Wives at War (24 page)

Directly after lunch he had driven her out to Breslin Old Parish Church. He wished that the weather had been more cheerful for Breslin Old Parish was nothing if not picturesque. The church gate was not the main entrance to the cemetery or the shortest way into the lodge, but it was, Bernard thought, the one that would cause Dr Reeder least alarm. As a doctor she surely wouldn't be disturbed by the presence of dead folk who, Bernard thought, never seemed quite dead at all but merely reposing under their handsome markers in a reticent middle-class manner.

Personally he preferred the old part of the graveyard, that swell of ground to the north-east where farmers and their wives and children had been laid to rest over the past century and a half. He had never been a country boy, had never yearned to be a country boy, yet he felt a curious affinity with the sons of the soil who lay under the sod beneath the willows and gnarled oaks.

‘Is this where you are bringing me, to a graveyard? Is this where you expect me to stay?'

‘Not in the graveyard, no.'

‘Where then?'

‘In the lodge house.'

He had always fancied the lodge house for himself, though he knew that Lizzie would never condone a move from Knightswood.

The lodge tower was in fact a late Victorian replica of a baronial keep, three storeys high. Until September 1939 it had been white but in a fit of invasion panic council workers had painted it a mottled shade of green. Bernard had tried several times to billet families there but nobody was willing to live in the middle of a cemetery. What a fuss the townies made, what a furore they created, with wild claims of howling in the night, of apparitions and spectral entities, of furniture being moved and taps turned on and at least one report of a midnight convention of witches up in the north-east corner.

Bernard had opened the creaky door with a long key and had led Dr Reeder up the spiral staircase to the apartment on the third floor.

Parish clerks had resided here until the early thirties but then attitudes had changed and the clerks chose to occupy a council house nearer to the centre of town. Since then the apartment had lain empty, still decently furnished, cleaned from time to time, and regularly fired in winter. It was, Bernard thought, the perfect place for a lady who hankered after a quiet retreat.

‘How will I get to Ottershaw from here?'

‘Buses pass the main gate. The service isn't great,' Bernard said, ‘but they do run pretty much to time. They'll drop you right at the hospital.'

‘What time is the last bus at night?'

‘I really don't know.'

She gave a little sigh and seated herself on the wing chair beside the empty fireplace, her hands folded in her lap. She looked, Bernard thought, almost regal but her great sad eyes were filled not with hauteur but with a strange vulnerable despair that stirred all his protective instincts.

She said, ‘You have been very understanding.'

‘It's part of my job to be understanding, Dr Reeder.'

‘No, you have done more than your job demands.'

She smiled for the first time in his presence and when she did so he glimpsed the beauty in her, a dark, self-reliant sort of beauty that knew its own worth. He felt his throat close and his knees turn to jelly.

It was all he could do, at that moment, to speak.

‘May I take it,' he said, ‘that the accommodation is satisfactory?'

‘It will do,' Evelyn Reeder said. ‘Yes, Mr Peabody, it is satisfactory.'

‘When will you—' He cleared his throat. ‘When will you move in?'

‘At the weekend.'

‘I'll be here,' Bernard said.

‘Will you?' she said. ‘Why?'

‘To hand over the keys,' said Bernard.

*   *   *

‘Marzipan?'

‘Yes,' guardedly.

‘I've been trying to reach you all goddamned day.'

‘Well, now you have me. What's the problem?'

‘It isn't a problem. I'd say it's more of an advance. I'm in.'

‘In?' said Marzipan. ‘What do you mean by “in”?'

‘In the house, with the— with her.'

‘Is she there with you now?'

‘Nope, she's gone out.'

‘Are you calling from a box?'

‘I just told you, I'm calling from the house, her house.'

‘Haven't you ever heard of telephone bills?' said Marzipan, testily.

‘She isn't gonna check her telephone bill,' Christy said. ‘Jesus, I thought you'd be pleased.'

‘I am,' Marzipan said. ‘I just wish you'd be a little more cautious.'

‘That's one of the things I wanna ask you: just how cautious do I have to be?'

‘I don't understand the question.'

‘How much can I tell her?'

‘As little as possible but as much as you have to.'

‘That's some help, that is,' said Christy.

‘What more do you require?'

‘Clear guidelines,' said Christy. ‘For one thing, pretty soon she's gonna want to know how you intend to ship the money out of the country.'

‘That's up to her.'

‘I think you've lost the thread, Marzie, old boy,' said Christy. ‘It
isn't
up to her. You can't have it both ways. If you intend to skin her of all her money the least you can do is
pretend
to co-operate while you're doing it.'

‘Ah, yes,' Marzipan said. ‘Technically it's called creating dependency.'

‘Call it what the hell you like,' said Christy. ‘Soon, real soon, you'll have to tell me what's going on and trust me to take it from there.'

There were several seconds of silence on the line. Christy, leaning against the wall in Polly's hallway, could almost hear Marzipan's brain ticking.

At length, Marzipan said, ‘You do have a point.'

‘I know I do,' said Christy.

‘I'll give the matter my consideration.'

‘What you mean,' said Christy, ‘is you'll have to consult your superiors. Who are your superiors, Marzie? How far up the heap does this thing go?'

‘I'll get back to you.'

‘How?' said Christy.

‘By letter.'

‘I guess you have her address.'

‘And I,' said Marzipan, ‘I
guess
you have more parts of your anatomy than your feet under her table.'

‘Oh nasty!' said Christy. ‘Look, don't send letters to this address. For someone as addicted to caution as you are, letters are a giveaway.
I'll
call
you
, all right?'

‘All right,' said Marzipan, and rather huffily, Christy thought, hung up.

*   *   *

The quarrel had nothing much to do with Christy Cameron or the
Brockway's
photograph or even Babs's frustration at being unable to visit her sick children.

She spent much time in the office writing letters and wrapping up little parcels of sweets and comics to send them. Archie uttered not a word of reprimand and even donated several bars of chocolate to add to the packets. Archie, it seemed, had changed his tune about the offspring of working mothers, though he pretended he was only being nice because he valued Babs's contribution to the production war and didn't want to have to break in another assistant.

In Raines Drive, however, things were less serene and Jackie a good deal less than co-operative. His unexpected arrival had completely disrupted Babs's routine and his insistence that she spend all her time with him seemed unreasonable. She couldn't make him understand that she had a life of her own now and that, in eight or nine days, he would be gone and all she would be left with was the life she had created for herself. It was only when she refused to trail across town to the Gorbals to visit his mother, however, that Jackie lost his temper and accused her of being a snob and a selfish cow.

She might have agreed with him save for the fact that she knew she couldn't give Jackie what he really wanted. He wanted everything back the way it had been before the war, before Dominic had flown the coop, before he'd lost the motoring salon. He wanted her to be the way she'd been when they'd been living in squalor off the Calcutta Road. He wanted her to pretend that he was cock of the walk again, a big fish in a small pond, a flash Harry with cash in his pocket, not just a good competent mechanic with a wife and kids to support.

‘Have you seen her lately?'

‘Who?'

‘My mother.'

‘No, Jackie, I haven't.'

‘Why not?'

‘I haven't had time.'

‘Half an hour away on the tram an' you haven't had time.'

How could she explain that she feared the Hallop influence on her children and wouldn't risk letting old Ma Hallop into her life again. When she did take the children to visit Gran and Grandpa Hallop she was greeted with sly and greasy indifference. The children hated the tenement in Lavender Court. Even Angus was intimidated by the bony old woman with her stale smell and wheedling ways, and the girls were frightened of the old man, reeking of beer, who sprawled like a hog on the chair by the fire with his trousers unbuttoned.

‘Your mother never comes to visit us,' said Babs.

‘She's an old woman.'

‘Not that old,' said Babs.

‘She's got nobody t' look after her.'

‘She's got your father an' the girls, your sisters.'

‘They don't care.'

‘Well, heck, Jackie, if they don't care why should I?'

‘God, but you're a cold-hearted bitch.'

‘I'm not going to Lavender Court, an' that's flat.'

‘Then I'll take April on the bike an'—'

‘Damned if you will.'

‘Who's gonna stop me?'

‘Not the bike, Jackie, please.'

‘Aw right then, on the tram.'

‘I – I don't think April will want to go.'

‘She's a kid. She'll do what she's told.'

‘She won't want to miss a day at nursery.'

‘She'll come for a ride on the tram wi' her dad?'

‘No, Jackie, she won't.'

‘Are you tellin' me I can't take ma daughter to see her gran?' Jackie cried. ‘Jesus Christ! What kind of a homecomin' is this? What kind of a wife have you turned into? Nothin's the way I thought it'd be.'

‘It's the chickenpox…'

‘Chickenpox, bloody chickenpox,' Jackie shouted at the top of his voice. ‘It's got nothin' to do with chickenpox. It's you, you an' – an' everyone else.'

Then he began to call her names, all sorts of filthy names and though it was late in the evening and raining, he rushed through the kitchen into the garden and, a minute or so later, roared away into the darkness on his motorbike and didn't come back that night.

*   *   *

‘Is this your office?' Polly asked. ‘If it is, I don't think much of it.'

‘It isn't my office,' Kenny told her. ‘It's an interview room.'

‘Where you beat the truth out of suspects?'

‘What do you want, Polly?'

‘I shouldn't really have come here, should I?'

‘No,' Kenny said. ‘You shouldn't.'

‘I didn't want to bother you at the flat.'

‘I'm seldom there,' said Kenny.

‘How is Rosie, by the way?'

‘She's still not well,' Kenny said. ‘She works too hard.'

‘Has she been to see a doctor?'

‘Won't go. Refuses point-blank.'

Polly nodded. ‘Rosie's always been stubborn.'

‘Polly, I don't have much time at my disposal.'

‘Nor do I,' said Polly. ‘I just thought I'd pop in to inform you that I am now living with the enemy or, rather, that the enemy is living with me.'

‘Plain English, please.'

‘I've taken in the American. Rosie
will
be scandalised.'

‘Has she reason to be?'

‘God, not you too, Kenneth. I thought you had more sense.'

The room was very small and very dirty. Polly was surprised at the lack of hygiene. Scraps of food and cigarette ends lay on the floor under the scarred table and an abandoned bottle of milk sprouted green mould on the window ledge. She could see nothing from the window, not even sky.

‘I've taken him in,' Polly said, ‘as an emergency measure and on a temporary basis only because Jackie turned up out of the blue. No,' she held up her hand, ‘it's not what you think, Kenneth. Our Jackie hasn't deserted. He's being shipped out in a week's time and this is official leave.'

Kenny lay back in one of the two hard wooden chairs with which the room was furnished. He wore a bulky wool overcoat buttoned up to the throat, and looked, Polly thought, not only cold but exhausted. He surveyed her with what appeared to be a complete lack of interest and she wondered for a moment if he was actually in the process of falling asleep.

She had always felt herself superior to the young policeman but here in the heart of his territory she was much less sure of herself.

‘Does Jackie know where he's being sent?' Kenny said.

‘North Africa, probably.'

‘Poor bastard!'

‘You don't envy him then?'

‘I do not.' Kenny drew in his legs and propped an elbow on the table. ‘Did Cameron send you here?'

Surprised by the question, Polly said, ‘No. Why?'

‘Because Cameron is just the point man on something big.'

‘Point man?'

‘The tip of an iceberg,' said Kenny MacGregor. ‘Everyone's treading cautiously at the moment. US Military Intelligence is pretty much a closed shop. They're disinclined to trust us after the débâcle in France, though some sort of uneasy alliance has been forged between the chaps in Whitehall. I'm not cleared to receive field intelligence unless it relates to Irish Republican activity or illegal arms dealing, so I can't tell you much more than that.'