Chapter Seven

Polly was shaken by the discovery of her father’s hoard and the bizarre impulse that had driven her to choose exactly the same hiding place as he had done all those years ago. Her father had never had much more substance for her than a character in a fairytale and she resented the fact that he had died somewhere among the poppy fields, not heroically or definitively but in the same shifty and uncertain manner in which he’d lived.

Now, abruptly, he had been restored to her and as she had sat cross-legged in Gran McKerlie’s tiny lobby holding the cocoa tin and the roll of banknotes she had felt his presence so strongly that she had begun to wonder if she’d been drawn there by a supernatural force to remind her whose daughter she really was. It had taken an effort of will on her part to hide her distress from her grandmother, to cook up a plausible excuse and, minutes after Aunt Janet had returned, take her leave, run down the slimy stairs and out of the backlands and away across Eglinton Street as if to outstrip him and leave the spectre of his influence lagging far behind.

She had run home to Lavender Court, to a houseful of steaming washtubs and laden pulleys because she had nowhere else to go and desperately needed to talk to Babs just as soon as the coast was clear.

‘How much?’ Babs cried.

‘Three hundred and twenty-four pounds.’

‘My God!’ Babs exclaimed. ‘Think of all that money lyin’ there, just lyin’ there for all those years. Did you count it?’

‘Yes.’

‘An’ there was only three hundred?’

‘And twenty-four pounds, yes,’ Polly said.

‘I thought he’d got away with eight hundred. That’s the story, anyway.’

‘Perhaps it was exaggerated,’ Polly said.

Babs nodded. ‘Yeah, or he spent the rest before he joined up.’

‘How long did he have?’ Polly asked. ‘I mean, between the money being stolen and him joining up?’

‘Dunno,’ Babs said. ‘Days, weeks – not very long.’

‘Could he have spent five hundred pounds in such a short time?’

‘Maybe he had debts – like Tommy Bonnar?’

‘Don’t say that,’ Polly snapped.

‘Say what?’

‘Don’t compare Dad to Tommy. He wasn’t at all like Tommy Bonnar.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Mammy told us what he was like.’

‘Yeah, but we only have her word for it.’

‘I remember him,’ Polly said. ‘I remember what he looked like, how he used to take me on his knee and read to me, and how he would come into the room and tuck us into bed.’

‘Yeah, but we’ve no idea what he was really like, have we?’ Babs said, impatiently. ‘Anyway, who cares now? Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’

‘The money, the loot.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Polly. ‘I put it back.’

‘You did what?’

‘What else was I going to do with it?’

‘Bring it back, bring it here. It’s our money, ain’t it?’

‘I’m not so sure it is,’ said Polly.

‘Come off it, Poll,’ Babs said. ‘If it ain’t ours, whose—’

‘Dad stole it from the Manones. It’s the Manones’ money.’

‘Oh, sure!’ said Babs, squirming on the bed. ‘Are you just gonna waltz up to Mr Manone an’ say, “See what I found, sir. Sorry it’s five hundred light.” Are you gonna hand it over to a guy who’s soaked Mammy for a fortune over the years? Nah, nah. It’s ours, Polly, our legacy. We’re entitled to it.’

‘We’ll have to give it to Mammy.’

Babs stopped squirming. They were alone in the bedroom, seated together on the bed. It was late in the afternoon. A drizzling, depressing dusk had crept down over the backs and enveloped the city. With nightfall the rain had increased in density and pattered on the front window and trickled audibly in the guttering. Outside, gas-lamps hissed inside soft angelic halos and the cobbles gleamed, all clean for once, and picturesque.

In the kitchen Rosie was wringing out sheets. Mammy was taking down clothes that were dry and piling them in the basket to be ironed. It struck Polly that there was something unfair about Sunday chores so close in kind to those that occupied her mother during the week; Sunday gone, used up, and nothing for Mammy to look forward to but a trek through the rain to Laurieston to help put Gran to bed. She felt a sudden deep, deep sadness within her, a sense of just how much Mammy had lost, how much she had sacrificed to bring them up.

She thought of the money in the cocoa tin, a daft wee tin in a daft hiding place, so ordinary, so unimaginative that it didn’t seem worthy of a man who’d had the gall to steal from the Italians.

‘If we hand it over to Mammy,’ Polly said, ‘we’ll have to tell her what I was doing rooting under the floorboards in Gran’s house. And you know what that’ll mean.’

‘The ball,’ said Babs, nodding, ‘on the slates, yeah.’

‘Look,’ Polly said, ‘the money’s been hidden for – what? – thirteen years and nobody’s stumbled on it. They’re not going to find it now, are they? I mean, the chances of that happening are astronomical.’

‘The chances of you findin’ it were astronomical,’ Babs reminded her.

‘That’s true.’ Polly gave a little shiver. ‘But I had a valid reason for looking there. I’m beginning to wonder if I wasn’t drawn to it.’

‘Drawn to it?’ said Babs. ‘God, you don’t mean…’

‘I don’t know what I mean.’ Polly got up. ‘All I know is, we can’t do anything about it, not right now, not this week.’

‘Because of the boys?’

‘Yes,’ said Polly, decisively. ‘After Wednesday we’ll be able to add another hundred pounds to it and then we can decide what we’re going to do.’

‘Spend it,’ said Babs, gleefully.

‘Or give it to Mammy.’

‘All of it?’

‘All of it,’ Polly said.

‘For what, but?’

‘To pay off Dominic Manone.’

*   *   *

‘God, but you’re jumpy tonight.’ Patsy reached over the marble-topped table and covered her hand with his. ‘You’re shakin’ like a leaf, Polly. What’s wrong? You worried about tomorrow night?’

‘Yes.’

He drew his chair closer to the table, leaning so close that his brow brushed her hair. ‘That’s nice.’

‘Not for me it’s not,’ said Polly.

‘I’ve never had anyone worry about me before.’

‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘don’t get too used to it.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘If you think I’m going to hang around and be sick in the toilet every time you go out on a job, think again.’

He pulled back a little but continued to cover her hand with his. He looked away, at the deserted tables, the counter, the window, at rain beating down, rain streaked by the lights of the pub across the empty street and harried by the big wind that rampaged among the tenements.

‘Do you want it to last, Polly? This thing between us, I mean.’

‘How can I answer that?’ Polly said.

‘You said—’

‘I know. I know. I’m talkin’ through my hat. Don’t pay any attention,’ Polly advised. ‘I’m all upset. I think it’s the weather.’

‘It isn’t the weather,’ said Patsy. ‘You’re really worried about me.’

‘Haven’t you had a sweetheart before?’ Polly said.

‘I’ve had girls, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I mean somebody you cared about?’

‘In my line of work—’

‘Would you give it up?’ Polly interrupted.

‘For you?’

‘For me or for somebody else. For the right girl.’

‘Can’t say.’ Patsy thought about it. ‘Probably not.’

‘How much profit will you make from the warehouse job?’

‘Accordin’ to Tommy, a lot.’

‘Enough to retire?’ said Polly.

‘Retire from what?’ said Patsy. ‘In my line o’ work you don’t retire.’

‘You just go on doing it until you’re caught?’

‘I’ve never done time,’ Patsy stated. ‘I’ve no intention of doin’ time.’

‘You’re too smart ever to get caught, is that it?’

‘You said it, I didn’t.’

‘But not smart enough to quit?’

‘You’re determined to reform me, Polly, aren’t you?’ Patsy said. ‘Put it this way, I’m not gonna quit before Wednesday night, not even for you.’

‘What’ll you do with the money?’

‘Travel.’ He rested his elbows on the table, his back to the window. ‘I like to see how folk live in different places. You’d like it too.’

‘I’m sure I would,’ said Polly, stiffly.

‘Come with me.’

‘How can I?’

‘Easy,’ Patsy told her. ‘Pack your smalls in a bag an’ leave.’

‘My mother would just love that.’

‘She’d understand.’

‘I doubt it,’ Polly said.

‘If I made an offer like that…’

‘Oh, it’s an offer, is it?’ Polly said.

‘If I made an offer like that to your sister, she’d jump at it.’

‘In that case why don’t you ask Babs to go with you?’

‘I don’t want Babs,’ he said. ‘I want you.’

‘What, to keep your bed warm?’ Polly was beginning to feel slightly nauseous again. She lifted her coffee cup and sipped the lukewarm liquid cautiously. ‘I’m not like Babs. Babs never thinks ahead. She’d go off with you because it wouldn’t occur to her what would happen when she came back.’

‘Who said anythin’ about comin’ back? What’s so bloody wonderful about Glasgow?’ Patsy said. ‘There are a thousand, a million other places to live, all better than this dreary old town.’

‘Why do you keep coming back then?’

‘I really don’t know,’ said Patsy. ‘Because it’s home, I suppose.’

‘Why don’t you go to Russia and become a total Bolshevik?’

‘No – thank – you.’

‘I thought you supported the Communists?’

‘I do, but not enough to want to live in Russia.’

‘You don’t do anything right, do you, Patsy?’

He gave a little tut followed by a sigh, both soft. ‘Stop naggin’ me, Polly. I’ve enough on my plate without you goin’ on about commitment.’

‘That’s it. That’s the word I couldn’t think of.’

He glanced again at the rain teeming over the tenements. He could hear the hum of the ice-cream cooler behind the counter, the muted sound of a wireless in the back of the shop, the muffled roaring of the wind.

Apparently it hadn’t occurred to Polly that heavy rain would raise the level of the river and that a strong wind would make handling the boat difficult. He wished now that he’d chosen another plan, one that didn’t involve boats. He could have taken care of the watchmen, as Jackie had suggested, have lugged the safe off on the back of a van or lorry. He’d never been that kind of thief, though, had never gone out on a job with the intention of hurting anyone. He was a cat-burglar not an armed robber. Stealth not violence was his stock-in-trade.

Polly said, ‘I’m sorry, Patsy.’

He said, ‘Sorry for what?’

‘Nagging. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.’

‘Like bein’ pinched, you mean?’

‘Anything bad.’

‘Have no fear, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Nothin’ will happen to me.’

She got up, came around the little table and eased herself on to his knee. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and put an arm around her. Mr Fascetti, old Joe, would be watching them in the long mirror but Patsy didn’t care.

He laid his brow against her hair, smelled the odd, rather aromatic odour of it, like marzipan, like nutmeg. Her skin was warm, smooth and unblemished. He felt old beside her, holding her against him, old and rather weary. He thought of Paris, of Florence, of that tiny town in the Swiss Alps whose name he could never remember where he’d drunk frothy hot chocolate at a table outside in the snow under a brilliant blue sky, and how dull and lonely it had been.

He placed his hand on her breast outside her coat.

He could feel the swelling but not the shape. He kept his hand still, a tender gesture, not intrinsically sexual, no more so than the weight of her thighs on his lap. He had never held her like this before and when he kissed her it seemed different, inexplicably different from kissing at the close-mouth or in the lane behind the Calcutta. It was like kissing after making love, after passion had been expended and only love remained.

‘When will I see you again?’ Polly whispered.

‘On Saturday,’ he told her. ‘On Saturday, at the dance.’

‘And it’ll all be over?’

‘Bar the shoutin’,’ Patsy said.

*   *   *

Wee Billy Hallop eventually opened the door in response to her tentative knocking. He wore a ragged blue jumper over school shorts and his feet and legs were bare and dirty. He looked, Babs thought, like a ragamuffin but this, she knew, was due more to carelessness than neglect. He glowered at her, his flat, spoon-shaped face buckling in on itself until it seemed to be nothing but a brow and an underlip, both bulging with indignation.

‘Is your brother in?’ Babs said. ‘Your brother Jackie.’

‘Gimme a ciggie then.’

‘I haven’t got a ciggie.’

‘G’an, gimme a ciggie.’

‘I’ll give you a cuff on the flamin’ ear in a minute,’ Babs said, then, raising her voice, called out, ‘Jackie, are y’ there?’

He appeared out of the bedroom, lifted his brother in a casual bear-hug and slung him away out of sight into the kitchen.

‘Come in,’ Jackie said.

‘Nah, I gotta get upstairs. I’ve a message.’

‘What message?’

‘The money arrived.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Aye. It was just luck. I was in the lav – the toilet about half past three o’clock an’ I thought I’d open the window on the off-chance. I saw them bringin’ it into the warehouse from a van.’

‘Who?’

‘Three o’ them. Mr MacDermott, Andy Ross an’ Mr Manone.’

‘Which Mr Manone?’

‘The old one, the uncle.’

‘Right,’ said Jackie. ‘You’re sure it was the cash?’

‘Five canvas bags. Mr MacDermott an’ Andy Ross carried two each an’ the old man carried one.’

‘Definitely the money?’

‘Five bags. Definitely.’

‘They didn’t see you, did they?’

‘How could they? I was inside the lav – the toilet on the first floor.’

‘Good girl.’

He peered at her for a moment and she could tell that he was tempted to kiss her but that his nerves wouldn’t let him.

‘Good girl,’ he said again, then, empty of conversation, closed the door.

*   *   *

Polly was already at home. Tucked back into the alcove, she was seated on top of the bed, cross-legged. She had removed her coat, hat and shoes but still wore the prim jade green twin-set and black pleated skirt that her position as a clerk in the burgh office demanded. An ashtray was balanced in her lap and she was smoking, not languidly but in a manner suggestive of last meals and firing squads. When Babs came into the room she looked up, frowning.

Rosie occupied the bedroom’s only easy chair. She was reading a newspaper by the light of the lamp. She appeared quite unconcerned about anything and oblivious to her sisters’ conversation.

Babs said, very quietly, ‘It came, the money.’

‘You saw it?’ said Polly, sitting forward.

‘Saw them bringin’ in the bags.’

‘Did you tell Jackie?’

‘Yep.’

‘So it’s on,’ said Polly.

‘Yep.’

‘Oh, God!’

‘What’s on?’ said Rosie, lowering the newspaper.

‘None o’ your business,’ said Babs.

Rosie smiled over the top edge of the Citizen and proceeded to observe her sisters with unabashed interest. ‘Is something interesting happening?’

Babs removed her coat and cap and placed herself directly before the armchair, blocking off Rosie’s view.

Speaking quietly, Polly said, ‘Is it still raining?’

‘Nope,’ Babs said. ‘It’s stopped.’

‘That’s always something, I suppose,’ Polly said.

‘You worried?’ Babs said.

‘Worried sick,’ Polly admitted. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Nah. They know what they’re doin’, the boys,’ Babs said.

‘Do they?’ said Polly. ‘I wonder.’

‘If they do what?’ said Rosie, who had slipped out of the easy chair to lip-read her sisters’ conversation from a more convenient angle. ‘If who do what?’

‘Damn it, Rosie!’ Babs shouted. ‘I thought I told you to mind your own bloody business.’

Rosie pursed her lips and widened her eyes into the expression of mock innocence that Mr Feldman so detested.

‘Oooooow!’ She tapped her forefinger to her mouth. ‘It is all right, ladies,’ she said. ‘My lips are sealed.’

‘They’d better be,’ said Polly.

*   *   *

‘Here, this ain’t gonna be so easy, is it?’ Dennis Hallop said.

‘I never said it would be easy,’ Patsy told him. ‘If you’d been listenin’ in the first place, you’d have sussed that out for yourself.’

‘Where’s Tommy? Isn’t Tommy supposed to be here?’

‘Tommy’s gone to the dock to check on the boat. We’ll meet him there.’

‘What’s all that stuff you got there, Patsy?’ Dennis asked.

A battered canvas-sided suitcase fastened with rope stood on the floor of the shed. Draped across the long bench were four lengths of manila rope which Patsy had checked inch by inch to make sure they were sound. He put his hand on top of the case.

‘Bolt cutters,’ he said. ‘The safe’s on the second floor so it isn’t likely to be cemented but it might be bolted down. Also, some solid iron bars and a jack.’

‘A jack?’ said Dennis.

‘How else do you think I’m gonna get the safe up to window height? I’m gonna slide it across the floor, jack it on to a desk, slide the desk to the window an’ lower the safe down to the boat in a cargo net.’

‘Where’s the cargo net?’

‘Tommy has it.’

‘Where’d he get a cargo net?’ said Jackie.

‘I gave it to him,’ Patsy went on. ‘Will you stop askin’ so many idiotic questions, please? I know what I’m doin’. I’ve done it before.’

‘Talk us through it one more time, but,’ said Jackie.

‘Right, one more time. I climb up with the ropes. I remove the right window an’ gain access to the office where the safe is. I fix a rope. Jackie climbs up it to join me, leavin’ you, Dennis, an’ Tommy in the boat. Assumin’ I can’t open the safe where it stands, which isn’t very probable, then we’ll load the safe into the net an’ lower it through the window down into the boat.’

‘What do one o’ them Hobbs’ safes weigh?’ said Jackie.

‘A hell of a lot,’ said Patsy.

‘I hope we can shift it,’ said Jackie.

‘If Babs has the model right,’ Patsy said, ‘we should be able to manage.’

‘Once you’re clear o’ the buildin’ an’ back in the boat, we row downriver to the swing park at the end of Shotten Street,’ Dennis said. ‘I remember that bit.’

‘I’m glad you remember somethin’,’ Jackie said.

‘We manhandle the safe on to the stone ramp under the railin’s,’ Patsy went on, ‘where I blow it open with a strong charge o’ powder.’

‘You done that before too?’ said Dennis.

‘Often,’ said Patsy. ‘Often enough anyway. It’s deserted down at the end of Shotten Street that time of night so nobody’s gonna bother us. We take the bags out an’ sling them over the railin’ into the play park. We push the empty safe down into the deep water an’ we let the boat float off on the tide. God knows where it’ll be washed up. It doesn’t matter. We climb over the railin’s, empty the bags into four tool-bags that Tommy’s also got stowed in the boat. Then we split, one at a time, an’ catch separate late-night trams back into the Gorbals. If things go right, we should all be back here by one. Jackie’ll leave the gate unlocked. No lights, remember. Got that, Dennis?’

‘Got it,’ said Dennis.

‘We’ll count an’ divvy up the cash an’ be on our merry way,’ Patsy said. ‘Unless we make a hash of it the Manones won’t even know they’ve been robbed until the cleaners arrive in the mornin’, by which time we’ll have the dibbens hid away safe an’ be tucked up in our little beds, sleepin’ like babies.’

‘Who pays Babs?’ said Jackie.

‘It comes out of the first cut.’

‘I’ll give it to her,’ said Jackie.

‘I’ll bet you will,’ said Dennis.

‘Now,’ Patsy said, ‘any questions?’

‘Nah,’ said Dennis, airily. ‘I reckon it’s gonna be easy meat.’

‘You think so?’ Patsy said.

‘Sure,’ said Dennis. ‘Piece o’ cake.’

‘What happens afterwards, Patsy?’ Jackie asked.

‘I’ll tell you what happens afterwards,’ Patsy said. ‘Afterwards the Manones go ravin’ mad.’

‘An’ what do we do?’

‘Lie low, wee man, lie low.’

*   *   *

In spite of the soft hat and a trench coat that made him look more like an American G-man than a matelot, Tommy Bonnar turned out to be handy with a pair of oars. In fact, if the Ferryhead Rowing Club had not merely been a front for less athletic endeavours Tommy would surely have been its champion, for, many years ago, he had worked for the Harbour office and had learned how to navigate small craft in and out of the docks that lined the upper Clyde.

It had been a happy time for young Tommy; all too brief. Eventually he had fought with his immediate superior, a dour, tattooed, hard-drinking devil by the name of Slezack, and had carved him up one night on the wharf outside the Harbour offices. Charged and found guilty of assault, Tommy had lost his job, had served a spell in a borstal and had never looked back, at least not openly.

Jackie and Dennis had never been on the river before except on ferries. They were almost overwhelmed by the number of bulky cargo vessels and ocean liners that flanked the shores. Blunt, crouching tugs and fireboats, crenellated dredgers, the great, grey naked hulls of sloops and cruisers all seemed to be part of the fabric of the city, lying cheek by jowl with the tenements. As the longboat glided past docks and wharves and dead-end streets, the Hallops sat motionless, cowed not by what they were about to do but by the fact that they were out on the broad, dark river in a boat that seemed no bigger than a matchbox, a boat so small and puny that it was practically invisible.

Fortunately Tommy Bonnar knew where he was going. He sucked on the cigarette that clung to his lip and tried not to show how much he was enjoying himself. He hadn’t expected to experience the arrogance of boyhood ever again, to feel the muscle of the river through the oars, to see the night sky snaking ahead and taste the strong brown metallic wind that slapped the waves against the bow. The river ran high with winter rain, though, and an ebbing tide drew the boat along faster than even Tommy had anticipated.

They reached the bridle path, the warehouse in a quarter of an hour. Feathering one oar Tommy steered the longboat into the steep banking. Patsy, poised and ready, scrambled ashore. Flinging himself down, he hauled on the bow rope so that the boat swung on her length, then, with Jackie grappling with the boat-hook, came into position under the warehouse wall and clung there, tenuously moored.

‘You got her, Tommy?’

‘I got her.’

‘Can you hold her?’

‘Aye, no bother.’

‘Jackie, gimme the case.’

However cool and rational Patsy might appear, however professional his approach to burglary, what drew him back wasn’t just the promise of easy money but those moments of heightened awareness when every fibre of his being seemed to buzz with life and all the petty concerns that plagued him were burned away, reduced to a hot, hard little spot of concentration which was more intense, more satisfying than anything else in life, even the sexual act itself.

He had chosen this approach in the full knowledge of its hazards and difficulties. If he was going to shaft the Manones then he had to shaft them properly. Of course, he could have stormed in the front door of the warehouse with a gun in each hand and a mask over his face like a bloody cowboy. But he wanted to do it the hard way. He needed to do it the hard way, to make it too daring for an inside job.

He fished a pair of black rubber-soled pumps from the case, put them on, laced them tight. He slung one of the rope coils over his head and around his back then gripped the drainpipe that ascended the line of the wall. He tested it, leaning back, then glanced down.

Tommy and Dennis were bobbing up and down in the longboat. He paid them no heed whatsoever. The boat was Tommy’s business. His business was to get up to and into the office forty feet or so above his head.

‘Okay?’ he said.

Jackie nodded. ‘Okay.’

Patsy began the climb.