The Wayward Wife (20 page)

‘Damn it, Basil, you're as bad as the rest. You've seen the stuff the newspapers are publishing; tissues of lies spread on blankets of silence. Aliens. Traitors. Fifth columnists – a few, perhaps, but the vast majority of those arrested are entirely innocent. I don't really expect you to use my material. I'm not without influence in publishing circles, if you recall. First I need to find out who convenes these damned tribunals, who sits on them, where they meet, and how often.'

‘Be careful you don't wind up behind bars, Vivian,' Bob Gaines said. ‘All you'll be doing is adding a few extra feathers to Hitler's cloak of righteousness and that won't get you anywhere.'

‘I'm afraid that's true,' Basil told her. ‘Why don't I take you home and—'

‘Tuck me into bed? What do you think I am: a child?' Vivian reached for her overcoat and, rejecting Basil's offer of help, shucked it over her shoulders. ‘Enough damned mollycoddling. You're not my husband yet.' She pecked Basil's cheek. ‘Call me tomorrow,' then, yanking open the door, she flounced out of the office.

‘Are you really going to marry her, Basil?' Bob asked.

‘Yes,' Basil answered. ‘We'll slip off to a registry office for a special licence some time soon.'

‘Rather you than me, pal,' said Bob. ‘I wouldn't marry Vivian Proudfoot if she was the last woman on earth.'

‘Fortunately for you,' said Basil stiffly, ‘she's not. Susan, fetch your pad and pencil. We've a schedule to revise.'

‘Ron's done a good job on this place,' Danny said. ‘Did he put in that baulk all by himself?'

‘Matt helped,' Breda said. ‘They shored up the larder in Ma's place too. It's bigger than this an' can take ten people, easy. Is his majesty asleep?'

‘Out like a light. He's quite happy on my lap.'

‘You was always Billy's favourite. Remember when Ron was off in Spain an' you came with us to the park?'

‘Aye, I remember,' Danny said. ‘Good times.'

‘They were, they were,' said Breda. ‘We got sandbags the other side of that wall. Ron bought them from a builder's yard. The whole of that back wall – blast-proof. This used to be the coal 'ole, though you'd never think it. We 'ave our Primus, a storm lamp an' two electric torches with spare batteries.'

‘Ron's thought of everything.'

‘Bein' a fireman he knows all about this stuff,' Breda said. ‘See that thing up there? That's a vent to let the air in.'

‘How often have you been in here?'

‘Four, five times: all false alarms.' She tilted her face towards the ceiling. ‘Hear anythin'?'

‘Nope, not a thing.'

‘Stray plane goin' over, most like. Our boys'll make short work of it.' She leaned on Danny's shoulder, paused, and said, ‘Danny, are you sure about Susie?'

The bench seat was broad enough to serve as a bed but with Billy asleep in his arms Danny had settled for the floor, Breda on the blanket next to him.

‘I walked in on them,' he said. ‘Red-handed.'

‘What about the bloke?'

‘Journalist. American.'

‘The one on the wireless?' Breda said. ‘Oh, yeah, too good an opportunity for our Miss Fancy-pants to let slip. You're not still in love with 'er, are yah?'

‘That's the problem. I don't know if I am, or not.'

‘I never liked Susie Hooper but I never reckoned she'd do this to you. Wait till Ron hears about it. He'll be livid. Matt, too. Not,' Breda added hastily, ‘that
I'm
gonna tell them. It's bound to come out sooner or later, though, unless you want to pretend it never happened.' She paused again. ‘What about this girl who shares your digs?'

‘Kate. What about her?'

‘Somethin' goin' on there?'

‘Nah,' Danny said a little too quickly.

‘Ooo,' Breda said. ‘You can't fool me, Danny Cahill. You like her, don'cha? Come on, admit it. What does she do?'

‘She translates German radio broadcasts.'

‘A clever clogs,' said Breda approvingly. ‘Have you kissed 'er yet?'

‘Naw.' Danny laughed. ‘Not yet.'

Breda reached over and tapped a fingertip to the bridge of his glasses. ‘Not even one liddle peck?'

‘Not even one.'

‘I'll bet she's dyin' for you to kiss 'er.'

‘Kate's not that sort of a girl.'

‘We're all that sort of a girl when it comes to havin' a feller fancy us. Go on, Cahill, tell me you don't wanna clasp 'er to your manly bosom an' smother 'er with kisses.'

‘Cut it out, Breda,' Danny said, grinning. ‘I'm not some joker out o' one of your soppy novels.'

‘Oh, but you are, Danny Cahill, you are. You're not gonna ride off on a camel an' leave a girl in the lurch. That counts for a lot these days.'

Billy stirred. Danny drew the blanket over his knees and stroked his hair while Breda watched, soft-eyed.

‘The thing is,' Danny said, ‘I've got a free pass to do what the hell I like now. Susan can't say a bloody word.'

‘Yeah, but a leg-over's never gonna be enough for you, is it? What about marriage?'

‘Marriage?'

‘To this Kate.'

‘I'm still married to Susan in case you hadn't noticed.'

‘But if you get 'alf a chance with this Kate …' Breda sat up. ‘Hey, she's not married too, is she?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

‘Well, then, there you are. Off you go.'

The sound of the all-clear drifted into the bunker.

Cradling Billy to his chest, Danny got up. ‘The only place I'm goin', sweetheart, is up the road to your ma's house for a good night's kip.'

‘You don't 'ave to go, you know,' Breda said. ‘You can stay 'ere with me an' Billy.'

‘What's Ronnie gonna say about that?'

‘He won't mind.'

‘I wouldn't bet on it.' Danny tugged open the door. ‘Anyhow, Nora's expectin' me.'

Breda let Danny precede her into the darkened kitchen, then, taking her sleepy son from his arms, kissed him.

‘Yeah, maybe you'd better go,' she said, ‘before I forget I'm a happily married woman.'

‘See you soon, kid,' said Danny.

‘Not so much of the kid,' said Breda.

The party in the Lansdowne had barely got under way but the living room and corridor were already crowded with Pete Slocum's friends and acquaintances.

The valet had gone for the night and a small, feisty woman,
Time
magazine's London correspondent, was cooking spaghetti on the stove in the kitchen while swigging from a straw-wrapped bottle of Chianti and puffing on a cigarette.

Four or five men were hanging about in the kitchen but whether in pursuit of supper or the feisty little blonde Susan neither knew nor cared.

She'd had a long, stressful day and would have preferred a quiet dinner alone with Bob before slipping off home to catch up on sleep. Bob had insisted that she tag along to Slocum's party, though, and had assured her that what she needed to take her mind off the ‘horrors' of Congleton Grove was a few drinks in the company of men and women whose experiences in the hell-holes of occupied Europe made a British internment camp look like a picnic.

It was, she gathered, a floating party that had drifted from Madrid to Munich, from Stockholm to Marseilles and, in happier times, had dropped anchor in Paris; always the same sort of people, newshounds, photographers and hard-drinking, front-line reporters who had no fear of anything save censorship.

‘Well, that's it for tonight, I guess,' said a voice in her ear.

‘What is?' Susan said.

‘Didn't you hear the all-clear?' Pete Slocum offered her a martini. ‘You're too sober for your own good, Mrs Cahill. Here, drink this and give thanks with a smile.'

‘I don't feel much like smiling.'

‘You're very beautiful when you do,' Pete said. ‘I can see why you've stolen Bob's heart away.'

‘I've done nothing of the kind.' She sipped from the glass and felt the gin sting her throat. ‘Where is he, by the way?'

‘Queuing up to grab a dish of Mary's special spaghetti,' Pete said. ‘Rough day at the office?'

‘How did you know?'

Pete Slocum tapped the side of his nose. ‘It's my business to know everything.' He grinned. ‘And I do mean everything. Another of those?'

Susan had drunk the martini without thinking. She held out the glass and watched Slocum refill it.

‘We've got onions but no olives,' he said. ‘I'd sack that goddamned valet if only I knew how to do it. You don't want to be too hard on the old boy. He's running scared, you know.'

‘Who, your valet?'

‘Churchill,' Pete Slocum said. ‘He's afraid a fifth column will spring up like it did in Holland. He's flying blind right now and has no ready spur to victory, no plan for a bright tomorrow. Not that tomorrow will count for much if your fly boys can't keep Goering from bombing the bejasus out of your factories. If they fail then it's all up with Merry England and bye-bye to a thousand years of history.'

‘And you Americans will retire behind your high walls and let us stew in our own juices.'

‘Our walls aren't that high, Mrs Cahill,' Pete Slocum said.

‘Why have you taken to calling me Mrs Cahill?'

He changed gear without a hitch. ‘Because you're a married lady and it behoves me to remind you of it.'

‘That's rich coming from someone who sleeps with a different girl every night.'

‘Sure, but I don't trade in commitment. With you – well, I guess you're every woman's ideal: footloose, fancy-free and able to pick and choose who you sleep with. You've got it all, Mrs Cahill, haven't you?' Pete Slocum said. ‘A responsible job, a devoted husband and an ardent lover. You're covered every way.' He raised his glass. ‘Good luck to you, Mrs Cahill.'

‘Why, thank you, Mr Slocum,' Susan said just as Bob appeared at her side carrying two plates of spaghetti smothered in tomato sauce.

‘What are you two talking about?' he asked.

‘Politics,' Susan answered. ‘Just politics,' then, relieving him of one of the plates, headed for the living room to find somewhere to sit.

She left him sprawled on the bed in his room in the Lansdowne. She washed and dressed quickly, picked her way through the glasses and plates that littered the hallway and, ignoring the early-risers nursing coffee and hangovers in the kitchen, made her way out of the building and set a course for Portland Place in the hope that a brisk walk would clear her head.

In addition to the usual office workers and shop girls, Oxford Street was peppered with policemen and soldiers. She glanced at the headlines on newsvendors' stalls but could make no sense of them and, drawn by the prospect of breakfast in the canteen, concentrated on dodging the traffic.

She crossed the open corner of Langham Place where BBC staff hurrying towards the grey-green building rubbed shoulders with worshippers emerging from communion in All Souls' soot-stained church. She would have walked straight past him if he hadn't called her name.

He was seated cross-legged on the steps of the church where the last of the morning's communicants picked their way, disapprovingly, around him. He wore a donkey jacket and collarless shirt and had a greasy haversack tucked between his knees. He didn't rise when she approached but, looking up, patted the stone step beside him.

‘Grab a pew,' he said.

‘I'll do nothing of the kind,' Susan said. ‘What the devil are you doing here, Danny?'

‘God,' he said, ‘you look like death warmed up.'

‘I'm fine, I'm perfectly fine. What do you want?'

He leaned on an elbow and peered up at her. ‘A few quiet words, that's all.'

‘Well,' Susan said, ‘if you insist on ambushing me at this hour of the morning the least you can do is stand me breakfast. I assume you have your BBC pass with you?'

‘Never travel without it,' Danny said.

‘Come along then.'

‘Rather not, actually,' he said, rising. ‘Frightfully busy, darling, awfully pressed for time. You didn't come home last night. By home I mean the flat we share in Rothwell Gardens.'

‘The air raid—'

‘One stray plane an' a nuisance bomb in the City.'

‘Did you wait up for me all night?'

‘Don't be bloody daft,' Danny said. ‘I stayed at Nora's.'

‘Oh, how – how is she?'

‘Kind of you to ask,' Danny said. ‘She's recoverin'.'

‘Recovering from what?'

‘Susan,' he spoke without heat, ‘you really are a stuck-up bitch. You can treat me like dirt if you like but your folks deserve better. Where were you last night? Were you with him?'

She hesitated. ‘Yes, at a party.'

‘Where?'

‘Lansdowne House. It's a residential club.'

‘I know what it is. Did you sleep with him?'

‘That's all I did: sleep,' she said. ‘What about us? What do you want to do about us?'

‘Tell me the truth, Susan: does Gaines make you happy?'

‘I do believe he does.'

‘Well, if you want to be with him, I won't stand in your way.' Danny consulted his watch. ‘Look, I really do have to get back to Evesham.'

‘When will you be in town again?'

‘God knows!' Danny said.

‘Next time, call me and we'll talk properly.'

He made no attempt to kiss her and was on the point of turning away when, on impulse, she said, ‘Danny, do you have a girl in Evesham?'

‘What if I have?' Danny said. ‘It's none o' your business, Susan.' Then, shouldering the haversack, he set off to catch a bus to Paddington.