The Wayward Wife (25 page)

Breda unlocked the front door of her terraced house and, with Billy close behind, stepped into the little hall.

The place reeked of smoke. There were fragments of glass on the torn lino, a broken mirror on the hallstand and the stairs were covered in dust. Soot had fallen from the flue and piled up in the grate in the kitchen. There was no electricity, no gas and only a thin trickle of water from the taps at the sink. The window above the sink was cracked and the frame so loosened that when she touched it, it almost fell out.

She hurried to the back door, yanked it open and, heart in mouth, looked across the yard to the outhouse which, thank God, was all in one piece. Mightily relieved, she returned then to the kitchen to clean out the fireplace, sweep up the glass and make the place tidy for Ronnie coming home.

For many years Nora had attended Mass at the Church of St Mary and St Michael up on Commercial Road. On that particular Sunday, however, with half the streets in the borough closed off and rubble everywhere, she chose to go no further than the little Church of St Veronica tucked away in Pound Lane at the far end of Fawley Street.

At one time, long before Nora had arrived in Shadwell, the church had been a Carmelite monastery, a small, shrug-shouldered building that you would pass without a second glance, but on that Saturday night its crypt had proved a godsend to those in search of shelter.

The church itself hadn't escaped unmarked. Roach's Motor Garage at the blunt end of Pound Lane had suffered a direct hit and the back side of St Vee's had caught some of the blast. Nora rather expected Mass to be cancelled but, shortly after nine, a young priest appeared on the steps to explain that Father McFall had been injured, not, thanks be to God, too seriously but for that reason, among others, confessions would now be heard in a temporary cubicle in the side chapel followed by Mass in the church as soon as the area had been cleared of debris.

Nora trailed the other communicants indoors. Looking up, she saw that part of the roof had been holed and some windows smashed. The crucifix from behind the altar had been removed and lay at an angle against the wall close to the statue of Mary, untouched in all her glory.

She watched the curtain of the temporary confessional open and close. A chap not much older than her son-in-law emerged, then a young woman in the uniform of the ARP rescue service who was so overcome by emotion that she had to be helped away by one of the Boy Scouts who were clearing fragments of glass from the pews.

On the way to church Nora had seen the corpses that the rescue squads were pulling from the rubble and grieving women clinging to the selfish hope that the corpse would be somebody else's husband, someone else's child. Now more than ever she needed penance and forgiveness if only to lend her prayers validity and ease her fear of dying or, worse, of losing Matt or Breda or, worst of all, her grandson, Billy.

She watched the curtain sway and a woman come out and, looking round, realised that she was the last person on the bench. No help for it now, no turning back. She rose, brushed the skirts of her coat, adjusted her headscarf and slipped through the curtain into the vestibule where an old wooden draught-screen had been set up in lieu of a grille, a chair, a single, solitary chair, placed before it.

She drew the chair as close as she dared to the blank wooden surface and, clearing her throat, asked, ‘Are you there?'

‘Yes,' came the answer, clear and curt.

‘Father, forgive me for I have sinned,' Nora said, though, at that particular moment she was no longer sure what sin meant or who was paying the price for what.

At first it seemed like the height of folly to appropriate a BBC OB vehicle to tour the blitzed streets of the East End. Once they'd entered the worst hit areas of the docklands, however, it hadn't taken Susan long to realise just how enterprising Bob had been. Many roads were closed to all but rescue workers. Repair men struggled with broken mains, sewage pipes and torn cables, while small groups of soldiers ferreted in the rubble in search of body parts. WVS stalls had been set up to serve the workers and mobile canteens provided a measure of comfort – hot sweet tea and jammy buns – to homeless citizens.

Bob had seen it all before. He knew what to do to make the best of the situation. He drew up the van to the edge of a crowd, leaped from the cab and, before a copper or officious warden could chase him away, called out, ‘BBC, we're from the BBC,' and pointed towards the van to confirm his credentials.

Seated in the cabin Susan saw what a seasoned reporter Bob Gaines really was, a practitioner of good, old-fashioned pad-and-pencil journalism who relied on anecdote not observation. She watched him tease quotes from anxious mothers, weary wardens, cocky corner boys and one poor old woman who had lost absolutely everything, including – and here she began to cry – Timmy, her cat.

‘Timmy,' Bob said as he climbed back into the cab. ‘Who ever heard of a cat called Timmy?'

‘You'll use it, though, won't you?'

‘Sure, I will,' he said. ‘Won't be a dry eye this side of Memphis before I get through with Timmy.'

‘And the old woman?'

‘You don't get it, Susan, do you?' He started the engine. ‘There are thousands of old women like her out there but only one Timmy. When it comes to war no one can truly latch on to the big picture. One old woman with a lost cat named Timmy, that much they
can
handle.'

A St John's nurse and a middle-aged man in gumboots shepherded a string of six children across the street; young children, half-clad, carrying not dolls and teddy bears but a cup or a bowl or a crumpled scrap of cloth that might once have been a blanket.

Bob leaned on the steering wheel and squinted through the windscreen. ‘Now I wonder where they're headed? Is there a school around here?'

‘I don't know,' Susan said.

‘I thought the East End was your home turf?'

‘Not this part,' she lied. ‘In any case, it all looks different.'

‘Not that different,' said Bob. ‘Where are we?'

‘Fawley Street – I think.'

She resisted an urge to direct him down the next street on the right so that she could look into Thornton Street and see if Stratton's had survived a second night's bombing. She watched the children pass by the van and then, to her relief, felt the van jolt and inch down Fawley Street towards the canopy of smoke that hung over the transit sheds of the Western Dock.

And then it stopped.

‘Hey,' Bob said, nodding. ‘How about that?'

She leaned across his lap and looked from the window.

‘Geeze!' Bob said. ‘He's kissing her? Why's he kissing her?'

The couple was standing outside the shell of Brauschmidt's butcher's shop where Ronnie had served his apprenticeship. The shop had been boarded up for months and there was precious little left of it now, only the façade reaching up into burned-out rooms where Herr Brauschmidt and his wife had lived for forty years before decamping to America.

The man, no youngster, pointed out to the woman a pretty little cluster of flowering weeds that clung tenaciously to the ledge that separated the shop from the flat above and, while Bob and Susan watched, the couple kissed once more.

‘Now there's a story if ever was.' Bob groped for the door handle. ‘One old guy and one old dame spooning on the pavement. What the hell is that all about?'

‘No.' Susan caught at his sleeve. ‘No, Bob, don't interfere.'

‘What's gotten into you, Susie?' Bob said. ‘Don't you know a good story when you see one?'

‘Leave them alone. Please, just leave them alone.'

Reluctantly, Bob removed his hand from the door.

‘I never figured you for a romantic, Susan,' he said. ‘Do you know them, is that it?'

‘No,' Susan said. ‘I've never seen them before in my life,' then, in the nearside mirror, watched her father and Nora Romano grow smaller and smaller until they vanished from sight.

She remembered how bad he'd looked when he'd limped off the train that had brought him back from the war in Spain. He looked like that again, she thought, only worse. The mandarin collar of the heavy wool serge tunic had chafed his neck so badly that blood oozed from his Adam's apple and the uniform was so thoroughly soaked that she had to peel it off him practically strip by strip.

He stood naked before her, too exhausted to be embarrassed, and let her sponge him with warm water from the kettle and rub him down with her own special bath towel. He looked bad, Breda thought, really bad but also rather magnificent, with his pale skin and long stringy muscles and the haggard face that hinted what he'd look like in ten or twenty years' time.

‘How long've you got?' she asked.

‘Four hours.'

‘Do you want to eat first, or sleep?'

‘Sleep.' He winced when she massaged his shoulders. ‘Had some Bovril at the station; that'll do me.'

‘Bend over.'

Stooping, he let her draw his head down into her lap to dry his hair. He groaned and closed his eyes.

‘Sore?' said Breda.

‘Stiff.'

In other circumstances she might have teased him with a suggestive remark but she had too much respect for what he'd been through, whatever it was, to do so now.

She gave him the towel to finish himself off, lifted his boots, spread the tongues and placed them carefully in the hearth. She picked up his trousers and, stepping to the sink, tried to wring them out, but the serge was too heavy to release much water. She would hang them, and the tunic, out on the line to dry in the sunlight as soon as he went upstairs.

He wrapped the towel about his waist and stood quite still while she dabbed Germolene on to his Adam's apple and tied one of Billy's old baby bibs around his neck to keep the ointment from soiling the bed sheets.

‘There!' she said. ‘You niff a bit but you do look better.'

‘Is Billy okay?'

‘He's out in the yard shootin' down Germans.'

‘Tonight,' Ronnie said.

‘What about tonight?'

‘You can't go back to your ma's place.'

‘Why not?'

Ron shook his head. ‘The building isn't safe.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Came round that way.'

‘Did you talk to the old man?'

‘He wasn't there. Nobody was there except coppers.' He clutched the towel with one hand and, frowning, said, ‘Listen to me, darlin'. I mean what I say. I saw what happened to Stratton's an' I'm tellin' you, the building isn't safe. It may look okay but it's shook to the foundations an' one big blast will bring it down on you.'

‘What do you want us to do?'

‘Stay 'ere.'

‘You think the Jerries are comin' again?' Breda said.

‘I'm sure they are.'

‘Right.' Breda nodded firmly. ‘Here we stay.'

‘Fetch your mother an' my old man,' Ron went on. ‘Bring them down here too. It'll be a tight squeeze but our shelter's well protected an' the vent'll keep the air sweet.'

‘You won't be 'ome tonight,' Breda stated.

‘No,' Ron said. ‘I don't know when I'll be back. Wake me at three. I'll have to shave before I go out.' He looked around the kitchen. ‘Be careful with that loose window, Breda. Keep Billy away from it. I'll fix it when I—'

‘Stop frettin' about the window an' go to bed,' Breda said. ‘You do what you gotta do. I'll take charge of things 'ere.'

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Yeah, I know you will.' He drew her to him and kissed her. ‘Three o'clock, love?'

‘Three o'clock, it is,' said Breda.

‘Calm down, Basil,' Robert Gaines said. ‘It wasn't her fault. I dragged her away.'

‘You can't simply go haring off without a word to anyone. Where were you?' Basil said, then added, ‘No, don't tell me.'

‘It's not what you think,' Susan said. ‘We were working.'

‘Working? Where? Not here, that's for sure.' He leaned forward on his chair, planted his fists on the desk and glowered up at Bob. ‘I thought you'd gone to Dover for the weekend.'

‘That,' Bob said, ‘is one story.' Digging into his jacket pocket he brought out his notebook and flapped it in Basil's direction. ‘And this is another. Gold, my man, solid gold. We've been down in the East End collecting hot copy from the horse's mouth. Give me fifteen minutes air time and I'll deliver you a programme that'll really make our listeners sit up.'

‘Trust you, in other words?'

‘Why not?' said Bob. ‘I've never let you down before.'

‘That's true,' Basil conceded. ‘I must have the script first thing tomorrow. Do you need a desk and a shorthand typist?'

‘Nope,' Bob said. ‘I'll hole up in my apartment, catch a few hours' sleep then get down to it. You'll have the material by nine Monday, I promise.'

‘I trust you're not planning on taking Susan with you.'

‘She's your girl, Baz, not mine,' Bob said. ‘Anyhow, I prefer not to be distracted.'

‘Quite!' Basil said. ‘Well, don't let me keep you. You're not the only one with a lot to do. Susan, do you have everything you need for a long stay?'

‘I could do with an hour off to pick up some clean clothes.'

Ostentatiously, Basil consulted his wristlet watch.

‘Four,' he said. ‘I need you back here by four. All right?'

‘What if there's another raid?'

‘Do the best you can,' Basil said.

Bob opened the office door and ushered Susan into the corridor just as Basil called out. ‘By the by, how did you get into the East End?'

The van was back safe and sound in the yard, and no one seemed to have missed it.

‘Taxi,' Susan said. ‘We hired a taxi.'

‘I hope you're not going to charge it to expenses?'