‘Peabody here.’
‘Why is it you have been ignoring me?’
Bernard glanced surreptitiously over his shoulder and closed the office door with the toe of his shoe. ‘Evelyn?’
‘Did you not promise to come on Saturday?’
‘Evelyn—’
‘I cooked for you.’
‘Evelyn—’
‘Are you afraid to see me? Is it over?’
‘Is what over?’ said Bernard. ‘Look, I told you, I’ve lots of problems at home right now. My daughter lost her husband and—’
‘If you make promises, you must keep them.’
Bernard glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I have to go now but what time do you knock off?’
‘Knock off?’
‘Finish your shift.’
‘I am on until seven o’clock tonight.’
‘That’s too la—’
‘I will be at the gate at ten minutes past the hour.’
‘All right. We’ll go for a drink or something.’
‘You will have the motorcar?’
‘No,’ said Bernard. ‘I will not have the motorcar.’
‘Ten past,’ Evelyn said, ‘at the gate.’
* * *
Selling inscribed securities in non-sterling areas was an infinitely complicated procedure, apparently, and Polly had no alternative but to grant Fin further powers of attorney and put up with the delays.
She signed all the documents that Fin placed before her and in due course, towards the end of February, Fin presented her with a cheque for eight thousand, eight hundred and forty-four pounds that Polly deposited in a registered account in Croft & Sutter’s Mercantile Bank.
She was surprised at the ease with which the bank handled the transaction and suspected that Fin or Christy, or someone higher up the monkey-puzzle tree, had smoothed the way. She was also surprised to discover that Dominic held large blocks of shares in Argentine Tin, Straits Oil and Nigerian Copper, holdings that had until recently provided substantial dividends.
Jackie’s death distracted her, however, and for the best part of a month she was too involved with family matters to confront Fin and demand an explanation why he had neglected to tell her about the foreign stock.
It was odd to be so embroiled with the family again, to have to listen to Bernard’s pompous platitudes and Mammy keening over the loss of her son-in-law, to Babs’s insistence that she wanted nothing from any of them.
At night in the bed in Manor Park Avenue, however, Christy and she continued to make love as if there were no grieving widows and fatherless children and the war was something that was only happening to other people. The war, however, had not gone away. The Italians were routed in North Africa, Cyrenaica conquered, Egypt and the Suez Canal made safe. Churchill spoke on the wireless and praised the generals who had made victory in North Africa possible and to Polly, lying against Christy, spooned into his back, it seemed as if poor Jackie Hallop had already become as faded as yesterday’s newspaper.
Fin had been in Stirling arranging a compromise between the Miners’ Union and the Ministry of Labour’s regional commissioners. He had been at his best in the tribunal hearings and when he returned to Glasgow late on Friday afternoon he was still buoyed up by conceit. Gratified to find Polly waiting in his chambers, he threw off his overcoat, tossed his briefcase into a corner, leaned over and kissed her.
‘What now?’ he said. ‘Another threatening letter from the Hallops?’
‘No, I think we’ve heard the last of them.’
‘What then, my Polly? Have you come to invite me to dinner?’
‘I’ve come to invite you to get a move on, Fin.’
‘A move on? A move on? Now what sort of a move on would that be?’
‘Stop playing the fool,’ Polly said. ‘Why are you dragging your feet on this, Fin?’ She held up a hand. ‘Now don’t tell me it’s the Treasury or the stock market in Montreal. You’ve had this on your desk for almost four months.’
‘I can muster your money in a week, Polly.’ Fin seated himself in his chair and put his feet on the desk, something she had never seen him do before. ‘Oh yes, I’ll contact an authorised broker who’ll sell the remaining foreign securities “forward”. I’ll settle the taxes, deduct commissions and ensure that the transactions are protected against adverse changes in the rate of exchange. Selling off the Scottish holdings, such as they are, may take a little longer but the bulk of the money lies in those foreign holdings which, as you may have guessed, were built up not by Dominic but by his father in the years before and just after the Great War. Surely you didn’t imagine that illegal street bookmaking and a little local racketeering was enough for the Manones.’
‘Stop lecturing me, Fin, please,’ said Polly. ‘Eight thousand is far short of what’s required. What’s still to come? How much?’
‘Thirty,’ said Fin. ‘Thirty-five at most.’
‘That’s not enough.’
Enough for what?’ said Fin. ‘Forty thousand pounds will buy you a great deal of goodwill even in the United States of America.’
‘There was talk of sixty or seventy thousand.’
‘Piffle!’
‘You wouldn’t cheat me, Fin, would you?’
‘Ah, my dearest Polly, of course I’d cheat you. I’d cheat you without batting an eyelid. But what I will not do is cheat your husband.’ He swung his long legs from the desk and planted his feet so firmly on the carpet that the floorboards creaked. ‘You and your damned American!’ He shook his head. ‘It had been my intention to sit out the war with my boots under your table, in a manner of speaking, and see what Dominic made of things. However, your dear husband is far too clever to allow me to play a waiting game. Besides, this damned war might last for ever and I’m bored. Yes, I admit it: I’m bored with you, my Polly, and will be even more bored with you when you’re penniless. I’m also more than somewhat leery of what Dominic might do to me if I stick my snout in his trough.’
‘Your admission has been duly recorded,’ said Polly stiffly. ‘I want to put an end to this stupid game as soon as I possibly can. Fin, where’s my money?’
‘Tell me, Polly,’ Fin Hughes said, ‘have you or your American friend given any consideration as to what will happen once your fund is salted away in Croft & Sutter’s? All financial operations that do not serve the collective needs of the community are ruled out by law. All financial operations in the nature of transfers of capital abroad are banned.’
‘I know that,’ said Polly.
‘So too,’ Fin went on, ‘is the export or transfer of realisable capital assets, by which is meant art works, postage stamps, diamonds, precious metals, et cetera, et cetera. Therefore, my dear Polly, may I ask how you intend to convey this considerable sum to Dominic so that he may hand it over to the Government of the United States? Perhaps that’s where your lovable American boyfriend will enter the picture and prove his mettle.’
‘Yes, I expect it is.’
‘Does he know what he’s doing?’
‘I believe he does.’
‘Proof of the pudding,’ Fin said, ‘proof of the pudding, my Polly. The chap may be proficient in the bedroom but is he going to be proficient when it comes to smuggling cash out of the country?’
‘How much and how soon?’
‘My, my! Aren’t we impatient? Is this patriotism or panic, I ask myself.’
‘Prudence,’ said Polly. ‘A bomb could fall through the roof tonight, Fin, and then where would we be?’
‘We? Meaning you and Christy Cameron, I assume, not thee and me?’
‘Meaning Dominic and my children.’
‘Ah! Evidence of conscience at last,’ said Fin. ‘Still, you do have a valid point there. It won’t have escaped your notice that the Luftwaffe have been creeping up the west coast in their search for industrial targets. Sceptics and gainsayers will tell you otherwise but the little raids we experienced before Christmas may develop into a full-scale blitz at any time. You’re
right to be alarmed.’
Polly slapped her hand down on the desk. ‘For God’s sake, Fin, will you please shut up and answer my question?’
‘I can’t,’ said Fin. ‘Not off hand. I can, however, promise you an answer very soon. Monday, in this office, at eleven.’
‘Word of honour?’ Polly asked.
‘For what it’s worth, yes,’ Fin answered. ‘Oh, by the by, perhaps you should bring along the boyfriend.’
‘Christy? Why?’
‘Because,’ said Fin, ‘he’s the fellow who’ll be in the firing line.’
* * *
In the wards of Ottershaw hospital the curtains had already been drawn but the sky to the west was lilac- and lavender-ribbed with pink-tinted cloud, and you could still see the bare bones of the oak trees outlined against the twilight and one rackety tractor trailing a plough across the crest of the hill.
The last of the afternoon visitors had come and gone, and apart from a few nurses and porters the long avenue that split the site was deserted and Bernard, loitering at the gate, felt decidedly conspicuous.
Stepping out from behind a stone pillar, he peered in the direction of the old manor house, which was silently melting into the gloom. Even the gatehouse had grown dark enough to show the firelight within, but when he glanced at his wristwatch he was surprised to discover that Evelyn was not late but that he had been early. Then he saw her striding down the avenue towards him and, feeling foolish, waved.
Evelyn waved back.
Expectation, guilt, the fulfilment of the moment rendered Bernard awkward, for Dr Reeder looked as he’d always imagined a lover would look, tall and confident and stylish, a gas-mask holder hitched over one shoulder, a large black leather bag over the other.
She reached him and took his arm.
‘I did not think you would come,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ Bernard said.
‘You have been avoiding me.’
‘Not intentionally,’ Bernard said. ‘My daughter’s husband—’
‘Yes, a victim of the Italians.’ She steered him on to the roadway. ‘Do you know where it is we are going?’
‘Anywhere you fancy?’
Bernard tried to calculate how long it would take to reach Breslin on foot, to walk through the town and up the long hill to the lodge in the graveyard. An hour, he thought, an hour and a half.
The last bus to Anniesland left at half-past nine.
He couldn’t very well pour a drink or two down Evelyn’s throat, tip his hat and leave. With any luck there would be an air-raid warning and Mr Grainger would see Lizzie safely out to the shelter and he, Bernard, would have a valid excuse for rolling home late.
Dear God, he thought, what am I coming to, depending on the Luftwaffe to get me out of a jam?
Evelyn said, ‘I have heard of a bar called the Greyhound?’
‘Yes, at the crossroad,’ said Bernard. ‘The Greyhound will do nicely.’
He quickened his pace and allowed her to grip his arm more tightly, his gas-mask holder and her gas-mask holder bumping together, hip to hip.
‘Is the work going well?’ he asked.
‘It is going better,’ Evelyn admitted.
‘Are you still on the wards?’
‘I am learning to assist.’
‘What?’ said Bernard, impressed. ‘Surgery?’
‘In the unit for burns.’
‘Nasty.’
‘It is interesting work. The sailors are brought up from the landings at Greenock. The elementary treatment they receive on board the rescue ships is often inadequate. Many die.’
‘How many?’
‘One in every three,’ said Evelyn. ‘The younger nurses blame themselves when a sailor dies. I tell them, it is not we who fail the sailors but the convoy commanders. It is the oil that does the damage.’
‘The oil?’ said Bernard.
‘Burning oil. When a ship is sunk and the sailors thrown into the sea they must choose between drowning or burning. There is no escape.’
Mention of suffering brought back memories of trench warfare. Trench warfare was nothing to write home about these days, a horror all but forgotten. Though he was proud to be walking out with a woman who saved lives, Bernard resented the fact that he couldn’t separate Evelyn from what she did, for she, more than anyone or anything, even poor dead Jackie Hallop, had carried home to him the barbaric realities of modern warfare.
Twenty minutes’ fast walking brought them to the quaint old public house.
Bernard had visited the Greyhound once before when a councillor with whom he’d been sharing the Anglia had insisted that drink was necessary to survival and had dragged Bernard in for a pint. He was not at all sure that the pub had accommodation for ladies or that the inhabitants of the bar would welcome someone like Evelyn Reeder. But when he ushered Evelyn through the door he found to his relief that times had changed in rural Ottershaw just as they had changed everywhere else.
The pub’s long low-ceilinged room buzzed with activity.
Bernard glanced towards the fireplace where several land girls were gathered round an old shepherd who was entertaining them by playing a melodeon and singing a traditional risqué ballad that had just reached its climax with a naughty word. There were no dainty sherry schooners on the table, only tankards and pint pots, and the girls were clad in boots, trousers and bulging woollen sweaters.
By the bar three nurses were hanging over a wireless set, laughing uproariously. Corner tables, the snug, the nook were also occupied, and it took Bernard all his time to find a bench close to the door that led out to the lavatory. Evelyn was not dismayed by the lack of privacy and while Bernard went to the bar she shucked off her gas-mask container and leather bag and shed her overcoat, then, lighting a cigarette, stood up to survey the room.
Bernard purchased two pints of beer and was in process of steering the pots back to the bench when he noticed that Evelyn was waving to someone, waving more enthusiastically than she had waved to him, waving in a manner that made her seem girlish. Bernard looked behind him and saw Arthur Hunter Gowan, also on his feet, beckoning to Evelyn and pointing at a table that he had managed to commandeer.
Evelyn had gathered her stuff and was on the move before Bernard could change direction. He followed her round the group by the fire, beer slopping and trickling down the sides of the mugs, wetting his fingers and wrists.
Arthur Hunter Gowan wore a grey two-piece suit and a stiff-collared shirt in the vee of which nestled a college tie. He looked fresh, his hands pink and muscular and assured as he clasped Evelyn’s shoulder and brought her lips down to brush his cheek.
‘Well,’ Bernard said, ‘I didn’t expect to find you in a place like this, sir.’
‘Whyever not, Peabody?’
‘I thought you’d have your own place to go for a drink.’
‘My own place? Do you take me for a snob?’
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘Nothing wrong with the Greyhound,’ Hunter Gowan said, ‘even if it does get rather crowded on occasions.’
Evelyn snuggled in beside the surgeon, leaving Bernard to perch precariously on a small stool. Prejudice put aside, the surgeon and the Belgian widow leaned shoulder against shoulder in an intimacy that may, or may not, have been forced.
Bernard knew then that his ‘affair’ with Dr Evelyn Reeder was over before it had begun. He had imagined the unimaginable and tricked himself into believing that because he had a bit of power in the council offices he was as good as she was; nothing could have been further from the truth.
He licked the sticky taste of beer from his fingertips and listened to Hunter Gowan describe some elaborate piece of surgery he had performed that morning. There was nothing in the conversation to latch on to. The doctors had no time to waste on a mere billeting officer. They were the life-savers and unless he missed his guess, were, or soon would be, lovers. They would be discreet, of course, for they were more devious and duplicitous than he could ever b
e and, oddly, he admired them for it.
Bernard spread his knees to keep balance on the stool and felt within his chest a sudden, sad deflation as if his heart, or his hopes, had shrunk.
Half an hour later they left the pub together, Evelyn hanging on to Hunter Gowan’s arm.
The motorcar, a lovely old Humber Super Six, was hidden beneath the trees behind the pub. Hunter Gowan was considerate enough to drop Bernard off at Breslin railway station before he drove Evelyn away to the lodge in the cemetery which was, after all, a perfect little love-nest for a lonely widow and a respectable married man.
* * *
Angus wakened screaming in the night. Dougie was out of bed and had dashed upstairs before Miss Dawlish could find her dressing gown and stumble out of her room. Roused by their brother’s shrieks, May and June sat up in bed, hugging each other. Dougie left the girls to Margaret and, blackout or no blackout, switched on the light. Angus was standing on the bed, eyes wide open, arms stretched out like aeroplane wings.
‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’ he shrieked.
‘All right, son, all right,’ Dougie said. ‘I’m here now. I’m here.’
He clasped the boy about the waist and eased him on to his back.
Angus’s arms and neck were rigid and there was spittle all down his chin.
Whatever he had seen, whatever dream or nightmare had speared his brain would not go away.
Dougie lay by him, cradling him in his arms.
‘Now, now, now, Angus. Waken up, waken up, please.’
It was cold in the bedroom; you could feel the clear cold night air pressing upon the slope of the roof. You could feel moonlight on the hill and the loneliness of the hill and the silver ribbon of the river running down to the sea far away.
The boy’s eyes clicked like a doll’s. He blinked and returned from wherever the dream had taken him.
Dougie stroked his brow.
‘There, son, there now. You had a bad dream, that’s all. You’re safe now, Gus. It’s all gone now.’
‘Daddy?’
‘It’s me, Angus,’ Dougie said, ‘just me.’
Margaret stood behind them in the doorway. She was draped in the monkish overcoat that served as a dressing gown, barefoot and thick-legged, looming and solid in the dim light from the bulb above the landing. The girls clung to her, skinny and angelic in their cotton pyjamas. They were scared too, and Margaret, without looking round, gathered them to her.
Wives at War Page 25
