Wives at War (43 page)

‘I'm sure Polly will take you back.'

‘Polly!' Margaret said, with a hefty sigh. ‘Yes, I expect she might – if she's still in Glasgow.'

‘Of course she'll be in Glasgow,' said Lizzie. ‘Where else would she be?'

‘She might go chasing after him.'

‘After who?'

‘Her husband,' Margaret Dawlish said. ‘Or she might go tramping off with that American instead.'

Confusion clouded Lizzie's thinking. She was rattled by the fact that this woman, this stranger, seemed to know more about her daughters than she did. Margaret Dawlish had been associated with Jackie and Babs for many years, of course. She'd managed the business side of Jackie's motoring salon and, according to Babs, had done a very good job of keeping Jackie in check. But Lizzie had never even seen the motoring salon and had rarely visited Babs and Jackie in their lovely bungalow in Raines Drive.

The river, the broad brown band of the Clyde, had separated her from her daughters and their affairs. She was vaguely aware that their lives had a density and texture that her life lacked but when she thought back to the time of her youth she realised that her life had been no less rich and her history no less colourful then than theirs was now.

Quite deliberately she had chosen a quiet life with Bernard in Knightswood and all the striving and stramash that had marked her days in the Gorbals seemed far behind her. She watched now from a distance and suffered only obliquely when events caught up with her children, when Rosie miscarried and Babs lost her husband, for instance, and Polly found herself abandoned by that smooth, crooked devil, Dominic Manone.

It wasn't that she loved her daughters less or was indifferent to what happened to them but rather an awareness that she was so far removed from how they lived their lives that she could no longer solve their problems for them or protect them from the inevitable consequences of folly and misjudgement.

She had heard of the American, Christy Cameron, of course, had learned from Rosie that he was Babs's fancy man, but he remained vague and faceless, like a person in one of those thick books without illustrations that Rosie had devoured; how he had suddenly become attached to Polly was more than she could fathom.

‘Polly's got nothing to hold her here,' Margaret Dawlish said, ‘not now her husband's left her. She's a poor soul, your eldest, in spite of her money, her cars and her clothes. If she went off with the American I wouldn't blame her. He's a lot nicer than the lawyer.'

Lizzie lost the thread, found herself unable to make the ellipses that linked Babs's American to Polly's lawyer, though she remembered the unpleasant Sunday afternoon before Christmas when all three of her girls had staged a quarrel in her living room and she had retreated with April to see Mrs Grainger's cats. Perhaps she should have stayed. Perhaps she would have learned something that might help her understand what was going on now.

‘Aye,' Lizzie said, defensively. ‘Aye, he's all that.'

‘As for Jackie Hallop—'

‘Jackie's dead,' Lizzie put in. ‘I'll not hear a word against Jackie.'

‘All I'm saying,' said Margaret Dawlish, ‘is that Babs could have done better for herself.'

‘He gave her four lovely children.'

‘Any man who's any sort of man could do that.'

Suddenly weary of feeling weak and inadequate in the face of this mannish woman's tittle-tattle, Lizzie blurted out, ‘Have you ever been married, Miss Dawlish?'

‘Not me, oh no.'

‘Have you ever had a man?'

‘I'm not interested in men.'

‘You seem interested enough in Mr Giffard.'

‘He's different.'

‘Is he?' Somewhere deep within her Lizzie discovered a spark of her old self. ‘So you'd take Dougie for a husband but you wouldn't let him be a husband. What makes you think a man should be treated any different from a woman when it comes to respect? My daughters might have made mistakes but they've never wanted for love, not when they were young and not now. What they do is their business but I'd advise you not to turn up your nose at Mr Giffard if and when he does make an offer of marriage. You'll be lucky to have him, I think, for he strikes me as a good catch – and if you think I don't know what a good catch is then you've only to look at my Bernard.'

‘I'm sorry.' Contrition did not sit well with Margaret Dawlish. ‘I really am sorry. I didn't intend to insult you or your daughters.'

‘I should hope not,' said Lizzie haughtily, ‘considerin' they've provided you with a livin' for the past ten years.'

Then putting down the cocoa cup, she took herself off to bed.

*   *   *

Kenny had been at the docks since before dawn. The SPU had been drawn into an investigation involving a shipment of black market meat that Customs inspectors felt might prove to be the tip of an iceberg of unregistered importation. There was nothing much to go on yet but the case had all the hallmarks of becoming a long, dreary haul, and Kenny had already opened a logbook and would soon set about gathering information from Port authorities and other less official sources.

He arrived home just before noon.

He knew that Rosie would be at home for she had said she would go out early to join the food queues with the baby, well wrapped up, strapped into the old pushchair that Polly had provided.

As far as Kenny was concerned the only good thing to come out of this latest turn of events was that Rosie had quit her job at Merryweather's. He had telephoned the personnel officer and informed him that Rosie had suffered a minor nervous breakdown and would not be returning to the line. The officer seemed neither surprised nor dismayed and, to Kenny's relief, hadn't asked for a medical certificate.

The reason for Rosie's resignation – the minor nervous breakdown – was seated on the kitchen table, legs akimbo, gnawing on a Farley's rusk and smearing goo on Rosie's hair while she, with an arm about his waist, read aloud from a big green volume entitled
Every Woman's Home Doctor.

‘Uh-uh,' she said, ‘listen to this, Davy. This is a guh-good bit. “Mother may pick him up at five o'clock for a little play-time, which will help to develop the baby's senses and strengthen the link between parent and child.” Five o'clock, see. I thuh-think you're supposed to sleep until five o'clock or maybe that's when Mummy gets in from her round of golf.'

‘Mmmmmaw!' Davy exclaimed.

‘Quite right!' Rosie glanced up from the book. ‘By the way, I think you're supposed to eat that rusk and not shuh-shampoo Mummy's hair with it.'

Davy laughed as if he'd understood the joke. He looked different when he laughed, all petulance dispersed by a deep, gurgling chuckle and a glimpse of teeth showing through pink gums.

He attacked the rusk again, fisting it into his cheek.

Rosie read on: ‘“On no account should baby be over-stuh-stimulated by too many caresses, however; such over-stuh-stimulation is bad for the child's suh-suh-psychological development.” There you are, my lad, hugs and kuh-kisses are on the ration from now on. What do you have to say to that?'

‘Mmmaw, mmmaw,' Davy answered, then, like an alert little watchdog, heard Kenny enter the kitchen and swung round to face the door. ‘Ma, Ma, Ma, Ma,' he chanted and wriggled so energetically that Rosie had to grab him before he tumbled off the table.

‘He's got teeth,' she said. ‘Eight teeth.'

‘Has he?' Kenny took off his overcoat and hat.

‘Feel them.'

‘I'll take your word for it, sweetheart.'

‘According to the buh-book, the appearance of back molars means he's at least fifteen months old.'

‘By the way he's tackling that biscuit,' said Kenny, ‘I'd put him down as fast approaching school age.'

‘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.'