Saturday's Child (32 page)

‘No, I bloody won’t. Do it yourself. She thinks you’ve abandoned her. Living in the house with Beth and that woman, she is, and Dot’s boyfriend’s in yon shed. Now,
get fettling before I lose me rag altogether.’

‘Thanks,’ he managed.

‘Don’t mention it. Now, you sit here thinking your way through all that’s gone on, then stick it on the fire and burn it, because it’s a load of rubbish. You did your
duty and more. Then, when you’re nearly human again, get on that motorbike up to Hesford. You’ll be losing her. She thinks you’re not interested any more. And straighten your
face, it looks like a smacked bum.’

The woman was right, he was not a bad man. When she had left, he did as she had suggested, went right back to his childhood, endured the scoldings his mother had administered, sat fishing by the
Irwell with his dad, went conquering in the woods up Bradshaw with his pals. When he reached recent years, he lit another cigarette and waded straight in, Dad’s death, Mam’s increasing
dependence, her demands upon his time.

Lois had been terrified of Magsy, because she had recognized the real thing, had sensed that her only child had started to drift away on a cloud of adoration. And here he sat, sorry for himself,
blaming himself because of that one simple action, for the pills, for being in a hurry, for being alive and normal.

‘Better shape up,’ he advised himself aloud, ‘because she’s beautiful and noticeable. You’ll lose her if you don’t get a grip and visit her.’

He found his shaving stuff, scraped his face, washed, went out to buy a newspaper. Lily Hardcastle had saved his bacon, and he would never allow himself to forget that.

Rachel was fuming. Frank reckoned that if she didn’t cool down, she was going to be in need of a chimney on her head, a vent to allow smoke and steam to evaporate from
her brain.

‘How dare he?’ she asked, eyes blazing. ‘How dare he write here begging for – no – demanding money? After all he did to your mam and to his kids. I don’t care
if he starves to death, there’s no need for this kind of nastiness.’

Frank put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Stop it, love. Remember you’re carrying our baby and stay calm.’

‘Calm?’ she yelled. ‘Why should I be calm? He says here that he’ll be satisfied with two quid a week and any food we can spare from the shop. Shall I order some oysters
and caviar?’

‘Rachel—’

‘No.’ She dragged herself away and reached for her coat. ‘I’m getting the bus,’ she announced, ‘and I shall go and see Mam and Dad, then I might just pay a
visit to your father while I’m down there. If you won’t put him straight, then I will.’

Frank was a gentle soul, hardworking, quiet, one who wanted a peaceful life. After leaving home and abandoning his mother, Frank’s goal had become this, his own business where the air was
fresher, somewhere to raise a family, a place where Mam could live out her days in tranquillity. But he slammed his foot down. ‘No. You are not going to see him. He will lay into you and you
are expecting a baby. No need to walk into trouble. I’ll do it.’

Rachel eyed him. He would do it? Would he? ‘When?’

‘What?’

‘When are you going?’

‘Not today, I’ve orders coming. Then I’ve to go and see about that van.’ He intended to buy transport to enable him to deliver supplies to outlying farms and hamlets.
‘It’ll wait,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow or the next day.’

‘Tomorrow never comes, Frank. Every day is today, but tomorrow is always a different day.’ She knew this man well. He would have walked the Great Wall of China to avoid trouble.
‘He will never leave us alone. Your mother jumps every time that shop bell rings – he’s ruined her life.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, Chamberlain knew, and look where it got him.’

Frank allowed himself the luxury of a tight smile. ‘Oh aye? And who are you? Winston Churchill?’

‘No,’ she replied hurriedly, ‘I’m your wife and I’m having your baby. We’ve got this place up and running, but we still take no wages. Every penny needs
ploughing back in, especially with that van coming. This baby won’t be cheap – they need all sorts, do babies. He’ll never stop. The day will come when he’ll be back here
waving his sticks at his own grandchild. He wants dealing with now, today.’

But Frank remained firm. He took Ernest’s letter from her and placed it in his pocket. She was different now, shorter in temper than she had been. It was something to do with pregnancy, he
decided, as Rachel had become more volatile in this, her third month. ‘Just leave it, love,’ he advised, ‘because no good will come of you barging in on him. That’s what he
wants – you’d be playing into his hands. Now, upstairs and rest – that’s an order. Mam will take over in the shop, so get your head down.’

She eyed him. Yes, even the quiet ones got a bit difficult at times. But her blood still boiled. She went upstairs and lay on the bed, eyes wide open, hands on her belly where her precious baby
grew. So much to protect, so vulnerable, so loved. Well, it had to be done. He was going for his van and Peter Smythe could look after the ironmongery. Rachel would visit her father-in-law today;
she was a grown woman and she could make her own decisions.

Dot and Peter stared at each other. Their friendship had blossomed to the point where they were easy together, where secrets became shared knowledge, where comfortable silences
were the norm.

‘She’ll go,’ whispered Dot. ‘Sal’s kids were raised like that, frightened of nobody, especially the bigot I married.’

Peter was nonplussed. There was one small secret he had nursed alone, one fact he had failed to share with Dot Barnes. She did not know that he had visited her husband, was unaware of the fact
that Peter was beginning to get the measure of Ernest Barnes. ‘Well, we shall be needed here to mind the shop. Can you prevent her from going?’

‘I can try,’ she answered, ‘but I’d have to put me foot down good and hard, Peter. She’s a clever lass, is Rachel, pretty determined, too. Hang on.’ She
strode off upstairs to deal with young madam.

Rachel sat up when her mother-in-law entered the bedroom.

‘Now,’ began Dot, heart in her mouth, ‘if you go piking off down Prudence Street, I’m coming with you. Sorry I overheard you and our Frank talking, but you’d have
needed to be deafer than poor Nellie Hulme were before she got the cure, because you were shouting that loud. So stick that in your pipe, Rachel, love. When our Frank goes looking for a van,
you’ll stop here if I have to get Peter to tie you to a chair. And if you still want to go with the chair fastened to your bum, then I’ll come with you.’

Rachel sat up even straighter. She looked at the small woman who was her mother-in-law, that sweet, gentle soul, plumper now, less grey about the face, a twinkle in the eyes that sang of
moorland walks and good living. And Rachel began to laugh.

‘What have I said now?’

‘Nothing.’ Rachel hugged herself and rocked to and fro.

‘I’m serious.’

‘I know,’ came the broken reply. ‘It’s just . . . oh . . .’

‘What?’

‘Who’d have thought that you would get so fierce?’

Dot put her head to one side and thought about that. Fierce? She wasn’t fierce, she was just sensible. ‘That’s my grandchild you’re carrying, so you can carry it away
from that bad bugger. Right? Am I getting through to you?’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Rachel dried her eyes.

Dot grinned. ‘I like that. I like Mother – it’s posh.’

Rachel flicked her hair. ‘I am posh. I’m being dragged up by Miss Katherine Moore, so what do you expect?’

‘Oh . . .’ Dot shook a fist in mock anger. ‘I expect you to rest and do as you are told. I’ll fetch you a cuppa later on, so get that head on the pillow and
sleep.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘Stop it.’

‘You said you liked it.’

‘I do, so stop it.’ Dot closed the door and went downstairs. Frank and Peter were in the shop, the former showing the latter some details attached to the business of selling
hardware. Dot placed herself behind the grocery counter and started stacking shelves. Demanding money. She flicked an angry duster across the Black and Green’s shelf and over to the
Horniman’s. With bloody menaces. There were a few spaces, so she pushed some more quarters of tea into the gaps. He wanted shooting.

‘You all right, Mam?’

She looked at Frank. ‘Yes. Now don’t pay over the odds and make sure it runs proper, that there van.’

‘Yes, Mam.’

Dot glared at her son. ‘Don’t you start.’

‘Start what?’

‘Never you mind. Get gone and buy that van. But only if it’s worth the money.’

‘Yes, Mam.’ He left the shop just before the duster flew at the door. Dot retrieved it and walked back to reclaim her rightful place in the world.

‘Dot?’

‘What?’

‘Are you well?’ Peter asked innocently.

‘I am. So don’t you kick off, either.’

Peter scratched his newly barbered hair and got on with the business of pricing saucepans. The ways of women were wonderful to behold, but he was learning when to keep his mouth shut.

Katherine noticed the unhappiness of the young woman who tended her. It was caused, of course, by the absence of a certain man on a motorbike, one who had been a regular
visitor during Magsy’s stay in the summer house. He had stopped coming and Magsy’s face grew sadder by the day.

She was tidying Katherine’s room, and the slope of her shoulders caused the lady of the house to speak up at last. ‘Bring Rachel across,’ she suggested, ‘and let us have
another fashion parade.’ After a great deal of tucking and hemming, the two young women were in possession of several decent outfits from Katherine Moore’s wardrobe.

‘She’s expecting,’ replied Magsy, ‘thicker round the waist. Anyway it’s too hot for dressing up.’

Katherine sipped her tea. ‘Then would you rather have a dressing down? Because, Margaret, if you do not change your facial expression, we could be in possession of several cracked mirrors
and fifty years’ bad luck.’

Magsy stopped and sat down. ‘Oh, Katherine.’ It had taken Magsy quite a while to agree to the use of Miss Moore’s forename, while the old lady categorically refused to call
anyone Magsy. ‘That sounds like a cat or a pet rabbit,’ she had declared. ‘No, Margaret is a beautiful name, good enough for the king’s younger daughter, good enough for
us.’ So Margaret it was.

‘May I be plain?’ asked the older woman.

‘Are you ever anything else?’

Katherine laughed. ‘Margaret, go and get him. Please, I beg you.’ She waited for an answer, received none. ‘When I was young – yes, I was young, you know – there
was a man.’ Her face softened. ‘A fine, handsome man, broad, brown-haired, tall, humorous. My father was well pickled, soaked in brandy, a complete disgrace. But the young man
didn’t mind, offered to help me with him, became the only person allowed into the house.’ She nodded, a sad smile playing on her lips. ‘He was not good enough.’

Magsy waited. This woman seldom spoke about the past.

‘He loved me, Margaret, offered to marry me. But why should the daughter of Bertram Moore tie herself to a labourer?’ She closed her eyes. ‘He was not good enough, not good
enough. All these bitter years, I have insisted that he was unsuitable.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I know what it is to desire a man. I know the pain and the loneliness and the
heartbreak. All these years, until Rachel broke into my life, I have told myself that I did the right thing.’

Magsy swallowed. This was costing Katherine Moore a great deal.

‘So I stayed alone. Margaret, get a stepfather for that wonderful girl, a partner for yourself. He loves you.’

Magsy crossed the room and sat on a stool beside the chaise. Something had happened between herself and Katherine just recently. The relationship had settled, had become comfortable, pleasant.
They liked the same books, the same wireless programmes, the same foods. And they loved the same child. Katherine had invaded Beth’s life and Beth adored her. She was the grandmother and
sage, the
aide-mémoire,
the listener, the talker, the friend.

‘Marry him,’ whispered Katherine.

Magsy smiled. ‘And where would we live?’

‘Here to begin with, then – who knows? I shall not last for ever.’

The idea of Katherine Moore’s death did not please Magsy O’Gara. This wise and difficult woman was probably enjoying these years, because she was finally allowed to flower, to relax
and be herself, her real, human and vulnerable self. ‘He has not proposed to me.’

‘He will.’

Magsy sighed heavily. ‘Will he? The last thing I heard was that his mother had died. Since then, nothing.’ She touched the old lady’s hand. ‘I swear one thing to you,
Katherine, that I shall be here with you until your end. What you did for Beth has been the making of her. She is finally allowed to express herself without being called cleverclogs by her
classmates.’

The school was delighted with Beth. She was advanced well beyond her years, yet her eagerness to learn and her ready admission of her limitations endeared her to staff and pupils alike. Also,
she was fussed over, had become something of a mascot, as she was the baby of Chedderton Grange, the youngest ever girl to pass the entrance with an A grade.

‘Beth deserves it,’ Katherine said, ‘and you deserve some time off. Get the bus. Go to Bolton. Be there when he comes home from work.’

‘No.’

‘This is the middle of the twentieth century – are you planning to remain demure? Visit your other friends, make him a small part of your itinerary.’

Magsy pushed a hand through sweat-damped hair. ‘All right. I shall leave a note for Beth – she’s playing tennis, by the way – and she will see to your needs until I come
home.’

Katherine smiled broadly. ‘Wear the cornflower blue, that little dress of mine that you made over. Borrow my good leather handbag and the silk scarf. Go on. Go away, I am too tired for
your fussing.’

Magsy planted a kiss on the wrinkled forehead. ‘Yes, Grandmama.’ Then she dodged away from Katherine’s weapon, a rolled newspaper that whipped through the air.

Yes, it was time to go and find him.