The Corner House (22 page)

‘I bet she won’t get TB,’ muttered the child.

‘Who?’ asked the nurse and Ellen Crabtree simultaneously.

Jessica dared not tell them. If the powers found out that she had travelled beyond the farm’s boundaries, she could well be grounded. ‘Somebody in the dream,’ she replied at last.

‘Dreams aren’t real,’ said the nurse by way of comfort.

Jessica lay back on her pillows. Katherine was real. Katherine’s dad and her dog were real. Surely she hadn’t fallen asleep in the woods? No, no, it had all happened.

‘All right now?’ asked the nurse.

‘Yes,’ replied Jessica. But she wasn’t.

‘What’s the matter with you, Bernard?’ Liz tugged at a sleeve of her husband’s pyjama jacket. ‘What are you doing stuck down here in the middle of the night?’

Bernard turned from the window. Somewhere, up on the moors, a child slept. The child belonged to Theresa Nolan, as did Katherine, the little girl who slumbered peacefully in the back bedroom of her ‘Uncle Danny’s’ cottage. ‘I can’t settle,’ he replied.

Liz scratched her head. She was thoroughly perplexed, because her husband had never had trouble sleeping. In fact, had sleeping been an Olympic sport, he might have qualified to enter once the games resumed. ‘There must be something keeping you awake. Will I make a brew?’

He shook his head.

‘Not tea – what about a mug of cocoa? We’ve still got a bit left. And I could make a sandwich—’

‘No, Liz, I don’t want anything.’ He wanted Katherine to be his own, to be Liz’s own. He wanted Katherine to be safe, to live in a place where no-one knew her, where the resemblance between her and Theresa Nolan’s daughter could pass unremarked.

‘Bernard?’

‘What?’

‘You’ve got to tell me what’s on your mind.’

He sat down and waited until Liz was seated opposite him. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he began tentatively.

‘I can see that. You’ve thought your way well past two o’clock in the morning. Now, I know it’s Saturday – well, Sunday now – but you need your rest.’

He nodded. ‘I want a fresh start,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Somewhere else. Somewhere with good schools for our Katherine.’

Liz stared at him. ‘Leave Bolton?’ she asked. ‘Leave the business and Danny and Pauline? Everything you’ve worked for is here,’ she reminded him.

‘It still will be,’ he replied. ‘It’ll be fifty-fifty no matter what. You see, Liz, they eat a lot of fish in Liverpool.’

‘Liverpool? Who’s talking about Liverpool?’

‘I am. We want to expand, me and our Danny, broaden our scope. I thought I’d take a lock-up near the city and buy us a nice house, a semi with a back garden. It’s got a garage, too. We could have a car as well as a van—’

‘What’s got a garage?’

Bernard swallowed. ‘It just so happens that I’ve
seen this house. It belonged to a chemist, one of them old-fashioned ones who make their own medicines. He’s selling it, or his son’s selling it. Four bedrooms, it’s got.’

Liz closed her mouth with an audible snap. ‘What do we want with four bedrooms? I can’t have any more kiddies, so why such a big house?’

Bernard sagged wearily against the arm of his chair. In his mind’s eye, he saw Katherine’s sister running away, turning back, running towards … ‘We’re going up in the world, Liz.’ He didn’t want to leave Bolton, the fishmarket, his friends, his customers. ‘We could end up with a chain of shops, love. Danny wants his cottage back. Do you fancy living on Derby Street again? Do you want to go back to the smell of fish?’

‘We could buy a house round here,’ answered Liz.

Was Bromley Cross far enough? No. People from Bromley Cross shopped in Bolton, as would Theresa Nolan, as would all who knew Theresa, Jessica, Katherine and Liz. ‘Just come and look at the house,’ he begged. ‘That’s all I ask.’

Liz felt uneasy. It wasn’t like Bernard to have life-altering ideas such as this one. ‘Have you and Danny been planning this?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he replied. That, at least, was the truth.

‘All right.’ Liz stood up. ‘Come on, back to bed this minute. I promise I’ll look at the house. But I shan’t promise to like it.’

And that, thought Bernard, would have to be enough for now. Once Liz saw Crosby with its quaint shops, thatched cottages and decent, middle-class houses, she would surely make the desired decision.

Maurice Chorlton could not quite manage to meet Lily Hardman’s eyes. Looking at human perfection was never easy, even when such excellence was merely skin deep. Lillian Hardman had the sort of looks that should have been sent off to Hollywood: perfect legs, wavy, jet-black hair grown to shoulder length, huge blue eyes, a tiny waist and very clearly defined breasts. The latter items were so remarkable that Maurice had his work cut out to fix his attention on Lily’s face. Lily’s top half was slightly out of proportion to the rest of her chassis, as if two women had been welded together by an artist in order to exaggerate the full potential of female beauty. Maurice was rather less than comfortable, but Mrs Hardman simply stood and gazed at the bag in her hands.

He coughed, cleared his throat, waited for her to speak. This was a dangerous woman. She had been doing things with a vicar and, as a God-fearing man, Maurice felt uneasy in the presence of such a sinner. Unclean thoughts sat at the edge of the jeweller’s consciousness, causing him to cough again in order to relieve his own tension. Was she going to start on him? Was he an item on Lillian’s list of future projects? Perhaps he might try a toupee or—

‘Maurice,’ she began. ‘I came because … well …’ Her voice tailed away on a drawn-out shuddering sigh.

He tidied a pile of tissue paper which didn’t need tidying. The woman had power, the sort of tacit energy that hung in the air, its invisible tentacles poised to consume all mere males who ventured within striking distance. She had put herself into weeping mode, too, was mopping up a sudden outburst of saline with a scrap of lace-edged linen, too tiny to do the job properly. ‘Here,’ he said gruffly, pushing his handkerchief into her perfectly white fingers with their almond-shaped, manicured and rose-stained tips.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured pitiably.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ she wailed. ‘Ged isn’t home yet. The war might be finished, but God knows when he’ll get demobbed. Couldn’t George have waited? He’s taken everything, even some money from the wages account.’

This news came as something of a shock, because George had always stated his intention to remain at home until Ged’s return. Hardman’s Hides must be in trouble now, mused the jeweller. So George had finally done it, had even upped and offed before Ged’s demobilization. George, a decent chap, had meant to stay until able to speak to his son, but things had got too much for him, it seemed. Maurice shuffled about uncomfortably, grateful that a glass-topped counter separated him from this woman. He was no good with females. His own wife had been a gentle soul, one not inclined to visit the various zeniths and nadirs of human emotions. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he muttered truthfully.

Lily blew her perfect little nose. ‘He’s left me the house and seven thousand pounds. I understand that the tannery is now in my name and Ged’s. What a homecoming poor Ged will have.’

Ged would have a wonderful homecoming, Maurice thought. He’d grab his half of the money, do a bunk, spend the lot and to hell with Hardman’s Hides. ‘What will you do?’ Maurice asked.

Lily slammed a large bag onto the counter, causing glass to shiver and the shopkeeper to flinch. ‘First of all, I’m selling my jewellery to you.’ She eyed him with a look of pure steel, her flood of tears suddenly dammed. ‘And don’t you dare try to fob me off with any nonsense, Maurice Chorlton. After what George did to me, I deserve fair play for a change.’

Maurice nodded, then lifted several boxes out of the bag. Fair play? What did Lillian Hardman know about that particular commodity? As Betteridge always said, somewhat crudely, this woman’s knickers had suffered more ups and downs than a whore’s undergarments.

‘It’s worth a small fortune,’ she snapped. ‘There’s stuff in there that belonged to my grandmother – and to
his
family.’ The ‘his’ emerged as a hiss. ‘If he’s planning on asking for any of this back, he can go to hell with his secretary bird.’ Lily was deeply insulted. Her husband had made off with a bespectacled child, plain of face, unimaginative in the dress department, a boring, decent, down-to-earth and definitely ordinary woman.

‘There are some beautiful pieces here,’ squeaked Maurice, the tone altered by a sudden lack of moisture in his throat. ‘Could well be out of my league.’ Not for years had he glimpsed such treasure. He felt
weak at the knees in the presence of this woman and her trappings.

Lily stuffed both waterlogged pieces of linen into her handbag and altered her facial expression yet again. This time, she portrayed herself as angry and fit to burst. ‘They’re not going to Manchester.’ She jabbed an index finger at the row of jewellery boxes. ‘You will give me two thousand pounds and we shall exchange receipts. When I can afford to buy back my possessions, you will accept from me the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds, not a penny more or less. This, too, will be documented and signed by each of us.’

Maurice, who could not lay his tongue across a single syllable, said nothing.

‘You knew he was going,’ continued Lily. ‘You and Betteridge must have talked about this at your precious Merchants’ Club. So you owe me. It will be an easy five hundred pounds, though it could take some time to acquire, of course. After all, I have a factory to keep up and running.’

Maurice pulled himself together. She was going to run Hardman’s? How? How could a woman of this calibre run a business, a factory that stank like hell itself, a place populated by big, brawny men whose fodder was ale and filthy jokes? ‘I see,’ he managed eventually. ‘Two thousand pounds. That will be cash, I take it?’

‘Nail on the head,’ replied Lily smartly.

‘I’ll bring the money to you tonight, then.’

She almost laughed. ‘Oh, no, Maurice. We’ll go for it now. It’s a lovely afternoon, so the walk will do us good. Your bank’s nearby, isn’t it?’

He nodded mutely.

‘And I have the paperwork prepared.’ She tapped
her handbag. ‘I shall trust you for the moment, I think. Take my stuff away and put it under lock and key. Then we shall continue with our business after visiting the bank.’

There was no question of disobedience, no room for discussion or negotiation. It was as if she held a whip with which she would beat him if he refused to co-operate. He excused himself, dashed downstairs and placed Lillian Hardman’s jewels in the walk-in strongroom. As he handled some of the items, a long-forgotten thrill visited his spine, a feeling he had experienced many times when in the presence of such classic, rare pieces.

He sighed, allowing a diamond-set gold bracelet to trickle through his fingers, the leaf-shaped stations flowing like molten lava onto a background of blue velvet. The perfect clear stones flashed across his eyes, while a mixed-cut and cushioned ruby winked solemnly from within its blood-red soul. Forty more diamonds, graded carefully and set with loving attention to detail, nestled in a crescent-shaped brooch. Kashmir sapphires, his favourite among all corundums, stared at him from within cool, cornflower-blue depths. No navy or nearly black sapphires for Lily Hardman, then. Oh no, she had wanted the best, had accepted nothing less. More sapphires, probably Ceylonese, some emeralds, diamonds, diamonds, more diamonds, opals, watches—

‘Maurice?’

‘Coming.’ With reluctance, he closed the safe door. Two thousand pounds? This haul was worth twice, three, maybe four times that price. She was being reasonable, he supposed. The war was over, but jewellery would not feature on many shopping
lists just now. Luxury items were worth only what people would pay, and no-one wanted precious stones and metals, not yet. Still, parting with two thousand pounds was hardly cause for celebration. But Lillian Hardman was one of those women who always – well, usually got their own way. Even George hadn’t been able to face her, had chosen to clear off without a word.

Maurice patted his various pockets, accounted for cheque book, wallet and keys. He would co-operate one hundred per cent with Lily Hardman. After all, her situation cried out for pity and understanding. And there was nothing to lose, not while he held such magnificent collateral.

Katherine Walsh, her heart troubled almost to the point of tears, watched her life being packed away into suitcases and wooden chests. Mam and Dad were buying a partly furnished home, because an old chemist had died and his son had sold the house, together with some of its contents, to the Walshes. It was a nice, spacious semi-detached in Crosby, near Liverpool, or, as Mam was wont to put it, ‘halfway between Liverpool and Southport’. Southport was all right, Katherine supposed, though the sea seemed rather coy. On all the occasions when she had visited the seaside town, the water had been a mere grey ribbon stretched across the horizon. But the shops were nice, Mam thought.

There was the Mersey, too, a large river into whose mouth ships drifted every day when there wasn’t a war on, so the docks promised to be interesting once bomb damage had been righted. Dad had become quite excited, had started reading books about the cotton exchange and the wholesale fishmarket. But
Katherine was not fooled. Both senior Walshes were unsure about this move, and they compensated by being over-bright and rather too cheerful when discussing the future.

Chaplin huddled by his young mistress’s side. Something terrible was happening. His basket, which bore the marks of several weeks’ labour necessitated by teething, had been removed and shoved into the bowels of a large black vehicle. Ball, bone and blanket had suffered the same fate, so he was sticking by Katherine, who seemed the sanest of all the humans. The other two were running daft, shouting out to one another and wrapping pots in newspapers.

Katherine sat herself down in Uncle Danny’s rocker and stared at the moors. There would be no chance now, she told herself. Even when visiting Danny, she would never rediscover that special place, the little copse inside which she had met her double. Dad had refused to take her again, had ranted on about farmers shooting dogs, something to do with sheep-worrying.