* * *
‘You can’t come in,’ Miss Dawlish said.
‘Who says I can’t?’ said Jackie.
‘I do,’ the woman said. ‘We’re in strict quarantine.’
‘Quarantine?’
‘We’ve got chickenpox.’
‘Bugger that,’ said Jackie. ‘I wanna see my kids.’
‘Have you had the chickenpox, Mr Hallop?’
‘Corporal Hallop.’
‘Very well, Corporal Hallop, have you had—’
‘Aye,’ Jackie said. ‘Naw: I dunno know, do I, but?’
‘Chickenpox can kill a grown man.’
‘Are you tellin’ me my kids’re dyin’?’
‘Of course not. They’re young. They’ll soon recover.’
‘Then I’ll risk it. Let me in.’
‘Are you on embarkation leave, by any chance?’
‘What if I am?’ said Jackie.
‘Just think, you’re halfway to wherever you’re going and you fall sick with a lethal dose of a childhood ailment,’ Miss Dawlish said. ‘Even if you survive the disease, think what a laughing stock you’ll be thereafter.’
Jackie glanced up at the window under the eaves. He could see all three of his children there, little faces pressed against the glass, hands waving frantically as if this bitch of a woman had them locked up in a tower. Maybe she had too; he wouldn’t put it past her. Miss Dawlish had never liked him. All the days she’d worked for him in the motor salon, she’d despised him. She’d been a good worker, though, a terrific accountant, he’d grant her that, but the woman who stood, arms folded, in the doorway was so altered that he could hardly believe it was the same Miss Dawlish. She looked like a bloody scarecrow now, a male scarecrow, with her pudding-basin haircut, baggy corduroys and clumsy big boots.
Exhilarated by the cycle ride and still seated on the Excelsior he glanced up at the window and waved.
The girls had vanished, however. Only Angus remained: his Gus, his boy, banging his forehead against the glass like a bumblebee trapped in a jam jar.
‘Is he locked in?’ Jackie said. ‘If so, why?’
‘He isn’t at all well.’
‘Has the doctor been?’
‘First thing this morning.’
‘Can he not come down, just for a minute?’
‘Dougie’s with him.’
The bitch had his boy under lock and key. He was tempted to gun the bike and run her over, storm the farmhouse door and might have done so too if Giffard hadn’t appeared in the doorway.
Giffard was one of the old school, one of Carlo Manone’s original gang from before his, Jackie’s, time. He had always believed that all the old timers were hard men but Giffard was just a shabby wee brown-skinned guy in a cloth cap and a tattered jacket whom you could blow away with a fart.
‘Bad timin’, Jackie,’ Giffard said.
‘I want to see the boy.’
‘Are they sendin’ you overseas?’
‘Aye.’
‘How long’s your leave?’
‘Ten days.’
‘It’ll be North Africa I expect, with the tanks.’
‘Who told you that?’ said Jackie.
‘Angus,’ said Giffard.
‘What does Angus know about North Africa?’
‘It’s the tanks Angus knows about,’ Giffard said. ‘It’s me reads the newspapers. You’ll be part o’ the build-up for Wavell’s strike against the Eyetie forts on the Libyan coast: Sidi Barrani, Bardia then Tobruk. Anyway, I’ll bring the boy down if you promise not t’ touch him. It’s not you I’m worried about; it’s April. You wouldn’t want t’ give the pox to poor wee April now, would you?’
‘I suppose not,’ Jackie agreed.
He hated being sensible but something told him that Giffard and the woman had only the kids’ best interests at heart. He propped the bike and swung himself from the saddle. He stripped off his cap and let the cold wind ruffle what was left of his hair. He looked at the long line of the Old Kilpatrick Hills sliding down into the valley of the Clyde, at barrage balloons, and white, cold clouds gathering away to the west, then he heard Angus shouting, the familiar gravel voice even deeper than he remembered it.
‘Dad! Daddy! We’ve got the chickenpox.’
Angus was too big to be carried but Dougie Giffard managed it somehow, the boy’s legs, pyjama-clad, trailing down the front of the man’s body; socks and sand shoes, a dressing gown, a blanket thrown around his shoulders. It felt strange to see his son in another man’s arms, held up like a big, sad doll.
Miss Dawlish appeared in the doorway with May and June. The girls too had changed, had grown taller. Even all wrapped up Jackie could see the sort of women his daughters would become, the sort of wives they would make if any poor bloke ever managed to separate them long enough to get them to the altar. They blinked impassively, cheeks flushed and tear-stained. But the tears they shed weren’t tears of joy at seeing him again. They were crying only because they were ailing.
Jackie yielded to helplessness once more, all the fight, all the vigour draining out of him for a moment. He put a hand to his face, covering his eyes in case he would cry too, then with the wind blowing the stink of pig and chickens across the yard, he braced himself, rammed the cap back on his head, kicked away the prop, and leaped on to the saddle of the Excelsior.
‘Watch this,’ he shouted, and gave the machine the gun.
Crouched low over the handlebars like a Manx TT racer, he roared away, inches from the farmhouse wall. He aimed at the narrow gate that led out to the vegetable plot at the back of the house then, with less than inches to spare, swerved, stabbing down with his left foot and swinging the bike round into the big yard again. He added throttle, punched forward, racing along the side of the outbuildings, bike and body bouncing high over the rough cobbles. He targeted an open gate that led to a field and drove through it on to rough pasture slippery with recent rain. He snaked the Manxman up on to the crest of the hill and braked. Looking back, he could see them huddled in the doorway, the woman, the old guy, his daughters and his son all watching him.
He lifted his arm, closed his fist and punched the air, jerked the bike round and drove back through the field gate as fast as he dared. He hit the cobbles at the end of the track, soared high off the saddle and thumped down, jarring every bone in his body. He focused on the doorway, on his children, saw his girls scream, half afraid, half excited, saw them retreat into the tiny hall, saw Angus drop from Giffard’s arms and stand up, arms flung out as if he expected Dad to reach down, pluck him up and ride off with him.
Jackie swerved, spraying grit and muck, brought the bike round broadside and slithered to a halt just three or four feet from his son.
‘It’s the best I can do, Angus, since you’re sick,’ he said. ‘Next time, we’ll go out together. Okay?’
‘Okay, Dad, okay.’
‘You get well now, y’hear me.’
‘Aye, Dad.’
‘Girls, do what Miss Dawlish tells you.’
He didn’t need an answer, didn’t need acknowledgement, didn’t need to hear them say they loved him. He loved them, and that was enough.
He touched his knuckles to his lips, threw them a kiss and crouching low now to hide his tears, rode off towards the Breslin Road, leaving nothing of himself behind but the fragrant odour of exhaust.
* * *
Polly had no idea what time it was. She seldom did these days. She opened one eye and then the other and sat up.
The aroma of coffee was strong in the air. She fumbled for the lamp switch and flooded the larder with light. Blinking, she consulted the clock on the shelf above the cot. Ten minutes past ten. She needed to pee but was too tired to get up just yet; no, not tired – happy.
‘Knock, knock.’
She smiled. ‘Who’s there?’
‘The big bad wolf.’
‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
He opened the door with his elbow and peeped in on her.
She sprawled against the pillows, looking, she supposed, like something the cat had dragged in. She didn’t much care about her appearance, though, and neither, apparently, did Christy for, carrying a coffee mug in each hand, he looked decidedly rumpled too.
‘May I?’ he said.
‘You may.’
He squeezed to the side of the cot and sat down. Polly could see daylight in the kitchen and a faint, hot haze of smoke from the region of the stove. He said, ‘I took the liberty of making some breakfast. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Coffee in bed,’ Polly said. ‘Of course I don’t mind.’
‘There’s a bacon sandwich too, if you want it.’
‘In a moment.’ Polly took the mug, touching his wrist to steady his hand. ‘Let me enjoy this first.’ She sipped the strong black coffee. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Were you cold?’
‘Maybe a little.’
‘It is cold up there,’ she said. ‘It’s impossible to heat this house properly.’
‘Is that why you sleep down here?’
‘Hm, probably,’ Polly said. ‘Are you cold now?’
‘Nope. Okay now.’
She reached out and touched his wrist again. ‘Are you sure?’
She had never been a ‘touchy’ sort of person, unlike Babs, who was full of nudges and dabs and playful slaps. She wondered why she wanted to touch this man, not only to touch him but to have him touch her, to put his hands on her breasts, to reach down under the blankets and feel how warm she was, how appallingly warm.
She felt his weight press against her thigh. She wished she didn’t have to pee. If she didn’t have to pee she could linger here all morning, talking, just talking and sipping the strong black coffee that he had brewed in her kitchen.
‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I’m sure.’
‘What,’ she cleared her throat, ‘what do you intend to do?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Today? What’s your programme?’
‘I guess I’ll go find some place to stay.’
‘No,’ she said, too quickly, too eagerly. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I can’t go back to Barbara’s.’
‘Stay here.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘It’s silly not to.’
‘I wonder what your sister will have to say about that.’
‘My sister?’ Polly said, thinking of Babs.
‘Rose.’
‘Rosie. Yes. Well, Rosie will just have to wonder, won’t she?’
‘Wonder?’
‘If you’ve – if you’re being friendly with both Babs and me.’
‘What’s wrong with being friends with both of you?’
‘My little sister may be deaf…’ It was a step too far, too quickly. Polly pushed her mouth down into the coffee mug.
‘But she ain’t dumb, is that what you mean?’ Christy said. ‘I think you’d better finish your coffee and get up now, Mrs Manone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, appearances to the contrary, I still like to kid myself I’m a gentleman.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not all the time.’ He pushed himself from the cot. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you know why I’m here and what I’m supposed to do and if you think having me stay is gonna make it easier on both of us…’
‘Easier?’ Polly laughed. ‘Easier to do what?’
‘Collaborate.’
‘Is that what this is, a collaboration?’
The larder was too small; retreat was impossible. He had her pinned in the cot and she couldn’t get up even if she wanted to. She was, in a sense, at his mercy, would, in a sense, have to await his pleasure. She squeezed her knees together and raised them under the blankets. If Christy chose to touch her now she would yield to him, would give herself up without a qualm of conscience or thought of consequence. In all the months she had spent with Fin Hughes she had never felt like this, not remotely like this.
She clung to the coffee mug as if it were a rock.
Christy nodded. Then he said, ‘Listen, you’ve a telephone upstairs. Do you mind if I make a couple of calls?’
‘What?’ said Polly.
‘The telephone, in the hall, do you—’
‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Anyhow, I guess you’ll want to get dressed.’
‘I think I’d better,’ said Polly.
‘Then I’ll just…’ He gestured with his thumb, ‘upstairs.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, by all means,’ and with a mixture of relief and disappointment watched him go out into the kitchen and, like a perfect gentleman, discreetly close the larder door.
10
‘Is this the best that you can do?’ Evelyn Reeder said.
‘Oh, come now,’ Bernard said, ‘it isn’t that bad.’
‘Do you know what I am leaving to come here?’
No, Bernard thought, but I can guess.
He watched her move about the small square room, brushing the surface of the sideboard with the back of her hand, patting cushions on the two-seater sofa, stroking the length of blackout curtain that screened the view of the monuments and the hills.
Mid-afternoon: he had squandered the best part of a working day on Dr Reeder. He had driven her to Ottershaw, then, in spite of grumbles from other council officers, had hung on to the car to pick her up after her interview and stand her lunch while she made up her mind about Hunter Gowan’s offer. Her credentials had obviously impressed Hunter Gowan for he had personally given her the grand tour of the new operating theatres. To Bernard’s way of thinking it was a pretty generous offer and exactly what the woman claimed she wanted.
‘What will you do there?’ he’d asked her. ‘What post will you hold?’
‘I will be clinical assistant to the Chief Medical Officer.’
‘Do you know who that is?’
‘George Gillespie.’
‘Do you know him or, more to the point, does he know you?’
‘He knows who I am. He worked with my husband once.’
‘I assume,’ Bernard had said, as tactfully as possible, ‘that confirmation of your appointment will depend on Doctor Gillespie’s approval.’
‘Gillespie will not go against Hunter Gowan’s wishes.’
‘Are you sure of that, Dr Reeder?’
‘I am sure.’
‘Sure enough to accept the appointment?’
She’d hesitated, then said, ‘Do you have a place in which I might live?’
‘I do.’
‘I will not share.’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’
‘And there are no children?’
‘None that will give you bother.’
Directly after lunch he had driven her out to Breslin Old Parish Church. He wished that the weather had been more cheerful for Breslin Old Parish was nothing if not picturesque. The church gate was not the main entrance to the cemetery or the shortest way into the lodge, but it was, Bernard thought, the one that would cause Dr Reeder least alarm. As a doctor she surely wouldn’t be disturbed by the presence of dead folk who, Bernard thought, never seemed quite dead at all but merely reposing under their handsome markers in a reticent middle-class manner.
Personally he preferred the old part of the graveyard, that swell of ground to the north-east where farmers and their wives and children had been laid to rest over the past century and a half. He had never been a country boy, had never yearned to be a country boy, yet he felt a curious affinity with the sons of the soil who lay under the sod beneath the willows and gnarled oaks.
‘Is this where you are bringing me, to a graveyard? Is this where you expect me to stay?’
‘Not in the graveyard, no.’
‘Where then?’
‘In the lodge house.’
He had always fancied the lodge house for himself, though he knew that Lizzie would never condone a move from Knightswood.
The lodge tower was in fact a late Victorian replica of a baronial keep, three storeys high. Until September 1939 it had been white but in a fit of invasion panic council workers had painted it a mottled shade of green. Bernard had tried several times to billet families there but nobody was willing to live in the middle of a cemetery. What a fuss the townies made, what a furore they created, with wild claims of howling in the night, of apparitions and spectral entities, of furniture being moved and taps turned on and at least one report of a midnight convention of witches up in the north-east corner.
Bernard had opened the creaky door with a long key and had led Dr Reeder up the spiral staircase to the apartment on the third floor.
Parish clerks had resided here until the early thirties but then attitudes had changed and the clerks chose to occupy a council house nearer to the centre of town. Since then the apartment had lain empty, still decently furnished, cleaned from time to time, and regularly fired in winter. It was, Bernard thought, the perfect place for a lady who hankered after a quiet retreat.
‘How will I get to Ottershaw from here?’
‘Buses pass the main gate. The service isn’t great,’ Bernard said, ‘but they do run pretty much to time. They’ll drop you right at the hospital.’
‘What time is the last bus at night?’
‘I really don’t know.’
She gave a little sigh and seated herself on the wing chair beside the empty fireplace, her hands folded in her lap. She looked, Bernard thought, almost regal but her great sad eyes were filled not with hauteur but with a strange vulnerable despair that stirred all his protective instincts.
She said, ‘You have been very understanding.’
‘It’s part of my job to be understanding, Dr Reeder.’
‘No, you have done more than your job demands.’
She smiled for the first time in his presence and when she did so he glimpsed the beauty in her, a dark, self-reliant sort of beauty that knew its own worth. He felt his throat close and his knees turn to jelly.
It was all he could do, at that moment, to speak.
‘May I take it,’ he said, ‘that the accommodation is satisfactory?’
Wives at War Page 18
