Dougie’s pyjamas had slipped down. He was bare-bummed and halfway to being indecent but he gave dignity not a passing thought. He leaned close to Angus and whispered, ‘Was it Daddy, son? Did you see your daddy?’
‘There in the corner. He came for me.’
‘Angus, Angus,’ Dougie crooned. ‘It was just a dream.’
‘I wanted to go with him.’
‘No, no, no,’ softly, so softly.
‘Then you came in.’ Angus punched a fist into Dougie’s ribs, punching and punching. ‘You came in an’ he went without me. He went away without me.’
‘Brandy, do you think?’ said Margaret Dawlish from the doorway.
‘A drop in warm milk, an’ a hot-water bottle,’ Dougie said.
‘It’s all your fault.’ Angus punched him again but feebly, without conviction. ‘He’d have taken me away with him if you hadn’t put on the light.’
‘You were dreamin’, Angus. It was just a bad dream.’
The boy’s face was wet with tears. He looked, Dougie thought, less like a young man than a tiny child lost in the empty reaches of a world that had no meaning. He cried naturally, though, his face – and his tears – pressed against Dougie’s chest.
‘It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t, it wasn’t. He was there, right there.’
Dougie peered into the corner where the roof sloped down to meet the wall. He almost expected, almost hoped, that he would see the shade that Angus had seen, that for the boy’s sake the shadow of the father would still be there. Then, disappointed but not surprised, he slid his gaze from the empty corner to the doorway, empty too now that Margaret had taken the girls downstairs.
‘Why did he go away?’ Angus said through his tears.
‘He had to, son. I expect he had to.’
‘Was it just me dreamin’, really?
‘Aye.’
‘He’s dead, Dougie, isn’t he? He’s really, really dead?’
‘Aye, son, he is,’ said Dougie, and held the sobbing child to his heart.
14
Fin booked the call through a transatlantic operator before he went out to dine. By the time he got back to Baltic Chambers the building was almost deserted, apart from a covey of fire-watchers on the roof.
The elevator was still functioning, though, and the caretaker switched on the night bulb on the landing and Fin didn’t need the little torch that was clipped into his pocket with his fountain pens.
At exactly three minutes to eleven o’clock, he let himself into his office.
He checked the blackout curtains, switched on the desk lamp and seated himself behind the desk.
He had drunk very little with dinner and wished now that he had drunk more. He was far too sober for his own good.
There was something unnatural about making a telephone call to a foreign country, something that made him nervous. He couldn’t imagine an undersea cable stretching all the way across the Atlantic, deeper than the keels of the U-boats, deeper than a depth charge or a torpedo could reach, and he didn’t like the idea of his voice running along a wire at the bottom of the ocean. He was also agitated because he was about to talk to Dominic Manone, for in spite of occasional letters he had no idea how much Dominic knew of the true state of affairs in Manor Park Avenue or precisely how much he, Fin, should tell him.
At exactly eleven Fin reached for the telephone and summoned the number of the transatlantic operator who, after several minutes’ delay, opened a line to the number he had given her.
There was a crackle on the wire, like static on a wireless set, then abruptly a clear, familiar voice said, ‘Manone.’
‘Dominic?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Fin.’
‘What time is it over there – about ten?’
‘Eleven.’
Dominic’s soft Scottish accent was unmarred by an American twang. He sounded, Fin thought, just as he always did, perfectly calm and controlled.
‘Have you had air raids?’
‘A few,’ said Fin. ‘None serious.’
‘Tell me why you’re calling,’ Dominic said.
‘This scheme you have in hand isn’t working out as smoothly as you supposed it would.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Restrictions on dealing in foreign stock.’
‘How much have you raised?’
Fin swallowed. ‘Only about eight thousand.’
‘Who’s your broker?’
‘Donald MacDonald.’
‘MacDonald is honest enough.’
‘It’s the South American stuff,’ said Fin. ‘Every blasted transaction has to be cleared with the Treasury.’
‘Haven’t you got shot of the South American stock yet?’
‘Not all of it, no.’
‘What about the warehouse?’
‘The lease doesn’t expire until the autumn.’
‘Get rid of it now.’
‘Dominic—’
‘What about the house?’
‘The house?’ Fin said.
‘In Manor Park, my house.’
‘I thought the house belonged to Polly.’
‘It hasn’t suffered any damage, has it?’
‘No, but—’
‘Tell her to put it on the market.’
‘This is no time to shift property, Dominic.’
‘Shift it nonetheless,’ Dominic said.
‘What about Polly?’
‘What about her?’
‘Is it your intention to leave her homeless?’
‘She understands my situation.’
Fin swallowed again. ‘I’m not so sure she does. I’m not sure any of us do. That chap you sent over – Cameron, the photographer – he appears to be no better informed than the rest of us.’
‘Is he still with you?’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Fin. ‘Look, it’s been somewhat rough over here lately. I take it you’ve been informed that your brother-in-law was killed.’
‘MacGregor?’
‘No, the other one – Hallop. Killed in action in Libya.’
A pause: ‘How’s Babs making out?’
‘From what I gather,’ Fin said, ‘as well as can be expected. Look, Dominic, you’ll have to talk to Polly.’
‘No.’
‘Give her a call, talk to her, make her see sense.’
‘No.’
‘What’s wrong with you, man? Why won’t you talk to her?’
‘Doesn’t she trust you?’ Dominic said.
‘I’m afraid not, no, not entirely.’
‘What about Cameron, doesn’t she trust him?’
‘She’s confused,’ Fin said. ‘It’s a very confusing time for all of us.’
Dominic said, ‘I’ll tell you what I want done, Fin. Given the profit you’re making on fees I expect you to do it immediately.’
‘Go on.’
‘Sooner or later America will enter the war,’ Dominic said. ‘When it happens I’ll be deported or interned. The FBI are breathing down my father’s neck. My father’s a sick man. He probably won’t last much longer. My brother can look out for himself. My concern is with the children.’
‘Send them back here.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dominic said. ‘I’ve no intention of being separated from my children. And I’ve no intention of being deported or interned. I’ve a deal on the table with the secret services, but they won’t wait for ever. The Americans have already coerced certain undesirable elements – all right, gangsters – into helping them contact the forces in Italy who’d like to see Mussolini deposed. I’ve few family connections left in Italy but I do have money and the operation is in desperate need of finance. If I help fund the Italian partisans I can get myself and my children out from under the net of a federal investigation. In other words, I have to prove I’m not my father’s son before the Government will allow me to apply for citizenship.’
‘Call Polly. Talk to her. Tell her what you’ve just told me.’
‘At the end of this month,’ Dominic went on, ‘I’ll be flying to Lisbon.’
‘Lisbon.’
‘Lisbon is crawling with spies and double agents. I won’t be out of their sight for one moment. My job is to hand over fifty thousand pounds to an Italian financier. Once that’s done—’
‘Fifty thousand pounds!’ Fin exploded. ‘You can’t ferry hard currency out of Britain, Dominic, not without risking arrest.’
‘It won’t be hard currency,’ Dominic said.
‘What then?’
‘Diamonds.’
‘Diamonds!’ Fin manufactured a laugh. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Bless me, I’d forgotten about diamonds. What? Do you expect me to stroll into a jeweller’s shop on Argyll Street and say, “Give me fifty thousand pounds worth of assorted gemstones,” and walk out with them in a nice little brown paper bag?’
‘Once Polly has the money,’ Dominic went on, ‘the purchase of the diamonds will be arranged by someone else and you can go back to robbing the unions or whatever racket you’re into these days.’
‘I trust I won’t be expected to transport the diamonds to Lisbon?’
‘Polly will do it.’
‘Polly! Oh, my God!’
‘She’ll be given instructions on how to set up the trip. And she won’t be travelling alone.’
‘Why must you involve Polly at all?’
‘She’s the only one I can trust.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Fin said. ‘She – Polly isn’t…’
‘Fin, what are you trying to tell me?’
‘Nothing,’ Fin said. ‘Nothing.’
‘Polly is, after all, my wife.’
‘True, that’s true.’
‘Our time’s running out,’ Dominic said. ‘We’ll have to break the connection in a moment. Do you understand what I want from you, Carfin?’
‘Yes, dispose of everything you own.’
‘And leave the rest of it to Polly.’
‘Dominic…’
‘What?’
‘The American, Christy Cameron…’
‘What about him?’
‘Is he really a US Government agent?’
‘What makes you think he isn’t?’ Dominic said.
‘It’s just that … No, no, of course he is. Of course.’
‘Any other questions, Fin? Any other doubts?’
‘What if I can’t raise all of the fifty thousand in time?’
‘You’d better,’ Dominic said, and hung up.
* * *
The mist over the potato fields had burned off early and the light was incredibly pure. There were land girls on the long patches of tilled ground and a tractor – two tractors, in fact – ploughing the flat horizon, a great skein of seagulls swirling in their wake. Sunlight lay on the roofs of the old aerodrome, and there was just enough of a breeze to make the barrage balloons tethered across the river shimmer against the pale blue sky.
The tram driver responded to the fine spring weather by bursting into song now and then and the conductor, his sinuses dry at last, dangled from the platform rail and bawled threats to startled rabbits and one large hare that only just avoided being turned into mincemeat by the speeding tram.
‘Look, look,’ the conductor shouted. ‘Look at that wee beggar go.’
Babs hoisted herself from the seat just as she’d done in the dreary days at the beginning of winter when she’d scouted out for Christy Cameron. She twisted against the motion of the tram and watched the hare dart across the field.
The conductor shouted down the length of the car, ‘You ever eat one o’ them, dear?’
‘Not me,’ said Babs.
‘Beautiful, they are. Beautiful. My old ma, she does ’em a treat.’
‘I wouldn’t even know how to pluck one,’ Babs said.
‘Pluck?’ The conductor roared with laughter. ‘Hear that, Wendell, lady here thinks you pluck a hare for the pot.’
The driver shouted over his shoulder, ‘Well, don’t you?’
‘Daft beggar. Those aren’t feathers. Those’re fur.’
Babs said, ‘Wendell? Did you call him Wendell?’
‘Certainly,’ said the conductor. He shouted, ‘Hoy, Wendell, lady here thinks you got a funny name.’
‘Hah bloomin’ hah,’ Wendell called back.
‘Call the beggar Wendy, lady. He loves bein’ called Wendy.’
‘I think I’d better not,’ Babs said.
For the first time in many weeks she laughed.
A ripple of guilt passed through her at the realisation that she had forgotten about Jackie long enough to laugh.
How odd it seemed to have no one to betray but herself.
Back in November she had yearned for excitement; now all she could think of was security. She knew that Jackie wasn’t coming home again and that if the war went on long enough she might lose Dennis too. Dennis was the only guy, apart from Jackie, whom she’d ever contemplated going to bed with, until Christy came along. Dennis was Jackie’s brother, though, and even if his wife had left him, Dennis would never be the man for her. God, the man for her! What sort of phrase was that to pop into her head when poor Jackie had been dead for not much more than a month.
It would have been easier if there had been a body, a funeral. Jackie was buried in a war grave outside Tobruk and she didn’t think he would be all that happy lying in the sand in a place so far from home. And here she was, still riding the tramcar every damned morning, still going dutifully to work, still shopping, cooking, cleaning, mending clothes, still trailing April round to the Millses every morning and visiting Angus and the girls every Sunday.
She had always considered herself tough but she wasn’t as tough as all that. She still needed a man to cherish and spoil her as Jackie had done, but in the unpredictable spring sunshine, ripping down the old aerodrome road, she suddenly experienced a lift in spirits that indicated that at least some of her resilience remained intact.
‘Hey, Wendy,’ she called out. ‘Wen-deee, it’s my stop.’
‘Don’t you start,’ the driver shouted.
‘I’ll stop when you stop,’ Babs yelled.
‘Bloody women!’ the driver muttered, and obediently applied the brake.
* * *
‘Boy!’ said Archie. ‘Am I glad to see you.’
‘That’s nice,’ Babs said. ‘What’s up?’
‘We have a problem.’
‘We usually do,’ Babs said. ‘Who’s in the toilet?’
‘The problem’s in the toilet.’
‘Not another Belgian widow?’ Babs said.
‘Worse,’ said Archie.
‘Two Belgian widows?’ said Babs.
‘Do not be facetious.’
‘How long is the problem gonna be in the toilet?’
‘Lord only knows,’ said Archie. ‘How long does it take to feed a kid?’
‘A kid?’
‘Mother attached,’ said Archie.
‘How old is the kid?’
‘Still on the— you know.’
‘Is breast the word you’re searching for?’
‘Oh my, aren’t we in a jolly mood this morning,’ said Archie. ‘Flippancy is the last thing I need right now. A lactating Irish girl and a banshee child are quite enough to be going on with, thank you.’
Babs took off her coat and hat and seated herself at her desk. She was used to Archie’s states of harassment and was more amused than dismayed by his sarcasm. Nothing, it seemed, could dent her buoyant mood this morning, not even the prospect of having to deal with another displaced person.
‘Does the fair Colleen have a name?’ Babs said.
‘She’s down in the documents as Doreen Quinlan.’
‘What the kid’s name?’
‘I didn’t dare ask.’
‘Pretty?’
‘Who? The kid?’
‘The girl.’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Archie. ‘How long is she liable to be in there? How long does it take to feed an i
nfant?’
‘Patience, lad,’ said Babs. ‘What are we expected to do with her, anyway?’
‘The usual,’ said Archie. ‘Find her work and a place to stay.’
He tipped up his glasses, rubbed his eyes then, to Babs’s surprise, rested an elbow on her knee and peered up at her. His eyes weren’t really like those of a mole or a vole; they were grey-green and slightly bloodshot.
He said, ‘Last night, just after you’d left, Labour Exchange officer phoned to offer us a woman worker, untrained. Thanks, say I. She has a baby, eighteen months old. Thanks again, say I. She’s from Belfast. Super, say I. He sticks her up in a hostel last night and when I arrive here this morning she’s sitting on the doorstep clutching the kid, her papers and a pathetic little bag of worldly goods.’
‘Archie, do you have to lean on my knee?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, shifting position. ‘I’m just giving you the background. I thought you’d be interested.’
‘I am interested, but I can hear you perfectly well without your elbow diggin’ a hole in my leg.’
‘The hostel in Paisley fed her breakfast, gave her three shillings out of the kitty and booted her out. She trails down here because here is where she’s been told to come. Know something, Babs, I’m becoming thoroughly disheartened at being made the dumping ground for every waif and stray nobody else knows what to do with.’
‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had your tea.’
‘Probably. Anyhow, our fair Doreen trots into the toilet to feed the child while I examine her papers. It seems she worked in a clothing factory in Belfast before she joined the ATS, from whose ranks she was discharged on “Medical Grounds”; only “Medical Grounds” has been scored through and replaced with the euphemism “Compassionate Release”. Checking the dates it would appear that the little stranger began its journey into this vale of tears about the same time as Mumsy joined the ATS. In other words…’
‘She was pregnant when she joined up,’ said Babs.
‘Indeed,’ said Archie. ‘Pregnant – and no wedding ring.’
‘So there’s no husband?’
‘When I put that very question to her she informed me, quite cheerfully, that she doesn’t know where hubby is. She has an aunt in Belfast – the address is on the form – but my guess is that she smuggled the kid out without the Belfast Labour Office even realising that she had it.’
Wives at War Page 26
