The Corner House (36 page)

‘Yes, Mother.’

Theresa could not manage to analyse her reasons, but her faith in Maggie was implicit. Maggie was going to take charge of Jessica. Eva, that nice little body, the one who would help anyone in a crisis, had turned out to be a liar. This street-woman, who had performed with and for hundreds of men, would be a great guardian for Jessica. Maggie was as straight as a die. In a strange way, Maggie was a lady, because she could alter herself to fit the requirements of almost any situation.

As if reading Theresa’s thoughts, the older woman spoke up. ‘I’ve never had much to do with kids.’

‘I know that.’

Maggie sighed sadly. ‘Am I fit after the life I’ve led?’

The life Maggie had led was part of her value. Theresa saw Maggie as an honest, God-fearing woman whose choices had been diminished by overcrowding and a severe lack of education. ‘You are a very decent woman,’ said Theresa. ‘You’d have made
a good mother, but I’m telling you now, love, that you can’t be hanging about in purple for the rest of your days. There are other colours, you know, like green and blue. And no, you will not have a bad effect on my daughter.’ Theresa realized that the conversation was deliberately light, as if neither woman could face up to the gravity of their situation. Theresa was feeling like death warmed up, while Maggie was preparing to dash off into the unknown just for the sake of security.

‘Does young Jessica like purple?’

Theresa dropped into a chair. ‘We’d best stop messing about,’ she said. ‘This raid could happen any minute.’ Maggie would live in Jessica’s house. Maggie would be safe. Theresa Nolan had begun to accept the fact that she loved Maggie like an older sister. ‘We’ve no time to hang about,’ she added grimly.

Maggie agreed. ‘It’s poor old Monty I feel sorry for. He’s been at the beck and bloody call of his so-called masters ever since he stopped seafaring. I mean, he could end up in the flaming bridewell. Can’t we tell him on our way out?’

Theresa was adamant. ‘People have disappeared from this house, Maggie. Who’s going to be doing the raiding when half the police force use the place as a recreation ground? Have the police turned on themselves all of a sudden? It’s all a mystery to me. Perhaps they’ll bring in the Cheshire force.’

Maggie threw the garter across the room. ‘Bull’s-eye,’ she yelled when it circled a figure of the Blessed Virgin. ‘Shall I go down and pussyfoot round Monty, see if he knows anything?’ She didn’t want to leave him in a mess. ‘He’s a nice feller,’ she concluded.

Theresa shook her head in despair. Monty and
Maggie fought like cat and dog – their feelings for each other were powerful. ‘It’s too dangerous, Maggie,’ she said. Both women were aware that their bosses were quick-minded, two-faced men with good jobs, well-dressed wives and an eye for a quick return on investments. Nor were they immune to the so-called delights on offer upstairs. ‘How can the police investigate themselves?’ she asked again.

Maggie shrugged. ‘Somebody must have squealed. Or the boys in blue could be doing the dirty on the rest of the committee, damning everybody except themselves. But I wouldn’t be surprised what you think is true and another force comes in to do the deed. It’s time for a shake-up.’ She drew a hand across her forehead. ‘Did little Maria get back from Bolton?’

Theresa nodded.

‘What happened?’

‘Don’t ask.’ Maria was in a clinic on Parliament Street, a place that was treated by many working women as a holiday resort. They got a good rest, three square meals and plenty of company of their own kind.

‘I wonder what’ll happen to the girls?’ Maggie was fond of her protégées. ‘Still, we can’t do nothing, can we? They’ll be loaded in a cattle van and—’

‘Don’t,’ said Theresa.

‘Ah.’ Maggie hugged a lilac cushion. ‘Conscience troubling you? Does this mean I might not get charged with accessory to murder? Will you throw that bloody gun away and behave?’

Theresa smiled to herself. The incubation period of gonorrhoea was notoriously short. By now, all three would be noticing discomfort when passing water. Other symptoms did not bear thinking about,
but they were nasty enough to make the most patient of men curse and swear. Left untreated, the disease had massive potential, including nasty sores, arthritis and even meningitis.

‘Theresa?’

‘What?’

‘I’d sooner face a raid than watch you go down for murder.’

Exasperated, Theresa jumped to her feet. ‘Listen, Maggie. I’ve not got long to live. My heart’s all over the place – it keeps missing beats, then it rattles along like a fifty-year-old steam engine with indigestion. I’ve saved nearly every penny of my wages for years. You are going to have the use of a house for the rest of your life, plus a bit of a wage for food and bills. You can get a little cleaning job, look after my daughter and—’

‘And where will you be?’

‘Heaton Cemetery.’ Theresa raised a hand. ‘Don’t start on about how I might get better. Come to Bolton and be safe, or stay here – it’s all the same to me.’ It wasn’t all the same to her. She didn’t want Jessica to stay with Eva. What Eva had perpetrated was not forgivable. And the thought of Ruth getting her claws into Jessica didn’t bear consideration.

‘I’m coming with you,’ muttered Maggie.

The door opened a crack. ‘Are you decent?’

Maggie jumped up and threw a blanket over her packing. ‘Come in, Monty.’

He entered, looking over his shoulder as he closed the door.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Maggie. ‘You look like you’ve lost a shilling and found a bottle top.’

The man shambled to the centre of Maggie’s gaudy boudoir. ‘The raid’s tomorrow night,’ he said.

Maggie and Theresa exchanged glances.

‘Have you finished packing?’ he asked.

‘Bloody hell,’ cursed the older woman. ‘He always knows everything, this bugger,’ she informed Theresa. ‘If a mouse in the cellar farts, Monty can hear it from the attic.’

Monty’s sombre face twitched, threatened to burst into a grin, though the promised smile failed to arrive.

‘I hope you won’t use language like that in front of Jessica,’ Theresa told Maggie sternly. ‘I don’t want her growing up with a mouth like a sewer outlet.’

‘Can I come with you?’ Monty asked. ‘I need a safe place, see, because anything could happen round here, like.’

Maggie closed her eyes in despair. She was taking off with a potential murderess and a man who would be on the run from some very dangerous people. ‘You think I’ve had a life so far?’ she asked, the question directed towards the ceiling. ‘Well, St Jude, it’s only just beginning – you’ve seen nothing yet.’ She opened her eyes. ‘Jude’s the saint for hopeless cases and you two are the most hopeless I’ve come across.’

Monty shrugged. ‘I might be hopeless, Maggie, but at least I’ve got a van with a full tank and I can be ready to take off by two o’clock in the morning. So you’ve four hours to pack your belongings.’

Theresa considered the situation. She had planned to go to Eva’s, get through Christmas without mentioning anything to Eva, then, after the festivities, she would buy a house outright with the money she’d saved for Jessica’s future. ‘Three of us?’ she asked. ‘Three? There’s only one spare room at Eva’s.’

‘I’ll sleep on a floor,’ volunteered Monty.

Theresa considered that. ‘If you can put up with somebody strange, you can stop at our Ruth’s. She’s only a few doors away from Eva’s and she’s got the space since Irene left home.’ What was she saying? There could be a manhunt organized by tomorrow. ‘They’ll know we’ve cleared off on purpose,’ she announced.

‘Which “they”?’ Maggie asked. ‘The goodies or the baddies? There’ll be the committee, which is full of police, then there’ll be the good police looking for the bad police and—’

‘And the good police and the bad police will all be looking for us,’ interspersed Monty.

‘We can’t win,’ moaned Maggie.

‘Yes we can.’ At last, Monty smiled. ‘We’re immune.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ answered Maggie. ‘Who or what are we immune to?’

‘We’re goodies,’ he replied. ‘The new Chief Constable himself has given his word. And he’s a goody.’

Theresa coughed in order to get some attention and the chance to put in a word or two. ‘How do you know the CC is a goody?’

‘Because he’s my nephew.’ Monty’s backbone was suddenly straight. ‘And it’s not just the brothel side of things. There’ll be fraud as well. I’ve waited years for this, begging and scraping, yes, sir, no, sir. When my sister’s lad joined the Liverpool force, I joined as well.’ He tucked his thumbs into his braces. ‘Not official, as you might say, but I have been working undercover, finding out about the accounts, expenses and all that. You’d be surprised how little money goes to the old sailors.’

Theresa, who had paid food bills for years, was not
at all surprised. She was used to making a pound do the work of a fiver. ‘So, we have to get out in the middle of tonight.’

‘That’s right.’ Monty eyed Maggie. He and she had been arguing for years, sounding off about religion, politics, the qualities of brown and white vinegars, the best way to clean dentures.

Maggie stared back at him. ‘Bolton won’t be big enough for both of us.’

‘Biggest town in England,’ Theresa informed the pair. ‘And it’s in a beautiful setting, moors and farms.’

Monty worried about Theresa. He had picked her up from a hospital, and she had seldom seemed well. Would she go back for treatment? Would she get that terrible cough dealt with? ‘I’ll have to phone my nephew,’ he said importantly. ‘To tell him where I’ll be. Heads are going to roll.’ He swept an eye about Maggie’s room. ‘You’ll be glad to leave all this purple behind, I suppose.’ He ducked as a violet cushion spun past his head. ‘Missed,’ he said smartly as he left the room.

Maggie collapsed in an untidy heap on the already disordered bed. ‘I’m sorry, Theresa,’ she said flatly. ‘But I can’t do it.’

Theresa was depending on Maggie. ‘Stay, then,’ she replied with a coolness she did not feel.

‘I’m not staying. I’m not finishing up in prison, not for nobody. But I can’t leave without giving my girls a chance. I’m going to put notes under the doors. It’s all right – I won’t sign my name. I’ll just put “raid Friday night”. That way, they’ll be able to make their minds up about stopping or going.’

‘Please yourself.’ Theresa felt the exhaustion
creeping into her bones like a form of paralysis. ‘I’m packed,’ she informed her friend. ‘And I need to put my head on a pillow for an hour or two. Will you wake me?’

‘Course I will.’ Maggie stood up, smoothed her wayward hair. ‘Hey – don’t go dying tonight, will you? Only you’re the navigator, so we need you.’

Theresa allowed a pale imitation of a smile to visit her lips. ‘No, Maggie. You and Bernard Walsh’ll be steering my daughters through life, I hope. As for me – I’ve other fish to fry.’

‘Theresa, I’m warning you—’

‘Well, don’t. I’ll do what wants doing, so save your breath.’

Maggie stared out into the Mersey’s darkness for at least half an hour after Theresa’s departure. The river glinted occasionally when cloud allowed a quarter-moon to shed a little light on its still, glassy subject. Maggie remembered war and storm, high days and holidays, children playing on sand, crippled sailors gazing across to the horizon where river became salt. The Mersey was in Maggie Courtney’s veins. Liverpool was her home, her home by choice, the city in which she had intended to live out her days. Ireland was a mere memory: a crowded house, a series of unhappy shadows.

She shortened her sight, watched Monty as he placed boxes in the van. Soon, it would be time to go. Maggie, as tough as old boots, as wilful as an over-worked Blackpool donkey, sobbed and moaned until she felt empty and chilled. She remembered her mam, her sisters and brothers, remembered a drunken sot of a father who used his daughters when his wife wore out. Mam’s funeral, her older sister’s suicide, three brothers running off to sea. ‘I do
understand, Theresa,’ she mouthed. ‘But oh, God, I wish I didn’t.’

Jessica’s excitement was at fever pitch. Mam was coming home for ever. There was going to be a real Christmas, not just an early pretend one. Then, once Christmas was over, Mam and Jessica would be buying a house where they could live together as a proper family.

‘Jessica?’

‘Yes, Auntie Eva?’

‘Will you run down to the butcher’s for some pork sausage? Then call in at the chemist’s for Jimmy’s medicine.’

Humming with excitement, Jessica set off for the shops.

Eva Coates dropped into a chair. She took the letter from her apron pocket and read it yet again. Theresa’s job in Liverpool had reached its terminus. She would be coming back, probably with a woman called Maggie and with the definite intention of buying a house for Jessica. Theresa, Jessica and this Maggie person would be living together. Jessica would continue at the grammar school, so the house would have to be in Bolton.

Eva folded the single sheet and placed it on the table. She was scared, frightened almost to death of losing Jessica. For more than half a decade, Jessica had been a full-time part of Eva’s life. Eva’s home would become quieter, older, without the presence of Theresa Nolan’s daughter. An unhappy victim of circumstance, Eva stared into the fire and tried to count her blessings. She had Jimmy, who worked hard and made a decent living. She had a roof over her head, ample food in her stomach, new table and
chairs handmade by her husband. But none of this mattered, because the child she had loved, the girl who had almost become her own, was about to be stolen from her.

An unease slid its cool fingers along the length of Eva’s spine. Her girl was being stolen. No, no, this was not theft, because Theresa was Jessica’s true parent. But it felt like theft, stung like theft. Eva’s hackles were rising. She wanted to deny Theresa, wanted to accuse her of being tubercular and too unhealthy to take Jessica. She wanted … she wanted to hang on to the girl, to deprive the mother, to carry on being Jessica’s guardian. Perhaps God was getting His own back by punishing Eva for separating twins. She had taken a child; now, a child was to be taken from her.

Eva calmed herself, allowing the pain to flow over her. The letter. There was something missing, something unsaid. She snatched it up, raked her eyes over it once again. There was no thank you. Theresa always thanked Eva for taking such good care of Jessica. But this note was a set of bare bones, a statement of intent, no more. Perhaps it had been written in a hurry. But no, at the bottom, Theresa had simply written her name. In the past, it had been ‘love, Theresa’. On this occasion, the love had been kept out of it.