The Wayward Wife (22 page)

‘Who's that?' Danny asked.

‘Petrovitch.'

‘Russian?'

‘Ukrainian, I think. Ukrainian via Manchester.'

‘How do you know him?'

‘I don't, really,' Griffiths said. ‘The other one's Dutch. Martin something. Kate introduced us.'

‘Why you an' not me?' said Danny.

Griff sighed and reached for his glass.

‘That,' he said, ‘is the question.'

‘So what's the answer?'

‘I don't know.' Griff swallowed a mouthful of beer, placed the glass on the table and leaned forward. ‘I've absolutely no idea why Kate prefers me to you.'

‘You've slept with her, haven't you?'

‘No, in fact, I haven't.'

‘But you will this weekend?'

‘Not,' Griff said, ‘a snowball's chance in hell, not with my parents hanging over us like vultures. I'll be damned lucky if they don't lock me in the barn when the sun goes down. Anyhow, just because you stumbled into a bad marriage is no reason to take it out on me.'

‘Don't tell me you're in love?'

‘Yes.' Griff shrugged. ‘I am. What's more, there being no let or impediment, I hope to marry Kate some day.'

‘You want her, don't you?'

‘What's wrong with you, Cahill? Of course, I want her. Do you think it's wrong to desire a woman who you also happen to admire and – well, love.'

‘Does Kate feel the same way about you?'

‘Why don't you ask her?'

‘Naw, naw,' Danny said. ‘I'm not that much of an idiot.'

‘At least it's out in the open now,' Griff said.

‘What about the Pells?' Danny said.

‘Mrs Pell's no fool. She saw it coming before we did,' Griff said. ‘I'm not going to sit here and make apologies for stealing your girl, Danny. Kate was never going to be your girl. Besides, you already have a wife.'

‘You're right, of course. I do have a wife an' that puts me out of the runnin' as far as Kate's concerned.' Danny reached across the table and shook the Welshman's hand. ‘I wish you luck, Griffiths, even if you don't think you need it. Now, are you still buyin'?'

‘I am,' Griff said. ‘What'll you have?'

‘Cider, I think,' said Danny.

In his time in Spain Ronnie had seen many dismembered corpses, some headless, some limbless and some so charred by high explosives that the remains did not seem human at all. It was something he never talked about and on those nights when he wakened from sleep with images of the mutilated dead dancing in his mind's eye he told Breda nothing of what tormented him but clung to her warm, substantial frame until the horror faded and he could breathe again.

Clarence Knotts had never seen a corpse before, not counting his maternal grandmother whose body had been dressed and powdered and laid out in a coffin and looked, Clary said, more contented in death than she'd ever done in life.

There was nothing contented about the body of the child, a small boy of eight or nine, that the firemen discovered in the ruins of a tenement in a Wapping cul-de-sac in the dusty light of an Indian summer afternoon.

At just after four o'clock Observer Corps spotters had picked up a massive formation of German bombers flying on a twenty-mile front at two miles high and heading for the Thames estuary. By twenty past four British fighter squadrons had been scrambled and were on course to engage the enemy. Shortly before five, a red alert sounded in the peaceful precincts of Oxmoor Road substation and the call came down from the watch room to muster all appliances.

Before the Oxmoor Road's trailer pumps were halfway to Wapping the sky to the south was filled with cauliflowers of black smoke and, thinned by sunlight, a strange vermilion glaze that reminded Ron of fresh varnish. The Highway was cluttered with ambulances, police vans and heavy units from other fire stations all heading for the docks while the mass of German raiders droned overhead and incendiaries, screamers and high-explosive bombs showered down on the terraced houses packed between the warehouses and the quays.

A District Officer in a motorcar was barking orders and two trailer pumps were already at work in the cul-de-sac when the Oxmoor Road crew arrived.

There was no evidence of an uncontrolled fire in the box-shaped street but the end building had been raked open to show tables set for supper, a bed with a chamber pot beneath it, a chair upturned by an empty fireplace and a sideboard with all its little ornaments scattered.

First and ground floors had slipped sideways, beams and floorboards funnelling the avalanche of rubble from above and spewing it into the street where, drenched by the fire hoses, it looked weirdly clean and neat.

The tenants of the cul-de-sac had trooped to the shelters when the alarm had sounded but a handful of young men and women remained, gawping, behind a rope that the wardens had slung up. The fat worm-like hoses that connected the trailer pumps to the hydrants were stretched to the limit and the water jets curved feebly over the mound of brick and timber, wallpaper, plaster and glass.

Ronnie and Clary set about uncoupling their trailer pump and connecting hoses to the breechings. They were stopped by the Station Officer who had been told by the District Officer that two light pumps were enough for this job and all spare crews must deploy to St Katharine Docks. Ron and Clary had just begun to unhook the hose brackets and make the appliance ready for the road again when a deafening explosion shook the cul-de-sac.

The jets from the operating pumps wavered, spray billowed back into the faces of the fire crews and a cloud of granular dust swarmed over the roof of the tenement which, shaken like a doll's house, disgorged a further assortment of domestic furnishings to add to the litter below.

‘By God, that was close,' Clary shouted, then, grabbing Ron's arm, said, ‘Hey, what's that?'

It looked like a length of rope lying uncoiled on the debris and rolled a little when the hoses played over it.

‘Cat?' Clary asked.

‘No,' Ron answered and signalled to Mr Reilly, the Station Officer, who, fortunately, had seen the thing too.

The line of spectators strained at the barrier. A young woman screamed, ‘Jackie, Jackie,' and might have jumped over the rope if a policeman hadn't caught her by the waist.

‘Where's the rescue squad?' Ron called out.

Mr Reilly shook his head and, with a sweeping motion, like a man throwing a carpet bowl, urged Ron and Clary to go forward. Ron struggled to put what might be happening in Shadwell out of mind and, with Clary behind him, picked his way cautiously over the unstable debris.

He said, ‘Where is it, Clary?'

‘There,' Clary said. ‘Can you see it? What the 'ell is it?'

They crouched and inspected the mysterious object.

Clary said, ‘Is that an arm?'

‘No,' Ron said. ‘It's a leg.'

‘Can't be a leg. There's no foot on the end.'

‘It's a piece of a leg,' Ron said. ‘Go back, Clary.'

‘A leg?' Clary said. ‘Do you think it's a boy?'

‘I think it might be,' Ronnie said. ‘Yeah, it probably is.'

‘Where's the rest of 'im?'

‘Under the timbers, I think,' Ron said. ‘Why don't you—'

‘If we get 'im out they'll patch 'im up an' he'll be okay, right?' Clary inched closer. ‘What's that, Ron? Oh, Jesus God, what is that?'

‘Clary,' Ron said, ‘get out of here.'

‘Is that a – a head?'

What blood there had been had washed down into the trough in which the body lay. The head, partly severed, cocked up coyly, mouth and eyes open, a fringe of soft fair hair defining what was left of the scalp.

‘Oh, God, Ron, we're too late. He's dead, the poor kid's dead,' Clary said, and dropped to all fours and was sick.

Whether it was conscience or plain ill luck that brought Susan into the East End of London that gorgeous Saturday afternoon remained a mystery.

She carried with her a box of Dairy Milk chocolates for Nora and a packet of fruit gums to keep her nephew happy but the closer she got to Stratton's Dining Rooms the more inadequate the peace offerings seemed.

She began to wish she'd gone with Bob on his trip to Dover to observe first hand the barrage of shells the Germans were lobbing over from Cap Gris Nez and the aerial dog-fights that were taking place over the Kentish coast.

Bob's frustration with
Speaking Up
had grown in the past week or two. He'd nagged Basil to let him take to the streets with an Outside Broadcasting unit and not just fool around Broadcasting House vetting pre-scripted interviews and writing linkage. He should have been out on the steps of Trafalgar Square, he said, shoulder to shoulder with Ed Murrow when the CBS reporter, brilliantly mixing sound and commentary, had broadcast an air raid ‘live' to shake up the audiences in North America.

‘Don't you think I have the guts for it, Baz?'

‘It's not your guts I hired you for,' Basil had answered. ‘I hired you to write intelligent commentary and deliver it in your own inimical style, which is something you do very well,' a compliment that had placated Bob not at all.

What was worse, from Susan's point of view, was that Bob appeared to blame her for his predicament and had been giving her short shrift both in and out of the bedroom. It was, she'd told herself, no bad idea to have a weekend apart, to allow Bob to let off steam with fellow pressmen who revelled in being close to the actions of war and, no doubt, would get royally drunk in some seaside hotel afterwards.

By all the laws of common sense, she should have gone home to Rothwell Gardens that Saturday afternoon, had a bath and a good long nap. Instead, she'd had a bite to eat in the canteen, stopped off only to buy sweets and had caught a bus for the crowded streets of the East End.

An old woman and a little girl were seated on the pavement outside Stratton's guarding a hand-printed placard and an old biscuit tin into which they hoped, rather optimistically, passers-by might drop a coin or two to aid the Shadwell Spitfire Fund. The door to the shop was wedged open and, even as she paused to fumble in her purse, Susan heard the hiss of the coffee urn and Breda calling out an order for sausages.

She dropped a sixpence into the biscuit tin, took a deep breath, and stepped into the shop.

There were two customers present, a young woman in Civil Defence uniform and a scruffy-looking man in soiled overalls who, between mouthfuls of sausage and egg, glanced with furtive longing not at Breda but at the pretty volunteer who, alone at a table by the boarded-up window, sipped coffee and smoked a cigarette with all the élan of a Dietrich or a Garbo.

Breda turned from the counter and, seeing Susan, reared up and snapped, ‘He ain't 'ere.'

‘Who isn't?' said Susan.

‘Ronnie.'

‘I didn't come especially to see Ronnie. I thought my father might be—'

‘He isn't 'ere neither. He works Saturdays,' said Breda. ‘Sorry you wasted a journey. Ta-ta.'

‘Where's Nora?' Susan said.

‘Never you mind where Nora is,' Breda said. ‘I ain't havin' you badgerin' my ma.'

The young woman was listening while pretending not to and the chap in overalls was eyeing up Susan with the same wistful longing with which, a moment ago, he'd appraised the uniformed volunteer.

‘I brought her chocolates,' Susan said.

‘Did yah now?' Breda said. ‘How's Danny?'

‘Danny?'

‘Your 'usband – remember?'

‘Danny is – he's fine.'

Revelling in her role as inquisitor, Breda leaned against the serving counter and folded her arms.

‘Come off it,' she said. ‘You don't know nothin' about how Danny is. Too busy with your fancy man to give 'im – or us – the time of day. Where is 'e then?'

‘He's still in Evesham.'

‘I mean your fancy man, your feller? Got 'im tied up outside on a leash, 'ave yah?' Breda drawled.

‘If you mean Mr Gaines, he's working,' Susan said. ‘And, whatever you may have heard to the contrary, Mr Gaines is a colleague, no more and no less.'

She experienced a pang of guilt at denying Bob his rightful place in her life but the alternative was to let Breda bully her.

‘That's not what Danny tells me,' said Breda. ‘Danny tells me you're shaggin' this Yankee bloke every bleedin' chance you get.'

The CD volunteer coughed and the chap in overalls so far forgot himself as to utter an astonished little ‘coo' under his breath, though neither showed any sign of leaving.

‘Danny,' Susan said, ‘doesn't know what he's talking about.'

‘He caught you on the job, didn't 'e?'

‘It's none of your damned business, Breda. I wouldn't expect you, of all people, to understand.'

‘Me, of all people?' Breda's voice rose. ‘At least me, of all people, can tell right from wrong. If Danny was my 'usband, I wouldn't go cheatin' on 'im.'

Situated on a pole at the near end of Thornton Street, the air-raid siren released an urgent wail.

The CD volunteer shot to her feet. ‘My check, please.'

Whipping a pencil from behind her ear and snatching a pad from the counter, Breda scribbled two bills. She handed one to the CD volunteer, took payment, then tossed the other on to the table before the chap in overalls, his mouth full of sausage, could make a break for it. He glanced at the check, dropped a shilling on to the table and, still chewing, hastily followed the young woman out into the street.

Drying her hands on her apron, Nora appeared from the kitchen. ‘Susan?' she said. ‘What a nice surprise!'

‘Ma, where's Billy?'

‘In the lane, playing with his pals.'

The wail of the siren was overlaid by other sounds: a strange, low-pitched humming and, like a firework going off, a ripping swish followed by a soft explosion.