Wives at War (35 page)

Polly pulled her dressing gown about her with an angry flick of the wrists. ‘Do I not? Well, we'll just see what my lawyer has to say.'

‘If you mean Mr Hughes,' said Walter George, ‘I question if Mr Hughes will be able to do much about it.' He glanced at the paper in his hand. ‘What I have here is a draft requisition to utilise a portion of your house. It is, I stress, only a draft, and draft documents are notoriously tricky to revoke, as Mr Hughes will, I'm sure, be first to acknowledge.'

‘Draft documents,' said Polly, ‘aren't worth the paper they're written on.'

‘True, they're not binding,' said Mr George, ‘but in my experience they represent an important first step to legal enforcement.'

Sunlight streamed through the windows and made the big front parlour look like a museum. The furniture was scarred and the wallpaper showed white where two framed paintings had been removed. The carpet was gritty underfoot and little splinters of wood and plaster littered the ledge of the mantelpiece. Even the huge leather sofa upon which Mr George and Babs were seated felt greasy and unwholesome.

Polly paced up and down, her agitation palpable. If she hadn't stolen Christy Cameron away, Babs might even have felt sorry for her sister.

‘I will not take in lodgers,' Polly said.

‘What about the guy downstairs then?' Babs said. ‘Isn't he a lodger?'

‘Oh, so that's it,' Polly snapped. ‘It's revenge, is it? Do you think you can land me with some snotty-nosed brat just to pay me back for taking in…' She caught herself in time and reverted to a flat, dead tone of voice. ‘Mr Cameron is not a lodger. He is a guest. His stay here is only temporary.'

‘I see.' Mr George took a small notebook from his pocket, extracted a pencil no thicker than a darning needle, licked the lead and made a note before hiding the notebook in his pocket again. ‘I assume that your guest occupies a separate bedroom from your good self?'

A dusky red flush spread from Polly's throat to her cheeks.

‘Of course.'

‘Two rooms out of ten,' said Mr George with a little cock of the head, ‘one in temporary occupancy.'

‘Babs, you're a complete and utter bitch,' said Polly. ‘I will not let you do this to me. I'll – I'll sell the place first.'

Babs glanced at Mr George, who cocked his head again, in the other direction this time.

‘That,' he said, ‘is your prerogative, Mrs Manone. However, I should warn you that the asking price will be controlled by the council housing committee and that council will have first refusal to purchase.'

‘What?' Polly cried. ‘First refusal on a price they set?'

‘I know it seems unfair—'

‘Unfair!' Polly shouted. ‘It's criminal, bloody criminal.'

‘On the other hand,' said Mr George, almost casually, ‘if you were to take in a temporary guest or two then I expect the requisition order would not be enforced. Thus, when the situation eases and restrictions are lifted you would be at liberty to put the property on the market and get what you can for it by private barter.'

‘Are you telling me I can't even sell my own house?'

‘Mrs Manone, the war—'

‘Damn the war!' Polly threw herself down in an armchair and stretched out her legs. She stared at the plaster chips on the mantelpiece and then, chin tucked to her chest, said, ‘This girl you've brought me, she isn't sick or anything?'

‘No,' said Mr George. ‘She isn't sick.'

‘What about the kiddie?'

‘Master Davy appears to be in bounding good health,' said Mr George.

‘Where did you find her?' Polly asked Babs.

‘I didn't find her; she found us.'

‘Oh, wasn't that convenient!' said Polly.

‘You'll be paid for housing her,' Babs said. ‘There's a scale of payment to cover billeting costs. Am I not right, Mr George?'

‘Quite right, Mrs Hallop,' Walter George said. ‘The girl will be given a ration card and work papers but billeting fees will be paid directly to you.'

‘What does she do, this girl?'

‘She's a housekeeper,' Babs said.

‘Oh, is she now?' said Polly.

Mr George slapped his hand on his knee and got to his feet. He glanced at his watch, buttoned his overcoat and, looking a lot less impartial than he had done a moment ago, put the papers down on the sofa table.

‘I see you're not amenable to negotiation, Mrs Manone, so I'll leave these documents for your solicitor to examine. I'm sure he'll confirm everything I've told you. Meanwhile, Mrs Hallop and I will take the girl and the child back to the hostel in Paisley until we can find—'

‘Wait,' Polly said, chin still stuck to her chest. ‘Is there a husband?'

‘Nope,' said Babs. ‘No husband.'

‘How much will you pay me to take her in?'

‘For the child,' said Mr George, ‘ten shillings and sixpence. For the mother, billet without board, eight and sixpence.'

Polly gave a little snort of disgust. ‘You certainly have a nerve, Babs, given that I'm shelling out more than that every week to keep your kids at Blackstone.' She glared up at Walter George. ‘Take your papers away. I haven't time to be bothered with that nonsense right now.'

‘And the girl?' Mr George said.

‘Leave her. I'll find a place for her.'

‘I'm afraid I'll have to inspect the accommodations, Mrs Manone.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, inspect them and get out of here.'

‘With your permission?'

‘Go on. Do it. Get it over with.'

The sisters watched the council officer leave the room and head downstairs. Polly didn't move until a lusty wail floated up from the kitchen, then she thrust herself out of the armchair and stalked to the window.

Babs watched her warily. She had been so enraptured with the idea of taking revenge that she had forgotten all about Polly's generosity in allowing May, June and Angus to stay at Blackstone. She had also forgotten that Miss Dawlish was officially Polly's housekeeper and that Polly would be quite within her rights to summon the woman back to Manor Park.

She felt mean now, mean and rather despicable at what she had done, yet a little niggling part of her was glad that she had put one over on Polly and forced her sister to face up to harsh reality.

Staring out at the ragged hedge and shabby evergreens, Polly said, ‘You don't have to worry, Babs. I won't throw your children out of Blackstone. I'm surprised at you, though. I didn't think you were so spiteful.'

‘It isn't spite,' Babs said.

‘What is it then?' Polly glanced over her shoulder. ‘Is it because you lost Jackie? Do you think I don't know what it's like to lose a husband?'

‘It hasn't seemed to bother you much.'

‘Oh, it has. It has bothered me.'

‘I see: you can't stand to be without a man. Is that why you took up with the lawyer chap?' Babs said. ‘Is that why you won't let Christy come back to stay with me?'

‘Christy and I are doing business together. It's just business, Babs.'

Babs said. ‘Well, Polly, console yourself with the thought that what I've done today is just business too – my business, my job.'

‘I hope you realise that you're ruining my life,' Polly said.

‘What life?' said Babs, and, rising, followed Mr George downstairs.

*   *   *

‘I'm sorry, Polly.' Christy flopped on to his back. ‘I guess I'm too tired.'

‘Would you be less tired if we went downstairs?'

‘I don't think it would make much difference.'

‘It's them, isn't it?' Polly said. ‘It's having strangers in the house?'

‘Yeah, I suppose it might be.'

In fact she had no more desire in her tonight than he had and when she'd wrapped her arms and legs around him it had been out of a sense of obligation, almost defiance, rather than sexual need.

She sat up and switched on the little bedside lamp.

‘Look at me, Christy, look at me.'

He lifted his head, nose barely visible above the blankets.

‘Okay,' he said. ‘I'm looking at you.'

‘Have I changed since this morning? Have I become old and ugly?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Then why are you so reluctant to share a bed with me?'

‘I am sharing a bed with you.'

‘But you're not listening to me.'

‘Yeah I am.'

‘You haven't paid me a blind bit of attention since that girl arrived.'

‘I can't help it.'

‘Can't help what?' Polly demanded.

She didn't really require an answer. She knew that Christy Cameron was no boor, no callous philanderer. American or not, he was burdened by scruples. He had spent most of the day amusing the baby, trying to make the baby and the girl like him. That was his flaw: he wanted everyone to like him. He'd cooked for her, had found toys for the kid to play with, had even taken the kid out into the park for a half-hour and let him toddle about on the grass. But when the girl had bared her breast to feed her greedy little monster, he had hurriedly left the kitchen and had vanished upstairs.

‘Look,' Polly said, ‘that girl doesn't care whether we're married or not. She's not going to be shocked by anything we do. In any case, for all I know she thinks we're married. I mean, I do have a wedding ring on my finger – which is more than she has.' She nudged him with her foot under the bedclothes. ‘You didn't tell her we weren't married, did you?'

‘I figure she knows,' Christy said.

‘You told her, didn't you?'

‘Nope.'

‘It doesn't mean a thing to you, does it?' Polly said. ‘It isn't your house. It isn't your children's nursery that's been possessed by some half-witted tart from Belfast. It isn't your daughter's cot that—'

‘You
told
me to dig out that cot and fix it up.'

‘What else could I do? Let the baby sleep on the floor?'

‘The kid's all right,' said Christy. ‘He doesn't know what's going on.'

‘And the girl? I suppose you feel sorry for the girl too?'

‘Pretty much,' Christy admitted.

‘It's those damned dimples, isn't it? I'll bet you wouldn't feel half so sorry for her if she was a warty old hag.'

Christy laughed and, in spite of herself, Polly gave a rueful little snort.

‘Oh, very well,' she said, ‘I admit that the dimples are—'

‘Cute?' said Christy. ‘Yeah, they're cute all right.'

‘Would you prefer to share a bed with her and her dimples?'

‘Right now,' Christy said, ‘I just wanna get some sleep.

‘Well, I don't. I'm not in the least sleepy.'

Christy sighed and sat up.

Polly glanced at him critically. ‘Are you wearing a vest?'

‘Yeah.'

‘That's disgusting.'

‘What's disgusting about it?'

‘It's unhygienic.'

‘It's also goddamned freezing,' Christy said.

‘How can it be freezing?' said Polly. ‘It's March.'

‘That's practically high summer here in the Highlands, right?'

‘This is not the Highlands.' Polly paused then asked, ‘Does she remind you of your Polish girl, the girl you left behind in Warsaw?'

‘Nope.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Sure I'm sure.'

‘She isn't a refugee, you know. She's just – feckless.'

‘Feckless?'

‘Flighty,' Polly said. ‘Irresponsible.'

‘She looks after the kid well enough.'

‘Meaning that I don't, that I haven't?'

‘Jesus!' Christy said. ‘What's wrong with you, Polly?'

Polly let out a loud sigh and threw her hands over her head. She lay back against the pillows. ‘I don't know. I honestly do not know. It's the uncertainty of it all. I mean, what's going to happen when you go – and you will go, won't you, you will leave me too?'

‘I have to.'

‘I'll be left alone here with very little money and a houseful of unwed mothers and screaming children.'

‘One, one of each,' Christy said.

‘Not if Babs has her way.'

‘At least you still have a husband, even if he is six thousand miles away.'

‘A husband who'd like to be shot of me once and for all.'

‘How can you be sure of that?' said Christy.

‘It's entirely my own fault,' Polly said. ‘I should never have married him. I should never have fallen in love with him in the first place.'

‘Maybe you're still in love with him.'

‘No,' Polly said. ‘I'm in love with you.'

She wanted him to kiss her, take her in his arms, give her a tangible sign that she was as needy and pathetic as the girl from Belfast.

‘Listen,' Christy said. ‘What's that noise?'

His head was turned away, one hand cupped to his ear in a gesture so artificial, so off-puttingly synthetic that Polly was tempted to slap him.

‘Don't tell me she's singing to that damned baby at this hour?'

‘No,' Christy said. ‘It's the phone in the hall. Can't you hear it? I guess you've a call coming through.'

‘At half-past midnight?' Polly was too irritated to be alarmed. ‘Dear God! What is it now?' she exclaimed and, throwing back the bedclothes and snatching her dressing gown from the chair, hurried downstairs to find out.

*   *   *

It had been eighteen months since last she'd heard his voice. He sounded not one whit different. She felt a thud in the region between her stomach and her heart, a palpable blow, like a punch. She gasped and pressed a hand against her ribcage.

‘Dom – Dominic, where are you?'

‘New York: Staten Island. Did I wake you?'

‘I wasn't asleep.' Her heart was racing so fast that she could hardly catch breath. ‘Are the children with you? Let me talk to them.'