Sisters Three Read online

As soon as the orchestra filed in from the hatch beneath the stage Rosie knew that her deafness would not ruin the evening.

  It was her first time in a theatre. She was enchanted by the ornate décor, the steep plush seats, by the smell of perfume and fur coats and the whole dense, gilded atmosphere of the dress circle where, close to the front row, Kenny and she were seated. Breathless with excitement she watched the pit orchestra tune up. Saw the slither of a trombone slide, the tightening of violin strings, the tamping of the drummer as he adjusted the tension of his skins.

  She clung tightly to Kenny’s hand and leaned against him.

  ‘Is this what they call tuning up?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, but you’re not missing much. It sounds like a cats’ convention.’

  ‘What?’

  He pulled back a little, faced her. ‘Cats’ con-ven-shun.’

  ‘Ah!’ Rosie said, enraptured. ‘Ah! I see.’

  In hanging boxes to the sides of the stage gentlemen in dinner suits were pandering to ladies in full-length gowns. Children too, children in party frocks with bows in their hair.

  Rosie watched the ushers close the exit doors and, curling her programme in her hand, stared at the flat cork-like board as it soared up to expose a shimmering crimson curtain. She felt a lift of expectation in the audience and, glancing round, saw that the people about her were settling down. Some had miniature binoculars trained upon the stage, others were scanning their programmes or fiddling with the wrappings of chocolate boxes, one or two were laughing as if the entertainment had already begun.

  Kenny tugged her hand and nodded towards the stage.

  Down in the orchestra pit the conductor raised his baton and looked up at the curtain. He was very tall and had a shock of grey hair that seemed silvery in the glow of the footlights.

  She watched him tap the baton on the stand again, saw the drummer’s arms rise and fall, the cheeks of the trumpet players puff out, and deep, deep inside her head imagined that she could hear the muffled musical notes of the fanfare as the huge, soft-winged curtains parted and scenery and chorus were revealed.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘Oh! Oh, Kenneth!’ and pressed herself back against the curve of the seat as light and colour and gaiety flooded out upon her and, like a whisper, she thought she could make out the heels of the dancers tapping on stage and the voice of the chorus raised in song.

  Twelve rows behind Rosie and off to her left Inspector Winstock lowered his rented opera glasses, folded his arms, and muttered to the woman seated next to him, ‘Is that her, do you think, the deaf girl?’

  ‘Who else could it be?’ Fiona MacGregor said.

  ‘Is Kenny pretending to be her boyfriend?’

  ‘Actually, I don’t think he’s pretending, sir.’

  ‘Really?’ Winstock said. ‘I wonder what on earth he sees in her?’

  And Fiona answered sourly, ‘God knows!’

  * * *

  Polly was in bed before Dominic returned home. She had more sense than to ask where he had been but she had consumed just enough gin to be vaguely amorous and wearing her new nightgown was conspicuously propped up on the pillows.

  She’d purchased the nightgown from Daudet’s, the most expensive shop in Buchanan Street, together with a crochet brassiere and a pair of triangular knickers decorated with needle-run lace, had bought the garments not for the pleasure that wearing them would give her but for the pleasure they would give Tony. She had eaten dinner alone in the dining-room and as soon as the children were asleep had gone up to the master bedroom, locked the door and tried on her purchases in front of the full-length mirror. The light of the bedside lamp softened the angles of her body, made her feel frothy and diaphanous as if she might float into Tony’s arms just as she was. It was close to midnight before she heard the front door open and close, by which time she was weary of pointless self-indulgence and imaginings.

  She scrambled into bed and lay back, listening to Dominic padding about downstairs. She felt faintly foolish playing the tart – but spiteful too, so spiteful she was even tempted to practise on Dominic some of the wicked tricks she had learned from Tony. She waited, eager and apprehensive, for her husband to come upstairs. He would look in on the children first, of course, to be sure they were asleep. She assumed that the servants were asleep too, though it hardly mattered if they were awake for she was never noisy with Dominic whose lovemaking was too measured and deliberate to make her cry out.

  He entered the bedroom stealthily, shoes in one hand, and didn’t seem to notice her at first. He put the shoes under the polished wooden valet, seated himself on a chair, hitched up his trouser legs, unclipped his suspenders, peeled off his stockings and massaged his feet. Then he padded across the carpet to the wicker basket by the side of the wardrobe, opened it and dropped the stockings inside.

  ‘I thought you would be asleep by now,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ Polly said. ‘I’m here, wide awake.’

  He unbuttoned his trousers and braces, drew his shirt and undervest over his head, put shirt and vest into the basket and the trousers into a mahogany trouser press. He smoothed the creases with the flat of his hand, screwed down the press’s butterfly nuts, then placed his watch, cuff-links and loose change in a bowl on the dressing-table. He stepped methodically out of his undershorts.

  ‘Where are my pyjamas?’

  ‘Under the pillow.’

  ‘What are they doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Polly said.

  ‘Why aren’t they in the usual place?’

  ‘They’re under the pillow, damn it.’

  He padded round the foot of the bed and slid his hand under the pillow.

  ‘No, under my pillow,’ Polly said.

  ‘For God’s sake, Polly!’

  She pushed herself forward, her breasts visible under the expensive night-gown. He reached behind her, groping beneath her pillow. She touched him, not tenderly.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ he said. ‘You have. I can smell it.’

  ‘One gin,’ she said. ‘Well, one and half. Pink.’

  He did not pull away. He kept one hand under the pillow, the other braced against the bed-head while she stroked him.

  ‘I’m not in the mood for this, Polly,’ he said. ‘Where are my pyjamas?’

  ‘You’ll have to find them, darling. I’ll give you a clue. They’re somewhere nice and warm.’

  ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you?’

  ‘Merry,’ she said. ‘Werry, werry merry.’

  He was warm, his flesh warm, but he was not aroused.

  He drew back a little, took her wrist between finger and thumb and in the same methodical manner in which he had screwed down the butterfly nuts broke her hold on him.

  ‘Aren’t you up to it?’ Polly said. ‘Won’t you even try?’

  ‘Not when you’re drunk.’

  ‘I’m not drunk.’

  ‘I say you are,’ Dominic told her.

  ‘I’m seconds, aren’t I? That’s it, I’m seconds.’

  He seated himself on the bed.

  ‘Polly,’ he said, ‘you’ve really got to stop this.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Spoiling everything.’

  ‘Spoiling – I’m spoiling – what am I supposed to be spoiling?’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I admit it isn’t entirely your fault. I’m busy, that’s all. There’s something in the pipeline that demands all my attention.’

  ‘What? What’s in the pipeline?’

  ‘Tony – I told you about Tony.’

  ‘You told me nothing of the kind.’

  ‘It’s important business, Polly, very important.’

  ‘Will it make us rich?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought we were rich,’ Polly said.

  He looked smooth and rather plump in the lamplight. Soft, she thought, too soft to be wholesome. The hair that downed his chest and thighs had a washed look, as if he had bathed recently. She
felt again an anxious little rage of desire beating against the fact of his rejection.

  He said, ‘Do you want me to make love to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right.’

  He put out his hand and cupped her breast. He hadn’t noticed the night-gown, hadn’t even remarked on it. If it had been made of platinum laced with pure gold it would have made no difference. He had failed to realise that she had made herself pretty for his sake, that she needed love as well as lovemaking.

  ‘All right?’ Polly said, shrilly.

  He rubbed his palm gently over her breast. ‘Sorry if I’ve been neglecting you. My fault, my fault entirely.’

  He leaned forward to kiss her.

  And down in the hallway at the foot of the stairs the telephone rang.

  And rang.

  * * *

  ‘Look, Dominic,’ Bernard said. ‘I know it’s late but I had to wait until Lizzie was asleep before I could get out of the house.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a phone box at Anniesland Cross.’

  ‘Why don’t you call me from the office tomorrow morning?’

  ‘It’s something you may not want Allan Shakespeare to know about.’

  Dominic drew the dressing-gown about his thighs and leaned against the panelled wall. He had switched on the lamp on the hall table but the rest of the ground floor was in darkness.

  ‘What is it, Bernard? What’s so urgent that it can’t wait until morning?’

  ‘Rosie – our Rosie – is being courted by a policeman.’

  ‘Good for her,’ said Dominic.

  ‘He took her to the pantomime.’

  ‘Did she enjoy it?’

  ‘Yes, but that isn’t the point.’

  ‘What is the point, Bernard?’

  ‘He’s been asking questions about us.’

  ‘If he’s falling for her then naturally he’ll want to know about her folks.’

  ‘Specifically, ‘Bernard said, ‘about you.’

  Dominic heard Bernard fumble for change then the tinny rattle of coins falling into the box. ‘Still there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ said Bernard.

  ‘This policeman, what is he? A beat copper, a flat-foot?’

  ‘He’s a detective sergeant.’

  ‘Really? From what division?’

  ‘St Andrew’s Street.’

  ‘He’s CID, is he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Rosie volunteer this information?’

  ‘No.’ Bernard paused long enough to suggest that he might be lying. ‘He’s been seeing her for weeks apparently but she was so elated when she got home from the theatre that she blurted it all out.’

  ‘Did he bring her home?’

  ‘No, he put her into a taxi.’

  ‘A taxi? On a sergeant’s pay?’ said Dominic.

  ‘That’s what I reckoned,’ Bernard said. ‘Official expenses, maybe?’

  ‘Possibly. Do you know what sort of questions he’s been asking her?’

  ‘Not in any great detail, no.’

  ‘But he does know who Rosie is? Who I am?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Bernard.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s just an unfortunate coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Bernard said.

  ‘Why couldn’t it be?’

  ‘Because of what’s going on at Blackstone Farm.’

  Dominic hesitated. ‘What is going on at Blackstone Farm?’

  ‘Heck, I don’t know,’ said Bernard. ‘And I don’t want to know. But I do know you’ve got something cooking up there. You didn’t have me organise a crew of carpenters just to redecorate your lady-friend’s bedroom.’

  ‘She isn’t my lady-friend,’ Dominic said.

  ‘And I gather Tony Lombard’s billeted there more or less permanently.’

  ‘Tony is…’

  ‘I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know,’ Bernard repeated. ‘What you’re up to is your affair, Dominic. I just thought I’d pass on the information for what it’s worth.’ Another coin tumbled into the box. ‘I wouldn’t go saying anything to Polly, though, just in case it gets back to Rosie.’

  ‘Polly knows nothing about my affairs, nothing.’

  ‘Even so we’ll have to be extra careful at the Christmas get-together.’

  ‘You’re still on for Christmas, I take it?’ Dominic said.

  ‘If you think it’s wise,’ said Bernard.

  ‘It would be difficult to invent a credible reason for cancelling,’ said Dominic. ‘We always get together at this time of year.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bernard. ‘And Lizzie’s really looking forward to it. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m running out of change.’

  ‘Last question,’ Dominic said. ‘This detective, what’s his name?’

  ‘MacGregor. Kenneth MacGregor.’

  ‘Thanks, Bernard. You did the right thing in letting me know.’

  ‘What do you want me to do now?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll handle it.’

  ‘Rosie won’t come to any harm, will she?’ Bernard said. ‘I don’t want Rosie hurt because of something I’ve said or done.’

  ‘Rosie won’t come to any harm,’ Dominic promised.

  ‘If she does…’ Bernard began, but his threat was lost in pips and clicks and the long drone of the line going dead.

  * * *

  She had a burning sensation just under her breastbone and the taste of gin in the back of her throat, all desire dissipated as she crouched in the darkness at the top of the stairs listening to Dominic talk on the telephone.

  It wasn’t what she had done with Tony that terrified her but what would happen if Dominic discovered what she had done with Tony, how everything could be destroyed and Tony lost as a result of an incautious word or, as now, a single late-night telephone call.

  As soon as she realised that the call was from her stepfather she assumed that Bernard had somehow found out about Tony and she and, outraged, had called Dominic. It took only a moment of eavesdropping, however, for her fears to be replaced by bewilderment.

  When Dominic put down the receiver she stole swiftly back up to bed.

  She thumped her head into the pillow, pulled the sheet up over her ears. Heard him come into the bedroom. Did not move. In the glow of the bedside lamp through the weave of the sheet, she saw his shadow pass and a split second later the light went out. He slid in beside her on a little billow of cold air. She waited tensely for his cold hand to cup her breast or slide between her thighs but heard him sigh, felt him turned on to his back and sink into the pillows, hands behind his head.

  She swallowed, said, ‘Who was it?’

  ‘No one of any consequence.’

  ‘Was it Tony?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t Tony.’

  As if she had lost all interest in the telephone call, she inched away from him.

  ‘Polly,’ Dominic said, ‘if you still want me to make love…’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘No, darling. I think I’ll pass: all right?’

  And Dominic said, ‘All right.’

  * * *

  Frost still stained the sheltered corners of the yard when the chippies arrived to bag the sawdust and remove the old timbers; three cheerful young men who had no inkling as to the purpose of the platform they had been sent to construct.

  Penny made them coffee and meat-paste sandwiches and kept them chatting for half an hour. They readily swallowed her inventive little lies and thanked her profusely, almost obsequiously, before they clambered on to the truck and drove off back to the building site.

  After the young men had gone the yard seemed oddly empty in the thin winter sunlight with nothing on the horizon but faint smudges of smoke. She went indoors, washed and dried the cups and plates. Then she put on the warm tweed jacket that Tony had bought for her, went back out to the stables and climbed the ladder to the platform that ju
tted out over the stalls.

  She switched on the current that fed the light bulbs, played with the switches, flicking them on and off; then she began to dance, whirling and pirouetting and stamping her feet so that fine lines of sawdust welled up from the joints and a beige dust sifted into the shaft of sunlight in the doorway.

  For lunch she would serve mutton chops and fresh vegetables, the best selection that Tony could find in Breslin’s greengrocer’s. She had also told him to reserve one of the turkeys that hung plucked and naked on hooks in the butcher’s window. She would roast it with a simple stuffing of bacon, breadcrumbs and sausage-meat for there were no chestnuts to be had in Breslin, none of the herbs that her mother had favoured, and certainly no cranberries.

  Eventually she stopped prancing about, seated herself on the floor and slumped disconsolately against the wall.

  She could not stop her mind whirling, filling up with thoughts of what she would be missing – the noisy cocktail parties, glittering balls and concerts, dinner tables set for forty or fifty guests. And snow, snow cloaking the brown spires and factory chimneys while the lights of luxury stores winked in the dusk and the harsh lines of the city were temporarily softened by the Christmas season.

  Christmas at home: she longed to be there again, the toast, the talk of the town, boys stepping up to salute her, poor besotted boys so manly in their uniforms, so disciplined, passionate and intense. Mature, sagacious men too, in tuxedos and bow-ties, smoke from their cigarettes drifting across the dinner table, their fingertips brushing her bare shoulders as if to convince themselves that she was real and not some artificial image created by the light. All that choice, all those opportunities and, out of boredom and a weary sense of obligation, she had finally given herself to Edgar Harker, a blunt, broad-buttocked nobody.

  When she heard the approach of the car she jumped to her feet, wiped away her tears and, putting on a false smile, hurried out into the yard.

  She had hoped that it would be the big Wolseley: Dominic. She was already attracted to the sullen little Italian with his slumbering eyes and brusque manner. The fact that he was married mattered not a jot. He would not be the first married man whom she had twisted around her finger. She had asked Tony about ‘the wife’ but Tony had gone cold and had stubbornly refused to discuss her.

  The Dolomite rumbled into the yard and came to a halt. Tony got out. She could not truthfully say that she was displeased to see him. He was like Dominic in some ways, though not so distinctly Italian. Eddie had told her about the bond between Carlo Manone and Papa Lombardi. Had also told her why Dominic had been left behind in Scotland to run the business that Carlo had established before the Great War began. She felt no genuine affinity with either Tony or Dominic for she dared not share her own wild and quarrelsome history with them just yet or tell them of the gigantic error that she had made in coming to Scotland at all.