Saturday's Child (34 page)

The afternoon sped away, borne on the wings of idle gossip and friendly banter. Magsy left, visited Sal Higgins, exclaimed over the new baby, talked about Dot, the dreadful Ernest and life in
Hesford, about Frank’s intention to buy a van, about Katherine, Beth, Peter Smythe and the cost of living.

After a small feast of bread and Lancashire cheese, Magsy left the Higgins home and walked round the corner to Fox Street. It was six o’clock and Paul would be home. With each step, her
heart beat faster, but she maintained her outward coolness as she knocked on his door. There was no reply.

Bertha stuck her head into the street. ‘He’s gone out, love, said he were borrowing yon van of Murphy’s. Didn’t want to go on his bike, said he were taking somebody for a
ride in the countryside.’ She grinned knowingly. ‘Talk about ships what pass in the night! He never said nothing about who were getting this ’ere ride, but I reckon he’s
piked off up your way looking for you.’

Magsy’s joy could not be contained. It spilled out of her mind and spread itself in the form of a huge smile all over her face. ‘Thank you.’

Bertha waddled over, dropped her voice. ‘He’s not been right, love. She were a pest, but she were his mam, and he’s took it bad ways, wouldn’t talk to nobody,
wouldn’t open yon door. He come round, like, just the once, to give me Lois’s bits and pieces – string of nice imitation pearls, lovely shopping bag and a couple of ornaments. I
tried talking to him, but he were a shut shop. Ooh, I hope this van’s a good sign, Magsy – I were getting feared for him.’

‘Thanks for telling me, Bertha. And thanks for caring about him, he’s a decent man.’

‘And he loves the bones of you, so fingers crossed. Happen he’s coming to his senses.’

There was no more she could do here, so Magsy retraced her steps and walked up to Derby Street. As she waited on Moor Lane bus station for the vehicle that would carry her back to greener
pastures, Magsy saw the funny side of the day. The mountain had come to Muhammad, but Muhammad was out in a borrowed van. It was plain that great minds did, indeed, think alike.

While Magsy was knocking on his door, Paul Horrocks was sitting in her upstairs living room, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, mind jumping everywhere.

The old dear was downstairs with Beth, both heads bowed over a chessboard, nothing to be heard but some heavy sighs as the game progressed. He had been offered salad, had refused, because his
stomach was tied in a granny knot, while his head was all over the place, would she be pleased to see him, would she understand about his mother, would she . . . would she marry him?

Games finished, Beth dashed upstairs. She entered the room with Tinker and threw herself into a chair. ‘She’ll be visiting the new baby,’ she said by way of comfort, ‘and
Miss Hulme. Then she’ll have gone to your house.’

Paul extracted himself from beneath a fast-growing Tinker and grinned ruefully. ‘That’s a very affectionate dog, Beth.’

‘Yes.’ She studied the man for a few seconds. ‘Sorry about your mother.’ She paused, assessed his mood. ‘If you go back in the van, you might catch her, because
that’s faster than a bus.’

He thanked her for her condolences, but stated his intention to remain.

‘You love my mother, don’t you?’

He stared hard at this troublesome, lovable child. ‘That’s a grown-up thing, Beth, not something you need to know about.’

The lovable child tut-tutted in an adult fashion. Why weren’t adults plainer and simpler? They had to run three times round the houses just to find out where they were. As far as Beth
could work out, life became more complicated once maturity set in. Children played, liked some people, didn’t like others, got on with it, didn’t question themselves. Whereas the older
and wiser folk spent so much time thinking about stuff – well – they needed to get on with things.

‘She’ll be back,’ he said.

‘I know, she’s my mother.’

He stared at his shoes, at the rug, at the recumbent Tinker. ‘Beth?’

‘Yes?’

He raised his head. ‘When your mother does come back, make yourself scarce, will you?’

Beth stood up, indignance in her expression. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ she said haughtily. Then she stalked off to her bedroom, leaving him to indulge his nervousness.
Sometimes, grown-ups were just too stupid for words.

Magsy was hot, tired and rather cross as she climbed the hill from the bus stop. The dress hung sadly, any semblance of crispness destroyed by this afternoon’s murderous
heat; the shoes rubbed, her hair hung damply around a face that screamed for cold water, she was thirsty and well on her way to exhaustion.

She saw the van, dust all over it, remembered the night when he had stayed with her outside the hospital. Her heart rose unbidden, and she swallowed, the movement almost painful in a mouth as
dry as blotting paper. She had half expected him, had half dismissed such expectation, as he must have been here for a couple of hours. And she was a mess and—

‘Mam?’ Beth was leaning out of one of the upper windows. ‘Paul’s here.’

‘I know.’

‘He’s been waiting ages.’

Magsy sighed, remembering how proud she had always been of Beth for knowing exactly how to behave, yet now, at this crucial time, the child was yelling all over the road while Paul Horrocks
listened, no doubt.

She entered Katherine’s kitchen, dabbed cold water on her forehead, pulled the dress into some semblance of order. When she had consumed a large glass of lemonade, she began the climb
towards a moment that might well shape her future, each stair a mountain in the relentless heat. It was after seven o’clock, yet the earth continued to burn.

Paul stood up as she entered the room.

‘Thank you for waiting,’ she said. ‘We must have passed each other. Shall I make some tea?’

‘No.’ He walked past her and closed the door. ‘Little ears,’ he said.

They stared at one another for a few moments. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

‘Getting through the guilt,’ he replied.

‘Ah. Your mother. I am sorry.’

He pushed a damp curl from his slick forehead. ‘This may sound ridiculous, but it is too hot for a proposal. I thought I should make an appointment for some other time, though.’

Magsy grinned. ‘So you are proposing to set a time for a proposal?’

That’s it,’ he replied.

‘I accept your proposed idea for a proposed proposal. Of course, I have no idea what my answer will be. We must make an appointment that is mutually suitable.’

‘Saturday,’ he suggested, ‘Town Hall steps, two o’clock, don’t be late.’ He picked up his wrinkled jacket and walked to the door, pausing as he touched the
handle. He turned and looked at her for several seconds. ‘By the way, you have a black mark on your nose. And you are still beautiful.’ He left, a huge smile on his face as he descended
the stairs. She would marry him, so all was well in the civilized world.

Beth dashed in. ‘What did he say?’

‘That I have a dirty mark on my nose.’

‘You have.’ Beth stood, feet planted apart, arms akimbo. ‘So he sat here all that time, waited for you and never asked if you would marry him? That was all he said? About your
nose? He only stayed about two minutes after you got back.’

‘Yes.’

‘Mam?’

‘What?’

‘He wouldn’t come all that way for nothing.’ Adults really were stupid, absolutely mad. ‘Tinker’s got more sense than you two,’ offered the young genius
before stalking out, head in the air, scruffy puppy at her heels.

Alone, Magsy looked in the mirror, spat on a thumb and rubbed the smear from her nose. She picked up William’s photograph and kissed it. She would meet him again one day, when the world
was a little older and real time had been left behind by her earthly self.

But for now, while her life remained fastened to this globe, Magsy O’Gara had discovered her new love, so she whispered a goodbye, then went to wash her face properly.

Peter Smythe watched the van as it drove away, wished with all his heart that he could have begged a lift. But a lift was out of the question, because he had to remain
invisible, safe and totally undetected.

He had done his stint at the shop, had come home to his little summer house, was about to embark on one of the more adventurous of his journeys through a well-travelled life. He brushed his
shoes, washed his face, found a pair of bicycle clips. The bike was a borrowed one, though he had failed to inform the owner about the loan. Well, that should present no problem, because the man
whose bike this was had gone away for the week. ‘No harm done,’ he told his reflection in the small mirror.

The time had come. He stuffed a small package into his pocket, took a deep breath, left the summer house. Dusk was still not happening, but he had no time to waste. The route would take him
through fields and narrow country lanes, as he needed to be anonymous to the point of non-existence.

He slipped through a gap in the hedge, skirted a field, found the bike where he had left it, began the journey of several miles. Once at the outskirts of Bolton, he would wait for the light to
fail before continuing along the populated section. He was afraid, yet he knew that he was doing the right thing; he was doing it for Dorothy.

At the age of sixty-two, Peter had arrived at love very late in life, but Dorothy was his life, his hope, his future, however brief that might be. The main thing was to make sure that his life
was not ended by the hangman.

Because Peter Smythe was on his way to free Dorothy; he was going to rid the world of Ernest Barnes.

Paul and Magsy Horrocks were among the early arrivals at Chedderton Grange.

This was the first night of
Olivia Tangle
, a play written by one of the seniors. It was a comic and all-female version of
Oliver Twist
and Beth, proud as a strutting peacock, had
the meatiest role. As Ferocia McFadden, she was to play the Fagin role, her face covered in warts, body bent in the shape of an old woman, several teeth blacked out.

‘You look lovely,’ said Paul as he drew the final wrinkle across his stepdaughter’s face. ‘A picture of glowing youth and innocence if ever I saw one. In fact, if I were
single, I’d ask you out for a date Saturday night.’

Beth grinned at him, showed him the ‘bad’ teeth. ‘I do not associate with commoners, Mr Horrocks,’ she informed him. ‘I only pickpocket the high and mighty. Am I
ugly enough?’

‘Yes,’ chorused her adult companions. She looked like nothing on God’s good earth, thought Magsy, face a greenish-white, dark circles around the eyes, stringy wig dangling down
to her shoulders, black clothing that looked as if it had come straight from one of Charlie Entwistle’s rubbish wagons.

Chedderton Grange school had outgrown itself. As its reputation had spread to encompass the whole of England, another location was earmarked, a huge, rambling mansion about a mile away, a place
large enough to take a dozen boarders. So this would be the final dramatic effort from the Grange.

Magsy was sad. The very size of the school had been its strength, yet she must continue to believe, because the headmistress had reassured all parents that standards would not slip, that each
girl would have her own needs covered.

Magsy squeezed Paul’s hand. Her happiness was so precious that she had to make sure of it, was having to damp down her fears that this man, too, would disappear. William had been lost in a
war, and there was no war now. But she feared for Paul each time he set off for work on that motorbike, was happier when he borrowed Murphy’s van.

He knew her fears, squeezed her hand in return. He was a happy man at last. Living at Knowehead was all right. He actually liked the old dragon downstairs, but he wished that they could get
their own place, a proper house with two floors all to themselves. Nevertheless, he was grateful to be out of the slums, happy to be married to the most wonderful woman on God’s earth.

It had been a quiet wedding, just close friends, little Beth and Paul’s neighbour from Bolton. Magsy had forbidden him to take instruction, so he remained a Protestant, though he had
agreed that any children would be raised in his wife’s faith.

Magsy’s opinion was that all men were equal, that Catholics and Protestants were basically the same, human flesh, human blood, divided only by the likes of Ernest Barnes, whose remains had
been lowered into the earth just a few months ago. A stroke, the certificate said. And how lonely had that man’s last journey been? Just a few old Lodgers and the undertaker’s men, no
wife, neither of his sons, no friend to see him on his way. Even his paltry legacy had been given away by Dot to a charity for children. She had muttered a few dark words about how Ernest had
abused his own boys, had declared that he would now pay for a couple of orphans to be fed, had never since mentioned his name.

Beth looked in a mirror. ‘Jesus wept,’ she exclaimed.

Magsy put a hand to her mouth, held on to her laughter. Beth was not a child who took the good Lord’s name in vain, yet these words had tripped so easily from that sweet mouth.

‘Mam, I look terrible. Isn’t it brilliant?’ She pulled faces at herself in the glass. ‘Perhaps I’ll be an actress.’

Paul looked at Magsy, Magsy looked at Paul. In the past few months, Beth had been a doctor, a scientist, a mathematician and now she was an actress. They waited for each change of mind, smiling
at each other as the world unfolded before this wonderful, mercurial mind. Whatever she chose, Beth would do it well.

Other parents and children arrived, fussy voices and bodies filling the classroom until Paul and Magsy decided to leave in order to escape the nervousness. They said tata to Beth, noticing how
she did not fuss. Other girls recited lines, stared in mirrors, pulled at hair that would not obey its owners. But Beth simply sat and read a book. ‘Keats,’ said Magsy quietly.

‘I’ll bet you ten bob she’ll be a poet tomorrow,’ replied Paul.

Magsy shook her head. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘I’m not playing that game. She was talking about being an astronaut last week, said there’d be people on the moon in
twenty years. No, I’m betting no money, love.’