Wives at War (26 page)

‘Our assets—'

‘What assets?'

‘The lease on the warehouse,' Polly said. ‘We could sell the lease on the warehouse. Lincoln Stephens are desperate to buy the place, are they not, and the original agreement will expire in – what – six months' time?'

‘Eight,' said Fin. ‘I thought you said you'd never sell the warehouse?'

‘No, I said I would hold on to it until Dominic came back.'

‘I see. Now you're not so sure that Dominic will come back.'

Hand to brow once more, Polly said, ‘I don't know what to think.'

Fin fashioned a courtly little bow. ‘Madam, I am your servant,' he said. ‘I am paid to do your thinking for you. So, if Dominic is in a bind regarding cash flow, allow me to see what can be done to raise the wind without selling off your assets or securities.'

‘By borrowing, do you mean?'

‘That is a possibility.'

‘Really?'

‘Really,' said Fin.

‘At what rate of interest?'

‘Obviously that remains to be seen,' said Fin. ‘Now are you sure I can't treat you to an early dinner? There's a rumour going about that the Caledonia Club has meat on the menu; beef, I believe, not horse. What do you say, old Polly, shall we sally forth and dine in solemn state?'

And in spite of her desire to hurry home to Christy, Polly forced a feeble smile and said, ‘Why not?'

*   *   *

No matter how Babs tried to kid herself that Jackie would come back in his own good time, when she got in from work she was dismayed to discover that he still hadn't returned. Before she removed April's coat and hat, she hurried outside to check that the motorbike was still missing, for she had a sudden dreadful feeling that poor Jackie might be lying mangled on a slab in the Southern General or, even worse, jiving the night away with some tart he'd picked up at the Palais.

‘Where's Christy?' April asked for the umpteenth time.

‘I told you, he's staying with Auntie Polly.'

‘Is Daddy staying with Auntie Polly too?'

‘No, honey, he's – he's gone to see Grandma.'

‘Grandma Lizzie?'

‘Grandma Hallop.'

‘Oh!' said April. ‘Poor Daddy.'

Babs strove to reassure herself that Jackie had probably gone drinking with his old man or one of his sisters' husbands and was having the time of his life; but Jackie had never been much of a drinking man and had no more time for his sisters, or their husbands, than she did.

She fried Spam, made chips, warmed up a tin of beans, fed herself and her daughter, washed up, lit the fire in the living room, bathed April and got her ready for bed. While April played on the rug in front of the fire, she rushed through a washing and hung clothes – Jackie's as well as April's – on the kitchen pulley, after which she went into the living room, sat April on her knee and read her a story from an old
Girl's Crystal Annual
, for April was fascinated by the mischief that passed for adventure before schoolgirls wore tin hats and siren suits and captured German spies in the classroom.

By half-past eight April was almost asleep. She made no protest when Babs carried her through to bed. She settled her head on the pillow, fluttered her eyelashes, murmured something that may have been ‘Good night' and sank instantly down into that unaffected place where little children go in search of dreams. Babs returned to the living room, poured herself a drink, lay back in the big armchair and closed her eyes.

She was too tense to fall asleep, too worried to dream. She thought of Christy seated with Polly in the spacious basement kitchen in Manor Park, of how much fun he would have with Polly and how Polly would flirt with him in the ladylike manner that she, Babs, had never been able to emulate. She thought of Jackie in his khaki greatcoat and stiff, constricting webbing and how stricken he'd been when he'd caught her with Christy. Drifting off now, she thought of Archie Harding peering at the parrot, Skipper, though the bars of a gilded cage while he lectured it on the value of industry in time of war.

Then she opened her eyes and sat up.

At first she thought the bombers had come again, then she realised it was only the sound of Jackie's motorcycle and a minute or two later he clumped into the living room without a word of greeting or apology.

He wore army-issue trousers, stockings and boots and the big ragged sweater he sported only when he rode the Excelsior. His hair, stiff with moist night air, stuck up like a halo around his head. His nose and ears were red and she could see the imprint of the goggles on his cheeks. There was no rage in him now, however, no trace of anger. He tugged off his gloves with his teeth and spread his fingers out to the flickering flames of the fire.

‘Well,' he said, ‘that was a bloody waste o' time.'

‘Didn't you see your mother?'

‘Aw yeah, I saw her all right.' Jackie seated himself on the matching armchair and began to unlace his boots. ‘She's got herself a job.'

‘A job?'

‘Aye, up at the steelworks.'

‘Your mother's a steelworker?'

‘Naw, naw, in the canteen. She loves it there. She does the bloody nightshift every time she's asked. Never been chirpier, never had more money comin' in. Jeeze, I hardly recognised her, all dolled up. Thinks she's a soddin' glamour puss just because the guys chat her up.'

Babs tried not to laugh at the notion of pint-sized Mrs Hallop being chatted up by anyone.

Head down, his fingers making hard work of his muddy bootlaces, Jackie went on, ‘She never even gave me ma dinner.'

‘Where's the old man these days? Still on the railway?'

‘Transport officer, that's what he calls himself. Sixty-one years old, pickled in draught heavy, an' some idiot upstairs makes him responsible for supervisin' the shipment o' dangerous freight.' Jackie seemed stunned by the rise in his family's fortunes. ‘I never knew none o' this. Not one o' the buggers thought t' drop me a line tellin' me what was goin' on. Did you not know, Babs, what was happenin' over there?'

‘Nope, it's all news to me,' Babs said.

She was relieved that he had come back to her, that disappointment had replaced anger and that her indiscretions had been swallowed up by the Hallops' indifference to their soldier son.

‘Went round to the sister's. She's out at the bloody fire station, mannin' the telephones. Her hubby's at home, pressin' his ARP uniform an' actin' like he was winnin' the war single-handed. The tosser couldn't even spare five minutes for to come out for a pint.'

‘So where have you been all night?'

Jackie abandoned the bootlaces. He flopped back in the armchair and arched his arms over his head the way Angus did when he was about to sulk. ‘I drove down to Govan to see if I could get into the Rowin' Club. Remember the Rowin' Club, Dominic's hideout? By God, the times we had there.'

‘Jackie…'

‘I know, I know. It's not the Rowin' Club any more.'

‘It's for servicemen, for sweethearts,' Babs said, frowning. ‘Is that where you were all night, Jackie?'

‘Fat bloody chance!' He paused, sighed loudly, then confessed. ‘They wouldn't let me in. Two big bruisers wi' dog collars on – Christians, some Christians! – said I wasn't bony fleddy.'

‘Bony fleddy?'

‘Aye, like in Latin, like bloody RCs.'

‘Bona fide.'
Babs had acquired an accurate pronunciation from Archie. ‘Didn't you tell them you were a soldier?'

‘Never had my paybook nor ID on me.'

‘Oh, Jackie.' She put the whisky glass down on the carpet and kneeled before him. ‘Oh, Jackie, what a slap in the face that was.'

‘Wasn't it, but? I told them I'd be fightin' the Eyeties eyeball to eyeball when they were singin' carols round the manger, but they never took no heed. I bought a fish supper an' went back home – I mean to Ma's house. He was out an' she never came in until half-past one, then all she wanted to talk about was what this guy had said to her an' what that guy had done – that, an' our Dennis. Now he's a real hero, our bloody Dennis, even though he's in the Fleet Air Arm. Know why? Because he's been blown up twice.'

‘I didn't know that,' said Babs, alarmed. ‘Is he all right?'

‘Don't you start.'

‘No, Jackie, is he all right, really?'

‘His wife runs off wi' another man, does that matter? Aw naw, all that matters is, he's been twice in the drink.' Jackie craned forward and blinked as if he were seeing her for the first time. ‘Aye, aye, Dennis's okay. Got fished out without a scratch on him. But he's the hero, not me, an' not our Billy neither. Billy's up in Lossiemouth guardin' a big gun or somethin'. Safe as bloody houses in the Highlands. Maybe I'll have to get blown sky high before anybody round here'll take me seriously.'

‘Jackie, oh, Jackie.'

Babs leaned against his knees, pressing her breast on his shins and when that seemed to have no effect on his despondent mood, bent down and began to unpick his laces. She tugged off one boot then another and placed them neatly on the hearthstone. She took his right foot in both hands and kneaded the coarse damp woollen stocking as if she were trying to wring it dry.

‘Slept in my old bed,' Jackie said. ‘First time I ever had the bloody thing to myself. Felt funny wi' no bugger kickin' me or fartin' in ma face.' He gave a wry chuckle. ‘Slept for hours, though, bloody hours an' hours, just the way I used to when I was a kid.'

‘Why didn't you come home?'

‘I didn't think I was welcome here.'

‘This is me, this is your house. You belong here.'

‘I shouldn't have said all those bad things.'

‘Forgotten, all forgotten.'

He nodded gravely. ‘Drove over to Blackstone again this afternoon. Saw the kids through the window. Old Dawlish wouldn't let them come near me, though.'

‘They're still infectious.'

‘Aye, aye, I know.'

‘Did you do tricks for Angus on the bike?'

‘I did, near jiggered ma backside doin' them, an' all.'

‘I take it you saw the pig?'

‘Aye, I saw the pig.' Another wry chuckle. ‘Angus fair dotes on yon pig, doesn't he? I'm thinkin' we'll need to build a sty in the back green for Ron when the war's over an' the kids come home for good.'

‘When you come home for good.'

‘Aye,' Jackie sighed, softly this time, ‘when I come home.'

‘Well, it wasn't a wasted day after all, not really,' said Babs. ‘At least you got to see the kids again an' they got to see you.'

‘It's not the same, but, is it?'

She sagged against him, head on his knee.

‘No, darlin',' she said. ‘It's not the same.'

Then she got up and went out into the bedroom.

She lifted April gently, wrapped her in the softest blanket, carried her through to the living room and put her down into Jackie's arms.

He looked up, surprised.

April, her eyes barely open, looked up too. ‘Daddy,' she murmured, then snuggled in against him and went straight back to sleep.

And that was how Babs would remember him, not dancing, not ranting, not idling away his days, not even roaring up Raines Drive on the big Excelsior Manxman, but seated in the armchair by the fireside with his little daughter sleeping soundly in his arms.

‘Okay?' Babs said.

‘Okay,' said Jackie, and watched her go off to unearth the pale peach housecoat that he had given her one Christmas, long ago.

11

‘The Wife is Always the Last to Know': there it was in black and white, staring up, slightly bloodied, from under the lamb chops that Mr Maitland, the Co-op butcher, had doled out that morning. Lizzie lifted away the chops, smoothed the wrinkled newspaper on the draining board and read the not-very-sensational report on marital infidelity from first word to last.

She found it difficult to identify with any of the case histories and certainly couldn't imagine Bernard consorting with the sort of women who were depicted in the blurry photographs, sleek, blonde girls with big chests and long legs who, in spite of the little strips of Elastoplast that masked their eyes, looked more like film stars than prostitutes. Polly had had more than her fair share of men friends and Babs had had her photograph in
Brockway's Illustrated Weekly
; Lizzie wondered if allowing your photograph to be printed in a newspaper automatically meant you were sliding downhill into – what did the article call it? – ‘a morass of moral depravity'. Somehow she doubted it.

She placed the lamb chops on a saucer and clapped a bowl over them, made herself a cup of tea and, still in her overcoat and hat, read through the blood-stained article once more.

She had no idea what sort of temptations Bernard might be encountering out at Breslin. He was very popular with women. He had reached an age when men are at their best and women have already begun to slide downhill. Unlike the wives in the newspaper article Lizzie yearned not for what she had lost but for what was hers by right and which, without her knowing how or why, seemed to be slipping away from her.

‘Rubbish!' Bernard would have told her if she'd ever expressed her fears outright. ‘Absolute rubbish!'

Until recently she would have believed him and been soothed but now that doubt had entered her thinking there was no keeping it at bay.

Whenever he arrived home late or popped out to attend yet another neighbourhood meeting, Lizzie wondered if some adoring young thing like Irene Milligan was plotting to lure him away from her, someone fresher, someone not lacking in energy and confidence, someone without wrinkles, fat and falling hair, who would drag her poor unprotesting Bernard down into the morass of depravity and steal him away.