Antonia didn’t hang up the phone directly. She rang for a taxi. There was just time to change into a blue double-breasted suit and pink frilly blouse and to touch up her lips before the cab pulled up at the door.
‘The tobacconist’s in Sloane Square.’
There, she winked at the solemn old Scot who supplied her with ciggies.
‘Have they come in yet?’ She could always rely on him for a packet of some brand or other, even with the shortages. Today it was ten Escudos, passed over the counter in a brown paper bag.
‘They’re one and threepence, I’m afraid.’ ‘That’s all right. How are your Hearts, Mr MacDade?’ ‘Disappointing, madam. They lost four nil at home last week.’
‘Just what they needed, darling. Football players are like carpets — they need the occasional beating. They’ll score a hatful on Saturday.’
‘Is that a fact?’
She got back into the taxi.
‘Pimlico, please.’
‘What address, lady?’
‘Perhaps you can tell me. A street where a flying bomb fell.’
‘I’m a cabbie, love, not the ARP.’
‘It can’t be so difficult to find. The house I want is in a terrace opposite the bomb site. And it faces the river.’
They drove to Pimlico and looked for someone to ask. Every street was a porticoed terrace. A woman with a pram knew of two bomb sites. An entire terrace had been flattened in Sutherland Street and twenty people had been killed, but that was in the Blitz. Her second suggestion turned out to have been the result of highexplosive bombs in 1943. A milkman suggested Oldfield Gardens. He thought it was a doodlebug that had flattened the end house there.
Oldfield Gardens had a down-at-heel look. Some of the shabbiness was the result of war damage; much more could be put down to neglect. The houses had once looked smart with their casement windows, solid front doors and iron railings around the basement steps. Cheap replacement doors had spoilt the effect and the once-white fronts were chipped and stained.
She asked the driver to wait by the corner shop at the end of the street farthest from the bomb site. The smell of cats crept into her nostrils.
A wolf-whistle greeted her as she approached the bomb site. Some workmen were fixing posts into what had once been a front garden. She gave them a wave and crossed the road.
The last house was unusual for not having an array of doorbells. The doorstep was polished to inspection standard. She pressed the bell.
She flung out her hands and embraced Rose the moment she opened the door.
‘My poor flower — I couldn’t abandon you at a time like this. I’ve brought you some ciggies.’
Rose muttered some words of thanks as Antonia broke off the embrace and headed for the scullery.
‘What a sweet house, and so tastefully furnished. Is it all yours? I love it.’
‘I’ve got rather a headache.’
‘I’ll make you some tea. No, I insist. You sit down and I’ll do everything. Have you got any aspirin? I can bring it upstairs if you’d like to lie down.’
She filled the kettle and lit the gas and then wandered out to look at the other rooms, calling out her observations as she went.
‘Oh, a piano. Do you play, darling? I can’t believe Barry likes Sigmund Romberg. He said a beautiful thing — Romberg, not Barry — “A love song is just a caress set to music.” Isn’t that romantic? And this must be the writing desk you mentioned.’
‘Please don’t touch the writing desk.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘I don’t mean to be rude.’
‘Be as rude as you like, my pet. That’s what I keep telling you — you’re too polite for your own good.’
The phone rang in the front room where Antonia was.
‘Leave it to me, darling.’ She picked up the receiver and put it to her ear.
A man’s voice, cautious and well-spoken. ‘Good morning, is that Wing Commander Bell?’ ‘I’m afraid not. Can I help?’
‘Roberts here. Manager of the Westminster Bank.’ ‘Yes?’
‘I really wished to speak to him personally on a confidential matter. Am I speaking to Mrs Bell, by any chance?’
Antonia decided that a white lie was not only excusable, but opportune.
‘Well, yes.’
‘I wonder... is your husband away from home?’ ‘Away? No. He’s at work.’
‘Only I’ve sent a number of letters over the last month asking him to come and see me, and received no reply.’
‘I’m sure there’s a reason.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘I’ll ask him to get in touch.’
‘Would you? These things are better discussed man to man, so to speak. I’m sure we’ll reach an amicable arrangement.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Thank you. Goodbye, Mrs Bell.’
She heard the click and the purring note before she replaced the receiver, thinking about the amicable arrangement that Barry was expected to reach with his bank manager. She returned to the kitchen as the kettle was boiling.
‘That was Mr Roberts, the manager of the Westminster Bank.’
‘Really? What did he want?’
‘A word with Barry. I told him he wasn’t here.’
‘Stupid man. What does he expect if he rings up in the middle of the morning?’
‘He’s written several letters.’
‘To Barry? Yes, he has. One arrived this morning.’
‘He’s been asking Barry to come and see him. Barry hasn’t replied.’
‘I can’t understand that. He’s awfully efficient. I wonder what this is about.’
Antonia handed her a cup of tea. ‘It’s staring you in the face, sweetie. He’s overdrawn at the bank.’
‘That’s impossible. We live quite frugally. I haven’t had a new dress since the war and he’s still wearing the same suit. We don’t even use our clothing coupons.’
‘What about his nights out?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t believe in spending much on his women. Never more than a couple of drinks and the price of a cheap hotel room for an hour. It’s a matter of pride with Barry.’
‘In that case, I apologize.’
‘What for?’
‘For misleading you. Obviously I was wrong.’ ‘About what?’
‘For pity’s sake, darling — the child. There is a child. Barry’s in the red because he’s keeping up two households. You can’t do that on the money a civil service clerk takes home.’
Rose put down her cup. The colour drained from her face. It was a long time before she spoke and then her voice came as a whisper.
‘It’s not true.’
Antonia took an unopened letter from behind the clock on the mantelpiece, glanced at the typed address and then propped it against Rose’s teacup. Rose shook her head.
‘I couldn’t. He’d know.’
Antonia took out her lighter and put the flame to the gas ring. Steam gushed from the kettle again. She picked up the letter and held the back of it to the spout.
‘He won’t find out.’
When it was quite moist, she placed the letter in Rose’s hand, at the same time squeezing her arm. Rose started peeling back the flap.
‘From the bottom, darling. You don’t want to tear it.’
She took out the letter, read it and threw it down.
‘He’s overdrawn six hundred and ninety pounds, the swine. The rotten, beastly swine. I could cheerfully kill him.’
Antonia returned the letter to its envelope and pressed the flap to the seal.
‘This might want just a smear of glue.’
The letter was lying on Barry’s plate when he got in. Rose had ripped it open at the top.
She eyed him accusingly. ‘I suppose she lives in style while I count every blessed penny.’
‘Not at all. I send her something to help with the child, that’s all.’
‘The child? You talk about him as if you had nothing to do with it.’