Wives at War (20 page)

She experienced a wave of regret at the thought that she had betrayed not her husband but her aspirations by taking a stranger into her home, for Jackie didn't really look like Jackie any more. The scraped-bone flakiness had gone, and with a trim haircut and a weathered tan he looked like just the sort of guy she might have fallen for if she hadn't already been his wife.

She sucked back tears and bit her lip. ‘Lousy?' she said again. ‘It isn't lousy; it's lovely.'

‘You look like a bloody tart.'

‘Well, I'm not a tart – or maybe I am. Maybe that's what you always liked about me, Jackie. What are you doing here anyway?'

‘Leave.'

‘How long?'

‘Ten days.'

‘Then?'

‘Embarkation. The desert, most like,' said Jackie.

‘Hey, I'm sorry,' Christy said.

‘For what?' said Jackie.

He untangled himself from the taps of the cooker, wrestling with webbing and the weight of his greatcoat. His cap had fallen off and his hair, Babs noticed, had a sprinkling of grey in it. Same old Hallop ears, though, sticking out like handles on a milk jug.

‘Listen,' Christy said, ‘I took the shot when Babs wasn't expecting it. She didn't realise I intended to have it published. She didn't even know I was a photographer. I guess you've every right to be mad about the photograph but whatever else you're thinking – well, it hasn't happened and it never will.'

‘Sod it!' said Jackie, hoarsely. ‘Right now I'm too knackered to care. Where are the kids?'

‘April's asleep next door. The rest are still out at Blackstone.'

‘Aw yeah,' Jackie said. ‘Well, tomorrow I'll go get them back.'

*   *   *

Since the night of the air raid Polly had continued to sleep in the larder.

She found the little cubby more comforting than claustrophobic. She had a lamp, a card table and a chair, a flask of hot tea, a wireless and three or four books on the shelf above the cot. The space, still smelling faintly of coffee beans and cheese, was more than adequate for her needs. She preferred it to the gloomy wasteland of the master bedroom and the double bed she had shared with Dominic. Snug in the cot, covered with blankets and a feather quilt, she could read, listen to the wireless or simply drowse and dream in peace and quiet.

Room by room, piece by piece, she had gradually deserted the parts of the house she had once shared with Dominic and the children.

The front parlour, with its broken window and bomb scars, was all but sealed off; the dining room too. Even the airy little breakfast room with its French doors overlooking the garden seemed too open and exposed for Polly these days. She made do with the lavatory under the stairs, washed in the kitchen and climbed up to the bathroom and bedrooms only when it became necessary to bathe, fish out clean clothes or refill her handbag with perfume, lipstick and make-up.

She preferred the basement kitchen and her burrow down in the roots of the mansion, and if she had been less self-centred and hermetical she might even have surrendered to the demands of the local billeting officers and handed the place over to the homeless.

Fin, of course, would have none of it. He needed comfort, space, gloom, the luxury of the big cold master bedroom and a double bed for his Saturday night performance. But as Fin became ever more inventive in giving and taking sexual pleasure, Polly found herself longing not for Dom or Tony but only for peace and privacy and the solitude of her cubbyhole downstairs.

She wasn't asleep when the doorbell rang.

If she had been asleep it's doubtful if she would have heard anything short of a thousand-pounder exploding in the garden.

She no longer needed quantities of gin to push her into unconsciousness. She fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, cradled in the knowledge that now she had fallen in love again she would waken to a nice, shiny-bright new day filled with all sorts of promises and possibilities.

The doorbell continued to ring.

She slid out of the cot, threw an overcoat over her pyjamas, glanced at the clock on the card table and gave a little
tsk
of annoyance at the lateness of the hour. Convinced that it would be some officious Civil Defence officer come to tell her that light was leaking from her window – which it wasn't, of course – she followed the shaded beam of her pocket torch upstairs into the hall.

‘Who is it?'

‘Me.'

She didn't have to ask who ‘me' might be. He had been on her mind all evening long, all day in fact, and it seemed to her then that wishing had conjured him up out of the dank December air. She unbolted the door and opened it.

Christy had a bag with him, a canvas holdall slung over his shoulder. He gave a little shrug of apology and said, ‘You wouldn't happen to have a spare bed lying empty, by any chance?'

‘Several.' Polly closed and bolted the door behind him. ‘Did Babs throw you out or did you just tire of her jolly patter and jump ship?'

‘Jackie turned up unexpectedly.'

‘What?'

‘Embarkation leave. No warning.'

‘Did he— I mean, you and Babs weren't…?'

‘Nope, but we might as well have been.'

‘Presumably Jackie saw the
Brockway's
photograph?'

‘Sure did.'

‘And threw you out?'

‘I threw myself out. I mean, hell, the guy's heading for the Western Desert in ten days' time. It's his house, after all.'

‘And his wife,' said Polly. ‘Why did you come round here?'

‘Babs said you wouldn't mind.'

‘What if I do mind?'

‘I guess I'll have to sleep in the park.'

Polly laughed. She couldn't help herself. She thought of the double bed upstairs with its fresh white linen sheets and gigantic peacock-patterned eiderdown and also of the cot downstairs, so tight and narrow and warm.

She jerked the torch, tossing a faint beam of light to the head of the stairs.

‘Down there,' she said.

His fingers found the flesh of her wrist.

He tapped the bone, two or three quick little taps, like code.

‘Is it really okay with you?' he asked.

‘Of course it is,' said Polly.

*   *   *

It had been a long time since Babs had looked at her body from that peculiar angle. She saw a stomach ribboned with silvery stretch marks, a tuft of coarse brown hair, plump knees and calves and small feet – though not as small as Polly's – braced against the bed end.

Raising her head, she watched Jackie step out of his army trousers and lay them neatly across a chair. He had never been one for holding back and she was puzzled by his patience. He was ready for her, that much was obvious, but there was something different about him, something reticent, almost modest.

‘Hurry, darlin', hurry,' she whispered with more urgency than she felt.

In fact, she felt as if she were speaking his lines for him, trying to erase the months of separation and restore the Jackie of old, brash and bold and ever so impatient to be getting on with it. But he was wary now and deliberate, not the same. Perhaps nothing between them would ever be the same, not until the war was over and the children came home and she had time to make amends.

He had insisted on leaving the ceiling light on. The bulb in its tasselled shade hung over her, swaying slightly in the draft from the hall. He had gone to look in on April but hadn't lifted her up, had let her sleep. He had looked at April with the same indifference as he looked down on her now. Babs wondered what had changed in him, if she had changed him, if one lousy photograph, one trivial misjudgement on her part had made all the difference or if it was something out there, something else.

He folded his shirt, smoothing out the creases, and placed it on top of his trousers on the chair.

Given the state of him up front, his patience seemed ridiculous, almost farcical. It was as if he were preparing himself for a kit inspection, not to make love to her for the first time in months.

She sat up. ‘For God's sake, Jackie, what's wrong with you?'

‘It's been a long time, Babs, a bloody long time.'

She tried to make light of it. ‘Don't tell me you've forgotten how?'

He didn't laugh, didn't even crack a smile.

He said, ‘I thought you'd wait for me.'

She punched the mattress furiously with her fist. ‘I
did
wait for you. I
did.
Damn it, Jackie, why don't you believe me?'

‘I didn't say I didn't.'

‘Is it that stupid photo? If it is, I'll—'

‘Stand up.'

‘Pa'din?'

‘Go on, stand up. Lemme look at you.'

She rose from the bed and stood before him, more awkward and self-conscious now than she had been when she'd lain on her back with everything on show. She didn't know what to do with her hands, how to position her legs, whether he expected modesty or contrition.

He said, ‘Has he been out on ma bike?'

‘What?'

‘The lodger; has he been ridin' ma motorbike?'

She had all but forgotten about the Excelsior tucked under a big green tarpaulin in the shed at the side of the bungalow. She hadn't seen the motorcycle since the last time Angus had been home and had insisted she let him sit on it. A tremor of pure rage shot through her. Jackie hadn't been thinking about her at all. He had only been going through the motions.

‘No,' she said. ‘Christy doesn't even know it's there.'

‘That's all right then,' Jackie said, nodding.

He wore an army vest of heavy wool, discoloured by careless washing. He tugged it over his head, folded it and put it too on the chair. His chest was hairless but no longer shrunken. He wasn't fat, would never be fat, but he had acquired muscle, little hard strands and straps of muscle that altered his shape and made him appear strong. He looked, she thought, as smooth and hard as a leather saddle. Her willingness to let him make love to her suddenly flared into need. Impulsively, she flung up an arm, fingers flared, tossed back her head and cocked her hip, mocking the pose in which Christy had caught her that drab November morning on her way to work.

‘Is this it?' she said, pouting. ‘Is this what you want?'

‘Aye,' Jackie said, soberly. ‘I think maybe it is.'

She turned away, peeled back the bedclothes, leaped into bed and drew the sheet up to her chin.

‘All right,' she said, huskily. ‘If you want it, come and get it.'

‘Aw hell!' said Jackie. ‘Maybe I will at that.'

Kicking off his underpants, he heaved himself into bed beside her and, with all his old impatience, bridged her hips, kissed her on the nose and eagerly set to.

*   *   *

They were seated on opposite sides of the kitchen table. He drank whisky. She sipped tea and casually turned the pages of the magazine.

‘Where did you take this one?' Polly asked.

‘South Street, close to the docks.'

‘And the girls in the locker room?'

‘Ostler's.'

‘Didn't the girls mind taking their clothes off for you?'

‘I told them to forget I was there.'

‘Easier said than done,' said Polly. ‘Why did you photograph Babs?'

‘I don't know,' Christy said, shrugging. ‘I liked the look of her, I guess.'

‘Did you tell her how to pose?'

‘Heck, no! I don't make pictures, I find pictures.'

‘An artist with a camera,' said Polly.

‘I'm no artist. I'm a craftsman, that's all. Camera artists are notoriously slow when it comes to producing the goods. Commercial pressure speeds up your reflexes and you learn not to chew the rug when something gets ruined in processing. Most of the time you work in a vacuum, though, because you can't see what's on the negatives. You shoot the stuff, label the rolls, fill in the caption forms and ship the batch out as fast as you can. All that matters is the feel of the shot and your timing. Sometimes you're lucky, most times you ain't.'

‘Were you lucky with Babs?'

‘Sure.'

‘How would you photograph me?'

‘I wouldn't even try,' Christy said.

‘Why not? Amn't I pretty enough?'

‘I wouldn't photograph you,' Christy said, ‘because I'd never be able to catch you off guard long enough to make it seem natural.'

‘You just beggared the question.'

‘I know I did.'

Polly turned a page, not looking at him.

‘When you shoot photographs in a war zone,' Christy went on, ‘you learn to stop motion just before the obvious point; that way you capture the unexpected.'

‘But this isn't a war zone,' Polly said. ‘In spite of what you told me out at the farm, all that doom and gloom and prophetic fantasy, I don't think the Germans will invade Britain now.' She paused. ‘Am I not unexpected enough for you?'

‘I didn't expect you to be the way you are, if that's what you mean.'

‘How did you think I'd be? Like Babs?' She glanced up. ‘Am I embarrassing you, Mr Cameron?'

‘Yeah, you are.'

She closed the magazine. ‘Did you study photography at college?'

‘My old man didn't earn enough to send us to college,' Christy said. ‘Jamie bummed around for a couple of years after he left high school, then enlisted in the navy. I talked my way into a job as a darkroom assistant at Brockway's. Brockway's was more of a newspaper in those days, running splash stories under big banner headlines. I worked for a guy named Eiber, a German, one of the best photographers in the business. I made the coffee, fetched the doughnuts, lugged equipment, delivered photos, anything and everything. He called me his little
Laufbub
, which is German for “gofer”, so pretty soon that's who I became – Bub Cameron.'

He took a mouthful of whisky and held it in his cheek for a moment. ‘Poor old Fritzy Eiber drank himself into an early grave. Most of the rest of the guys in the old Brockway's gang from twenty years back are still around, though, still chasing the news, still stalking the unexpected.'