The kids had just gone upstairs to bed. Margaret was with the girls. Angus would probably be pottering about his bedroom, playing with his toy soldiers or reading a comic by the wan light of the ceiling bulb. The paraffin stove was still lighted, though: the bloody paraffin stove! Dougie took the stairs two at a time, crowding into Margaret and the girls as they stumbled out of the bedroom.
‘Gus,’ Dougie shouted, ‘turn off the stove.’
Another blast shook the farmhouse, not so violent this time. He heard the whistling pop of something coming down near the house, a parachute mine, perhaps, or another bloody incendiary.
Cursing the ineptitude of German pilots who couldn’t tell a sheep field from a shipyard, Dougie grabbed May, lifted her over his head and put her down on the stairs behind him. She was as slippery as an eel inside a bath towel and squealed more in modesty than fright. June, in pyjamas, came next. He swung her over and past him on the narrow stairs then plunged up into Angus’s room.
The paraffin stove glowed with soft blue light. He dived at it, screwed frantically at the tap and killed the flame.
He looked up and round.
The ceiling light had been extinguished.
Angus had flung open the blackout curtain and was leaning out of the open window. Little dabs of red and yellow tinted the silvery-blue air. Balanced on his belly, Angus shook his fists at the sky.
Dougie grabbed the boy by the leg.
‘What’re you doin’ son?’ he shouted. ‘What the hell are you doin’?’
‘Look at them,’ Angus shouted back. ‘Heinkels. Hundreds of them. The bastuds, the bastuds. What’re they bombin’ us for?’
‘They’re after the shipyards,’ Dougie said. ‘If they don’t get the shipyards, they’ll make damned sure they get the shipwrights. They’re tryin’ to scare us into submission.’
‘They won’t scare us, Dougie,’ said Angus. ‘Will they?’
‘No, they won’t scare us,’ said Dougie. ‘Come on, son, it’s high time we got out o’ here, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, you’re prob’ly right,’ said Angus.
* * *
Kenny had Rosie halfway downstairs when a bomb fell on the tenement in St Aidan’s Street. You could feel the blast rivering through you and the rumble of falling masonry was deafening. At first it was only noise and vibration, then like a fist punching into the back of the building, the stair window exploded inwards. Rosie buckled at the knees and clasped a hand to her face. Kenny hoisted her into his arms, tucked her head into the folds of his overcoat and headed for the patch of moonlight that marked the street below.
Smoke billowed in from the backs, not smoke but dust, a great gritty cloud of dust. Kenny pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying not to breathe. Behind him something came crashing down, a chimney-head or guttering. Two small girls huddled against the wall at the close mouth while their mother, a soldier’s wife, tried to resurrect her baby.
The baby, caught by flying glass, looked as if it had been flayed.
It made no noise at all as the woman tried to breathe life into it.
‘Rosie,’ Kenny shouted. She couldn’t hear him, of course. ‘Rosie?’
He lowered Rosie to the step and propped her up.
There was blood on her cheek and one eyebrow hung on a little tatter of skin but she was fully conscious and quite aware of what was going on.
She cupped a hand to her eyebrow and squeezed.
‘Yes,’ she said, very loudly. ‘Yes.’
His face an inch from her face, he said, ‘Can you walk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take the girls to the shelter.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what you have to do?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll stay here.’
‘Oh-kuh-kay.’ She took her hand from her face and let blood flow into her eye, winking at him. ‘I’ve got them. Don’t worry.’
She lifted the younger child as easily as she might have lifted a kitten, pulled the other child against her skirt and hurried down the steps to the street and the shelter.
Kenny kneeled by the silent woman and the silent little bundle on the steps and very quietly said, ‘Let me.’
* * *
‘Sure an’ I don’t mind if you watch,’ Doreen Quinlan said. ‘It’s a natural thing an’ nothing to be ashamed of.’
The child looked big, almost gargantuan, nestled on the girl’s lap. He seemed to be eating his mother’s breast rather than sucking on it. He was clad in a short-sleeved vest and flannel bodice, the lower half of his body bare.
The electric lamp flickered.
Christy had brought in a packet of wax candles, two boxes of matches and a bundle of other necessities, including bottles of gin, whisky and tonic water. He had put them on the little folding table by the cot.
The girl was seated on the cot, her head resting against the wall.
She was totally unfazed by the air raid and had moved swiftly downstairs to the larder shelter while Christy had gathered pillows and blankets from the nursery and, thoughtfully, one large chamber pot.
If it hadn’t been for Master Davy and his mother, Polly might have found it exciting to be locked up with Christy in the middle of an air raid. As it was, she was crushed into a corner with a blanket round her knees, drinking gin and tonic and smoking a cigarette. She couldn’t even bring herself to sit on the bed with the girl from Belfast and her baby.
‘You’re taking it very calmly, Doreen,’ Christy said.
‘Been through it all before,’ the girl said.
Polly sipped gin and tonic water and watched the lamp flicker.
‘Where?’ said Christy. ‘In Belfast?’
‘Down the Smoke.’
‘London? When were you in London?’
‘Before the war,’ the girl said.
Christy laughed. ‘They weren’t bombing London before the war.’
‘Went back there after it started too.’
‘What were you doing in London?’ Christy said. ‘Looking for work?’
‘Looking for his daddy,’ said Doreen Quinlan, unabashed.
‘Whom you didn’t find, of course?’ said Polly.
Crockery rattled on the dresser shelves and something smashed on the stone-flagged floor. The adults, and Master Davy too, watched the larder door shake.
‘Umm!’ Doreen said. ‘Bit close for comfort.’ She pressed a forefinger against Master Davy’s fat cheek and guided his mouth to her nipple again. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, boy, just get on wi’ what you’re doing.’
Polly was more afraid of the girl and the baby than she was of the bombs. She had encountered Doreen’s type before and knew that girls like Doreen Quinlan invariably prospered. There would always be some man eager to take care of a girl with fair skin, dimples and a wide-eyed expression.
Polly said, ‘Just how old is Davy?’
‘Eighteen months, thereabouts.’
‘Thereabouts? Don’t you know?’
Doreen gave Polly a sweet smile and a shrug by way of an answer.
Christy said, ‘Does that mean he was born before the war began?’
‘Must have been, I suppose,’ Doreen answered, ‘just about.’
‘In which case,’ said Polly, ‘you were never in the ATS at all.’
‘He’s a year,’ said Doreen. ‘Birthday last month.’
‘He’s a heck of a size for a one-year-old,’ said Christy.
‘We’re all big in our family.’
‘His father,’ said Polly, ‘was he a big man?’
‘Was he not now?’ said Doreen. ‘He was big all right.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Garry.’
‘Was he your sweetheart?’ said Christy.
‘Yea.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Done the bunk.’ Doreen shrugged again. ‘His old man wanted to murder him for puttin’ one in me.’
‘Why?’ said Chris
ty.
‘Good Catholic boy like Garry, set to be a priest, and me a Proddy.’
‘What about your family?’
‘No family. Just Auntie. She tossed me out on my ear.’
‘Is all this true, Doreen?’ said Christy, frowning.
‘True as I’m standin’ here,’ the girl said.
‘I don’t think it’s true at all,’ said Polly. ‘I think you’re making it up. I think it’s some story you read in a book.’
‘Don’t read books,’ said Doreen. She transferred Master Davy from one breast to the other and dabbed perspiration from his brow with her sleeve.
‘Have you no idea where Garry is now?’ Christy asked.
‘Told me he was going to the Smoke but I didn’t find him where he said he’d be, staying with his mates in Fulham.’
‘What sort of mates?’ Polly asked.
‘Workin’ chaps,’ Doreen said. ‘They’ve joined up now, most o’ them.’
‘Were you really in London during the raids?’ said Christy.
Doreen nodded. ‘In Fulham. Daylight raids as well as nighttime. Never got no sleep for near a week. Wore out, I was.’
‘How long did you remain in Fulham?’ said Polly.
‘Six months, thereabouts.’
‘Waiting for Garry to show up again?’
‘Yea.’
‘But he never did?’
‘Never did,’ said Doreen.
‘How did you support yourself?’ Polly said.
‘Not the way you think.’
‘And what way is that?’ said Polly.
‘I never done nothin’ bad.’
‘What did you do for money?’ said Christy.
‘Worked for the woman who ran the boardin’ house. Mrs Duggan looked after me an’ Davy. I cleaned an’ cooked. Mrs Duggan was still taking in Irish but more girls than men was comin’ over an’ she never liked doin’ for girls.’
‘Why did you leave Fulham?’
‘The house got blowed up.’
‘What happened to Mrs Duggan?’
‘Went back to Belfast. I went with her. But it was no good.’
‘Why was it no good?’ said Christy.
‘Labour Exchange couldn’t do nothing for me, not wi’ a kid.’
‘Is that why you came to Scotland?’
‘Yea, I heard a rumour Garry was on the boats. Heard he’d signed wi’ the Clan Line an’ was sailing out o’ Glasgow. The Clan Line never heard o’ him, though, and the Merchant Seaman’s Union never had him registered. So there I was, stuck for work in the Port o’ Glasgow, until your sister brought me here for to work for you.’
‘Work?’ said Polly. ‘I don’t have any work for you to do.’
‘I can cook,’ the girl said. ‘I’m reliable.’
‘Hah!’ said Polly.
‘What about Garry?’ Christy said. ‘You won’t find him here, you know.’
‘I’m coming round to thinking he doesn’t want to be found,’ the girl said.
‘Oh, really!’ said Polly. ‘I wonder what gave you that idea?’
‘Polly!’ Christy said, not quite chidingly.
To Polly’s dismay the girl suddenly detached her son from her breast and held him out like an offering.
‘I’m not thinking about Garry now,’ she said. ‘I got him here to think about and that’s enough. It’s all right for you, missus, you got a fine big house and a car and a man in your bed, but what about them empty beds upstairs. Where are they then, where are your kiddies?’
‘Do not be impertinent,’ said Polly.
‘They’ve gone, ain’t they? They ain’t here no more.’
‘It’s none of your damned business.’
‘Got rid o’ them, did you, missus? Well, I ain’t getting rid o’ Davy, not now and not ever.’
Polly flung the gin glass to the floor and got to her feet.
‘For your information,’ she said angrily, ‘my children are in America.’
‘Yea,’ said Doreen, undaunted, ‘but they ain’t with you, Missus Manone, are they? They ain’t with their ma where they should be.’
‘Easy, Doreen,’ Christy warned. ‘Take it easy.’
‘You don’t – don’t know what…’ Polly stammered, ‘… what you’re talking about, you stupid woman. My children – my children are…’
‘Yea?’
‘Polly,’ Christy said, ‘sit down, please sit down.’
‘Don’t you tell me what to do.’
‘Sit down, goddamn it,’ Christy said. ‘We’re in the middle of an air raid.’
‘Look, look at him now,’ said Polly, close to tears, as Master Davy released a stream of pee on to the blanket. ‘This place will smell for days.’
‘For God’s sake, stop fussing,’ Christy told her. ‘He’s only a kid.’ He pulled the little boy from Doreen’s arms and held him over the chamber pot to complete what he had started. ‘Don’t you have any diapers?’
‘Towels,’ said Polly. ‘There are towels upstairs.’
‘Where?’ Christy said.
‘In the big cupboard on the first-floor landing.’
‘I’ll fetch them,’ said Doreen. ‘You know what he’s liable to do next, so keep holdin’ him over the pot, Mr Cameron.’
‘Wait,’ Christy said.
But the girl had already gone.
* * *
The lamp flickered and went out. Davy began to cry. Polly fumbled for matches, struck one, found the pocket torch and switched it on.
Christy was kneeling on the floor, holding the struggling toddler over the pot. Polly held the match flame to the candle wick. She hated what was happening, not just the raid but the intrusion. Most of all she hated an open door that revealed not the familiar outlines of her kitchen but only darkness. She longed for the girl to return so that she could close the door again.
Matchstick and candle wick fused into one long slender flame. She saw flame reflected in the child’s dark eyes, the wet, red cavity of his mouth. At that moment he seemed to be yelling not at but for her, like a little succubus. Then she heard whistling. Christy snatched the baby from the pot. He turned away, sinking into the pillows on the cot. Then there was light, a brilliant flash, like sheet lightning. Then there was darkness. Then noise filled Polly’s ears like water and she was flung back into the corner. Then the candle flame snuffed out and she was left with a wisp of pale grey smoke to stare at before the table fell on her and bottles, biscuits and the lamp tumbled on top of her. Then there was a long moment of silence before the house began to fall around her, creaking and groaning, and something thudded just above her head.
Polly covered her head with her arms.
There was nothing to see except a dart of light from the torch on the floor and four or five little rivulets of dust cascading down the wall of the larder.
Christy said, ‘You okay?’
‘Yes – I think so.’
‘Not hurt?’
‘No.’
‘You sure?’
‘No.’
Christy pulled back from the cot with the baby.
To Polly’s vast relief Master Davy let out a piercing yell and glimpses of chubby legs and curled toes appeared in the torchlight.
‘He’s messed himself,’ said Christy.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Polly.
She found the torch and propped it upright.
The overhead beams were intact. The cracks from which plaster ran were confined to the angle of the wall.
Polly pulled her legs out from under the table and untangled herself from the cord of the lamp. Her skirt was torn, her stockings ruined. There was a graze on her knee that seeped a little blood but she was otherwise undamaged.
She struggled to her feet, lifted the torch and directed it at Christy.
All she could see was the baby, all legs and belly, like a cherub in an Italian painting.
‘Was that a direct hit?’ Polly asked.
‘If it had been, we’d be dead by now.’
‘Can’t you shut him up?’
‘I doubt it.’
Christy rose stiffly and seated himself on the edge of the cot. He held the squirming child tightly.
The racket from the avenue was louder now. Polly was reminded of afternoon visits to the theatre and how intrusive sunlight and fresh air seemed when the exit doors were opened, how unreal the world outside became. She heard fire bells and a soft, fluctuating roar like ocean waves and smelled the garden, moist and earthy in the cold night air.
‘Listen,’ Christy said. ‘I’d better go look for her. Take the kid.’
‘No.’
‘Polly!’
‘Look at him; he’s filthy.’
‘It’s only poop. Take him.’
‘I’ll find her,’ Polly said.
‘All right, but be careful. We don’t know what sort of damage has been done to the house. Don’t go lighting any cigarettes in case there’s a gas leak.’
Polly eased out of the larder.
The kitchen window had been blown in. It lay over the sink, glass and debris everywhere. The dresser, tipped forward, had shed its cups and plates, and broken crockery littered the table and the floor.
She picked her way upstairs into the hall.
The hall seemed to be intact. The clock was still ticking and, curiously, the telephone was ringing in short intermittent bursts. Polly ignored it. If the kitchen had caught it, the breakfast room, with its big French windows, would be devastated too. She moved to the foot of the staircase and looked up the length of the torch beam.
‘Doreen?’
Torrents of small debris cascaded down the staircase. The light fitting, a great brass pendant, had become detached from its moorings and swayed on a frayed cord. Even by the scant light of the torch Polly could see that the blast had struck the rear wall of the house, smashing through windows, scouring passageways and corridors and battering open cupboard doors.
‘Doreen, are you all right?’
No answer.
Cautiously Polly picked her way upstairs.
The light pendant, like a Damoclean sword, dangled just above her head. She ducked under it and pulled herself into the first-floor passageway.
Through a gaping hole in the wall at the far end of the passage she could make out moonlight, and flames. Flames soared from one of the houses that backed the Avenue, sparks shooting high into the night sky. The gap framed the scene like a parlour painting and for an instant Polly was entranced. Then she moved forward, stepping over glass, smashed frames, lumps of masonry and pale hummocks of linen that had been sucked from the cupboard and blown down the length of the corridor.
Wives at War Page 29
