The Wayward Wife (19 page)

On the third ring a brusque female voice with an upper-crust accent shouted down the line, ‘Which department do you require?'

‘I'd like to talk to Mr Jessop.'

‘There is no Mr Jessop here.'

‘Oh, but—'

‘Thank you. Good day.'

Breda fiddled with the coin return button but six unsatisfactory seconds of conversation had swallowed up her pennies. She dug into her purse and, muttering under her breath, fished out more coins and dialled the number again.

‘Which department do you require?'

‘Listen,' Breda said, ‘I gotta talk to Mr Jess—'

Once more her request was cut off.

Chucking her purse on the shelf, she shook out the last of her loose change, dialled the number for the third time and steeled herself to cope with that glacial voice. But there was no voice, no ringing tone, just a prolonged, high-pitched whine that set Breda's teeth on edge.

Throwing the receiver back into the cradle, she stepped out of the telephone box and, pacing up and down, lit and smoked a cigarette before she went back into the box and, after several deep breaths, rang an operator.

‘Can you get me a number?' she asked.

‘Local or national?'

‘Local – I think.'

‘Have you tried to dial it?'

‘Yeah,' Breda said. ‘I've tried to dial it.'

‘What is the problem?'

‘I keep gettin' cut off.'

A sigh: ‘What's the number?'

Breda gave the operator the number and, hopping from one foot to the other, waited for a connection – waited and waited, while the receiver hummed in her ear.

At last: ‘Caller, are you still there?'

‘Yes, I am.'

‘I'm afraid that number has been discontinued.'

‘Discontin—'

‘Sorry. Please try again.'

‘Try again? How am I supposed to bleedin'—'

‘Sorry. Please try again.'

‘Piss off, you cow,' Breda yelled into the mouthpiece and, leaving the receiver dangling, gathered up her purse and stomped out of the phone box, not one whit wiser as to her father's fate.

They left St Pancras at
6
.
45
a.m. on a train crowded with servicemen. Many were in khaki, several in air-force blue and a few were weather-beaten naval ratings heading for heaven knows where. There were women in uniform, too, and a clutch of nurses, undaunted by the early hour, flirting with the RAF chaps. There had been thunder overnight and a rain front moving across the country had left the air fresh and clean. The train's crowded corridors were anything but fresh and clean, though, and before the train was an hour out of St Pancras the compartment stank of sweat and smoke.

Vivian or, rather, Basil had thoughtfully filled a Thermos flask and put some cheese biscuits in a little tin that Vivian unearthed from her bag. Crammed into a corner seat, she managed to pour coffee without spilling a drop. She passed the cup and biscuits to Susan and advised her to stoke up as it might be some time before they ate again.

‘Is Congleton Grove in Nottingham?' Susan asked.

‘I haven't a clue,' Vivian answered. ‘I suspect it may be a half-built council estate that the War Office has requisitioned. The fact that we've been “offered” – for want of a better word – access to a camp three hours out of London suggests it's not exactly Devil's Island.'

‘We are expected, aren't we?'

‘Oh, you can bet your bottom dollar we're expected,' Vivian said, ‘and that our welcome will not be warm.'

On that score Vivian's prediction was correct.

Three men in civilian suits and a junior army officer formed a posse on the platform. Their disapproval was palpable. No introductions were forthcoming. Vivian and Susan were marched out of the railway station and across a yard to a Post Office sorting bay where two motorcars were parked.

The drivers, army privates, snapped to attention and one, rather ungraciously, Susan thought, opened the rear door on the larger car and allowed Vivian and her to slide inside. One of the civilians took his seat in front by the driver while the others piled into the car behind.

The private started the engine. ‘Sir?'

‘Yes, we're ready. You may go.'

The private released the handbrake and steered the car smoothly through an unguarded gate on to a road that Susan took to be a high street. The second car followed close behind.

‘You haven't asked for our credentials,' Vivian said. ‘I have a letter signed by Lord Hobhouse, if you wish to see it.'

The man swung round and planted an elbow on the back of the seat. He was about thirty-four or -five, sallow-skinned and tired-looking. ‘I know all about the letter,' he said.

‘And you're not happy about it,' said Vivian.

He smiled, showing a row of small, stained teeth.

‘I do as I'm told, Miss Proudfoot. I follow orders. I trust you will do the same. By the way, my name is Rudd.'

‘Hobhouse's man on the spot, I take it,' Vivian said.

A pause: ‘Eden's man, actually.'

‘One of the glamour brigade,' said Vivian.

‘Hardly that.' Mr Rudd's smile blinked on and off. ‘There are certain rules we must ask you to obey and, need I add, any article intended for publication must be approved.'

‘To prevent Mr Eden getting egg on his face now the Home Office has taken over responsibility for the internment situation,' Vivian said. ‘Please, continue.'

‘There are no German prisoners of war at Congleton Grove which is basically only a transit camp for B- and C-class prisoners. You will be permitted to talk to a selected number of internees and interview the commandant, Major Hargreaves.'

‘Tell me, Mr Rudd,' Vivian said, ‘will I be permitted to quote the prisoners' views verbatim?'

‘That,' said Mr Rudd, ‘hasn't been decided yet.'

‘How many men and women, guilty or innocent, are currently under War Office jurisdiction?'

‘In the region of thirty thousand, I believe.'

‘And you clearly don't know what the devil to do with them now you've rounded them up,' said Vivian. ‘I find it astonishing that the government was able to evacuate a million children in less than a week but can't cope with thirty thousand men and women arrested on suspicion of – of what?'

‘Oh, you're one of those, are you?' Mr Rudd said.

‘One of what, pray?'

‘A bloody Communist,' he blurted out.

Vivian laughed. ‘First time I've ever been mistaken for a Communist. No, Mr Rudd, I belong to a faction the government fears more than the Communists.'

‘What faction might that be?''

‘The fourth estate.'

‘You reporters—'

‘I'm a journalist not a reporter.'

‘Whatever you are, you've no right to jeopardise the security of the nation in the name of free speech.'

‘The right to free speech is about the only thing that separates us from the Nazis right now,' said Vivian.

‘That's an outrageous thing to say.'

‘I'm an outrageous person, Mr Rudd, which is why I've been sent to see what you're up to.'

‘Mr Rudd, sir,' the driver interrupted. ‘We've arrived,' and braked the car to a halt in front of a huge, decaying building that smelled, Susan thought, like a brewery.

There had been several ‘false alarms' during the early summer months but as July wore on the alerts became more frequent and urgent. If Breda happened to be serving at Stratton's when the siren sounded she led her mother and any customers who were on the premises to shelter in the larder and, soon after the all-clear, returned to dishing out soup and sausages again as if nothing had happened.

What concerned her more than the prospect of being blown to bits was how to keep her son in clothes. Billy seemed to grow out of shirts and trousers as soon as she'd purchased them and his shoes pinched long before they required repair. Her own wardrobe was adequate. A bit of letting out made her old frocks and coats fit for purpose and, as Ron kept reminding her, no one ever got to see the patches on her knickers.

The Romano family had never been rock-bottom, spare-us-a-crust-mister poor and Breda had never known real hardship. But the responsibility of having a fortune in cash hanging above her head every time she went to the lavatory wasn't lost on her. The veiled threat that Steve Millar had made hung over her head too, no matter how often she tried to reassure herself that Steve knew nothing for certain and that he would surely not allow any harm to come to her.

Uncertainty sharpened her temper, though. She was snappish with Ron, with Billy and especially with her father-in-law, and woe betide any customer in Stratton's who dared complain that the tea was weak or the soup too salty.

When school closed for the holidays, Breda had no option but to take Billy with her to Stratton's where, against her better judgement, she allowed him to play in the street with the other children; play that seemed to consist of yelling, screaming and rolling in the gutter or, huddled in furtive little groups, in devising original ways of getting up to mischief. The sole benefit of allowing her son to run wild all day was that, come supper time, he was so tired out he went to bed without protest which gave Breda some extra time to herself.

The stars were out and the shadows in the yard as soft as caramel when Breda, clutching cigarettes, matches and a wad of toilet paper, made her way to the outhouse to check on Leo's cashbox and speculate just how much it might cost to turn Billy into a gentleman.

Fortunately she had completed her business and had almost finished her cigarette when the air-raid warning sounded.

She stuffed the cashbox into the space behind the cistern, jumped down from the seat, pulled the chain and came out of the water closet at the double.

Far off, she heard the pounding of guns from the battery downriver at Deptford. Fearing that Billy might be roused by the racket, she made a beeline for the back door and almost ran into the man leaning against the doorpost.

‘Dad?' she whispered. ‘Is that you?'

‘Me, it's me, Breda.'

‘Danny.' She let out her breath. ‘Thank God!'

‘Where's the wee chap?'

‘Upstairs asleep.'

‘Best dig him out an' get to a shelter.'

‘It's probably another false alarm.'

‘Can't be sure of that.' Danny took her arm and led her into the house. ‘Better safe than sorry.'

‘What you doin' here anyway?'

‘Twenty-four-hour pass. By the way, you were right.'

‘About what?'

‘Susan. She is havin' it off with another guy.'

Breda counted to five then said, ‘You really suit those glasses, Danny. They make you look real posh.'

‘I'm not sure that's a compliment,' Danny said. ‘Where is your shelter?'

‘Under the stairs.'

It was after eight that evening when Vivian, with Susan on her heels, barged into Basil's office and started shouting the odds. Basil got up and closed the door, Robert poured a shot of whisky and Susan, travel-stained and weary, slumped into a chair behind her desk.

‘As for bloody Major Hargreaves,' Vivian plunged on, ‘he should have been pensioned off years ago. Miserable old beggar is completely out of his depth, although, to give him his due, he did apply for five hundred beds, and the War Office sent him ten. Ten beds for seven hundred men. Ye Gods! The young lads don't mind sleeping in tents, all a bit of an adventure, but half the prisoners are frail old men.'

When Vivian paused to catch her breath, Basil said, ‘I gather it was not a fruitful excursion, my dear?'

‘Fruitful?' Vivian cried. ‘Of course it was bloody fruitful. Good God, Basil, I'm about to deliver you a piece for broadcast that will bring the government to its knees.'

‘I'm not sure that's such a good idea,' Basil said. ‘Tell me about Congleton Grove.'

‘Congleton Grove is an abandoned brewery, a rotting, rat-infested shell filled with bewildered old men coughing their guts out. Outside, four or five hundred prisoners are sleeping in tents with little or no sanitation beyond a cold water tap and a couple of shallow trenches dug in the ground.'

‘Mr Rudd did say it's only a transit camp,' Susan said.

Vivian rounded on her. ‘Don't tell me you were fooled by that little weasel's lies. You're not on their side, surely? I mean, you
can't
be on their side, not after what we saw today.'

‘You're right, Vivian, absolutely right,' Susan hastily agreed. ‘Conditions are appalling, but the Home Office—'

‘Will do nothing. Do you hear me –
nothing
.'

‘Interviews?' Bob Gaines asked. ‘Quotable stuff from the prisoners? How did that go?'

‘I was only permitted to talk to a few hand-picked chaps who were as uncritical as it's possible to be when you've spent six weeks cut off from any word of what's happening in the world. News, that's what they wanted most of all, news and cigarettes.'

‘Are they being properly fed?' Basil asked.

‘Bread and porridge, vegetable stew, mostly potato, a cube of cheese for supper,' Vivian answered. ‘Oh, they gave
us
a lovely lunch in the barracks; all those grinning jackanapes in army uniform scoffing mutton chops and treacle pudding and congratulating themselves on how well their prisoners are treated compared with other camps.'

‘Oh, now,' said Basil, putting an arm around her. ‘We can't have this, dearest. I've never seen you so upset.'

‘I'm not upset. I'm furious that such things are allowed to take place in Britain. What's more I'm not going to let the government get away with it.'

Basil said, ‘There isn't much you can do, I'm afraid. If we do try to put together a radio piece we'll have to tread very, very carefully.'