During Easter week, she saw little of Christy and nothing at all of Jamie Cameron. The brothers had gone round the coast to Cascais, to a house on the beach that Jamie had rented for the summer and within which the first batch of recruits to the Office of Strategic Services, Christy and Dominic among them, would be trained, briefed and sent out to do their dirty work in Spain, France and the northern parts of Italy.
Emilio and his young English mistress were, it seemed, only small pieces in a puzzle whose parts had yet to be put together. Whisky bottles filled with industrial diamonds would be exchanged for packets of dollar bills and in due course dollar bills would be converted into arms and, in some vague future time, far beyond Polly’s ken, the arms would be turned against the enemies of freedom, and those who abhorred the tyranny of small-minded, megalomaniac dictators would rise up and bring down the evil regimes from within.
It was not, Dominic explained, the dream of the old Colonials, those builders of the British Empire who had staked a claim to half the world by imposing law and order with rifle butts and bayonets. The American dream was more generous and compassionate and sometimes misguided, but a thing of good heart and valiant spirit none the less, and he for one was happy to be aligned with it, now and in the future.
He walked hand in hand with Polly around shady squares under a hot indigo sky, through churches cool and modern and cathedrals dark with the weight of centuries. They drank coffee at café tables, ate in the Imperium or one of the many restaurants that served lobsters and langoustines fresh from the sea. They made love eagerly in the middle of the afternoon and again in the glittering darkness of the night.
Dominic wooed her like a lover. He spoiled and pampered her almost as if she deserved it. And not once did he mention Tony or Fin or Christy Cameron or ask what they had meant to her, if they had meant anything at all. Once Polly agreed to become his wife again the rest, as far as Dominic was concerned, was a little piece of history buried in the debris of the past. It was not forgiveness but forgetfulness that Dominic offered and on those terms Polly was willing to do what was asked of her, to fly from a guilty past into a future that held no promises and no iron-clad guarantees.
After the processions and festivals of Easter week the city assumed a solemn mood. Dominic went down to Cascais and Polly was left alone. She spent most of the afternoon dozing in bed, listening to the sounds from the square, the bells and bands and, she thought, a pilgrim chanting from very far away; a far cry from dour old Glasgow’s church parades and sober Sabbath silences.
On his return, just before dinner, Dom’s mood, like that of the city, had changed and Polly realised that the fun and games were over and the serious business of spying was about to begin. He told her that Emilio was clamouring for money and that Jamie was angry because the officials in Washington were stamping their feet about establishing a fund for the Italian. She had the impression that Emilio had been at Cascais too and that very soon Dom intended to take matters into his own hands by leaking small lots of diamonds on to the underground market.
At the window table, bathed in candlelight, the Manones might appear to be an elegant, well-off couple spending a few weeks in the sun but Polly was well aware that there had been gossip and considerable speculation among the sinister guests who propped up the bar or conducted business meetings at the breakfast table. She sensed that eyes were upon them, sliding sidelong glances, and that whispers hung in the air, like Dominic’s cigar smoke.
‘You’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning,’ Dominic said without preamble. ‘We’ve found you a ticket for the Clipper. Damned lucky to get it. It’s practically impossible to get on a plane unless you’re on official business. Jamie pulled a few strings. You’ll be in New York in half a day. It’s a fair haul from Richmond to the airport, though, so I’ll cable Patricia to bring the car – and the children – out to the airfield to meet you.’
‘When will I see you again?’
‘God knows!’ said Dominic. ‘It might be sooner than either of us imagine, though, if America decides to enter the war.’
‘Do you think that will happen?’
‘I doubt it,’ Dominic said. ‘Not yet.’
‘And if America doesn’t enter the war?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you write to me? Will that be allowed?’
‘Of course.’
‘And will I be able to write back?’
‘It might be safer not to, at least for a while.’
Polly said, ‘What will happen when the diamonds run out?’
‘By that time,’ Dominic said, ‘the back door route into Italy should be open and established and I’ll be moved on.’
‘Moved on where?’
‘I have no earthly idea.’
‘You’re enjoying all this skulduggery, aren’t you?’
‘I would be,’ Dominic said, ‘if it weren’t so grim.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Polly said. ‘Grim, I mean?’
‘You’ll be quite safe in Richmond, on the Island.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about me,’ said Polly. ‘I was thinking about you and Christy, and all the others who’ll be involved in whatever it is you’re doing.’
‘Don’t fret about us; think about the Jews,’ Dom said. ‘The horror stories leaking out of Poland and Czechoslovakia, out of France and Germany, are deeply worrying.’
‘Christy told me about Warsaw.’
Dominic nodded again. ‘Yes, he was there at the beginning, but damned few of us know what’s going on inside the conquered countries now. All we have to go on are rumours, terrible rumours.’
‘Is that why you’re committing yourself at last by signing up to a cause?’
‘I suppose it might be,’ Dominic admitted. ‘However, since I don’t want to demolish all your illusions in one fell swoop, darling, please continue to think of me as a selfish wee bugger who’s just out for all he can get.’
‘Ah yes,’ Polly said. ‘That’s more like the chap I know.’
‘And love?’
‘And love,’ said Polly.
* * *
There was no telephone in the bedroom. She wakened in the half-light to the sound of knocking on the bedroom door. She turned over, stretched out her arm and found only emptiness beside her. She sat up and looked around but there was no sign of Dominic.
The knocking continued, accompanied by an anxious voice calling out in broken English: ‘Senhora, Senhora Manone, it is the time for you to be rising.’
‘Yes,’ Polly answered. ‘I am – rising.’
‘The gentleman – in room – below the stairs – he waits.’
‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ Polly said.
She had packed the blue suitcase and laid it out with her hand luggage by the shoe-rack near the door. The case and all the smaller bags, save one, had been removed. She wondered vaguely if this was one last attentive gesture by Jamie Cameron or unusual efficiency on the part of the management. Dom’s suits still hung in the closet and his shoes were lined up on the rack, and in the bathroom a few yards down the hallway she caught the tang of the astringent lotion with which he dabbed his cheeks after shaving.
She bathed, brushed her teeth and combed her hair as quickly as possible. She didn’t feel alert enough yet to be excited at the prospect of a long aeroplane journey to a brand-new country. She had made love to her husband for what had seemed like hours last night and her exhaustion at that early hour was almost insurmountable.
She returned to her room and dressed in the clothes that she had laid out, popped her nightdress and toilet things into the one remaining bag and, with the bag on her shoulder and her coat on her arm, went downstairs to find Dominic.
Christy was waiting for her in the dining room. He was standing by the table at the window.
The room was almost deserted. Three or four waiters were setting tables. A severe-looking man of about Christy’s age was eating alone at a corner table and another chap, hardly m
ore than a boy, was drinking coffee and trying to hide behind a copy of a Portuguese newspaper.
Polly carried her bag to the window table.
Coffee pot and a basket of bread rolls were set out on the cloth.
Christy pulled out a chair for her.
He said, ‘We’ll have to be quick.’
‘Where’s Dominic?’
Christy sat opposite her, poured coffee, selected a bread roll and put it on her plate. ‘He couldn’t make it.’
‘Couldn’t make it?’
‘He sent me instead.’
‘I see,’ Polly said. ‘He will be at the aerodrome, though, won’t he?’
‘I guess not,’ Christy said. ‘Eat, and let’s get out of here, please.’
‘Where is Dom? Is he in trouble?’
‘Jamie needed him at Cascais.’
‘You’re lying,’ Polly said.
‘Yeah, I’m lying,’ Christy said. ‘Eat.’
She didn’t eat, though. She drank coffee and took a few puffs of the cigarette Christy lit for her. He looked different this morning, less ramshackle. He had discarded the sweater and reefer jacket and wore a soft linen jacket over an open-necked shirt. He had shaved and put a little pomade on his unruly hair and looked younger, she thought. She felt a twinge of regret for all that had happened between them, for all that might have been, a melancholy little echo of the loving time before Dominic had taken command of her life again.
She knew that there would be no more Christys, no more Fins or Tonys, that sexual adventures and betrayals must be left behind, shaken off along with the velvet grip of her family back in Glasgow.
‘Got your passport?’ Christy said.
‘Yes, it’s in my purse.’
He took a long envelope from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.
‘One Clipper ticket, one-way,’ he said. ‘One permit of entry into the United States, signed by a consular officer. One hundred and fifty US dollars in case of emergency. Patricia will meet you at the other end. She’ll tell you what to do and show you the ropes.’
‘Why did Dominic send you?’ Polly asked.
‘He’s not dumb, your husband.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He knows I love you – or did.’
‘So it’s just another of his damned romantic gestures.’
‘Yeah,’ Christy said. ‘He thought maybe it would be nice to say goodbye.’
‘Won’t you come to New York for the wedding?’
‘Wedding?’
‘Patricia’s wedding to your brother,’ Polly said.
‘Oh, sure,’ Christy said. ‘The wedding.’
‘He is going to marry her, isn’t he?’
‘I guess,’ Christy said. ‘Yeah, yeah, he’ll marry her.’
‘In September?’
‘Whenever he can,’ Christy said.
‘So I’ll see you in September?’
‘Polly…’
She nodded.
She didn’t need to be told that they might never meet again. She stubbed out the cigarette, finished the coffee in her cup, and got to her feet.
‘All set?’ Christy said.
‘All set,’ said Polly, and followed him out to the taxi-cab that would carry her out to the airfield and the first sad, happy step to her new life far away.
* * *
The girls had lugged Davy off into the field in front of the farmhouse. They swung him between them vigorously and now and then let him drop to the ground and rolled him over, tickling him without mercy to make him laugh.
If May and June were much taken with the latest addition to the family, April was enchanted. She followed the wee chap around as if she couldn’t believe her luck in having a new cousin to play with as well as a grown-up brother; a boy to look after as well as one to look after her. The moment May and June stepped back, she sank to her knees and nuzzled her face into Davy’s, administering kisses in a manner more maternal than flirtatious.
Davy, of course, loved all the attention and had no fear of the boisterous girls. Only now and then, in the midst of a swing or a tickling, would he thrust May or June roughly aside, look towards the gate where Rosie and Babs were chatting and yell, ‘Ma, Ma, Ma,’ until Rosie broke off her conversation, waved and called out, ‘I’m huh-here, darlin’. Muh-mummy’s here,’ then, reassured, he would topple back on to the grass and encourage the girls to attack him again.
Angus and Archie Harding were in the field too, practising acrobatic tricks on Archie’s old bicycle, which had arrived roped to the roof of Auntie Polly’s motorcar. Since Auntie Polly had gone to stay in America, the motorcar was theirs now. Provided Mr Harding could scrounge enough petrol coupons to keep it running Mum and April would stay at the farm for the holidays and Mum would drive across the river to work every day.
Angus was pleased that his mother and little sister were staying at Blackstone. He was even more pleased to have the big black motorcar sitting in the yard and, though he wasn’t quite ready to admit it yet, to have Mr Harding dropping in to insult him and to teach him how to ride a bicycle backwards without using your hands.
If his dad had been daring on the Excelsior Manxman, his dad had also been, in that capacity, rather remote. There was something about the old boneshaker that Mr Harding had given him that made it, and Mr Harding, seem more approachable, particularly as Mr Harding was willing to attempt all sorts of tricks that Mum, let alone Miss Dawlish, condemned as dangerous, like riding up a plank of wood hanging from the rusty fence to see if you could land without falling off. Angus often fell off, but so did Mr Harding. The pair of them looked like a couple of tinkers after half an hour of practice and Miss Dawlish would have slobbered them both with iodine and slapped on sticking plasters if Mr Harding hadn’t told her that a man must bear his scars bravely and, under his breath, back turned, had suggested that Miss Dawlish go chase herself.
Dougie had come out of the house and had watched their antics for ten minutes or so but when Mr Harding had suggested that he give it a go too, Dougie had beaten a hasty retreat to the vegetable patch.
‘That boy’s going to buh-break his neck,’ Rosie said. ‘Aren’t you going to tuh-tell your chap to be careful?’
‘Nope,’ Babs said, contentedly.
‘Is he giving you something?’
‘Petrol coupons,’ said Babs.
‘I don’t mean puh-petrol coupons.’
‘I know what you mean, Rosie, and I’m not going to dignify the question by giving an answer. Mr Harding and I are friends and colleagues, that’s all.’
‘He’s not hanging round just because you’re his cuh-colleague,’ Rosie said. ‘He wuh-wants something.’
‘Course he does,’ Babs said. ‘He wants to marry me.’
‘What! Has he asked you already?’
‘Not yet,’ Babs said. ‘But he will when the time’s ripe.’
‘When will that be?’
‘When the kids have got used to him.’
‘And when he asks you, if ever he does, what’ll you say?’
‘Are you kiddin’?’ Babs said. ‘I’ll say “yes” like a shot.’
‘Have you forgotten about Juh-Jackie already?’
‘No,’ Babs said. ‘I’ll never forget my Jackie.’
‘Bet you will,’ said Rosie, ‘once you’ve guh-got a new man in your bed.’
Babs shook her head and sighed. ‘To think,’ she said, ‘that you were once Mammy’s prized possession, her sweet, wee innocent girl.’
‘I’ve changed,’ said Rosie.
‘I know you have. We all have.’
‘It’s the wuh-war.’
‘Probably,’ Babs said.
She watched April stick a buttercup in Davy MacGregor’s ear and give him a kiss to make up for her clumsiness.
May and June were gathering buttercups too but there was something less than charming about the way her older daughters went about it, not plucking the flowers but ripping them up by the roots and tossing them
at poor, chuckling Davy. She would, she knew, have trouble with that pair, just as Mammy in her day had had trouble with Polly and her.
Now, with Polly gone, it was Rosie who had taken the bit between her teeth and, a new baby notwithstanding, had experienced a little more of real life than was good for her. Kenny would keep Rosie in check, though, for Kenny was a good man too.
Babs said, ‘I wonder where she is right now?’
‘Mammy? She’s at huh-home in Knightswood cooking the dinner, I expect,’ Rosie said. ‘I wish she’d stayed. I wanted her to see Davy.’
‘She’s doesn’t approve,’ Babs said.
‘Doesn’t approve of Davy?’
‘Doesn’t approve of any of us,’ Babs said. ‘I think she feels she’s let us down, or maybe that we’ve let her down.’
‘That’s duh-daft,’ Rosie said. ‘As if we’d ever let Mammy down.’
‘Well, bringing up kids is worse than a marriage,’ Babs said. ‘You bring them into the world not knowing whether they’ll turn out for better or worse.’
‘Which was it for us?’ Rosie asked.
‘Both,’ Babs said. ‘Neither. Oh, I don’t know. It just sort of … is, I suppose. Anyway, I wasn’t thinking about us.’
‘Uh-huh, you muh-mean Polly. She’ll fall on her feet,’ Rosie said. ‘Our Polly always falls on her feet.’
‘Funny how things work out,’ Babs said.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘If Christy and Polly hadn’t … Oh, never mind.’
‘He wasn’t for you, Babs,’ Rosie said. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Don’t you wish you had?’
Wives at War Page 43
