Wives at War (48 page)

‘If they don't wind up on the ocean bed,' said Christy.

‘That's morbid,' Polly said. ‘Stop it.'

‘Imagine all the stuff that's down there already, all the gold, all the silver, all the cash-boxes and jewels…'

‘Stop, darling, please.'

He glanced at her. ‘So you are afraid of drowning?'

‘No,' Polly said. ‘I'm not.'

‘What are you afraid of then?'

‘Meeting my husband again,' she said.

*   *   *

A late-evening sun had broken out from beneath the rain cloud and spilled a prophetic trail of fire across the Firth. The tallest tenements in the coastal town caught the slant of sunlight and stood stark against a tar-black sky. The wind had backed to the north-west and even from the road you could see vessels bucking and angry waves punching against the shore. Seven cargo ships would leave the Clyde as soon as night fell. Three were moored at the quayside taking on fuel, the others rode at anchor in the deep-water channel.

Babs had packed lemonade and biscuits in case April got hungry but her daughter was too excited to be interested in food. She sat on Christy's knee in the rear seat of the Wolseley, her nose pressed to the window glass, and stared at the ships, the seagulls and the hurrying waves, and uttered small cooing sounds as if the trip had been arranged just to please and amaze her. Now and then she would turn her head, purse her lips and frown at Christy as if she couldn't understand why he too was not astonished by the textures of the world.

Polly occupied the passenger seat. She had given the wheel to Babs, who was a much better driver than she was and would be required to find her way back from Greenock in the dark. She watched Babs covertly out of the corner of her eye, envying her middle sister's confidence and resilience. Separated from three of her children, obliged to work every day, even losing her husband had failed to drag Babs down. It hadn't occurred to Polly before that for all her tough talk Babs harboured no cynicism and that the life she had chosen was the life that she, Polly, had deliberately renounced. Loving and being loved had not been enough for her, and none of the men who'd loved her, not even Fin, had given her what she sought, not excitement, not variety, but a nameless, shameless need to punish herself just for being Frank Conway's daughter.

‘Wish I was going to Portugal,' Babs said.

‘It's not a holiday, you know.'

‘Beats catchin' the tram to Cyprus Street every morning.'

‘I thought you liked your job?'

‘It's all right,' Babs said. ‘Keeps me out of mischief, I suppose.'

‘I wouldn't like to work for him,' Polly said.

‘Who?'

‘The fellow with the glasses, at the funeral.'

‘Archie? Archie's all right.' Babs drove on into the heart of Greenock and the walls of shipyards and warehouses closed about them. ‘I quite like Archie, actually, now I've got to know him.'

‘He's a boy, just a boy,' said Polly.

She was making conversation mainly to allay her anxiety. Behind her she could hear Christy chatting to April who, now that the canyon walls of industry and commerce had closed off the view, had become bored.

‘Archie's older than he looks,' Babs said. ‘He's only a couple of years younger than I am, in fact.'

‘Did he tell you that? If he did, I'd take it with a pinch of salt.'

‘I looked up his employment file,' said Babs. ‘Employment files never lie, at least not often. He worked in the Co-op warehouse as a clerk for five years to save enough to put himself through university. He's a teacher, or was until the war came along. Did I tell you that?'

Polly had no interest in Archie Harding or her sister's defence of the man. April wasn't alone in finding the town oppressive. It smelled of the sea, of grease and petrol fumes, horse manure and burned dinners, of beer from quayside pubs and fat frying in fish supper shops.

‘Where exactly are we going, by the way?' said Babs.

Stirring himself, Christy said, ‘Look for a gate on the right with a navy patrol on guard. It's just past the next turn, I think. Got it?'

‘Yep,' said Babs and, fisting the wheel, swung the big car up to the gate and braked.

Two sailors came forward.

They didn't really look like sailors.

They had webbing belts cinched around their waists, wore puttees over black boots, and steel helmets. One of them carried a rifle.

Behind them in the window of the guardhouse Polly could see the tall figure of the plainclothes officer whom Christy referred to as Marzipan.

She rolled down the window and said, ‘I'm Mrs Manone. Mr Cameron and I are expected, I believe.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' said one of the sailors. ‘You have baggage?'

‘In the boot.'

One of the sailors, the one without the rifle, disappeared and a moment later Polly heard the boot being opened.

She said, ‘Can't we take the car on to the quay?'

‘No, ma'am. Listed personnel only.'

Polly turned to Babs. ‘This is it then.'

‘This is what?' said Babs. ‘Goodbye?'

Christy got out of the car, April clinging to him.

Through the maze of low buildings and tall cranes the ship was visible – the
Tantallon Castle
, fully laden with coal and making ready to sail. Deck officers were visible on the rail and the patch of grey hull that Polly could make out between the sheds had dirty water pouring down it from a drain high up on the side. She knew nothing of ships, nothing at all, but moored at the quay the
Tantallon Castle
looked big and solid enough to withstand anything the Germans could throw at it.

She watched Christy kiss April on the cheek. Heard the boot lid slam. Felt vibrations shake the car. Saw the pathetic pile of luggage that Christy and she had brought with them lying on the edge of the pavement.

Marzipan came out of the guardhouse and stood on the cobbles, smoking a cigarette, watching through the gate.

‘All right,' Polly said, brusquely.

She kissed Babs, fumbled for the door handle and got out.

The wind caught her, almost spun her round.

She braced herself, legs apart, and clutched her hat with one hand.

Christy came around the bonnet and lowered April into the front seat. He leaned over the child and spoke to Babs, spoke softly, then, with a hand on her shoulder, kissed her on the mouth, backed out, and carefully closed the door.

The sailor with the rifle unlocked the gate.

‘This way, ma'am, please.'

‘What about our luggage?'

‘We'll see that it's stowed aboard, don't worry.'

She looked at the gate, at the ship, at Marzipan waiting by the guardhouse – then at the car. For a split second she was tempted to give up, to let Dominic down as she had let him down so often in the past, to yank open the door of the Wolseley, jump in and yell at Babs to take her home.

She could see her sister's face through the windscreen, a strange tearful little smile compressing her lips.

Babs waved.

Polly waved back.

Christy took her arm.

She turned away from the motorcar and let him lead her through the gate while Babs, her duty done, reversed the Wolseley out on to the main road and swiftly, all too swiftly, drove away.

April

19

The weather that Sunday could have gone either way. Pearly cloud covered the hills and sifted down into the valley of the Clyde, drifting and wavering in the windless morning air. Dougie, out planting leeks, thought that the mist would thicken into rain and insisted that the children take their raincoats to church, but by the time they returned from Breslin, accompanied not only by Miss Dawlish but by Bernard and Lizzie too, the sun had broken through and Babs and April arrived off the lunch-time bus to find the farm bathed in pale sunshine.

As soon as they'd been fed, the girls wandered off into the big field in front of the house to look for buttercups under Angus's watchful eye. He was very attentive to his sisters now, to April especially, for the praise that had been heaped upon him – much to June's chagrin – for his prompt action down in the woods had reminded him of his role as ‘the man' in the family. Babs, in fact, was very proud of her son now that he had quietened down and even at age ten he seemed in some ways more sensible and mature than his father had ever been.

The adults were still in the kitchen, still seated around the table drinking tea and smoking, when Angus reappeared in the doorway.

‘Mum?'

‘Yes, honey.'

‘There's a man out there.'

‘A man?' said Miss Dawlish.

‘Where are the girls?' said Bernard, making to rise.

‘He says he knows you, Mum,' said Angus.

Puzzled, Babs followed Angus out into the yard.

‘Where is he?'

‘I told him it was private property,' said Angus, ‘an' to wait at the gate. He's over there, see.'

Babs looked up and laughed.

‘You know him?' said Angus

‘Yeah, it's only Mr Harding from the office where I work.'

‘Does he always dress like that?' said Angus.

‘Fortunately not,' said Babs.

Angus's less than warm welcome had obviously daunted Archie Harding and he had stayed right where he was at the open gate at the turn of the track. He had one hip braced against the gate and one foot on the ground and the bicycle, like a centaur's legs, almost seemed to be part of him. He wore shorts, a ribbed sweater and a yellow sou'wester. Babs grinned and walked across the yard, Angus trailing some yards behind.

‘With a boy like that,' said Archie, ruefully, ‘you don't need a dog.'

‘You're lucky he didn't bite you,' Babs said. ‘Are those supposed to be shorts?'

Archie glanced down as if the garment in question had attached itself to him without his knowledge.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘From my days as a Boy Scout.'

‘They're the longest shorts I've ever seen,' said Babs.

‘I was taller in those days,' said Archie.

‘What on earth are you doing here?'

‘Just passing by.'

‘You came especially to see me, didn't you?'

‘Emphatically not,' said Archie. ‘Hoy, you.'

‘Me?' Angus mouthed, dabbing a finger to his chest.

‘Yes, you with the hair – is that a pig I see over there?'

‘What if it— Yes,' Angus said, remembering his manners. ‘It's a pig. It's mine. I mean, I look after him.'

‘Do you, indeed?' said Archie. ‘Well, I just hope you haven't given him some daft name like Sydney or – let me see – like Ron.'

Angus's mouth popped open. ‘How did you—' One eye screwed up with suspicion. ‘Mum told you, didn't she?'

‘If you think, young man, that your mother and I squander valuable man-hours discussing livestock then you're not as intelligent as you appear to be.'

‘Pardon?' said Angus.

‘Mr Harding,' Babs said, ‘this is my son.'

‘Ron?'

‘Angus,' Angus shouted.

‘Really!' said Archie. ‘You look more like a Ron to me.'

‘Oh, stop it,' said Babs softly. ‘He's only a wee lad.'

‘No, he's not,' said Archie. ‘He's a big lad.'

‘Now you're here,' Babs said, ‘just passing, perhaps you'd better come and meet the rest of my children.'

‘How many constitutes the rest?'

‘Three girls,' said Babs. ‘I've never asked you this before, Archie; do you like children?'

‘I'm a teacher,' said Archie. ‘Of course I don't like children.'

‘Are you serious?'

‘Perfectly.'

‘Oh!'

‘I much prefer pigs,' said Archie, loudly. ‘However, since I seem to have strayed into what amounts to a zoo, I suppose I might as well pretend to be nice in the hope that you'll offer me a cup of milk or a dish of tea. You.' He pointed at Angus and swung a leg from the saddle. ‘Fetch your sisters from yonder field and tell them not to bring me buttercups. I hate buttercups. Remember that for future reference. Mr Harding hates buttercups.'

‘Mum?' said Angus.

‘After which,' Archie went on, relentlessly, ‘you may take my steed – you may even ride my steed – to the stable, give him a good rub down with an oily rag and a bag of hay. Got that?'

‘Yee-ees.'

‘I take it you can ride a bicycle?'

‘Yee-ees.'

‘Then ride this one.' Archie lifted the boneshaker by the crossbar and hoisted it over the gate. ‘Come on, lad, take it before I change my mind.'

Angus glanced at Babs, who nodded assent, then, still slightly stunned by Mr Harding's gab, grasped the bicycle by the handle-bars, wheeled it experimentally on to the grass behind the stable-barn, eased himself up on to the saddle and wobbled away into the field to fetch his sisters.

Babs and Archie watched the boy find balance and pedal off.

Archie said, ‘You don't mind me dropping in like this, do you?'

‘Course not,' said Babs. ‘Now you're here I suppose you'd better come and be introduced to the rest of the family.'

‘In these shorts?'

‘Better with,' said Babs, ‘than without.'

Then, taking him by the arm, she led him towards the farmhouse door.

*   *   *

It was, Kenny realised, the first time that Rosie and he had walked out together since the war began. It felt very odd to be strolling beside his wife along Great Western Road on a fine mild Sunday afternoon, even odder to be pushing a go-chair with a toddler strapped into it.

They were heading in the general direction of the Botanical Gardens but Kenny knew that they would never reach the Gardens, that somewhere along the way they would find a café, pop in for a cup of tea and a dish of ice cream then turn about and head for home. He didn't much care. He was happy not to be stuck in St Andrew's Street or diving about the city in pursuit of Irish bandits, meat-smugglers or would-be collaborators. Evidence of war was all around, of course. Shop windows were boarded up or sandbagged over, handsome sandstone tenements pitted with shrapnel, here and there a gap in the skyline, acres of waste ground heaped with debris to remind him that they were far from out of the woods.