The Corner House (26 page)

‘Are you all right, doctor?’

Was he? ‘I’m here because I found my absolute double blown to bits on the edge of a battlefield.’ He paused, inhaled. ‘My twin brother was in several pieces, most of which I managed to collect in various containers. It was an awful experience.’
Awful
did not begin to touch the hem.

Theresa gasped. ‘Oh, God. Dr Blake, I’m so sorry.’ She looked at him, feeling pity and something far deeper than simple empathy in her heart. He was a lovely man with a good, solid heart and, God help her, she loved him.

At first, she hadn’t really noticed him. He had been another jailor, another bloody nuisance who kept coming up with all the wrong answers. But oh, he was so sad, so frail around the eyes. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured. He was hiding here, just as she intended to conceal herself in a city that bordered the Mersey. The poor man had found a place that was an island in itself, a community set aside deliberately so that the rest of society would be safe from disease. Perversely, Stephen Blake had grabbed his own special sanctuary in this grey, miserable
commune where a plague named tuberculosis was reigning monarch.

He attempted a grin, but managed a pale imitation. ‘The world outside is just too large for me at the moment. I’m useful here, clearing up a small corner of mankind’s miseries.’

She waited for him to continue, saw the terrible apprehension in his face. The silence continued. ‘You’re a lovely man,’ she said eventually. There, it was said. No matter what she did, no matter where she went, Dr Blake would always know that she had cared about him. ‘And losing someone so close – that must have been unbearable.’ No wonder the pain showed. No wonder he had spent time walking about looking like an over-large and much-used tablecloth.

‘And you’re a beautiful woman.’ The first. The first real person who had been allowed to share Stephen’s misery was Theresa Nolan. She had tuberculosis of the lungs and a face as sweet as a spring morning. When had it happened? he wondered. When, exactly, had he fallen in love?

She shifted in her chair, suddenly aware of her attire. Up and about, she was allowed to wear a skirt and blouse. Was the neck buttoned properly? Did any cleavage show? She pulled tight the open cardigan and folded her arms across her chest. And why was she worrying so much these days? This man had seen her almost naked, had been present every time her bared chest had made contact with a cold contraption that penetrated flesh to photograph distressed innards. He was blushing. She was a woman and he was a man and he was … interested.

‘Did I embarrass you?’ he asked.

Theresa shook her head, knowing that the gesture
was a mimed untruth, because she was embarrassed by his tentative attentions – but flattered too.

‘You are a special woman, Theresa. Give yourself time and—’

‘And what?’ Her face glowed. ‘And I’ll get out of here fit and well?’

‘Better,’ he amended.

‘Better. Not well, never completely well, not after rheumatic fever.’

He waited for her to continue.

‘During my life, I’ve spent months in bed. I had to learn to walk all over again when I was a child. And now, this.’

Stephen’s hands were tight fists. He pressed one against his mouth for a second, as if he could not bear the idea of her distress. ‘Is Jessica well?’ He spoke as if his main aim was to fill the gap with some sort of inanity, anything to help the moment on its way.

She nodded. ‘She’s with Eva. Jimmy Coates is renting a room at Eva’s, too. They’re very good people. Between them, they’ll keep an eye on my daughter.’

Stephen Blake used a fingernail to scrape a bit of rice pudding from his stethoscope.

‘You’re still a bit of a sight at times,’ she advised him. ‘Better than you used to be,’ she added hastily.

‘Always was. I jump into things, you see.’

‘Yes. Like custard and gravy, usually head first, I’d say.’ They had both jumped. They had leapt like a pair of lemmings into territory as yet uncharted. She loved him. The thought of living in a world that contained him yet set him apart from her was so horribly miserable. Touch him, ordered an inner voice. Tell him, make the words, find the language.
Oh, how she would miss him, how she would grieve for him and for another innocent soul, her precious, beautiful little Jessica.

He sighed. Her pain was his pain; her lack of hope was communicating itself to him. Without even turning his head, he knew her facial expression. She was right, of course. He could not manage to remain tidy, was forever covered in drops of ink, spots of food, drips of tea and coffee. Now, he was experiencing a love which must, of necessity, become messy or remain unfulfilled and unconsummated. Had his heart chosen Theresa deliberately? A doctor was supposed to be immune to the charms of his patients. Had he picked on this woman, however unconsciously, so that he would be forced to maintain a distance?

Theresa, sensing his discomfort, kept her mouth closed. The atmosphere was tense, as if a message tried to write itself in the heavily disinfected air that divided them.

Stephen Blake knew that she had stiffened. Theresa was aware of him, then. Theresa was slender, perfectly built. Theresa’s strawberry-blonde hair was the result of an impossible alliance between ripe corn and the sweeter, softer fruits of summer. Theresa. That was a lovely name. Her eyes, wide-set and large, were framed by thick, brown lashes. She was so terribly, so dreadfully lovely. ‘I wish I could help you,’ he murmured. ‘I’d do anything.’

‘Yes.’

Yes, what? he wondered.

‘But you can’t,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re forced to keep me here.’

A house on the moors, he speculated stupidly. They could live together, sleep in separate rooms
until the bacterium had died its death. Theresa’s windows would need enlarging to let in the air, but nothing was absolutely impossible. He could bring her into the clinic, could treat her, take her home—

‘What are you thinking about?’ Afraid beyond measure of the answer, Theresa felt strangely compelled to pose the question. Something was happening to her – to him, as well.

‘I’m fond of you.’ He cleared a throat clogged by emotion.

‘I like you, too,’ she replied.

He turned and saw the heightened colour in her cheeks. ‘You’re so pretty,’ he whispered.

Stephen Blake was not pretty, but he had a wonderful voice and a kind face. She wanted to soothe his brow, to clean his clothes, to protect a heartbroken man whose brother had died, whose life had been cruelly altered by violence. ‘A bad thing happened to me, too,’ she ventured. Could she? An impatient voice in her head told her sharply, Yes, of course you can. So she did. ‘I was hurt by three men. Jessica came along nine months later.’

Stephen froze.

‘So my world got turned upside down, too.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he managed, his tongue stiffened by shock.

‘Wasn’t your fault.’

He didn’t understand rape, certainly was not prepared for the deep fury he felt now. ‘Do you know … them?’

‘Yes.’

Theresa had few visitors, so her parents must have died, he supposed. ‘Have you any family?’

‘I’ve brothers and sisters. But my father cast me out as a Jezebel. He’s dead at last. My sisters and
brothers didn’t bother to defy him, so they can keep their distance for ever as far as I’m concerned. There’s just me and Jessica.’

He waited, but received no further information. ‘How do you manage?’ he asked at last.

‘Their fathers have paid for my silence,’ she answered. ‘It’s called blackmail.’ Theresa swivelled in her chair, waited until he turned and looked into her eyes. ‘I’ll get over TB,’ she promised. ‘I have to. You see, doctor, the money isn’t enough. It doesn’t even take the edge off my fury. I hate those men.’

A thrill of unease crept up Stephen’s spine.

‘They altered my life. My daughter is a little creature who was put into this world by one of the three criminals who attacked me. You know, I think I’ve stayed alive just to have my day with them.’ Theresa blinked slowly, realizing what she had just done. No-one knew of her plans. She had not perfected them, was still unsure of the details. How could she trust this man? How could she fail to trust him? Her instincts were strong; this was a good person, a lovable human.

‘Revenge starts wars,’ he advised her.

‘I know.’ She was fully conversant with her own will, her own state of mind.

‘You might destroy yourself while seeking to destroy others. The good gets damaged along with the bad.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, some nasty things have to happen. And my life is already ruined, I suppose.’

He took her hand. ‘There can be a new beginning,’ he said.

The words were not lost on her. His caress, no more than a cradling of her fingers, made molten lava of her blood, sent it rushing crazily through her
veins. One word from her lips, and she could have this doctor, could cherish him, and the task would not be arduous. He was lonely, hurt, charitable. He was what Eva Harris might have termed ‘a gradely chap’. ‘There are things I’ve got to do,’ she muttered. ‘There’s no choice.’

‘Free will,’ he answered. ‘Always, always, there are options.’

Options? Where had her choices been that night? Theresa heard the drunken laughter echoing down the years, felt clammy, rough fingers on her body, took in the nauseating stench of breath tainted by vomit and ale. The agony was still with her, was stored, filed away for future reference, written in a clear and certain hand. Nothing would distract her. No flirting for Theresa Nolan, no marriage, no lover. ‘I have made my decision,’ she said.

‘You could change your mind.’

‘No.’ That monosyllable seemed to seal her fate, because she saw the disappointment in her companion’s eyes. He released his hold on her, allowing her hand to join its partner in her lap. Dr Stephen Blake could never want a woman who lived for vengeance.

‘I must get on,’ he mumbled, stethoscope swinging as he rose to his feet.

Theresa smiled vaguely, nodded, bit back tears as he walked away. That had been just another silly moment, anyway, she informed herself. No-one fell in love in a series of split seconds while discussing sputum and X-rays. No-one could possibly want a man in a soup-stained shirt, or a woman who manufactured germs inside her chest. So. She had to go, had to get out now.

Stephen Blake turned and looked at the woman
he desired so much. As still as a painted Madonna, she sat, hands folded, face serene, feet angled to one side, slender ankles crossed. She was waiting for life to start up again, waiting to get out and avenge herself. Although he shivered, he could not bring himself to blame her. It occurred to him that he might have offered help if she had asked. But no. A doctor did not destroy. He had put himself through rigorous training in order to maintain life, not to make others suffer.

As he walked on, the picture of a bloodied field entered his mind. If he had found his brother’s killer, what might he have perpetrated? He shook his head, went to a cabinet and picked out a file. In Room Eleven (Single) a man lay dying, lungs hacked to pieces, throat cut to accommodate a breathing tube, wife and children weeping at home. There was work to be done.

‘There are two choices, Monty. Either you take me with you, or I walk out of here and grab my own chances.’

‘That’s bloody blackmail.’

‘Yes.’ She was good at blackmail … ‘Look, I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll sweep floors, clean windows … Why are you laughing?’

‘You’re not fit.’ But he knew of a job, one that would be less than arduous, a cash-in-hand and no-questions-asked position that might just suit the determined little madam.

Sensing that he was weakening, Theresa maintained a difficult silence. She was desperate enough to know when to shut up.

‘You want to get away from Bolton,’ he stated slowly. ‘But to stay near enough to your daughter
so that you can see her from time to time.’ He walked to the window. ‘I help to run a place for retired sailors,’ he told her. ‘Even though I’ve been stuck in here for months, the job’s still there for me. It’s in Waterloo, the north end of Liverpool.’

She held her breath, held her tongue.

‘They need a housekeeper.’ He swivelled and faced her. ‘Somebody discreet and sensible. It’s a charity, run by business folk, lawyers, doctors, the police force.’

It sounded ideal. Housekeepers were elevated people, folk who were often strangers to dusters, mops and scouring powders.

Monty sat down. ‘I’m staying here through Christmas,’ he said. ‘I might as well. So, while there’s a bit of time, I want you to think about this job before you snatch at it. It’s not as straightforward as it sounds.’

‘Oh?’ The syllable emerged as an excited squeak.

He nodded, his eyes fixed on her. ‘There are a couple of … a few girls upstairs.’ He pulled at his collar. ‘They entertain gentlemen.’

Theresa swallowed. Girls? What sort of girls?

‘You’ll need time to think,’ said Monty.

‘No.’ Beggars could not be choosers. Hadn’t she decided already that any kind of work would do? ‘The pay?’ she managed to ask.

‘It’s good,’ he told her. ‘Eight pounds a week with all found.’

All found? Eight pounds, no bills to pay, no food to buy? If Theresa survived for a couple of years … She calculated. Three hundred pounds a year might be saved, even if she allowed herself a modest income from the spoils. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said. Prostitutes were no problem, she insisted inwardly. They
probably saved other women from all kinds of attacks.

‘Unless it has already gone to someone else.’

She jumped up. ‘Ask Dr Blake if you can use the phone privately, Monty. That job is mine.’

He was as sober as a judge, as wise as Solomon before offering to cleave that baby into two halves in order to discover its true mother. Along the corridor, Bing Crosby sang of children listening for bells on Santa’s sleigh. ‘Come here,’ ordered Dr Stephen Blake. He wore a new suit and a shirt white enough to hurt the eye even in this darkened room.

Mesmerized, limb and nerve loosened after one tot of Navy rum, Theresa obeyed her master. Christmas was happening somewhere else, not here, not in this spartan cubicle with its narrow bed, hard chairs and chipped, paper-strewn desk. Yet she would not have lost this moment for anything, least of all for the privilege of taking part in Williamson’s festive cheer.