The Wayward Wife (16 page)

By noon the joint, as Griff put it, straining his lyric gift to the limit, was jumping.

Bicycles were piled against the changing sheds and the grass around the pool was littered with sun-soaked bodies munching sandwiches, drinking bottled ale or ginger pop. Girls frolicked in the water, shrieking. Men ploughed doggedly up and down, heads bobbing, and one portly continental gentleman floated idly on his back, a panama hat tipped over his nose, a lighted cigar in his mouth.

The soldiers were more circumspect, easing themselves into the green-brown water to test their injured limbs while a little group of four or five, too damaged to risk immersion, sat in a circle, and reminded themselves how lucky they were to be alive – and the sight of Femi, the long-legged Finn, rising from the water in a white sharkskin bathing suit was enough to make any man glad to be alive.

Neither Danny nor Griff had ever learned to swim and were too embarrassed to cling to the ropes and thrash about like little kids. They lolled, shirtless, on a carpet of towels while Kate, slim and athletic in a black woollen swimming costume, her dark hair tucked under a pale blue bathing cap, swam in the deepest part of the pool.

Griff would have preferred to camp close to the pool to watch the bathers but Danny said that was too much like ogling. Besides, he, Danny, had something to get off his chest and now was as good a time as any.

‘Why didn't you tell me this before?' Griff said as soon as Danny had finished speaking.

‘The time didn't seem right,' Danny said.

‘Then why are you telling me now?'

‘I've kept it bottled up for too long,' Danny said. ‘I have to tell someone an' you just happen to be handy.'

‘Does Kate know?'

‘Naw, of course Kate doesn't know.'

‘So what did you do? Punch the blighter on the nose?'

‘I shook his hand,' Danny said. ‘I mean, can you believe it? I actually shook his hand?'

‘Congratulations, sir, you've just had the pleasure of bedding my wife,' Griff said. ‘Oh, boy! Oh, boy! Is this the American broadcaster, the voice on the wireless?'

‘Aye, that's him.'

‘Did you know they were at it?'

‘I had my suspicions,' Danny said. ‘But I certainly didn't expect to bump into them in my flat in the middle of the afternoon.'

‘Why, in God's name, did you shake his hand?'

‘I felt sorry for him,' Danny said.

‘Sorry for him? Are you crazy?'

‘He looked about as shaken as I was.'

‘And her? The missus, what about her?'

‘Cool as a bloody cucumber.'

‘Have you heard from her since you got back?'

‘A couple of letters, yeah.'

‘Saying what?'

‘Not much.'

‘No apology, no contrition, no going down on her benders and promising never to do it again?'

‘Nope, nothin' like that.'

‘She wants a divorce,' Griff stated. ‘Plain as the nose on your face, she wants out of the marriage.' He laid a hand on Danny's shoulder. ‘I'm sorry, boyo. I really am dreadfully sorry. Just bear in mind that it's not your fault.'

‘I'm not so sure about that,' Danny said. ‘I caught Susan on the rebound.'

‘The rebound from what?'

‘A love affair, her first love affair.'

‘Who was the bloke?'

‘Mercer Hughes, a literary agent,' Danny said. ‘My wife moved in some fairly arty circles after she left Shadwell.'

‘What happened to Hughes? Did he ditch her?'

‘He took off for America an' didn't come back.'

‘This one,' Griff said, ‘this current American, he's not going to stay in England for long, is he?'

‘Probably not,' Danny said. ‘He's a reporter first an' a newscaster second so he's under no obligation to hang around if an' when Hitler invades.'

‘A fact of which your wife is well aware.'

‘I suppose she must be.'

‘It may be a fling, nothing more,' Griffiths said. ‘The question you're now asking yourself, Daniel, is whether or not you'll take her back after it blows over. Your wife may simply be testing you.'

‘Testing me?'

‘To see if you love her enough to forgive her. Do you, old son? Do you love her enough to forgive her?'

‘That's what I don't know.'

‘Naturally, you don't know,' Griff went on. ‘In this world, at this time, nobody can be certain of anything. It does occur to me, though, that perhaps the lady wants you to fight for her. Punching the Yank on the nose would have been a good start. What did you do, by the way?'

‘I apologised for intrudin',' Danny said, ‘picked up a couple of shirts an' left.'

‘You did yourself no favours there, unless …'

‘Unless what?' said Danny.

‘You're the one who wants out of it.'

‘Why the hell would I want out of it?' Danny said.

‘Search me, Danny boy,' Griff said as Kate, carrying her bathing suit and towel, came up the grassy slope to join them. ‘Search me.'

The woman had let herself go too long ago for anyone to remember what she looked like when she first arrived in Brighton. Much water or, to be accurate, gin had flowed over the dam since then. Only a few of the old gang were still around to remember the glory days, though in some less than salubrious pubs, far from the piers, esplanades and coastal defences, the story still went the rounds how Norris Levinson had married Ada on his deathbed only because she'd threatened to rip out his breathing tube if he didn't.

To look at her now you'd never suspect that she'd once been the shapely tart in the Fawley Street fish bar who'd lured Leo Romano from the relatively straight and narrow and, a mere six weeks later, on a jolly trip to the seaside, had dumped him for Norris Levinson.

A huge, quiet, sullen woman, utterly devoid of sentiment, she'd taken Leo in not for old times' sake but only because he'd done the dirty on Harry King and, of course, had money.

She provided Leo with a refuge in a top-floor room of her shabby little boarding house on the strict understanding that he wouldn't show his face out of doors while she pulled strings to get him a new identity and a berth on a ship to Canada. She'd been none too pleased when Leo had slipped up to London to say goodbye to his daughter and now she'd squeezed him for every last penny she was just as anxious to be rid of him as he was to leave.

She gave no impression of haste as she climbed the stairs from the hall to bring him a plate of fried fish and chips, some bread and scrape and a mug of hot tea which, she warned him, might be the last decent meal he'd have for some time.

She assured him that the bus that meandered along the south coast to Southampton would be liable to checks by local coppers on the lookout for deserters but that no copper would ever spot his papers as counterfeit. Then, in a pub in Southampton he'd be met by a crewman from the
Carolina
who would give him a forged dock pass.

Once he was on board the merchant ship, however, her work was done and he was on his own. The bus left the station at a quarter after three. Without wishing him luck or even saying goodbye, Ada lumbered downstairs and left Leo alone to eat his fish and chips.

It was very quiet in the terrace house in the heat of the summer afternoon. He could just make out the throb of the strange machine in the dust-destructor's yard a quarter of a mile off, smell smoke from the railway and cattle stink from the abattoir across the backs.

Discarding the beret and long overcoat, he settled for an old donkey jacket and a cloth cap he'd found on the hall stand downstairs and tried to convince himself that he looked like a seaman. He went to the window and studied the road below: a cat on a wall, an old man with a dog on a lead, two women, not young, looking up at the blue sky as if they were counting clouds; no loud noises, not even the yelping of seagulls who, he guessed, had followed the ebbing tide to escape the sizzling onshore heat.

Ten minutes to three: he put on his jacket, patted his pockets to make sure his papers were secure, lifted his canvas kitbag and his gas-mask case and took one last look at the room in which he'd been imprisoned for the past month.

He opened the door and went downstairs to the hall.

He wasn't surprised when Ada didn't appear from her lair in the kitchen. He slipped the latch and opened the front door.

Blinking in the strong sunlight, he stepped from the house.

And a hand grabbed him by the arm and another by the neck and a jovial voice cried in his ear, ‘'Allo, Leo. Surprise! Surprise!'

Breda put his supper on the table in the kitchen behind the dining rooms and, exhausted, slumped into a chair and lit a cigarette. She had been on her feet for the best part of sixteen hours and was too tired to eat.

Her father-in-law peered at the mound of mashed potato floating in a puddle of tinned stew. He opened his mouth to complain, then, glancing at Breda, prudently decided not to.

He reached for the sauce bottle. ‘She down?'

‘Yeah. Gave her a couple of Aspro with her cocoa an' she's sleepin' like a baby.'

‘What about Billy?'

‘Tucked up in Danny's old room.'

‘You leavin' him 'ere with me?'

‘Nope, I'm stayin' over.'

‘You don't have to,' Matt said. ‘You've done enough.' He spooned up stew and shoved the spoon into his mouth. ‘Don't know how you done it neither.'

No, and you never will, Breda thought. She drew in smoke, coughed and said, ‘Ronnie's on day watch so he can 'ave the bed to himself tonight. I'll see you off in the mornin' before I open the shop.'

‘Why don't you close for a day or two?' Matt suggested. ‘Can't see the harm in that.'

‘The harm in that,' said Breda, ‘is we lose business.'

‘She should've got rid of Romano years ago.'

‘Water under the bridge,' said Breda warily. ‘'Sides, we don't know where he is right now.'

‘I'll bet our Susan could find out.'

‘Susan? What the heck can she do that I can't?'

‘She's got friends in high places.'

Breda exhaled a mouthful of smoke. ‘You want bread?'

‘What?'

‘For your gravy?'

‘Yer,' Matt said.

‘Then fetch it. It's in the bread tin.'

She watched him shuffle to the long shelf of the dresser, lift the lid of the bread tin and dig out a day-old loaf.

‘Knife,' Breda said. ‘Top drawer.'

Sometimes she had to remind herself that this old codger had raised two kiddies on his own and had been regarded by all and sundry as a bit of a freak for doing it.

She stubbed out her cigarette and watched him saw three thick slices from the loaf with the breadknife. He left knife and loaf on the dresser shelf and returned to the table. He mopped gravy with a heel of bread and said, ‘Never comes round no more, does she?'

‘If you mean Susie, why should she?' Breda said. ‘There's nothin' here for 'er now.'

‘There's us,' Matt said.

‘She don't give a toss about us, Dad. Sooner you get that into your noodle the better.' Breda paused, then, to soften the blow a little, added, ‘Can't say I blame her. If I'd had her chances in life I'd be off too.'

‘What? Leave Ronnie?' Matt said, frowning.

‘I don't mean now, I mean then. If my dad 'ad done for me what you done for Susie …'

‘All I did I done to make 'er mother proud.'

‘Her mother was dead.'

‘That don't matter.'

‘Don't tell me you think your missus is lookin' down from heaven with a smile on 'er face?'

‘Might be, for all we know.'

‘Geeze!' Breda said. ‘You'll be lighting candles next.'

Matt wiped the plate clean with a last pinch of bread. ‘You wouldn't leave Ron, would you?'

‘Nah,' Breda said. ‘I'm stuck with him – an' you.'

‘An' Billy,' Matt reminded her.

‘Yeah,' she said, smiling. ‘An' Billy.'

‘Breda, how'd you do it? How'd you get Nora out?'

‘Friends in high places, Dad,' Breda said, then, relenting, shoved herself away from the table to open a tin of peaches for his pud.

The official representative of French Radio in London, Jean Masson, had been interviewed several times on
Speaking Up
but when communications from France broke down after the Germans swept into Paris he was immediately recalled to Bordeaux. He left soon after General de Gaulle's first stirring broadcast from London in which the general called upon all free Frenchmen to continue the fight against Nazi oppression.

Susan had been eager to nab de Gaulle and his translator for an interview but Basil was less than enthusiastic.

The general was known to be touchy and Basil guessed – correctly, as it happened – that he wouldn't be amenable to wasting his breath addressing the people of North America when the people of France had urgent need of him. In any case the general had a ready-made platform on
Ici la
France
where, without supervision, he could ignore foreign advice and say what the devil he liked.

Speaking Up
had to make do with two smart young French journalists, Yves and Pierre, on occasional loan from CBS. Their English was impeccable and their breezy style of reporting provided an ideal counter to hectoring German propaganda, an arrangement that seemed to satisfy everyone except Bob Gaines.

‘What's wrong with him these days?' Basil asked. ‘He's going about like a bear with a sore head. I can hardly get a civil word out of him.'

‘He's suffering,' Susan answered.

‘Damn it, we're all suffering,' Basil said. ‘What is it? Doesn't he like our tame Frenchmen?'

‘It's not that.'

‘Well, what is it then?' Basil said. ‘Aren't you keeping him happy out of hours?'