Wives at War (52 page)

Polly blinked, unsure that she had seen anything at all.

She continued to stare along the line of the wall while the fat-armed woman leaned over the railing and unfurled a chequered tablecloth, flapping and shaking it with a snap of the wrists the way Mammy did with wet sheets.

Then the head was there again, the face of a girl.

‘Does Emilio have a daughter?' Polly asked.

‘How would I know?' said Dominic, irritably. ‘I'm supposed to be a diamond merchant, not a damned census taker.'

This time the head did not disappear.

The face, a very pretty face, was twisted in an expression of urgency and a slender bare arm shot out and the hand on the end of the arm beckoned.

High above, the fat-armed woman spread the chequered cloth across the ironwork and shouted in guttural French,
‘Ici, ici, vite, vite,'
and Polly, pushing Dominic before her, headed for the break in the plane of the wall and the red-painted gate that defended it.

*   *   *

‘Do you want it?' Archie asked, pushing the plate towards her.

‘God, no,' said Babs. ‘I'm stuffed.'

‘Well, waste not, want not,' said Archie, manfully tackling the last of the boiled ham sandwiches. ‘The old bat knew perfectly well I'd brought my lunch with me. No, let me revise that ungenerous statement; she isn't an old bat, not really. Actually, she's just possessive. I mean I'm not supposed to realise how possessive she is. I'm supposed to be the archetypal spoiled-rotten son, fruit of her loins and apple of her eye, and just lap up all the attention in blissful ignorance of the fact that she's doing me irreparable psychological damage and rendering me totally incapable of ever being a tolerable husband.'

‘She makes good sandwiches, though,' Babs said.

‘She does, she does,' Archie conceded.

‘She just came to have a squint at me, didn't she?'

‘Old bat,' said Archie, ruefully.

‘Is it true what she said?'

‘Is what true?' said Archie, less ruefully.

Babs poked a forefinger into a clean handkerchief and carefully dabbed crumbs from the corners of her lips. ‘About the picture?'

‘Ah, the picture, yes,' said Archie. ‘It's just that old thing from
Brockway's Weekly
that I happen to have lying around.'

‘Framed?' said Babs. ‘Hanging above your bed?'

‘It's a very small room, Babs, a closet really, a hermit's cell.'

‘I'm not the Virgin Mary, you know.'

Archie laughed then, being a mannerly young man, covered his mouth with his palm and chewed and swallowed before he spoke again.

‘I'll bet you're not,' he said.

‘You don't light candles, do you?'

‘Candles? Oh, you mean under the— No, sorry, no candles. Been known to fire up the odd cigarette, if that counts.'

‘It doesn't,' Babs said. ‘It's candles, or nothing.'

‘You're very demanding.'

‘You don't know the half of it,' said Babs.

‘I'm not sure I want to.'

‘Liar,' Babs said. ‘You do want to.'

He sighed, rubbed his nose with his wrist. ‘Am I that transparent?'

‘'Fraid so, Mr Harding, ‘fraid so.'

‘Oh damn!' said Archie.

‘Have you never had a girlfriend before?'

‘Of course I have. Dozens – well, three.'

‘But none of them were good enough for Mama?' Babs said.

‘Actually, it turned out I wasn't good enough for them.'

‘Mama didn't like them, in other words?'

‘Mama didn't know about them.'

‘She knows about me, though?' Babs said.

‘Alas, yes, she does.'

‘A world-weary old widow with four kids,' Babs said. ‘The difference being that I'm not your girlfriend.'

‘True,' said Archie.

Babs paused, then said, ‘Archie, are we flirting?'

‘I think we might be,' he admitted. ‘On the other hand, it isn't right or proper for me to flirt with you while you're still in a period of mourning.'

‘So I'm not the Virgin Mary, I'm Queen bloody Victoria?'

‘You know what I mean,' said Archie.

‘Aye, I do,' Babs said, ‘and I appreciate it.'

‘In addition to which,' said Archie, ‘I wouldn't want to exploit the nature of our professional relationship.'

‘Our what?'

‘The fact that I'm the boss and you're merely my assistant.'

‘Merely?' said Babs.

‘Now you mention it, the statement is semantically inaccurate.'

‘Glad to hear it,' Babs said. ‘Are you finished?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

She took away the plates and cups and carried them into the cloakroom, washed them under the tap and dried them on a tea-towel. She closed the door with her heel and studied her reflection in the flyblown mirror above the sink. She fished out a lipstick and touched up her lips, then carefully undid the top two buttons on her shirt. She hesitated, considered, refastened one of the buttons and went out into the reception area again.

Archie was still seated at her desk, his chin cupped in his hand.

‘Archie?' Babs said.

‘What?'

She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned into him. She kissed him on the mouth, rubbing her lips against his with a soft circular motion for a moment or two before she pulled away.

‘What,' Archie said, ‘was that for?'

‘For being a good boy,' Babs told him.

Then, seating herself at the Underwood, she rolled a clean sheet of government paper into the machine while Archie wandered into his office and quietly closed the door.

*   *   *

The Communist was nothing like Polly's image of a dashing Italian freedom fighter. She had imagined a tall, bronzed, hawk-featured man, a more robust version of Marzipan, in fact, with brooding eyes and long black hair. Emilio had almost no hair at all, only a few thin strands plastered to his scalp. He was a rotund little chap no taller than she was. His sandals barely touched the floor when he seated himself on a worn horsehair sofa under the open window with the girl stationed cross-legged at his feet.

The girl was young, not much more than twenty. She had the manners of an English schoolgirl and a clipped, breathless accent that to a Scottish ear made her seem both fey and self-assured at one and the same time. She was dressed like a tinker in a stained ankle-length cotton skirt and a grubby blouse. Her shoes were a giveaway, though, very expensive hand-stitched country brogues.

She was far from reticent about her origins and not in the least ashamed of being the mistress of the fat little man on the horsehair sofa. Within minutes of their arrival in the room in the
pension
, Polly had learned that she was the daughter of Sir Raphael Williams, a former British ambassador to Rome, and that she, in her own words ‘had gone to the bad in the worst possible way'. She seemed proud of her fall from grace and rather to Polly's disgust, stroked Emilio's fat thigh while she served as interpreter and go-between.

The Italian had a voice like chocolate, thick, creamy and seductive, quite at odds with his appearance. He ignored the girl and addressed himself to Dominic. Now and then, though, Polly caught him looking at her, looking not at but through her as if he could see all her hidden charms beneath the summer frock. She wasn't in the least flattered and if she'd had a little more command of Italian or French might have told him to keep his eyes to himself.

An old armchair, a kitchen chair, a bed, a wardrobe, a table, underclothing tossed in a corner, empty wine bottles propped on a shelf under the window, Emilio seated like a potentate on the sagging sofa with the girl at his feet, the light in the room honey-coloured and warm; small wonder that Polly felt as if she were caught up in a dream.

She wondered if this was how it was with crooks and spies and all those who lived beyond the law, if unreality eventually became the norm. If so, it would explain a great deal about her husband, her marriage and the loneliness that had driven her into the arms of other men. She was, perhaps, no better than the girl who was seated at the Communist's feet, a clever little fool who had got in over her head.

She heard Dominic say, ‘No, I am not going to give you the diamonds.'

‘You do not have the diamonds?'

‘I do have the diamonds, but I am not going to give them to you.'

‘That is very wise of you, Mr Manone,' the girl translated. ‘I will, however, need to see that you are what you say you are and can do all that has been promised on your behalf.'

‘Promised?' Dominic said.

‘Promised by the Americans,' the girl said. ‘Is it to keep the Americans informed that you have brought along one of them today?'

‘This American,' Dominic said, ‘is my courier. He is a journalist.'

‘Ah! Journalist!' Emilio smiled and raised his hands.
‘Bene, molto bene!'

‘His papers will enable him to travel to countries that are barred to you and me,' Dominic said. ‘I brought him along to answer any questions you may have about the line of distribution.'

The girl hesitated, frowning. ‘What's that?'

Dominic said, ‘The channel, the road by which the money will be brought to you once Signor Emilio is back in Italy. Provided the Americans do not join in the conflict, this man – Signor Christy – will be able to reach you or your generals in Italy.'

‘My generals?' Emilio said in English. ‘No generals.'

‘To the comrades who work for you,' Dom said.

Emilio did not respond. The girl swung her head and looked up at him, her grey eyes filled with anxiety, as if she feared that he might blame her for his lack of understanding. She stroked his thigh again, scratching at the material of his trousers with bitten fingernails.

Emilio continued to ignore her. He studied Polly once more but his look this time was calculating, not lascivious.

‘This one?' he asked.

Nerves fluttered at the top of Polly's stomach, then the fluttering ceased and anger replaced it. She recalled the night, years ago, in the tenement in Lavender Court when one of Dominic's gang had threatened Rosie with an open razor and how Bernard had stood up to the thug, recalled too in a sudden, brilliant little flash, how her mother had beaten off creditors and layabouts; remembered suddenly that she had been Lizzie Conway's daughter long before she had been Dominic's wife.

‘This one,' Polly heard herself say, ‘is the wife.'

Emilio smirked and fluttered his eyelashes as if he could see through a lot more than her summer frock and read every selfish, melancholy act that she had ever performed.

Polly got up from the chair and crossed to the sofa. She batted the girl's hand away and leaned towards the fat little Communist, leaned so close that her elbows brushed against his belly.

‘This one,' Polly said, in the clear, well-modulated tone she used when addressing Rosie, ‘is the one who buys the diamonds.'

‘You government not give you the diamonds?' Emilio said.

‘No,' Polly told him. ‘I supplied the diamonds. Do you think,
signor
, that I am just a wife who sits at home and cooks supper for my husband?'

For an instant it seemed almost as if he intended to reach up and embrace Polly, but there was no warmth in his smile, no trace of amusement in his eyes. He did not like being challenged by a woman, that much was obvious.

He reverted to Italian and left it to the girl to translate.

‘They do not mine diamonds in England.'

‘No,' Polly said, ‘but they do not mine diamonds in Germany either.'

‘Do you have a source in Venezuela?'

‘My source is not your concern. In England I have a source. I have a source that will keep you in bullets and explosives for years to come.'

‘Hoh, she knows how to boast, your wife,' Emilio said.

‘She isn't boasting,' Dominic said.

‘Show him, Dominic,' Polly said. ‘Give him the sample.'

Dominic took his hand from his overcoat pocket. The uncut stones were wrapped in an oilskin tobacco pouch. He unrolled it and spilled a few of the stones into the girl's cupped hands. Emilio leaned forward, peered at them. He knew no more about diamonds than she did, Polly guessed, and standing by Dominic's side, folded her arms smugly over her breast.

‘How much is contained there, in dollars?' Emilio asked.

Polly answered, ‘Five or six thousand dollars worth; in Deutschmarks or lire, much more.'

‘I will take them,' Emilio said.

‘No,' Dominic said. ‘You'll take the money I give you, not the stones.'

‘I can use the gemstones better.'

‘Dominic,' Polly said, ‘let's get out of here.'

‘Pardon?' the girl said.

Polly said, ‘He will take the stones and that's the last we'll see of him, and our profit will vanish into thin air. Tell him.'

The girl translated.

‘Wrap them up again, Dominic,' Polly said. ‘Wrap up our diamonds and we'll do business elsewhere. He's nothing, this man, nothing but a thief.'

Dominic caught the girl by the wrist before she could close her fist on the gemstones. He turned her hand around and caught the trickle of diamonds in the flap of the tobacco pouch. He even gave her hand a little shake to make sure that nothing remained. He rolled the pouch up and put it back in his pocket.

‘Do you let your wife talk to me like that?' Emilio said.

‘She told you only what I would tell you,' Dominic said. ‘She is the one who takes the risks in England. She is the one who negotiates with the secret services to allow her to bring the stuff out. She is the one who handles the money. I have my father's friends to back me in America but my wife works alone.'

The girl spoke quickly, tripping over the words. She leaned on Emilio's knees now, looking up into his face, a face that had grown red in the past minute. The last trace of a patronising smile had gone. Polly expected him to hurl himself to his feet in rage but instead he rocked back and forth on the sofa like an old woman in mourning.