Prized Possessions (47 page)

‘Had a test. Didn't need a test but had one anyway.'

‘You don't seem very upset.'

‘I'm not.'

‘I would be if I were you,' Polly said. ‘I'd be scared to death.'

‘Aye, but you're not me,' Babs said. ‘Anyway, there's nothin' to be scared of. Heck, it happens a hundred times a day, a thousand times a day. Mammy had four of us an' it never did her any harm, did it?'

‘Have you told Jackie yet?'

‘Haven't told anyone. You're the first to know.'

‘Thanks,' said Polly. ‘But if you think I'm going to tell Mammy, think again. You'll have to do that yourself.'

‘Wonder how she'll take it?' Babs said.

‘Not well,' said Polly.

‘Well,' said Babs with astonishing stoicism, ‘there's nothin' any of us can do about it now. Maybe I should tell Jackie first, eh?'

‘Maybe you should,' said Polly.

*   *   *

‘Jeez-
zus!
' Jackie exclaimed. ‘A baby! Are you sure, Babs? I mean, how d' you know? I mean, you're not havin' it right away, are you?'

‘Don't be so bloody daft,' Babs said. ‘Not till October.'

‘How … how…'

‘Think about it,' Babs said. ‘Think about it
verrry
carefully, Jackie, see if you can figure it out.'

‘I don't mean that,' Jackie said. ‘I mean – eh – how're you feelin'?'

‘Okay.'

‘Sick?'

‘Queasy in the mornin', but I'm nearly past that stage.'

‘Heartburn?'

‘What're you, a doctor?'

‘My mam always got the heartburn.'

‘Jackie?'

‘Uh?'

‘I'm waitin', Jackie.'

‘Waitin' for what, but?'

‘The magic words, Jackie.'

‘What magic words?'

‘Will – you – marry – me?'

‘Oh, that!' Jackie said. ‘Sure, I'll marry you.'

‘Is that it?' said Babs.

‘What more d' you want?'

‘A kiss would be nice.'

‘No problem,' Jackie said and, rather tenderly, took her into his arms.

*   *   *

Dominic gave Polly no opportunity to devise an excuse; not that she would have done so in any case. She was distracted, though, wondering how Mammy would react when Babs broke the bad news. In Bab's book it wasn't bad news at all, simply something that had to be dealt with as a consequence of the fun she'd had with Jackie Hallop.

Polly found her sister's carefree attitude to motherhood quite bewildering. There should have been embarrassment, shame, penitent tears, denial of responsibility, a shoving of blame on to the guy; the standard response of every pathetic little heroine in every romance that Polly had ever read. But Babs had never been a dreamer. She was a realist, not a romantic. She had never subscribed to the moonlit vision of, say,
Breathless Surrender
that made other girls so vulnerable. Polly often wished that she could be more like Babs, less sophisticated and more adaptable.

She was preoccupied when Dominic picked her up outside the office on Saturday afternoon and it took her a good five minutes to realise that they weren't heading into Glasgow for the usual pleasant lunch at Goodman's.

Eventually, Polly said, ‘You're taking me to your house, aren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're taking me to meet your aunt?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why didn't you warn me?'

‘I was afraid you would take fright.'

‘Is that what a nice Italian girl would do, take fright?'

‘If you were an Italian girl,' Dominic said, ‘there would be no need to introduce you to my aunt. She would know who you were, who your father was, and your grandfather, and just how much servility it would take to impress you.'

‘Or vice versa?' Polly said.

He glanced at her, not quite smiling. ‘Yes, or vice versa.'

‘I'm not the servile sort, you know,' Polly said.

‘I know that.'

She looked from the window towards the walls of the mineral terminus, at the cranes that lofted themselves into view and the mean tenements that cowered beneath them. She spotted a little band of ragged children huddled against the wall of a public house, a girl of just nine or ten with a baby sister or brother cradled in her skinny arms, her face scalded by the cold spring wind, her feet and legs bare and dirty.

She had never had to go barefoot, none of them had, not even when things were at their worst. She had never had to suffer biting poverty like that poor wee lass. Mammy had protected them, had saved them, had lifted them up; yet they had been shaped by the poverty around them, by knowledge of their own salvation, hardened, not weakened by it.

The children whipped out of sight as the Alfa accelerated.

Polly said, ‘This thing between us, Dominic, is it serious?'

He glanced at her. ‘On my part it has never been anything else.'

‘You're seeking your family's approval, aren't you?'

‘I do not need their approval.'

‘What would your father say if he knew about – about me?'

‘He already knows,' Dominic told her. ‘I wrote to him last week and told him that I had fallen in love with a young woman and that, with or without his permission, I intended to marry her.'

‘Oh!' Polly said. ‘What if she doesn't want to marry you? Don't you think it might have been a good idea to write to her first?'

‘I am not one to rush things,' Dominic said, rather stiffly.

She could not be sure whether she had insulted him or merely increased his uncertainty. He was more nervous than she was about the meeting and suspected that his declarations of indifference as to what the family would think of her amounted to little more than bravado.

‘Would you like
me
to write to
you?
' she said.

‘Polly. Please.'

‘Please?'

‘Please don't tease, not today.'

‘You want me to behave myself, is that it?'

‘Yes.' He was startled by his own vehemence and, after a moment, burst out laughing. ‘Yes, for the love of God, behave yourself.'

She put on a little act, sitting erect in the leather seat, all prim and prissy, lips pursed, eyelashes fluttering, hands folded upon her handbag, neat and prudent and discreet. Inside, though, she was whirling with excitement, anything but calm and controlled. It had just dawned on her that in the last few seconds Dominic had asked her if she would consider becoming his wife.

‘Dominic?'

‘What is it now?'

‘Have I just been proposed to?'

‘After a fashion, yes, I suppose you have.'

‘And did I give you an answer?'

‘You did not,' Dominic told her. ‘But at least you did not say No.'

‘Will that do for now?' Polly said.

‘You will need a little time to consider it, I imagine.'

‘Yes,' Polly said. ‘If you don't mind.'

‘I don't mind,' said Dominic.

‘Thank you,' Polly said.

‘For what?'

‘For asking me anyway,' said Polly.

Chapter Twenty-One

If thirty-five months of active service had taught Bernard anything it was how to wield a spade. He had never been called upon to lay down a line of trenches but he, like many an infantryman, had lived with a rifle in one hand and a digging implement in the other. He had excavated latrines, scraped out gun emplacements, levelled the tops of redoubts and had even been rounded up for burial detail when there was no one else to do the job. He was adequate with a rifle but better with a spade for, like swimming, bicycling or rolling a cigarette, digging, once learned, was a skill never lost.

Once he had set his mind to it, therefore, Bernard's rockery made rapid progress. It might even have been finished before Good Friday if only the weather had held, and the Conway girls had not decided all to go daft at once.

He had gone to the pictures in Glasgow with Lizzie on Saturday evening, an early showing of
The Cockeyed World
which was definitely on the racy side but which Lizzie had seemed to enjoy. It was the first time Bernard had really liked a ‘talking picture' and hadn't found it stilted. In fact he had been too engrossed in the badinage between the characters, especially when Lili Damita was on screen, to do more than clutch Lizzie's hand and pinch the odd chocolate bon-bon from the box on her lap.

Lizzie had not been her usual self, though. He had noticed it after they had come out of the cinema and were seated in a booth in the New Savoy fish restaurant eating haddock and chips. She had seemed not just tired but ‘down', and worringly disinclined to confide in him. When he had asked what the matter was she had been evasive. He had asked her again as they had waited at the tram stop before going their separate ways.

‘I don't know, dearest,' Lizzie had said. ‘I just don't know what's wrong with me these days.'

‘You're not ill, are you?'

‘Nah, nah. I'm fine.'

‘Is it the girls?'

She had shaken her head, without much conviction; a moment later her tram had come rattling down Renfield Street and he had kissed her and helped her on to the platform with a feeling that he had somehow let her down. He had loitered on the pavement, tempted for one silly moment to hare after the vehicle, but it was too late. Instead he had caught the last west-bound tram out to Knightswood, puzzled and gloomy and teased by a nameless guilt.

He had intended to spend Sunday afternoon gardening and make the long trip over to the Gorbals in the early evening. When he had told his mother of his plans, she had sniffed disapprovingly, had left a plate of sardine sandwiches for his lunch and had gone zipping off to take part in a special afternoon Daffodil Service for Guild members in Whiteinch Parish Church.

Bernard worked patiently with spade and riddle, sieving the earth that would bed the rockery. He had already put down two drainage channels and layered them with stones that he had gathered and lugged back from a building site at the back of the old Muttonhole Farm. He laboured diligently, shaping the mounds of soft brown earth that made him think of Lizzie, though he could not imagine why. Somehow it did not entirely surprise him when, at about half past two, Lizzie turned up at the cottages.

He had been on the point of quitting. He was already looking forward to a sandwich and a cup of tea when he heard knocking upon the front door. He had left the kitchen door open but did not dare walk through the house, trailing mud. He went along the communal pathway that backed the cottages and down the narrow lane, looked out into the street and saw her there at the door.

She wore a loose donkey-brown overcoat, a vagabond hat and an unmistakable air of harassment. Bernard called out to her and beckoned. She came to him, not quite running. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took her in his arms, gave her a welcoming hug, then led her back down the lane and along the path to the garden.

There were other folk about, neighbours enjoying the spring sunshine and some of the wives had even risked the wrath of God by hanging out washing. There were babies in prams, small children playing at tea-parties on the sparse grass, cats dozing on doorsteps and window sills, all very peaceful and settled.

He seated himself on the top step at the kitchen door and reached down to remove his boots. Then he stopped. She was standing close, looking down at him, and she was crying.

Bernard said, ‘I knew there was somethin' wrong. It's one of the girls, isn't it?' Lizzie shook her head.

‘Two of the girls,' she said.

‘We'd best go inside,' said Bernard.

*   *   *

Perhaps it was tea or several sardine sandwiches that calmed Lizzie down. More likely, though, it was sheer relief at having someone with whom to share her woes. Woes they were too – Bernard did not belittle them – but they weren't insoluble and he saw at once that they might work to everyone's advantage in the long run.

‘Both of them,' Lizzie said. ‘Why did it have to be both of them? I shouldn't have left them so much by themselves.'

‘Lizzie, Lizzie,' Bernard said soothingly. ‘They're not wee lassies any more. You did your best. You can't go blamin' yourself.'

‘I was selfish, Bernard. Selfish.'

‘You're hurt because they're goin' on with you.'

‘I wanted somethin' for myself, somethin' left for me.'

‘You still have that.'

‘I don't. I'll have to take them in, look after them.'

‘What?' Bernard said. ‘Look after Dominic Manone?'

‘Don't make fun of me.'

‘I'm not making fun of you, sweetheart,' Bernard said. ‘I'm just askin' what it is you think you have to do?'

‘Try to … try to…'

‘Tell me again,' Bernard said, firmly.

‘Tell you what?'

‘Exactly what happened when you got home last night.'

‘Well, they were there, waitin' for me. Babs an' the Hallop boy…'

‘Jackie.'

‘Aye, Jackie.'

‘Tell me exactly what was said.'

‘That she was expectin' his baby an' they were gonna get wed.'

‘An' Jackie didn't put up an argument, didn't run for the trees?'

‘He seems as keen on marriage as Babs,' Lizzie said. ‘Keener, in fact.'

‘So,' Bernard said, ‘let them get spliced. You're not goin' to stand in their way, are you, Lizzie?'

‘How can I?' Lizzie said. ‘But they don't know what they're gettin' into. They don't know what marriage is like.'

‘Then they'll just have to find out,' Bernard said.

‘It's all very well for you, you won't have to look after them.'

‘Nor will you,' Bernard told her.

‘I will. I will. I can't leave her now, Babs an' the baby,' Lizzie said. ‘I can't have her livin' downstairs wi' that crowd, not wi' that crowd, not wi' a brand-new baby.'