The Wayward Wife (3 page)

‘Changed your mind, 'ave you, love?' he'd said. ‘Can't say I blame you,' and that, much to Breda's relief, had brought an end to all talk of leaving Shadwell.

As penance for remaining in London she was obliged to escort Billy to a school on the far side of Cable Street where in a half-empty classroom the handful of kiddies who'd stayed behind were taught the three Rs by a bad-tempered old spinster. The teacher did not like Billy, Billy did not care for the teacher, and Breda didn't like anything about the school, particularly the earth-filled sandbags that leaked filthy brown sludge across the playground, sludge that winter had turned to ice.

On that particular morning, she gave her son a kiss, made sure he had tuppence for his dinner and, with the usual twinge of anxiety, watched him join his chums on the slides that criss-crossed the playground. Then, flipping up her coat collar and sticking her hands in her pockets, she set off for Stratton's Dining Rooms where her mother continued to dish up grub to cabmen and dock workers and, increasingly, to men and women in unfamiliar uniforms who popped in off the street in search of a sandwich or a bowl of soup.

She had barely left the school gate when a long, black, bullet-nosed motorcar prowled up behind her and drew to a halt at the kerb. The nearside door swung open.

‘Get in,' the driver said.

Clutching her coat to her throat, Breda stepped back.

‘For God's sake, Breda, will you just get in.'

‘Is 'e with you?' she asked.

‘Nope. It's just me. Get in an' I'll drive you home.'

‘I ain't goin' 'ome.'

‘All right. I'll drop you wherever you wanna go.'

She had no fear of Steve Millar, her father's right-hand man. In fact, when Ronnie had been off fighting in Spain, she'd almost given her all to Steve in the back row of a local cinema. She hadn't clapped eyes on him for a couple of years, though, and was gratified to note that he was still smooth and fresh-faced and so fit you could almost see his muscles rippling under his alpaca overcoat.

She tucked a straggle of bleached blonde hair under her headscarf and then, sighing, climbed into the passenger seat. Steve reached across her lap and closed the door.

‘That Billy?' he said.

‘Who else would it be?' said Breda.

‘He's grown since I saw him last.'

‘Yeah,' Breda said. ‘He's gonna be tall, like 'is dad.'

Steve took off his gloves, dug a packet of Player's from his overcoat pocket, knocked out two cigarettes, lit them and passed one to Breda.

‘I got a kid too,' he said.

A faint sense of disappointment stirred in Breda, as if fathering a child had robbed Steve Millar of virility.

She said, ‘Boy or girl?'

‘Boy. Cyril.'

‘Cyril?'

‘Rita picked it, not me.'

‘Don't tell me you married that redhead?'

‘Who said anything about marriage?'

‘Nah.' Breda blew smoke. ‘You aren't that sort, Steve. You've given over to the old ball an' chain. Admit it.'

He grinned. ‘Yeah, you're right. I'm spliced good an' proper.'

‘Why'd you do it? To keep out of the army?'

‘Havin' a kid ain't gonna keep nobody out of the army,' Steve said, ‘leastways not for long. When things get really nasty we'll all be fair game for cannon fodder.'

‘Where you living?'

‘Got a flat not far from the club.'

As a child Breda had been unaware that her absent father earned his living on the shady side of the street. It had shocked her to discover that the Brooklyn Club, which her dad managed on behalf of some big-shot gangster, wasn't much more than a glorified knocking shop.

‘Is he still runnin' that dump?' she said. ‘I thought it might 'ave closed 'cause of the war.'

‘One thing about a war,' Steve said, ‘especially a phoney war, it brings all these young geezers with cash in their pockets pouring into London. All they want is to get a leg over before they ship out. It's like takin' candy off a baby.'

Breda hesitated then, unable to resist, asked, ‘Your wife, Rita, she still work there?'

‘Now an' then.'

‘Doin' what?'

‘She helps your old man with the books an' stuff.'

‘What sorta stuff?'

Steve assumed the clamped-down expression that Danny Cahill described as deadpan, but Danny and Steve, as different as chalk from cheese, had never really got on.

‘She looks after the girls, if you must know,' he said. ‘You goin' to your ma's place?'

‘Yeah, Stratton's,' said Breda.

He released the handbrake, fiddled with the gear-stick and eased the car into motion.

Breda said, ‘How'd you know where to find me?'

‘Leo always knows where to find you.'

‘Is me dad in trouble?'

‘Not him. He just don't want to get you involved in anything shifty, especially right now.'

They drove into Shannon Street at the top of Oxmoor Road where the fire station was. She resisted the temptation to point it out, for some folk regarded auxiliary firemen as little better than cowards.

She said, ‘You coming in to see Ma?'

‘Nope.'

‘What
are
you doin' doggin' my footsteps?'

‘Leo wants to know why you an' Billy ha'n't left London for a safe place in the country.'

‘Does 'e?' Breda said. ‘Well, you tell 'im to mind 'is own damned business.'

‘He can get you out, you want out?'

‘Out?' said Breda. ‘Out where?'

‘Canada.'

‘Canada? What would I want to go there for?'

‘Leo knows people in Canada who'll give you a new home an' a new life.'

‘The three of us, you mean?'

Steve paused. ‘He can't get a passport for Ronnie.'

‘Well, I ain't leavin' without Ronnie.'

‘When did you become so bloody loyal?' Steve said. ‘If I was you I'd jump at the chance of gettin' out.'

‘Why don'cha then?'

‘I got responsibilities.'

‘An' I haven't?' said Breda.

There wasn't much traffic in Shannon Street, even less in Thornton Street, just two blokes on bicycles and a taxi-cab with a big hand-printed sign pasted to the rear window announcing that the driver was engaged in Civil Defence.

The window of the pork butcher's shop where Ronnie had worked was boarded up. Herr Brauschmidt and his wife, having suffered discrimination during the last war, had thrown in the towel and gone off to live with one of their sons in Milwaukee. Gertler's Kosher Butchers remained open, though, for there were still plenty of Jews in Shadwell to keep the tills ringing.

‘If you're not comin' in to see Ma, drop me 'ere.'

Steve shrugged and brought the car to a halt fifty yards short of the dining rooms.

Ronnie and his father, Matt, had boarded up Stratton's big window but had left a neat slot of glass, like a letterbox, at eye level so you could peep inside and see steam rising from the coffee urn and the rock cakes Nora had baked slanted towards you on a tray. The daily Bill of Fare, chalked on a blackboard, was propped against the wall below the window, though Matt and the local ARP warden argued heatedly whether or not it constituted a hazard to pedestrians and should be removed.

Canada, Breda thought: Canada was just trees and mountains, all wide-open spaces. If there was one thing she hated it was wide-open spaces.

She sighed and tapped Steve's arm.

‘Listen,' she said, ‘tell 'im thanks, but no thanks. I appreciate the offer, like, but I'm London born an' bred an' I'm not about to go runnin' off an' abandon the old homestead just 'cause some loony says I got to.'

‘Your old man ain't no loony.'

‘I didn't mean him; I meant Adolf.'

‘Things is pretty quiet right now,' Steve said, ‘but don't kid yourself. As soon as Hitler claws in Belgium, France and any place else he fancies England will be next. When that happens it'll be too late.'

‘Too late for what?'

‘To get out.'

‘Told you once, tell you again, I don't want out.'

‘Breda, Breda.' Steve Millar shook his head. ‘You always was a stubborn cow. I just hope you know what you're lettin' yourself in for.'

‘'Course I do. I listen to the wireless.'

‘Well, at least let me tell Leo you're thinkin' about it.'

‘If it makes you feel any better, okay,' Breda said. ‘But don't let 'im get 'is hopes up.'

She leaned back to let him open the door, slid from the car with as much poise as she could muster, closed the door with her knee then rapped on the window and watched it roll down.

‘What?' Steve said.

‘Give Cyril a kiss from me, will yah?'

He laughed. ‘Sure I will,' he said and drove off down Thornton Street into Docklands Road, leaving Breda shivering on the pavement and more than a little confused.

Three days passed before Susan saw Robert again. He was waiting for her outside Broadcasting House and led her through the side streets to Oxford Circus. Blackout restrictions had eased in the past few weeks but the glimmer of light from reopened theatres and cinemas and the hooded headlamps of buses and taxis was still too dim to make the crossing anything but hazardous.

‘I feel bad about this,' Robert Gaines said.

‘Bad about what?' said Susan.

‘Stealing you away from Viv at this ungodly hour.'

‘Viv's only my friend, not my keeper,' Susan said, ‘and she's had quite enough of my company lately. Is she still bending your ear with tales of Tom Mosley and his dastardly crew or has she finally run out of interesting things to say?'

‘Hell, no. She has enough lowdown to keep me on my toes for months.'

‘Lowdown?'

‘Inside information.'

‘I know what the word means,' Susan said. ‘I'm just puzzled as to what sort of “lowdown” Vivian can provide. Did she tell you I was on late call tonight?'

‘She didn't have to.'

‘No, I did rather drop you a hint, didn't I?'

‘That you did.'

‘I was beginning to think you were wedded to your typewriter and wouldn't show up.'

‘Aren't you pleased to see me?'

‘Of course I am,' she said.

She had no idea where he was taking her. He'd been chatting to a policeman at the entrance in Portland Place when she'd come off shift and had invited her to join him for supper as nonchalantly as if they were intimate friends. She was wary, but she was also hungry, hungry and bored and the thought of returning to her empty flat in Rothwell Gardens to eat supper alone held no appeal.

He steered her across the Circus into Regent Street and, skirting the sandbags in front of Liberty's, turned into a narrow side street and abruptly drew up.

‘Well,' he said, ‘this is the place.'

‘What place, exactly?'

‘Down there,' he said, ‘in the basement.'

She hesitated. ‘What is it – an air-raid shelter?'

‘It's a perfectly respectable nightclub, Miss Hooper. Nothing going on of which your mama would disapprove. What's wrong? Don't you trust me?'

‘Not as far as I can throw you,' Susan said.

The door of the club opened and faint blue light lit up the well. She heard dance music. Leaning over her shoulder, Robert showed the doorman a card of some sort. A moment later, they were ushered into a narrow, wood-panelled passageway and the door was closed behind them.

The doorman, a gaunt middle-aged man in an old-fashioned dinner suit, relieved them of their overcoats.

‘Many in tonight, Charlie?' Robert asked.

‘The usual crowd,' Charlie answered. ‘Some Canadian flyers we haven't seen before. High-rankers. Mr Slocum was asking after you.'

‘He still here?'

‘No, he left about an hour ago.'

‘With a girl?'

‘What do you think?' Charlie said.

Robert led her down the corridor into the supper room where tables were arranged round a dance floor and a six-piece band was playing. Off to the side was a bar which, in deference to the licensing laws, already seemed to be closed.

The tables were occupied mainly by men in uniform. Couples were dancing to an up-beat tune that Susan knew but couldn't name. To her relief, the girls were just like her, smart but not glamorous: secretaries, perhaps, or counter hands from better-class stores.

‘Would you care to dance?' Robert asked.

It had been years since last she'd danced and she'd never danced with Danny, not even on their honeymoon.

‘I think,' she said, ‘I'd rather eat, if you don't mind.'

Robert pulled out a chair. ‘I don't mind at all.'

The table was draped with a spotless linen cloth and lit by a tiny electrical lamp the cord of which seemed to be contained in one of the table legs.

Susan tucked in her skirt and seated herself.

‘Does this place have a name?' she asked.

‘The Blue Lagoon.'

‘Is it a private club?'

‘Anyone can join if they have the dough.'

‘I see,' Susan said. ‘This is a proper date then?'

‘What sort of a date did you think it might be?'

‘I thought you might be trying to have me on the cheap.'

‘Have you?' he said, surprised. ‘Aren't English girls supposed to be modest and unassuming?'

‘Modest but not stupid.'

If his reaction was anything to go by, she had seriously misjudged Mr Gaines. Perhaps she'd spent too much time with Vivian's crowd where sexual allusion was a mainstay of conversation and almost every relationship was a subtle form of seduction.

‘If you care to stand me a steak, a baked potato and a glass of wine,' she said, ‘I think we might consider beginning this relationship again – on a somewhat different footing.'