Chapter Eight

It was just after two o’clock when Jackie arrived in a spanking new Austin four-door to pick them up and convey them across the river to Manor Park. He was even more garrulous than usual for he had been as excited as a child at the English-style Christmas morning ritual that Babs had adopted soon after their marriage.

There were baubles, balloons and paper chains all over the bungalow – though Babs had drawn the line at having a tree – and Angus and his sisters had been awake since five a.m. and at five-thirty had been let loose on the presents that Santa Claus had piled up around the fireplace, a brand-new two-wheel bicycle for Angus and a huge doll’s house filled with miniature furniture for May and June prominent among them. Baby April, of course, had not been forgotten but she seemed less interested in cuddly toys than in wrapping paper and cavorted among it like a little puppy until giggling made her sick.

By half-past seven Jackie had been out with the lad and the bicycle, steering his son along cold grey pavements, having almost as much fun as the boy. The rest of the morning, however, had been anticlimactic if all out war can be called an anticlimax. Angus had squabbled with the girls and the girls, very unusually, had squabbled with each other. April had reacted by howling and Babs had had to fight all the way to bathe and dress her little darlings, bathe and dress herself while Jackie, already sporting a hand-cut pale blue three-piece suit and pure silk necktie, had tried vainly to calm the kiddies down by reading from a big colour-plate storybook in which none of the little monsters had any interest at all.

At one-thirty he loaded them all into the Austin, whizzed round to Manor Park Avenue, dropped off his family and a great stack of presents at Dominic’s house and headed back through Glasgow and across the bridge and out by the round route to Knightswood. He was still buzzing with the thrill of being Daddy Christmas, still searching optimistically for the missing ingredient – peace, perhaps, or goodwill – and had high hopes of finding it with Bernard’s bunch.

But no. No. No. Bernard’s bunch were sullen and sulky and Jackie would have had more chance of uncovering the spirit of Christmas in a Sally-Ann hostel than in the bosom of this branch of the family.

Bernard was done up in a black suit and overcoat and, of all things, a bowler hat. If it hadn’t been for his red-striped tie he might have been going to a funeral instead of a Christmas party. Rosie was no better. She looked, Jackie thought, good enough to eat in a sort of tea-gown thing with a fur-trimmed cape over her shoulders and a natty little hat, not unlike Bernard’s bowler, perched on top of her curls. But his big, smacking kiss of seasonal greeting was met with a shove and something akin to a snarl. Even Lizzie, his comfortable, consoling mother-in-law, wore a face like thunder as she sank down in the back seat and folded her arms over the parcels she had carried out from the house.

‘Give me those.’

‘No.’

‘Suit yourself. Who’s sitting in the back?’

‘Me.’

‘Where’s Rosie sitting?’

‘Here, with me.’

‘You in?’

‘Aye.’

Bernard dumped himself into the front seat, slammed the door. Jackie swung the Austin away from the terrace, executed a three-point turn and headed out on to Anniesland Road.

‘Merry Christmas everybody, eh?’ he shouted cheerily.

Nobody returned his greeting. Nobody uttered a word.

‘What’s wrong wi’ you lot then?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ Bernard told him snappishly. ‘Just shut up and drive.’

*   *   *

Bernard was first out of the car, first to the door. He was not usually so lacking in courtesy but today he left Lizzie to extricate herself from the narrow seat unaided. He darted across the gravel, arrived at the front door just as Dominic opened it, clasped his boss by the elbow and drew him down the hallway.

‘Is he here yet?’ Bernard hissed. ‘Has he arrived?’

‘He’s drinking punch in the living-room.’

Bernard pulled Dominic to him, not quite by the lapels. ‘It had nothing to do with me. I knew nothing about it. God, if I had known what they were up to I’d have put my foot down. Who did they talk to? Polly? Was it Polly? They told me Polly said it was okay. Doesn’t she know…’

‘Bernard, Bernard, calm down.’ Dominic said. ‘It isn’t your fault.’

‘Didn’t Polly know Rosie was bein’ courted by a copper?’

‘Today he isn’t a copper. He is Rosie’s young man.’

‘Are you nuts?’

‘No, Bernard, I’m pleased to welcome him to my house. That’s all there is to it.’ Dominic glanced down the hallway at Lizzie, Rosie and Jackie who were divesting themselves of their coats. ‘Go and introduce yourself. He’s eager to meet you, I gather. And,’ Dominic smiled, ‘of course he can’t wait for Rosie to arrive.’

‘I’m sorry. I really am,’ Bernard said. ‘He’s goin’ to ruin the party.’

‘Oh no, he isn’t,’ Dominic said. ‘In fact, it is going to be fun.’

Then he turned away to greet his mother-in-law and left Bernard to make his own way into the living-room.

*   *   *

The feeding of children, not just babies, was woman’s work and at half-past six o’clock Lizzie and her daughters repaired upstairs, shepherding the youngsters before them. A table had been set up in the playroom and a great gooey spread laid out, complete with sausage rolls and dainty sandwiches, jellies and trifles and cream cakes. There was a bowl of fruit punch – non-alcoholic – just like the grown-ups’ and a variety of milk shakes selected from a menu ornamented with pictures of robins, holly and cows.

For the girls, who were already studying to be ladies, there was clear fizzy lemonade poured from a genuine champagne bottle into champagne glasses, an imaginative touch that made the day for May and June. And for the lads, for afterwards, a box of chocolate cigars, perfect in every detail right down to the gold-paper bands. There were also presents, dolls and guns and games and books that had been handed out in the living-room in the afternoon, all of which treasures were lugged up to the playroom as if the children doubted the honesty of their fathers. Angus had even brought along his new bicycle, insisted on it being carried upstairs, and propped where he could see it while he stuffed his cheeks with pies and puddings and made disgusting noises with his milk-shake straw.

For an hour or more the children were the stars of the show, waited on hand and foot by Gran and Mum and Auntie Rosie and were allowed – within limits – to wreak havoc on the party table and in so doing discover that harmony and co-operation could be almost as much fun as bullying, badgering and squabbling among themselves.

Dressing-gowns, pyjamas and nightdresses were duly produced, however, and aroused howls of protest even from the girls. But Dominic had one more trick up his sleeve and as soon as the table was cleared appeared in the playroom with an interesting black box under his arm and a long roll of stiff white cloth.

Curiosity soon got the better of petulance, and protest died.

Even Angus allowed himself to be led meekly into the bathroom to have his face washed and teeth brushed. When he came scampering back into the playroom he found that the black box had opened out into a thing like a camera and the cloth had been pinned to the wall and his sisters and cousins, snug in dressing-gowns, were seated cross-legged before the screen while Dad and Patricia fiddled with knobs and switches.

Then, right there on the wall of the playroom, the cheerful face of Mickey Mouse appeared, projected on a shaft of brilliant white light; Mickey Mouse in a Santa hat under letters covered in snow:

A MERRY CHRISTMAS, GIRLS AND BOYS.

‘A merry Christmas, Mickey,’ rose the delighted response.

Leaving the rest to Patricia, Dominic slipped quietly away and went downstairs to dine.

*   *   *

Baby April, in the bath, was too sleepy to splash. She leaned back against her mother’s arm, nodding like a fat pink doll, while Babs gently worked the sponge over her and crooned the tune of a carol the words of which she could not quite recall. Her dress was protected by an apron that Mrs O’Shea had found for her, a breast-high garment of coarse canvas not unlike the ones her mother had worn in her days as a drudge in the hospital laundry. Babs wasn’t thinking of her mother at that moment, however, and wasn’t surprised when the bathroom door opened and Polly slipped in, Polly with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

‘Well, that went off pretty good,’ Babs said. ‘Whose idea was the slide show?’

‘Dominic’s.’

‘Trust him!’

Polly seated herself on the toilet seat, sipped from the glass, blew a little plume of smoke upward towards the light fitting.

‘So what do you make of him?’ she asked.

‘Big and cuddly, like a teddy bear.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Babs!’

‘The kiddies seem to take to him.’

‘Rosie dotes on him; that much is apparent.’

‘Well, it’s the first time she’s had a man after her,’ Babs said. ‘I don’t blame her for hangin’ on to him. Bit of a shock findin’ him in your living-room, though. I mean, Jackie turned pure white when he saw him. He’s the copper who came …

‘I know,’ said Polly.

‘How long’s he been courtin’ our Rosie.’

‘Five or six weeks, I gather,’ Polly said. ‘Do you think he actually likes her?’

‘Oh yeah, sure, you can see he thinks she’s the cat’s pyjamas.’

‘I think it’s an act,’ said Polly.

‘If it is, it’s a damned good one.’ Babs glanced round at her sister who sipped again from the glass. ‘How much of that stuff’ve you had?’

‘Not enough,’ said Polly.

Babs folded a hand towel, put it on her lap and lifted April out of the water. Seated on the edge of the bath she wrapped her daughter in a large towel and began to dry her. The baby girned sleepily. Babs soothed her with another little tune.

‘He’s a lot older than she is?’ Polly said at length.

‘What? Eight or nine years?’ Babs said. ‘That’s nothin’. Look at Mammy and Bernard. That worked out okay, didn’t it?’ She paused in her baby-work, drew her daughter’s head to her breast and scowled at her sister. ‘It’s just because he’s a copper. If this was some ordinary guy off the street you’d be happy for Rosie, wouldn’t you?’

‘Oh yes, certainly,’ Polly said. ‘Dom would find him a job in the warehouse, lay a few extra quid on him and he’d become one of the family in no time.’

‘But that can’t happen because Kenny MacGregor’s a cop.’

Polly finished her drink and put the glass into the washbasin. ‘That might be less of a problem than you imagine. Kenny MacGregor wouldn’t be the first copper to wind up on the Manones’ payroll.’

‘You’re kiddin’,’ said Babs.

‘I’m not,’ said Polly. ‘How do you suppose Dominic got away with running an illegal book out of the Rowing Club all these years?’

‘Jackie never mentioned that.’

‘Jackie may not know,’ said Polly. ‘Anyhow, it’s immaterial. The point is that Sergeant MacGregor is sitting in our living-room talking to our husbands at this very moment and may have no more interest in Rosie than fly in the air.’

‘In – in – what’s the word I’m lookin’ for?’ Babs said.

‘Infiltration,’ Polly told her.

‘Yeah,’ Babs said. ‘He’s infiltratin’ our family. It’ll be spies again.’

‘Spies?’

‘Because Dom’s an Italian.’

‘Because Dom’s a crook.’ Polly shrugged. ‘What’s more, he’s up to something dangerous and the police have somehow got wind of it.’

‘Dangerous?’ said Babs. ‘Like what?’

‘I have no idea,’ and Polly, ‘but I do intend to find out.’

‘How?’ Babs gave a dry laugh. ‘By asking Rosie’s boyfriend?’

Polly got to her feet, dropped the cigarette into the toilet bowl and flushed it away. ‘Now that,’ she said, smiling, ‘is not a bad idea.’

*   *   *

Cooked to perfection, the bird had seemed far too large even for a table of eight, so large in fact that Mrs O’Shea could not carry it and Bernard and Jackie between them had lugged it up from the kitchen on a silver platter.

An hour later nothing remained of the turkey but skin and bone and a few greasy flecks of dark meat that nobody, not even Jackie, seemed to want – and a breathing pause ensued while Leah changed the plates and cutlery and brushed the cloth free of crumbs.

Dominic replenished the glasses while Babs and Lizzie seized the opportunity to steal upstairs and check on the children who, flushed and innocent, were all fast asleep. Patricia was dozing in the nursery chair. Neither Babs nor Lizzie had the heart to disturb her and seated themselves in the small side room one on each side of April’s makeshift cot and set about discussing the character of the policeman and his suitability as a husband for Rosie.

In the dining-room, Dominic lit a cigarette and settled back in the chair at the head of the table. He seemed pleased with himself, as well he might be, and radiated a benign sort of bonhomie.

‘So,’ he began, ‘you’re a policeman, are you, Kenneth?’

It had only been a matter of time before her husband set about bating the young man, Polly reckoned, but the Highland copper had put himself into this position and deserved all that was coming to him. She puffed on her cigarette and sat forward, eager to see how well Rosie’s sweetheart would defend himself and if his air of naïvety was after all a pose.

‘I am, sir.’

‘Oh, come now, you don’t have to call me “sir”. You know my name well enough I’m sure. No need to stand on ceremony with us. Is there Bernard?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

‘Well then,’ Kenny said. ‘Well, Dominic, yes I am a policeman.’

‘Kenny’s a sergeant,’ Rosie put in.

She had been clinging to him all evening, touching him whenever she had the chance and he, Polly noticed, was curiously protective of Rosie as if she and not he were the intruder.

‘A detective sergeant, I believe,’ said Dominic.

‘That’s right,’ said Kenny.

He inched his chair towards Rosie, close enough for her to lean on him. Polly suspected that they were holding hands under the table. She was relieved that Dominic had waited until Mammy was out of the room before he began probing, for Mammy obviously approved of Kenny MacGregor. They’d had a long chat that afternoon, chuckling together as if the situation in which they found themselves was not to be taken seriously. Her mother was adept at ferreting for information, however, and Polly was sure that she already knew more about Sergeant MacGregor than any of them.

Dominic pushed on: ‘St Andrew’s Street?’

‘Yes.’

‘I used to be acquainted with a sergeant there, several in fact.’

‘I work under Inspector Winstock.’

‘Ah!’ Dominic said. ‘Old Wetsock. Well, well! What a small world.’

No one, not even Rosie, had any inclination to join in the conversation and they sat, faintly embarrassed, with ears twitching.

‘Not that small, Mr Manone – Dominic,’ Kenny said.

‘Oh, really! Are you telling me that it wasn’t chance that brought you and Rosie together?’

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Kenny said.

Bernard looked up sharply.

Jackie coughed behind his hand, stuck a cigarette between his teeth and lit it.

‘What was it then?’ said Dominic.

‘I met Rosie at Shelby’s in the process of conducting an inquiry.’

‘Into what – stolen books?’ said Dominic.

‘Well, no,’ said Kenny. ‘I was making inquiries about you, Mr Manone.’

‘Me?’

‘I think you’re aware of that,’ said the sergeant. ‘I didn’t know what Rosie was like then, of course, or…’

‘Or you wouldn’t have become involved with her?’ Polly heard herself say.

‘I was ordered to become involved with her,’ Kenny said. ‘I was supposed to become involved with her so that she’d come back and tell you, Dominic. But I’m glad now that she didn’t.’

‘Why are you glad that she didn’t?’ Dominic asked.

His soft dark eyes had become brittle, his alertness tinged with caution; the sergeant’s candour had thoroughly disconcerted him. Polly chalked up a point to Kenny, who was – or appeared to be – telling the truth. She watched as he turned to Rosie and quite openly and without a trace of shyness took her hand in his. She found it hard to believe that he was a policeman. Most coppers she’d encountered were rough, gruff and as inscrutable as Chinese mandarins and would drop dead before they’d hold a girl’s hand in public.

‘Rosie knows why,’ Kenny said. ‘That’s all that matters to me.’

‘It isn’t all that matters to us, son,’ Bernard said.

‘Let it go, Bernard,’ Jackie said. ‘For God’s sake, let it go.’

‘How can we?’ Bernard said. ‘I mean, son, you’re a professional snoop and we’re – well, hell, you know what we are.’

‘You’re Rosie’s stepfather,’ Kenny said.

‘No, that won’t wash,’ said Bernard. ‘You’ll be telling us next that your intentions are nothing but honourable.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ Dominic put in.

‘As far as Rosie’s concerned, maybe, but…’ Bernard said.

‘Kenny has a job to do,’ Dominic said. ‘We mustn’t hold that against him.’

Polly laughed. She couldn’t help herself. The tactic was too clumsy to fool anyone. There were tears in Rosie’s eyes but whether they were tears of joy or sorrow she could not tell. She wasn’t laughing at Rosie but at Dominic who thought he was being so smart and urbane when all the time he was simply making a difficult situation worse.

‘Yah, right!’ said Jackie. ‘Unless his job’s puttin’ us all behind bars.’

‘Inspector Winstock isn’t interested in you,’ Kenny said. ‘Frankly, Inspector Winstock could have you and your brothers hauled up in court any time he fancies.’

‘Gerroff!’ said Jackie. ‘We run a straight business. You got nothin’ on us.’

‘No?’ Kenny let the question hang for an instant. ‘What’s going to happen to you, Mr Hallop, when your yard in Govan is requisitioned?’

‘Rek-wee – what?’

‘Is that liable to happen?’ Dominic asked.

‘I’ve heard rumours,’ Kenny said.

‘What other rumours have you heard?’ said Dominic.

‘None that would interest you, sir.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Dominic. ‘Have you heard rumours concerning my warehouse? Is it also a target for a government takeover?’

‘You’d have to ask my superiors that question,’ Kenny said.

‘Winstock, do you mean,’ said Dominic, ‘or Percy Sillitoe?’

‘My superiors in London,’ said Kenny.

‘London!’ Jackie shouted. ‘What the bloody hell’ve we done for t’ get London’s back up?’

‘Jackie, please, there’s no need to raise your voice,’ Dominic said. On the surface he was still benign, still in control. ‘It’s Christmas and this is a family party and if we’re fortunate then Sergeant MacGregor will become one of the family in due course. Isn’t that what you’re hoping for, Kenny?’

‘If you mean marriage…’ Kenny began.

Then Rosie tugged at his sleeve, brought him round to face her so that she could read his lips. She had been clinging to more than his hand, Polly realised, for the conversation had been swirling about her deaf sister like smoke. Surely it wasn’t on the cards that after a six-week courtship the sergeant was about to blurt out a marriage proposal. Whatever else he might be, and however smitten by Rosie, he didn’t strike Polly as the impulsive type. Would he go so far as to marry Rosie just to infiltrate and undermine Dominic’s little empire? It seemed like a mad idea, far too extreme, but there were madder and more extreme things happening these days.

‘He can’t marry our Rosie, for Christ’s sake,’ said Jackie.

‘Why not?’ said Bernard.

Polly observed her sister’s confusion with sudden sympathy; saw the darting motion of her head as she tried to fathom what was being said. Rosie looked to Kenny, not Bernard, for reassurance, and missed Jackie’s shout: ‘’Cause he’s a bloody snoop, that’s why.’

Polly slapped the tablecloth to catch Rosie’s attention.

‘Rosie,’ she mouthed, ‘please go downstairs and ask Leah to bring up the Christmas pudding. Kenny, will you go up to the playroom and tell my sister and my mother to stop gossiping and come down and join the party.’

‘I’ll bloody do it,’ Jackie snapped, scraping back his chair.

Bernard thumped a forearm across the young man’s chest. ‘No, you won’t.’

‘You want rid of me, is that it?’ Rosie said.

‘Both of you,’ Polly said, nodding. ‘For just one little minute.’

Rosie nodded too, a faint smile on her lips. They were sisters, would always be sisters. She trusted Polly implicitly. She got up from the table, held out her hand.

‘Come along, Kenny,’ she said.

He hesitated, seemed reluctant to leave the men at the table, to break off the discussion just as it was turning quarrelsome – and interesting. At that moment Polly realised that in spite of his apparent frankness Sergeant MacGregor was just as big a rogue as her husband, just as devious and cunning, and that in him she had found an accomplice.

‘Please,’ she said sweetly. ‘For me.’

And Kenny answered, ‘Of course.’

*   *   *

Fiona said, ‘And then what happened?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘You kissed her under the mistletoe, I imagine?’

‘What if I did?’

‘And clean forgot what you were supposed to be doing there?’

‘Nope.’ Kenny uncapped the sauce bottle and poured a squiggle of brown sauce on to his ham and eggs. ‘Duty was always uppermost in my mind.’

Noon now, Monday, Boxing Day: he was on duty at two o’clock and would be expected to deliver his report to Inspector Winstock first thing tomorrow morning. Fiona had also been called in that afternoon on the two to ten shift. With luck he might be able to persuade his sister to type to his dictation so that his report would look formal and substantial even if its content was thin.

‘Do you want another slice of ham?’ Fiona asked.

‘No thanks.’

‘After all you ate last night I’m surprised you can face breakfast at all.’

He grinned. ‘I’m a growing boy, don’t you know?’

‘Did she tell you that?’ Fiona said.

‘No, her mother did.’

‘Oh, yes, you’re well in there, I see.’

‘I could be even better in if I was that way inclined.’

‘I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it does,’ Fiona said.

‘It means I could marry Rosie, give up the Force, take a well-paid job with Manone – and live happily ever after.’

‘Kenny, you wouldn’t!’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘Might marry Rosie, though.’

‘In which case you’d have to resign.’

‘If I’m still there, yes,’ Kenny said.

‘Where else would you be?’

‘In the army,’ Kenny said, ‘like everyone else.’

Fiona was dressed for the office; navy blue pleated skirt, white blouse, starched collar fastened with a cameo brooch that had once belonged to her grandmother. What would their old granny say if she knew that her treasure was gracing the throat of a civilian assistant to a police inspector, Kenny wondered? He covered a fried egg with a slice of ham, lifted it carefully on his fork and put the lot into his mouth while Fiona seated herself at the narrow kitchen table and poured herself tea.

‘Is that your plan, Kenneth?’ she said, soberly.

‘Hmm?’

‘To leave the Force, join the army, and marry this deaf girl?’

‘It’s a thought,’ Kenny said.

‘Be serious, please.’

‘I am being serious. I think I’m in love with her.’

‘How depressing,’ Fiona said. ‘How really and truly depressing.’

He ate again, cleaning the breakfast plate, then he said, ‘I thought you wanted to hear what happened last night?’

‘I do.’

‘She told us off – Polly, Manone’s wife. Gave us a good earful and warned us not to start arguing again in front of her mother.’

‘Lizzie Peabody?’

‘Aye, they’re very protective of the big woman.’

‘Mater familias,’ Fiona said.

‘Come again?’

‘Head of the household, elder of the tribe.’

‘She’s not head of the household. Manone’s head of the household,’ Kenny said. ‘But they certainly do look after her.’

‘Why shouldn’t they?’ said Fiona. ‘She raised them, didn’t she?’

‘Fiona, they’re crooks. They’re all crooks, all except Rosie. The mother was married to a crook at one time and she let her daughters…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Fiona said. ‘Never mind the anthropology. Get on with it.’

‘Not much else to tell,’ Kenny said. ‘Except that all is not quite what it seems in the Manone family.’

‘Elucidate, please.’

‘The wife, Polly, she nabbed me in the hallway just as we were leaving. About one o’clock in the morning it was. She’d been drinking quite a lot. Manone was mad at her for drinking so much. He kept it quiet but you could see how angry he was. She’s not a happy lady, our Mrs Manone.’

‘What, did she make a pass at you?’

‘God, no! She wasn’t that tiddly,’ Kenny said. ‘Just as I was putting on my overcoat to go out and look for a taxi, she slipped me this.’

He fished in the pocket of his shirt and brought out a visiting-card, passed it to his sister who studied the printed name and address as intently as if it were code.

‘Other side,’ said Kenny.

Fiona turned the card over and read out the message scribbled in pencil on the back: ‘My house is your house. Call me.’ Puzzled she looked up at her brother. ‘My house is your house: what the devil does she mean by that?’

‘Search me,’ said Kenny, ‘but the other bit’s plain enough.’

Fiona said. ‘I take it that you will call her?’

‘You bet,’ said Kenny.

‘When?’

‘Soon, but not immediately.’

‘Inspector Winstock will expect you to establish contact at once.’

‘Ah, but old Wetsock won’t know about it, not just yet.’

‘Kenny!’ said Fiona, warningly.

‘I think we may have found what we’re looking for,’ Kenny said, ‘but I want to be dead sure before I take it to Winstock.’

‘Found what?’ Fiona asked.

‘The family’s weakest link,’ said Kenny.

‘The wife, you mean?’

‘Oh, no,’ Kenny said. ‘I mean the mother.’