Wives at War

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Incidentally, where is the nearest primary school?’

  ‘Rosie!’

  ‘Whuh-what?’

  ‘It won’t be up to us where he goes to school.’

  ‘Yes it will.’

  ‘Rosie, he has relatives somewhere in Ireland, in Belfast, we believe. He’ll have to go back to them. He’s not ours to keep.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Rosie. ‘You’re mine, honey, aren’t you?’

  She removed Davy from the table top and held him firmly on her lap.

  ‘Rosie,’ Kenny spoke in a soft, well-articulated voice, ‘I’m a policeman. I can’t ignore the law. I just can’t. It’s incumbent—’

  ‘Pah-pardon?’

  ‘I’m legally obliged to trace the child’s next-of-kin.’

  ‘Polly told you: there is no next-of-kin.’

  ‘I can’t allow you to keep a child who belongs to someone else.’

  ‘He belongs to me,’ Rosie said. ‘Polly brought him to me. It was fuh-fate, Kenny, that’s what it was.’

  ‘What if someone comes looking for him?’

  ‘You’ve heard the stuh-story. You know nobody cared about the girl. And nobody cares about him. Nobody except me.’

  ‘Rosie, I’m going to have to find out where he came from.’

  ‘If you tuh-take him away from me, Kenny MacGregor, I’ll nuh-never forgive you, nuh-never.’ And so saying, she hoisted Master Davy high into her arms and carried him off to the bedroom across the hall.

  * * *

  In bright spring sunshine Greenock looked almost festive. Those elements of the fleet that had dispersed into the open sea as soon as warning of an air attack was received had returned, and repair yards and victualling quays were bustling with activity. Out in the Firth, licked by a light March breeze, were cruisers and destroyers and a host of patrol boats, and sitting proud in deep water off the Cloch lighthouse, HMS Titania, a Clyde-built warship, rode at anchor.

  Christy paused on his way up from the railway station. He wished that he had brought along his cameras, though photographing naval vessels was strictly forbidden and might land him in jail. In any case he had sent Brockway’s fourteen rolls of film documenting the devastation that the German raiders had wrought on parts of Clydeside and regarded his contract as fulfilled, at least for the time being.

  The Alba Hotel had changed somewhat since his last visit.

  Sandbags had been stacked against the façade and the windows were so latticed with tape and plywood that the place resembled a medieval keep. The shy little serving girl, her hair tied up in a blue bandana, her narrow hips shrouded by a canvas apron, was scrubbing the front steps.

  Christy stepped over her and went up into the long dark hallway.

  Marzipan was leaning against an ornate piece of furniture in the hall, sipping coffee from a china cup.

  ‘You’re late,’ Marzipan said.

  ‘Don’t blame me, blame the railways,’ Christy said. ‘Where are we? In the lounge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The front room was crisscrossed by bars of shadow, dust thicker than ever in the air. Christy lit a cigarette and seated himself on the ancient sofa. There was something different about Marzipan today, something definite, almost forceful.

  ‘Does she have the money?’

  ‘She does,’ Christy answered. ‘Forty grand, sterling.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. I was there when Hughes gave her the cheque. She’s taking it to the bank this morning.’

  Marzipan wandered about the lounge with the stupid little coffee cup stuck to his middle finger. ‘Has she said anything to you about diamonds?’

  ‘Diamonds? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Money is useful,’ Marzipan said, ‘but diamonds are the real inducement. You need permission to ferry diamonds out of Britain and permission is seldom granted.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, come now, Cameron, don’t be naïve. Diamonds are essential to most industrial processes, particularly weapons manufacture. Venezuela is the main source of supply but South America is currently stiff with German and Italian sympathisers.’

  ‘In other words, diamonds are in short supply.’

  ‘Indeed, they are. Consequently we’re taking a leaf from the Germans’ book by releasing funds to purchase diamonds.’

  ‘Is that the racket that Manone’s mixed up in?’

  ‘If only it were,’ said the control officer.

  He put the coffee cup down and seated himself on the sofa so close to Christy that their knees were touching. It was almost as if he were being courted, Christy thought, or seduced.

  Marzipan said, ‘Four and a half million Italians reside in the United States and Mussolini’s half-cocked theories of racial superiority and national advancement appeal to those who are poor and politically immature. Refugees from Fascism and a resident minority are bitterly opposed to Mussolini, however, and among them are the bosses of the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America and the Garment Workers unions.’

  ‘You’ve lost me now, Marzie,’ Christy said.

  ‘From those sources our American cousins hope to recruit agents for dispatch into Italy. One or two agents are already feeding information back to the Intelligence services via a revolutionary who has contacts all over Italy.’

  ‘Presumably the revolutionary’s the guy who needs financing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me his name.’

  ‘He has more names than I have,’ Marzipan said. ‘Let’s just call him Emilio, shall we? British Security Co-ordination—’

  ‘That’s you, is it?’

  ‘British Security Co-ordination,’ Marzipan went on as if he hadn’t heard the question, ‘have landed the task of handling this touchy and suspicious character for the simple reason that we have very good relations with the Portuguese. In fact, I visited Lisbon last summer with the Duke of Kent’s party to attend Portugal’s Tercentenary celebrations.’

  ‘In the middle of a war?’

  ‘Diplomacy must go on,’ said Marzipan. ‘Besides, Great Britain’s history has been linked with that of Portugal since the Crusades and there exists between our nations the oldest alliance not just in Europe but in the world. While I was there I was approached by the Americans and, not by coincidence, by one of Emilio’s chums. He – Emilio – wants money to establish networks inside Italy. He had already been in negotiations with US Naval Intelligence. Problem: Emilio doesn’t trust anyone, not the British, not the Americans, certainly not the Spanish or the French. He’s an outlaw and he puts his trust, if you can call it that, only in other outlaws.’

  ‘Gangsters, you mean?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Which is where Dominic Manone steps in.’

  ‘Old Carlo Manone still has considerable “influence”, shall we say, over some of the lesser Italian unions and he’s known to, if not exactly a friend of, the big labour bosses. Dominic used his father’s connections to offer himself to Emilio as a trading agent and broker.’

  ‘Through my brother, Jamie?’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘So it wasn’t Jamie’s idea?’

  ‘Manone made the offer; Jamie relayed it; Emilio accepted.’

  ‘Are you telling me,’ Christy said, ‘that the only guys Emilio regards as trustworthy are crooks?’

  ‘A beautiful irony, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Christy said drily, ‘beautiful.’

  ‘Manone suggested that he represent himself as a diamond trader – Lisbon is full of them, by the way – to control the flow of funds to Emilio’s organisation. However, none of the intelligence services was willing to hand over a hundred thousand dollars worth of diamonds to a known criminal. Manone upped the offer. He said he would supply his own stock and trade with his own money – on two conditions.’

  ‘American citizenship?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s th
e other?’ Christy said.

  ‘He wants his wife back,’ said Marzipan.

  * * *

  Archie was in the back office and didn’t hear the motorcar draw up. He had been rushed off his feet since the moment he’d arrived that morning and had almost reached the screaming stage when the policeman made his appearance. Clad in a belted raincoat and slouch hat, his identity card held out before him like a talisman, the chap fitted Archie’s image of a detective to a tee.

  Inspector MacGregor’s first words were, ‘Is that what I think it is down at the end of the street?’

  ‘An emergency fuel dump,’ said Archie, ‘yes.’

  ‘My God! How do you put up with it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Archie, ‘I confess it does provide one with a certain frisson when the siren sounds, but so far we’ve been lucky.’

  The Inspector was looking around without appearing to look around.

  He said, ‘Why did the Labour Exchange people stick you out here in the middle of nowhere where nobody can find you?’

  ‘Precisely because it is the middle of nowhere and nobody can find us,’ said Archie. ‘You’re Barbara’s brother-in-law, aren’t you?’

  ‘I am,’ said Kenny. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Powdering her nose,’ said Archie. ‘I trust you’re not the bearer of more bad tidings?’

  ‘Official business,’ said Kenny.

  ‘What could the Glasgow CID possibly want with us?’ Archie raised an eyebrow and adjusted his glasses. ‘Unless, of course, it pertains to the poor young woman from Belfast, who is lately deceased?’

  Kenny smiled. ‘I can see why Babs likes you.’

  ‘Does she?’ said Archie, gruffly. ‘I – erm – I wasn’t aware of that.’

  Kenny glanced at the door of the lavatory with, Archie thought, a certain apprehension. ‘The Belfast girl, Doreen Quinlan, left an orphan child, Davy, who is now in our care.’

  ‘I know,’ said Archie. ‘Babs told me. Your wife took the child in.’

  ‘Temporarily.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Archie. ‘She wants to keep him, does she?’

  ‘Strictly speaking,’ Kenny MacGregor said, ‘it’s a matter for the district authority but, given the unusual circumstances…’

  Behind the painted door of the toilet the cistern flushed.

  Kenny dug his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets and looked, Archie thought, not so much nervous as depressed.

  ‘Kenny!’ Babs emerged from the toilet. ‘What brings you here?’

  She kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek and stepped back, frowning.

  ‘He’s in search of documentation relating to Doreen Quinlan,’ Archie said, ‘to enable him to trace the little boy’s next-of-kin.’

  ‘Oh! Doesn’t Rosie want to keep him?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Kenny, ‘Rosie does want to keep him.’

  Archie cleared his throat. ‘Would you like me to leave you two alone?’

  ‘No,’ said Babs. ‘Stay. We might need your expertise.’

  ‘I have to do what’s right,’ Kenny said.

  ‘What’s right for Rosie or what’s right for you?’ said Babs.

  ‘I can’t just snatch a child from the street and pretend he’s ours.’

  ‘Of course you can’t, Inspector,’ Archie put in. ‘Every effort must be made to trace the father and ensure that he takes responsibility for his offspring’s welfare.’ Babs shot him a look that would have made a lesser man quail. Archie ignored her and pressed on. ‘Of course, the probability exists that the chap in question will deny that he is the father or that he ever had intimate relations with Doreen Quinlan.’

  ‘Even if we do track him down,’ said Babs.

  ‘Which,’ Archie said, ‘will make it necessary to uncover marriage and birth certificates and, given what I believe to be Miss Quinlan’s reckless disregard for the truth, let alone her reckless disregard of legal obligations and formalities, will almost certainly take – pardon my French – for bloody ever.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Polly?’ Babs asked.

  ‘On the telephone this morning,’ Kenny answered.

  ‘She told you the whole story, I assume?’

  ‘Some garbled tale about the girl living in London, yes.’

  ‘Polly has a lot to answer for.’ Babs shrugged. ‘I suppose I do too, since it was my idea to stick the poor girl and the kid with Polly in the first place.’

  ‘Why did you?’ said Kenny.

  ‘Spite,’ said Babs.

  ‘Expediency,’ said Archie. ‘There’s a lot of it about right now.’

  Kenny took off his hat and stroked his hand over his hair. ‘If – and I’m only saying if – Rosie and I wanted to adopt the little boy I assume we’d have to go through the whole procedure.’

  ‘A paper chase,’ Archie chipped in. ‘Oh yes, an interminable paper chase. Dealing with the Irish authorities at this time will not be easy.’

  ‘What would happen to the boy while all this is going on?’

  ‘He’ll be made a ward of court, I think,’ said Archie.

  ‘And kept where?’

  ‘In an orphanage,’ said Archie. ‘In actual fact I have the impression that he’d be shipped back to Northern Ireland, given that’s where his mother hailed from originally.’

  ‘What about the aunt?’

  ‘The aunt threw Miss Quinlan out.’

  Kenny seated himself on the edge of Babs’s desk and fingered his hat brim. ‘This trail of paper, where does it begin and where does it end?’

  ‘Lord knows where it begins.’ Archie paused, glanced at Babs, then said, ‘But it ends right here in that big green filing cabinet.’

  ‘May I see the documentation?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Archie. ‘Babs?’

  The drawer grated open, the brown card folder emerged; Babs handed it to Inspector Kenny, who laid it on his lap and opened it. He bent forward, frowned, and looked up. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Babs.

  ‘One sheet of paper?’

  ‘Form number eight-o-nine-nine-one to be exact,’ said Archie. ‘Where and when will the girl be buried?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Kenny, absently, ‘in the old Manor Park cemetery. Polly made the arrangements.’

  ‘Who holds the death certificate?’ said Archie.

  ‘Polly, I expect.’

  ‘There’s no marriage line, no birth certificate?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Archie, ‘what we have in our possession are two small pieces of paper that represent the full available record of Miss Quinlan’s life and death. We’d better preserve them carefully, had we not, Inspector? If, say, one were to go missing – destroyed in the bombing or lost in the files – there would be no feasible means of tracing next-of-kin and the child would belong to anyone willing to care for him, at least until the war’s over, by which time he might be grown up, married and have children of his own.’

  ‘You don’t want him, Kenny, do you?’ Babs said.

  ‘Rosie does.’

  ‘I didn’t ask about Rosie,’ Babs said. ‘I asked about you.’

  ‘I just want Rosie to be happy.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘God knows what my sister, Fiona, will have to say about it.’ He picked the form from the folder and scanned it again. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said. ‘I can’t ignore my legal responsibilities and destroy evidence.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’ said Babs. ‘Evidence of neglect, of indifference, of prejudice? What sort of life is the wee guy gonna have if you hand him over? Better than the life Rosie and you can offer him? I doubt it.’

  ‘I don’t even know who he is or who she was.’

  ‘She had dimples,’ said Archie, ‘that much I can tell you.’

  ‘Dimples,’ said Kenny. ‘Dear God!’

  ‘However,’ said Archie, ‘I’m afraid I can’t condone the destruction of government property either. Unless you come up with a warrant, In
spector MacGregor, I do not intend to relinquish Miss Quinlan’s form of registration.’

  ‘Archie!’ Babs shrieked. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘So, Inspector, if you’d be kind enough to step into my office,’ said Archie with a flourish, ‘I will provide you with a fair copy of the next-of-kin’s address while retaining the original form for our records.’

  ‘Archie!’

  ‘My office, Inspector, if you please.’

  Hesitantly Kenny followed Archie into the back room. Babs stood in the open doorway, hands on her hips, her plump cheeks flushed with anger. She watched Archie lay down the form, place it casually across the big glass ashtray on his desk then, fishing in his pocket, produce a packet of cigarettes. He offered a cigarette to Kenny who shook his head.

  ‘Mind if I do?’ said Archie. ‘Soothes the nerves, and all that.’

  ‘Please smoke if you wish,’ said Kenny.

  Archie struck a match, lit his cigarette and dropped the match, still burning, into the big glass ashtray.

  Together Kenny and he watched the paper ignite.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Archie. ‘Oh dear me! I do believe there’s been an accident.’ He stooped and blew – gently – on the sheet of paper, watched the flame spread and Form 80991 char and blacken. ‘Goodness, wasn’t that careless of me?’ He looked up. ‘I’m afraid the form is no more, Inspector, unless you want to gather and preserve the ashes?’

  ‘I don’t think that would serve much purpose, do you?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ said Archie. ‘Dreadfully sorry.’

  ‘Accidents,’ Kenny said, ‘do happen.’

  Babs covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes round with astonishment as her brother-in-law poked at the burned sheet with his forefinger and Doreen Quinlan’s last known home address melted away like snow.

  * * *

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ said Marzipan, ‘to be sailing with an armed convoy. Isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘Why don’t you fly us over?’

  ‘Too risky,’ said Marzipan.

  ‘Riskier than U-boats in the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay?’ Christy said. ‘How long will we be at sea?’

  ‘All in, about a week,’ said Marzipan. ‘Emilio’s meeting with Manone is scheduled for the last day of the month.’

  ‘That won’t give Polly much time,’ said Christy.