Prized Possessions (30 page)

He was still standing there, a Gold Flake dangling from his nether lip, when the Alfa prowled into view.

At first he thought Guido was at the wheel, Dominic in the passenger seat but as soon as the motorcar stopped he saw that Dominic was driving and that the person beside him was a girl.

He did not recognise her at first.

It wasn't Rosie, though. He knew it wasn't Rosie.

He removed the cigarette from his mouth, dropped it to the pavement and watched the girl climb out of the Manones' motorcar.

She had long legs inside a pleated black skirt, a haughty look that suggested she might be a toff. It wasn't until she moved into the circle of light that fell from the Rowing Club's doorway that he recognised Polly Conway.

He felt a stab of anger. This was the bitch who had humiliated him. He hated her for not cracking, for letting Walsh do things to her, for looking the way she did, for being so far above him that he could never hope to do anything to her except pull her down. Pull her down is what he would have done if it hadn't been for the motorcar and the man inside the motorcar.

Dominic Manone got out of the driver's door. He folded his arms and leaned on the Alfa's sloping roof.

Mr Manone said nothing.

Mr Manone did not interfere.

Mr Manone watched the girl come up to him and offer him the note. She held it cocked between finger and thumb. She wore skin-tight kidskin gloves that made her hands look slender and ladylike. She dabbed the fiver towards him.

‘Take it,' she said.

He glanced at Mr Manone, who gave no signal to tell him what to do.

‘Come on, you bastard, take it,' the girl said.

He uncoupled his hand from his overcoat pocket and reached out for the banknote. She swallowed it up in her hand, not teasing the way Rosie did but with an arrogance that he found almost vicious.

He blinked. He could see her sneer, and within the same corona, the same field of view, the Italian behind her.

He blinked again, rage numbed by bewilderment.

‘Do you want this too?' the girl said.

When he saw what she had in her other hand he stepped back.

It was an involuntary motion like a spasm in a nerve, a tic over which he had no control. He stepped back, arm raised to protect his face.

She held the razor – his razor – in her gloved hand.

‘Come on,' she said, ‘take it. It's yours, isn't it? Take it.'

He wanted to look at Mr Manone but he couldn't take his eyes off the girl, off that vixen face, off the coil of brown hair that bobbed across her cheek, off the open razor in her fist. He had never seen a woman brandishing an open razor before and the spectacle made him queasy.

She came forward again. He backed away, heels knocking on the steps of the Rowing Club. He thought some of the boys might be behind him – Tony Lombard, Irish Paddy – but they were not his boys, not when Mr Manone was there; you owed loyalty only to the man who paid you.

He covered his face with his forearms.

‘Know what you are, O'Hara?' the girl said. ‘You're a born coward.'

She tossed the razor – his razor – on to the pavement, the banknote after it. She pivoted on her heel and walked away, turning her back on him as if he posed no threat at all. She leaned on the slope of the roof of the Alfa.

‘Now, Mr Manone,' Polly said, ‘now that's done I would be grateful if you would drive me home.'

‘By all means,' Dominic said politely, and stepped around the bonnet of the motorcar to open the passenger door.

*   *   *

Babs said, ‘So what did he do then?'

‘I dunno,' Polly said. ‘Just stood there, looking sick.'

‘I don't mean him,' Babs said, ‘I mean
him.
'

‘Dominic?' Polly said. ‘He brought me back here.'

Lizzie glanced over her shoulder. ‘Did he tell you to call him Dominic?'

‘No,' Polly admitted. ‘But – well…'

‘Don't you go gettin' ideas above your station, my girl,' Lizzie said. ‘It's Mr Manone to the likes of us.'

‘Yes, yes,' Polly said.

‘What did it feel like,' Babs said, ‘squaring up to O'Hara?'

‘Terrific! Absolutely terrific!' Polly said. ‘Never felt so – so…'

‘Powerful,' Rosie suggested.

She leaned across the table, watching and listening intently.

‘Not exactly powerful,' Polly said. ‘That's not the word. Excited, maybe. So much in – in control.'

‘Because
he
was with you, of course,' Babs said, nodding.

Lizzie transferred two plates of minced beef pie hot from the oven. A bowl of mashed potatoes and a dish of green peas already graced the table. When the oven door opened the heat in the kitchen became almost stifling. She carried two more plates to the table, seated herself and began to eat.

‘I'd love to have been there,' Babs said, ‘just to see that bugger's face.'

Lizzie, saying nothing, ate.

She looked weary and was more reticent than usual while her daughters chattered around her. She spooned potato on to Rosie's plate and with a wag of the forefinger indicated that she, Rosie, should begin to eat. She knew that the sprightly little winds of youth had blown many of the clouds of doubt away. They carried nothing for long at that age, Lizzie reminded herself, and were perhaps the better for it.

‘Are you going to Manor Park tomorrow?' Polly said.

Lizzie shook her head.

‘Why not? I told Dominic to expect you.'

‘I'm sure he'll be holdin' his breath,' Lizzie said.

‘I thought, if you're going – I thought I might come with you,' Polly said.

‘Oh, aye! Aye-aye!' said Babs. ‘What about poor old Patsy then?'

‘I may go round there later tonight,' Polly said.

‘Dancing?' Rosie said, loudly.

‘Not dancin',' said Babs.

‘I don't want you goin' anywhere by yourselves,' Lizzie said quietly.

‘Why not?' Babs cried.

‘Because I say so.'

‘Mammy, I've got to see Patsy some time,' Polly said.

‘I'm goin' to Grandma's. You can come with me if you like.'

‘What's the alternative?' Babs said.

‘Stay here, stay in the house. All of you.'

Babs sighed and shovelled a forkful of minced beef pie into her mouth. In fact, she hadn't intended going out. She'd broken with Jackie and wouldn't go chasing after him. If he was as keen on her as he said he was then he'd come panting after her in his own good time.

Meanwhile, she'd lie low for a week or two. Christmas was coming up and she could do with a few long lies, a few days just lounging about the house taking it easy. By the look of the weather it wouldn't be a white Christmas or even a grey New Year, just another of those dreary seasons when all it did was drizzle. If the worst came to the worst she would persuade Polly to go along to the Hogmanay dance at the Socialist Sunday School, though that was hardly going to seem like a
Wow!
after dancing with Jackie at the Calcutta.

Alex O'Hara's visit was still fresh in her memory and she didn't have to be told how edgy things were on the street or why Mammy didn't want them going out alone. While she resented the trouble that Jackie Hallop had got her into she didn't anticipate that it would last long, not now that Polly had Dominic Manone on her side; not even madman O'Hara would dare defy Mr Manone.

‘Nice, ain't he?' Babs said. ‘Mr Manone, I mean.'

‘Very nice,' said Polly. ‘Not what I expected. Very pleasant and polite.'

‘Handsome too.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Did he say anything about our daddy?' Rosie asked.

Her sisters stared at her.

Lizzie went on eating, eyes down.

‘Why would he do that?' said Polly.

‘I thought you might have asked him,' Rosie said.

‘Well, I didn't,' Polly said. ‘We had more important things to discuss.'

‘Like what?' said Rosie.

‘Like…' Polly shrugged.

Her face was flushed with the heat of the kitchen but excitement had given her an appetite that not even Rosie's stupid questions could blunt. She covered her moment of uncertainty by filling her mouth full.

She wondered what Dominic Manone would have for his supper, what succulent Italian delicacy would be on his plate. Memories of the afternoon remained astonishingly vivid. Being in the motorcar, being alone with Dominic, the intense satisfaction beating bully-boy O'Hara at his own game had given her a tangy taste of power – yes, power
was
the word for it – that made everything seem bland by comparison.

‘He didn't know your father,' Lizzie said.

‘He's says he did,' said Polly. ‘Slightly.'

‘Oh, you did talk about Daddy then?' said Rosie.

‘Just a mention in passing.'

Lizzie laid down her knife and fork, squaring them on her plate. She looked up. ‘Who's comin' to help me with Grandma?'

‘Tonight?' said Babs. ‘Why tonight? What's wrong with tomorrow?'

‘I've got somethin' else to do tomorrow.'

‘Like what?' said Babs.

‘Like none of your business,' Lizzie said.

‘To do with Dominic?' said Polly.

‘To do with me.' Lizzie hesitated. ‘Might as well tell you, I suppose. I'm goin' to visit Mr Peabody.'

‘At home?' said Rosie.

‘Aye. It's long way across town to Knightswood,' Lizzie said, ‘so I don't know when I'll be back. That's why I'm goin' to Grandma's tonight.'

‘Why are you visiting old Peabody?' Babs said.

‘To see how his hand is,' Polly suggested, ‘and to give him our thanks?'

‘It's the very least I can do, don't you think?' said Lizzie.

And Polly answered, ‘Oh, yes.'

Chapter Fourteen

Walking through the streets of the Gorbals on a dank Sunday morning on the shortest day of the year did not bear comparison with being driven around in an Italian motorcar but it was only as she approached the café that Polly realised that she didn't want to be there for other reasons too. She found herself hoping that Patsy would not turn up but he was already installed at a table in the rear, shabby and unshaven and to judge by his expression no more pleased to see her than she was to see him.

He watched her work her way between the tables, nudging past two elderly women whose weekend treat was to share a dish of raspberry ice-cream after mid-morning mass at St Ninian's. She looked exceedingly smart, her hair shiny, her black overcoat clinging to her hips. She wore a hat that he hadn't seen before, close fitting with a shallow crown, the brim pulled down so that it almost covered her eyes. She came up to him, head tilted back, fretful and – so Patsy thought – supercilious. ‘I didn't think you'd be here,' she said.

‘Then why did you bother to come?'

‘On the off-chance.'

‘Do you want a coffee?'

‘I can't stay long.'

‘Aren't you gonna sit down?'

She scraped out a wooden chair and perched on it, legs stretched into the narrow passageway. Patsy signalled, ordered two coffees.

‘I thought you might have gone,' she said.

‘Gone where?' he said.

‘Paris. Berlin. Somewhere abroad.'

‘Usin' what for money?' Patsy said.

‘I don't think you should stay in Glasgow.'

‘Is that what your friend told you to tell me?'

‘My friend?'

‘Manone.'

‘He isn't my friend.'

‘You ride around in his fancy motorcar, don't you?'

She gave a curt nod to affirm that she had expected him to know that. She had been well aware that Dominic Manone was showing her off around the neighbourhood, deliberately flaunting their connection in the hope that it would stir resentment and that resentment might lead to a squeal. She had been dazzled by the ride in the Alfa, disarmed by Dominic Manone's courteous charm but she had not been blind to the fact that he was using her in much the same way as Patsy had done.

It wasn't that she had grown weary of Patsy – she hadn't known him long enough for that – or that she despised him for what he had done. There had been no defining moment when her attitude had changed, no
volte face.
Through no fault of his own Patsy seemed to have become part of a more complex equation. For some reason – or no reason, perhaps – she preferred to blame Patsy for her present emotional muddle.

She said, ‘He wanted information – which he didn't get, of course.'

‘Why do you say “Of course”?'

‘I wouldn't let you down.'

‘How do I know that?' Patsy said.

‘You'll just have to trust me.'

‘I see.'

‘You don't see anything,' Polly said. ‘Dominic Manone's far too subtle to be caught out that way. Don't you know what subtle means?'

‘Yeah,' Patsy said. ‘As it happens I do know what subtle means.'

‘I'm sorry,' Polly said. ‘I shouldn't have said that.'

‘Say what you like,' Patsy told her. ‘I ain't gonna believe you anyway.'

‘Thanks,' Polly said. ‘Thanks a million.'

‘I know more about Dominic Manone an' how he works than you do, Polly,' Patsy informed her. ‘You think O'Hara's dangerous? He's a babe-in-bloody-arms compared with Manone; and I don't just mean because Manone's an Italian.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' said Polly. ‘Who spotted us?'

‘Wee Billy Hallop. God, he could hardly not spot you when Manone's black Alfa was planted outside your close for half the afternoon.'

‘Where were you?'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘Didn't you go to the Calcutta last night?'

‘No,' Patsy said, impatiently. ‘No, of course I didn't go to the Calcutta.'