The Corner House (48 page)

Danny closed his mouth and grinned sheepishly. ‘I’m a lucky man,’ he said gruffly. ‘There could be wasps and all.’

Both women knew exactly what Danny meant. Pauline kissed him. Edna, who never cried, wiped a bit of wetness from an eye before brewing the tea. She was the lucky one, because Danny was a saint.

Bernard stretched his legs and glared at John Povey. ‘I wish you’d never got me going on this flaming game.’ He pushed away the backgammon board. No matter how hard Bernard worked at it, John always seemed to have the edge. ‘As for chess – give it a rest. Bloody kings and castles – I don’t know whether I’m coming or going, there’s that many rules.’

‘Never mind, you’ll get your own back on Saturday afternoon.’ Saturday afternoon was golf time. Bernard Walsh had developed a near-perfect swing, while his delicacy of touch with a putter was becoming legendary at the West Lancashire Golf Club.

Bernard laughed. Both men closed their shops at one o’clock each Saturday in order to get a round at the club. John was hopeless. He wielded a five iron as
if attempting to gain a part in some Errol Flynn movie, all swash and buckle. With a putter, he could miss the shortest hole, cursing and swearing at his own lack of co-ordination. What amazed Bernard was that this pharmacist, who could mix a perfect potion right down to the tiniest granule, was unable to judge a distance of five or six inches between ball and target.

‘I’ve bought a house,’ rumbled John, his voice hoarse with laughter.

‘Have you, now?’ The idea of John Povey moving house was a sobering one. He led a life of extravagant eccentricity, providing meals of fish, chicken and minced beef to a nomadic tribe of cats about whose number he was never certain. His house was a monument to chaos, its rooms crammed with books, bottles, bunsen burners, crates of notes. John was writing three books on various aspects of pharmacy, many pages of which were jumbled into one cardboard container. Sometimes he rescued sheets of vital information which had doubled as mats underneath cat dishes. John Povey would eventually invent a momentous formula on a piece of paper which he would lose. ‘When are you moving?’

‘I’m not.’

Bernard chuckled. ‘I see. One house for you and
Paradise Lost
, another for the cats.’

John’s laughter boomed again. His friend always referred to the unfinished and mixed-up manuscripts as
Paradise Lost
. ‘No, I’ve bought the Corner House. An investment, I suppose. I shall let it out to young people. It needs young ones.’

Bernard agreed. The house on the corner of Crosby’s Northern Road was like no other on earth.
Built in the 1920s to the specifications of a retiring sea-captain, it was a happy mix of stuccoed walls, Spanish galleon windows and Virginia creeper. ‘I’ve never been in, you know. Liz has wanted to look inside ever since we came here, but the old man’s been too ill.’

‘He saw ninety-five, though,’ commented John. ‘With my help, of course.’

‘Of course,’ echoed Bernard. ‘Good job you weren’t teaching him golf.’ He walked to the window and peered through darkness at the house across the way. Liz regarded it as some kind of magic place, the sort of house that should appear in children’s fairy tales. ‘I suppose it’s romantic,’ the fishmonger conceded. ‘He loved his wife, the old chap. After she died, he drove her Humber every Sunday to keep it alive. Till he lost his sight.’ He remembered seeing the captain sitting in his living room, a huge magnifier balanced in front of a fourteen-inch television set.

‘Did they pull the flag down to half-mast when he died?’ asked John.

‘Yes, they did.’ The captain’s flagpole was a talking point. He had flown the Union Flag high on the King’s birthdays, had lowered it for more sombre occasions. ‘He liked his garden, too.’ There was clematis, there were laurels, lilac trees, roses. ‘So who are you going to put in there?’

‘Pharmacy students.’

Bernard swung round. ‘What? Folk like you but younger?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘We shall all be blown to kingdom come.’

‘No, blowing up is chemistry.’

‘Are you sure? Because it looks like there’s been a
fair few explosions in your house, especially in that back kitchen.’

John wore an expression of pretended hurt. ‘Listen, Bernard. It may look a mess to you, but I can lay my hand on anything I need just like that.’ He snapped his fingers.

‘What? You’ve been looking for the bottom half of your best suit since last April.’

‘Anything important, I mean.’ John looked at his watch, checking it against the grandfather in a corner. Liz would be home soon. She was at church, up to her eyes in the Young Wives, showing them how to sew and knit. She would also be telling them a few jokes and tales which would not necessarily conform with the teaching of the Holy Mother Church. When she came home, there would be the obligatory cocoa and chat, then John would drive home to cats, scribblings and the inevitable search for tomorrow’s cleanish shirt.

Bernard heard it first, a strange groaning sound, followed by a muffled cry. He put his head on one side, listened hard. The dog lifted his chin and growled deep in his throat.

‘It’s Katherine,’ John said.

‘No, she’s asleep,’ replied Bernard. He got up and went to the bottom of the stairs. John was right. The unmistakable sound of sobbing floated down into the hall. Bernard ran to his daughter’s side, John hot on his heels.

She was sitting up in bed, her face devoid of expression. ‘So cold,’ she said.

‘I’ll get her another blanket.’ Bernard turned to leave the room.

‘She’s fast asleep,’ said John. ‘Look.’ He waved his
hand in front of Katherine’s eyes. She neither flinched nor focused.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ Bernard was suddenly frightened.

John perched on the edge of the bed and took Katherine’s hand. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked softly.

Still staring straight ahead, the girl spoke. ‘So cold. My ankle hurts. The grass is all slippy with the frost.’

‘Did you fall?’

She nodded.

‘Where are you?’

‘Here. I’m here. I’ll bring the dog when I get it. For a walk. My ankle hurts so much. At the bottom of the slope.’

John looked at Bernard. ‘I’ll bet you a pound to a penny that something’s happened to the other one.’

‘Jessica.’ The name, whispered by Bernard, was not a question.

The chemist tried again. ‘Is there a name for the place where you fell?’

‘Jolly,’ announced Katherine.

‘It’s the Jolly Brows,’ Bernard said. Without hesitation, he fled from the room, two things on his mind. Firstly, he must do what he could for Katherine’s sister. Secondly, he had to do it before Liz got home.

Pauline answered the phone, listened to Bernard’s gibberish. ‘I’ll get Danny—’

‘No! Liz’ll be back in a minute. Just send Danny to see Theresa Nolan – she’s at Eva’s up View Street.’

‘Danny says they’ve moved to Tonge Moor Road.’ Pauline managed to squeeze these words in.

‘Tell him the Jolly Brows. Can you remember that?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I can hear Liz coming,’ he said. ‘Now, listen. Katherine’s having a nightmare. We think Jessica’s hurt and that she’s somewhere on the Jolly Brows – near a slope.’

Pauline gazed at the dead instrument in her hand. This was crackers. Katherine was dreaming in Crosby, Liverpool, so her sister, in Bolton, was in trouble. This was a sister she had never known, one she had met just briefly and by accident. Was Bernard on some funny pills administered by his friend, the chemist?

Danny came in. He had been sitting by Jonathan’s cot, had been watching the sleep of the truly innocent. ‘Who was that? Why are you staring at the phone?’

‘The world’s finally gone mad.’ She told him the story. ‘Where are you going?’

Danny grabbed his coat from the hallway. ‘It may be rubbish, but are you prepared to take a chance? What if it was our child? I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

Pauline found herself staring at an empty space where her husband had recently stood, while holding in her hand a receiver dead enough to warrant burial. Edna, who remained very much alive, came in from her little morning-cum-sitting-room. ‘Were that Danny going out? It’s past nine o’clock.’

Pauline sighed. ‘Mam?’

‘What?’

‘You put the kettle on while I phone Williamson’s.’

The old lady staggered slightly. ‘Why? Is the baby all right? Has somebody got TB?’

‘No, it’s nothing like that.’ Pauline studied the tough old bird who had birthed her. She was a nuisance, a moan and a little devil at times. But in
that moment, Pauline Walsh caught a glimpse of her mam’s frailty. Edna Greenhalgh’s suit of armour had slipped, the open visor revealing a very ordinary woman who feared life and its vagaries. ‘I love you, Mam.’ How long had it been since Pauline had said those words?

Edna gulped. ‘I love you and all, Pauline.’

‘I want to get hold of that Dr Blake, send him round to Theresa Nolan’s. Bernard and Danny think there could be something up with young Jessica. Theresa’s friendly with the doctor, so he might want to help.’

‘Oh.’ Seeing her daughter’s confusion, Edna put the kettle on and busied herself with cups and saucers. Pauline loved her. Everything would turn out for the best.

The Jolly Brows lay between the top of Tonge Moor and Bolton’s ring road, Crompton Way. It attracted playing children, courting couples, stray cows and a small cast of dubious male characters well practised in the art of displaying private parts, though these creatures tended to protect their valuables during cold snaps.

An ideal place for dog-walkers, the Jolly Brows had drawn Jessica, on that cold afternoon in February 1952, to investigate its possibilities. She had run and run until, exhausted and slightly breathless, she had made her way towards the Tonge Moor Road end. A steep slope led back to civilization, and Jessica, having lost her footing, had tumbled downwards, injuring her ankle.

She lay shivering in a crumpled heap. She tried to call for help, but the road was too far away, while her voice grew weaker as frost entered her bones. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Jessica found herself
in one of her ‘floating’ dreams, episodes of which usually involved moving about without actually walking. It wasn’t flying, though. It was a simple matter of skimming along at ground level without using her lower limbs.

She was in a room with another girl – The Other Girl – the one who looked so like Jessica. Above her head, a silvery-white figure hovered, its wings outstretched over both occupants of what appeared to be a bedroom.

‘That’s our guardian angel,’ Katherine explained. ‘We share.’

‘Why?’ asked Jessica.

‘Because there aren’t enough to go around. We look the same, so we get him between us.’

Jessica stared at the angel. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Dr Blake, who was tidier than he used to be.

‘They’re coming,’ said Katherine. ‘They’re near that little hill about halfway across, the one at the edge of the path.’

‘Oh.’ What was this girl going on about?

‘How’s your ankle?’ Katherine asked.

In the dream, there was no pain. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Good. I’m glad it’s stopped hurting.’

A dark mist came down, obliterating completely the heavenly visitor near the ceiling. Jessica reached out and grabbed Katherine’s hand. Together, they bobbed about in space, laughing as the fog turned to warm fluid. ‘This is where we began,’ explained Katherine.

Jessica accepted this certain truth.

‘I miss you,’ said Katherine.

‘I miss you, too. One day, we’ll be together for always.’

‘Yes, we shall.’

As suddenly as it had begun, the dream ended. Reluctantly, Jessica released her hold on Katherine’s hand, felt herself being dragged upwards.

She woke on a stretcher. Dr Blake, Mam and Mr Walsh, the fishman, stood back as Jessica was carried away. Mam ran and caught up with the stretcher-bearers. ‘Where’s Katherine?’ asked Jessica.

Theresa placed a hand on the pile of blankets that covered her daughter.

‘Don’t cry, Mam,’ said Jessica. ‘I’m all right.’ Why was Mam crying so loudly? The girl closed her eyes and gave herself up to sleep. This time, there were no dreams.

‘Jesus,’ wept Theresa. ‘What am I supposed to do?’ She looked from Danny Walsh to Stephen, returned her attention to Danny. ‘They’re both mine,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t give her away – she was stolen.’

Danny blew his nose. Another hour in the cold and Jessica Nolan would have been dead. He was absolutely flummoxed by what had happened. ‘Liz doesn’t know anything about this little lot,’ he said sadly. ‘What a bloody mess.’

Theresa tried to calm herself down. She had one daughter being warmed up and getting her ankle set, another with perfectly decent parents in a pleasant suburb of Liverpool. ‘There is nothing that will make me hurt your sister-in-law,’ she told Danny Walsh. ‘But there’s something going on, isn’t there? Between the two girls, I mean. Look what happened tonight. I know it seems daft, but—’

‘It isn’t daft at all.’ Stephen Blake removed his arm from Theresa’s shoulder. ‘I’m a twin. Even when we
were separated, we were together. If he had a pain, I had the same pain. I’m a doctor, so I should dismiss all this as nonsense. But it’s fact that twins can communicate by a method we shall never analyse.’

Theresa, after the initial, almost painful sense of relief when Jessica had been discovered, had dissolved into near-hysteria. Katherine had held the answer, had guided her father, that very good man, so that Jessica could be saved. The whole thing was frightening, incomprehensible, beyond all normal explanation.

‘If it hadn’t been for you, Mr Walsh, Jessica might have frozen to death,’ said Stephen.

Theresa hoped that Katherine would not remember her dream. Nothing could be done to bring the twins together without damaging Liz, who was completely blameless. She was and always had been a good mother to Katherine – on that score, Theresa had no doubt. Liz Walsh was a sensible, humorous woman who deserved Jessica’s other half. ‘The girls seem to need one another,’ murmured Theresa. ‘When I first found out about Katherine, I was in the middle of Liverpool. I very nearly got on the train to visit Eva and give her a piece of my mind.’