Wives at War (2 page)

When the porridge and story were finished Babs would pour a spoonful of Scott's Emulsion from the bottle with the fisherman on the label. April would make a face and swallow the nasty stuff and Babs would give her a fruit pastille to take away the taste, then, downing a last mouthful of tea, would open the kitchen door and admit chill air from the hallway.

Slippers, stockings, knickers – little accidents do happen – handkerchiefs, a clean facecloth and towel were stuffed into a small canvas satchel, the gas-mask container secured on its green cord and April, equipped like a soldier of the line, was ready for the road at last. Hat, overcoat, scarf, gloves. Fags and matches popped into the floppy shoulder bag that had replaced Babs's neat little pre-war purse. Straighten stockings, cram on flat-heeled shoes. Switch off the fire. Turn off the gas and unlock the front door. Then, hand in hand, mother and daughter went down the steps to the pavement.

When the cold knuckled her nose and lips, April uttered her only words of complaint. ‘Dark, Mummy,' she said dolefully, glancing up at the sky. ‘Cold.'

‘Yes, dear,' Babs told her, ‘but it won't be for long now.'

Babs knew it was selfish of her to keep April here, that the little girl would be safer and more comfortable boarded out at Blackstone with her sisters and brother. In September, soon after she'd started work, guilt had prompted her to leave the baby at the farm for a long weekend, but fond imaginings of wild nights on the town, of drinking cocktails and dancing until dawn had swiftly evaporated and she'd been back at Blackstone by Sunday lunch time and home again before sundown with April safe in her arms.

She loved all her children, of course, but not equally. There was something rather sinister about May and June, who had a feline habit of not being around when chores were being allotted or mischief uncovered. Dougie Giffard had their measure, however, and his subtle tactics had added a degree of uncertainty to the girls' self-assurance, which, Babs thought, was no bad thing. She missed Angus more than she missed the girls, but her pining, such as it was, was tempered by the fact that being around Angus for any length of time exhausted both her patience and her energy.

She had to admit, though, that Blackstone and Angus were made for each other. The farm offered space, freedom and plenty of interesting things to do. Her son could still be as noisy as a cage full of monkeys, could trumpet like an elephant, or roar like a lion when something displeased him but he had also learned how to be quiet, like an Indian scout or a jungle explorer, and let the wonders of wood, moor and hillside soak into him, along with all the wonders of fringe warfare that buzzed about the country roads and the streets of Breslin, the posh little community where he and his sisters schooled.

Babs groped her way along Raines Drive into Holloway Road. She had tried using a shielded pocket torch but had found it so ineffectual that carrying the thing was more trouble than it was worth. Fortunately April was capable of navigating the route without bumping into hedges or lampposts and it was she, not Babs, who led them to the door of the Millses' house.

The Hallops were usually last to arrive. Five or six children would already be ensconced in Mrs Mills' front room, drinking piping hot cocoa and looking, rather sleepily, at the tinted photographs of Mount Fuji and Mount Etna that decorated the walls. On the piano top were a stuffed blowfish and a big conch shell. On the mantel above the gas fire were a row of Chinese figurines carved out of soapstone and a strange, spindly clock with a painted face that played waltz tunes when Mr Mills remembered to wind it.

Mr Mills was a retired ship's engineer. He was bald now and his legs were so bowed that he needed two sticks to walk with. Mrs Mills, on the other hand, was a tall upright woman with a mane of silvery hair and a vigorous manner. The war had roused the couple from retirement and six days each week they looked after seven very young children whose mothers were on early shift.

Rain, hale or shine at eight bells precisely the little band would be herded out into Holloway Road, old Mr Mills chugging in front and stately Mrs Mills sailing behind, and off they would go to the nursery school in the church hall in Bonniewell Street. In the evening, light or dark, Mrs M. would collect those who needed collecting and keep them snug in her parlour, listening to the wireless or playing games, until their mums came to pick them up.

It was all very organised, all very civilised, but when a child fell ill – ‘Scarlet fever? Don't tell me it's scarlet fever?' – or when, as happened, Mrs M. had one of her turns and was carted off to hospital, the pattern broke down. If there was one thing Babs feared more than bombs or gas attacks or, God help us, Jackie being run over by a tank, it was a breakdown in routine.

The double-decker tram that carried her on the first leg of her journey to the office was packed with shipwrights and factory hands. Strap hanging, she fumbled in her bag, fished out fags and matches, lit a cigarette and hung there, smoking, while the men listlessly ignored her.

She wondered if they ever wondered what she did, what she was. She hoped that the black skirt and swagger overcoat gave the impression that she was a woman of authority but if any of the men were taken in they gave no sign of it and huddled disconsolately in their boiler suits and greasy overcoats, smoking and scanning the early editions of the
Daily Record
for the latest football scores and news about the war.

Babs changed trams, waited, then boarded a little single-decker for the long haul down to St Jerome's Cross. By the time the tram reached Aerodrome Road she was usually the only passenger left on board.

Grey daylight seeped through the cloud. The flat horizon bristled with isolated farmsteads and the cranes and derricks of the shipyards. She smoked another cigarette, picked lint from her skirt, and felt as desolate as the not-quite-rural landscape through which she travelled. Then with a shriek of brakes the tram shuddered to a halt and a solitary passenger climbed on to the platform from the roadside.

He fumbled with coins, frowned, asked the conductor a question, shook his head, paid his fare, moved inside and seated himself on the long bench as far away from Babs as possible. The tram started up and, gathering speed, rattled along the edge of the old aerodrome between the melancholy potato fields.

Babs glanced along the aisle and gave the stranger a tentative smile. He did not respond. He stared down at his shoes, not shoes but thick-soled rubberised half-boots laced up to the ankle. His trousers, corduroys, were tucked into the top of his boots. A folded newspaper was stuck down against his calf like a splint. He wore a heavy reefer jacket of navy-blue flannel and a thick roll-collar pepper-and-salt sweater, no cap or hat. He was short in stature, sallow, with a mop of curly black hair. Babs thought he looked vaguely Italian.

The tram didn't stop again and the man didn't look up until the tram reached St Jerome's Cross.

‘End o' the line, Jim,' the conductor shouted.

The man leapt to his feet and got off.

Babs stepped down to the cobbles by the side of the tracks and glanced right and left. Something about the guy disturbed her, something odd, something alien. In spite of his haste to leave the tram, he seemed to be in no hurry now. He wandered to the pavement in front of the greengrocer's and looked about him with an air of bewilderment.

Babs was tempted to go over and ask if he were lost but she was already five minutes late and didn't want to give Archie a stick to beat her with.

She turned on her heel and set off for the corner of Cyprus Street.

When she glanced round again the man had gone.

*   *   *

It was an exceptionally busy spell in Cyprus Street and three days slid past before Babs had an opportunity to put the question to Archie Harding.

Changes to the schedule of reserve occupations had thrown several spanners into several works and Archie had been glued to the telephone all morning trying to placate an assistant labour supply officer from Clydebank, who had somehow got it into his head that the south shore of the river was lined with highly trained, able-bodied men that Archie was keeping to himself.

Shortly after two o'clock Babs heard the telephone slam down and the long, wolf-like cry that Archie emitted when he'd had enough of bureaucracy. A moment later he came trotting out of the office and went into the toilet.

Babs filled the kettle and put it on the gas ring. She unwrapped the sandwiches that Archie's mother had made for his lunch, very genteel sandwiches with soft brown crusts. Archie's Mama was proud of her one-and-only, for he was the first Harding ever to obtain a university degree. He had been two years into a teaching career at Paisley Grammar when war had broken out and because of his bad eyesight he had been conscripted into the civil service instead of the army.

Drying his hands on a damp towel, Archie appeared from the toilet, glasses hanging from one ear. He peered in her general direction, groped about his cheek, found his glasses, resettled them on the bridge of his nose, glowered at her and said, ‘Is there no tea?'

‘There will be in a minute,' Babs said. ‘Go on, sit down. I'll bring it in when it's ready – and your sandwiches.'

‘Corned beef,' Archie sighed. ‘Ah well, better than nothing, I suppose.'

He returned to the inner office but left the door ajar.

Babs made tea, placed the sandwiches on a plate and carried the lot into the office on a tin tray. Archie had taken the telephone off the hook and was sprawled in the chair with his hands behind his head. Babs slid the tray carefully on to the desk, poured tea into the cup.

Archie watched her warily.

‘What?' he said.

‘Eat,' Babs instructed him.

He lifted the teacup in both hands, blew on the surface of the liquid, steaming his glasses. He sipped, then said again, ‘What?'

‘May I ask you a question?'

He grunted. ‘I knew you'd something on your mind. You've been hovering all day just waiting to catch me unawares. Out with it.'

Babs seated herself on the interview chair and tugged her skirt over her knees. She watched him lift a sandwich, sniff it, bite into it.

‘Archie,' she said, ‘do you believe in spies?'

‘Spies?' He chewed reflectively then said, ‘Might as well ask if I believe in fairies. Spies, do I believe in spies?'

‘How about an answer?' Babs said.

‘Yes certainly, assuredly, I do believe in spies. The enemy is everywhere. That Belfast woman who came in the other day, the one with the moustache, she was probably a spy. The old bloke with the limp and the glass eye – one of the Gestapo's finest. And I'll swear Hermann Goering was seated behind me on the bus this morning, peering over my shoulder at my
Times Educational Supplement.
'

‘Be serious.'

Archie filled his cheeks with bread and beef. ‘All right, it's been a long morning and I could do with a good laugh. Tell me, dear, where did you run into this spy of yours?'

‘On the tram, on the Aerodrome Road.'

‘It isn't called that now. It's been renamed to confuse Jerry pilots.'

‘Damn it, Archie!'

‘Go on, go on.'

‘I've seen him every day this week,' Babs said. ‘He gets on at a stop in the back of beyond and gets off at the Cross. He doesn't appear to be
doing
anything. He rides the tram to the Cross then just sort of hangs around.'

‘Perhaps he's starting a queue for bananas.'

‘Arch—'

‘What's suspicious about him?'

‘I'm sure he isn't British.'

‘Italian?'

‘Possible but hardly likely.'

‘He could be a Greek,' Archie suggested.

‘I wouldn't know what a Greek looks like,' said Babs.

‘Well, lots of foreign seamen are hanging round the port these days,' said Archie. ‘I wouldn't worry about it.'

‘He has a camera.'

‘Ah!' Archie sat up. ‘Now that's different.'

‘I only noticed it this morning. He keeps it hidden under his jacket. It's a tiny wee thing, the camera. Never seen one like it before.'

‘How small?'

Babs squared a postage stamp of air with her fingertips. ‘'Bout this size.'

‘God, that is small,' said Archie.

‘Secret weapon?' Babs said.

‘Could be,' Archie admitted. ‘Could just be. When you noticed the camera – I mean, did he see you?'

‘Yep.'

‘How did he react?'

‘Sort of…' Babs shrugged.

‘Furtively?'

‘That's it – furtively,' said Babs. ‘He stuck it up his jumper real quick. What could he possibly be photographing round here? There's nothing round here but shipyards.'

‘And an aerodrome. And an ordnance factory. And the fuel dump.'

‘Fuel dump?'

‘In the warehouses over the wall.'

‘You're kiddin' me,' said Babs.

‘Packed to the roof with emergency fuel. Didn't you know?'

‘No.'

‘What did you think those big lorries were delivering – ginger beer?'

‘What if there's a daylight raid and a bomb falls on—'

Archie cut her off. ‘Don't be morbid.'

‘But if it happened, if it did, what would become of us?'

‘They'd be sweeping us up with a dustpan,' Archie said. ‘However, just so long as your spy doesn't have a detonator stuffed up his jumper at least he can't do us much harm – if he's a spy at all, that is.'

‘What should we do?'

‘Tell you what,' Archie said, ‘tomorrow morning, you challenge him.'

‘Challenge?' said Babs. ‘Like, “Halt, who goes there?”'

‘Not precisely the phrase I had in mind,' said Archie. ‘More like “Fine morning, is it not, kind sir?”'

‘What if it's raining?'