Chapter Six

There had never been any love lost been Thomas Bonnar and Alexander O’Hara. As young men they had fought on the midden-heads of Cumberland Street and across the high backs of the Calcutta Road.

The scar on Alex’s cheekbone had been implanted by Tommy’s knuckle-ring during a vicious bout of fisticuffs outside Brady’s pub. Tommy, in turn, bore on his left buttock the purple wound of a knife attack that had been intended to emasculate him, which may have been no bad thing, given the shady state of his relations with his sister. The pair had only agreed to bury the hatchet when Guido Manone had offered them a financial inducement to do so.

God knows, Tommy had needed income so badly at the time that he would have licked O’Hara’s boots if it had been required of him. He’d had an evil run with the bookies and owed money all over town. He was also supporting his sister, with whom he resided, and six of her eight living children, the other two having been farmed out. How many, if any, of the children were actually Tommy’s was a moot point. Maggie Bonnar had never picked up a proper husband and had been so careless with her favours over the years that half the men on the Calcutta Road might have fathered them.

The view of most members of the Rowing Club was that Maggie was lucky to have Tommy to depend on now that her looks had gone. She’d never been much of a looker in the first place and if Tommy had taken a small share of what was so freely offered then who the heck could blame him, since that sort of thing went on willy-nilly behind closed doors all the time. Besides, Maggie’s poor wee ragamuffins were confused enough without being told that Uncle might be Daddy and their sisters also their cousins.

If Maggie had been a mare and her offspring colts, no doubt Tommy would have taken a keener interest in their lineage.

As it was he made no distinction between the children. He treated them all with a vague, distracted affection that bordered on indifference and, when flush, would give each of them a tanner to spend on sweets, pat each of them on the head, and go back to studying his Sporting Pink as if the children who crawled about his chair had no more individuality than kittens or pups. He treated Maggie much the same way, as if she were a skivvy or a landlady, not a sister or a lover or a wife.

Mostly, Tommy was not at home. He spent more time on the streets than the average pigeon. He was constantly on the trot, darting about the back courts and closes in search of runners to carry his bets or, after a good pay-day, taking himself off to a race meeting at Ayr or Lanark or into the stand at Ibrox Park to watch Glasgow Rangers win – or sometimes lose – his money for him. Then he would be off again, strutting the streets with that odd, pouter-pigeon gait of his, chest leading and feet following on, in search of drink or company in one of the pubs on the Copland Road or down at the Rowing Club in Molliston Street.

The Rowing Club was gloomy but comfortable, offering warm fires on cold days and cold beer when it was hot outside. It had a billiards table, a wireless set and a ‘tap’ wire, whose mechanism Tommy didn’t quite understand, that brought news of results from all over the country in spite of the Manones’ edicts, which Tony Lombard enforced, that no gambling took place on the premises and that no known bookmaker or bookmaker’s runner be granted a membership. Gambling did go on, of course, but a modest flutter on a billiards match now and then wasn’t going to have the coppers kicking down the door.

If it hadn’t been for Alex O’Hara, Tommy would have spent more time at the Rowing Club. O’Hara practically lived in Molliston Street.

No matter what time of day or night Tommy slipped into the club O’Hara would be propped against the bar or lounging in the so-called coffee shop or stretched across the baize with cue in hand and a pint pot never very far away. He would smirk at Tommy and say something sarcastic, the sort of scathing remark that in the old days would have had Tommy reaching for his knife.

‘Hey there, loser, still backin’ three-legged cuddies?’ was one of O’Hara’s more imaginative greetings; or, ‘See they lost again. Couldn’t find a piss-pot if they was sittin’ on it, Rangers.’

Tommy would bristle, would compress his lips on the wet inch of his cigarette, his jaw muscles aching with the effort of squeezing out a smile.

He would say, meekly, ‘Aye, aye, Alex, they lost again,’ while striving to bear in mind that if he stuck a blade in O’Hara at the bar of the Rowing Club he would be cutting off his one sure source of income, never mind what the coppers might have to say about it.

O’Hara was no less ruthless than Tommy when it came to extracting money, or blood, from petty creditors. But O’Hara had a better network of lookouts. He seemed to know everything that was going on south of the river, including how much he, Tommy, had lost that week and how much he was in hock to the three or four street bookies whom the Manones financed. So – simply to avoid being teased by Alex O’Hara – Tommy had fallen into the habit of backing his fancy with Chick McGuire instead.

McGuire was a rival of the Manones and Tommy doubted if O’Hara, for all his cunning, could possibly have an ear inside McGuire’s office, so he was safe from insults, from injury to his pride, if not from the danger of piling up debt with someone whom the Manones did not, and could not, control.

It was unreasonable and illogical – nuts, in other words – for Tommy Bonnar to blame O’Hara, and via O’Hara the Manones, for the predicament in which he found himself at the beginning of the Christmas month. Tommy had never been over-endowed with brains, however, or with the insight required to acknowledge that most of the aggravation that had descended upon him in the course of his thirty-two years on earth had been of his own making.

How could he be blamed for the failure of three-legged cuddies to win races, for goalkeepers with soapy fingers, for the assaults that had landed him twice behind bars, for letting Maggie climb into bed with him when she was too drunk to know who he was? He wasn’t to blame for anything; not even for running up a heap of debts with Chick McGuire before the roof fell in and Chick told him to cough up or prepare himself to greet the New Year from under a slab in the Southern Necropolis.

Therefore he could hardly be blamed for listening to the whisper, the tempting rumour, that the Manones would pay out their Christmas bonuses on Thursday December 20th; that on the afternoon of Wednesday 19th an unmarked van would be sent to the Paisley branch of the Bank of Scotland and be loaded with cash which – so Mr McGuire had heard – would be stored overnight in the safe in Central Warehouse in Jackson Street.

Now there was a thing, wasn’t it? Mr McGuire had remarked quite casually. Rich pickings for anyone willing to set it up, for anyone so desperately strapped for cash that he didn’t care if it was the Manones he was robbing.

How much would be in the safe was the question that Tommy Bonnar had been about to ask but didn’t have to, for it seemed that Mr McGuire had read his mind.

‘Eight or ten grand, I reckon,’ Mr McGuire had said, still very casually, ‘given the number of staff the Manones employ. Just imagine, eight or ten grand lying there for the taking. Pity you work for the Eye-ties, Tom, isn’t it?’

‘Why don’t you…’

‘Not my scene, old son. Not my game, burglary.’

‘Ten grand ain’t just gonna be lyin’ there waitin’ for somebody to take it, though, say what you like.’

‘Sure an’ it is. Who’d dare knock off the Manones?’

‘Somebody who’s right off his head,’ Tommy had said.

‘Or someone,’ Mr McGuire had reminded him, ‘with nothing to lose.’

*   *   *

‘I still think Tommy’s off his bloody head,’ Jackie said, with a grin. ‘But if he’s talkin’ big money like that I don’t care who we rob. Anyhow, the boat’s a great idea. Nobody’ll be bothered with the back o’ the buildin’ an’ Patsy’s sure he can get in up that back – front – wall.’

‘Where do we get a boat, but?’ said Dennis.

‘We could build one.’

‘Talk sense, Jackie. What do we know about buildin’ boats?’

‘Can’t be that difficult.’

‘Oh, but it can,’ said Dennis. ‘It’s got to float for a start.’

‘All boats float,’ said Jackie.

‘Only because they’re buoyant.’

‘Buoyant? What’s that?’

‘We’ll steal one,’ said Dennis.

‘Where from?’ said Jackie.

‘There must be plenty o’ them lyin’ about the river.’

‘Sure, tugs, yachts an’ ocean liners,’ said Jackie. ‘We need one wi’ oars.’

‘Or a petrol engine,’ said Dennis.

‘Too noisy. We need a rowin’ boat, a big one. Big enough for four.’

‘Four?’

‘You, me, Patsy an’ Tommy.’

‘Tommy? Is he comin’?’

‘It’s his show.’

‘I thought he was just the brains.’

‘If Tommy ain’t there,’ said Jackie, ‘I’m not goin’. I want that wee squirt right where I can see him.’

‘Tommy’s all right.’

‘Well, Tommy can be all right sittin’ in the boat with us. If we get caught, he gets caught,’ Jackie said. ‘That simple.’

‘We’re not gonna get caught, but,’ Dennis said. ‘Are we?’

‘Not if we get the right sorta boat. We’ll need a lot of strong rope too, to tie the boat up while Patsy’s inside. Rope or an anchor.’

‘Anchors are heavy.’

‘I know anchors are heavy, that’s why I’m sayin’ rope,’ said Jackie. ‘I’ll take a walk round tomorrow an’ see what I can see. I mean, if there’s anythin’ in the way of a rowin’ boat that we can pinch.’

‘How are we gonna get it from where it’s at to the warehouse?’

‘Dennis, Dennis, Dennis.’ Jackie gave the side of his brother’s head a gentle slap. ‘Use your loaf.’

‘How?’

‘On the back of a lorry, of course.’

*   *   *

‘Then what are you gonna do with it, for Christ’s sake?’ said Patsy Walsh. ‘Park it in the close? Hide it under the bed?’

‘I thought we could stash it in the yard,’ said Jackie.

‘How do you propose gettin’ it to the yard,’ said Patsy, ‘an’ from the yard to the river again?’

‘On a lorry.’

‘On a lorry? Right. Where do we get a lorry?’

‘Borrow one from Georgie, like we usually do when we need a lorry.’

‘Georgie Newton?’

‘That’s the man,’ said Jackie.

‘The same Georgie Newton who operates the Belville Garage an’ services the Manones’ motorcars?’

‘Yeah. He’s … Oh, aye, I see what you mean,’ said Jackie.

Patsy sighed. ‘Look, I know where there’s a boat. It’s tied up by the steps at the back end of Hunter’s Dock. Been there for years. Nobody ever uses it, far as I can make out. It’s kept in case somebody falls into the dock, or somethin’. Regulations, I expect. I’ve been down, had a squint at it. It’s big enough. What we do is, on the night in question, we climb into the dock, untie the boat an’ take it downriver. I don’t suppose you thought to check the tide tables?’

‘What tide tables?’

‘God, you must be the only guy on the Clyde who doesn’t know what a tide table is.’ Patsy’s patience was wearing thin. Gritting his teeth, he went on, ‘We need to catch the ebb, Jackie, otherwise it’ll take us half the night to haul the boat downriver. High tide’s at ten twenty-two. If we leave the dock at eleven that’ll be about right. Close as I can calculate, it’ll take us about a quarter of an hour to get down to the warehouse. We’ll need rope, lots of it…’

‘Thought o’ that,’ said Jackie. ‘Rope.’

‘How about a grappling hook?’ Patsy said. ‘You think of that too?’

‘A what?’

‘A grappling hook,’ said Patsy, ‘for holdin’ the boat steady while we’re inside the warehouse.’

‘No, I…’

‘There’s one on the dockside, racked next to the boat.’

‘Oh,’ said Jackie, ‘good.’

‘There’s a wee bit of bank just under the warehouse wall. It’s steep and narrow but there should be just enough room to put one of you ashore to hold the bow rope.’

‘Dennis can do that.’

‘Fine,’ said Patsy. ‘Thank God, Tommy knows how to row.’

‘So Tommy will be there, will he?’

‘Sure an’ he will,’ said Patsy. ‘It’s his show.’

‘What else do you need?’

‘A lot,’ said Patsy. ‘I need the girl…’

‘Babs?’

‘Yeah, Polly’s sister. I need her to find out exactly where the safe is an’ what kind of safe it is.’

‘The name of the safe,’ said Jackie. ‘Right.’

‘We also need to be sure, absolutely, definitely sure that the big money’s gonna be in the safe that night.’

‘Tommy says—’

‘Tommy says a lot o’ things,’ said Patsy. ‘I don’t want to get inside that warehouse, then inside that safe an’ discover there’s nothin’ there but two mutton pies an’ a tin o’ condensed milk.’

‘Okay, okay. We’ll get Babs to keep her eyes peeled an’ tell us when the money’s arrived safe an’ sound in the warehouse.’

‘I’ll talk to her,’ Patsy said.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Jackie. ‘She’s my doll. She’ll do what I tell her.’

‘Talk to her soon,’ said Patsy. ‘We’ve only got six days.’

‘Definitely gonna be Wednesday then?’ said Jackie.

‘Yeah,’ Patsy said.

‘I’ll talk to her tonight.’

*   *   *

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ Babs said. ‘What’re you doin’ here? You can’t come in.’

‘Your mammy’s out. I saw her leavin’.’

‘Yeah, but my sisters are still here.’

‘Come out for a minute, just a minute then.’

‘It’s freezin’ out there.’

‘Gotta talk to you, Babs. It’s important.’

‘All right then – but just for a minute.’

She stepped quickly out of the house and followed Jackie down three flights of stairs into the back close.

She shivered in the night air. Her breath hung cloudy in the freezing dankness. She hated the courts at the back of the tenement at the best of times. Only when absolutely unavoidable would she take her turn at carrying ashes out to the midden or blankets to the wash-house. There were rats lurking out there amid the litter, cats that would claw your leg off if you so much as looked at them, and furtive little gangs of boys and young girls playing the sort of games that even she’d never been tempted to play when she was that age.

‘I’m freezin’,’ she said again.

‘Here, I’ll warm you up.’

Jackie reached for her but she sidled away.

‘What’s eatin’ you, sweetheart?’ Jackie said.

‘I’m not in the mood, that’s all.’

‘I’ve been waitin’ for you to show up at the yard,’ Jackie said. ‘I thought you’d have been up to see us before now.’

‘For what?’

‘For – you know.’

Babs wrapped her arms over her breasts and squeezed with her elbows, not out of fear – not really – but to hold in what little warmth remained in her body. She wore only a skirt, blouse and cardigan, and couldn’t understand why Jackie, in shirt-sleeves, showed no sign of feeling the cold. She half wished that he would insist on putting his arms about her, on kissing her against her will, would give her a sign that she meant more to him than a mere helper in whatever game he and Patsy and Tommy Bonnar were playing.

She said, ‘I’m not sure I want to get involved after all.’

‘What?’ Jackie snapped and pinned her to the cold, sweating wall, fists against her shoulders. ‘Jee-zus, Babs, you can’t back out now. We’re dependin’ on you. I mean, you gave Tommy your word, you promised.’

‘I did nothin’ of the kind.’

‘What’s wrong with you? All you’ve gotta do—’

‘I know what I’ve gotta do,’ said Babs.

She pushed against him, thought of raising her knee and letting him have it where it would hurt most. But she wouldn’t do that, not to Jackie. She knew that he was right and she was wrong. If she hadn’t become so excited by the hundred pounds that Tommy Bonnar had offered, if she’d been thinking more clearly … it was too late to back out now. She had given her word, sort of, and had been avoiding Jackie only to make him come to her.

‘Yeah, an’ you know what Tommy Bonnar’ll do if you let us down.’

‘Carve me,’ Babs said.

‘Or Polly,’ Jackie said. ‘Or the other one, the deaf one.’

He let her go, put his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders and executed a few – not jolly – little steps before he spoke again.

‘You didn’t have to say yes, you know,’ he reminded her.

‘Well, with you in, an’ Patsy – I didn’t wanna let you all down.’

‘So you’ll do it?’ Jackie said.

She could see his face in the flicker of the gas lamp that shed a broken and reluctant light into the recesses of the close. He stepped nervously in and out of the shadows, not dancing now but shuffling. He was as cold as she was, she realised, and just as apprehensive. She had expected him to do exactly what he had done, watch for Mammy leaving for Gran McKerlie’s then come creeping upstairs. He hadn’t been able to leave her alone after all.

She smiled, showing her teeth.

‘Stop wettin’ yourself, Jackie,’ she said. ‘I’ve done it.’

‘Done what?’

‘What you wanted me to do. Got all the stuff Patsy needs.’

He stopped moving, stared at her. ‘You’re kiddin’.’

‘I’m not,’ she said.

He leaned into the light, staring at her, still too uncertain to show relief.

‘The safe’s on the second floor, right at the back. It’s in the fifth office along from the end of the corridor. Five windows along from the end of the buildin’. You listenin’, Jackie?’

‘I’m listenin’.’

‘It wasn’t easy gettin’ myself in there.’

‘How’d you do it?’

‘Pretended I’d lost an invoice,’ Babs said. ‘I got Mrs Anderson to take me into Mr MacDermott’s office to look for it. I knew we wouldn’t find it ’cause I’d torn it up already an’ flushed it down the toilet.’

‘Clever girl,’ said Jackie.

‘The safe’s against the left wall, lookin’ in from the door to the window. The window’s hardly ever open ’cause of the cold weather.’

‘Can you open the window from the inside next Wednesday afternoon?’

‘No. No chance. Just can’t be done.’

‘Okay. What about the safe?’

‘Looks new. It’s big, up to my chest. It’s got a sort of medallion thing, like a shield, where the keys go on.’

‘Who keeps the keys?’

‘Don’t know. Probably Mr MacDermott.’

‘Maker’s name?’ said Jackie. ‘For the safe, I mean.’

‘Hobbs an’ Company.’

‘You sure?’

‘I can read, Jackie.’

‘This woman didn’t see you examinin’ the safe, did she?’

‘Nope. She didn’t much like me bein’ there at all, though. Doesn’t like the girls from the first-floor countin’ office. Thinks we’re all tarts. She had me in an’ out of her precious Mr MacDermott’s office in no time flat. Snotty bitch.’

‘There’s one more thing we need,’ said Jackie.

‘I thought I’d done my bit.’

‘On Wednesday afternoon,’ said Jackie, ‘somebody’ll be sent to the bank to collect the packet of money.’

‘Mr MacDermott and Mr Grant usually do that. I mean, collect the wages. Mr Manone, the old one, takes them in his car sometimes.’

‘How do they get to the bank if old Guido ain’t around?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Babs. ‘Maybe they go in one o’ the vans.’

‘On Wednesday can you find out if the bonus money has arrived?’

Babs shook her head. ‘I can’t guarantee to be at the window or anythin’. I’ve got work to do, Jackie. I mean, I’m kept hard at it, at the desk.’

‘Aye, right,’ said Jackie, without scepticism. ‘If you do, though…’

‘I’ll get word to you.’

‘Right.’

He kissed her, rather perfunctorily, and hurried back into his house, leaving Babs to find her own way upstairs.

*   *   *

Rosie knelt by the niche bed as if saying prayers. She had a book open before her and a paper bag filled with broken toffee. She read, chewed, and hummed a tuneless tune to herself, quite oblivious to what was going on in the room behind her. Polly sat in the armchair, her feet on the fender, toasting her calves and thighs. She was smoking a cigarette with considerable concentration. She blew a plume of smoke, made a little signal to Babs and got up and trailed her into the bedroom, leaving Rosie alone in the kitchen.

‘What did he want?’ Polly whispered, urgently.

‘It’s Wednesday. They’re goin’ after the bonus money.’

‘Did you tell him what he needed to know?’

‘Yeah. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Mind? Of course, I mind. I don’t approve of theft,’ Polly said. ‘On the other hand they’re going to do it anyway so I suppose there’s no harm in helping them do it properly. Especially if it’s the Manones who’ll suffer. To tell you the truth I wouldn’t mind being there myself.’

‘What’ll I do with all that lovely dough, Polly?’

‘Put it away for a long, long time,’ Polly said. ‘That’s what Patsy and the boys intend to do with it.’

‘Ah, come on. I wanna spend it.’

‘Hide it,’ said Polly again. ‘Because if the Manones ever find out…’

‘How can they possibly find out? I mean, what did I do anyway? I won’t be robbin’ their bloody safe, will I?’

‘No,’ Polly said. ‘But you’ll know who did.’

‘So will you.’

‘That’s true,’ Polly conceded.

‘They’ll be insured, the Manones,’ said Babs.

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said Polly.

‘You mean they’ll come huntin’ for their money?’

‘For sure,’ Polly said. ‘Oh, yes, for absolutely sure.’

‘In that case, I’ll hide it. I’ll hide it under our bed.’

‘Are you nuts?’ said Polly. ‘What if Mammy finds it? You can’t hide it anywhere in our house.’

‘We could bury it in the back green.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Babs.’

‘Where then?’ said Babs.

Polly seated herself on the end of the bed. She put the last inch of the Woodbine to her lips and sipped smoke, then, leaning away from her sister, stabbed the remains of the cigarette into a tin ashtray on the bedside table.

She rested on her elbows for a moment, staring thoughtfully at the wall, then, rolling over, said, ‘We could hide it in Gran McKerlie’s. Nobody will ever go poking about in that dump.’

‘What if Gran finds it,’ said Babs, ‘or Auntie Janet?’

‘Don’t think there’s much chance,’ Polly said, ‘not if we hide it properly.’

‘Like where?’

‘Under the floorboards would probably be the best place.’

‘In the kitchen?’

‘In the hall cupboard,’ said Polly. ‘I’ll make a point of checking it out on Sunday mornin’ when Aunt Janet’s at church.’

‘Yeah,’ Babs said. ‘Not a bad idea, not bad at all.’

*   *   *

‘Another sausage, Mr Peabody?’ Lizzie was already standing at his elbow with the pan in her hand. ‘It’ll only go to waste.’

‘What about yourself, Mrs Conway?’

‘Oh, I’ve had all I require, thank you.’

‘Well then, I don’t mind if I do.’

He watched her plump hand exercise the fork. A sizzling pork sausage slipped neatly on to his plate. The supper invitation had not only been welcome but expected. In fact, he’d have been disappointed if Mrs Conway hadn’t had the table set and the pan on the stove.

He was also pleased that Lizzie was wearing the same frock she’d worn last Friday. Somehow he’d already grown used to it. He’d thought about her in it many times in the course of the week, of Lizzie Conway’s cosy kitchen, her kindness, her warmth, a warmth that had become part of a more generalised warmth that had affected him too. The office juniors had remarked upon the change in him, albeit sarcastically. Even his mother had noticed it and, as she’d put on her hat to trot out to the Women’s Guild, had told him that he’d better mend his ways or face up to the consequences – whatever that meant.

Bernard had been smiling all week; he was smiling now.

He felt at ease, more so as the girls weren’t around.

Obviously Lizzie had snaffled him for herself. He was not displeased by the development. Indeed, he had come prepared for it.

Nestling in his jacket pocket was a little box of sweets, six dark chocolates whorled into crests, each crest topped by a tiny red rosebud. The box itself looked as if it were made of real gold leaf and was tied with a piece of silk ribbon. The gift was small enough to indicate gratitude without being effusive, and expensive enough to please a woman who did not appear to enjoy too many of life’s little luxuries.

He was eager to present it to her; or, he wondered, might it be better to lay it discreetly by the side of the plate for her to find when she cleared the table after he’d gone? He pondered his tactics while he chewed the sausage and mopped up egg yolk with a square of toast.

‘How’s your mother these days?’

The question caught Bernard off guard.

‘My mother? Oh, she’s – she keeps herself busy.’

‘Lookin’ after you?’ Lizzie said.

‘Well – well, yes.’ He hesitated. ‘She does other things too, of course.’

‘Such as?’ said Lizzie.

‘Women’s Guild.’ He shrugged. ‘Eastern Star, that sort of thing.’

Bernard was tempted to expound on the theme, to list all the groups and organisations to which his mother belonged and to explain that in fact he saw very little of her and suspected that her devotion to her friends and colleagues far outstripped her devotion to him. To be fair the council cottage in Knightswood was never anything but spotless and there were always clean shirts and whole socks in his drawer. Even so, he could not help but feel that he was allocated quite a lowly place in his mother’s schedule of priorities.

Most nights he would find his dinner in the oven and a note in his mother’s beautiful copperplate handwriting propped against the vase on the mantelpiece telling him how to turn up the gas and where she had gone and when he might expect her back. Indeed, at times it was like sharing the cottage with a ghost, the sort of restless entity that you only really saw out of the corner of your eye as it whisked away.

He bit back criticism, however, stifled his resentment and managed a loyal smile by way of defence.

Lizzie said, ‘She must enjoy the company.’

‘Yes, I expect she does,’ said Bernard.

‘It’ll keep her from thinkin’ about the boys.’

‘Boys?’ said Bernard.

‘Your brothers, from broodin’ about your brothers.’

‘Oh!’ Bernard said. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

It was true. Until that moment it just hadn’t occurred to him that his mother’s brisk and bustling behaviour had anything to do with Peter and Charlie or that she might be motivated by the inexpressible pain of having lost her favourite sons. He’d always imagined that he was the only one who still missed them. Mum never talked about them. She kept no photographs, no letters or postcards, nothing on display to remind her of them, or of the war.

Even his, Bernard’s, medal had been hidden away in a drawer.

He squinted across the table at Lizzie Conway.

Her perspicacity made him uncomfortable. What she’d just said might very well be the truth, though; or was it just a charitable excuse for his mother’s egotistical need to be the centre of attention? He’d have to think about that one.

Meanwhile, Lizzie emanated gentle and soothing sympathy.

Bernard cleared his throat. ‘How did – I mean, how did you cope?’

‘As best I could,’ Lizzie answered. ‘I’d three bairns to look after so I never had much time for grievin’. Anyway, there’s a fair old difference between losin’ two sons an’ losin’ one husband, especially a husband like mine.’

‘He wasn’t…’ Bernard didn’t know how to put it.

‘No,’ Lizzie said. ‘No, he wasn’t.’

‘Is that why you were never tempted to – eh – to try again?’

‘Marry again?’

‘Aye. Yes,’ said Bernard.

‘I never married again because nobody ever asked me.’

‘What?’ Bernard said. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘True, though,’ said Lizzie.

‘Amazin’,’ Bernard said. ‘Just amazin’.’

‘What is?’ said Lizzie. ‘That nobody ever considered I’d make a worthwhile wife? No, no, there are too many single girls floatin’ about for anyone to fancy a dowdy old hen like me.’

‘You do yourself an injustice, Mrs Conway.’

‘I think,’ said Lizzie, ‘you’d better call me Lizzie – especially if you’re goin’ to keep butterin’ me up.’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘You can offend me like that any time,’ Lizzie said, smiling. ‘I haven’t been paid such a nice compliment in many a long day.’

‘Well,’ Bernard said; he paused. ‘You deserve it.’

‘You’re only able to say that because you don’t know me very well.’

‘Well enough, Mrs Conway.’

‘Lizzie.’

‘Lizzie, I pride myself on my judgement of character. In my profession, you don’t get far without bein’ a good judge of character.’

‘Stop, please.’ She laughed. ‘You’re makin’ me blush.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m no retirin’ violet, Bernard. Don’t think that,’ Lizzie told him. ‘I don’t sit around feelin’ sorry for myself. The plain fact o’ the matter is, I’ve got three daughters. No man in his right senses would take on that burden.’

‘A nice family,’ Bernard said, without thinking.

‘Pardon.’

‘I mean – eh – you seem to have brought them up very well.’

‘I’ve done about all I can for them, all except Rosie. No doubt, within the next year or two, they’ll find husbands of their own, an’ fly the nest.’

‘Is that not as it should be?’ Bernard ventured.

‘Aye, it is,’ Lizzie agreed. ‘But…’

‘What’ll you do then?’

‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ said Lizzie, ruefully, ‘no man’s goin’ to rush to take me on now, not as a wife – or anythin’ else.’

Bernard chose to ignore the implications of the last part of her statement. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I mean, what’s wrong with you, Mrs Conway?’

‘Lizzie.’

‘Lizzie. I mean, what’s to stop you gettin’ married again?’

‘Look at me. I’m old—’

‘You’re not much older than I am,’ Bernard interrupted, ‘an’ I certainly don’t think of myself as old.’

‘Different for men,’ said Lizzie. ‘Anyway, you’re not fat.’

‘Neither are you,’ Bernard blurted out. ‘You’re’ – he spread his hands helplessly as it dawned upon him just how daring the conversation had become – ‘very attractive.’

‘Thank you, kind sir,’ said Lizzie, with a little bow, then, as if realising that she had made enough headway for one evening, pushed herself to her feet. ‘Come along, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

‘Who?’ he said, slightly alarmed.

‘My daughter, Rosie.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Ben the house.’

‘Oh!’ Bernard said, thinking, Bedroom, bedroom: ‘Oh. Yes. Fine.’

*   *   *

As a rent-collector Bernard had seen more than his fair share of folk in bed. Everything from skinny wee babies wriggling naked and mewling to able-bodied men lolling against the bolsters with a ham roll in one hand and a bottle of brown ale in the other while their wives tried to convince him, Bernard, that the breadwinner had been struck down by a mysterious malady and that she just couldn’t seem to find the rent this week.

He had encountered young mothers with milky breasts suckling their infants, elderly women carelessly displaying acres of veined flesh as they scrambled in search of his payment. Lads in the last desperate throes of TB. Lassies flushed and rasping with scarlet fever or quinsy throat. Even a fair number of what Bernard could only describe as tarts, girls who hoped that he might be tempted by their grubby sheets and bring a little cut-price trade their way – which, of course, he never did.

As far as Bernard was concerned all of this and more – much more if you included lodgers – was simply part and parcel of life in an overcrowded Gorbals tenement. But it was different in Lizzie Conway’s house.

Ever since the landing door had been changed from dun to chocolate brown, ever since he’d first been confronted by the lady-lamp in the lobby, treated to a leg show by her daughter, Babs, heard soft music and smelled the perfumes that drifted from the bedroom, he’d been charged with curiosity as to what lay in the room to the front of the house.

He squeezed after the woman, past a monumental wardrobe.

He saw a large neatly made bed in the alcove to his right, a small chest of drawers, a gas fire, a chair, a lamp, a wireless set on a stand by the window. And he almost tripped over a gramophone on the worn strip of rug that marked the centre of the room.

The girl was on all fours by the gas fire, the light ruddy on her cheek. She wore a pleated grey skirt and had a cardigan thrown over her blouse but, in spite of the chill atmosphere, she was barefoot and bare-legged. A book was open on the floor in front of her. Her hair spilled across her face and she played with it, twisting it in her fingers, quite oblivious to the intrusion.

Lizzie said, quietly, ‘Our Rosie’s deaf. She can hear a wee bit but not much. She can read your lips, though, if you face her square, an’ she can speak nearly as well as you an’ me.’

The faint tingle of expectation that had been in Bernard vanished instantly. Even bare legs, the glimpse of a thigh as the girl stirred, did nothing to restore it. He experienced a terrible wave of pity, not just for the poor, deaf lass crouched like an animal on the floor but for Lizzie Conway too, for this burden that he hadn’t known about.

‘Rosie,’ Lizzie shouted loudly. ‘Rosie, you’ve a visitor.’

The girl frowned. She moved one hand and then the other, turning the way a cat would turn, padding round. She was neither surprised nor alarmed, not even wary, and was smiling even before Bernard leaned forward and mouthed at her, ‘Hello, and what is your name?’

He had an almost invincible urge to stroke her as if she were indeed a cat.

She stared into his face. The intensity of her gaze set him back on his heels. Lizzie was directly behind him, peeping over his shoulder. He staggered, felt the woman’s bracing hand on his back, righted himself and bent down again.

‘My name is Bernard Peabody. I am…’

The girl sprang to her feet with all the grace of an acrobat.

She held out her hand. ‘I am very pleased to meet you, Mr Peabody,’ she said, in a flat, distinct voice. ‘You’re our rent-collector?’

‘Bernard’s also our friend, Rosie,’ Lizzie said. ‘Isn’t that right, Bernard?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I – I am your friend.’

‘Mammy has told me all about you,’ the girl said. ‘She is always talking about you. I am glad to get to meet you at last. Maybe now I will not have to stay in the back room when you come.’

‘What?’ Bernard said.

‘Maybe now I will not have to—’

Lizzie tapped her daughter’s arm and said, very loudly, ‘Tell Bernard what you’re readin’, Rosie.’

‘Oh, this.’ She stooped, plucked the book from the carpet and handed it to him. ‘Great Expectations. Have you read it?’

‘No, not – not that one.’

‘You should,’ Rosie said. ‘You really, really should.’

That flat quacking voice, that eagerness and enthusiasm: he was back a dozen years and more in the field hospital near Beaumont Hamel, back with the little bandsman who should not have been fighting at all: a boy, hardly more than a child, who had been caught on the Somme like so many others. He had gone out to get him, gone out under the guns; they had attacked under the guns, not knowing why they were being asked to do it: heavy howitzers, pounding away long-range all night long, flash after flash, thud after thud: four hundred millimetres lobbing nine hundred kilogram shells from ten kilometres away. Walking the boy in, walking in, whole and intact, the grin on his face a mile wide, his voice – like her voice now – flat and quacking, blood running unnoticed from his ears, a thin sticky trickle, like red saliva, the boy yelling enthusiastically, ‘See me. See me. I done it. I done it,’ everyone knowing that he had no notion of what he had done or what the blast from the heavy shell had done to him, yelling, ‘See me. I come back. I come back.’ The boy at Beaumont Hamel, the little bandsman, was dead before the sun came up.

Bernard held the book open in both hands.

‘Perhaps I will read it,’ he said, knowing that he would, to please her.

‘There now,’ said Lizzie. ‘Isn’t that nice?’

‘Very nice,’ said Rosie.

*   *   *

When it came to working on Sundays Janet McKerlie had been forced to put her foot down. Mr Smart, who owned the shop in which she assisted, was nothing if not persistent, however. Every five or six months for going on thirty-five years Janet had been obliged to read him the Christian version of the Riot Act and explain that though she had been stuck behind his counter for what seemed like eternity she wasn’t actually his slave and still had a soul to call her own.

Mr Smart offered her overtime to take a turn behind the counter from seven o’clock on Sunday morning until half past midday.

He pointed out that the shop was, and always had been, a dairy and that the good Lord himself had seen nothing wrong in buying bread on the Sabbath and if He had been around in the Gorbals in the present time, He would probably have nipped in for a pint of milk, a quarter-pound of ham and a copy of the Sunday Post.

One might safely say that Mr Smart was not a religious man.

The shop was his church, retailing his religion.

If that made him a heathen in Janet’s book then, damn it, she would just have to adjust to it. He had threatened her with dismissal, threatening to bring in a new assistant, a young girl who would do what she was told and, of course, would be only too delighted to undertake an extra half-day’s work on a Sunday to save a poor old man having to run himself ragged just to keep the business ticking over. None of these arguments cut any ice with Janet.

Latterly, she hadn’t been waiting for Mr Smart to start wheedling and threatening but had gone on the attack, sniping at his niggardliness, his bad manners, his falling hair, his increasingly obvious limp and his general all-round godlessness which, Janet indicated, would wind up with him frying in hell like one of his own rashers.

‘You’ve been here a wheen o’ years, milady,’ Mr Smart would tell her. ‘But dinna you think that means you can gi’e me cheek an’ get awa’ wi’ it.’

‘Sack me then, sack me, see where that gets you.’

‘I could employ a nice young girl for half whit I’m payin’ you.’

‘What sort o’ girl would work in a dismal wee hole like this an’ put up wi’ your godless whinin’ for seventy hours a week for what you pay me?’

‘I pay ye well, milady.’

‘Forty-five shillings for seventy hours?’ Janet would screech, as any hapless customers who happened to be waiting for service sidled discreetly out of the door. ‘That’s a measly tanner an hour. A tanner an hour, I ask you!’

‘More, it’s more. Do your arithmee-trick.’

‘I’ve done my arithmee-trick,’ Janet would tell him, banging about with the potato scales and brass weights or rattling the long, lean knives with which meat and cheese were dissected. ‘However you add it up, Mr Smarty, it comes to exploitation. I am not workin’ this Sunday.’

‘I never asked you to work this Sunday.’

‘You were goin’ to, weren’t you, but?’

‘Me? Never. I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction o’ earnin’ some extra money, Janet McKerlie, if you were the last woman standin’ upright this side o’ Gorbals Cross.’

On Sundays, then, Janet McKerlie had a long lie-in.

She wouldn’t rise from her mother’s side in the niche bed until after eight o’clock, then she would spend a determined quarter of an hour crouched in the lavatory instead of her usual constipated three minutes.

She would also light the fire, make the breakfast, get her mother up and dressed – which was all part of the daily routine – then she would erect the sturdy head-high wooden clothes-horse, drape it with a grey sheet and, hidden from the world’s view, disrobe down to the scud, and, shivering, sponge herself from head to toe, as if to wash away all trace of contact with that doyen of iniquity, Mr Smart, before she went to worship God.

Her nieces had no notion what Aunt Janet did on Sunday morning, and even less interest. As a rule one or other of them had to be dragged over to Laurieston to call on the aged relatives and a willingness to take on the awful chore had become a useful negotiating tool among Lizzie’s daughters.

‘If you let me borrow your pink dress on Saturday, Babs, I’ll take your turn an’ go an’ see Gran on Sunday.’

‘Done,’ would be the immediate answer, with spit on the hands and a rubbing of palms to seal the agreement.

Going to see Gran was one thing that the Conway girls wished to avoid. Babs usually came off best in horse-trading, for Babs had the best wardrobe, the most desirable array of clothes, cheap jewellery, make-up and scent and so detested her female relatives that she would negotiate all sorts of extravagant deals with Polly to wriggle out of taking her turn on the rota.

On that Sunday, however, Polly did not have to negotiate.

She was out of bed, washed, dressed and duly passed as ‘presentable’ by twenty minutes to eleven o’clock in the morning and was on her way through the cold, almost empty streets a few minutes later.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Lizzie mumbled, lifting her head from the pillow as the front door closed.

‘Nothin’,’ Babs answered. ‘I guess she just wants t’ get it over with.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ said Lizzie, and promptly went back to sleep.

*   *   *

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me – Polly.’

Flustered and blue-lipped, her Aunt Janet opened the door.

‘What’re you doin’ here at this hour?’

‘Thought I’d come early,’ Polly said. ‘Keep Gran company while you’re at the church.’

‘Oh?’ said Janet, suspiciously. ‘That means we won’t be seein’ your mammy tonight, I suppose.’

‘Couldn’t say,’ said Polly. ‘I expect you will, though.’

‘Did she send you?’

‘Nope.’ Polly was crisp to the point of curtness with Janet. Positive assertions and a show of self-confidence always disconcerted the middle-aged spinster who had forgotten, or had never known, what it was to be young. ‘Babs sent me. It was Babs’s turn to visit but she isn’t feeling well, so here I am.’

‘What wrong wi’ her?’ said Janet, putting on her pudding-basin hat. ‘I hope it isn’t contagious?’

‘Well, you never know with Babs,’ Polly said. ‘How’s Gran?’

‘Poorly.’ Janet squared the hat, slipped on a pair of blue woollen gloves and stared straight into her niece’s eyes. ‘I have t’ go.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Will you be here when I get back?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Don’t leave her alone.’

‘Nope,’ said Polly. ‘Go on. Shoo.’

Janet gave her a glare then left, closing the door behind her.

Polly hesitated.

She hadn’t entered the kitchen yet. She could hear her Gran breathing, that odd, angry rasping and knew that at any second there would be a cry of ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’ She stole a moment, though, to unlatch the door of the hall cupboard and open it.

Unlike most hall cupboards, the McKerlies’ was neater than a foot-soldier’s haversack: a broom, a brush, a canvas apron, a small shovel, a large shovel, two galvanised pails – both spotless – and a little wicker cradle in which reposed a collection of chopped kindling, a jar of paraffin and a small, wicked-looking axe with a hammer head. Not only was the floor of the cupboard neatly lined with linoleum, the walls had been papered with floral oilcloth of such quality that the mice hadn’t been able to gnaw through it yet.

There was no dust, no droppings, no beetles, dead or alive, not even the withered remnant of a moth within the McKerlies’ glory hole, a situation that seemed so unnatural that it gave Polly the creeps.

‘Who is it? Who’s there?’

Polly closed the cupboard door gently but didn’t latch it.

She went into the kitchen.

‘Only me, Gran,’ she said and, after sucking in a breath, lowered herself into the awful aura around her grandmother’s chair and kissed the dear old lady lightly on the cheek.

‘You’re an early bird.’

‘Couldn’t wait to see you, Gran.’

‘Huh! You’ll be up to somethin’.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Up to somethin’, if I know you. Where’s Babs?’

‘She’s got a cold.’

‘Aye, well, tell her to keep it,’ Gran said. ‘I’m no’ wantin’ her germs.’

‘That’s exactly what Babs said,’ said Polly.

‘What’re you up to?’ Gran McKerlie said, turning her head as Polly moved behind her to the sink. ‘There’s somethin’ shifty about you today. Is it some man, some feller?’

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Comin’ early. Upsettin’ everybody.’

‘Well, sorry about that,’ Polly said. ‘How about a cup of tea, Gran? Reputed to soothe the most savage breast.’

‘Is that impudence?’

‘Nope,’ said Polly. ‘Advertising,’ and, deliberately making the water roar, turned on the tap at the sink.

*   *   *

What had seemed like a marvellous idea back in Lavender Court was beginning to look pretty daft now that she was here in her grandmother’s house.

It occurred to Polly that her master plan for hiding Babs’s profits from the robbery under the floorboards was ridiculous, that it would be far simpler to plant the hundred pounds in a Post Office savings account and just hide the payment book. Something about the prospect of hard cash, though, generated tension in the region of the heart to the detriment of the brain. Babs might be willing to hide the cash for a while but Polly knew that her sister would never allow it to be salted away in something as vague as an account.

Polly had inherited her mother’s stubborn streak. She told herself that as she’d made the effort to turn up in the backlands of Laurieston early on a Sunday morning then she might as well go through with it and see what sort of a hidey-hole Gran’s hall cupboard would make.

She was still thinking in the abstract. She could not quite link what she was doing to what Patsy and the boys would attempt to do on Wednesday night. She, like them, dwelled only on results not consequences.

She had glimpsed Guido Manone through the window of the Alfa Romeo, and had spotted him now and then in the corridors of the burgh chambers. But she had seen the other one, Dominic, only once. She’d gone to a restaurant in Glasgow with three other girls from the office one night last spring and had bumped into Dominic Manone there just by chance.

He’d emerged from the restaurant in the company of another Italian. He’d had such an individual air about him, not at all cocky or swaggering, not assertive, that Polly had recognised him at once. He was also very handsome and when he’d glanced at her with his solemn gaze she’d found herself smiling as if she knew him. He, fleetingly, had smiled back. Then he’d gone off along the pavement with a neat, poised sort of gait, like a boxer, a bantam-weight.

Polly could not imagine Dominic Manone doing anyone any harm. He seemed no more threatening than any of the well-groomed men who came into the burgh offices day and daily, architects and engineers, builders and material suppliers, solicitors, and yet she hated him, had always hated him.

Polly didn’t bother to listen to her grandmother grizzling on about her waterworks and the ignorance of the new young doctor who did not understand her suffering. Planted in the big, wooden-armed chair directly in front of the grate with everything close to hand – coal bucket and tongs, her sticks, the commode and the brass-tongued handbell with which she could summon assistance in case of emergency – there seemed to be precious little wrong with Grandma McKerlie that a modicum of exercise and effort would not put right.

She ate the toast that Polly made for her, drank several cups of strong tea and then, at last, informed the girl that she would ‘have to see what she could do this morning’. She reached out for the commode with her crook-handled stick, heaved herself upright and began to fumble, thick-fingered, with her skirts.

Polly said, ‘I’ll leave you to it, Gran. I’ll just be outside.’

‘What if I fall?’

‘I’ll hear you.’

‘What if I fall in the fire?’

‘I’ll only be in the hall.’

‘Janet always stays.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Polly, heading for the door, ‘I’m not Janet.’

Once in the hall, Polly knelt on the floor and placed the sole of one shoe against the kitchen door and gently eased open the cupboard door.

The linoleum was lilac-coloured, printed with a cubic design that, if you stared at it long enough, began to waver and accumulate into towers and tenements and tall chimney-stacks.

Polly blinked and, shifting the broom and one of the shovels, explored the edges of the lino with her fingernails.

On all fours with her backside in the air, she felt like the heroine in a Keystone Cops picture, or one of the goblins in the Princess’s annual pantomime. She picked at the edge of the linoleum, lifted a corner and curled it carefully back upon itself, so that it wouldn’t crack. In spite of the age of the building and seasonal infestations of bugs and vermin, the floorboards under the lino were remarkably clean.

They were also, Polly discovered, surprisingly loose.

Using the edge of the little shovel she eased one board from its place. Four small blunt nails, quite clean and polished, four little nail holes; the board, no wider than a hand, no longer than a forearm, seemed to rest lightly on top of the cross joists.

Polly drew the board away.

She could hear her grandmother’s theatrical little groans that would, no doubt, be explained in graphic detail as soon as the show was over and Polly returned to the kitchen. She placed the board against the side wall.

The smell of dank plaster and dust tickled her nostrils.

She had no idea how deep the hole under the floorboards might be or, for that matter, what might be lurking there. She bit her lip, scrunched herself into the cupboard and, before she lost her nerve, plunged her hand into the hole.

It didn’t go very far before her knuckles struck brick.

Gouts of dust, like fur, brushed her fingers and wrist.

She shrieked silently, forced herself to grope about.

The hole was shallow but wide. Very suitable. She would wrap Babs’s money in greaseproof paper, put the package in a pickle jar and stow it here in the McKerlies’ cupboard without fear of discovery.

And then, flinching, Polly felt it.

She drew her hand back sharply, sucking in breath.

It had shape, hard shape. Metal, not round like a gas or water pipe, but small and individual, like a bomb. Polly steeled herself, dipped a hand into the aperture once more, fished about, found the object and brought it out.

She sat back on her heels and, holding her find up to the light from the fanlight above the door, inspected it closely.

No bomb: no gun: no box: a cocoa tin, a Fry’s cocoa tin, with the label still pasted on the side, a little faded but intact. The lid was tightly sealed.

Polly experienced a queer fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach, a compound of fear and excitement and a faint premonition that she’d found something that should have been left alone. She picked at the lid with her fingernails until it flew off and skittered out of the cupboard into the hall.

‘Polly? Polly?’

She sat back, furtive and guilty, no longer patient.

She held the tin in her lap, both hands closed over it as if to trap whatever it might contain.

She made herself call out, ‘Are you finished, Gran?’

‘What’re you doin’? Are you in my cupboard?’

‘No, I’m – I’m smoking a cigarette. Are you finished?’

‘Nearly, nearly.’

Polly waited. Listening. Trembling.

She lifted her hands up and turned the cocoa tin upside down.

What fell out was a fat wad of banknotes fastened with a rubber band.

Polly stared down at it then, without rhyme or reason, without knowing quite why, murmured, ‘Oh, my God! It’s Daddy,’ and suddenly began to cry.