Wives at War (8 page)

‘She's taken April for a walk,' said Babs, somewhat chastened. ‘Anyway, what are you doin' here? Have you come to tell me I'm a dirty trollop too?'

‘I come every Sunday, as it happens,' said Polly. ‘I had no idea you'd be here, either of you.'

‘What's in the parcel?' Rosie asked.

‘Eggs.'

‘Did you buy them from Dougie?' said Babs.

‘Yes, I was out at Blackstone on Wednesday,' Polly replied.

‘Did you see the kids?'

‘Yes.'

‘How are they?'

‘Perfectly fine.'

‘I should have been there today but I haven't seen Mammy for weeks so I thought I'd better come here instead.'

‘You don't have to apologise to me, Babs,' Polly said.

‘I'm not apologisin'. I'm explainin'.'

‘Explain him while you're at it then,' said Rosie.

Polly stripped off her gloves and placed them on the table beside the eggs. She took a silver cigarette case from her handbag, lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling.

‘Doesn't your husband talk to you, Rosie?' Babs said. ‘He had a good poke about my house last week an' even met the mystery man. I thought he'd have given you a full report.'

‘What if he duh-did?' said Rosie, sulkily.

‘You're here to cry on Mammy's shoulder an' tell her what a bad girl I am, aren't you?' Babs said.

‘Stop it,' Polly said again. ‘First time we've been together in months, so I suggest we try to behave like civilised human beings and not alarm Mother any more than we have done already. Rosie, light the gas under the soup pot, then go outside and see if you can find Mammy and April and bring them in. It's far too cold to be wandering about outside.'

‘Try next door,' said Babs. ‘She's got cats next door. April loves cats.'

Polly nodded. ‘Rosie, did you hear me?'

‘I heard you.'

‘Then do it. Please.'

Reluctantly Rosie pushed herself out of the armchair and drew the coat about her thin frame. She looked ghastly, Polly thought, unkempt and underfed, like a refugee. She watched Rosie go out into the kitchen.

Babs whispered, ‘She's looks terrible, doesn't she?'

‘Dreadful.'

‘What's wrong with her? Is it the job?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Well, she's certainly got it in for me,' Babs said. ‘She sent Kenny round to our house to interrogate my lodger.'

‘I'm not surprised,' said Polly. ‘What puzzles me is why you bothered to tell me in the first place.'

‘I thought it was somethin' you should know.'

‘Why?'

‘Because…' Babs shrugged.

‘Because your friend's American and you thought he might have been sent here by Dominic?'

‘It did cross my mind,' Babs admitted.

‘Has he said anything about Dominic?'

‘Claims he never heard of him.'

‘And me, what about me?' said Polly.

‘What about you?'

‘Has he suggested we might meet?'

‘Not so far.'

‘Do you see why I'm concerned?' said Polly.

‘Kind of,' Babs said.

‘It has nothing to do with morality.'

‘Be a hoot if it did, comin' from you. You an' your lawyer boyfriend.'

‘Well, Fin's hardly a boy,' said Polly, ‘but you do have a point.' She glanced towards the kitchen. ‘Look, if I calm Rosie down will you do me a favour in return?'

‘Dependin' on what it is – sure.'

‘If your lodger ever suggests that he and I meet, telephone me at home.'

‘Not at the office?'

‘No, at home.'

‘Will do,' said Babs.

*   *   *

Babs left her mother's house later than she had intended to and April feel asleep on the tram. She carried her daughter piggyback from Paisley Road to Raines Drive, April's head bobbing gently against her shoulder. Fortunately the cloud had blown off, moonlight gave shape to rooftops and hedges and there were still plenty of folk out and about for it was only a little after nine o'clock.

Babs was relieved that she had made peace with her sisters, for it seemed that the hatchet had been buried, at least for the time being, and all in all Babs felt that the visit had been profitable in all sorts of ways.

She toiled up the steps of the bungalow and rang the bell.

Christy opened the door. He detached April from Babs's back, carried her through to the bedroom and laid her gently on top of her bed.

The bungalow was filled with delicious smells. Christy had made doughnuts. April wakened up enough to eat one and drink a glass of warm milk while Babs popped her into her pyjamas. With the child settled Babs returned to the lounge. Christy had made chips and fried up thick slices of Spam. They ate at the coffee table, while Jackie's big wireless set droned in the background.

‘So,' he said, casually, ‘you got together with your sisters?'

‘Yeah,' said Babs. ‘All three of us.'

‘What did you all talk about? Old times?'

‘We talked about you, actually.'

‘Really!'

‘My sisters are worried in case I've strayed from the straight an' narrow.'

‘Both of them?'

‘Rosie, Kenny's wife, in particular. Polly, less so,' Babs said. ‘Polly's pretty much a woman of the world.'

‘I'd like to meet up with your sister Polly,' Christy Cameron said. ‘Think that could be arranged?'

‘I don't see why not,' said Babs.

*   *   *

Polly lay awake in the big double bed and listened to the silence. The bed was the only warm spot in the house. She spent as much time there as possible. She had no children to pack off to school, no husband to get off to work, no real job to go to, no one to cook for except herself. She even resented having to share her bed with Fin on Saturday nights for he would be up with the lark, baying for breakfast long before she was inclined to face the day.

The threat of air raids didn't trouble her much. The big larder in the basement had been strengthened with wooden beams and was equipped with a cot, candles and a supply of ginger beer, even an ambulance kit and a policeman's whistle. So far there had been no raids, only false alarms.

She was barely awake when the telephone rang that Monday morning.

She reached for the alarm clock, saw that it was four minutes after nine and, throwing back the covers, leaped out of bed and dashed downstairs.

The telephone rested on a carved chest in the hallway.

She snatched up the receiver. ‘Babs?'

‘Yep, it's me. Were you still in bed?'

‘As a matter of fact, I was.'

‘Lucky bloody you,' Babs said.

‘Where are you?'

‘Where do you think I am? I'm at work.'

‘Is there a point to this phone call?'

‘Nope, just thought I'd give you a—'

‘Babs!'

‘You're standing there freezin' in your nightie, aren't you?'

Polly had almost forgotten how irritating Babs could be.

‘Is he coming, or is he not?'

‘If you mean Christy Cameron, yep, you were spot on, Poll. He
is
interested in you. No doubt about it. I wish he was as interested in me, I can tell you. No, I don't really mean that. It's all very well to have opportunity handed you on a plate but…'

‘Where is he now?'

‘Haven't a clue.'

Polly had no idea why the prospect of meeting the American excited her. But it did. If he'd hailed from Sheffield or Shrewsbury she would have had no interest in him whatsoever. The fact that he came from New York rendered him intriguing, for, like Fin, she no longer believed in coincidence.

‘Why don't you drop by this evening?'

‘Can't,' Babs said. ‘I've nobody to sit with April an' I'm not draggin' her over to your place after blackout. Why don't you come here?'

Polly hesitated; a split second only. ‘Look, if Cameron does have some connection with Dominic there's a fair-to-middling chance he's up to something shifty and the sooner we find out what it is the better for all of us. Tell him to come on his own.'

‘What if he won't?'

‘He will,' Polly said. ‘At least make the offer.'

‘All right,' Babs said. ‘I just hope you know what you're doin', Poll.'

‘I always know what I'm doing,' Polly said. ‘Shall we say eight o'clock?'

‘Will you feed him?'

‘Of course I will,' said Polly, and hung up.

4

From the outset Rosie had been determined not to let her handicap stand in her way. When she'd learned that Merryweather's electrical engineering company was recruiting staff, she had immediately applied for a job.

Merryweather's had won a navy contract to manufacture ultra-sensitive sounding devices for submarine destroyers and a special assembly line had been set up in a converted church in Little Street, close to Glasgow University. All applicants were required to pass tests in dexterity, intelligence and reliability but deafness was not considered an impediment to efficiency and Rosie was duly accepted for training.

Thirty cubicles furnished with straight-backed chairs and swivel lamps had replaced the church pews. The work consisted of fitting forty-seven tiny components into a stainless-steel drum the size of a jam jar. There was no piped music in Little Street church and no intrusive Tannoy announcements to disturb concentration. Rosie, of course, couldn't hear the rumble of traffic in the avenue or the vague sparrow-chatter of schools letting out. She had no indicators to tell her whether the day was passing swiftly or slowly, and even the rhythms of her body seemed to be on hold for the four parts of the eleven-hour shift. Tea was served from a trolley in the corridor; one break midmorning, a half-hour for lunch and a second short break in the afternoon. Rosie coped well with the finger-numbing labour, much less well with the tea breaks.

It was Rosie's first experience of working with women and her co-workers weren't at all like the loud-mouthed, soft-hearted, working-class women among whom she had grown up. They were doctors' wives, dentists' wives, the daughters of lawyers and teachers, middle-class ladies who, on the surface, epitomised respectability and decorum.

Individually they were pleasant enough but collectively they soon revealed a snobbish, almost vicious dislike of anyone who wasn't as perfect as they perceived themselves to be, and as weeks passed into months and they shed their inhibitions all their coarse prejudices came to the surface. A mild young wife with a brace on her leg was teased unmercifully about her limp; a tow-haired girl with a nervous stutter was frequently reduced to tears. In October, in the midst of an afternoon tea break, a good-looking girl in her twenties suddenly shouted out that
she
was Jewish and that if
this lot
was typical of the British Empire then perhaps it
was
time Hitler's storm troopers came marching up University Avenue. Then she stalked out. The women, unrepentant, brushed aside her accusations as pure hysteria.

They teased Rosie too, teased her unmercifully.

They mouthed words she couldn't interpret. They pretended to be deaf. They ostracised her by covering their lips with their fingers when they spoke. They enquired about her husband, asked what she would do when babies came, hinted that it might be better not to have babies since her babies would surely turn out to be defective and impose a further burden on society.

Rosie hated the women and was afraid of them. Rosie admired the women and aspired to be as perfect as they were. Rosie swallowed their insults and insinuations and wept in the lavatory at the realisation that in Shelby's bookshop she had been pampered and praised for her cleverness only because of her affliction.

She took her anger out on Kenny and on Babs.

She had always been jealous of Babs, bouncing, indefatigable Babs.

She had supposed that when she had a husband of her own things would improve. Things hadn't improved. Things had got worse.

She no longer liked the things Kenny did in bed. Didn't
he
realise what would happen if they made a baby together? Didn't
he
know how the baby might turn out? She tried to use Babs to tell Kenny that something was wrong, to make him read her mind as accurately as she read his lips. But Kenny was too tied up in his career to spare any thought for her. The only time he gave her any real attention was when he wanted her to open her legs. Perhaps the women in Merryweather's were right. Perhaps all men were just selfish creatures at heart and no woman, however saintly, could ever change their basic nature.

By the end of November the prospect of going to work in the morning was making her physically sick. Isolated in the glare of the lamp, she picked up the tiny components with tweezers and nudged them into place with a miniature screwdriver. She no longer had to think about what she was doing, the surgically precise process of assembly had become habit, had become drudgery. She didn't know what time it was, hardly knew what day it was. She felt permanently queasy, stomach knotted, bladder pressing against her pelvis.

It had been clear and cold and sunny that morning.

The glare of the winter sun on the tram window had made Rosie shiver. Now, in the afternoon, she was shivering again. The gurgling palpitation in her lap had reached up into her stomach. The meat paste sandwich that she'd eaten at lunch time burned in her throat. Her back ached. Her forehead was clammy. She raised her head. The checkers were coming down the line with collecting trays to take away the finished units. The foreman stood on the steps of what had once been a pulpit, whistle in hand.

Rosie shook her head again. She watched the foreman put the whistle to his lips, saw the women push back their chairs.

She rose and ran for the door that led to the lavatory.