Saturday's Child (22 page)

‘Go and look after your mam, Paul.’

‘Right.’

She shook her head in pretended dismay. ‘What am I going to do with you at all?’

He bit his lip, swivelled and left the danger area. He didn’t know what she was going to do. Whatever, he could scarcely wait to find out.

Rachel discovered quite by accident the identity of the intruder. She decided to sweep out the summer house, went across armed with broom and dusters, found herself in the
presence of a man she recognized, a figure familiar all over Hesford and its spread-out environs. He was famous for his eccentricity, was renowned for being a contradiction in terms, for this was
the educated tramp.

Startled by her sudden entrance, the man leapt to his feet, removing his ridiculous bowler hat as soon as he achieved a vertical position. He straightened his short spine, smiled and nodded in
her direction.

Rachel, one hand to her throat, leaned on the broom for support. He was not dangerous, she told herself sharply. This man favoured widowed and spinster ladies, was gardener and odd-job man for
Hesford and for other villages north of Bolton. All he ever wanted was a couple of shillings and a hot meal. When questioned about his place of residence, he always gave vague replies, mentioning a
brother up on the moors, an out-of-the-way house with no address, a smallholding with a few hens and some vegetable plots.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked eventually.

‘Shelter from the storm, ma’am,’ came the answer in what Frank always called a gobful-of-plums voice.

‘There is no storm,’ she replied.

‘Where there is humanity, there is always storm.’ He placed his hat on a rickety card table. ‘For a shilling and a hot meal, I shall clean this place for you.’

‘For Miss Moore,’ she corrected him rather sharply, noticing how his eyes narrowed at the mention of the woman who owned this property. ‘She is going to let it to a
housekeeper.’

‘Then God help any such housekeeper,’ he replied, ‘for Miss Moore is not known for her generous nature.’

Rachel eyed him. ‘Why are you here?’ she repeated.

‘I am sheltering from frost, Mrs Barnes. And I am doing no harm, surely? Perhaps my mode of existence would not suit everyone, but I am careful to occupy places that are not needed. When
the housekeeper moves in, I shall remove the summer house from my itinerary.’

‘Are you homeless?’ she asked.

‘My home is wherever my hat and cane rest,’ was the smart answer.

Yes, his cane. He was famous for that, as well. It was a sturdy item, silver-topped and with a monogram engraved into its spherical handle. There was no doubt that the strange creature had
received good schooling, and no-one could ever work out why a man of letters had chosen such a haphazard way of existence. ‘So you have no brother on the moors?’

‘That is correct.’ Bright blue eyes twinkled in the weather-beaten face. ‘I am a man of mystery.’

In Rachel’s opinion, a man of mystery would be younger, taller, more of a Gregory Peck. This little fellow was not much bigger than James Cagney, slightly too plump for his moderate
height, rather grizzled around a chin ill-served by blunt razors and a lack of hot water. She liked him and she couldn’t quite work out why. Perhaps it was his cheek, the sheer gall of an
older-than-middle-aged person who slept where he chose, worked when he liked and talked like someone educated at Eton.

He was almost laughing at her. ‘Can’t work me out, eh, Mrs Barnes?’

Rachel felt the colour rising to her cheeks. ‘No, I cannot work you out, Mr Smythe.’

He tapped the side of his nose with a strangely clean index finger. ‘Nor can I, I assure you. I could have been almost anything, you know. But being a nothing is something.’

‘Is it?’

‘Oh, yes. And, very soon, I shall be a nothing who has become a something.’

Rachel leaned her broom against the wall. ‘How do you work that out? And be grateful that I am of Irish stock, Mr Smythe. A background like mine gives me a huge insight into the meaning of
nonsense.’ She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, there is nonsense in my blood. Nonsense is my second language.’

‘And you are extraordinarily fluent in it.’

‘Of course.’

He smiled broadly. ‘I am to be published,’ he said. ‘Very soon, the first Peter Smythe will be for sale in book shops. It is a tale of a travelling man, one who chooses not to
be bound by the laws of society. I have studied humanity for many years, you see.’

She thought about that. Something told her that this man was no liar. It was easy to believe that he had written the story of his life and of all those who employed him.

‘Miss Morgan typed it up for me,’ he said, ‘but was bound to secrecy. In return, I have cared for her garden free of charge for several years. Give and take, you
see.’

‘So, you will buy a house with the proceeds?’

Peter Smythe threw back his head and laughed. ‘Goodness, no,’ he announced merrily. ‘Why would I need a house? Who wants that kind of responsibility? No, I shall carry on much
the same, shall be living as I do now, within reach of all that is rightfully mine.’

She raised a quizzical brow.

‘The world belongs to all of us,’ he explained.

Rachel picked up the brush and thrust it at him. ‘Right, Mr Author. Clean this place and, in return, I shall bring you food and money. I suppose you would call that a fair
trade?’

‘Indeed.’ He bowed stiffly and took the implement from her. ‘You are a free spirit,’ he informed her.

Rachel walked to the door, turned. ‘Tell my customers that,’ she advised, ‘since I seem to be on call twelve hours a day.’

He pointed to the grimy window. ‘Out there is all yours, yours for the taking. But you have chosen bricks, mortar and safety, predictability and boredom.’

‘Security,’ she insisted.

He bowed again. ‘As you wish.’

Rachel went outside and wondered whether she ought to tell Katherine about her non-paying guest, but he was harmless enough, a crank who had written a book, a tramp who valued the open road and
the ability to sleep when he liked, where he liked. No, upsetting Katherine would be pointless.

In a few days, Magsy O’Gara would come to be interviewed about the housekeeping position. Rachel laughed aloud. She could not imagine Magsy being interviewed by anyone. It promised to be
fun, because both Katherine and Magsy were proud and stubborn women.

Ernest groaned loudly. Climbing into Charlie Entwistle’s truck had not been easy – in fact, without the help of the rag-and-bone man, Ernest would never have made
it.

Charlie jumped into the driver’s seat. ‘All right? Ready to face the missus?’

‘Aye,’ answered Ernest, still breathless after his exertions.

Charlie, a man of few words, was bemused by this situation. It was nothing to do with him, but he could not understand his neighbour’s desire to see Dot again. It had become plain over the
years that the man had disliked his wife. Even Charlie, who spent most of his time out of the house, had heard enough of the violence. Still, he had promised to do the favour, and he was a man of
honour. ‘Ready for off, then, Ernest?’

‘Yes.’

Charlie started the engine and pulled away. The truck needed a good run, so this was as good a way as any of burning the dust out of the system.

They left the town behind and began to climb Tonge Moor, the road that led north to several villages. Even here, on a road that was densely populated, Ernest noticed that the air smelt
different, was cleaner and fresher. Oh yes, Dot had fallen on her feet, it seemed. So had that bloody Higgins girl with all her airs and graces. He still seethed inwardly when he thought about a
son of his turning Catholic, all that bowing and scraping to plaster statues and holy pictures, fingers dipped in so-called holy water, Signs of the Cross, Stations of the Cross and enough
saints’ days to fill a calendar twenty times over. Well, Ernest would have his say at last.

Hesford was beautiful – even the jaundiced eye of Ernest Barnes noticed the quaintness of the village. His blood boiled when he thought of Dot enjoying these views of the moors, the
openness of it all, that crystal sky, all this invigorating air.

Charlie helped him out of the cabin. When he had righted himself, Ernest stared hard at the shop, a double-fronted affair with the word
BARNES
printed over the door,
still fresh and new-looking. One window announced
GROCERIES
, the other
HARDWARE
. It looked like a thriving business. Oh yes, they were thriving, all
right, while he lived on a measly bit of pension and interest on pathetic savings scraped together throughout years of self-denial. He had fed and clothed them all, he had put bread and meat on the
table, so it was time for them to look after him.

Charlie Entwistle, who seldom took much notice of folk, marked the expression on his neighbour’s face. Uneasy, he stepped forward. ‘Do you want me to help you into the
shop?’

‘No,’ came the barked response. ‘I do this on my own.’

He straightened, made sure that his cap was on right, then walked into the doorway. A woman with a basket stood back to allow him in, holding the door for a man she probably saw as a poor old
cripple. Well, if everybody had their own, this shop was his by right, because he had raised the man who owned it in the legal sense.

The shop was empty. He parked himself on the customers’ chair and waited. The bell that had announced his entrance had also proclaimed the exit of the woman with the basket, so the
shop’s staff were probably in the back of the house, unaware of their very special patron.

He gazed around well-stocked shelves, saw little notices on items that were still rationed, breathed in the smell of earth clinging to locally grown winter vegetables. The place was a gold
mine.

At the other side, ironmongery was stacked in boxes, nails, screws, putty, hammers and chisels. There were buckets, clothes horses, scrubbing boards, possers, brushes, dusters, lamps, kettles,
pots and pans. Although Hesford was not a huge place, this shop probably provided for residents of several other villages, so it would prosper, no doubt.

The inner door opened and Dot stepped into the shop, a large box of apples in her arms. She walked round the counter to place this on the floor with other produce kept on the customers’
side, bent, stacked the box, then turned to face the customer. ‘Hell—’ The rest of the greeting froze in her throat.

‘Hell’s about right,’ snapped Ernest. ‘Hell’s living on your own while your family pikes off to new pastures.’

She backed away into the gap, slamming down the hinged barrier that separated staff from customers. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, her tone shrill.

‘I only want what’s mine.’

She breathed hard against the need to vomit. ‘There’s nowt of yours here.’

‘Oh aye? How do you work that out?’

Dot inhaled again. ‘Our Frank saved for this. He did without for years until he got the down-payment and a mortgage.’

‘And who kept him while he saved?’

‘He kept himself.’

‘Right. And who kept him till he could afford to rent that room? I did. I bloody kept him – and I kept you – and the other one.’

She gripped the edge of the counter, tried to hold on to her sanity at the same time. Was nowhere safe? Would she never escape completely? ‘That’s the way it works,’ she told
him. ‘We look after our kids, then they grow up and look after their own kids.’

‘And you. They look after you.’ His eyes narrowed. She looked a damned sight better than she had in Prudence Street, was clearly doing well out of this arrangement.

‘That’s your fault,’ she said quietly. ‘They had to bring me away from you, because they knew that you would kill me in the end.’

‘Rubbish,’ he roared.

The noise brought Rachel into the shop. She stood for a few seconds in the doorway, then leapt forward, placing herself between Dot and the seated man. There was a counter separating them, but
the man was armed with his sticks. ‘Get out of my shop,’ she ordered clearly.

‘You what?’ He rose to unsteady feet and raised a stick. ‘Your shop? Your bloody shop, you bloody whore?’

‘That’s a lot of bloodies.’ Rachel knew that her tone was annoyingly cool. ‘I am not a whore, Mr Barnes.’

‘Where’s my son?’ he demanded. ‘I want nowt to do with women. Let’s have a bit of sense spoken – fetch Frank.’

Rachel allowed her eyes to travel down to Ernest Barnes’s waist, then up again until they met that wild, ugly face. ‘My husband is out at the moment. He should be back in about half
an hour, but he will not welcome you. In fact, he will bundle you out in two shakes.’

‘Your husband.’ These two words were hissed between narrowed lips. ‘You fooled him into marriage, seduced him.’

Rachel nodded calmly. ‘You should see a head-doctor, Mr Barnes. There’s a new department at the hospital for people with mental illnesses.’

He snapped. In an instant, one of his sticks made hard contact with Rachel’s cheek and she fell sideways, arms flailing in a vain attempt to save herself. Tinned fruit and Nestle’s
Cream toppled down, a dozen or so tins unseated by Rachel’s arms.

Dot tried to catch Rachel, failed, saw her crumpled in a heap on the floor. And it simply happened. Where fear had lodged, a bubble of fury rose in the chest of that thin, meek woman. She strode
around the corner, lifted the mahogany flap, dragged the stick from his trembling hands.

She beat him repeatedly, mercilessly, forced him to the ground where he crawled like a dog towards the door. Again and again she brought the stick down on his back, her breathing even, her aim
true and straight. With a strength that denied and defied her size, she forced him to the door just as it opened.

‘Oh, God.’ Charlie Entwistle had crashed the door into his neighbour’s head.

Dot fixed her gaze on Charlie. ‘This pile of rubbish you fetched up here from the slums – stick it back on your cart,’ she ordered evenly. ‘No point weighing it in,
’cos I can tell you now it’s worth nowt a pound.’ She allowed herself a slow breath. ‘Now, listen to me, Charlie Entwistle. If you bring that load of shite anywhere near my
shop again, I shall sue you. You knew what he wanted, you knew why he was here—’