Wives at War (12 page)

‘Aye,' said Dougie, ‘he was a great one for sittin' on the fence, your Dom. Maybe now he's made up his mind which way to jump.'

‘By declaring himself a Communist?'

‘Naw, naw,' said Dougie. ‘By settlin' in America.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘Old Dom's not offerin' t' help the US Government out the goodness of his heart,' Dougie said. ‘There must be somethin' in it for him. If you ask me the G-men are puttin' pressure on Dominic an' his family.'

‘His family?'

‘Carlo, the old man, the Philadelphia mob.'

‘Do you think Dominic's trying to buy his way out of trouble?'

‘He's done it before. Done it right here, didn't he?'

‘I suppose you could say that,' Polly agreed reluctantly. ‘It could, of course, be simple patriotism.'

‘Hah-hah!' Dougie said sarcastically. ‘Anyway, patriotism's never that simple. It'll be some sort o' deal, a deal so fishy the Yanks aren't bitin' yet.'

‘Is that why they've sent someone to spy on me?'

‘Hardly spy, Mrs Manone,' Dougie said. ‘This guy might've come in by the back door, but he's been direct enough in tellin' you what he's here for.'

‘I wonder if he has,' said Polly.

‘Easy enough to find out,' said Dougie. ‘Telephone Dominic. Do you have his number in New York?'

‘As a matter of fact,' Polly said, ‘no.'

‘Send him a cable then.'

‘Kenny MacGregor's already quizzed Mr Cameron,' Polly said. ‘Rosie thought he might have designs on Babs.'

Dougie shook his head. ‘Typical.'

‘Typical of what?' said Polly.

‘Women,' Dougie said. ‘The world's crashin' down around our ears an' all you can think about is who's goin' to go to bed wi' who. I take it our lovely inspector boy doesn't know the whole story?'

‘No.'

‘Why not tell him? Ask his advice, instead o' mine.'

‘You're not being much of a help, Dougie.'

‘Bloody right, I'm not,' Dougie said. ‘I'm havin' a fine time feedin' chickens an' lookin' after your sister's bairns – keepin' my head down, so to speak. Remember what I told you a wee while back? Dig in, I said, dig in. Well, I've heeded my own advice. I'm well an' truly dug in an' I don't want t' be undug, thank you very much.' He paused, then asked, ‘How much money are we talkin' about here?'

‘I haven't done my sums yet,' Polly said.

‘Round figures.'

‘Fifty thousand pounds, give or take.'

‘Jeeze!' said Dougie. ‘If you hand over fifty grand to this joker where will that leave you financially?'

‘Broke,' said Polly.

‘Didn't your hubby transfer his holdin's into your name?'

‘Most of them,' said Polly.

‘So he's got no claim on any of it?'

‘Legally,' Polly said, ‘no, I don't suppose he has.'

‘Well, now we know why Mr Roosevelt shipped somebody across the Atlantic to size you up,' Dougie told her. ‘Supposin' you decide it's all above board an' that bringin' down the Duce is worth fifty grand then how do you get the money out o' the country? Stuff it into a suitcase an' hand it over to this Yank? Nah nah, Polly, you're not that daft.'

‘There are lots of channels for transferring large sums of money from one country to another,' Polly said. ‘Lisbon, for example. Hard cash can still be shipped through Lisbon.'

‘Is that what your American friend told you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Hard cash in what currency?'

‘I don't know. I haven't agreed to co-operate yet so naturally he's cagey. In addition to which,' Polly said, ‘I've a strong suspicion that Christy Cameron doesn't really know what he's doing.'

‘You mean he's an amateur?'

‘In a nutshell, yes.'

‘Somebody must be givin' him orders.'

‘Who?' Polly said.

‘Aye,' Dougie said, ‘there's the rub. Who?'

‘If I knew that,' Polly said, ‘I'd know how to proceed.'

Dougie said, ‘Why haven't you confided in Hughes? Is it because you know he'll be dead set against it?'

‘Probably,' Polly said. ‘Look, Dougie, my husband trusted you. I admit I never understood what sterling virtues he saw in you, but trust you he did, and for that reason I'm willing to trust you too.'

‘You're makin' me blush,' said Dougie. ‘Listen, if the Yank is just an amateur somebody must be pullin' his strings. Bring him out to Blackstone. Let me talk to him.'

‘Why?'

‘Because,' Dougie said, carefully, ‘he may have the impression there's a fortune in counterfeit banknotes still buried on the property.'

‘Which there isn't, of course.'

‘You know what's buried there, Polly, an' it isn't banknotes.' Dougie moved on quickly. ‘Bring him out on Thursday when the kiddies are at school. Do you still have the motorcar?'

‘It's stored in the garage.'

‘Can you scrounge some petrol?'

‘I expect so.'

‘Then drive over about lunch time.'

‘Why wait until Thursday?'

‘To give him time t' contact his bosses.'

‘What a clever idea,' said Polly.

*   *   *

When she returned home from Cowcaddens that evening, Lizzie was dismayed to find her husband crouched on the hearthrug with one knee over Irene Milligan. From the doorway she watched Bernard loosen the top button of the girl's blouse then, sliding down a little, undo the fastening at the side of her skirt.

The girl lay passively beneath him, eyes closed.

‘Now,' Bernard said, ‘the next bit's tricky.'

‘I'll bet it is,' said Mr Grainger.

‘I'm not going to do it,' Bernard said, ‘I'm just going to pretend. Could you open your mouth a wee bit wider, please, Irene?'

Obediently Irene displayed white teeth and healthy pink gums.

Bernard said, ‘Once the victim's clothing has been loosened then the mouth is opened and the tongue held to one side while any obstruction in the throat is cleared away. Shock can often cause vomiting so it's crucial that the airways are cleared.'

‘What do you use,' said Mr Heron, ‘one o' them stick things?'

Bernard swivelled round. ‘Highly unlikely you'll be running about with a pocketful of tongue depressors, Gordon,' he said, ‘so, as I've told you many times before, improvise, improvise, improvise. Use the blunt end of a pencil or a fountain pen if you have one, failing which, the finger, the good old-fashioned finger will do the job quite nicely.'

‘Infection?' said Irene's mum. ‘Germs?'

‘If the victim's choking to death,' said Bernard, ‘you haven't time to worry about infection. Meet each crisis as it comes. And remember,' he climbed off the girl and got to his feet, ‘if there's any sign of bleeding or immobilising injury do not, repeat
do not
attempt to move the subject.'

‘Why's that then?' said old Mr Heron.

Irene sighed, opened her eyes and answered, ‘Because the end of a broken bone can puncture a vital organ and ex—exabertate the injury.'

‘Well done, young lady.' Bernard helped the girl up. ‘A round of applause for our victim, please.'

Lizzie caught her husband's eye.

He raised his brows in greeting.

Bernard's fortnightly ambulance class was popular and ten or a dozen neighbours from the cottage row were crammed into Lizzie's living room. Some, like old Mr Heron, came only to see women lying on the floor on the off chance he'd catch a glimpse of knickers. Most of the others were there because the risk of injury from a bombing attack had not gone away and they hadn't much faith in the ambulance service. The class was one of several that bolstered the community's sense of self-sufficiency and fostered the hope that, come what may, the good citizens of Knightswood would survive the ravages of war.

‘Our thanks to Bernard too,' said Mr Grainger. ‘Always instructive, always informative. Monday night, stirrup pump drill, half-past seven in the shed behind the bus garage.'

Lizzie usually served tea and biscuits at this juncture but tonight the neighbours dispersed quickly, squeezing past her to the front door. They dabbed her arm, asked after Rosie and nodded sympathetically, even though they had no idea what was really wrong with Bernard's stepdaughter.

Lizzie did her bit by murmuring platitudes.

She had no affinity with her neighbours, no authority over them. It wasn't like the old days in the Gorbals when everybody had looked up to her and treated her with respect. She wondered what had happened to the fierce, fiery woman who would stand no nonsense from anyone, and just when she had shrivelled into meekness and apathy, lost in Bernard's shadow.

‘He's a grand man, a grand man, Lizzie,' Ella Grainger said. ‘I don't know what we'd do without him.'

Lizzie watched her husband help young Miss Milligan into her coat, though the Milligans lived only four doors down and the night was mild. He stood close to the girl and tucked in her scarf. It popped into Lizzie's head that for all his uprightness, her husband was several years younger than she was and that these past few anxious months he seemed to have lost his enthusiasm for hugging, kissing and the other thing; that perhaps he, like so many others, was taking advantage of the war to help himself to a bit of excitement.

Irene Milligan was just Bernard's sort: young, lively and impressionable. Her father was off fighting in the desert and there had been rumours about Mrs Milligan and Mr Grainger; nothing definite, nothing you could really put your finger on. Lizzie hated herself for heeding such gossip but she couldn't help but wonder if the neighbours were gossiping about Bernard too and if anyone else had noticed how Irene looked at him and blushed when he spoke to her. She wondered what they would say about Rosie if they knew the truth – miscarriages were always news – and if they would blame her for not telling her daughter all about the dangers that faced a new young wife.

‘Night-night, Mrs Peabody,' said Irene, and with a final coy glance in Bernard's direction, sauntered out into the street.

As soon as the room had cleared, Bernard came over to Lizzie and put a hand on her shoulder. She was taking off her hat, sliding out the pin, and flinched when he touched her. A whole day in the flat in Cowcaddens listening to her daughter belittle Kenny, her husband, had strained even Lizzie's patience. She had sympathy for Rosie but had fallen out of the habit of donating her love without question and had more than a little sympathy for Kenny too.

‘How is she?'

‘She'll be all right,' Lizzie said.

‘Is Kenny back?'

‘He came in about seven. I made him his dinner.'

‘Is Rosie laid up – in bed, I mean?'

Bernard's concern was genuine. When he had married Lizzie Conway he had taken on her girls without a qualm. But Babs and Polly were grown up, or nearly so, by that time and it was poor deaf Rosie who needed him most. He still thought of her as his poor deaf Rosie but Lizzie was beginning to realise that Rosie was not so poor as all that. She had a good regular income and a kind, caring husband to whom she must give some kindness and consideration in return, even at a sad and difficult time like this.

‘No, she's not in bed,' Lizzie said. ‘She's up and about. She says she's goin' back to work tomorrow.'

‘It's too soon, isn't it?'

‘I talked to the lady doctor last night at the hospital.'

‘And?'

‘Rosie can still have babies.'

‘That's not what I meant,' Bernard said.

‘I know what you meant,' Lizzie said. ‘I don't know whether it's too soon or not. Maybe goin' back to work will take her mind off things.'

‘Is she brooding?'

‘Aye, but not about the baby.'

‘What, about the war?'

‘She's not happy,' Lizzie said. ‘She talked nineteen t' the dozen all blessed day, trailin' me about the flat like a puppy, never lettin' me out o' her sight – an' I still don't know what really ails her. It's more than just losin' the baby.'

‘It's the uncertainty principle.'

‘You've a pat explanation for everythin', Bernard, haven't you?'

‘Well, it is.' He began to set the table for supper. ‘I've a shepherd's pie in the oven an' stewed prunes for afters. Will that do you?'

‘That'll do me fine,' said Lizzie.

She seated herself by the fire. There were rolls of bandage on the mantelpiece and on the rug a big wooden box filled with splints and dressings. Bernard's toys, Bernard's weapons; he loved all the paraphernalia and the status that went with it. He, like Kenny, had a lot of ‘pull' because of his job, and a lot of responsibility too. He even had the use of a Breslin Council motorcar, though he never brought the vehicle home.

‘I'll have to have a talk with her,' Bernard said.

‘She's not in the mood for talkin',' Lizzie said.

‘I thought you said—'

‘Not in the mood for listenin' is what I mean.'

‘Oh, she'll listen to me,' said Bernard. ‘She always listens to me.'

Lizzie didn't have the heart to contradict him.

She nodded wearily and while her husband made ready to serve the supper, closed her eyes and snatched forty dreamless winks in her battered old armchair by the fire.

6

Christmas seemed a long way off. Babs had bought a little box of cards and two or three trinkets to put in the children's stockings, but with Jackie away she could work up little enthusiasm for the festive season.

She hadn't yet decided if she would take April over to the farm for the holidays or bring the other three home. Boxing Day, Thursday, she would have to be back in the office. Polly might look after them, or Christy, but she had a feeling that Polly and Christy would have other fish to fry. Lying in the cold bedroom in the bungalow in Raines Drive, she worried more about Christmas than the progress of the war.