The Wayward Wife (37 page)

‘Old Leo – huh!' Matt scratched his nose with his forefinger. ‘Old beggar beat me to it. Who'd 'ave thought he'd be the one to go first. Drowned like a rat in the Irish Sea. Makes you think, don't it? Never know what's round the corner, do yer?' He smoothed a hand over the Home Office notepaper. ‘Seems like yesterday we was boys runnin' wild together, now—'

‘Now you can marry my ma,' Breda put in.

‘Eh?' Matt looked up.

‘You 'eard me,' Breda said. ‘God knows, you been rattlin' on about it long enough. Nothin' to stop you now.'

‘I'm a Protestant,' Matt said, as if he had just discovered that fact about himself. ‘I mean, will they let me marry a Catholic in Ireland?'

Nora said, ‘Auntie Mary married a Protestant an' they didn't burn her at the stake. What they won't put up with is you an' me livin' in sin.'

Breda said, ‘You don't seem very upset, Ma.'

‘Upset?'

‘About Dad, about Leo?'

‘After all the trouble he brought me drowning's too good for him.' Nora glanced down at Billy who was seated by her side. ‘No, no.' She crossed herself hastily. ‘I don't mean that. Sure an' I'm sorry he's dead. I'll even say a prayer for him.'

‘An' light a candle,' Billy suggested.

‘Yes, dear,' she said. ‘And light a candle.'

‘Who's Leo, anyway?' Billy asked.

‘He was your granddad,' Nora answered.

‘I thought you was my granddad,' Billy said.

‘You got two granddads,' Matt told him. ‘Everybody does.'

‘Now I only got one?'

‘Uh-huh,' Breda said. ‘Now you only got one.'

‘But I still got a dad,' Billy said. ‘He's in the army. You don't get drowned in the army.'

‘Nah, hardly anybody gets drowned in the army,' Breda said, adding quickly, ‘How many of them biscuits you had?'

‘Two.'

‘Have another one then an' let the grown-ups talk. Okay?'

Billy agreed to the deal by accepting the biscuit his mother offered and, head resting on Nora's shoulder, bit into it.

Finger to her lips, Breda gave Matt Mr Reilly's condolence note and watched him read it. She expected tears or at least some evidence of emotion but her father-in-law just pushed the letter back across the table. ‘I reckon you'll want to keep it.'

‘'Course I want to keep it. It's all I got left.'

‘Be some money comin' your way, though,' Matt said.

‘There might,' said Breda, ‘but it won't be much.'

‘Remember to leave them your new address,' Nora said.

‘My new—'

‘Molly's house in Limerick.'

Breda drew in a deep breath. ‘Ma,' she said, ‘I ain't goin' with you to Limerick.'

‘You can't stay 'ere on your own,' Matt said. ‘I won't stand for it, not with Billy the way he is.'

Breda took Danny's letter from her skirt and placed it on the table where both Matt and Nora could read it. ‘Danny's found a place for Billy an' me in the country.'

‘Damned if 'e has,' Matt Hooper said. ‘You ain't goin', girl, an' that's flat.'

‘Who's gonna stop me?' Breda said. ‘Danny says it ain't much of a place he's found for Billy an' me but there's a school handy an' there might even be a part-time job for me in the canteen of a factory where 'is friend works.'

Nora said, ‘I knew Danny wouldn't let you down.'

‘Let 'er down?' Matt said. ‘Ron gone not ten bleedin' minutes an' that Scotch bastard wants 'er for 'imself.'

‘Shut up, Matt, just shut up,' Nora said. ‘You'll be safe with Danny, dear. He'll look after you.'

‘She'll be a lot safer with us in Ireland,' Matt said.

‘Sure an' you've no say in the matter,' Nora told him.

‘No, but I bloody well know who has.'

‘Who's that then?' Nora asked.

‘Susan,' Matt answered. ‘Our Susan.'

Some of the boys and girls from the News Department were having a party of sorts in the canteen to celebrate the announcement that ferocious storms were due to pound the coast of Britain and that any plans Adolf might have to use the full moon and high tides of the
24
th to launch an invasion would surely be swept away.

One stately newsreader had popped the cork on a bottle of champagne and the minions, Susan thought, were pretending to be merrier than they really were just to please the old buffer. When they called out and invited her to join them, she forced a smile, shook her head and hurried on to buy a couple of sandwiches to eat upstairs.

She felt relieved, almost light-hearted now that the inevitable had happened and Robert Gaines had displayed his true colours. He had, she told herself, been just too good to be true, too good in bed, too good at the microphone but, in the end, not good enough for her.

Four or five years ago she would have blamed herself for his betrayal, would have believed herself to be inadequate, unattractive, lacking in sex appeal, a failure. She was not as she'd been five years ago, thank heaven, so unsure of herself that she would knuckle under and let some man, a virtual stranger, drain her of self-confidence as a vampire might drain her of blood. The fact that Bob Gaines had dared cheat on her only strengthened her belief that she deserved better.

In the end he was nothing but an opportunistic, fly-by-night foreign journalist who had caught her when she was at her most vulnerable – which, now she thought of it, was really all Danny Cahill's fault for leaving her alone in London in the first place. Nor was Vivian entirely blameless. And Basil, yes, Basil had positively encouraged her to embark on an affair for the sake of his blessed programme.

After the first flush of shock and anger had subsided she'd swiftly gained control of herself and, on the short walk through the windy streets from Berkeley Square to Portland Place, had begun to construct her defences.

Even before the doors of Broadcasting House had closed behind her she knew precisely how she would treat him, how her aloof indifference to his excuses and apologies would turn the tables until it appeared that
she
was rejecting
him
, that he, not she, was the fool.

She was hungry: a good sign, a sure sign that her strategy was sound and that whatever hurt Bob Gaines had inflicted upon her was already beginning to heal.

She carried the sandwiches and a mug of tea up to the third-floor office and placed them on her desk. The damaged window, under the metal shutter, had been repaired or, rather, replaced by a huge sheet of plyboard that cut out all the light. All to the good, she thought, for the transition from daylight to dusk was a melancholy time, even before the sirens sounded warning of the inevitable raid.

She cut the sandwiches into manageable quarters with a paper knife and ate them; egg and cress, not her favourite filling but palatable enough. At least the bread was fresh. She found a handkerchief in her handbag, wiped her mouth and fingers, lit a cigarette and sipped lukewarm tea. Her typewriter, the telephone, the wallboard with the week's schedule pinned to it, the tray on Basil's desk with letters waiting to be signed: all the comforts of home, really.

She finished the tea and the cigarette and, tipping back her chair, rested her head against the wall and easily, effortlessly, drifted off to sleep.

The persistent ringing of the telephone wakened her. She tipped the chair forward and blinked. Her neck ached and she had a bad taste in her mouth. She waited for the phone to stop ringing but it didn't. She glanced at the wall clock and realised that she'd slept for the best part of two hours. Small wonder, she thought as she crossed the room, that her neck ached.

She stooped over Basil's desk and stared at the telephone. She knew who the caller would be, the despicable Mr Gaines, no doubt, telling her what a mistake he'd made, that he'd been drunk, that nothing had happened, that he hardly knew the girl, that she meant nothing to him, that he …

She picked up the receiver and said, ‘Well?'

For an instant, she failed to recognise his voice. Then it dawned on her that she had never heard him speak on a telephone before. He sounded different, hesitant and apologetic and, curiously, more refined, as if he feared that his call might somehow be broadcast to the nation.

‘Dad?' she said.

‘Is that Mrs Cahill? I'm looking for Mrs Cahill.'

‘Yes, Dad, it's me. It's Susan.'

A pause, some muttering, a fumbling with coins, the clash of coppers as he found the right button, then, shouting, he said, ‘Is that you, Susan?'

She was amused by his inability to deal with the implements of the modern world that were so familiar to her but she was also uneasy. The effort it must have cost him to enter a public telephone box and place a call to the BBC, the holy of holies in his book, suggested that something was seriously wrong: another death, another tragedy – Billy or Nora, perhaps – another problem she must deal with when she barely had time to deal with problems of her own.

‘What is it?' she said. ‘Is it Billy?'

‘No, it's me. It's your father.'

‘I know it's you, Dad. You don't have to shout. I can hear you perfectly well. Why are you calling me at work?'

‘You won't get into trouble, will you? I wouldn't want to get you in no trouble. I told them it was urgent.'

‘For God's sake, simmer down and tell me what—'

‘He's leavin' you.'

Bewildered, Susan said, ‘How do you know that?'

‘Danny. He's leavin' you.'

‘Danny?'

‘Your 'usband.'

‘I know who Danny is, Dad. What makes you think—'

‘You gotter stop 'er, Susie. It ain't right.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about. Stop who?'

‘Her. Breda,' her father said, then, in a rush, ‘They didn't want me tellin' you. They said you wouldn't be interested.'

‘I don't understand.'

‘She's goin' to stay with 'im in this country place.'

‘Evesham. Is she? Does Danny know about it?'

‘He told 'er to come. He's got a place for 'er to stay. He's even sendin' 'er money for the fares. I mean, Ron's wife, our Ron's wife goin' to live in a strange town with Danny Cahill. You ask me, the cow was at it behind Ronnie's back. Now Ron's not 'ere to sort 'er out it's up to me to do it for 'im.'

‘Is Billy going too?'

‘'Course 'e is. She won't go without 'im.'

‘I think Danny's just making sure Billy gets out of London. At least I hope he is. What about you, you and Nora?'

‘Not invited.' He paused. ‘Anyway, we're goin' to Ireland.'

‘Ireland?'

‘To stay with Nora's niece, least till me foot heals up.'

‘And you want Breda to go with you, is that it?'

‘It ain't right for Billy to be took away. It just ain't right,' he said. ‘It's up to you to stop 'er, Susie. He's your bleedin' husband. You can put your foot down.'

‘I'm not sure I can. I'm not sure I even want to.'

Obviously no one had told her father about her affair with Robert and that her marriage to Danny Cahill might be on its last legs. Now Breda, Breda with her swagger and her big chest, would finish it off for sure. Breda had one card in her hand that she could never hope to trump: Billy, the stubborn, pathetic little boy who was already more like her father in temperament than Ron had ever been.

‘Susan?' her father said. ‘Susie, are you there?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm runnin' out of money 'ere.'

‘Do you need cash?'

‘What? No, pennies.'

‘What about cash to get you to Ireland?'

‘Nora's got some savings in the bank. She can get the money without 'er bank book, she says. The book went up in smoke but the banks know what to do about that. Susie, you there, Susie? What you gonner do about—'

And the line went dead.

She replaced the receiver and waited, motionless, for her father to ring back. A minute passed, then two. The phone remained resolutely silent, her father's final question hanging unanswered in the air.

‘Shady Nook?' Kate said. ‘I wonder who dreamed that up?'

‘Someone with a great deal of imagination,' Griff said. ‘They can call it Shangri-La if they like, it's still nothing but an old railway carriage.'

‘How on earth did they get it here?' said Kate.

‘Tractor, I expect,' Danny said. ‘Once you're inside it's not as bad as it looks.'

‘It couldn't possibly be as bad as it looks,' Kate said. ‘I hope your friend knows what she's coming to.'

‘My friend,' Danny said, ‘won't care what she's coming to. Anywhere's better than London right now an' poor old Breda doesn't have much choice.'

‘You're pretty cocky about all this, aren't you, boyo?'

‘I'm not cocky at all,' said Danny. ‘Somebody's got to look out for her now she's a widow with a kid an' nowhere to live. Her mother took me in when I was homeless, least I can do is return the favour.'

‘This may not be time or the place – especially not the place – but what,' Griff said, ‘does your wife have to say about it?'

Griffiths and Kate were leaning against the bicycles which, with pails, brooms and mops hanging from the handlebars and jutting out from the saddlebags, made them look like gypsies peddling hardware door to door.

Griff's sheepskin coat and patched old cords fitted the image of a rural mendicant, aided by a pair of Mr Pell's wellington boots flopping on his feet, which, Kate said, might endear him to the odd one-eyed milkmaid but would definitely not go down well in Coventry High Street, though she, in baggy slacks and rubber galoshes, with a beret pulled tight over her hair, didn't look much like a fashion plate either.