Chapter Twenty-One

If thirty-five months of active service had taught Bernard anything it was how to wield a spade. He had never been called upon to lay down a line of trenches but he, like many an infantryman, had lived with a rifle in one hand and a digging implement in the other. He had excavated latrines, scraped out gun emplacements, levelled the tops of redoubts and had even been rounded up for burial detail when there was no one else to do the job. He was adequate with a rifle but better with a spade for, like swimming, bicycling or rolling a cigarette, digging, once learned, was a skill never lost.

Once he had set his mind to it, therefore, Bernard’s rockery made rapid progress. It might even have been finished before Good Friday if only the weather had held, and the Conway girls had not decided all to go daft at once.

He had gone to the pictures in Glasgow with Lizzie on Saturday evening, an early showing of The Cockeyed World which was definitely on the racy side but which Lizzie had seemed to enjoy. It was the first time Bernard had really liked a ‘talking picture’ and hadn’t found it stilted. In fact he had been too engrossed in the badinage between the characters, especially when Lili Damita was on screen, to do more than clutch Lizzie’s hand and pinch the odd chocolate bon-bon from the box on her lap.

Lizzie had not been her usual self, though. He had noticed it after they had come out of the cinema and were seated in a booth in the New Savoy fish restaurant eating haddock and chips. She had seemed not just tired but ‘down’, and worringly disinclined to confide in him. When he had asked what the matter was she had been evasive. He had asked her again as they had waited at the tram stop before going their separate ways.

‘I don’t know, dearest,’ Lizzie had said. ‘I just don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.’

‘You’re not ill, are you?’

‘Nah, nah. I’m fine.’

‘Is it the girls?’

She had shaken her head, without much conviction; a moment later her tram had come rattling down Renfield Street and he had kissed her and helped her on to the platform with a feeling that he had somehow let her down. He had loitered on the pavement, tempted for one silly moment to hare after the vehicle, but it was too late. Instead he had caught the last west-bound tram out to Knightswood, puzzled and gloomy and teased by a nameless guilt.

He had intended to spend Sunday afternoon gardening and make the long trip over to the Gorbals in the early evening. When he had told his mother of his plans, she had sniffed disapprovingly, had left a plate of sardine sandwiches for his lunch and had gone zipping off to take part in a special afternoon Daffodil Service for Guild members in Whiteinch Parish Church.

Bernard worked patiently with spade and riddle, sieving the earth that would bed the rockery. He had already put down two drainage channels and layered them with stones that he had gathered and lugged back from a building site at the back of the old Muttonhole Farm. He laboured diligently, shaping the mounds of soft brown earth that made him think of Lizzie, though he could not imagine why. Somehow it did not entirely surprise him when, at about half past two, Lizzie turned up at the cottages.

He had been on the point of quitting. He was already looking forward to a sandwich and a cup of tea when he heard knocking upon the front door. He had left the kitchen door open but did not dare walk through the house, trailing mud. He went along the communal pathway that backed the cottages and down the narrow lane, looked out into the street and saw her there at the door.

She wore a loose donkey-brown overcoat, a vagabond hat and an unmistakable air of harassment. Bernard called out to her and beckoned. She came to him, not quite running. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took her in his arms, gave her a welcoming hug, then led her back down the lane and along the path to the garden.

There were other folk about, neighbours enjoying the spring sunshine and some of the wives had even risked the wrath of God by hanging out washing. There were babies in prams, small children playing at tea-parties on the sparse grass, cats dozing on doorsteps and window sills, all very peaceful and settled.

He seated himself on the top step at the kitchen door and reached down to remove his boots. Then he stopped. She was standing close, looking down at him, and she was crying.

Bernard said, ‘I knew there was somethin’ wrong. It’s one of the girls, isn’t it?’ Lizzie shook her head.

‘Two of the girls,’ she said.

‘We’d best go inside,’ said Bernard.

*   *   *

Perhaps it was tea or several sardine sandwiches that calmed Lizzie down. More likely, though, it was sheer relief at having someone with whom to share her woes. Woes they were too – Bernard did not belittle them – but they weren’t insoluble and he saw at once that they might work to everyone’s advantage in the long run.

‘Both of them,’ Lizzie said. ‘Why did it have to be both of them? I shouldn’t have left them so much by themselves.’

‘Lizzie, Lizzie,’ Bernard said soothingly. ‘They’re not wee lassies any more. You did your best. You can’t go blamin’ yourself.’

‘I was selfish, Bernard. Selfish.’

‘You’re hurt because they’re goin’ on with you.’

‘I wanted somethin’ for myself, somethin’ left for me.’

‘You still have that.’

‘I don’t. I’ll have to take them in, look after them.’

‘What?’ Bernard said. ‘Look after Dominic Manone?’

‘Don’t make fun of me.’

‘I’m not making fun of you, sweetheart,’ Bernard said. ‘I’m just askin’ what it is you think you have to do?’

‘Try to … try to…’

‘Tell me again,’ Bernard said, firmly.

‘Tell you what?’

‘Exactly what happened when you got home last night.’

‘Well, they were there, waitin’ for me. Babs an’ the Hallop boy…’

‘Jackie.’

‘Aye, Jackie.’

‘Tell me exactly what was said.’

‘That she was expectin’ his baby an’ they were gonna get wed.’

‘An’ Jackie didn’t put up an argument, didn’t run for the trees?’

‘He seems as keen on marriage as Babs,’ Lizzie said. ‘Keener, in fact.’

‘So,’ Bernard said, ‘let them get spliced. You’re not goin’ to stand in their way, are you, Lizzie?’

‘How can I?’ Lizzie said. ‘But they don’t know what they’re gettin’ into. They don’t know what marriage is like.’

‘Then they’ll just have to find out,’ Bernard said.

‘It’s all very well for you, you won’t have to look after them.’

‘Nor will you,’ Bernard told her.

‘I will. I will. I can’t leave her now, Babs an’ the baby,’ Lizzie said. ‘I can’t have her livin’ downstairs wi’ that crowd, not wi’ that crowd, not wi’ a brand-new baby.’

Bernard said nothing for a moment. He lit two cigarettes and passed one over the table to Lizzie who took it and inhaled, absently.

The sun had shifted into the west. The front of the cottages lay in shadow, the soft, blue-grey, unrepeatable shadow of early spring. But across the road the trees behind the railings of the estate were filled with sunlight, gnarled trunks gilded, buds and unfolding leaves trembling not with a mid-afternoon breeze but with the thrill of the light itself.

Lizzie stared out at the painted scene, and smoked her cigarette.

Bernard said, ‘Tell me about Polly.’

Lizzie spoke without meeting his eye, like a person in a play whose words were meant for the audience.

‘Polly,’ she said. ‘That’s even worse.’

‘Why is it worse?’

‘He took her to the house. He took her there in his motorcar. To meet his relatives. She says he wants to marry her.’

‘An’ does she want to marry him?’ said Bernard.

‘She says she does.’

‘You knew nothin’ about this romance?’

‘I had an inklin’,’ Lizzie said, uncomfortably. ‘But I never thought it would come to anythin’. I mean, I thought Polly was far too sensible ever to get mixed up wi’ a man like Dominic Manone.’

‘Because he’s Italian?’

‘Because he’s a crook.’

‘Polly knows that, of course,’ Bernard stated.

Lizzie jerked her head, frowning. ‘She does. She must.’

‘An’ loves him in spite of it?’ It was on the tip of Bernard’s tongue to add ‘Or because of it,’ but he had too much savvy to let it slip out.

‘I don’t know if she loves him,’ Lizzie said. ‘I never know what Polly’s thinkin’ or what she feels about anythin’ these days.’

‘You know she still loves you,’ Bernard said.

‘If she did, she wouldn’t … God!’ Lizzie exclaimed, desperately. ‘How can I stand up to a man like Dominic Manone?’

‘Do you want to, Lizzie?’ Bernard asked. ‘I think that’s the question you’ve got to ask yourself. Do you really want to?’

‘I can’t let her do it, can’t let her throw her life away.’

‘Would you rather she married someone like Patrick Walsh?’ Bernard said. ‘From what I gather Polly got rid of him pretty quick when he showed signs of gettin’ serious.’

‘Are you suggestin’ that Dominic Manone’s the right man for her?’

‘Polly seems to think so,’ Bernard said.

‘She’s too young to…’

‘She’s not too young,’ Bernard said. ‘She’s – what? – two or three years older than you were when you had her.’

‘That’s got nothin’ to do with it,’ Lizzie said.

‘It’s got everythin’ to do with it,’ said Bernard. ‘She’s your eldest, Lizzie, more like you than you might care to admit. In my opinion, for what it’s worth, Polly could do worse than hitch up with Dominic Manone.’

‘How can you possibly say that? He’s a criminal.’

‘Well,’ Bernard said, ‘there’s a lot of those about these days, Lizzie, in and out of jail. Look around you. What do you see? Councillors linin’ their own pockets, coppers takin’ bribes, members of the parliament up to their armpits in trickery and graft. Look at the street corners, dearest, an’ tell me truthfully if you’d rather your daughter married one of those louts, one of those shiftless, never-work-again types than Dominic Manone.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Lizzie said. ‘There are plenty o’ decent folk in the Gorbals, thousands of honest, hard-workin’ men for Polly to choose from.’

‘Aye,’ Bernard said. ‘But it seems she prefers Dominic Manone.’

Lizzie put down the cigarette. She folded her arms across her breasts and hugged herself, rocking a little from side to side in the chair. ‘I never thought I’d hear this from you, Bernard,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d tell me how to stop her, how to turn her away from this marriage.’

Choosing his words with considerable care, Bernard said, ‘I notice you’re not askin me to step in an’ stop Babs marryin’ her young man.’

‘That’s different. It’s too late to do anythin’ about Babs.’

‘Do you think Manone will put Polly on the streets?’

‘Don’t be so daft.’

‘Do you think he won’t protect her?’

‘No, he’ll certainly do that.’

‘I don’t want to sound callous,’ Bernard told her, ‘but Polly will be safer with Manone than with anyone else. He won’t let any harm come to her. He won’t let anythin’ from outside touch her. He’ll keep her safe an’ well provided for, whatever happens.’

Thoroughly confused, Lizzie shook her head.

‘I thought you were honest, Bernard,’ she stammered. ‘I thought you were against all that stuff.’

‘I’m honest,’ Bernard said, ‘only because I have to be. Most times I’m happy to be the way I am. But I may as well tell you, now an’ then I wish I wasn’t so damned honest. I wish I had just a wee bit more grab in me, a wee bit less conscience. Never more so than now. There are no premiums paid out on honesty these days, Lizzie, an’ things are not goin’ to get much better. Soon it’ll be every man for himself, an’ take what you can get.’

‘An’ will you do that, will you take what you can get?’

‘Nope,’ Bernard said. ‘The only thing I want, dearest, is you.’

*   *   *

It was rare, very rare, for Guido and Teresa Manone to be seen out together, walking not hand-in-hand but hand-on-arm like any elderly couple from the big houses in Manor Park Road.

Teresa had insisted upon dragging her husband from the lunch table to take her walking in the park. She had already dragged him from the breakfast table to accompany her to church, for Guido was indrawn and compliant these days, chastened by she knew not what. While he was still prone to grumble he no longer dismissed her claims upon him out of hand; an improvement in relations that Teresa put down to Dominic’s up-and-coming engagement to the Conway girl who, even if she were a Scot, seemed to have taken Dominic’s measure well enough to want to marry him.

Unfortunately Teresa had no yardstick for measuring the Scots girl. She knew that Polly was the daughter of Lizzie and Frank Conway but she had no intimate knowledge of what had happened to Frank, apart from the fact that he had embezzled a large sum of money from Carlo and had gone off and got himself killed in the war.

She had no curiosity about Lizzie whatsoever, had never once enquired why the big, rather blowsy woman would turn up from time to time to engage her nephew in conversation or why she, that woman, enjoyed a privilege denied to most of Dominic’s clients. She was not even sure that Lizzie Conway was ‘a client’, or even what that word meant. She had consciously courted ignorance of the Manones’ affairs since that night – a hundred years ago, it seemed – when she had relinquished her virginity to Guido and with it all rights to individuality.

If she had been blessed with children she might have made her mark through them, ensuring that they were her soldiers, her warriors in the matrimonial war, and through them have reclaimed some of what had been lost to her. But she was old now and her husband, whether he would admit it or not, was old too. All she had to call her own was Dominic, and he had never been hers in the first place. Soon the girl, the stranger, would arrive in her house and steal away the last crumbs of her usefulness.

She walked slowly by Guido’s side along the curving path under the plane trees, leaning upon him, obliging him to match his long, creaking stride to her dainty steps.

Sunday in April, a warm afternoon; crocuses fading and daffodils spraying from the grass, children and dogs and courting couples, old couples too, and single men, poor men, spread over the green acres. On the horizon reared the steeples, cranes and scaffolding of industrial Clydeside, a region and a culture about which Teresa knew little.

In silence they strolled half the circuit, a sedate, almost stately couple. She had fur on her hat and collar. He sported spats on top of his hand-lasted shoes. His black alpaca overcoat was buttoned up to the throat, for although the breeze was warm and the young girls were already bare-armed Guido’s blood was thinning and the cold was all inside.

Then Teresa said, ‘I want to go home.’

‘Very well,’ Guido said. ‘If you are tired we will turn about.’

‘Home,’ Teresa said, ‘to Italy.’

He stopped in his tracks and looked down at her. A frown creased his forehead like the imprint of an axe. ‘When did this fit come upon you, woman?’ he said. ‘Home? Scotland is our home.’

‘Dominic has no need of us now, Guido.’

‘He will always have need of us.’

‘He will have a new wife to look after him.’

‘You do not like her, do you?’ Guido said.

‘I like her well enough.’

‘Because she is not Italian, you do not like her.’

‘Guido, I just want to go home.’

‘Phah!’ he exclaimed, not loudly. ‘Italy? What is there for us in Italy? What would I do there? Would you have me pretend I am still a soldier and go marching down the Via Roma waving a flag for the new emperor? Besides, Carlo will never let us go.’

‘If you ask him, if you tell him that you are old and tired…’

‘Old? I am not old, and I’m certainly not tired.’

‘Look at you,’ Teresa said. ‘You cannot walk round the park with me without stopping every twenty paces to catch your breath. No, it is time to go home, Guido, to put all this behind us and sit together in the sun.’ She hesitated. ‘There are pretty girls in Genova too. If you pay them enough they will provide you with company.’

‘I have no interest in girls.’

‘Write to Carlo. Tell him we want to leave.’

‘I will tell him no such thing.’ Guido drew her after him, pinching her sleeve. He found a bench and pushed her on to it, folded himself down beside her, big hands hanging between his knees, shoulders slumped. ‘We cannot go back to Genova. Carlo still has enemies there. He has enemies everywhere. Why do you think he forbids Dominic to visit his motherland? Why do you think he refuses to let Dominic visit him in America?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Dominic is safe here. In Italy or America he would be in danger.’

‘This is nonsense,’ Teresa said. ‘The stories that men make up.’

‘Why does Carlo have to make up stories?’

‘To seem more important than he is,’ Teresa said. ‘He does not want you near him, that is the true story. He does not want you on the same piece of land that he stands on. Apart from that, he does not care about us. We have done everything he has asked of us for forty years. Now it is Dominic’s turn. He will take care of his wife and she will take care of him. She knows what he does and what he will continue to do and, like me, she will accept it. If she is sensible she will not question him. He must have settled that matter or he would not be proposing marriage. So’ – Teresa sighed gently – ‘there is nothing to keep us here, Guido. It is time for us to go.’

‘Jesus and Joseph!’ Guido said, shaking his head. ‘Jesus and Joseph.’

‘Do not blaspheme, if you please.’

‘I will blaspheme if I feel like it,’ the old man said, sulkily.

‘If you are afraid to write to Carlo and ask him to let us go home then talk to Dominic. He will write to his father on our behalf.’

‘I do not need Dominic to do my dirty…’ Guido’s frown deepened. ‘I mean, to communicate with my brother. I will write to Carlo myself.’

‘That’s good,’ said Teresa, as if the matter were closed.

‘If,’ Guido said, ‘if and when I decide that we are no longer wanted here.’

‘Or needed,’ Teresa added.

‘I suppose we could probably afford to purchase a little place down the coast,’ Guido said.

‘Where?’ said Teresa. ‘Viareggio, Livorno, Piombino perhaps?’

‘I was thinking of Saltcoats or Largs,’ said Guido.

‘Italy,’ the woman said. ‘Italy. I want to go home. I want to go home.’

She got up and walked away from the bench as if she intended to start her journey back to Genoa there and then, with or without his sanction.

At first Guido did not move, nothing that is except his head which rolled on his scraggy neck so that he could stare after her. He cursed softly and savagely under his breath.

She had told him nothing that he did not already know: that he was finished here, that his work was done, that it was indeed time to go sit in the sun. But he did not feel finished, did not feel that he had accomplished what he had set out to do, that he had escaped the shadow of his own folly, that loony half-hour when he had taken Frank Conway’s mistress for himself. He had nobody to blame but himself for the fact that Carlo had cast him off or, rather, had left him behind.

Guido, old Guido, glowered at the retreating figure of his wife.

If he listened to her, if he allowed her to nag him into leaving Scotland, who would construct the deal with Pirollo, who would keep the managers up to scratch and ensure that honour money was paid on time; that ruthless men like McGuire or the incumbent Flint or others who had not yet shown themselves would not reach out and snatch what belonged to the Manones?

He did not need his wife to answer those questions. He knew the answer in his heart: Dominic would.

He stared bleakly along the path through the bands of spring shadow.

She was right, of course. He hated her for being right.

She was right in urging him to bow out, not to become some carping old nuisance tucked away in a villa on the Clyde coast, close enough to interfere but too far away to exert much influence. What he hated most, though, was the idea that he would be stuck with Teresa in a country that he no longer cared about or even remembered very well. He could not tell her that, however, in case he needed her to look after him tomorrow or the next day, whenever old age struck.

The fact that Teresa had thrust upon him was that he was no longer necessary. Dominic had Tony to advise and support him. Plus the new wife, Janet McKerlie’s niece, the girl with the solemn oval face and serious brown eyes who might have been an Italian but, of course, was not; the girl, the woman who not only claimed to love Dominic but who probably understood him better than anyone, since she was part of that strange, new generation that was not – not in Guido’s book at any rate – lost at all, but that knew precisely where it was going and how to get there.

Guido rose ponderously, as if the years had suddenly caught up with him. He held the collar of his overcoat tightly against his throat with one large, carpenter’s hand and, walking as quickly as he dared, hurried after his wife, seeking not reconciliation but the crust of authority that she had left him.

‘Teresa,’ he said, catching her by the arm. ‘Teresa, wait.’

‘What is it you want from me now?’

‘I will write to my brother tonight.’

‘About Italy?’

‘Yes, about retiring to live in Italy,’ Guido said.

‘And Dominic?’

‘He can damned well do as he pleases.’

‘You must not be bitter about this marriage, Guido.’

‘Bitter?’ he said. ‘Bitter? I am not bitter, woman. I am tired, that’s all.’

‘See,’ said Teresa, without a smile. ‘I told you so.’

*   *   *

The first time that Dominic kissed her was by the seaward side of the old salthouse on Headrick sands. He had picked Polly up in Lavender Court at half past eleven o’clock, long before Guido and Teresa had returned from mass, and they had motored down into Ayrshire on all but empty roads. They had stopped for lunch at a hotel near Prestwick golf course and had driven on afterwards, nosing south, with the Firth of Clyde dark blue beside them and the high peaks of Arran accompanying the Alfa on the distant horizon.

Dominic avoided Pirollo’s territory. He did not even consider calling in at any of the Italian-owned cafés that dotted the coastal route. There would be time enough to introduce Polly to his friends and acquaintances. He had more important matters to attend to that pleasant April afternoon.

To Polly it was all new, all novel: a first sight of the sea, a first taste of salt air, limitless distances, colours that shifted and changed in unceasing variety, the texture of the sky, the soothing tones of the worn little sandstone towns through which they drove, down to the old square by Headrick harbour where they left the car to walk a while.

It was a simple matter for Dominic to head out of the city on Sunday. It did not occur to him that the excursion might bring enormous pleasure to a girl who had been raised in the grime and stench of a Glasgow slum. Polly had never been further from home than Greenock. There had never been enough in the kitty for Mammy to take them away for a full day’s outing let alone a holiday. Without connivance then, Dominic offered Polly a taste of what might be and, defined by the great, breezy candour of sea and shore, a suggestion that their life together would be as clear and open as the April sky.

He had been to the salthouse before, long ago. His father had brought him here before the war, together with Guido Pirollo and another child whose name Dominic had forgotten. Uncle Guido had been with them too and a couple of young women; again the names were lost. They had been packed into the back of an open-topped Siddeley that his father had picked up somewhere. The journey over the back roads had seemed interminable. He remembered that one of the young women had sung and had tried to teach Uncle Guido how to dance the Grizzly Bear on the spit of sand that ran down to the sea and that everyone had laughed and it had all seemed innocent. Out of selfishness, or shyness perhaps, he chose not to share that memory with Polly.

In the lee of the salthouse he kissed her, tentatively at first. Kissed her without haste, but not insistently. He held her hand.

They walked a few steps together. Then she turned and kissed him, pressing him back against the salthouse wall, leaning into him, one leg raised behind her as if she were dancing. He tasted her lipstick. He could feel her body pressing against his, not innocently.

They broke, walked again, saying nothing. Only two or three tense steps. He put his arm around her waist. He stopped. She waited. He kissed her two, three, four, five times. The tip of his tongue brushed her lips. His breath and her breath mingled. A soft breathless excitement mounted between them so that when he released her he felt as if he were floating in the air like a gull. He drew breath and let it out again. He looked at her, smiling, and saw that Polly too seemed to be floating. He reached for her once more and, floating among the gorse bushes with the waves lapping nearby and the wall of the old salthouse warm behind them, they kissed again.

Polly was no longer rational. It did not matter what Dominic was or what he had done or what he would do in future. There was no room in her heart for the cautions that her mother had laid upon her. In that moment she was loved and loving, without the slightest notion of how love should be expressed or even how it had come about.

Dominic pushed her away just a little, just enough to suggest that there could be no parting between them now that would not bring hurt. He pushed her away and then, with a little moan, brought her back, not to kiss but to hold, to hold so close that she felt as if nothing could ever separate them again.

‘Polly,’ Dominic said. ‘Polly, will you marry me?’

And ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. I will. Yes,’ before he could change his mind.

*   *   *

A head count revealed eleven Hallops resident in the ground-floor flat in Lavender Court, a fact that surprised not only Lizzie but Sandy Hallop too, since that gentleman had spent so much time in bed that his family seemed to have grown up around him without his being aware of it.

On the pavement Sadie Hallop, Jackie’s mother, was indistinguishable from a thousand and one wee Glasgow wifies. She had bottle-bottom spectacles, a tartan shawl and a permanent list to starboard brought on by carrying heavy shopping bags or reaching down to hold a toddler by the hand. Sadie, though, was sharper than appearances suggested. At one time in her pre-marital past she had been an infant-school teacher, an educational connection that seemed quite at odds with the great dumb lumpkin whom she had elected to marry.

There was certainly nothing much left of the girl that Sadie had once been, of the proud teacher, the lover, the blushing bride. Every role had been subsumed into raising a family that had seemed to grow numerically larger every time dozy old Sandy had opened an eye and blinked. Dennis was twenty-seven years old, wee Angela four; a breeding season that appeared to Lizzie to be not so much irresponsible as almost miraculous but that spoke volumes for Sadie Hallop’s ability to cope with new arrivals.

The ‘family gathering’, though, was a bit of a nightmare. Sadie insisted on conducting discussion of the wedding arrangements – which had at one time seemed so simple – over the supper table in her kitchen. Eleven Hallops, four Conways and, lost somewhere in the steam, poor patient Bernard, set about the destruction of a steak pie the size of a battleship, a rice pudding as deep as the Kingston dock and enough bottled beer to float one in the other.

Kiddies perched on the bunker lid, toddlers squabbled on the bed, young girls – Rosie among them – were relegated to eating off a shoogly folding table in the lobby and an air not so much of sober discussion as chaotic celebration prevailed, for Sadie Hallop saw no shame in a shotgun wedding and was eager to embrace not just Babs but her very first grandchild too.

It was left to Bernard to extract Jackie and brother Dennis from the bedlam – Sandy had already gone to bed – and walk them down to Brady’s for a quiet pint and a quiet word.

‘What’s the deal then?’ Dennis said. ‘I mean, what’re you offerin’?’

Bernard’s head was not quite so clear as it should have been. In fact, he was slightly less sober than Jackie who had drunk nothing all evening but ginger beer and whose attitude to marriage seemed to be that of any randy young man and took no account of the fact that his bride would be several months pregnant when she tripped into the registry office.

‘The Conways’ house,’ Bernard said.

‘Aye,’ said Jackie. ‘I thought we’d settled that, but.’

‘Not quite.’ said Bernard. ‘If you become the householder you’ll have to pay the rent every month. Can you manage that?’

Dennis snorted.

Jackie nodded.

‘Speakin’ now,’ Bernard went on, ‘as the agent of the factor I can recommend a change in tenancy only if I regard the incoming tenant to be solvent an’ of reliable character.’

‘Solvent?’ said Jackie.

‘Got money,’ said Dennis, and snorted again.

‘I’ve got money,’ Jackie said. ‘What’s more, I’ll even look after the old dear an’ the sisters, if you like.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Bernard said. ‘You’ll have the house all to yourself, Jackie. Mrs Conway an’ I will – ah – we’ll be gettin’ married too very shortly, and we’ll be goin’ to stay in Knightswood.’

‘What about Rosie an’ Polly?’ Jackie said.

‘Polly’s engaged to be married.’

‘Jesus!’ Dennis said. ‘Did Patsy come back then?’

‘I’m surprised Babs hasn’t told you,’ Bernard said. ‘Polly’s got herself engaged to Dominic Manone.’

Jackie chuckled and dug his brother in ribs. ‘By God, we’re gonna be related t’ the Eye-tie. Think o’ that, Dennis. Sky’s the limit now.’

Bernard said, ‘What about the flat, Jackie? Do you want it transferred to your name, or don’t you?’

‘I do,’ Jackie said. ‘Sure, I do.’

‘Yeah,’ Dennis said. ‘May as well go the whole hog while you’re at it.’

‘I’ll be at it okay,’ said Jackie, grinning again. ‘Night an’ day.’

‘Manone, eh?’ said Dennis.

‘Yeah, old Dominic – my brother-in-law,’ said Jackie.

‘Can’t lose now,’ said Dennis. ‘Can’t bloody lose.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Bernard, sadly.

*   *   *

Dining with the Manones was a different experience. Dominic appeared anxious to impress his future in-laws, though why this should be Bernard couldn’t quite fathom – and if Lizzie had an explanation she kept it to herself. She undertook a manoeuvre of considerable subtlety, however, to ensure that Babs and Jackie found themselves excluded from the invitation and that Bernard was drafted in their stead. He then had to go through all the palaver of having his best suit dry cleaned and the expense of purchasing a new necktie and black shoes which, fortunately, would also do for his own wedding in the not too distant future.

He changed at Lizzie’s house and looked, Lizzie said, like a million dollars, an opinion endorsed by Rosie who bounced on to his knee, took the cigarette from his mouth, and kissed him on the lips.

‘Oh, Bernard,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you marry me instead of Mammy?’

Bernard was no longer embarrassed by the Conway girls. He had come to realise that flirtatiousness was common in young women and reflected his primness as much as anything else. Besides, he was filled with desire for Lizzie, desire and curiosity, but had lost his fear of that aspect of matrimony and the urgency that went with it.

He retrieved the cigarette from Rosie and, facing her squarely, said, ‘You’re far too skinny for me, kiddo.’

‘I am not skinny.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he said, relenting. ‘In that dress, you look…’

‘What?’ she said, giggling. ‘What?’

‘Almost human.’

‘But you still do not want to marry me?’ said Rosie.

‘Sorry,’ said Bernard. ‘I’m spoken for.’

At half past six o’clock the Alfa, driven by Tony, arrived at the close and Bernard, Lizzie, Polly and Rosie sailed down the stairs and into it to cheers and jeers from assembled young Hallops and a sulky scowl from Babs who still did not understand why Jackie and she had been left out.

Dominic had pulled out all the stops. The dining-room table had been drawn out to its full imposing length and set with a baffling array of spoons, forks, knives and crystal glasses and, as in the best restaurants, had fat linen napkins shaped into pyramids beside each place.

What really took the cake as far as Lizzie was concerned were the silver candlesticks that crowned the tablecloth, each installed with a pure white wax candle that burned with a slender yellow flame. There was something not just elegant but grand about it all and she, even she, was lost in admiration for all that her eldest was being offered. What impressed her most of all, though, was the commanding ease with which Polly handled herself, as if she had already become mistress of the house and used to this manner of living.

The Rowing Club, the cafés, pubs, warehouses and corner shops, bookies and shuffling down-at-heel runners all seemed very far away, so remote that it was almost impossible to believe that they shared the same existence as the handsome young man who presided over the dinner party and who, at an appropriate moment, presented Polly with a little red-leather box containing an engagement ring: a fine, three-stone diamond cluster set in platinum and gold, but not too ostentatious for its meaning to be lost.

With Dominic at her side, Polly slipped the ring on to her finger. It fitted perfectly, which was not entirely surprising given that she had chosen it herself a week back on Saturday. She looked up at Dominic and smiled. He stooped and kissed her brow.

They were obviously in love, Lizzie thought, but rather too calm and cool about it, as if the emotion had been rehearsed beforehand and had lost its spontaneity. She wondered if they were lovers yet or if that pleasure was still to come; if it would be as it had been between Frank and she, hot and groping and sweaty, marred by a furtive kind of urgency as if, even within marriage, there were no time for any other kind of commitment.

On her daughter’s behalf, she shed a few sentimental tears.

Champagne in fluted glasses, a reticent toast; then the door opened and two young maids brought in the soup in a huge silver tureen.

It was only then that Lizzie realised what was wrong, what was missing.

‘Where’s your uncle?’ she asked. ‘I thought he’d be here.’

‘Guido had business to attend to,’ Dominic said. ‘He sends his regrets.’

‘An’ your auntie?’ Lizzie said, glancing up.

‘In the kitchen. She may join us later – if she’s not too tired.’

Lizzie nodded, and let it go.

She was piqued at the absence of Dominic’s family, though, just a wee bit insulted, more for Polly’s sake than her own. Then it occurred to her that perhaps Dominic’s relatives were not at the table because Dominic wanted to present himself just as he was, his own man, without Guido and the shadows of the immigrant generation lowering over him.

Polly said, ‘Dominic’s aunt and uncle are thinking of going back to Italy.’

‘Retiring,’ Dominic said. ‘After the wedding, of course.’

‘What’ll you do then?’ said Lizzie. ‘Who’ll take care of your house?’

‘I will,’ said Polly, firmly.

And at that moment Lizzie knew that Polly too had gone.