Wives at War (55 page)

‘I'm sorry,' Lizzie said. ‘I didn't mean it.'

‘Mean what?'

‘What I said about Auntie Polly, about you.'

He was embarrassed by the display of sentiment but was not so truculent as to pull away, and after a moment gave her a pat on the back, as if to say that he forgave her.

From across the road beyond the gate Bernard shouted, ‘Better hurry, Lizzie. I think the bus is just about due.'

‘Dear God!' Lizzie exclaimed, reverting to the flustered state that marked grandmothers off from their grandsons. ‘Oh dear God, I'm stuck.'

She tried to unlock her arthritic knees, to force them to unbend, but impatience caused her to keel over and topple on to her back. She lay on the grass by the side of the track with her heels higher than her head and heard Angus laugh, a long, growling half-suppressed chuckle.

Lizzie laughed too, giggling like a girl at her undignified position.

‘Here, Gran,' said Angus, grinning broadly. ‘Take my hand.'

‘Both hands, son,' she said, still giggling. ‘You'll need both hands,' and, throwing her weight on Angus's arms, let him hoist her to her feet once more.

*   *   *

In later years Polly would look back on the days she spent with Dominic in the sunny streets of Lisbon as the beginning of the middle part of her life.

Even at the time she was aware that the decision she had made there was not only important but permanent, that by agreeing to take over the running of the house on Staten Island – a house she had never seen – and become a proper mother to her children – children who had all but forgotten her – she was assuming responsibilities of a different order from those that had plagued her in Glasgow. She knew that she wouldn't be permitted to return to Lisbon, would be obliged to relinquish her hold on Dominic and learn to do what so many women across the globe were doing – to wait and worry and pray that her man would return to her unharmed.

During Easter week, she saw little of Christy and nothing at all of Jamie Cameron. The brothers had gone round the coast to Cascais, to a house on the beach that Jamie had rented for the summer and within which the first batch of recruits to the Office of Strategic Services, Christy and Dominic among them, would be trained, briefed and sent out to do their dirty work in Spain, France and the northern parts of Italy.

Emilio and his young English mistress were, it seemed, only small pieces in a puzzle whose parts had yet to be put together. Whisky bottles filled with industrial diamonds would be exchanged for packets of dollar bills and in due course dollar bills would be converted into arms and, in some vague future time, far beyond Polly's ken, the arms would be turned against the enemies of freedom, and those who abhorred the tyranny of small-minded, megalomaniac dictators would rise up and bring down the evil regimes from within.

It was not, Dominic explained, the dream of the old Colonials, those builders of the British Empire who had staked a claim to half the world by imposing law and order with rifle butts and bayonets. The American dream was more generous and compassionate and sometimes misguided, but a thing of good heart and valiant spirit none the less, and he for one was happy to be aligned with it, now and in the future.

He walked hand in hand with Polly around shady squares under a hot indigo sky, through churches cool and modern and cathedrals dark with the weight of centuries. They drank coffee at café tables, ate in the Imperium or one of the many restaurants that served lobsters and langoustines fresh from the sea. They made love eagerly in the middle of the afternoon and again in the glittering darkness of the night.

Dominic wooed her like a lover. He spoiled and pampered her almost as if she deserved it. And not once did he mention Tony or Fin or Christy Cameron or ask what they had meant to her, if they had meant anything at all. Once Polly agreed to become his wife again the rest, as far as Dominic was concerned, was a little piece of history buried in the debris of the past. It was not forgiveness but forgetfulness that Dominic offered and on those terms Polly was willing to do what was asked of her, to fly from a guilty past into a future that held no promises and no iron-clad guarantees.

After the processions and festivals of Easter week the city assumed a solemn mood. Dominic went down to Cascais and Polly was left alone. She spent most of the afternoon dozing in bed, listening to the sounds from the square, the bells and bands and, she thought, a pilgrim chanting from very far away; a far cry from dour old Glasgow's church parades and sober Sabbath silences.

On his return, just before dinner, Dom's mood, like that of the city, had changed and Polly realised that the fun and games were over and the serious business of spying was about to begin. He told her that Emilio was clamouring for money and that Jamie was angry because the officials in Washington were stamping their feet about establishing a fund for the Italian. She had the impression that Emilio had been at Cascais too and that very soon Dom intended to take matters into his own hands by leaking small lots of diamonds on to the underground market.

At the window table, bathed in candlelight, the Manones might appear to be an elegant, well-off couple spending a few weeks in the sun but Polly was well aware that there had been gossip and considerable speculation among the sinister guests who propped up the bar or conducted business meetings at the breakfast table. She sensed that eyes were upon them, sliding sidelong glances, and that whispers hung in the air, like Dominic's cigar smoke.

‘You'll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning,' Dominic said without preamble. ‘We've found you a ticket for the Clipper. Damned lucky to get it. It's practically impossible to get on a plane unless you're on official business. Jamie pulled a few strings. You'll be in New York in half a day. It's a fair haul from Richmond to the airport, though, so I'll cable Patricia to bring the car – and the children – out to the airfield to meet you.'

‘When will I see you again?'

‘God knows!' said Dominic. ‘It might be sooner than either of us imagine, though, if America decides to enter the war.'

‘Do you think that will happen?'

‘I doubt it,' Dominic said. ‘Not yet.'

‘And if America doesn't enter the war?'

He shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

‘Will you write to me? Will that be allowed?'

‘Of course.'

‘And will I be able to write back?'

‘It might be safer not to, at least for a while.'

Polly said, ‘What will happen when the diamonds run out?'

‘By that time,' Dominic said, ‘the back door route into Italy should be open and established and I'll be moved on.'

‘Moved on where?'

‘I have no earthly idea.'

‘You're enjoying all this skulduggery, aren't you?'

‘I would be,' Dominic said, ‘if it weren't so grim.'

‘It is, isn't it?' Polly said. ‘Grim, I mean?'

‘You'll be quite safe in Richmond, on the Island.'

‘I wasn't thinking about me,' said Polly. ‘I was thinking about you and Christy, and all the others who'll be involved in whatever it is you're doing.'

‘Don't fret about us; think about the Jews,' Dom said. ‘The horror stories leaking out of Poland and Czechoslovakia, out of France and Germany, are deeply worrying.'

‘Christy told me about Warsaw.'

Dominic nodded again. ‘Yes, he was there at the beginning, but damned few of us know what's going on inside the conquered countries now. All we have to go on are rumours, terrible rumours.'

‘Is that why you're committing yourself at last by signing up to a cause?'

‘I suppose it might be,' Dominic admitted. ‘However, since I don't want to demolish all your illusions in one fell swoop, darling, please continue to think of me as a selfish wee bugger who's just out for all he can get.'

‘Ah yes,' Polly said. ‘That's more like the chap I know.'

‘And love?'

‘And love,' said Polly.

*   *   *

There was no telephone in the bedroom. She wakened in the half-light to the sound of knocking on the bedroom door. She turned over, stretched out her arm and found only emptiness beside her. She sat up and looked around but there was no sign of Dominic.

The knocking continued, accompanied by an anxious voice calling out in broken English: ‘Senhora, Senhora Manone, it is the time for you to be rising.'

‘Yes,' Polly answered. ‘I am – rising.'

‘The gentleman – in room – below the stairs – he waits.'

‘Yes, yes, thank you,' Polly said.

She had packed the blue suitcase and laid it out with her hand luggage by the shoe-rack near the door. The case and all the smaller bags, save one, had been removed. She wondered vaguely if this was one last attentive gesture by Jamie Cameron or unusual efficiency on the part of the management. Dom's suits still hung in the closet and his shoes were lined up on the rack, and in the bathroom a few yards down the hallway she caught the tang of the astringent lotion with which he dabbed his cheeks after shaving.

She bathed, brushed her teeth and combed her hair as quickly as possible. She didn't feel alert enough yet to be excited at the prospect of a long aeroplane journey to a brand-new country. She had made love to her husband for what had seemed like hours last night and her exhaustion at that early hour was almost insurmountable.

She returned to her room and dressed in the clothes that she had laid out, popped her nightdress and toilet things into the one remaining bag and, with the bag on her shoulder and her coat on her arm, went downstairs to find Dominic.

Christy was waiting for her in the dining room. He was standing by the table at the window.

The room was almost deserted. Three or four waiters were setting tables. A severe-looking man of about Christy's age was eating alone at a corner table and another chap, hardly more than a boy, was drinking coffee and trying to hide behind a copy of a Portuguese newspaper.

Polly carried her bag to the window table.

Coffee pot and a basket of bread rolls were set out on the cloth.

Christy pulled out a chair for her.

He said, ‘We'll have to be quick.'

‘Where's Dominic?'

Christy sat opposite her, poured coffee, selected a bread roll and put it on her plate. ‘He couldn't make it.'

‘Couldn't make it?'

‘He sent me instead.'

‘I see,' Polly said. ‘He will be at the aerodrome, though, won't he?'

‘I guess not,' Christy said. ‘Eat, and let's get out of here, please.'

‘Where is Dom? Is he in trouble?'

‘Jamie needed him at Cascais.'

‘You're lying,' Polly said.

‘Yeah, I'm lying,' Christy said. ‘Eat.'

She didn't eat, though. She drank coffee and took a few puffs of the cigarette Christy lit for her. He looked different this morning, less ramshackle. He had discarded the sweater and reefer jacket and wore a soft linen jacket over an open-necked shirt. He had shaved and put a little pomade on his unruly hair and looked younger, she thought. She felt a twinge of regret for all that had happened between them, for all that might have been, a melancholy little echo of the loving time before Dominic had taken command of her life again.

She knew that there would be no more Christys, no more Fins or Tonys, that sexual adventures and betrayals must be left behind, shaken off along with the velvet grip of her family back in Glasgow.

‘Got your passport?' Christy said.

‘Yes, it's in my purse.'

He took a long envelope from his pocket and pressed it into her hand.

‘One Clipper ticket, one-way,' he said. ‘One permit of entry into the United States, signed by a consular officer. One hundred and fifty US dollars in case of emergency. Patricia will meet you at the other end. She'll tell you what to do and show you the ropes.'

‘Why did Dominic send you?' Polly asked.

‘He's not dumb, your husband.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘He knows I love you – or did.'

‘So it's just another of his damned romantic gestures.'

‘Yeah,' Christy said. ‘He thought maybe it would be nice to say goodbye.'

‘Won't you come to New York for the wedding?'

‘Wedding?'

‘Patricia's wedding to your brother,' Polly said.

‘Oh, sure,' Christy said. ‘The wedding.'

‘He is going to marry her, isn't he?'

‘I guess,' Christy said. ‘Yeah, yeah, he'll marry her.'

‘In September?'

‘Whenever he can,' Christy said.

‘So I'll see you in September?'

‘Polly…'

She nodded.

She didn't need to be told that they might never meet again. She stubbed out the cigarette, finished the coffee in her cup, and got to her feet.

‘All set?' Christy said.

‘All set,' said Polly, and followed him out to the taxi-cab that would carry her out to the airfield and the first sad, happy step to her new life far away.

*   *   *

The girls had lugged Davy off into the field in front of the farmhouse. They swung him between them vigorously and now and then let him drop to the ground and rolled him over, tickling him without mercy to make him laugh.

If May and June were much taken with the latest addition to the family, April was enchanted. She followed the wee chap around as if she couldn't believe her luck in having a new cousin to play with as well as a grown-up brother; a boy to look after as well as one to look after her. The moment May and June stepped back, she sank to her knees and nuzzled her face into Davy's, administering kisses in a manner more maternal than flirtatious.

Davy, of course, loved all the attention and had no fear of the boisterous girls. Only now and then, in the midst of a swing or a tickling, would he thrust May or June roughly aside, look towards the gate where Rosie and Babs were chatting and yell, ‘Ma, Ma, Ma,' until Rosie broke off her conversation, waved and called out, ‘I'm huh-here, darlin'. Muh-mummy's here,' then, reassured, he would topple back on to the grass and encourage the girls to attack him again.