The Wayward Wife (4 page)

‘Would beginning again include dancing?' Robert said.

‘I do believe it would,' said Susan.

It was peaceful in the Hoopers' kitchen that cold January night. Ron had tracked down a wavelength that supplied sweet music uninterrupted by news bulletins. He sprawled in the wooden-armed chair by the fireside, feet on the fender and a magazine on his lap.

‘What you doin', love?' he asked.

‘Writin' a letter,' Breda answered.

‘You,' he said, ‘writin' a letter. I don't believe it.'

Breda continued to scribble on the sheet of lined paper she'd extracted from one of Billy's school jotters.

‘Danny,' she said. ‘I'm writin' to Danny.'

‘For why?'

‘'Cause he hasn't heard from Susan.'

‘How do you know he hasn't heard from Susan?'

‘He told me.'

‘How?' said Ronnie.

‘Sent me a letter.'

‘You never said nothin' to me about a letter.'

‘Wasn't addressed to you.'

Before he'd married Susan Hooper, Danny had lodged with the Romanos and had been like a big brother to Breda while she was growing up. Ronnie wasn't daft enough to suppose there might be anything lovey-dovey in Danny's letter, or in her reply; even so Breda was guarded.

‘What's he sayin' then?' Ron asked.

‘Wants to know if we've seen Susan.'

‘We haven't, have we?'

‘'Course we 'aven't,' Breda said. ‘Your sister's far too high-falutin' for the likes of us these days. She might at least 'ave the decency to send 'im some socks.'

‘Socks?' said Ronnie. ‘He's not a bleedin' Tommy.'

Breda sucked the end of her pencil. ‘I wonder what she's really up to. I bet she's got a feller.'

‘She's not up to anythin',' Ron said. ‘I expect she's busy. Everyone's busy these days. There's a—'

‘War on: yeah, I know.'

‘We saw her an' Danny at Christmas, didn't we?'

‘For half a bleedin' hour – an' we ain't heard a word from 'er since.' Breda nibbled the pencil end as if it were a breadstick. ‘Maybe she's gone to Canada.'

‘Canada!' Ronnie exclaimed. ‘Why the heck would she go to Canada?'

‘Dunno,' said Breda. ‘More like, she's found some toff at the BBC to 'ave fun with.'

‘Our Susan ain't like that,' said Ronnie.

‘They're all like that, 'er kind.'

‘Her kind? For God's sake, Breda, she's one of us.'

‘No, she ain't. She was brought up to think she was special. Got your old man to thank for that.'

‘Well, she hasn't done too bad, has she? Jobs at the BBC don't grow on trees.'

‘She's only a typist.'

‘She's a producer's assistant.'

‘Whatever the 'ell that is,' said Breda. ‘She should be a proper wife to Danny an' be with 'im in 'is hour of need.'

‘His hour of need?' said Ron scornfully. ‘He's sittin' on his arse somewhere in Worcestershire floggin' a typewriter. My guess, Susie's just up to her eyes in work.'

‘She's wayward,' Breda said. ‘She's always been wayward. Marrying Danny hasn't changed 'er.'

Ron hoisted himself from the armchair and came to the table. Breda took the pencil from her mouth and automatically covered the half-written page with her forearm. She shivered when he brushed the hair at the back of her neck.

‘Jealous, are yah?' Ron said.

‘Why would I be jealous of your sister?'

‘'Cause she got Danny an' all you got was me.'

‘An' Billy,' Breda reminded him. ‘Billy first.'

‘What a bargain that was, eh?' Ron said.

‘Huh!' said Breda. ‘Some bleedin' bargain.'

Then, abandoning her letter, she let her husband kiss her and, ten minutes later, carry her, fireman's style, upstairs to bed.

Twelve guineas a week for a shared flat in Lansdowne House was a tad more than Bob Gaines could comfortably afford. Pete Slocum, the
Union Post
's number one reporter, had talked him into it.

The Lansdowne was the only residential club in London to admit women on equal terms with men and a bunch of the top guys, male and female, were holed up there. Anyhow, he felt he owed Pete something for steering him towards Vivian Proudfoot whose brother had been an active fascist in the
1930
s and, according to the grapevine, remained at liberty on his farm near Hereford only because some bigwig had pulled strings to keep him out of prison.

Bob had made it plain from the outset what he wanted from Vivian. He liked the woman and had no wish to deceive her. He liked Susan Hooper too, but didn't quite know what to make of her. She was no traditional English rose, prim and self-contained; nor was she one of that breed of girl who could be, at one and the same time, both sexless and alluring and, according to Slocum, spelled trouble with a capital T.

When it came to judging women Pete was generally regarded as an expert. Rarely a night went by but some soft little form would be curled up in Slocum's bed or discovered, sleepy-eyed, at the breakfast table.

‘Would you take umbrage if I told you I expected more of you?' Susan said.

‘More?' Robert said. ‘More of what?'

‘I thought you were planning to sweep me off my feet.'

‘Why? Because I'm an American?'

‘Because you're a foreign correspondent.'

They had eaten in a Corner House and caught an early showing of Errol Flynn playing the hero in
Dodge City
.

Now, about nine, they were drinking coffee in a café on Charing Cross Road.

‘Do you want me to sweep you off your feet?' he said.

‘I'm not sure what I want. A little excitement in my life would not be unwelcome, I suppose.'

‘What about this programme you're involved with? Won't that put fire in your belly?'

‘Too early to say. My boss, Mr Willets, is struggling to come up with a format to attract an American audience.'

‘Influence an American audience, you mean?'

‘That is the general idea, yes.'

‘Don't they say propaganda is a weapon fit only for bullies and gangsters?' Robert said. ‘I guess that doesn't apply to the BBC?'

‘You think we English are all wishy-washy, don't you? Smug, class-ridden and irresolute, isn't that what you called us in your article from Munich, which I just happen to have read? Why won't you take me seriously?' She hesitated. ‘Is it because I have a husband?'

‘I didn't even know you had a husband.'

‘Didn't Viv tell you?'

‘No, Viv didn't tell me,' Robert Gaines said. ‘Why haven't you told me before now?'

‘It didn't seem relevant.'

‘Where is your husband?'

‘He works for the BBC too. Out of town.'

‘Are you saying you come with strings?'

‘Does a husband count as strings?'

‘In my book, yes,' Robert said.

‘I'm just trying to be honest with you.'

‘That isn't my idea of honesty. Correct me if I'm wrong but are you stating terms for an affair?'

‘I suppose I am, rather.'

It was dark outside in the street. The window glass was painted green and passers-by moved across it like shadows from a nether world. Robert sat quite still, looking down at the grounds in his empty cup. He said nothing for eight or ten seconds, then pushed himself to his feet.

‘Are you going home now?' he asked.

‘No, back to Portland Place,' she answered. ‘Mr Willets hasn't lost his penchant for convening late-night meetings.'

‘I'll find you a cab.'

‘I'm happy to walk. We've lots of time.'

‘No, Susan,' Robert Gaines said. ‘I'm afraid your time has just run out.' Placing a handful of coins on a saucer, he buttoned his overcoat, stuck on his hat and left her to settle the bill.

It wasn't until war came that Vivian realised what an idle life she'd led. In her forty-seven years, she'd published only four books and a handful of feature articles, a pace of production that certainly wouldn't challenge the average Fleet Street hack or, for that matter, any of the popular historians who cranked out weighty tomes on England's glorious past at, it seemed, the rate of one a fortnight.

Organisation had never been her strong suit and since Susan's departure she'd had no assistant. Books were piled in every corner of the office in her mews house in Salt Street, notes and newspaper cuttings scattered around the typewriter upon which Vivian, with two fingers, now did, as it were, her own dirty work.

She had laboured late into the night on her new book,
An Enemy in Our Midst.
It had started out as a study of political alienation during and after the Great War but had gradually become more open-ended, a fact that hadn't escaped Viv's agent who, well aware of his client's piecemeal approach to research and the snail's pace at which she worked, feared that the war might be over before she delivered a first draft.

Viv was still tired when Susan arrived at Salt Street shortly before noon and reprimanded her friend a little more forcefully than she'd intended.

‘I don't see why you're making such a fuss,' Susan responded. ‘And I certainly resent you sticking your nose into matters that don't concern you.'

‘Matters that do concern Danny, however.'

‘I know I've been remiss this past month but I've every intention of making up for it now.'

‘Now?' said Vivian, scowling. ‘Why now?'

‘Mr Gaines and I have had a parting of the ways.'

‘Surely you didn't reject his advances?'

‘In fact, he made no advances. None at all.'

‘So you didn't …'

‘Of course I didn't. What do you take me for?'

‘What were you doing with him then?'

Susan shrugged. ‘Tempting fate, I suppose. As soon as I told him I was married he lost interest.'

‘A man of principle; how unusual,' Vivian said. ‘You shouldn't have encouraged him in the first place, you know.'

‘Are we lunching, or are we not?' Susan said testily. ‘Anywhere but L'Étoile suits me.'

‘So you've given up flirting with foreign newsmen, have you?' Viv said.

‘Only for the time being,' said Susan.

Whether it was luck or a degree of foresight unusual in the upper echelons of BBC administration no one could be sure, but some bright spark had seen fit to acquire the Greenhill Hotel, lock, stock and barrel, to serve as a non-residential social club for all the Evesham exiles. Here in the spacious lounge or the crowded bar one might rub shoulders – or ankles – with secretaries, typists and engineers as well as administrators, editors and over-worked translators.

The communal delights of the Greenhill almost made up for working conditions in the villa – Mrs Smith's house – in the grounds of Wood Norton Hall where listening, transcribing and editing staff were crammed together to process the foreign broadcasts that came down from the receiving station on top of the hill.

For reasons never explained, Susan's three letters were addressed to Danny care of the steward at the Greenhill.

Danny received them gratefully and retired to a quiet corner of the card room to read them in peace; three typewritten letters filled with generalised BBC tittle-tattle and very little else, nothing about Breda or Nora, for instance, or what she, Susan, had been up to out of hours.

At the upright piano in the lounge, Griff whiled away the time by playing a medley of popular tunes and displaying his noble profile to any young lady who happened to drift by in the hope that she might mistake him for Jack Buchanan which, oddly, no young lady ever did.

He had just embarked on a silly song about tulips when Danny, bearing two glasses, appeared at his side.

‘Celebrating, are we?' Griffiths asked.

‘After a fashion,' Danny answered. ‘My wife's involved in puttin' together a new programme an' hasn't had a minute to spare to write to me until now.'

‘Do you believe her?'

‘Of course I believe her.'

Griff rolled whisky around in his mouth. ‘I assume the new programme has some stuffing to it or it wouldn't be going out from London. Who's producing?'

‘Willets.'

‘Never heard of him,' said Griff. ‘Which is hardly surprising since I did my training in Cardiff. Has he really chosen your wife to be his assistant?'

‘It certainly looks like it,' Danny said. ‘If we drink up, we might be able to catch the bus as far as the Cross. I'm starved for my supper.'

‘Nothing like a letter from the wife to restore a man's appetite.' Griff knocked back the remains of his whisky. ‘Precious little going on here tonight, anyway. I'm not tempted to hang around to listen to some learned gentleman lecturing us for the umpteenth time on the political situation in Albania. Are you sure the bus is running?'

‘Aye, the army's cleared the road as far as the railway station. We can catch it outside if we hurry.'

The bus was an ancient charabanc with a square roof and a door at the rear like a Black Maria. According to Mr Pell it had been the first motorised vehicle on regular service in the Vale of Evesham and should have been pensioned off years ago.

There were no lights in the streets of the market town. Snow scalloped the eaves of the fine old buildings and moulded the pavements between the snow-carpeted gardens that flanked the road to the railway station. The station exit was lit by a single dim blue light. A solitary female figure was huddled under it, a suitcase by her side.

The bus ground to a halt. The conductor, a taciturn old fellow, fumbled with the door handle and put down a short wooden ladder to enable the female passenger to climb aboard. She pushed the suitcase into the aisle between the benches and, in a cloud of cold air, followed it.