Wives at War (34 page)

‘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 infant?'

‘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.'

‘What's she doing in Scotland?'

‘I have no idea,' said Archie.

‘Perhaps we should ask her?'

‘I already did,' said Archie. ‘She doesn't know herself.'

‘Could the husband – the daddy, I mean – could he be lurking somewhere in the vicinity?'

‘It's possible, of course,' said Archie, ‘but somehow I doubt it.'

‘What are we expected to do with her?'

‘Find her a billet and a job to keep her going.'

‘Untrained?' said Babs. ‘With a baby?'

‘I've been racking my brains to think where we could put her and I've come up dry. Perhaps,' Archie hesitated, ‘perhaps your stepfather might be able to help out again, do you think?'

‘I don't think,' said Babs. ‘From what Bernard's told me the last one we dumped on him gave him enough trouble. Anyway, the girl's our problem.'

‘What a big heart you have, Barbara,' Archie said. ‘Who'll take in an Irish girl with a kid, even if we guarantee the rent?'

At that moment the door of the toilet swung open and Doreen Quinlan emerged with the baby, a very robust and buxom baby, slung over her shoulder.

The baby, a boy, was warmly dressed in a romper suit with a pointed hood. The suit had been knitted from blue wool that had faded with washing, and looked, Babs thought, like a tiny suit of chain mail.

The girl wasn't much older than eighteen. She had broad, open features, blue eyes and a dimple – my God, Babs thought, a dimple – on each cheek. She was as blonde as a cornstalk and almost as slender. She wore a short red flannel jacket and a long, trailing skirt of a sort that had gone out of fashion thirty years ago. Her blouse was baby-stained but otherwise she was clean and tidy and very pretty in a naïve kind of way.

‘I was havin' to change him,' the girl said. ‘I was havin' to use the sink for to wash his bott. I cleaned up, like, afterwards.' Her voice had the casual attitude to vowels that Glaswegians were used to. ‘He's a right greedy guts, his majesty, so he is now. I'll be needin' to find milk an' an egg for him soon.'

‘You're weaning him, I take it?' Babs said.

‘I am, I am.'

‘How old is he?'

‘Eighteen months, close to.'

‘He's a big chap for eighteen months.' Archie walked around the girl to peer through his spectacles at the child. ‘Has he got a name?'

‘David. I call him Davy.'

‘After his dad?' Babs said.

The girl gave her a little smile, more mysterious than patronising. ‘Nah, nah,' she said. ‘Now you won't be catchin' me out that way.'

Archie extended a forefinger and wiggled it, a gesture that young Master Quinlan ignored. He was sleepy and sluggish, at least for the moment.

‘I'll – erm – put on the kettle, shall I?' said Archie.

‘Aye, I could be doin' with a cup o' tea, so I could,' said Doreen Quinlan and, hoisting the baby down from her shoulder to her lap, seated herself on Babs's chair and gave a weary sigh. ‘It wasn't much o' a breakfast they were showin' me at that hostel place.'

‘It was probably the best they could do,' said Babs and then, on impulse, detached Davy from his mother's arms and lifted him up.

He reared back and glared at her as she tugged down the chain-mail hood and stroked the fringe of dark hair that hung over his brow. He gave Babs a thorough scrutiny then used, perhaps, to taking succour where he could find it, settled against her shoulder and closed a fist over her breast.

‘Not me, pal,' Babs said.

Gently detaching Davy's fingers from that tempting part of her anatomy, she strolled up and down the length of the office with him in her arms while an idea, a fine malicious little notion, tumbled softly into her head.

*   *   *

‘I take it,' Polly said, ‘that this is some kind of a joke.'

‘Homelessness is no joke, Poll,' Babs informed her.

‘You,' said Polly, ‘what's your name?'

‘Walter George,' said the area council officer whom Archie had summoned with one telephone call. ‘I think we've met before, Mrs Manone. Would you care to inspect my credentials?'

‘I don't give a damn about your credentials,' Polly said. ‘I don't give a damn if you're acting on orders from Winston bloody Churchill, I am not – let me repeat myself – I am
not
taking that woman and that child into my house.'

Mr George was much older than Archie. He had been an ambulance driver on the Somme during the last conflict and a dedicated worker in the Church ever since. He was, so Archie said, an inspirational lay preacher and as honest as the day was long. Though well over sixty, he was handsome, tall and broad-shouldered, with a mop of fine white hair and a trim moustache. If Polly's profanity offended him, he gave no sign of it. No doubt, thought Babs, he had heard a lot worse in his day. He reminded her a little of Bernard, though Mr George wasn't as pompous as her stepfather, wasn't pompous at all, in fact.

It had been a stroke of genius on her part to think of dumping the Belfast girl and her baby on Polly, but an even greater stroke of genius on Archie's part to insist that she take Mr George along for support.

Without Mr George's gentlemanly presence, Polly would probably have kicked her out by now. As it was, the Belfast girl and her baby were downstairs in the kitchen, tucking into a second breakfast that Christy had rustled up.

Christy hadn't been in the least put out by the arrival of a stranger with a baby or a council officer brandishing a hastily drafted requisition order. He had been sloping about in pyjama bottoms, thick stockings and a reefer jacket at ten thirty in the morning. Polly hadn't been in much better shape, all tousled and baggy-eyed and without a scrap of make-up to emphasise her superiority.

Babs wondered, rather maliciously, if they had actually been ‘at it' in Polly's foxhole in the basement when Walter George had rung the doorbell.

‘I'm terribly sorry, Mrs Manone,' said Mr George, ‘but I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter.'