Wives at War (36 page)

‘The children are at school.'

‘Oh!'

‘Have you spoken to Cameron lately?'

She lied without hesitation. ‘Not for several days.'

‘What about Hughes?'

‘Yesterday.'

‘Polly, are you clear about what I want you to do?'

‘I'm not clear about anything right now.'

‘Sell everything.'

‘Fin's attending to it – but there are problems.'

‘When I say everything, I mean everything. The car, the house—'

‘The house?' Polly said. ‘I can't sell the house.'

‘Why not?'

‘Aren't you coming back when the war ends?'

‘Didn't Cameron tell you anything at all?'

‘For God's sake, darling, what's going on? Is he one of yours?'

‘He is what he says he is,' Dominic told her. ‘Sell the house.'

‘I can't.'

Had Dominic found out about Tony? Had he always known about Tony, about Fin, perhaps even about Christy? Was he stripping her of everything, even the roof over her head, to take revenge for her infidelities? It was as if Dominic were here in the house, watching her every move. Polly peered up the darkened staircase and saw Christy, a grey shape, glide across the landing, listening like a good little spy, listening to every word she said.

‘Why can't you?' Dominic asked.

‘The house has been requisitioned.'

‘Since when?'

‘I couldn't do anything to stop them.'

‘Stop who?'

‘The billeting authorities. It's the law, Dominic. Emergency powers act.'

There was no trace of frustration in his tone. ‘All right,' he said crisply. ‘Forget the house. Hughes will have to come through with enough cash to do what we have to do.'

Polly had never much liked the mansion in Manor Park Avenue. It had always remained the Manone family home, no matter how much she had done to make it less masculine, less formidably Italian. Now that Dominic was trying to take it from her, however, to kick away the last shaky prop in their marriage, she resisted. The arrival of the Belfast girl and her obstreperous toddler had, it seemed, been no calamity but a gigantic stroke of luck.

‘Stuart and Ishbel, are they—' Polly began.

Dominic cut her off. ‘Polly, listen to me. Hughes knows what he's got to do but after he's done it, you walk away from him. Understand?'

‘Yes.'

‘After you have the money Cameron and his crew will take over. Do what they tell you to do and don't ask questions.'

‘Can I – can I trust him, Dominic?'

‘You don't have much choice,' Dominic told her. ‘Listen, you'll be bringing the money to me in Lisbon.'

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you.'

‘I can't – I can't leave Scotland right now. Babs needs me.'

‘You and nobody else, Polly. It's part of the deal, my deal.'

‘Dominic, are you in trouble?'

‘Yes.'

‘The children—'

‘The children are safe. It's me they're after, not the children.'

‘Is Patricia with you?'

‘She's still here, still looking after us.'

‘Oh, I see.'

‘No, you don't see,' Dominic said. ‘You don't see at all.'

‘You can't deny that you ran off with her?'

‘I needed someone to look after Stuart and Ishbel. Patricia was eager to leave Scotland. I didn't have to force her. Whatever you may think, she came for the sake of the children, not to be with me, not to sleep with me.' He paused then said, ‘Anyhow, she's engaged to be married. Didn't Cameron tell you?'

‘Christy, why would he tell me that?'

‘She's marrying his brother.'

‘Ah!' said Polly. ‘Ah, yes, of course.'

‘In September, I think.'

‘Yes,' Polly said. ‘Yes, I see. I do see.'

‘Let it go, Polly, just let it go. I don't have time to explain right now. Go along with the arrangements that Cameron makes on your behalf. He'll tell you how to package the money and he'll accompany you when you bring it over to Lisbon. But remember that he's their guy, not mine.'

‘Their guy,' said Polly. ‘Yes.'

There was a little pause, a breath. She could imagine Dominic drawing in smoke from one of the small cigars that he liked so much, blowing out smoke, thinking out his next line, how much, or how little, he should tell her.

He said, ‘I was sorry to hear about Jackie. Is Babs okay?'

‘She's coping,' Polly said.

‘He didn't deserve to die like that,' Dominic said, ‘not Jackie Hallop.'

‘Nobody deserves to die like that,' said Polly.

‘Is Babs okay for cash?'

‘Why, do you want her to sell her house too?'

‘Polly, Polly!'

‘When do I have to meet you in Lisbon?'

‘End of the month,' Dominic said.

‘That's impossible.'

‘It better not be,' Dominic said. ‘If I don't close the deal with the federal authorities by then, then they'll close the deal on me.'

‘Is it that bad?'

‘Yes, that bad,' Dominic said. ‘Now listen, Polly, when Hughes comes through with the cash, as much as he can or will rake together, go to Dougie Giffard and tell him it's done. You, nobody else.'

‘Dougie? What does he have to do with all this?'

‘Nothing,' Dominic told her. ‘Nothing much, at any rate.'

‘Then why—'

‘Withdraw all the money from the private bank account, every penny, deposit it into your account with the Bank of Scotland, then go to Dougie and tell him what you've done.'

‘Dominic, I don't understand what's going on.'

‘You will, Polly, you will soon enough.'

‘All right,' Polly said. ‘I'll – I'll see you in Lisbon, darling, won't I?'

But the line, rather curiously, had gone dead.

15

Bernard came home at half-past six. He ate his supper and promptly fell asleep in the armchair by the fire, still wearing his outdoor shoes. Lizzie had a suspicion that he should be somewhere else but hadn't the heart to wake him.

She cleared the table as quietly as possible, washed the dishes, and put a ham bone to boil in a pot of water on the gas stove. She had been lucky to get the ham bone. Leaning her plump elbows on the sides of the stove, she peered admiringly into the pot as the small red-flecked object began to release its store of flavoursome fats.

The kitchenette was clean and cosy. For once there were no clothes dripping from the pulley overhead. It had been a wonderful spell of drying weather, sheets, blankets, shirts, vests, stockings and knickers all flapping in the back green like bunting in a victory parade. Bernard and Mr Grainger fretted about clear skies and moonlight. Lizzie understood their concern but didn't share it. Even in the darkest days of her time in the tenements, when you could hardly see the sky for soot, she had always been cheered by the coming of spring.

Out in the back green the wee birds were already thinking about nesting, the daffodils that had escaped the spade were showing yellow, and tender green shoots had nosed up through the clay, much to the satisfaction of the menfolk who now vied to produce a great crop of vegetables just as they had once competed to train sweet peas or coax blood-red roses into bloom. Even in the middle of a war Knightswood in spring was a pleasant place to be and now that Bernard was spending more time at home and Babs appeared to be settling down after Jackie's death, Lizzie experienced a strange surge of euphoria.

At a few minutes to nine o'clock, she made tea and carried a cup through to the living room.

Bernard was awake.

He yawned loudly, then reared up and said, ‘What time is it?'

‘Nearly nine.'

‘Dear God, I should've been at ambulance practice an hour ago.'

‘You needed the sleep.'

‘I suppose I did. Old Grainger can potter on without me for once.' He took the cup and saucer and settled back.

‘You're not going out now, are you?' Lizzie asked.

‘No, not now. It's too late.'

‘You'll be missed.'

‘I doubt it,' Bernard said, sipping tea.

‘Irene will miss you.'

‘Irene?' He frowned. ‘Oh, Irene Milligan, you mean. She's gone.'

‘Gone? Gone where?'

‘Sidcup, in Kent.'

‘What's she doing there?'

‘Services training.'

‘Has she joined up?' Lizzie asked.

‘She's thinking about it.'

‘What does her mother have to say about that?'

Bernard shrugged. ‘Not much she can say, really.'

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘I thought Mrs Milligan would've told you.'

‘Well, she didn't. What else have you been keeping from me?'

Bernard laughed uncomfortably. ‘What do you mean?'

She hadn't set out to harass him, for Bernard always seemed to have right on his side and to know so much more about everything than she did but something in his manner made her press on.

‘What else haven't you told me?'

‘Heavens, Lizzie,' he said, ‘the girl only left yesterday.'

‘Did she kiss you goodbye?'

‘Lizzie!' He was flustered, plainly flustered. ‘Don't be so daft!'

Lizzie moved to her chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. The battleground for domestic conflicts wasn't a thousand miles of desert but three square feet of hearthrug. She had been a fighter once, back in the old days. She had fought to protect her daughters and give them a better life than she'd ever had, but marriage to Bernard had robbed her of her fighting spirit. He had become her battleship, her Spitfire, her tank, and all she had to do was keep him in working order.

‘Daft, am I?' Lizzie said.

‘Oh, look,' Bernard said, ‘it's nine o'clock: time for the news.'

‘I'm not that daft,' said Lizzie. ‘What's going on?'

He laughed, a nervous whinny, and shifted in the armchair, slopping tea into the saucer.

‘Now see what you've made me do,' he said.

‘It's another woman, isn't it?'

He paused then, leaning over, placed the teacup and saucer on the carpet by the side of the chair. Lizzie watched, her heart pounding, and wished that she had never asked the question.

‘Yes,' Bernard said, ‘it's another woman.'

‘Are – are you leavin' me?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, Lizzie. Of course I'm not leaving you.'

‘Aren't you in love with her?'

‘I thought I might be – but it turned out I wasn't.'

‘Why are you tellin' me this, Bernard.'

‘Because you asked.'

‘You don't have to tell me. You
shouldn't
be tellin' me.'

‘Who the heck else can I tell?' Bernard said with a trace of exasperation, ‘if I can't tell you.'

‘Is it Mrs Milligan?'

‘Now that
is
daft, that
is
crazy,' Bernard said. ‘She's a doctor at Ottershaw, if you must know. Babs sent her over to Breslin and I found her a post at the hospital and a place to stay.'

‘Are you still seein' her?'

‘No, I'm done with her,' Bernard said. ‘She's fixed up now, not just with a job and accommodation but also with a man. That's what she wanted, I think, a man to look after her, a shoulder to lean on.'

‘And it wasn't your shoulder?' said Lizzie.

‘No, it wasn't my shoulder.'

‘Did she turn you down?'

‘I turned her down,' Bernard said. ‘Oh aye, I admit I thought about it, but then I walked away. I did, Lizzie, I walked away.'

‘A doctor,' Lizzie said. ‘Oh my!'

‘She's not young,' Bernard said. ‘I mean, no spring chicken. A widow. From Belgium. Lost her family. Doesn't know where they are.'

‘Is she a Jew?'

‘Yes, but it wasn't her religion that put me off.'

‘What was it then?'

‘She wanted me to help her but she wouldn't let me feel sorry for her.' He was taken aback by his own admission. ‘Dear God, Lizzie, I never realised it until now. That's it! I wanted her gratitude and she wouldn't give it.'

‘Didn't you sleep with her?' Lizzie said.

Bernard shook his head.

She knew instinctively that he was telling the truth. She was so relieved that his fancy piece wasn't Mrs Milligan or Ella Grainger, say, that she felt almost sorry for him.

‘It's been botherin' me, though,' he said, ‘the thought that I might have.'

‘But you didn't.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘That's all right then,' Lizzie said.

‘It isn't all right, Lizzie,' said Bernard. ‘I shouldn't have put myself in that position in the first place. I did no more than my job and did it well but I did it for all the wrong reasons. I felt sorry for Evelyn Reeder – that's her name, by the way – because there's so much dislike of foreigners floatin' in the air these days. I did the right things but for all the wrong reasons.'

‘She'll find another man soon enough, I expect.'

‘She has already,' Bernard said. ‘Another doctor.'

‘Is he married?'

‘He is.'

‘I wonder what his wife'll have to say about it?'

‘She'll probably never know,' said Bernard.

‘Then good luck to them,' said Lizzie.

He blinked, startled by her statement.

‘It isn't doing wrong that's wrong then?' he asked.

‘No, it's being found out,' Lizzie answered.

‘If it had been me, would that be a different story?'

‘It would,' Lizzie told him. ‘It most definitely would.'

‘Well, dearest,' he sat back in the armchair, ‘you do surprise me.'

‘Do you feel better now, Bernard, now you've got it off your chest?'