The Corner House (38 page)

Theresa found herself smiling. Even in the midst of the strangest conversation, Jessica’s appetite remained unaffected.

Hardman’s Hides was set back from the road, though the stench it produced reached its tentacles across several streets. Depending on the wind’s direction, windows in areas surrounding the factory would be closed in the finest weather, whole blocks of half-suffocated people enduring heat until the wind turned.

Christmas was finished, and Theresa thanked God that the celebrations were over and done with. It hadn’t been easy, but Theresa had managed to say nothing contentious to Eva. Having escaped for the day from View Street, Theresa stood on Doffcocker Lane and congratulated herself on her performance during the festive season. She had been pleasant to Eva, had played charades, Ludo and Monopoly with good grace, had washed dishes, sung carols, had sat through midnight mass at Sts Peter and Paul.

Now, she was supposed to be house-hunting. She stood opposite the factory where Ged Hardman and his famous mother had supposedly performed miracles after the departure of George Senior and his secretary. A feeling that she was being watched made Theresa look around, but she was alone on the lane. Directly across from the tannery, there were no houses. The land near which she stood was scrubby and covered in discarded prams, mattresses and car tyres.

She crossed over and walked along the perimeter fence, realizing with a shudder why she had experienced the sensation of being observed. Into knotholes of the wooden fence, the eyes of dead animals
had been wedged, probably by apprentices in need of distraction. From almost every aperture, the sad, brown eye of a departed cow accused all who passed this way.

She stepped through the gateway, her mind strangely calm, her heartbeat steady and sure. Hardman’s, attached to an abattoir owned by a wholesale butcher, had its own skinners’ yard. Some small attempt had been made to conceal the area, which lay to the right of the works’ entrance, but a low brick wall did little to shield the eye or soothe the soul of any visitor. A river of blood, made thicker by icy air, made its dark, sticky way towards the main courtyard.

Mesmerized by horror, Theresa stepped towards the gore. On this sad, barren lane, abattoir and tannery, separate businesses, had enjoyed a mutually dependent relationship for many years. Huge barrels of entrails spilled their contents onto paving slabs. Butchers’ vans, their rear doors open, received the skinned carcasses of animals, raucous shouts and ribald comments accompanying the recently killed beasts on their final journey. Theresa could smell the blood, the discarded guts, the putrefaction. In summer, she could not have stood here.

‘Can I help you?’

She swivelled and found herself face to face with a middle-aged woman in a fur coat. This was the notorious Lily Hardman, all subdued make-up, mink and good shoes. ‘Good morning,’ Theresa replied. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to live, but it won’t be round here, near all this.’

Lily Hardman’s eyes narrowed. ‘It has to be done,’ she snapped. ‘People want leather, therefore we produce it.’

‘So I see.’ Theresa, who enjoyed a beef dinner, decided there and then that she could not eat dead cow ever again.

‘Well, unless you’ve business here, you’d better go. I can see you’ve no stomach for tanning.’

Theresa ran an eye over Ged Hardman’s mother. ‘I remember you,’ she said softly. ‘Your husband ran off. I was very upset for you at the time. Then I went to Liverpool to make my own fortune. I had two or three shops,’ she said. Lying was strangely easy in the presence of Mrs Hardman. ‘And now, I’m looking to invest my capital in business, as well as in property.’

Lillian Hardman, a pillar of the community, had more than atoned for the lapses of morality which had resulted in George Hardman’s departure from these parts. She did not want this pale young woman’s sympathy. ‘We are always interested in expansion,’ she replied carefully. ‘Our bank manager is always willing to back us, since we have such an excellent record.’

Theresa gazed around the large premises. ‘Well,’ she said, a forced smile lightening the tone. ‘I suppose you won’t be needing my bit of money, will you?’

Lily shrugged. ‘That depends what you want. I’m not looking for shareholders. My son and I own the works outright, and the bank is there if and when we need to borrow. However, if your required rate of interest was reasonable, we could use another shed for chroming.’

‘Chroming?’

‘It’s a quick way of tanning.’ Lily hesitated. Why was this young woman here? What did she really want? ‘You must have a reason for choosing Hardman’s,’ she added.

Theresa inclined her head as if deep in thought. ‘I’m here by accident,’ she explained. ‘I was seeing a house a few streets away, then, as I passed, I saw Ged’s works.’

‘Ah. So you know my son?’

‘I used to. We were friends long ago.’

Lily bit into her lower lip. Ged was a great source of disappointment to his mother. Now in his early thirties, he showed no sign of settling down, seeming to prefer the company of his friends in public houses. This girl appeared rather frail, but was she going to be the one who could forgive Ged’s facial scars, his drinking, his stupidity? ‘Are you married?’ she asked.

Theresa shook her head. ‘My fiancé died,’ she said sweetly.

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘So I threw myself into my work. Now I’m home and I’m visiting old friends.’

‘And your name?’

‘Mary. Mary Palmer.’

Lily was on her way out to the hairdresser’s. A position like hers called for perfect grooming at all times. ‘Go in,’ she said. ‘Find Ged – he’ll be in his office. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

When the woman had left the yard, Theresa made her way into a place in which a variety of stenches battled to claim the contents of her stomach. Bravely, she fought nausea as she walked past a fleshing station where men with double-handed knives shaved reddened tissue from the underside of hides. The stink of lime mingled with odours given off by gallons of brine in which skins soaked themselves towards cleanliness. Dripping bundles of half-tanned leathers sat on the edges of lime pits. It
was, Theresa judged, one of the most disgusting places in the civilized world.

She followed a series of signs until she reached the offices. The second door bore the legend: ‘G
EORGE HARDMAN, MANAGING DIRECTOR
’. The first and larger office was labelled: ‘L
ILLIAN
H
ARDMAN
, C
HAIRMAN
’. The masculinity of the title suited Lily, Theresa decided. Lillian Hardman was probably the best man here. She knocked on Ged Hardman’s door.

‘Come,’ boomed the incumbent.

Theresa inhaled deeply before opening the door. With her hair rinsed towards auburn and thick make-up covering her face, Theresa knew that she looked nothing like her old self.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

He was so ugly. His deeply scored face bore a resemblance to magnified pigskin, though its colour was paler than the lightest hue of any natural leather. He sat behind a mahogany desk, its surface clear except for a square blotter and a couple of pens. ‘Mr Hardman?’ she asked. If she acted as if she didn’t know him, her visit would be far more effective.

‘Yes?’ The face was familiar, though he could not put a name to it.

‘Your mother suggested that I should talk to you.’

‘Oh, I see.’ The woman was thin, but quite a good looker.

‘About investment. I used to live in Bolton, but I’ve been away for some time. I understand that cotton’s future is uncertain, so I’m looking for an alternative. Just short-term, you understand, until I find my feet again.’ She sat down and crossed ankles she knew to be perfect. ‘My experience has been in
retail. We could, perhaps, discuss outlets for leather goods.’

He lit a cigarette, continuing to look her over. She had good legs, a neat figure and a face that was almost heart-shaped. ‘Go on,’ he invited.

‘Well, I haven’t thought it through, not really. Mrs Hardman was talking about expanding here, something about chroming sheds. We could discuss several possibilities, I suppose.’ She was so grateful for her Liverpool years. In the city, she had learned to talk with all kinds of people, had negotiated prices, had dealt with old sailors, prostitutes, tradespeople. She was, finally, a woman of the world.

He smiled at her. ‘How about a cup of tea?’

‘That would be lovely.’

He pressed a bell-push on his desk and barked his order when a young lad appeared. ‘Tea for both of us and don’t spill any.’

Theresa waited for the door to close. ‘My name is Mary. Mary Palmer.’

He searched the recesses of his mind, but found no purchase on the name. ‘Where are you living?’ he asked.

‘With a friend. It’s a temporary arrangement.’

Ged took a deep draught of Capstan Full Strength, coughed, wondered whether to go for the kill. ‘I could … show you round the town, take you for a drink.’

Theresa awarded him a broad smile. ‘That would be lovely,’ she told him. ‘If you have a friend, I can bring my friend, make an evening of it. I seem to remember a couple of nice little pubs on Deansgate – the Hen and Chickens? The King’s Head?’

Ged considered this suggestion. The friend would have to put up with Roy Chorlton, but Roy
was better than nobody. ‘Where shall I pick you up?’ he asked.

‘I’ll meet you in the King’s Head. Shall we say eight o’clock on Saturday night?’

Ged agreed, telling himself that Teddy Betteridge could play gooseberry or go home. Teddy’s wife never came out, preferring to drink stout from the outdoor licence with her cronies and neighbours.

The tea arrived and Ged poured, making sure that Mary Palmer’s did not spill into the saucer. She was the best thing that had happened for some considerable time. He straightened his tie, sipped tea and made small talk. With any luck, he’d be the toast of the King’s Head come Saturday.

The King’s Head was packed, temporarily, more tightly than a sardine tin. There would have been no room for oil or tomato sauce, mused Ged Hardman as he wedged himself into a chair at the usual table near the window. Roy was late, as was Mary Palmer. Ged almost ground his teeth with impatience; the woman was probably all my eye and Betty Martin, somebody who got a lift out of leading men on, too much talk and no delivery date.

Above all things, Ged wanted to be married. A nice young woman on his arm would boost his confidence, give him a reason to stop boozing and to start living. It wasn’t fair. He knew other blokes who had suffered with acne, but none had a face like his. If he could only find somebody – anybody – Mother could get in her Bentley and drive to hell on her own.

The solid mass of people began to disperse. They would be going to the Lido or the Odeon to see some war film or other. On Saturday nights, most folk didn’t bother with the B movies. They had a few drinks and a laugh before dashing off to munch popcorn and butterscotch through the main feature. It was almost ten minutes past eight, and there was
still no sign of Mary Palmer or her friend. And where the hell was Chorlton? It wasn’t as if the tailor got many chances to spend an evening with a couple of young women. Like Ged, Roy was a reject, something that should have gone in the entrails bucket with all the other mess.

‘What will you have?’

Ged looked up. ‘Hello, Roy. A pint of mild and a small Scotch, please.’

‘No sign of the ladies?’

Ged shrugged. ‘They might have had a better offer,’ he answered gloomily.

Roy, who thought this only too likely, drifted off towards the bar. He hoped with all his heart that the women would keep their distance. Rejection terrified him beyond measure. He knew well enough that he was no oil painting, so why invite more pain into his narrow, humdrum life?

Ged drummed his fingers on the table, then indulged in a little deft juggling with cardboard beer mats. Mother had laughed, of course. ‘She wants to talk about leather, dear, about getting a foothold in Bolton. So please don’t get your hopes up …’ She was an evil bitch, one who kept a tight rein on money. Mother never told him much, seldom inviting him to partake in any real business. Managing Director? He signed a few orders, did a sum or two, then spent the rest of the day playing with paperclips and appeasing his bookmaker.

Roy returned and placed the drinks on the table. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you been feeling all right?’ he asked, the tone falsely nonchalant.

‘So-so,’ replied Ged after a draught of ale.

Roy looked over his shoulder. Having delved into a medical encyclopedia, he was uncomfortable in
more ways than one. ‘I’m having a bit of trouble down below,’ he whispered.

Ged studied his companion, then drank some more. ‘Do you mean a sort of burning?’

Roy nodded.

‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed the tanner. ‘I’ve been a bit like that, a bit sore.’

Each man stared blankly into the other’s eyes. They had the clap. Betteridge, too, had been with them when a bright-faced Liverpool girl had walked into their lives, into this very same inn. ‘Bloody hell,’ repeated Ged. ‘What the flaming Nora do we do now?’

Roy wiped his lips with a handkerchief. A meticulous man, he could not bear the idea of any kind of dirt. The knowledge that he had been with a whore sat uncomfortably in a compartment of his well-disciplined brain. ‘There’s a VD clinic at the back of the Town Hall,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t like to be seen walking through that door. We shall have to visit our doctors.’

Ged pondered. ‘Won’t it go away on its own?’

‘With our luck, probably not.’ Using the same square of cotton, Roy mopped his brow. Here he sat in the middle of winter, a draught blowing under the door, yet he was sweating like a pig. ‘I think I have a temperature,’ he grumbled.

‘Dirty little cow,’ snapped Ged Hardman. ‘No wonder she left Liverpool. She’s decided to spread a little happiness round here for a change.’

Roy bowed his head, ashamed of himself. He could scarcely bear to remember what had happened. Like men in a bus queue, he and Betteridge had waited their turn in the bathroom of this seedy old pub, had used the girl, had paid their money.
They had got a little more than they’d bargained for, it seemed. ‘What about Teddy’s wife?’ he asked.