‘No?’ said Fin. ‘I’ve obviously been misinformed.’
‘First off, I won’t be toting a sackful of dollar bills back to Manone. The money will be handed over to the Government.’
‘Is Dominic buying American citizenship?’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing,’ Christy said.
‘Haven’t your masters told you?’
‘Nope.’
He could hear the workmen in the big front parlour smashing glass and listened for the sound of Polly upstairs, longing for her to come back and give him support. Ten minutes ago he had been on the point of making love to this man’s lover and still had no qualms about it. He would steal Polly from Fin Hughes without giving it a second thought.
Fin said, ‘Of course, it’s much in my interests to co-operate, to do what Polly wants and see you, as it were, speedily off the premises.’
Christy said nothing.
Fin said, ‘Aren’t you going to ask me why?’
‘Nope.’
‘It isn’t quite as easy as you seem to imagine,’ Fin went on. ‘For instance, selling stock in the current climate and under the current weight of financial restriction requires a great deal of negotiation. I cannot guarantee to have you out of here much before February or March.’
‘Can’t you sell now?’
‘You may be a wizard with a camera, Mr Cameron, but you clearly know nothing of the stock market.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Are you, by any chance, a man divided?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Christy said.
‘Have you somewhere you’d rather be?’
‘I told you, I’m waiting for clearance to sail with—’
‘Balderdash!’ Fin put down the coffee cup and leaned an elbow on the table as if he were about to challenge Christy to a bout of arm wrestling. ‘You’re either committed to obtaining Manone’s funds for your government, or you’re not. I don’t believe you’re acting altruistically.’
‘I have a job to do here. When it’s done, I’ll be gone.’
‘And Polly?’
‘Polly?’
‘What will become of Polly?’
The question was baffling. He hadn’t given any thought to Polly’s future, had assumed he would leave her behind, not because he was forced to but because, like Ewa, Polly would want it that way.
‘If you think,’ Fin Hughes said quietly, ‘that I’ll pick up the pieces, that I’ll accept second-hand goods and consider it a bargain then you are wrong. I’m not taking leftovers, Mr Cameron. If you fleece Polly Manone of all she possesses she will become your responsibility.’
‘You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.’
‘Am I? I think you know what I’m talking about, and it isn’t just money.’
‘Polly – I guess she knows what she wants.’
‘Ah yes!’ Fin Hughes said. ‘But what if what she wants is you?’
‘Me?’
‘I’m not blind. I know what’s going on and why this mysterious agency your President has sanctioned has recruited you for its silly little mission. You’re no matinée idol, Cameron, but I imagine you’ve had a certain success with the ladies, have you not?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Christy, sarcastically. ‘Okay, so I’m Mata Hari in baggy underpants; make your point.’
‘If Polly decides to do what her husband asks then it will be because of you, not out of any obligation to Manone or any cause which he may wish to support,’ Fin said. ‘If Polly makes that decision then I will do whatever she asks of me. But afterwards – no, afterwards, she becomes your responsibility and I will wash my hands of her.’
‘Does Polly know how you feel?’
‘Polly isn’t in love with me,’ Fin said. ‘I am under no illusions on that score, Mr Cameron.’
‘Are you…?’
‘No – I don’t know. No.’
‘In other words, Polly’s free to do as she chooses.’
‘Precisely,’ Fin Hughes said. ‘As long as she stays in Scotland she has no husband, no children, no ties and if we proceed with this far-fetched scheme that your government has cooked up she’ll have no income either. She’ll have nothing, nothing except you.’
‘She has family.’
‘Family won’t be enough.’
The sounds of smashing glass from the big room upstairs had ceased. Christy imagined the glaziers applying themselves to the windowpane, thumbing in putty, adjusting the fit, trimming off the edges with that little diamond-hard tool they used. Another raid, another bomb dropped in the vicinity of the park, however, and the window would shatter again.
At that moment it struck Christy how pointless everything was right now, how random. He wondered what it would be like to return to Scotland when the war was over, to marry Polly, to earn a living by going out on Saturdays to shoot the action in soccer games for some provincial rag or by taking photographs of wedding couples in a gloomy little studio in town: wondered if Polly would be worth it, if he could really make her happy, or if the responsibility that Hughes talked about would quickly become a burden.
He was irked at Hughes for making him consider a future that might be no future at all and the consequences of an affair that hadn’t even begun.
‘You’re making too much of it,’ Christy said.
‘Am I? When Polly gets round to calling the tune,’ Fin said, ‘will you be prepared to dance to it?’
‘Knock, knock.’ Polly put her head round the kitchen door.
She wore a cross-check skirt and a cashmere sweater that showed off her figure. She had combed her hair and applied a little make-up and looked fresh and young and vital.
Christy stared at her for a moment then, without turning, said, ‘You know, Mr Hughes, I might. I might at that.’
‘Might what?’ said Polly, frowning.
‘Nothing,’ said Fin and Christy in unison and, breaking away from the table, headed shoulder to shoulder for the sink to refill the empty coffee pot.
* * *
With a fire lighted in the grate and a lamp lit, the lodge had become friendly and free of ghosts.
Bernard’s main concern now was that he might become too comfortable and outstay his welcome. He was also conscious of the lateness of the hour and the fact that Lizzie was stuck at home with a shepherd’s pie or an Irish stew congealing in the oven. He tried not to think of Lizzie or his wasted dinner but to relax, sip brandy and enjoy the company of a mature and intelligent woman with whom he could discuss politics and persecution on equal terms.
Dr Reeder seemed to be quite at home already and lay back against the cushions of the sofa as if she had lived in the cemetery flat all her life.
Bernard envied her ability to remain unfazed by new experiences.
She crossed her long legs.
He tried to look elsewhere but her legs seemed to dominate the hearth so that to look at her at all, to be polite, he had to lift his gaze and stare into her sad, dark eyes.
‘Did you pay the removal men?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Out of your own pocket?’
‘I’ll recoup it from the billeting account.’
‘Are you entitled to do that?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
‘Will questions not be asked?’
Bernard wondered where politics had gone to.
Five minutes ago he had been expounding his theory that the rise of the National Socialist Party owed as much to Gallic indifference as Teutonic lust for power and Dr Reeder – Evelyn – had been instructing him on certain aspects of recent European history that hadn’t received mention in the Glasgow Herald. Then, between one little sip of cognac and the next, she was talking about personal matters and the fate of Europe had been put to one side.
He said, ‘The accounts department won’t quibble if I have a receipt.’
‘What was the cost?’
‘Thirty-eight shillings.’
‘Extortion!’
‘Did you give the carriers a gratuity?’
‘Couple of bob – I mean, two shillings – each.’
‘Were they grateful?’
‘Grateful?’ Bernard frowned. ‘Yes, they seemed to be.’
‘One cannot always count on gratitude these days.’
‘I suppose not,’ Bernard said.
Dr Reeder swirled the brandy in the globe in her hand and recrossed her legs. He could see her knees peeping out from beneath the hem of her skirt and that darkness, that hypnotic darkness folding away under her thighs.
He stared intently into her eyes.
‘The blonde girl who sent me to you, is she really your daughter?’
‘Stepdaughter, actually.’
‘How many children do you have?’
‘Three, all girls – women now, married women.’
‘You have never fathered a child of your own?’ Evelyn Reeder asked.
‘They’re Lizzie’s girls but I’ve always thought of them as my own.’
‘Your wife, your Lizzie, she is older than you?’
‘Well, aye – yes, she is, as a matter of fact.’
‘I,’ said Evelyn Reeder, ‘am fifty-two.’
‘I’d never have believed it,’ said Bernard courteously.
‘And you?’
‘Me?’
‘You are not so old, are you?’
‘I’m not so young as all that,’ said Bernard, embarrassed by all this talk of age. ‘I fought in the Great War, you know.’
‘For the British?’
Bernard laughed, rather too loudly.
He assumed that she was making a joke but her expression remained unchanged and he saw that she was serious and wanted an answer. What sort of men had Dr Reeder been acquainted with, he wondered, that she required him to declare his allegiance?
‘Hm,’ he said. ‘For the British.’
‘It was not a good war.’
‘No, it certainly was not.’
He let out his breath; they were moving back on to safer ground now, back towards politics and history.
‘You are able to father children?’
‘What?’
‘I have seen men who could not have children because of that war,’ said Dr Reeder, without a blush. ‘Damage to their testicles, to the system necessary for reproduction, made them incapable.’
Bernard swallowed, glanced at his wristwatch, said, ‘I really must be on my way, Dr Reeder, very soon now.’
‘I will cook for you.’
‘No, no, really.’
She made no move to get up. ‘After all that you have done for me, I will cook for you. You will stay and have supper with me.’
‘Another time,’ said Bernard.
And then it dawned on him that now that Dr Reeder had got herself a job and a flat the only thing that was missing from her life was a man.
‘We will have more brandy and then I will cook something for you.’
‘My wife—’
‘She will understand that if you are late it is business.’
‘No, I have to go,’ he said.
‘And leave me alone?’
How could anyone so sophisticated and matter-of-fact be so devious as to put him in her debt with just a word? Her assumption that he wanted something from her, that he was ‘interested’ in her was too accurate for comfort.
He rose and buttoned his jacket, juggled the brandy globe and put it on the shelf above the fireplace.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Right, I think everything’s tickety-boo here, Dr Reeder, so I really must be on my way.’
‘Tickety-boo?’
‘Squared away, shipshape, apple-pie order.’
‘Tickety-boo,’ she said again, and laughed.
She laughed in such a way that it caused Bernard pain. For an instant he was tempted to show her what sort of a man he really was and pluck the brandy glass from her hand, pull her to her feet and kiss her; not just kiss her but slip his hand up under that tempting black skirt, up into the dark and mysterious region at the top of those long, taunting legs.
She lay back, watching him, smiling.
He tugged his overcoat and hat from a hook behind the door but so great was his fear of her now that he didn’t pause to put them on.
Coat folded over his arm and hat in hand, he pulled open the door that led out to the top of the stairs.
‘Bernard, I am grateful to you,’ she said from the depths of the sofa. ‘I hope that you will visit me again.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Soon?’
He didn’t answer.
He only managed to deliver something midway between a nod and a shake of the head then, closing the door behind him, tiptoed away to hunt down a bus to carry him safely home.
12
Christy was a considerate lover, persistent rather than demanding. He lacked Fin’s selfish refinements and the aggression that had made her affair with Tony so exciting. Afterward they lay in each other’s arms in the big bed upstairs and listened to the empty rattle of tramcars trolling the length of the Paisley Road.
‘I have to ask you,’ Christy said, ‘about Hughes.’
‘What about him?’
‘Are you finished with him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think he knows you’re finished with him?’
‘I think he’s known for some time.’
‘Don’t you love him, even a little?’
‘It was, I suppose, a sort of marriage of convenience,’ Polly said. ‘Does that make me sound like a slut?’
‘Not in my book,’ Christy said.
His hair was slicked with sweat, his eyelids heavy with sleep. She felt sleepy too, not leaden but light, almost feathery, but she had no desire to leave the upstairs room and scuttle down to her foxhole in the basement.
She said, ‘I think Fin realised I was falling for you even before I knew it myself. It all happened so quickly. Do you ever feel that everything is speeding away from you and you have to catch it before it disappears?’
‘Polly, I won’t be here for ever,’ Christy told her. ‘As soon as Christmas is past, next month or the month after—’
‘Let’s not talk about it, not right now.’
The curtains sighed in window frames loosened by blast. The whole house had been shaken, in fact. One more bomb in the neighbourhood and Polly had a feeling that Dominic’s handsome little mansion would simply fall apart.
‘Someone will have to tell Babs,’ Christy said.
‘Oh, God!’ Polly said. ‘Why does it have to be so complicated? I thought falling in love was supposed to solve everything.’
‘Only in books,’ said Christy.
* * *
The motorcar had no insignia and no official flag in the bonnet. Even so, Kenny spotted it for a wrong ’un as soon as he stepped out of the close.
It was a quarter past eight on a Monday morning, the sky lidded with heavy cloud and a sniff of snow in the air. Cloud had kept the bombers away and there was a faint, unrealistic supposition even among case-hardened coppers that Goering might keep his dogs leashed until Christmas was past.
Kenny lit a cigarette and studied the long, low-slung motorcar out of the corner of his eye; a Lancia – he hadn’t seen one of those in ages and certainly didn’t expect to find one parked in Cowcaddens. He was wary, almost jumpy, for he’d been responsible for rounding up the Glasgow end of a Liverpool-based gang who had been selling illicit explosives and the Irish had threatened reprisals. He preferred to keep Rosie in the dark about the cases in which he was involved and was relieved that she had left the flat before him.
There was only one man in the Lancia, the driver.
Kenny tossed away his cigarette and crossed the street.
He advanced on the motorcar from the rear. If the driver had a shooter he would have to open the car door to fire and Kenny had already worked out an advantageous angle of att
ack. He mightn’t spend hours in the gymnasium or running round the sports ground but he was still nimble enough to tackle one man with a gun. Officially he wasn’t supposed to carry a weapon but he kept a six-inch metal ruler, honed to a cutting edge, in his pocket. He slipped the ruler from his pocket, wrapped it in a handkerchief and held it down against his trouser leg as he came abreast of the car.
‘May I be of some assistance?’
‘I certainly hope so,’ the driver said. ‘Inspector MacGregor, is it not?’
The window had been rolled down six or eight inches but the driver was sensible enough not to stick out a hand.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Kenny.
He heard the man laugh. All he could see of him was a shabby tweed sports jacket with leather-patched elbows, and some tight, fair curls.
‘I was under the impression,’ the man said, ‘that you SPU Johnnies were supposed to be awfully phlegmatic. Is that a knife you have there?’
‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
‘Spot of unofficial business,’ the driver said, ‘concerning our mutual friend from across the Atlantic.’
‘Show me your identification.’
‘’Fraid I can’t. It wouldn’t serve much purpose in any case,’ the driver said. ‘I’ve more identity cards than you can shake a stick at. If you must have a name to conjure with, call me Marzipan.’
‘Marzipan?’ said Kenny. ‘Oh yes, that sounds about right.’
Keeping the metal ruler snug against his leg, he walked around the Lancia and opened the passenger door. The silly code name had already given him a clue, and the toothbrush moustache and military-style knot in the chap’s necktie confirmed his suspicion that he was dealing with a commissioned officer.
He slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.
‘Headquarters?’ The driver reached for the ignition switch. ‘Save you the tram fare, if nothing else.’
Kenny nodded, heard the roar of the big engine and felt the thrust of acceleration against his back as the Lancia surged forward and headed downhill towards the centre of the city.
In spite of the cold, Marzipan wore no overcoat, but a long, striped scarf was tied about his chest like a bandolier. He drove casually, almost recklessly.
Wives at War Page 22
