Wives at War

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘I’m not deaf.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder,’ Polly said.

  ‘Where’s he sleeping?’

  ‘In my bed.’

  The defence of civil liberties had earned Fin a small fortune in the months since emergency legislation had been introduced. He had been quick to realise that trade union officials would read threat in the small print of the acts, would vigorously resist any government censorship on union meetings and would regard the new anti-strike laws merely as weapons in the eternal struggle of Labour against Capital. In rational argument Polly couldn’t hope to get the better of him but she possessed persuasive powers of another kind and did not hesitate to use them.

  ‘He sleeps in my bed and I sleep downstairs.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Fin said, ‘I’ll lob him a fiver and he can take himself off to a top-class hotel for the weekend.’

  ‘Now you’re just being silly.’

  ‘How long will he stay with you?’

  ‘I’m not sure, probably until Jackie goes back to his unit.’

  ‘And then you expect him just to pack his little bag and trot meekly back to your sister’s house?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Because by that time you and he … Oh, never mind,’ Fin said.

  He had come stalking into her office at half-past three still clad in formal morning dress. Polly had to admit that he looked mighty impressive. She had seen him naked just once too often, however, and no man, even one at the peak of his profession, could maintain an air of authority when you’d watched him crouch in a few inches of tepid water in a bathtub or wrestle for his share of the quilt in a bedroom as cold as a tomb.

  She had been writing when he’d entered, compiling a first rough draft of holdings she might be able to liquidate without excessive interference. Folders lay on her desk, box-files stacked by her chair.

  Fin had spotted them immediately.

  ‘What are you doing, Polly? What are you doing?’

  ‘A little basic arithmetic, that’s all.’ She strove not to appear nervous. ‘I’m just curious as to what I’m currently worth.’

  ‘To me,’ Fin said without warmth, ‘a very great deal.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Polly said. ‘Now what’s that in pounds, shillings and pence?’

  He came over to the desk and perched on it, blotting out light from the window. He looked so intimidatingly severe that she was surprised when he leaned over the folders, snared her chin with one hand and kissed her.

  ‘Immeasurable,’ he said. ‘Quite immeasurable.’ He drew back, eyeing her all the while. ‘Give me a couple of hours and I’ll take you to dinner.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Polly said.

  She expected him to wax sarcastic or at least ask her to explain why but he was too shrewd to fall into that trap. He stood up, stretched his arms above his head and performed a little knee-bending exercise, then said, ‘Cameron’s not blackmailing you, by any chance, is he?’

  ‘Blackmailing me?’ Polly laughed shakily. ‘Of course he’s not blackmailing me. Whatever put that idea into your head?’

  Fin shrugged. ‘He’s a photographer. I thought perhaps…’

  ‘That because he photographed Babs, he also has designs on me?’ She laughed again, even less convincingly. ‘You’ve been reading that Raymond Chandler novel again, haven’t you, the one you said was depraved?’

  ‘If you need cash,’ Fin said, ‘ask me.’

  ‘I am asking you.’

  ‘How much do you need, Polly?’

  ‘A very great deal.’

  ‘For him, isn’t it? For Christy Cameron?’

  ‘No, for Dominic.’

  Fin nodded, unsurprised. ‘Why does Dominic want his money now? Does he think Britain is going under?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what Dom wants it for,’ Polly lied. ‘I’m not even sure he wants it all. He has merely requested a tally.’

  ‘Through this Cameron chap?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A letter, a cable—’

  ‘Might be intercepted.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘If you recall,’ Polly said, ‘you’re the one who suggested I wait for Christy to come to me. Well, he did, and now we know what he wants, or at least we think we know what he wants. It isn’t me, darling. He has no interest in me whatsoever. He’s after money, money that Dominic feels he has claim to – which, I suppose, he has.’

  She hadn’t forgotten Kenny’s parting words, his warning.

  She would give Fin only a few pieces of the puzzle and only because she couldn’t advance without him. She wished that Dom’s accountant, Victor Shadwell, had still been hale and hearty for she had always trusted Victor. But he was an old man now, very frail and rather inclined to wander mentally. She really was out on a limb with no one to support her or catch her if she tumbled, not Fin, not Dom, not Kenny MacGregor and most certainly not Christy, the man she was falling in love with, who, for all his charm, might turn out to be more of a rotter than any of them.

  ‘Selling stock at this time,’ Fin said, ‘is highly unwise.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that and so, I suspect, is Dominic.’

  ‘You know, of course,’ Fin said, ‘that all your holdings are registered and that your American dollar securities cannot be transferred? Have you seen the list of securities that the Treasury can call up at any time?’

  ‘I don’t believe I have,’ said Polly.

  ‘Massive,’ said Fin, ‘massive and all-inclusive.’

  ‘Do you mean we can’t sell anything at all?’

  Fin hesitated before answering. ‘Not quite. Regulations state that the prices paid for securities taken over shall be not less than their market value.’

  ‘Who sets the rating?’

  ‘The Treasury.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  ‘The sterling equivalent of dollar quotations on the New York or Montreal stock exchange on the day of call-up.’

  ‘What if we choose to sell securities before they are taken over?’

  ‘We, as holders, are free to seek permission so to do.’

  Polly put a hand to her brow. ‘It’s all very complicated.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Fin said. ‘That’s why you have me.’

  ‘Our assets—’

  ‘What assets?’

  ‘The lease on the warehouse,’ Polly said. ‘We could sell the lease on the warehouse. Lincoln Stephens are desperate to buy the place, are they not, and the original agreement will expire in – what – six months’ time?’

  ‘Eight,’ said Fin. ‘I thought you said you’d never sell the warehouse?’

  ‘No, I said I would hold on to it until Dominic came back.’

  ‘I see. Now you’re not so sure that Dominic will come back.’

  Hand to brow once more, Polly said, ‘I don’t know what to think.’

  Fin fashioned a courtly little bow. ‘Madam, I am your servant,’ he said. ‘I am paid to do your thinking for you. So, if Dominic is in a bind regarding cash flow, allow me to see what can be done to raise the wind without selling off your assets or securities.’

  ‘By borrowing, do you mean?’

  ‘That is a possibility.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ said Fin.

  ‘At what rate of interest?’

  ‘Obviously that remains to be seen,’ said Fin. ‘Now are you sure I can’t treat you to an early dinner? There’s a rumour going about that the Caledonia Club has meat on the menu; beef, I believe, not horse. What do you say, old Polly, shall we sally forth and dine in solemn state?’

  And in spite of her desire to hurry home to Christy, Polly forced a feeble smile and said, ‘Why not?’

  * * *

  No matter how Babs tried to kid herself that Jackie would come back in his own good time, when she got in from work she was dismayed to discover that he still hadn’t returned. Before she removed April’s coat and hat, she hurried outside to check that the mot
orbike was still missing, for she had a sudden dreadful feeling that poor Jackie might be lying mangled on a slab in the Southern General or, even worse, jiving the night away with some tart he’d picked up at the Palais.

  ‘Where’s Christy?’ April asked for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I told you, he’s staying with Auntie Polly.’

  ‘Is Daddy staying with Auntie Polly too?’

  ‘No, honey, he’s – he’s gone to see Grandma.’

  ‘Grandma Lizzie?’

  ‘Grandma Hallop.’

  ‘Oh!’ said April. ‘Poor Daddy.’

  Babs strove to reassure herself that Jackie had probably gone drinking with his old man or one of his sisters’ husbands and was having the time of his life; but Jackie had never been much of a drinking man and had no more time for his sisters, or their husbands, than she did.

  She fried Spam, made chips, warmed up a tin of beans, fed herself and her daughter, washed up, lit the fire in the living room, bathed April and got her ready for bed. While April played on the rug in front of the fire, she rushed through a washing and hung clothes – Jackie’s as well as April’s – on the kitchen pulley, after which she went into the living room, sat April on her knee and read her a story from an old Girl’s Crystal Annual, for April was fascinated by the mischief that passed for adventure before schoolgirls wore tin hats and siren suits and captured German spies in the classroom.

  By half-past eight April was almost asleep. She made no protest when Babs carried her through to bed. She settled her head on the pillow, fluttered her eyelashes, murmured something that may have been ‘Good night’ and sank instantly down into that unaffected place where little children go in search of dreams. Babs returned to the living room, poured herself a drink, lay back in the big armchair and closed her eyes.

  She was too tense to fall asleep, too worried to dream. She thought of Christy seated with Polly in the spacious basement kitchen in Manor Park, of how much fun he would have with Polly and how Polly would flirt with him in the ladylike manner that she, Babs, had never been able to emulate. She thought of Jackie in his khaki greatcoat and stiff, constricting webbing and how stricken he’d been when he’d caught her with Christy. Drifting off now, she thought of Archie Harding peering at the parrot, Skipper, though the bars of a gilded cage while he lectured it on the value of industry in time of war.

  Then she opened her eyes and sat up.

  At first she thought the bombers had come again, then she realised it was only the sound of Jackie’s motorcycle and a minute or two later he clumped into the living room without a word of greeting or apology.

  He wore army-issue trousers, stockings and boots and the big ragged sweater he sported only when he rode the Excelsior. His hair, stiff with moist night air, stuck up like a halo around his head. His nose and ears were red and she could see the imprint of the goggles on his cheeks. There was no rage in him now, however, no trace of anger. He tugged off his gloves with his teeth and spread his fingers out to the flickering flames of the fire.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was a bloody waste o’ time.’

  ‘Didn’t you see your mother?’

  ‘Aw yeah, I saw her all right.’ Jackie seated himself on the matching armchair and began to unlace his boots. ‘She’s got herself a job.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘Aye, up at the steelworks.’

  ‘Your mother’s a steelworker?’

  ‘Naw, naw, in the canteen. She loves it there. She does the bloody nightshift every time she’s asked. Never been chirpier, never had more money comin’ in. Jeeze, I hardly recognised her, all dolled up. Thinks she’s a soddin’ glamour puss just because the guys chat her up.’

  Babs tried not to laugh at the notion of pint-sized Mrs Hallop being chatted up by anyone.

  Head down, his fingers making hard work of his muddy bootlaces, Jackie went on, ‘She never even gave me ma dinner.’

  ‘Where’s the old man these days? Still on the railway?’

  ‘Transport officer, that’s what he calls himself. Sixty-one years old, pickled in draught heavy, an’ some idiot upstairs makes him responsible for supervisin’ the shipment o’ dangerous freight.’ Jackie seemed stunned by the rise in his family’s fortunes. ‘I never knew none o’ this. Not one o’ the buggers thought t’ drop me a line tellin’ me what was goin’ on. Did you not know, Babs, what was happenin’ over there?’

  ‘Nope, it’s all news to me,’ Babs said.

  She was relieved that he had come back to her, that disappointment had replaced anger and that her indiscretions had been swallowed up by the Hallops’ indifference to their soldier son.

  ‘Went round to the sister’s. She’s out at the bloody fire station, mannin’ the telephones. Her hubby’s at home, pressin’ his ARP uniform an’ actin’ like he was winnin’ the war single-handed. The tosser couldn’t even spare five minutes for to come out for a pint.’

  ‘So where have you been all night?’

  Jackie abandoned the bootlaces. He flopped back in the armchair and arched his arms over his head the way Angus did when he was about to sulk. ‘I drove down to Govan to see if I could get into the Rowin’ Club. Remember the Rowin’ Club, Dominic’s hideout? By God, the times we had there.’

  ‘Jackie…’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s not the Rowin’ Club any more.’

  ‘It’s for servicemen, for sweethearts,’ Babs said, frowning. ‘Is that where you were all night, Jackie?’

  ‘Fat bloody chance!’ He paused, sighed loudly, then confessed. ‘They wouldn’t let me in. Two big bruisers wi’ dog collars on – Christians, some Christians! – said I wasn’t bony fleddy.’

  ‘Bony fleddy?’

  ‘Aye, like in Latin, like bloody RCs.’

  ‘Bona fide.’ Babs had acquired an accurate pronunciation from Archie. ‘Didn’t you tell them you were a soldier?’

  ‘Never had my paybook nor ID on me.’

  ‘Oh, Jackie.’ She put the whisky glass down on the carpet and kneeled before him. ‘Oh, Jackie, what a slap in the face that was.’

  ‘Wasn’t it, but? I told them I’d be fightin’ the Eyeties eyeball to eyeball when they were singin’ carols round the manger, but they never took no heed. I bought a fish supper an’ went back home – I mean to Ma’s house. He was out an’ she never came in until half-past one, then all she wanted to talk about was what this guy had said to her an’ what that guy had done – that, an’ our Dennis. Now he’s a real hero, our bloody Dennis, even though he’s in the Fleet Air Arm. Know why? Because he’s been blown up twice.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Babs, alarmed. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Don’t you start.’

  ‘No, Jackie, is he all right, really?’

  ‘His wife runs off wi’ another man, does that matter? Aw naw, all that matters is, he’s been twice in the drink.’ Jackie craned forward and blinked as if he were seeing her for the first time. ‘Aye, aye, Dennis’s okay. Got fished out without a scratch on him. But he’s the hero, not me, an’ not our Billy neither. Billy’s up in Lossiemouth guardin’ a big gun or somethin’. Safe as bloody houses in the Highlands. Maybe I’ll have to get blown sky high before anybody round here’ll take me seriously.’

  ‘Jackie, oh, Jackie.’

  Babs leaned against his knees, pressing her breast on his shins and when that seemed to have no effect on his despondent mood, bent down and began to unpick his laces. She tugged off one boot then another and placed them neatly on the hearthstone. She took his right foot in both hands and kneaded the coarse damp woollen stocking as if she were trying to wring it dry.

  ‘Slept in my old bed,’ Jackie said. ‘First time I ever had the bloody thing to myself. Felt funny wi’ no bugger kickin’ me or fartin’ in ma face.’ He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Slept for hours, though, bloody hours an’ hours, just the way I used to when I was a kid.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come home?’

  ‘I didn’t think I was welcome here.’


  ‘This is me, this is your house. You belong here.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said all those bad things.’

  ‘Forgotten, all forgotten.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘Drove over to Blackstone again this afternoon. Saw the kids through the window. Old Dawlish wouldn’t let them come near me, though.’

  ‘They’re still infectious.’

  ‘Aye, aye, I know.’

  ‘Did you do tricks for Angus on the bike?’

  ‘I did, near jiggered ma backside doin’ them, an’ all.’

  ‘I take it you saw the pig?’

  ‘Aye, I saw the pig.’ Another wry chuckle. ‘Angus fair dotes on yon pig, doesn’t he? I’m thinkin’ we’ll need to build a sty in the back green for Ron when the war’s over an’ the kids come home for good.’

  ‘When you come home for good.’

  ‘Aye,’ Jackie sighed, softly this time, ‘when I come home.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t a wasted day after all, not really,’ said Babs. ‘At least you got to see the kids again an’ they got to see you.’

  ‘It’s not the same, but, is it?’

  She sagged against him, head on his knee.

  ‘No, darlin’,’ she said. ‘It’s not the same.’

  Then she got up and went out into the bedroom.

  She lifted April gently, wrapped her in the softest blanket, carried her through to the living room and put her down into Jackie’s arms.

  He looked up, surprised.

  April, her eyes barely open, looked up too. ‘Daddy,’ she murmured, then snuggled in against him and went straight back to sleep.

  And that was how Babs would remember him, not dancing, not ranting, not idling away his days, not even roaring up Raines Drive on the big Excelsior Manxman, but seated in the armchair by the fireside with his little daughter sleeping soundly in his arms.

  ‘Okay?’ Babs said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Jackie, and watched her go off to unearth the pale peach housecoat that he had given her one Christmas, long ago.

  11