Prized Possessions (49 page)

The fact that Teresa had thrust upon him was that he was no longer necessary. Dominic had Tony to advise and support him. Plus the new wife, Janet McKerlie's niece, the girl with the solemn oval face and serious brown eyes who might have been an Italian but, of course, was not; the girl, the woman who not only claimed to love Dominic but who probably understood him better than anyone, since she was part of that strange, new generation that was not – not in Guido's book at any rate – lost at all, but that knew precisely where it was going and how to get there.

Guido rose ponderously, as if the years had suddenly caught up with him. He held the collar of his overcoat tightly against his throat with one large, carpenter's hand and, walking as quickly as he dared, hurried after his wife, seeking not reconciliation but the crust of authority that she had left him.

‘Teresa,' he said, catching her by the arm. ‘Teresa, wait.'

‘What is it you want from me now?'

‘I will write to my brother tonight.'

‘About Italy?'

‘Yes, about retiring to live in Italy,' Guido said.

‘And Dominic?'

‘He can damned well do as he pleases.'

‘You must not be bitter about this marriage, Guido.'

‘Bitter?' he said. ‘Bitter? I am not bitter, woman. I am tired, that's all.'

‘See,' said Teresa, without a smile. ‘I told you so.'

*   *   *

The first time that Dominic kissed her was by the seaward side of the old salthouse on Headrick sands. He had picked Polly up in Lavender Court at half past eleven o'clock, long before Guido and Teresa had returned from mass, and they had motored down into Ayrshire on all but empty roads. They had stopped for lunch at a hotel near Prestwick golf course and had driven on afterwards, nosing south, with the Firth of Clyde dark blue beside them and the high peaks of Arran accompanying the Alfa on the distant horizon.

Dominic avoided Pirollo's territory. He did not even consider calling in at any of the Italian-owned cafés that dotted the coastal route. There would be time enough to introduce Polly to his friends and acquaintances. He had more important matters to attend to that pleasant April afternoon.

To Polly it was all new, all novel: a first sight of the sea, a first taste of salt air, limitless distances, colours that shifted and changed in unceasing variety, the texture of the sky, the soothing tones of the worn little sandstone towns through which they drove, down to the old square by Headrick harbour where they left the car to walk a while.

It was a simple matter for Dominic to head out of the city on Sunday. It did not occur to him that the excursion might bring enormous pleasure to a girl who had been raised in the grime and stench of a Glasgow slum. Polly had never been further from home than Greenock. There had never been enough in the kitty for Mammy to take them away for a full day's outing let alone a holiday. Without connivance then, Dominic offered Polly a taste of what might be and, defined by the great, breezy candour of sea and shore, a suggestion that their life together would be as clear and open as the April sky.

He had been to the salthouse before, long ago. His father had brought him here before the war, together with Guido Pirollo and another child whose name Dominic had forgotten. Uncle Guido had been with them too and a couple of young women; again the names were lost. They had been packed into the back of an open-topped Siddeley that his father had picked up somewhere. The journey over the back roads had seemed interminable. He remembered that one of the young women had sung and had tried to teach Uncle Guido how to dance the Grizzly Bear on the spit of sand that ran down to the sea and that everyone had laughed and it had all seemed innocent. Out of selfishness, or shyness perhaps, he chose not to share that memory with Polly.

In the lee of the salthouse he kissed her, tentatively at first. Kissed her without haste, but not insistently. He held her hand.

They walked a few steps together. Then she turned and kissed him, pressing him back against the salthouse wall, leaning into him, one leg raised behind her as if she were dancing. He tasted her lipstick. He could feel her body pressing against his, not innocently.

They broke, walked again, saying nothing. Only two or three tense steps. He put his arm around her waist. He stopped. She waited. He kissed her two, three, four, five times. The tip of his tongue brushed her lips. His breath and her breath mingled. A soft breathless excitement mounted between them so that when he released her he felt as if he were floating in the air like a gull. He drew breath and let it out again. He looked at her, smiling, and saw that Polly too seemed to be floating. He reached for her once more and, floating among the gorse bushes with the waves lapping nearby and the wall of the old salthouse warm behind them, they kissed again.

Polly was no longer rational. It did not matter what Dominic was or what he had done or what he would do in future. There was no room in her heart for the cautions that her mother had laid upon her. In that moment she was loved
and
loving, without the slightest notion of how love should be expressed or even how it had come about.

Dominic pushed her away just a little, just enough to suggest that there could be no parting between them now that would not bring hurt. He pushed her away and then, with a little moan, brought her back, not to kiss but to hold, to hold so close that she felt as if nothing could ever separate them again.

‘Polly,' Dominic said. ‘Polly, will you marry me?'

And ‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes. I will. Yes,' before he could change his mind.

*   *   *

A head count revealed eleven Hallops resident in the ground-floor flat in Lavender Court, a fact that surprised not only Lizzie but Sandy Hallop too, since that gentleman had spent so much time in bed that his family seemed to have grown up around him without his being aware of it.

On the pavement Sadie Hallop, Jackie's mother, was indistinguishable from a thousand and one wee Glasgow wifies. She had bottle-bottom spectacles, a tartan shawl and a permanent list to starboard brought on by carrying heavy shopping bags or reaching down to hold a toddler by the hand. Sadie, though, was sharper than appearances suggested. At one time in her pre-marital past she had been an infant-school teacher, an educational connection that seemed quite at odds with the great dumb lumpkin whom she had elected to marry.

There was certainly nothing much left of the girl that Sadie had once been, of the proud teacher, the lover, the blushing bride. Every role had been subsumed into raising a family that had seemed to grow numerically larger every time dozy old Sandy had opened an eye and blinked. Dennis was twenty-seven years old, wee Angela four; a breeding season that appeared to Lizzie to be not so much irresponsible as almost miraculous but that spoke volumes for Sadie Hallop's ability to cope with new arrivals.

The ‘family gathering', though, was a bit of a nightmare. Sadie insisted on conducting discussion of the wedding arrangements – which had at one time seemed so simple – over the supper table in her kitchen. Eleven Hallops, four Conways and, lost somewhere in the steam, poor patient Bernard, set about the destruction of a steak pie the size of a battleship, a rice pudding as deep as the Kingston dock and enough bottled beer to float one in the other.

Kiddies perched on the bunker lid, toddlers squabbled on the bed, young girls – Rosie among them – were relegated to eating off a shoogly folding table in the lobby and an air not so much of sober discussion as chaotic celebration prevailed, for Sadie Hallop saw no shame in a shotgun wedding and was eager to embrace not just Babs but her very first grandchild too.

It was left to Bernard to extract Jackie and brother Dennis from the bedlam – Sandy had already gone to bed – and walk them down to Brady's for a quiet pint and a quiet word.

‘What's the deal then?' Dennis said. ‘I mean, what're you offerin'?'

Bernard's head was not quite so clear as it should have been. In fact, he was slightly less sober than Jackie who had drunk nothing all evening but ginger beer and whose attitude to marriage seemed to be that of any randy young man and took no account of the fact that his bride would be several months pregnant when she tripped into the registry office.

‘The Conways' house,' Bernard said.

‘Aye,' said Jackie. ‘I thought we'd settled that, but.'

‘Not quite.' said Bernard. ‘If you become the householder you'll have to pay the rent every month. Can you manage that?'

Dennis snorted.

Jackie nodded.

‘Speakin' now,' Bernard went on, ‘as the agent of the factor I can recommend a change in tenancy only if I regard the incoming tenant to be solvent an' of reliable character.'

‘Solvent?' said Jackie.

‘Got money,' said Dennis, and snorted again.

‘I've got money,' Jackie said. ‘What's more, I'll even look after the old dear an' the sisters, if you like.'

‘That won't be necessary,' Bernard said. ‘You'll have the house all to yourself, Jackie. Mrs Conway an' I will – ah – we'll be gettin' married too very shortly, and we'll be goin' to stay in Knightswood.'

‘What about Rosie an' Polly?' Jackie said.

‘Polly's engaged to be married.'

‘Jesus!' Dennis said. ‘Did Patsy come back then?'

‘I'm surprised Babs hasn't told you,' Bernard said. ‘Polly's got herself engaged to Dominic Manone.'

Jackie chuckled and dug his brother in ribs. ‘By God, we're gonna be related t' the Eye-tie. Think o' that, Dennis. Sky's the limit now.'

Bernard said, ‘What about the flat, Jackie? Do you want it transferred to your name, or don't you?'

‘I do,' Jackie said. ‘Sure, I do.'

‘Yeah,' Dennis said. ‘May as well go the whole hog while you're at it.'

‘I'll be at it okay,' said Jackie, grinning again. ‘Night an' day.'

‘Manone, eh?' said Dennis.

‘Yeah, old Dominic – my brother-in-law,' said Jackie.

‘Can't lose now,' said Dennis. ‘Can't bloody lose.'

‘I wouldn't count on it,' said Bernard, sadly.

*   *   *

Dining with the Manones was a different experience. Dominic appeared anxious to impress his future in-laws, though why this should be Bernard couldn't quite fathom – and if Lizzie had an explanation she kept it to herself. She undertook a manoeuvre of considerable subtlety, however, to ensure that Babs and Jackie found themselves excluded from the invitation and that Bernard was drafted in their stead. He then had to go through all the palaver of having his best suit dry cleaned and the expense of purchasing a new necktie and black shoes which, fortunately, would also do for his own wedding in the not too distant future.

He changed at Lizzie's house and looked, Lizzie said, like a million dollars, an opinion endorsed by Rosie who bounced on to his knee, took the cigarette from his mouth, and kissed him on the lips.

‘Oh, Bernard,' she said. ‘Why don't you marry me instead of Mammy?'

Bernard was no longer embarrassed by the Conway girls. He had come to realise that flirtatiousness was common in young women and reflected his primness as much as anything else. Besides, he was filled with desire for Lizzie, desire and curiosity, but had lost his fear of that aspect of matrimony and the urgency that went with it.

He retrieved the cigarette from Rosie and, facing her squarely, said, ‘You're far too skinny for me, kiddo.'

‘I am not skinny.'

‘No, you're not,' he said, relenting. ‘In that dress, you look…'

‘What?' she said, giggling. ‘What?'

‘Almost human.'

‘But you still do not want to marry me?' said Rosie.

‘Sorry,' said Bernard. ‘I'm spoken for.'

At half past six o'clock the Alfa, driven by Tony, arrived at the close and Bernard, Lizzie, Polly and Rosie sailed down the stairs and into it to cheers and jeers from assembled young Hallops and a sulky scowl from Babs who still did not understand why Jackie and she had been left out.

Dominic had pulled out all the stops. The dining-room table had been drawn out to its full imposing length and set with a baffling array of spoons, forks, knives and crystal glasses and, as in the best restaurants, had fat linen napkins shaped into pyramids beside each place.

What really took the cake as far as Lizzie was concerned were the silver candlesticks that crowned the tablecloth, each installed with a pure white wax candle that burned with a slender yellow flame. There was something not just elegant but grand about it all and she, even she, was lost in admiration for all that her eldest was being offered. What impressed her most of all, though, was the commanding ease with which Polly handled herself, as if she had already become mistress of the house and used to this manner of living.

The Rowing Club, the cafés, pubs, warehouses and corner shops, bookies and shuffling down-at-heel runners all seemed very far away, so remote that it was almost impossible to believe that they shared the same existence as the handsome young man who presided over the dinner party and who, at an appropriate moment, presented Polly with a little red-leather box containing an engagement ring: a fine, three-stone diamond cluster set in platinum and gold, but not too ostentatious for its meaning to be lost.

With Dominic at her side, Polly slipped the ring on to her finger. It fitted perfectly, which was not entirely surprising given that she had chosen it herself a week back on Saturday. She looked up at Dominic and smiled. He stooped and kissed her brow.

They were obviously in love, Lizzie thought, but rather too calm and cool about it, as if the emotion had been rehearsed beforehand and had lost its spontaneity. She wondered if they were lovers yet or if that pleasure was still to come; if it would be as it had been between Frank and she, hot and groping and sweaty, marred by a furtive kind of urgency as if, even within marriage, there were no time for any other kind of commitment.