ran out of excuses. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes and she covered her lips with her mouse-paw fingers, not, Rosie knew, because she felt remorse but simply because she’d been singled out and was afraid that she too might become an outcast.
‘Thank you for sparing me a moment, Aileen,’ Rosie said. ‘I do appreciate it.’ Then, seating herself, she swung round to face her desk just as foreman Bass, tactfully hiding a grin, blew the whistle to signal the start of the working day.
7
The man and the boy leaned on the gate and peered down into the sty.
‘Does the pig hav
e a name?’ Christy asked.
‘Aye, he’s called Ron.’
‘Ron? Why do you call him Ron?’
‘Dougie says he looks like a Ron,’ Angus explained. ‘He can be a right bully if he doesn’t get his own way.’
‘I’ll bet he can,’ said Christy.
‘Dougie says he’d like to get a sow to keep Ron company but Miss Dawlish says if he starts that nonsense she’ll pack her bags an’ leave.’
‘What does Ron eat?’ Christy asked tactfully.
‘Everythin’. He’d eat you if you went in there. He’s fierce, so he is.’
Christy knew little or nothing about pigs. There had been a dozen small grey and white hogs penned behind Ewa’s house on the outskirts of Warsaw but they had been slaughtered before the Germans entered the city and the real butchery began. He remembered too the flayed carcasses that hung from hooks in the Washington Market, but they had never looked as if they’d been alive.
He glanced at the boy, who was glowering at the boar, willing him to show his mettle. Ron, however, was not in fighting mood and went on nonchalantly nudging a turnip through the clabber.
The boy resembled his mother, though his hair was tufty brown, not blond. He had a remarkably deep voice for a kid, Christy thought.
‘How come you aren’t at school?’
‘Gotta rash. Miss Dawlish thinks it might be the chickenpox. Have you had the chickenpox, Mr Cameron?’
‘I guess I have,’ Christy said. ‘Yeah, I must’ve had.’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘You’ll have to ask your mum,’ Angus said. ‘Mums always remember when you’ve been sick.’
‘I’ll ask her,’ Christy said, ‘next time I see her.’
‘Where does your mum live?’
‘New York,’ said Christy. ‘Know where that is?’
‘Aye, it’s in America. My uncle lives in New York.’
The pig edged up to the gate and peered at Angus with an optimistic expression as if, like a dog, he expected the boy to toss the turnip for him to retrieve. Angus craned over the gate and rubbed his knuckles against the pig’s brow. Ron grunted with pleasure and pressed his snout against the boy’s knees.
‘You a soldier, Mr Cameron?’
‘Not me. I take pictures.’
Wives at War Page 12
