Chapter Fourteen

Walking through the streets of the Gorbals on a dank Sunday morning on the shortest day of the year did not bear comparison with being driven around in an Italian motorcar but it was only as she approached the café that Polly realised that she didn’t want to be there for other reasons too. She found herself hoping that Patsy would not turn up but he was already installed at a table in the rear, shabby and unshaven and to judge by his expression no more pleased to see her than she was to see him.

He watched her work her way between the tables, nudging past two elderly women whose weekend treat was to share a dish of raspberry ice-cream after mid-morning mass at St Ninian’s. She looked exceedingly smart, her hair shiny, her black overcoat clinging to her hips. She wore a hat that he hadn’t seen before, close fitting with a shallow crown, the brim pulled down so that it almost covered her eyes. She came up to him, head tilted back, fretful and – so Patsy thought – supercilious. ‘I didn’t think you’d be here,’ she said.

‘Then why did you bother to come?’

‘On the off-chance.’

‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘I can’t stay long.’

‘Aren’t you gonna sit down?’

She scraped out a wooden chair and perched on it, legs stretched into the narrow passageway. Patsy signalled, ordered two coffees.

‘I thought you might have gone,’ she said.

‘Gone where?’ he said.

‘Paris. Berlin. Somewhere abroad.’

‘Usin’ what for money?’ Patsy said.

‘I don’t think you should stay in Glasgow.’

‘Is that what your friend told you to tell me?’

‘My friend?’

‘Manone.’

‘He isn’t my friend.’

‘You ride around in his fancy motorcar, don’t you?’

She gave a curt nod to affirm that she had expected him to know that. She had been well aware that Dominic Manone was showing her off around the neighbourhood, deliberately flaunting their connection in the hope that it would stir resentment and that resentment might lead to a squeal. She had been dazzled by the ride in the Alfa, disarmed by Dominic Manone’s courteous charm but she had not been blind to the fact that he was using her in much the same way as Patsy had done.

It wasn’t that she had grown weary of Patsy – she hadn’t known him long enough for that – or that she despised him for what he had done. There had been no defining moment when her attitude had changed, no volte face. Through no fault of his own Patsy seemed to have become part of a more complex equation. For some reason – or no reason, perhaps – she preferred to blame Patsy for her present emotional muddle.

She said, ‘He wanted information – which he didn’t get, of course.’

‘Why do you say “Of course”?’

‘I wouldn’t let you down.’

‘How do I know that?’ Patsy said.

‘You’ll just have to trust me.’

‘I see.’

‘You don’t see anything,’ Polly said. ‘Dominic Manone’s far too subtle to be caught out that way. Don’t you know what subtle means?’

‘Yeah,’ Patsy said. ‘As it happens I do know what subtle means.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Polly said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Say what you like,’ Patsy told her. ‘I ain’t gonna believe you anyway.’

‘Thanks,’ Polly said. ‘Thanks a million.’

‘I know more about Dominic Manone an’ how he works than you do, Polly,’ Patsy informed her. ‘You think O’Hara’s dangerous? He’s a babe-in-bloody-arms compared with Manone; and I don’t just mean because Manone’s an Italian.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Polly. ‘Who spotted us?’

‘Wee Billy Hallop. God, he could hardly not spot you when Manone’s black Alfa was planted outside your close for half the afternoon.’

‘Where were you?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Didn’t you go to the Calcutta last night?’

‘No,’ Patsy said, impatiently. ‘No, of course I didn’t go to the Calcutta.’

‘Neither did I,’ Polly told him.

She shifted her legs as the coffees were brought to the table.

She reached for the cup and sipped, felt the liquid scald her tongue. She was annoyed that the conversation with Patsy seemed to be increasing her confusion. He stubbed out one cigarette and lit another. He looked drawn, his quick suave energy blunted. She recalled the weight of him upon her on the bed, his masculine energy; then his tact, his apology, his failure to insist, a consideration that she was now inclined to dismiss as timidity.

She took a deep breath and told him about O’Hara’s visit.

‘Did he hurt anyone?’ Patsy asked.

‘Only Mr Peabody.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The rent-collector.’

‘Did O’Hara carve him?’

‘Cut his hand.’

‘Police involved?’ Patsy asked, frowning.

‘No, no police. Mr Peabody’s a friend of my mother’s.’

‘God, it’s no wonder you’re upset, Polly.’

‘I’m not upset. I am perfectly calm.’

‘So that’s why you went to see Manone, to get O’Hara off your back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Crafty old Dominic would want somethin’ in exchange.’

‘He wanted information,’ Polly said. ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’

‘Did he ask about me?’

‘He thinks we’re sweethearts.’

‘Sweethearts?’ said Patsy.

‘We aren’t, of course.’

‘There you go with that “of course” again,’ Patsy said. ‘It doesn’t matter what Manone thinks. He can’t prove a bloody thing. He’s got his outfit runnin’ far too smoothly to want to rock the boat without good reason. I’m sorry you got dragged into all this, Polly.’

‘Not half as sorry as I am.’ She sipped at the coffee again, cooler now. ‘My mammy would say it’s all my own fault for falling into bad company. What would’ve happened if you had got away with Manone’s money?’

‘Tommy would have squared himself with the bookies. Jackie and Dennis would have blown the lot on fancy new motorcycles.’

‘And you?’

‘I’d have been outta here.’

‘Leaving everything behind?’ Polly said.

‘Not everythin’,’ Patsy said. ‘Maybe I’d have taken you with me.’

‘Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to go.’

He shifted position. He looked wistful, Polly thought, but not contrite or regretful. He said, ‘Moot point, anyhow.’

‘Unless you pull another one.’

‘Another what?’

‘Robbery, burglary – whatever you call it.’

‘Jobs like that don’t grow on trees, Polly.’

‘Is that why you went in on it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Greed?’ Polly said.

‘Yeah. Probably.’

‘How much would you need to take you to France for a while?’

‘Paris? Oh, a hundred, hundred an’ fifty quid would see me right for the best part of a year. I’d find a nice little pension – know what that is?’

‘A boarding-house,’ said Polly.

‘A nice cheap little pension somewhere in the Quarter.’

‘What would you do with yourself all day?’

‘In Paris,’ Patsy said, ‘there’s always plenty to do.’

‘Find a job?’

‘Maybe, once I’d learned the lingo properly.’

‘You really should go, Patsy,’ Polly said.

‘You tryin’ to get rid of me?’

‘For your own sake, you should go.’

‘If I had the money, an’ if you’d come with me…’

‘What?’

‘I’d be off like a shot,’ Patsy said.

‘I couldn’t – I can’t leave right now.’

‘Why not? What’s holdin’ you?’

‘My mother needs me.’

‘Apron strings?’ Patsy said.

‘Not apron strings – consideration,’ Polly said. ‘Responsibility.’

‘Implyin’ that I don’t have any? My old man can take care of himself. He’s always been able to take care of himself.’

‘I wasn’t talking about you, or your father,’ Polly said. ‘All I’m saying, Patsy, is that you’d be safer out of this place right now. I just don’t want to see you come to grief.’

‘So you think I’ll come to grief, right?’ Patsy said. ‘Is that why you won’t come away with me?’

‘For God’s sake, I’m only trying to warn you.’

‘Are you scared of me, Polly?’

The question caught her off guard. She could not give an answer without thought. The fact of the matter was that she was scared of Patsy Walsh, that what she had felt for him, however fleeting, had been frightening. She had also been afraid for him and some trace of that fear remained within her now, more than a trace if she was truthful with herself. She had Dominic Manone behind her but Patsy did not. Patsy’s enemy was her protector. That paradox, that anomaly made her apprehensive.

‘Come on back to my place,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Now. Right now. Come on back to my place.’

‘I – I can’t.’

‘You won’t, you mean.’

‘I can’t. I can’t. I have to get back home. My mammy’s…’

He grinned. ‘I know what you’re scared of, Polly.’

‘God, you really are a bastard, Patsy.’ She got to her feet. ‘I only came here to warn you…’

‘Yeah, I thought as much.’

‘If you need money…’

He looked up at her, rueful and amused. ‘You can get it for me? Is that the deal? Is that what your friend Manone told you to tell me? He’ll save face by payin’ me to scarper? If I run now then I’ll take the blame. Maybe all Manone wants is a scapegoat.’ He paused. ‘Maybe that’s what happened to your old man. Maybe he was lucky that the Germans finished him off.’

‘I’m going home now,’ Polly said.

She felt near to tears. The good feelings, the safe feelings that Dominic Manone had engendered had been thoroughly dissipated, scattered to the four winds. Patsy wasn’t proud or stubborn; he was stupid. She should have recognised that right from the first, before she became involved with him. Stupid: not much better than Jackie or Dennis Hallop, perhaps even doomed to wind up like wee Tommy Bonnar.

Her tears were for herself, not for stupid Patsy Walsh.

‘I’m stayin’ put,’ Patsy told her. ‘I ain’t runnin’ away. I’ve nothin’ to run away from. Manone’s not gonna do anythin’ bad to me.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because you won’t let him,’ Patsy said.

‘I’m going,’ said Polly.

Arrivederci then,’ said Patsy.

*   *   *

Lizzie had seen fields and hills before but what she could not recall having seen before were fields and hills lying right on folks’ front doorsteps.

Fields and hills, trees and sky; a wide expanse of pure slate-blue sky unsmudged by the brimstone breath of furnaces and foundries and the heavy cloying brown haze of a million reeking chimneys. Even on that mid-winter day the Knightswood sky formed a clear, uplifting presence over the tail of the Great Western Road and the wide, tree-lined boulevard to the north-west.

The door of Mr Peabody’s terraced cottage opened directly on to a broad pavement. Its windows looked out not on a medley of traffic or towering tenements but on fields, parklands and a coppice of mature trees that, even in the gloom of a December afternoon, seemed to swim in a clear pastoral light. Lizzie could just imagine the place in summer, all green and leafy and, as she stepped from the deck of the tramcar, she inhaled a breath of cold, rich, loamy air that cut into her dusty tubes like balm. Bliss, manna, heaven, a practical and attainable paradise where she and her daughters would flourish, where nothing awful ever happened and the neighbours would all be as open and gentle as the landscape.

‘Yiss,’ said the widow Peabody. ‘If you’re selling pegs, I’m not buying.’

‘I’m not sellin’ pegs,’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m not sellin’ anythin’. Is this where Bernard Peabody lives?’

The woman in the doorway was small but robust. She had red cheeks and reddish hair – dyed, for sure – and the sort of pinkish complexion that no amount of pancake make-up could ever disguise. She was not like Lizzie, however, not swaggering and threatening, not bulky. She had a nippy sort of temperament that evinced itself in nippy little movements, like a clockwork mouse that would whirr round and round in noisy circles until its spring gave out.

‘It might be,’ the widow Peabody said. ‘I’m going out in a minute.’

‘Good for you,’ said Lizzie. ‘Is Bernard at home?’

The woman glared, eyes pink with hostility.

‘Who is it, Mum?’

Bernard came to the door, a trim wooden door with dark brown varnish and a crescent of thick green glass set at eye-level.

He wore a dressing-gown over a collarless shirt, and flannel trousers. He had a pair of old sandshoes on his bare feet. He looked a little tousled as if he’d been napping by the fire. The bandage on his hand was ghostly pale in the gloom of the alcove that led, doorless, to the living-room.

Bernard was taller than his mother. He crouched behind her in a manner protective and comical, as if he were about to leap-frog over her straight into Lizzie’s arms.

‘I came to see how you were,’ Lizzie said.

‘Come in, Lizzie, come away in,’ said Bernard.

‘She can’t come in,’ Mrs Peabody stated, ‘because I’m going out.’

‘Mother…’

‘I’m not leavin’ you alone in the house with a strange woman.’

‘Mother, this is Lizzie Conway. She’s an old friend.’

‘I’ll say she is – she’s twice your age.’

‘Mother, please,’ said Bernard, squirming a little.

‘Very well, Bernard, if you must have this person in the house then I won’t go to my Bible group. I’ll forgo my pleasure for yours.’

Mrs Peabody snatched off her hat. Her reddish hair was probably natural. It had no trace of frizz and clung like a knitted cap to her skull. Just before the bell for round one, as it were, Lizzie tried to estimate her opponent’s age. Sixty-two or -three, she reckoned.

‘That’s up to you, Mum,’ he said. ‘But Lizzie’s come a long way to call on me an’ I’m dam – blessed if I’ll be sending her away without refreshment.’

Mrs Peabody glanced up at her son then back at Lizzie who, without a blush, said, ‘Didn’t Bernard tell you about us?’

‘Us?’ Violet Peabody piped.

‘Aye,’ said Lizzie sweetly, ‘old friends, we are, old, old friends.’ Then, to get the bout properly started, kissed Bernard smack-dab on the lips.

*   *   *

Polly said, ‘I don’t think Mammy will be coming tonight, Gran, so if there’s anything we can do to make you comfortable just say the word.’

The old woman shifted her weight ponderously in the wooden armchair, skipped a glance from Polly to Babs to Rosie and, with a prescience that surprised them all, said, ‘Has she got herself a man?’

Babs said, ‘Are you nuts? I mean…’

Polly hastily intervened. ‘She’s visiting a friend, a female friend.’

‘More important than comin’ to see her poor mother.’ Janet was making tea, a gesture that owed more to habit than hospitality. ‘Friends before family, friends before family, I suppose.’

Grandma McKerlie grunted, whether in agreement or disapproval her granddaughters hadn’t the faintest idea. Polly reckoned that her gran found the presence of three young Conways gathered all together just a wee bit daunting. Perhaps, Polly thought, we bring a whiff of fresh air into her stagnant life and she glimpses what she’s been missing all these years. Then she decided that such a thought was patronising, even heretical and that she should have more respect for the poor old dear and not be so ready to condemn a generation who had had things much tougher than she could possibly imagine.

Observing her grandmother and aunt, Polly tried to picture what it would be like to have most of your life behind you, all mistakes made and accounted for, all passion spent, all promises fulfilled, almost the whole story written and nothing left to do but wait for the end. Instead she found herself wondering how the couple would cope if they happened to stumble on the fortune that was hidden under the floorboards in the hall cupboard.

How would they spend it? What would they buy? A Merlin motorised invalid chair so that Gran could get out and about again? Dresses from Daly’s, furs from Karter’s, furniture from Bow’s? Fresh meat, best cuts, every day? China tea, Kenyan coffee, canned fruits? Cream cakes from Fergusson’s, chocolates from Birrell’s? Would they go on holiday to gay Paree or down the water for a week in Largs? Would they give some of it away to the church or the Institute? Would they share their good fortune with the family?

Probably not, Polly told herself: she simply couldn’t imagine what Janet and Gran would do with money and suspected that it would bring them only confusion and bewilderment, not happiness.

Aunt Janet emerged from the cupboard carrying a teapot and a plate of home-baked almond cakes, curious bullet-shaped objects that none of the Conways would touch with a bargepole.

‘So it isn’t a man then?’ Janet said. ‘I heard it was a man.’

Babs glanced at Polly who managed to remain inscrutable.

‘Don’t know what she’d do with a man at her age,’ Gran said.

‘Aye, at her age,’ said Janet, ‘she wouldn’t know what to do with a man.’

‘Mammy is younger than you,’ Rosie pointed out.

Babs told her, ‘Wheesht.’

‘I heard there was trouble at your house on Friday night wi’ two men fightin’ on the doorstep,’ Janet said. ‘I heard it had to do wi’ what happened at the Central Warehouse last Wednesday.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ Babs asked.

‘At the dairy,’ Janet answered. ‘I hear a lot o’ things at the dairy.’

Now she thought of it Polly realised that Mr Smart’s corner shop, like all corner shops, was bound to be an oasis of gossip. The dairy might be a quarter of a mile from Lavender Court and a lot further than that from the warehouse but the southside was the southside and rumours travelled from one end to the other faster than a flock of sparrows.

‘At the dairy, aye,’ Grandma McKerlie said. ‘Is it true, but?’

‘No, Gran,’ said Polly. ‘It isn’t true.’

‘It’s true about the warehouse,’ Babs said, shrewdly. ‘But the rest of it’s rubbish. I mean, we’d know if there’d been a fight on our landin’.’

‘Who is he then, this man?’ Gran said.

‘Nobody,’ Babs said, impatiently. ‘There’s no man.’

‘Only Mr Peabody,’ Rosie put in.

‘Who’s Mr Peabody?’ said Janet.

‘Our rent-collector,’ said Polly.

Grandma McKerlie said, ‘Is he the one that was fightin’ wi’ her?’

‘Dear God!’ Babs put a hand to her brow. ‘Mr Peabody only comes to collect the rent, Gran. He’s not got his leg ove—’ She shrugged.

‘A rent-collector, huh!’ Janet poured streams of pale yellow tea into the cups on the table. ‘I thought she could do better for hersel’ than a rent-collector.’

‘Mr Peabody is a nice chap,’ said Rosie.

‘Gives her tick, I suppose,’ said Janet.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ said Rosie who, for some reason that Polly could not fathom, seemed to be uncharacteristically argumentative today. ‘Mr Peabody would not give tick to anyone. He lives in Knightswood.’

Janet had heard of the garden suburb but the name meant nothing to Gran McKerlie and Knightswood might as well have lain west of the Limpopo as west of the Clyde. In fact, now that she considered it, Polly realised that none of them had ever been out to the end of the tramlines and that Gran McKerlie wasn’t the only one to whom the West End was unknown territory.

In the same moment – her concentration sliding away from the spartan kitchen and her droning aunt – she wondered where Dominic was right now and what aspect of business occupied him on a Sunday afternoon, or if he joined the rest of the Italian community in what seemed to her like one long act of worship at one or other of the chapels that dotted the city. She could almost imagine him kneeling before a crucifix, crossing himself devoutly, for his soft-spoken, gentle manner seemed quite close to piety. When he lit a candle or said a prayer today, she wondered if he would spare a passing thought for her.

‘Polly?’ Babs said.

‘What?’

‘I think Gran needs the you-know-what.’

The girls went out into the narrow hall while, within the kitchen, amid the teacups and bullet-shaped cakes, their grandmother struggled from the chair to the chamberpot and, by the sound of it, strained to make water.

‘How long do we have to stay here?’ Rosie asked in a stage whisper.

‘Another half-hour at least,’ said Polly.

Babs was kneeling before the cupboard door. She hunkered on her heels, knees spread, one hand upon the woodwork.

‘Is that where the money is?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Polly answered.

‘Can we look? Can we take a peek?’

‘What is going on?’ said Rosie, frowning.

‘No, we can’t take a peek,’ said Polly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘What are you two talking about?’

‘Nothin’,’ said Babs. ‘None of your business.’ She pressed her forehead against the cupboard door, and sniffed. ‘God, I can just about smell it.’

‘What? Gran?’ said Rosie.

‘Plu-ease!’ Babs exclaimed; then to Polly, ‘I think we should take a peek just to make sure it’s still there.’

‘It’s still there,’ said Polly. ‘Where else would it be?’

‘Go on.’

‘No.’

Aunt Janet jerked open the door from the kitchen and peered at her nieces gathered guiltily in the gloom of the hall. ‘What’re you whisperin’ about?’ she said. ‘An’ what are you doin’ down there, Babs?’

‘Cramp,’ said Babs, lifting herself and grimacing. ‘You know – cramp.’

‘Oh!’ said Janet; and because this was a misfortune that she wouldn’t acknowledge let alone discuss, ushered the girls back into the kitchen without another word.

*   *   *

The sky had changed from slate to navy blue and contained more stars than Lizzie had ever seen before, all glittering with a brilliance that seemed almost artifical. A new moon had risen over the trees at the top of the parkland. It too looked too perfect to be real, like a prop from a Princess pantomime or an illustration from one of Rosie’s books of fairytales.

The night wind brushed light and cold against Lizzie’s lips, a keen, clear little wind that came off the hills and brought a sense of the countryside that lay beyond the mountains that stretched away into a grand and innocent infinity.

Along the line of the Boulevard – in the middle distance – a tramcar raced, its lights bobbing. The lights of the suburbs were not dense but individualised, streetlamps and house lights and the lights that lit the steeples of the newly built churches that had been given pride of place amid the dwellings. Lizzie had expected Knightswood to be different – and it was different – but she hadn’t expected it to make her feel different too.

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Bernard said.

‘Aye,’ said Lizzie. ‘Oh, aye, it is.’

She hugged his arm so that they walked along the pavement not just in step but in cosy harmony, a one-ness that Lizzie hadn’t experienced for years.

The afternoon had not been a total disaster after all. Whatever her other failings – and they were many – Mrs Peabody could not be faulted as a hostess. Once it had become apparent that Bernard would not be denied ‘his visitor’, Mrs Peabody had set about impressing her guest. She had lavished upon Lizzie such heaps of freshly cut gammon sandwiches and buttered fruit loaf, such piles of scones and pancakes and dainty little sponge cakes that Lizzie had made quite a pig of herself, a demonstration of appreciation that had softened Violet Peabody’s attitude to the big woman from the Gorbals and had led if not to friendship at least to temporary rapport.

Lizzie had been sensible enough not to divulge the cause of Bernard’s wound and had supported the lie that he had told his mother. She had admitted, however, that she’d been concerned about the injury and that she and her daughters – she was careful to mention her daughters – had given the wound attention when Bernard had turned up to collect the rent.

All these little half-truths Mrs Peabody had appeared to swallow without paying much attention. She had been as quick as a hawk to swoop on any titbits of personal information that Lizzie dropped, however, and had demonstrated an immoderate interest in Lizzie’s age, Lizzie circumstances, Lizzie’s family and, most especially, in Lizzie’s intentions towards her son.

‘She isn’t so bad, you know,’ Bernard said as he walked Lizzie along the road towards the tram stop. ‘Once you get to know her.’

‘She’s devoted to you, that’s for sure.’

‘No, she’s devoted to herself,’ said Bernard, with a little chuckle. ‘I’m just part of her life, not the centre of it.’

‘She should be devoted to you,’ Lizzie said.

‘Oh, now…’

‘You’re a good man, Bernard, a brave man.’

‘Oh, really, Lizzie, I only did what anyone would have done.’

‘You faced up to O’Hara like a hero.’

‘I couldn’t stand by an’ see him bully a young girl.’

She patted his bandaged hand gently. ‘Will it cost you time off work?’

‘I doubt it,’ Bernard said. ‘I never take long to heal. Meanwhile I’m doin’ quite well writing with my left hand. It only takes a bit of practice.’

They walked on, saying nothing for a while.

Cottage rows had given way to gardens and neat semidetached villas. Lizzie suspected that Bernard had steered her away from the nearest tram stop. Up ahead she could see the high-hung lights of a crossroads and, by following the contours of the parkland and distant hills, had a notion that he might be leading her towards the Boulevard.

She said, ‘My husband wasn’t like him, you know.’

‘He was a soldier, wasn’t he?’

‘No, he was a crook,’ said Lizzie. ‘No good beatin’ about the bush. He was a crook, but he wasn’t a bully.’

‘Did he work for the older Manone, the one who went off to America?’

‘Aye,’ Lizzie admitted. ‘They say he stole a large sum o’ money from the Manones before he joined the army. If he did, though, I never saw a penny of it. An’ I never got a pension either, since there was some mix-up about whether Frank was dead or not.’

‘Missing in action,’ Bernard said, nodding.

‘I never understood what that meant,’ said Lizzie.

‘Buried under tons o’ earth,’ Bernard told her. ‘Blown to pieces. Drowned in the mud. Burned beyond recognition. Nothin’ left to identify. That’s what it meant.’

‘You saw all that?’

‘Yes,’ Bernard said. ‘Most of it.’

She did not ask him to explain or expand. She sensed his reticence and the reasons for it. She gripped his arm a little more securely, lifted her chin and tasted the clean wintry wind once more. The war was in the past. What she’d had today was a glimpse of the future, a future free of tenements and dank closes and the stink of disinfectant, of being in debt to Dominic Manone and the whole sinister circle of crooks and cowards that had been Frank’s legacy.

Even if the Corporation Housing Department would agree to allocate her a house in Knightswood she wouldn’t be able to afford it. Only when the girls were married and off her hands and Manone paid off in full would she be free to cross the river and put the Gorbals and all it stood for behind her.

Would she be free to marry again.

And by that time it might be too late; she might be too old.

She felt within her, in the very rhythm of her step, a sudden desperate quickening, an urgency the like of which she had never known before.

They were close to the cross now, to the confluence of several roads and avenues, the great broad river of the Boulevard with its new tramlines and tree-plantings, its shoals of soft grass, running forth before her. She could see three churches and a school from the dip of the corner and the sky, an amazing breadth of sky, stretching away in all directions, far above the rooftops.

She drew Bernard to a halt.

‘What’s wrong, Lizzie? Are you out of breath?’

‘Just a bit,’ she said.

He took her in his arms.

Sunday night in the suburbs; they were long past the age when such exhibitions were excusable. Bernard didn’t seem to care. He pressed her against him in a bear-hug and although they were swaddled in winter coats and scarves and kept apart by layers of wool and flannel, Lizzie could feel the ardour in him, not lust or even longing but a strangely uninhibited surge of affection that somehow transcended need.

He kissed her mouth.

His lips and her lips were cold but that did not seem to matter.

‘Lizzie?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Sorry, but I think I love you. Sorry, but I think I do.’

She leaned against him, breast against his chest, hat brushing his chin.

‘What’re you sorry for, Bernard?’ she asked. ‘It’s me should be sorry.’

‘You? For what?’

‘For not bein’ young, for not bein’ beautiful enough for you.’

‘God, Lizzie!’ he told her. ‘You are. You are.

‘Nah.’ She shook her head joyfully. ‘Nah, nah, I’m not.’

‘Why won’t you believe me?’ Bernard said.

‘Because I know better?’

‘Lizzie.’ He took her face between his hands and said, ‘Lizzie, I mightn’t be much of a gentleman but I’d never lie to you. I love you. I mean it.’

He kissed her again, lingeringly, and pressed against her and under the wrappings, under the wool and flannel, she felt the years melt away, felt slender and supple again, so youthful and alive that just for one brief brilliant moment she was almost tempted to believe that what he said was true.