Wives at War (11 page)

Tucked into a corner of the envelope was a letter pencilled on a page torn from a notebook in a language Babs could not decipher. It wasn't French or Italian but it might, she thought, be German.

It was signed by someone called ‘Ewa'.

Christy Cameron was not what Babs had imagined him to be. What she had mistaken for charm was in fact character, far too much character for her to cope with. The snapshots and the letter, to say nothing of six dozen French letters, gave him substance, a shape that she could not define. She wondered what he was doing here; not his purpose, which might be explained in due course, but his proximity. How could she possibly be attracted to a man who had so much more substance than she had?

She put all the stuff back into the bag, returned the bags to the top of the wardrobe then went into the living room and poured herself a drink.

Seated in Jackie's armchair before the embers of the fire, her plump, competent fingers trembled slightly as she brought the glass to her lips. At that moment she was afraid of her Yankee lodger and the wealth of suffering and experience that he had brought into her life, a wealth of suffering and experience that she had no wish to share.

At midnight she went to bed.

*   *   *

It was after midnight before Kenny got home. One of the ‘businessmen' under lock and key in Greenock Prison had shown signs of cracking under interrogation and he had stayed on to press his advantage.

Mr McVicar was waiting for him at the close mouth to tell him that Rosie had collapsed at work and had been taken to Redlands Hospital. Panic and annoyance took possession of Kenny's reason. How could he possibly juggle a sick wife and the demands of the job? If Fiona had been home there wouldn't have been a problem, but Fiona was far away. He would have to rely on his mother-in-law. He ran out into the street and flagged down a taxi.

He reached Redlands at one o'clock in the morning.

Two soon-to-be fathers, one of them a soldier, were pacing up and down the corridor, smoking furiously. There was a commotion outside the delivery room where some sort of crisis demanded the full attention of midwives and doctors. He heard a woman scream, shrill as a copper's whistle, as he climbed the staircase to Rosie's ward.

The ward sister was manifestly reluctant to let him enter but, in view of his occupation, granted him five minutes at his wife's bedside.

Rosie was asleep.

He spoke to her very softly.

He touched her hand. He brushed hair from her damp brow. He straightened the sheet. He spoke to her again, less softly.

Rosie did not waken.

He felt little or nothing when the sister gave him the news about the baby. He asked a couple of questions, was given answers of a sort. He looked at Rosie, who had colour in her cheeks and seemed to be breathing evenly, who even snorted a little when he kissed her brow.

‘When may I take her home?'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘Early tomorrow? First thing in the morning?'

‘You can't stay here overnight.'

‘I know. Say six o'clock tomorrow morning?'

‘Half-past, not before.'

‘She is well enough to go home, I take it?'

‘Of course,' the sister said. ‘I assume there will be a female person on hand to care for her if she should require nursing for a day or two?'

‘I'll make sure of it,' said Kenny.

He went by cab to Knightwood, told the cabbie to wait.

Bernard answered the door.

Kenny did not go into the house.

An arrangement was quickly reached; Lizzie would come to Cowcaddens tomorrow morning and look after Rosie while he went to work.

He rode the cab back to St Andrew's Street, scrounged a meal in the all-night canteen and went to his office to try to snatch some sleep. His eyes were slitted with exhaustion and his limbs lead-heavy, but his brain just wouldn't stop whirring. At length he put on his overcoat and climbed the narrow staircase to the roof.

It was a fine night, without much moon. He could see stars, though, and the faint effervescent glow that the city gave off even under blackout. They would be working in armaments factories, steel mills, shipyards, in all the manufactories, small and large, that supplied materials for the war effort. He was no longer sure what his contribution to the war effort added up to, especially when he thought of the two stubborn, whey-faced men in the cell at Greenock prison, self-important provincial tycoons who had traded with the enemy.

‘Mr MacGregor, sir. Is that you?'

‘It is.'

‘Didn't think you were on tonight, sir.'

‘I'm not. I'm just taking a breath of air. How is it? Quiet?'

‘Quiet as the grave, sir, quiet as the grave.'

Kenny leaned on the stone parapet, looking down at the river, a cigarette cupped in the palm of his hand. He had lost a son yesterday, or a daughter, a child he hadn't known existed. If he had known, if he'd lived with the knowledge for a week or two he might have felt more than he did. He was upset by the fact that he could feel no grief for the child who had never been.

At ten past six he left St Andrew's Street in a taxicab to pick up Rosie, who, he reckoned – rightly, as it happened – would blame him for the miscarriage just as she blamed him for everything else.

5

Every weekday morning Dougie escorted the children to school at Breslin Cross. May and June strutted along in their Wellingtons and little green overcoats while Angus loped by Dougie's side, prattling about the weather, the pig, barrage balloons, and the possibility that one of these days his dad would come back from repairing tanks and take him out for a ride on his motorcycle. When the children were safe inside the gates Dougie would buy a newspaper and ten Woodbine and stroll back to the farm, free until half-past three, when he would pick the little blighters up again.

On Sundays Babs came visiting but left again in mid-afternoon to be home before dark. Polly came midweek, usually on a Wednesday afternoon. Polly thought nothing of picking her way down the farm track long after nightfall to catch the last train from Breslin railway station and more often than not, Dougie would walk a piece with her, for since he'd – almost – stopped drinking his legs had regained their youthful spring and being cooped up indoors even in winter made him restless.

He was startled to see Polly in Breslin main street at nine o'clock on Tuesday morning, however. She stood under the faded canopy of the newsagent's shop wearing a Rodex overcoat, a tweed hat and calf-length boots that made her look more aristocratic than half the titled landowners in the county. He sallied up to her, feigning nonchalance.

‘You're up early. What happened? Fall out o' bed this mornin'?'

‘I need to talk to you,' Polly said.

‘Are you comin' up to the farm?'

‘No. I have to get back to Glasgow.'

‘Serious stuff then, is it?'

‘Probably,' Polly said. ‘Is there somewhere we can take tea?'

‘At this hour?' Dougie said. ‘I doubt it.' At least it was dry, and since the sun had come up there was a hint of warmth in the dank November air. ‘Tearoom at the railway station might be open. We'll walk down that way on the off chance.'

Polly fell into step beside him. ‘I've had a message from Dominic.'

‘Telephone or letter?' Dougie asked.

‘Neither – a messenger boy.'

‘Surely not old Tony Lombard?'

‘No,' said Polly curtly. ‘A man I've never met before. An American.'

‘What does he want?'

‘My money,' said Polly.

‘How much?'

‘All of it.'

‘Uh-huh,' said Dougie. ‘For what?'

‘To send abroad.'

‘To New York?'

‘No,' Polly said. ‘To Italy.'

‘Why are you talkin' to me?' Dougie said. ‘Why not ask your friend Mr Hughes for advice? Is that not what y' pay him for?'

‘You've known Dominic longer than any of us.'

Dougie said, ‘Has this got anythin' to do with dud banknotes?'

‘Not a thing.'

‘Thank God for that,' said Dougie, and led her down the steep wooden steps to the railway tearoom, which had just thrown open its doors.

*   *   *

Kenny had never felt so trapped. Lizzie Peabody hadn't shown up yet, the clock was ticking away like a time bomb, and he was stuck in the kitchen of the flat in Cowcaddens with dirty dishes piled in the sink, the bed unmade and little or no food in the larder. Perhaps he should have come home last night and tidied up but he'd been so weary and had so much on his mind that he'd selfishly sought refuge in the office. What he found most depressing, though, was that Rosie had been on his back since the moment he'd picked her up at Redlands. If she hadn't been deaf he might have been tempted to forget himself and give her a telling off. He had been brought up to respect women, though, and under the layers of annoyance and anxiety, he was grieving too, grieving at last for Rosie and the lost infant.

When he'd tried to put his arm about her in the taxi, she'd pushed him roughly away. He'd hesitated, then told her, ‘I've arranged for your mother to come over and take care of you.'

‘Where will you be?'

‘Rosie, I'm sorry but I do have to go to work.'

‘
Work!
' she'd shouted. ‘You don't cuh-care about me, do you?'

‘That's not true.'

‘You don't cuh-care about the baby.'

‘Rosie, I didn't know about the baby.'

‘Well, I don't care about the baby. I'm glad it's gone.'

‘Oh, Rosie, for God's sake don't say that.'

‘No place for babies in this world.'

‘We can try again, when you're feeling better.'

‘Better! I never felt better in my life.'

‘You'll have to rest for a day or two. Your mother—'

‘I am going back to work tomorrow.'

‘No.' He'd shaped the words firmly. ‘No, you are not.'

‘No work, no pay.'

Bolt upright, she had turned her head away and stared out at the streets and he had no means of reaching her. He had thought of the hollow place where the foetus had lain and for a split second had felt tears swell under his eyelids. Perhaps that's what she wanted from him. Perhaps she wanted to reduce him to tears, to make him mourn in her stead.

Rosie had elbowed him hard in the ribs. ‘Who else have you told?'

‘Nobody, just your mother and Bernard.'

‘Why didn't you tell Polly?'

‘I couldn't get in touch with her.'

‘What about Babs?'

‘I – I didn't have time. I'll telephone her at her office.'

‘Nuh-nuh.'

‘She'll need to be told, Rosie.'

‘She nuh-needs to be told nothing of the sort.'

‘Rosie—'

‘Over. Done with.'

She'd sunk back on the leather bench, shaking with the irregular rhythm of the wheels on the cobbles and had smiled a twisted little smile.

‘Back to work tomorrow,' she'd said. ‘No rest for the wuh-wicked.'

He'd no longer had the strength to argue with her.

While he'd settled the fare with the cabbie, Rosie had run upstairs and before he'd reached the door, had let herself into the flat and was dumping a kettleful of water on to the stove.

She lit the gas ring with a match.

‘I'll do that,' Kenny said.

‘I can do it myself.'

‘What do you want, tea?'

‘Hot water. To wash away the hospital stink.'

‘Look,' he said, ‘let me do it. It's freezing in here. I'll make the bed and put in a hot-water bottle and you can—'

‘Why didn't you come to see me?'

‘I did,' Kenny said. ‘I told you, I did. You were sound asleep.'

‘You should have been there sooner.'

‘I couldn't … I mean, the hospital couldn't get in touch with me. I was in Greenock all day and half the night.' She was at the sink, paddling her hands in tap water. He leaned on the board to make sure that she could read his lips. ‘I came to the hospital as soon as I heard. Didn't the nurses tell you? Of course they told you. If they hadn't told you, you wouldn't have been ready to leave with me this morning.' She pursed her lips. Water trickled through her fingers into the sink. ‘Rosie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the baby, really and truly sorry.'

‘I'm not.' She tried to mimic his voice but it came out as a quack. ‘I'm glad. I don't want to bring a baby into this horrible world and if you think you're going to have fun trying for another one, you can thuh-think again, Kenny MacGregor.'

‘I'll make the bed.'

‘And you can bloody well lie on it,' Rosie said and, quite violently, tugged at the blackout curtain and let milky daylight flood the room.

*   *   *

In the tearoom, talking:

‘Now hold on,' Dougie said. ‘See if I've got this right. This man, this Yank, turns up out o' the blue, worms his way into Babs's good books an' camps in her house. When he meets you, he immediately claims he's workin' for the American Government an' Dominic's offered money to the partisans in Italy an' expects you just t' hand it over. When did he tell you all this?'

‘I met him for the first time last night.'

‘What's his name again?'

‘Cameron.'

‘Did he show his papers?'

‘No, but then I didn't ask to see them.'

‘Is he a chancer, d'you think?'

‘I don't know what to think,' said Polly, ‘that's why I'm here.'

‘What you're askin' me,' Dougie said, ‘is whether or not your hubby is committed enough to the Communists to send all his dough to Italy.'

‘Communists? Nobody mentioned Communists. Dominic supported all sorts of political groups but he was never a member of any particular party.'