Free The Wayward Wife by Jessica Stirling Page A

herself, standing by the stove and puffing on a cigarette between mouthfuls.
    â€˜What would you do if we ’ad money?’ she asked.
    Ron, who was being very careful not to stain his uniform, looked up, a rasher of black-market bacon poised daintily on the end of his fork.
    â€˜How much money?’
    â€˜Say, three hundred quid.’
    â€˜Spend it all on drink.’
    â€˜I’m serious,’ Breda told him.
    â€˜What? You won the pools, or somethin’?’
    â€˜It’s two years’ wages, close enough.’
    â€˜Oh, sure,’ said Ron. ‘We could retire to the country.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t be bad, that.’
    â€˜I thought you didn’t like the country.’
    â€˜I could get used to it, I suppose. Be good for Billy.’
    â€˜Billy’s all right here. Ain’t yah, son?’
    â€˜Yar,’ said Billy obligingly.
    Breda finished her toast and, with the cigarette dangling from her lip, said, ‘Three hundred quid would make a nice nest egg for when the war’s over.’
    â€˜What you talkin’ about?’ Ron said. ‘Where’s all this money comin’ from?’
    Breda dropped her cigarette into a tin ashtray at the sink and ran a washcloth under the tap.
    Billy, still eating, stiffened.
    â€˜Nowhere: I’m just dreamin’,’ she said and, before he could bolt, snared her son by the scruff of the neck and vigorously applied the washcloth to his jammy face.
    â€˜He’s making more of it than it deserves,’ Vivian said. ‘I wasn’t much more than a child that summer.’
    â€˜By my calculation you were twenty-four,’ said Susan.
    â€˜Three,’ said Vivian. ‘In those dear, dead days that was practically a child. You have no idea just how repressive society could be when I was young.’
    â€˜Hadn’t you “come out” by then?’
    â€˜Come out?’ Vivian said. ‘What do you take me for? I was never a debutante. We were poor – relatively poor. In any case, Papa made his money from trade and the Old Bailey was the closest any of our lot was ever going to get to appearing at court. Basil Willets and I were thrown together for less than a month, and he wasn’t very well for most of it.’
    â€˜What was wrong with him?’
    â€˜I don’t know. Yes, actually I do. He had an infection of the blood, a condition that almost killed him. He also had a bit of a limp which I see has gone.’
    â€˜So,’ said Susan, ‘he was pale and interesting, was he?’
    â€˜More pale than interesting, unfortunately.’
    â€˜He says you were in love.’
    â€˜He may have been in love but I certainly wasn’t.’
    â€˜I think he’s still a little bit in love with you.’
    â€˜He’s fast approaching middle age and, I suppose, tends to infuse the past with a rosy glow.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you tell me you knew Basil Willets?’
    â€˜Because I thought you’d go all huffy and accuse me of securing you the BBC job which, I might add, you secured entirely on your own merits. Have you been in touch with your husband, by the way? The papers are full of rumours that Hitler is drawing up invasion plans again.’
    â€˜Don’t change the subject,’ Susan said. ‘You’re going out with him, aren’t you? Basil, I mean, not Hitler.’
    â€˜We’re meeting for a professional lunch,’ Viv admitted.
    â€˜A “professional” lunch; what’s that?’
    â€˜He’s hinted – just hinted – that he wishes to use me on the programme. I can’t think why.’
    â€˜Can’t you?’ Susan said. ‘I can.’
    â€˜At least I wasn’t foolish enough to marry a man I didn’t love out of – out of – I don’t know what. Pity, maybe.’
    â€˜Oh, that’s below the belt, Vivian.’
    â€˜If you really are in love with Danny