Chapter Seven

Looking back, it seemed to Polly that Dominic had known that this would be the family’s last Christmas together and for that reason had pulled out all the stops. He had always been lavish with gifts and hospitality, a benefactor not just to kith and kin but to all the charities and institutions to which he lent support.

In the week preceding Christmas he had been invited to lunch at the Exchange, had dined at the Union as well as the Cassia, and had presided from the wings at the Jewish pipe-band’s annual bun-fight, for which he picked up the bill. There was no evidence of enjoyment in him, though, no beaming smiles or expansive gestures of goodwill. He did not sings carols, tell risqué jokes or perform conjuring tricks; he just signed the cheques and left the celebrating to others.

Polly could not be sure if his dourness had to do with the imminent threat of war or with the state of the business. She had never been able to read her husband’s moods accurately and, lately, he had become as opaque as a blown mirror. In this respect he was not alone. Many men and women were reluctant to decide whether they were pessimists or optimists and were content to bob like corks on the tide of press opinion as news from Europe ebbed and flowed.

She didn’t even know what Tony thought of the current crisis, how he interpreted the Munich Agreement or the shop-worn non-aggression pact with Poland – or if he even cared. She had seen nothing of him, heard nothing from him. Her anger, like fear of war, swung first one way then the other.

In compensation she threw herself into Christmas shopping, purchasing ridiculously expensive gifts for everyone she could think of, including Cook, Leah and Patricia, spending Dominic’s money hand-over-fist. She took the children into town by taxi-cab – riding out with Charley Fraser was just too demeaning – and trailed them round the department stores, buying clothes that would not fit them for two or three years, buying for herself the most expensive garments she could find, useless jackets and little dresses, silk suits that she would have few, if any, opportunities to wear. Stuart and Ishbel soon got over their initial excitement of being in town with Mummy. They began to droop and whine and had to be fed cream cakes and lemonade in a tea-room to keep them going. All in all even Polly found it rather too hectic and depressing and, laden with packages, was glad to sink into a taxi-cab, light a cigarette and ride home again.

Cook had been consulted over the menu and grocery lists were compiled in advance. Dominic did most of the ordering straight from the warehouse and throughout Christmas week crates and hampers and boxes turned up at Manor Park Avenue almost hourly. Mrs O’Shea and Patricia had agreed to forego time off until New Year, which was, in any case, the traditional holiday for servants, and Leah had been persuaded to come in on Christmas Day to help lay table and serve.

Polly pretended that she was taking the occasion in her stride. But this year she felt curiously cut off from the rich and vivid pleasures of the festive season. She was trapped in swirling little eddies of anxiety, anger and fear that stemmed, of course, from Tony’s absence.

By Christmas Eve she was near to breaking point, to screaming aloud in frustration. Only a stealthy stream of cocktails saw her through the afternoon while down in the kitchen and up in the playroom other women competently took care of ‘her party’, and her children.

A fir tree had been put up in the living-room. Dominic had taken the children out in the huge ungainly motorcar he had acquired from Jackie and had returned an hour later with the tree stowed in the cavernous boot and Stuart and Ishbel chattering about their adventure in ‘the forest’.

Later that evening, the twenty-third of the month, Dom and the children opened boxes of ornaments and after securing the tree in a tub of earth decorated it prettily while Polly, sans cocktail glass, drifted in and out of the room, feigning enthusiasm for the children’s sake, approving this touch and vetoing that, as if she were an arbiter of taste and the only person whose opinion mattered.

In spite of her tension she was pleased to see her children happy and went upstairs and sat with them for a half-hour after supper while Dom put through three or four telephone calls.

The tree, Polly had to agree, was pretty, almost a work of art. It occupied the space behind Dom’s long brown sofa, tall and upright like a green guardsman and on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, when she found herself alone in the living-room – Patricia had taken the children to a matinee – she brushed it with the rim of her glass just for the pleasure of watching the boughs tremble and the baubles nod. She was just about to touch it again when she saw the Dolomite appear out of the gloaming and draw to a halt in the driveway.

She met him at the door before he could ring the bell.

Laden with parcels, he stood on the step big and awkward as a bear.

‘For me, Mr El?’ Polly said.

‘Only one of them, Mrs Em,’ said Tony.

‘Which one?’

He juggled the parcels, fished in his overcoat pocket, brought out a small oblong packet wrapped not in brown paper but in tissue tied with silk thread.

‘This one,’ he said. ‘It’s not to be opened ’til tomorrow, though.’

‘In mixed company?’

‘Maybe not,’ said Tony. ‘No, definitely not.’

Polly glanced round, saw no one in the hall or on the stairs. She moved suddenly against him, kissed him on the mouth and whispered: ‘Oh, God! I was beginning to think I’d never see you again.’ She held the cocktail glass out to one side and, pressing her breasts against the parcels, kissed him again. ‘Dominic’s not here. I don’t know where he is.’

‘I do,’ Tony said.

‘Where?’

‘He won’t be back for hours,’ Tony said.

‘For sure?’

‘Yeah, for sure.’

‘Come in then, oh please, do come in.’

‘Better yet, if you can slip out for an hour why don’t we go to my place?’

‘Yes,’ Polly said, ‘Oh God, darling! Yes!’

*   *   *

He had less respect for the plates than seemed quite proper and Penny had to remind herself of Tony’s warning that Douglas Giffard might seem like an unwholesome drunkard but that she would do well not to underestimate his intelligence. When the printer annoyed her, therefore, she bit not on the bullet but on a sugared almond from the jar that Tony had given her just before he announced that he was going away for a while.

‘How long?’ she asked.

‘I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’

‘Does Dominic know that you intend to abandon me?’

‘It’s Christmas Eve. I’m taking my folks to Mass,’ Tony said.

‘What if I want to go to Mass?’

‘You’re not a Catholic, though, are you?’

She remembered how Giffard glanced up from the armchair by the hearth and gave her such a sly, quizzical look that she had been quite shaken by it and had realised at that moment that Tony’s warning was not without substance.

She said, ‘I think you are going to meet your girlfriend.’

‘No girlfriend,’ Tony said.

‘Your lover then.’

‘I’m taking my parents to Mass, Penny, that’s all. I’ll eat with them beforehand, them and my sisters, because I won’t be around tomorrow, Christmas, like I usually am.’

‘Where will you be tomorrow?’

‘Here,’ he told her, flatly. ‘Tomorrow I’m moving in.’

‘On Dominic’s orders.’

‘Yeah, on Dominic’s orders.’

There were four bedrooms in the farmhouse, two on the floor above the kitchen, two others tucked under the sloping roof. The attics each had a skylight and a quaint little iron fireplace and were furnished with an iron cot, a corner what not with a basin and jug and a rush-bottomed chair that reminded Penny of a painting. There were no azure skies or giddy patchwork quilts for Mr Giffard, though. He had to settle for rain on the roof and a brown army blanket, not that the printer seemed to mind. He was concerned only about his cat and his whisky, and Penny had already negotiated a truce with the tabby and held the key to the cupboard where the whisky was kept.

She had that element of power over Giffard, control of his whisky ration.

One half bottle per day, delivered at noon.

She had expected him to plead, to keen and nag and humiliate himself but in that respect she was disappointed. He might be twitching inside but outwardly he was calm, though he would eye the clock with baleful eagerness as noon approached or smoke one cigarette after another and go for a toddle about the yard with the tabby clinging to his shoulder. Most of the rest of the time he occupied himself with newspaper crossword puzzles or by poring over the engraved plates under the light that hung above the long deal table in the kitchen. He had requested drawing materials and Tony had brought him big sheets of glazed card, black Indian ink, a selection of fine-nibbed pens, and a penknife with a sharp heart-shaped blade that were stored with the plates in a drawer lined with clean newspapers.

A watchmaker’s glass screwed into one eye, Dougie would sit for hours studying the surface of the face plate, peering at it until his eyes began to water and his hand shake. Only then would he reach for the glass and bottle, measure himself an inch of Haig’s and knock it back to restore and revive his concentration.

Tony left soon after lunch. Penny was sorry to see him go. She was excited at the prospect of having him sleep at the farm from now on, though, and spent the best part of the afternoon airing the bedroom adjacent to hers. She laid clean sheets for the bed, fine woollen blankets and a quilt with a sun-burst pattern that cheered the room up enormously. She put an ashtray on the bedside table and filled the water carafe, did all the things that a nice, new conscientious wife might do for a husband, while downstairs Dougie and the cat dozed in the armchair by the fire.

He looked peaceful in that pose, almost grandfatherly, Penny thought when she returned to the kitchen, almost as if he had been born and bred on the farm. He was no shabbier than the average shepherd or pig-breeder and the manner in which he had disciplined his craving for drink roused a sneaking respect.

She moved so quietly about the kitchen that the cat, curled on Giffard’s lap, did not even raise its head.

Outside it was almost dark, the weather grey and still, not ominous. She leaned on the edge of the sink and looked from the window, thinking of nothing much, nothing too serious – of Dominic, of Dominic and Tony, Tony and Dominic, a loose little pas de deux in which she danced first with one and then the other in an empty ballroom with the lights turned low.

‘Homesick?’ Giffard said.

She started, turned swiftly, almost guiltily.

He was exactly as he had been a moment ago, the cat still asleep on his lap, his stockinged feet stretched out to the fire. But now his eyes were open and he was studying her as intently if she were Britannia engraved on a metal plate.

‘Pardon?’

‘I asked if you was homesick?’ Dougie said.

She shook her head and came away from the window, walked across the kitchen with the table between her and the man in the chair by the fire. The half bottle of Haig whisky was on the table together with a clean shot glass. He had taken a nip after lunch but that was all. She smiled at him cheesily and lifted the bottle.

‘Shall I pour one for you?’

‘Nah, not yet, lass,’ Giffard said. ‘What would you be doin’ now if you was at home? Gettin’ dolled up for a cocktail party?’

She was surprised that he had even heard of cocktails, this inveterate consumer of neat whisky: again Tony’s little warning bell sounded in her head. She plucked a floral apron from a hook on the larder door and tied it about her waist. Preparations for Christmas dinner were well in hand. And she had made a cheese and potato pie for supper that evening that required only an hour of slow cooking. An orange trifle was setting nicely on a high shelf in the back of the larder where Frobe couldn’t get at it. There was nothing to do, nothing with which to occupy her hands. She felt more confident with the apron on, though.

‘Are you sure that you do not wish to drink?’ she said, brightly. ‘I think that since it is the Christmas season you might be permitted a little extra.’

He shifted the cat gingerly and sat forward. He reached for his cigarette packet, tapped one out, lit it with a match, blew smoke away from the drowsy tabby.

He said, ‘It’ll be snowin’ where you come from, I expect?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the mountains?’

‘Yes, in the mountains.’

‘The Alps?’

‘It always snows at this time of the year,’ Penny said, ‘in the Alps.’

‘Ah’ve never been t’ the Alps.’ For some reason Penny felt relieved at his confession. ‘Ah’ve never been anywhere, hardly.’ He looked a her, blew smoke, grinned. ‘Always had a fancy for t’ climb the Hummelstreek an’ look down on the Vienna woods. I’m too old for those capers now, though.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-eight.’

‘Did you not fight in the war?’

‘Bad eyes kept me out o’ that nasty business.’

‘You are not blind?’

‘Nah, but it’s amazin’ what damage a few wee drops o’ menthol can do before a medical inspection – provided y’ know what you’re doin’.’ He stirred again and this time the tabby awoke, lolloped lazily down from his lap, curled up on the floor under the armchair and promptly went back to sleep. ‘That’s the secret in this life, lass, always to know what you’re doin’.’

He glanced at her from under greying brows, let his gaze linger, studying her with what seemed like calculation – but not cockily like Edgar Harker, not the way young men in uniform had studied her, their eyes swimming with longing. She could not define the manner in which Giffard looked at her or what image of her he saw, the fantasy or the reality.

She tugged nervously at the hem of her apron then, clearing her throat, said, ‘If you are not going to drink your whisky, will I make you tea instead?’

‘Aye, lass,’ Giffard said. ‘Tea will do fine for me, thanks’, and to her relief picked up his newspaper and busied himself with the crossword again.

*   *   *

She lay back across the bed as he pulled away from her. She was wetter than she had ever been, all that part of her between her stockings and underskirt, wet and cold after lovemaking. She wasn’t satisfied, though, and still felt twitchy and needed him back upon her, pressing down, warming her in the limp, exhausted lulls between orgasms, to be joined to him, rocking rhythmically to his will.

But Tony had gone. Turning her head, she saw him bulked against the uncurtained window and the faint light of the street lamps below. She lifted herself from the quilt, her head spinning. She spread her arms and hoisted herself into a sitting position. The full, dull ache in her loins closed about the only part of her that still seemed congnisant. She could not bring herself to move and remained braced on her elbows. Her knees and feet stretched out, vague and disembodied in the gloom.

‘Polly,’ Tony said thickly. ‘We’d better get going.’

‘Going?’

‘Home,’ he said, ‘get you home.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s late.’

‘Late? How late?’

‘After six,’ he said.

He had put on his trousers and buttoned his shirt. He sat on the bed and stooped over to find his shoes. When he reached out to switch on the light, Polly said. ‘Please don’t.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ She rested her cheek against his back. ‘I don’t want to go home.’

‘You have to.’

‘I know.’

He stroked her hair then lifted her, took her in his arms and kissed her. She leaned her head against his chest. ‘I missed you, darling,’ she said. ‘God, you’ve no idea how much I missed you.’

She heard him laugh. ‘I kinda got that impression,’ he said. ‘I missed you too – in case you hadn’t noticed.’

He did not hurry her. After a moment, though, Polly released him, put both feet on the floor and tried to stand up.

‘Do you remember where it is?’ Tony said.

‘What?’

‘The bathroom.’

‘Yes, I…’

‘Let me put on the light.’

‘No.’

He supported her as she groped on the carpet for her panties and suspender belt. Her handbag and shoes were where she had thrown them in her haste to be with him an hour – no, two hours ago. The children would be home by now. Dominic too perhaps. She tried to devise a credible lie to tell Dominic but couldn’t bear to think of Dominic while Tony was with her.

Holding on to his hand, she stood upright. Clutching her clothes and handbag, she made her way to the bathroom and switched on the overhead light. She was blinded by its brightness, startled by the visage that blinked at her from the circular mirror above the wash-basin – a thin, pinched face, foxy and furtive, hair mussed, lips bruised, eyes dark and anxious.

She turned her back to the mirror and fumbled with the hooks and rubber knobs of the garter belt. She washed, applied make-up, repaired her hair and only when she felt stronger and more in control did she return to the bedroom.

Tony had switched on the light.

‘Better now?’ he asked.

‘Hmm.’

He had remade the bed and closed the curtain. He was fully dressed, his scarf, overcoat and hat lying on the bedspread. On the bed too was a large brown-leather valise. He offered her his cigarette case. She took a cigarette, leaned into him while he lit it for her, dabbed the back of his hand with her fingertips, a stupid little gesture, far too flirtatious in the circumstances.

The living-room was still in darkness. She could see nothing in the light from the bedroom save a rectangle of burnt-pink carpet and a shell-shaped standard lamp. She wanted to sit on the bed but the silk spread was too smooth to disturb. The pillows had been neatly tucked away, all house-proud and shipshape. At any moment Tony would pick up the valise, take her arm, lead her through the darkened living-room, down the cement staircase, out into the courtyard and into the motorcar to return her to her children and her husband.

‘Why haven’t you called me?’

‘I tried,’ Tony said. ‘Believe me, Polly, I tried.’

‘Where have you been? I mean, where are going with your case all packed?’

‘I’m having supper with my folks, then Mass at…’

‘And tomorrow? Will I see you tomorrow?’

‘No, Poll. I won’t be around for a while.’

‘I should have guessed that much, shouldn’t I?’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Don’t.’

‘Am I not entitled to ask?’

‘I can’t tell you anything.’

‘Can’t you? What am I to think then? That I’m just a bit on the side, a sort of interlude to something or someone else?’

‘That isn’t true, and you know it.’

‘Why won’t you tell me? I won’t blame you. Just tell me.’

‘I’ll be gone for a couple of months.’

‘Where?’

‘Not far away,’ he said. ‘But…’

She walked away from him, clipped over to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain. She looked down into the court, at puddles of pastel-coloured light on the macadam, the misty bloom around the lamps, at the motorcar waiting below. She gave him time to complete the sentence, to help her understand.

He said nothing.

Cigarette between her fingers, an elbow cupped with her hand, she swung round: ‘Are the police after you? Are you hiding out?’

His surprise was genuine. ‘Hell, no! What makes…’

‘Where are you, Tony. I just want to know where you are.’

He stubbed out his cigarette in the steel ashtray on the bedside table and did not look at her.

‘Breslin,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I’m camped over in Breslin.’

‘With Bernard?’

‘Bernard? No, not with Bernard.’

‘It’s the girl, isn’t it? Tell me. I won’t be angry. Is it that girl, that blonde? Are you having an affair, Tony? Are you living with her? It’s got nothing to do with Dominic at all, has it?’

‘Nope, that’s not true.’

‘What is true, then?’

‘I tried to call you. Three times. I got that damned girl, Patricia. I didn’t want to … Look, it is the girl, the blonde, but she’s only part of it. I’m not … Oh, Christ! She’s the one who’s hiding out, not me. I’m her damned nursemaid, Polly, not her lover.’

‘Is it Dominic?’

‘No.’ He closed his eyes for a moment before he told her. ‘It’s not Dominic either,’ he said. ‘She’s hiding out on a farm near Breslin. We’re looking after her. If you want the truth, Polly, I can’t stand her. It’s worse than you can imagine being cooped up with her all day long, day after bloody day.’

‘Is it really?’

‘Yeah, it is,’ Tony said. ‘Living with her and thinking about you. All the time, thinking about you, wishing I was with you, wishing…’

‘Are you trying to tell me that you’re in love with me?’

‘Yeah,’ he told her. ‘Yeah, I am.’

He made no attempt to take her in his arms and Polly, satisfied at last, did not press herself upon him. She wafted her hand to disperse the smoke that hung in the bedroom, then nodded. ‘All right, Tony’ she said. ‘I’ll take your word for it. Now perhaps we really ought to go.’

‘Polly, I love you.’

‘Hush,’ she said, gently. ‘Hush, darling.’

‘I mean it, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘I know you do.’

*   *   *

‘My, but it fair stinks in here,’ Lizzie said. ‘Now, remind me how I do it.’

‘Put out some money,’ Rosie said. ‘Four pennies.’

She watched her mother fumble with the scuffed purse, thumb the brass clips that even after twenty years of constant use were still stiff enough to break the edges of your fingernails. Mammy stuck her nose into it, fished in the squirrel-store of old tram tickets and out-dated receipts and found four coins. She glanced at her daughter helplessly.

‘Put them on the ledge on top of the box,’ Rosie instructed.

‘Right.’

‘Insert two pennies into the slot. That slot.’

‘Right.’

‘Hold the receiver…’

‘The what?’

‘This bit, hold it to your ear and when you have dialled – here, never mind, I will dial the number for you.’

‘I wisht you would,’ Lizzie said, gratefully.

She stood back, jamming herself into a corner of the telephone kiosk as if the act of turning the silver dial would result in an explosion. It wasn’t the substance of the call that made her mother nervous Rosie realised but the mechanics. Lord knows, it had taken her long enough to persuade Mammy to make the call in the first place. She’d used all her wiles, all her charm, had even shed tears at one point until Mammy had crumbled, as Rosie had known she would.

She dialled the number, adjusted the earpiece against her mother’s ear, instructed her where to put the pennies when she heard an answering voice. Rosie was nervous too, well aware that there might be repercussions. Love had made her careless, though, and she was dying to see her sisters’ faces when she walked in with a tall, handsome man on her arm, a man of her own at last.

Her mother stiffened, nodded.

Rosie pressed the silver button.

‘P-Polly, is that you?’ Mammy said. ‘Can you hear me? I can hear you fine.’

Cursing her weakness, Rosie watched her mother’s lips move.

‘What is she saying, Mammy?’

‘Ssshhh.’ Mammy spoke into the telephone again. ‘It’s Rosie. I’ve Rosie here with me. She wants to know if she can bring a friend to the Christmas party?’ Rosie bit her lip, clenched her fists. Mammy went on. ‘Aye, a boyfriend.’

Rosie watched her mother’s plump cheeks quiver, the worried expression fade. She wondered what Polly had said, what particular remark had tickled her mother and relaxed her. She longed to snatch the speaking-piece from her mother’s grasp and shout into it. Useless, of course. She wouldn’t be able to decipher a word of Polly’s answer, not a blessed word.

‘Aye, it’s a sweetheart. We think it’s serious.’ Mammy chuckled. ‘One more won’t make much difference to you, will it, Polly? He’s on his own. Comes from the islands. We want to see what he’s like, Bernard an’ me.’ She nodded, listened, nodded once more. ‘Aye, I suppose we are just bein’ nosy.’

‘Tell her that Kenny is a policeman,’ Rosie said.

Mammy held up a hand for silence. The earpiece was pressed into her hair, her hat askew. She was pleased to have mastered the intricacies of the telephone system, relieved that the miracle of communication had worked for her.

Rosie plucked at her sleeve. ‘Tell Polly that Kenny is…’

Mammy hunched and turned away and as she’d done so often in the past engaged in close conversation with Polly, her favourite.

Rosie opened her mouth to protest but found that she could not utter a sound. An answer had been given, apparently. They would be talking about the children now, about Stuart and Ishbel, about Babs too perhaps, what Babs was up to, not about the most important thing, the only thing that mattered, getting her together with Kenny on Christmas Day and showing him off to her sisters.

Rearing a little, Mammy shook the receiver. ‘Polly’s not there. She’s gone. I was just goin’ to…’

‘What did she say?’ Rosie shouted. ‘Did Polly say that it would be all right for Kenny to come to the party?’

Mammy nodded. ‘Aye, of course she did.’

Rosie closed her eyes and sank back against the glass, almost overcome with relief that her Christmas would be complete after all. When she opened her eyes again she found that Mammy had scooped up the unused pennies and snapped them away in her purse.

‘Are you pleased?’ Mammy mouthed.

‘I am. Yes, thank you, I really am,’ said Rosie.

And Mammy said, ‘Now all we have t’ do is tell Bernard.’

*   *   *

Dougie had never seen the like before, a great tray of piping hot mince pies dusted with fine sugar. The aroma from the baking tray filled the house and, mingled with the fragrance of coffee, seemed to represent the rich, exotic life that he might soon be entitled to share – if, that is, he could keep himself off the booze.

He was more sober than he had been in years. And not suffering. Why wasn’t he suffering? No nightmares, no uncontrollable fits of shaking, no clouding of the mind and, astonishingly, no great upsurge of grief. To his chagrin he found that he thought of Emma hardly at all, or of his dead sons. They seemed like phantoms now, like characters out of a storybook he had read when he was very young. Had Dominic Manone known that this would happen? Was that why Dominic had continued to feed him a bit of cash now and then, or had he been just too valuable all those years back to be allowed to rot away?

When she poured brandy into large glass globes and handed him one, Dougie thought that he had died and gone to heaven.

‘What time is it now?’ the girl asked, in spite of the fact that the clock on the wall, which he’d wound for her that very morning, showed three minutes to midnight. ‘Is it Christmas yet?’

‘Nah, not yet,’ Dougie told her.

The door was open and the cat had gone out. It didn’t matter to the tabby what day it was, Dougie thought, though Frobe would have her share of turkey tomorrow, and her share of cream.

He carried the brandy glass out into the yard.

The midnight clear? Hardly. But the sky was calm, almost serene, and through the clouds that sauntered over the vault of heaven he detected the odd star. God, it’s Sunday, he thought. Christmas falls on Sunday, and that’s why the mills and shipyards are closed, the steam hammers stilled. There would be no bells, no sirens or hooters to signal midnight as there would be on Hogmanay. The Scots were a backward people who still favoured the pagan ceremonies of New Year, all drink and family sentiment, over a celebration of the Saviour’s birth.

Dougie walked on, the glass in his hand untouched.

The girl would be pining for her people, for Christmas at home. It would be unnatural if she were not. He was grateful to her for putting up with him and to Dominic Manone for digging him out of his shell. He felt elated, almost exalted, by the strangeness of the experience, by being sober and sharp in his senses, by having a clean bed to sleep in and someone to cook his food, someone to remind him of the good things he had left behind, screened by a whisky haze.

He imagined that he was alone out there at the end of the yard, staring at the curve of the field and the sky but the girl was just behind him, staring up at the sky too, expecting – what? A sign, a signal that Christmas had come down upon them, even if it was just a siren or a blast from a factory hooter? No, no, dear, he felt like telling her, not in Scotland.

She expected something, though, and he turned as she closed on him.

Behind her he could see the cobbles scribbled with warm light, the farmhouse door wide open, Frobisher sitting on the step like a picture in a book.

‘Is it Christmas?’ the girl asked, soft-voiced as a child.

‘Aye, lass,’ Dougie told her. ‘I reckon it must be by now.’

She stood by him, touching his shoulder, looking out at the fields.

She had a brandy globe in her hand and tears in her eyes. He could see them glistening in the light from the farmhouse door.

He nodded and raised his glass.

‘Zum Wohl, Fraulein,’ he said. ‘Frohe Weihnachten!’

And Penny, without pausing, answered him:

‘Zum Wohl, Mein Herr. Zum Wohl!’