Wives at War (33 page)

‘Well,' Bernard said, ‘I didn't expect to find you in a place like this, sir.'

‘Whyever not, Peabody?'

‘I thought you'd have your own place to go for a drink.'

‘My own place? Do you take me for a snob?'

‘No, I didn't mean—'

‘Nothing wrong with the Greyhound,' Hunter Gowan said, ‘even if it does get rather crowded on occasions.'

Evelyn snuggled in beside the surgeon, leaving Bernard to perch precariously on a small stool. Prejudice put aside, the surgeon and the Belgian widow leaned shoulder against shoulder in an intimacy that may, or may not, have been forced.

Bernard knew then that his ‘affair' with Dr Evelyn Reeder was over before it had begun. He had imagined the unimaginable and tricked himself into believing that because he had a bit of power in the council offices he was as good as she was; nothing could have been further from the truth.

He licked the sticky taste of beer from his fingertips and listened to Hunter Gowan describe some elaborate piece of surgery he had performed that morning. There was nothing in the conversation to latch on to. The doctors had no time to waste on a mere billeting officer. They were the life-savers and unless he missed his guess, were, or soon would be, lovers. They would be discreet, of course, for they were more devious and duplicitous than he could ever be and, oddly, he admired them for it.

Bernard spread his knees to keep balance on the stool and felt within his chest a sudden, sad deflation as if his heart, or his hopes, had shrunk.

Half an hour later they left the pub together, Evelyn hanging on to Hunter Gowan's arm.

The motorcar, a lovely old Humber Super Six, was hidden beneath the trees behind the pub. Hunter Gowan was considerate enough to drop Bernard off at Breslin railway station before he drove Evelyn away to the lodge in the cemetery which was, after all, a perfect little love-nest for a lonely widow and a respectable married man.

*   *   *

Angus wakened screaming in the night. Dougie was out of bed and had dashed upstairs before Miss Dawlish could find her dressing gown and stumble out of her room. Roused by their brother's shrieks, May and June sat up in bed, hugging each other. Dougie left the girls to Margaret and, blackout or no blackout, switched on the light. Angus was standing on the bed, eyes wide open, arms stretched out like aeroplane wings.

‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!'
he shrieked.

‘All right, son, all right,' Dougie said. ‘I'm here now. I'm here.'

He clasped the boy about the waist and eased him on to his back.

Angus's arms and neck were rigid and there was spittle all down his chin.

Whatever he had seen, whatever dream or nightmare had speared his brain would not go away.

Dougie lay by him, cradling him in his arms.

‘Now, now, now, Angus. Waken up, waken up, please.'

It was cold in the bedroom; you could feel the clear cold night air pressing upon the slope of the roof. You could feel moonlight on the hill and the loneliness of the hill and the silver ribbon of the river running down to the sea far away.

The boy's eyes clicked like a doll's. He blinked and returned from wherever the dream had taken him.

Dougie stroked his brow.

‘There, son, there now. You had a bad dream, that's all. You're safe now, Gus. It's all gone now.'

‘Daddy?'

‘It's me, Angus,' Dougie said, ‘just me.'

Margaret stood behind them in the doorway. She was draped in the monkish overcoat that served as a dressing gown, barefoot and thick-legged, looming and solid in the dim light from the bulb above the landing. The girls clung to her, skinny and angelic in their cotton pyjamas. They were scared too, and Margaret, without looking round, gathered them to her.

Dougie's pyjamas had slipped down. He was bare-bummed and halfway to being indecent but he gave dignity not a passing thought. He leaned close to Angus and whispered, ‘Was it Daddy, son? Did you see your daddy?'

‘There in the corner. He came for me.'

‘Angus, Angus,' Dougie crooned. ‘It was just a dream.'

‘I wanted to go with him.'

‘No, no, no,' softly, so softly.

‘Then you came in.' Angus punched a fist into Dougie's ribs, punching and punching. ‘You came in an' he went without me. He went away without me.'

‘Brandy, do you think?' said Margaret Dawlish from the doorway.

‘A drop in warm milk, an' a hot-water bottle,' Dougie said.

‘It's all your fault.' Angus punched him again but feebly, without conviction. ‘He'd have taken me away with him if you hadn't put on the light.'

‘You were dreamin', Angus. It was just a bad dream.'

The boy's face was wet with tears. He looked, Dougie thought, less like a young man than a tiny child lost in the empty reaches of a world that had no meaning. He cried naturally, though, his face – and his tears – pressed against Dougie's chest.

‘It
wasn't
a dream. It
wasn't
, it
wasn't.
He was
there,
right
there.
'

Dougie peered into the corner where the roof sloped down to meet the wall. He almost expected, almost hoped, that he would see the shade that Angus had seen, that for the boy's sake the shadow of the father would still be there. Then, disappointed but not surprised, he slid his gaze from the empty corner to the doorway, empty too now that Margaret had taken the girls downstairs.

‘Why did he go away?' Angus said through his tears.

‘He had to, son. I expect he had to.'

‘Was it just me dreamin', really?

‘Aye.'

‘He's dead, Dougie, isn't he? He's really, really dead?'

‘Aye, son, he is,' said Dougie, and held the sobbing child to his heart.

14

Fin booked the call through a transatlantic operator before he went out to dine. By the time he got back to Baltic Chambers the building was almost deserted, apart from a covey of fire-watchers on the roof.

The elevator was still functioning, though, and the caretaker switched on the night bulb on the landing and Fin didn't need the little torch that was clipped into his pocket with his fountain pens.

At exactly three minutes to eleven o'clock, he let himself into his office.

He checked the blackout curtains, switched on the desk lamp and seated himself behind the desk.

He had drunk very little with dinner and wished now that he had drunk more. He was far too sober for his own good.

There was something unnatural about making a telephone call to a foreign country, something that made him nervous. He couldn't imagine an undersea cable stretching all the way across the Atlantic, deeper than the keels of the U-boats, deeper than a depth charge or a torpedo could reach, and he didn't like the idea of his voice running along a wire at the bottom of the ocean. He was also agitated because he was about to talk to Dominic Manone, for in spite of occasional letters he had no idea how much Dominic knew of the true state of affairs in Manor Park Avenue or precisely how much he, Fin, should tell him.

At exactly eleven Fin reached for the telephone and summoned the number of the transatlantic operator who, after several minutes' delay, opened a line to the number he had given her.

There was a crackle on the wire, like static on a wireless set, then abruptly a clear, familiar voice said, ‘Manone.'

‘Dominic?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's Fin.'

‘What time is it over there – about ten?'

‘Eleven.'

Dominic's soft Scottish accent was unmarred by an American twang. He sounded, Fin thought, just as he always did, perfectly calm and controlled.

‘Have you had air raids?'

‘A few,' said Fin. ‘None serious.'

‘Tell me why you're calling,' Dominic said.

‘This scheme you have in hand isn't working out as smoothly as you supposed it would.'

‘What's the problem?'

‘Restrictions on dealing in foreign stock.'

‘How much have you raised?'

Fin swallowed. ‘Only about eight thousand.'

‘Who's your broker?'

‘Donald MacDonald.'

‘MacDonald is honest enough.'

‘It's the South American stuff,' said Fin. ‘Every blasted transaction has to be cleared with the Treasury.'

‘Haven't you got shot of the South American stock yet?'

‘Not all of it, no.'

‘What about the warehouse?'

‘The lease doesn't expire until the autumn.'

‘Get rid of it now.'

‘Dominic—'

‘What about the house?'

‘The house?' Fin said.

‘In Manor Park, my house.'

‘I thought the house belonged to Polly.'

‘It hasn't suffered any damage, has it?'

‘No, but—'

‘Tell her to put it on the market.'

‘This is no time to shift property, Dominic.'

‘Shift it nonetheless,' Dominic said.

‘What about Polly?'

‘What about her?'

‘Is it your intention to leave her homeless?'

‘She understands my situation.'

Fin swallowed again. ‘I'm not so sure she does. I'm not sure any of us do. That chap you sent over – Cameron, the photographer – he appears to be no better informed than the rest of us.'

‘Is he still with you?'

‘Yes, he is,' said Fin. ‘Look, it's been somewhat rough over here lately. I take it you've been informed that your brother-in-law was killed.'

‘MacGregor?'

‘No, the other one – Hallop. Killed in action in Libya.'

A pause: ‘How's Babs making out?'

‘From what I gather,' Fin said, ‘as well as can be expected. Look, Dominic, you'll have to talk to Polly.'

‘No.'

‘Give her a call, talk to her, make her see sense.'

‘No.'

‘What's wrong with you, man? Why won't you talk to her?'

‘Doesn't she trust you?' Dominic said.

‘I'm afraid not, no, not entirely.'

‘What about Cameron, doesn't she trust him?'

‘She's confused,' Fin said. ‘It's a very confusing time for all of us.'

Dominic said, ‘I'll tell you what I want done, Fin. Given the profit you're making on fees I expect you to do it immediately.'

‘Go on.'

‘Sooner or later America will enter the war,' Dominic said. ‘When it happens I'll be deported or interned. The FBI are breathing down my father's neck. My father's a sick man. He probably won't last much longer. My brother can look out for himself. My concern is with the children.'

‘Send them back here.'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' Dominic said. ‘I've no intention of being separated from my children. And I've no intention of being deported or interned. I've a deal on the table with the secret services, but they won't wait for ever. The Americans have already coerced certain undesirable elements – all right, gangsters – into helping them contact the forces in Italy who'd like to see Mussolini deposed. I've few family connections left in Italy but I do have money and the operation is in desperate need of finance. If I help fund the Italian partisans I can get myself and my children out from under the net of a federal investigation. In other words, I have to prove I'm not my father's son before the Government will allow me to apply for citizenship.'

‘Call Polly. Talk to her. Tell her what you've just told me.'

‘At the end of this month,' Dominic went on, ‘I'll be flying to Lisbon.'

‘Lisbon.'

‘Lisbon is crawling with spies and double agents. I won't be out of their sight for one moment. My job is to hand over fifty thousand pounds to an Italian financier. Once that's done—'

‘Fifty thousand pounds!' Fin exploded. ‘You can't ferry hard currency out of Britain, Dominic, not without risking arrest.'

‘It won't be hard currency,' Dominic said.

‘What then?'

‘Diamonds.'

‘Diamonds!' Fin manufactured a laugh. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Bless me, I'd forgotten about diamonds. What? Do you expect me to stroll into a jeweller's shop on Argyll Street and say, “Give me fifty thousand pounds worth of assorted gemstones,” and walk out with them in a nice little brown paper bag?'

‘Once Polly has the money,' Dominic went on, ‘the purchase of the diamonds will be arranged by someone else and you can go back to robbing the unions or whatever racket you're into these days.'

‘I trust I won't be expected to transport the diamonds to Lisbon?'

‘Polly will do it.'

‘Polly! Oh, my God!'

‘She'll be given instructions on how to set up the trip. And she won't be travelling alone.'

‘Why must you involve Polly at all?'

‘She's the only one I can trust.'

‘Are you sure about that?' Fin said. ‘She – Polly isn't…'

‘Fin, what are you trying to tell me?'

‘Nothing,' Fin said. ‘Nothing.'

‘Polly is, after all, my wife.'

‘True, that's true.'

‘Our time's running out,' Dominic said. ‘We'll have to break the connection in a moment. Do you understand what I want from you, Carfin?'

‘Yes, dispose of everything you own.'

‘And leave the rest of it to Polly.'

‘Dominic…'

‘What?'

‘The American, Christy Cameron…'

‘What about him?'

‘Is he really a US Government agent?'

‘What makes you think he isn't?' Dominic said.

‘It's just that … No, no, of course he is. Of course.'

‘Any other questions, Fin? Any other doubts?'

‘What if I can't raise all of the fifty thousand in time?'