Wives at War (47 page)

‘I don't know what'll happen out there,' Christy said.

‘Portugal,' Babs said, ‘isn't in the war. You could stay in Portugal.'

‘It isn't that simple, Babs.'

‘You love her, don't you?'

‘Love who?' said April, glancing up from her shoes.

‘Auntie Polly,' Babs said.

‘Auntie Polly's not here,' said April. ‘I love Auntie Polly too.'

Kneeling, Babs slipped off her daughter's shoes and gently took her down from Christy's lap. ‘Go into the lounge and play for a bit, honey.'

April nodded. ‘You're not going away, Christy?'

‘Not just yet.'

‘Are you stayin' with us again?'

He shook his head. ‘I'll come see you before I go, though. Okay?'

‘Okay,' said April and ran off into the lounge.

Babs leaned her elbows on the table top and looked straight into Christy's eyes. ‘You didn't answer my question.'

‘I can't,' he said. ‘I don't know whether I love her or not. It hardly matters. She's going one way, I guess, and I'm going the other.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘They're not gonna let me go,' Christy said.

‘They're goin' to arrest you? What for?'

He laughed. The gold tooth that she had once found unusual and appealing glinted for a moment. He said, ‘No, they're not gonna arrest me, Babs, but they are gonna put pressure on me to work for them.'

‘Who, work for who?'

‘One of the new intelligence services.'

‘Then you really will be a spy.'

‘Seems like it,' said Christy.

‘Is that what you want?'

‘I don't know what I want.'

‘You didn't want me, though, did you?'

‘You're wrong there,' Christy said. ‘I did want you.'

‘Yeah, but only because you hadn't met Polly.'

‘You were married, Babs, and I'm not that much of a—'

‘I'm not married now.' Babs lifted herself up and, resting on her hands, smiled. ‘Oh, don't panic. I'm not goin' to embarrass you by making a pass. You're far too nice for this job, Mr Cameron. You'll make an absolutely lousy spy, you know.'

‘What about Manone? Will he make a lousy spy too?'

‘Dom? God, no! Dom's a natural double-crosser. Do you think they'll send him to Italy?'

Christy shrugged. ‘Maybe.'

‘I don't blame the Italians for what happened to Jackie, you know. I don't even blame the Germans – well, maybe I do, some of them,' Babs said. ‘Funny, I used to have this – this
thing
about foreigners; distrust I suppose you'd call it. Didn't like them ‘cause I didn't know them. Always liked Americans, though, always fancied Americans.'

‘What about spies?' said Christy. ‘How do you feel about spies?'

‘I thought you only got to be a spy when they dropped you behind enemy lines on a parachute. Shows what I know, eh? I never imagined I'd ever meet up with a guy who was cut out to be a spy, just a guy, a sort of ordinary American guy who takes photographs for a livin' an' who thought I looked cute standing in the rain in Cyprus Street.'

‘Real cute,' said Christy.

‘I'll miss you,' Babs said.

‘Maybe I'll come back some day.'

‘Some day,' Babs said, ‘when the war's over.'

‘Assuming we win, of course,' said Christy.

‘Yes, assuming we win,' said Babs.

*   *   *

It didn't take the Mine Disposal squad long to pack up and leave but Petty Officer Mirrilees, who had a boy of his own at home, spared a few minutes to escort Angus down to the wood to let him sniff the astringent aroma of high explosive and gawp at the crater before he brought him back to the farmhouse.

By that time Dougie had put on rubber boots, had waded through the mud in Ron's enclosure and, with the pig butting and nuzzling his backside, had man-handled away the stout wooden trough by the shed, had lifted away a single paving stone and brought from beneath it a package wrapped in oilskin and sealed with black insulating tape.

Leaning on the fence, Polly watched Dougie replace the trough and slop mud around to hide the fact that it had been moved. He lifted the package, carried it to the fence and handed it to her. The package was heavy, the oilskin cold and clammy and smelling of earth.

Dougie wiped his hands on his trousers, clambered over the fence and snatched the package back from her. She had never seen him look so mean.

‘If you're takin' it away,' he said, ‘I'll be needin' a receipt.'

‘A receipt?' Marzipan let out a bellow of laughter. ‘My God! Don't tell me you expect a receipt for stolen property, mere possession of which could see you arrested.'

‘I don't think it's stolen property,' Dougie said.

‘Don't you know?'

‘Keep it safe, Dom told me. That's what I've done.'

‘Well,' said Marzipan, ‘if it isn't stolen property it's certainly property purchased with counterfeit cash. Quite a witty touch, actually. I assume Manone intended to retrieve his hoard one day?'

‘Search me,' said Dougie. ‘I'll still want a receipt.'

‘Perhaps,' Polly said, ‘we should open the package before we jump to conclusions. For all we know there's nothing inside but pig manure.'

Marzipan hooted again. ‘Forty thousand pounds worth of pig manure. Oh, yes, that would be typical of Manone, wouldn't it? Come along, let's go inside and open the damned thing.' Putting an arm around Dougie's shoulder he steered him round the corner and into the farmhouse while Polly followed on.

Newspapers were spread on the kitchen table. Dougie cut away the insulating tape with a sharp knife and unwound the oilskin covering just before the Petty Officer delivered Angus to the door.

The boy came running into the kitchen.

‘What a bang,' he crowed. ‘You should see the hole, Dougie. It's miles deep. Uprooted all the trees. Blew away the rooks' nests, too, an' there's a dead squirrel hanging…' Confronted by Polly and the stranger he became cagey. ‘What's up now? What's that? Is that another bomb?'

‘Will I take him upstairs?' Polly asked.

‘No need,' Marzipan answered. ‘Let him stay.'

Angus approached the table and stood by his Aunt Polly's side and watched Dougie slide the big glass preserving jar from its oilskin wrapping. The jar was sealed with a spring clip, the rubber edges protected by yet more tape. The walls of the jar were moist as if the contents were sweating and all Polly could make out was an icy grey mass, like slush.

Dougie cut the tape, released the clip and pulled off the lid.

He tipped the jar and trickled the contents on to the newspaper.

If Polly had expected glittering gemstones all cut and perfectly polished like the diamonds she had admired in jewellery store windows, she was disappointed.

Angus glanced up at his aunt. ‘What is that stuff?'

‘Diamonds,' Polly said, ‘I think.'

‘Diamonds! They're not diamonds,' said Angus.

‘Ah, but they are, young man,' Marzipan told him. ‘Industrial diamonds, uncut and unpolished but highly valuable nonetheless. Look at them, three, four, five carat stones, worth a fortune in the right hands.'

‘Are they yours, Dougie?' Angus asked.

‘Naw, they belong to your Uncle Dominic,' said Dougie. ‘Aunt Polly's taking them to him. They're for the war effort.'

Unmoved by the appearance of a small fortune in gemstones on Miss Dawlish's table, Angus nodded. Compared to discovering a live German mine in the woods, diamonds were nothing to get excited about. He watched the stranger run his fingers through the stones, sifting and weighing them.

‘Are they genuine?' said Polly.

‘Oh yes, I'm sure they are,' Marzipan said.

‘Worth how much?'

‘Much more than forty thousand pounds,' said Marzipan.

‘Will that be enough?' said Polly.

‘More than enough,' said Marzipan. ‘Clever chap, your husband. It appears he's contrived to deliver on his promise without spending one penny of his own money. I assume you have the forty thousand snugly tucked away in your bank account, Mrs Manone – forty thousand that I and my associates are supposed to believe went on the purchase of this little lot?'

‘I don't think I'm going to answer that question,' said Polly.

‘Very wise of you,' the officer said. ‘And, to be candid, I don't think I'm going to pursue it. As far as I'm concerned Manone has delivered what he promised the Americans and that's an end of it. The rest is up to you.'

‘How do we get the diamonds past Customs?' said Polly.

‘Customs won't be a problem,' said Marzipan. ‘One reason we're sending you to Portugal in a convoy ship is because the Portuguese police are more vigilant at airports and our friends in the American embassy aren't entirely omnipotent. We British do have a little leeway on the docks, however. We'll be able to slip you through without official involvement. The ambassador wants no part of it, you see. He doesn't much care for treading on thin ice.'

‘Thin ice,' said Polly. ‘Is that what you call it?'

‘What's Dom goin' to do with this stuff?' Dougie said. ‘He's not givin' it to the Americans out the goodness o' his heart.'

‘Trade,' said Marzipan. ‘He's going to trade.'

‘In Lisbon?' Dougie said.

‘Lisbon, Spain, Italy,' the officer said. ‘The diamonds will be his calling card, a means of proving that he's no more honest than anyone else. Once he's accepted as a dealer then the Americans can safely use him as a go-between.'

‘For how long?' said Dougie.

Marzipan shrugged. ‘For as long as it takes.'

He ran his hands over the stones once more, stroking them as he might stroke a cat, then he began to scoop them carefully back into the jar.

‘What,' said Polly, ‘do you think you're doing?'

‘Taking them away.'

‘Oh no, you're not,' Polly told him. ‘They're mine.'

‘They're not anyone's at this precise moment,' Marzipan said. ‘You'll get them back, every last carat, on Friday evening after you board. What's wrong, Mrs Manone, don't you trust me?'

‘Trust you! I don't even know your name.'

‘McGonagall,' Marzipan said. ‘William Henry McGonagall.'

‘You're kiddin',' Dougie said.

‘Of course I am,' said Marzipan.

*   *   *

It was late now, very late, and there was no light in the upstairs room. They lay together in the big bed listening to the wind drone through the holes and fissures that the raids had left in the fabric of the solid old house that Carlo Manone had purchased almost forty years ago.

Polly clung to Christy, pressing her breasts against his chest, twining her legs with his. They were both naked and slick with the sweat of lovemaking but the tension between them had not been relieved. She wanted him to make love to her again, to so stun her with sex that her fears would be carried away on a tide not of love but exhaustion.

He felt big beside her, bearlike. She stroked him, softly at first then, digging her hand into his hair, pulled him to her and kissed him with desperate passion. She was still wet, sore and swollen with need of him, of someone, anyone who would calm the myriad little anxieties that throbbed and tingled in her head.

When he rolled away from her, though, she experienced no great ache of disappointment and when, fumbling, he switched on the lamp by the bedside and sat up, she was more relieved than not.

‘Listen to that wind,' Christy said. ‘I sure hope it calms down before we strike out into the Firth tomorrow night.'

He lit two cigarettes.

Polly kissed his shoulder, and sat up.

Sweat dried on her neck, on her breasts. Her fears had eased slightly now that there was a light in the room. She accepted a cigarette, drew in smoke and lay back against the crumpled pillows.

‘Are you scared?' Polly asked.

‘Sure I am,' Christy answered. ‘I'm a lousy sailor. I get sick on boats.'

The wind flailed at loose slates on the roof and rain drummed on the boarded windows. Polly could hear the drip of a ceiling leak, the
pat-pat-pat
of droplets falling somewhere just beyond the bedroom door. She would have to deal with the mess when she returned from Lisbon unless, that is, another crop of German bombs took it all away and left nothing but ruins.

She had lingered long enough at the farm to say goodbye to Bernard and Mammy and help tuck her nieces into bed, and had driven home very slowly with headlights dipped, navigating more by instinct than by her senses.

Christy had been waiting for her in the kitchen, a pan of stew bubbling on the electric plate. He had used up every last scrap of food and had opened the very last bottle of Italian wine. They had eaten supper in the parlour, seated on the carpet before the fire, had eaten and drunk wine and talked of what had happened that day and what would happen tomorrow, sharing the little secrets that each had kept from the other until now.

‘I don't know what sort of sailor I am,' Polly said. ‘I'm not like you, darling. I'm not a traveller. I've never been abroad.'

‘You could have picked a better time to start.'

‘That's true.'

‘At least it'll be warm in Lisbon.'

‘How warm?'

‘Like summer,' Christy said.

‘I'll pack accordingly.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Summer things.'

‘Yeah.'

‘I have a passport, you know, a proper one. Fin got it for me.'

He nodded as if he knew that already and retreated into an uncharacteristic silence. Polly felt no compunction to cheer him up.

She said, ‘The officer's going to pack the diamonds into two bottles of Scotch and make sure they're properly sealed. We'll be given them as soon as we're on board the
Tantallon Castle
, then it'll be up to us to keep them safe until we hand them over to Dominic.'