Prized Possessions (32 page)

Now she thought of it Polly realised that Mr Smart's corner shop, like all corner shops, was bound to be an oasis of gossip. The dairy might be a quarter of a mile from Lavender Court and a lot further than that from the warehouse but the southside was the southside and rumours travelled from one end to the other faster than a flock of sparrows.

‘At the dairy, aye,' Grandma McKerlie said. ‘Is it true, but?'

‘No, Gran,' said Polly. ‘It isn't true.'

‘It's true about the warehouse,' Babs said, shrewdly. ‘But the rest of it's rubbish. I mean, we'd know if there'd been a fight on our landin'.'

‘Who is he then, this man?' Gran said.

‘Nobody,' Babs said, impatiently. ‘There's no man.'

‘Only Mr Peabody,' Rosie put in.

‘Who's Mr Peabody?' said Janet.

‘Our rent-collector,' said Polly.

Grandma McKerlie said, ‘Is he the one that was fightin' wi' her?'

‘Dear God!' Babs put a hand to her brow. ‘Mr Peabody only comes to collect the rent, Gran. He's not got his leg ove—' She shrugged.

‘A rent-collector, huh!' Janet poured streams of pale yellow tea into the cups on the table. ‘I thought she could do better for hersel' than a rent-collector.'

‘Mr Peabody is a nice chap,' said Rosie.

‘Gives her tick, I suppose,' said Janet.

‘Nothing of the sort,' said Rosie who, for some reason that Polly could not fathom, seemed to be uncharacteristically argumentative today. ‘Mr Peabody would not give tick to anyone. He lives in Knightswood.'

Janet had heard of the garden suburb but the name meant nothing to Gran McKerlie and Knightswood might as well have lain west of the Limpopo as west of the Clyde. In fact, now that she considered it, Polly realised that none of them had ever been out to the end of the tramlines and that Gran McKerlie wasn't the only one to whom the West End was unknown territory.

In the same moment – her concentration sliding away from the spartan kitchen and her droning aunt – she wondered where Dominic was right now and what aspect of business occupied him on a Sunday afternoon, or if he joined the rest of the Italian community in what seemed to her like one long act of worship at one or other of the chapels that dotted the city. She could almost imagine him kneeling before a crucifix, crossing himself devoutly, for his soft-spoken, gentle manner seemed quite close to piety. When he lit a candle or said a prayer today, she wondered if he would spare a passing thought for her.

‘Polly?' Babs said.

‘What?'

‘I think Gran needs the you-know-what.'

The girls went out into the narrow hall while, within the kitchen, amid the teacups and bullet-shaped cakes, their grandmother struggled from the chair to the chamberpot and, by the sound of it, strained to make water.

‘How long do we have to stay here?' Rosie asked in a stage whisper.

‘Another half-hour at least,' said Polly.

Babs was kneeling before the cupboard door. She hunkered on her heels, knees spread, one hand upon the woodwork.

‘Is that where the money is?' she said.

‘Yes,' Polly answered.

‘Can we look? Can we take a peek?'

‘What is going on?' said Rosie, frowning.

‘No, we can't take a peek,' said Polly. ‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘What are you two talking about?'

‘Nothin',' said Babs. ‘None of your business.' She pressed her forehead against the cupboard door, and sniffed. ‘God, I can just about smell it.'

‘What? Gran?' said Rosie.

‘Plu-ease!' Babs exclaimed; then to Polly, ‘I think we
should
take a peek just to make sure it's still there.'

‘It's still there,' said Polly. ‘Where else would it be?'

‘Go on.'

‘No.'

Aunt Janet jerked open the door from the kitchen and peered at her nieces gathered guiltily in the gloom of the hall. ‘What're you whisperin' about?' she said. ‘An' what are you doin' down there, Babs?'

‘Cramp,' said Babs, lifting herself and grimacing. ‘You know – cramp.'

‘Oh!' said Janet; and because this was a misfortune that she wouldn't acknowledge let alone discuss, ushered the girls back into the kitchen without another word.

*   *   *

The sky had changed from slate to navy blue and contained more stars than Lizzie had ever seen before, all glittering with a brilliance that seemed almost artifical. A new moon had risen over the trees at the top of the parkland. It too looked too perfect to be real, like a prop from a Princess pantomime or an illustration from one of Rosie's books of fairytales.

The night wind brushed light and cold against Lizzie's lips, a keen, clear little wind that came off the hills and brought a sense of the countryside that lay beyond the mountains that stretched away into a grand and innocent infinity.

Along the line of the Boulevard – in the middle distance – a tramcar raced, its lights bobbing. The lights of the suburbs were not dense but individualised, streetlamps and house lights and the lights that lit the steeples of the newly built churches that had been given pride of place amid the dwellings. Lizzie had expected Knightswood to be different – and it
was
different – but she hadn't expected it to make her feel different too.

‘Pretty, isn't it?' Bernard said.

‘Aye,' said Lizzie. ‘Oh, aye, it is.'

She hugged his arm so that they walked along the pavement not just in step but in cosy harmony, a one-ness that Lizzie hadn't experienced for years.

The afternoon had not been a total disaster after all. Whatever her other failings – and they were many – Mrs Peabody could not be faulted as a hostess. Once it had become apparent that Bernard would not be denied ‘his visitor', Mrs Peabody had set about impressing her guest. She had lavished upon Lizzie such heaps of freshly cut gammon sandwiches and buttered fruit loaf, such piles of scones and pancakes and dainty little sponge cakes that Lizzie had made quite a pig of herself, a demonstration of appreciation that had softened Violet Peabody's attitude to the big woman from the Gorbals and had led if not to friendship at least to temporary rapport.

Lizzie had been sensible enough not to divulge the cause of Bernard's wound and had supported the lie that he had told his mother. She had admitted, however, that she'd been concerned about the injury and that she and her daughters – she was careful to mention her daughters – had given the wound attention when Bernard had turned up to collect the rent.

All these little half-truths Mrs Peabody had appeared to swallow without paying much attention. She had been as quick as a hawk to swoop on any titbits of personal information that Lizzie dropped, however, and had demonstrated an immoderate interest in Lizzie's age, Lizzie circumstances, Lizzie's family and, most especially, in Lizzie's intentions towards her son.

‘She isn't so bad, you know,' Bernard said as he walked Lizzie along the road towards the tram stop. ‘Once you get to know her.'

‘She's devoted to you, that's for sure.'

‘No, she's devoted to herself,' said Bernard, with a little chuckle. ‘I'm just part of her life, not the centre of it.'

‘She
should
be devoted to you,' Lizzie said.

‘Oh, now…'

‘You're a good man, Bernard, a brave man.'

‘Oh, really, Lizzie, I only did what anyone would have done.'

‘You faced up to O'Hara like a hero.'

‘I couldn't stand by an' see him bully a young girl.'

She patted his bandaged hand gently. ‘Will it cost you time off work?'

‘I doubt it,' Bernard said. ‘I never take long to heal. Meanwhile I'm doin' quite well writing with my left hand. It only takes a bit of practice.'

They walked on, saying nothing for a while.

Cottage rows had given way to gardens and neat semidetached villas. Lizzie suspected that Bernard had steered her away from the nearest tram stop. Up ahead she could see the high-hung lights of a crossroads and, by following the contours of the parkland and distant hills, had a notion that he might be leading her towards the Boulevard.

She said, ‘My husband wasn't like him, you know.'

‘He was a soldier, wasn't he?'

‘No, he was a crook,' said Lizzie. ‘No good beatin' about the bush. He was a crook, but he wasn't a bully.'

‘Did he work for the older Manone, the one who went off to America?'

‘Aye,' Lizzie admitted. ‘They say he stole a large sum o' money from the Manones before he joined the army. If he did, though, I never saw a penny of it. An' I never got a pension either, since there was some mix-up about whether Frank was dead or not.'

‘Missing in action,' Bernard said, nodding.

‘I never understood what that meant,' said Lizzie.

‘Buried under tons o' earth,' Bernard told her. ‘Blown to pieces. Drowned in the mud. Burned beyond recognition. Nothin' left to identify. That's what it meant.'

‘You saw all that?'

‘Yes,' Bernard said. ‘Most of it.'

She did not ask him to explain or expand. She sensed his reticence and the reasons for it. She gripped his arm a little more securely, lifted her chin and tasted the clean wintry wind once more. The war was in the past. What she'd had today was a glimpse of the future, a future free of tenements and dank closes and the stink of disinfectant, of being in debt to Dominic Manone and the whole sinister circle of crooks and cowards that had been Frank's legacy.

Even if the Corporation Housing Department would agree to allocate her a house in Knightswood she wouldn't be able to afford it. Only when the girls were married and off her hands and Manone paid off in full would she be free to cross the river and put the Gorbals and all it stood for behind her.

Would she be free to marry again.

And by that time it might be too late; she might be too old.

She felt within her, in the very rhythm of her step, a sudden desperate quickening, an urgency the like of which she had never known before.

They were close to the cross now, to the confluence of several roads and avenues, the great broad river of the Boulevard with its new tramlines and tree-plantings, its shoals of soft grass, running forth before her. She could see three churches and a school from the dip of the corner and the sky, an amazing breadth of sky, stretching away in all directions, far above the rooftops.

She drew Bernard to a halt.

‘What's wrong, Lizzie? Are you out of breath?'

‘Just a bit,' she said.

He took her in his arms.

Sunday night in the suburbs; they were long past the age when such exhibitions were excusable. Bernard didn't seem to care. He pressed her against him in a bear-hug and although they were swaddled in winter coats and scarves and kept apart by layers of wool and flannel, Lizzie could feel the ardour in him, not lust or even longing but a strangely uninhibited surge of affection that somehow transcended need.

He kissed her mouth.

His lips and her lips were cold but that did not seem to matter.

‘Lizzie?'

‘Hmm?'

‘Sorry, but I think I love you. Sorry, but I think I do.'

She leaned against him, breast against his chest, hat brushing his chin.

‘What're you sorry for, Bernard?' she asked. ‘It's me should be sorry.'

‘You? For what?'

‘For not bein' young, for not bein' beautiful enough for you.'

‘God, Lizzie!' he told her. ‘You are.
You are.
'

‘Nah.' She shook her head joyfully. ‘Nah, nah, I'm not.'

‘Why won't you believe me?' Bernard said.

‘Because I know better?'

‘Lizzie.' He took her face between his hands and said, ‘Lizzie, I mightn't be much of a gentleman but I'd never lie to you. I love you. I mean it.'

He kissed her again, lingeringly, and pressed against her and under the wrappings, under the wool and flannel, she felt the years melt away, felt slender and supple again, so youthful and alive that just for one brief brilliant moment she was almost tempted to believe that what he said was true.

Chapter Fifteen

Christmas for Dominic had never been a merry time, nor did he much care for the Scottish tradition of celebrating New Year with a welter of glad-handing, back-slapping sentiment and excessive amounts of whisky. Perhaps because he was himself a cold fish he tended to dismiss his neighbours' warm-heartedness as affectation. In the dog days of December, however, he was obliged to hide his prejudices and to perform the role that fate and his family had allotted him, to pretend that he really was a jolly fellow who wished only goodwill to all men and – with discretion – one or two women as well.

Dominic kept abreast of what was happening in the world at large. He was well aware that in many towns and cities throughout Britain the Italian colonies were being brought together and given dignity by the organising powers of the
fascisti.
In spite of leanings towards ‘the other side', he was just deceitful enough to keep his nose clean with the Glasgow
fascio
while still paying his dues to the Union of Italian Traders.

Influence and power were elements that Dominic well understood. He watched with interest as the Communities began to organise themselves. He was not dismayed by the composition of steering committees made up of honest, upstanding citizens, activists who had at last found focus for their drive and energy. He did not consider them misguided. He was, after all, primarily a businessman. The fact that he invested his money in ventures that were at best shady and at worst criminal did not seem to count against him, for unlike the Sabini or Cortesi families in London a thoroughly respectable front screened his more colourful activities.