The Corner House (52 page)

He lit candles in his chapel of rest, rearranged a few flowers so that visitors could say goodbye to a cherished member of their family in decent surroundings. Mr McRae sat down to wait for the chapel doorbell. He never allowed Irene much contact with relatives. She had a way of staring at people, never blinking, seldom smiling, as if the marble eyes sought to drill right through to the soul of a person. It was her mother’s fault, he believed. Her father hadn’t been much use, either, having buggered off back to Ireland at the first sounding of a war siren. As for her grandfather – well, Michael Nolan had done the world a favour by dying after a dozen false promises.

The doorbell rang. Mr McRae donned white gloves and an expression of sympathy. Life and death had to go on.

Ruth McManus had been dealt a terrible hand in life. Her self-pity, carefully nurtured throughout childhood, youth and adulthood, was now in full glorious flower.

She hunched herself over the meagre fire, hitching up her skirt in order to gather into herself as much heat as possible. It wasn’t her fault. Yet again, things had turned on her, the usual ill luck conspiring with those around her to cause limitless, bottomless pain. Everybody smoked in corners at the mill. Everybody sneaked out now and then to have a crafty drag on the stairs, in the lavs, in a corner of a shed when the boss was out.

But the boss had come back early. After several verbal warnings, Ruth had received a letter of dismissal. Nobody would back her up. Colleagues, some of whom had received similar verbal diatribes about smoking, had ignored her. They were glad to be rid of her, she supposed, just because she spoke her mind and didn’t suffer fools. Three Woodbines left. When they ran out, she would have to go on the scrounge, to neighbours who didn’t care two straws, to Irene who hated her, to shops where her poor reputation caused owners to refuse her credit.

She lit a cigarette. ‘What did I ever do to her?’ she asked aloud. ‘She got what she needed, never went without.’ Ruth was blessed with a brilliantly selective memory, a talent which shielded her, helped her to ignore the blacker days in her past.

The rent hadn’t been paid. Her sisters and brothers would not take her in, neither would her daughter.
That little rat had fallen on her feet, was being praised halfway to glory because she knew how to dress up a corpse. ‘Her’s in the right bloody place,’ breathed Ruth through a fug of smoke. ‘They can’t see her ugly mug, can’t tell her where to get off.’

Well, where was Ruth going to end up? Down the Sally Army with all her possessions in a paper bag? She thought briefly of Eva, but dismissed the idea within seconds. Eva had pulled no punches when describing Ruth’s incompetence as a mother. They all had it so wrong. Ruth was the victim. Ruth had been born one of the middle children in a huge family. After the death of her mother, Jessica, she had dragged herself up. Dad, God rest him, had done his best, but he had worked in a mill, had concentrated on his younger children and on teaching the older end how to cope. Stuck in the centre of all that, Ruth had been deprived.

Giving no thought to the rest of the ‘middlers’, she saw only her own misfortune. The rest had married decent men, anyway. They were all comfortably placed in council houses and … The Woodbine-bearing hand froze in mid-air. Their Theresa wasn’t in a council house. Oh, no, their Theresa was off in Switzerland having the life of bloody Riley. In fact, the house was in Jessica’s name. Surely a niece would not want to see her Auntie Ruth on the streets?

Ruth placed the two remaining cigarettes on the mantelpiece. She would get herself dressed up in her nice red two-piece, would use her last few pennies for bus fares. It was time to go visiting.

Jessica opened the door tentatively. Behind her, Sheba, who sometimes disgraced her kennel name, Roncott, Queen of Sheba, bared her teeth in a
fashion that was rather less than regal. When the dog really didn’t like someone, she forgot her manners and left little space for negotiation.

‘Please wait while I put the dog in the yard.’ Jessica closed the door in Ruth’s face and went to tend to Sheba. Maggie was in Liverpool again, because she wanted to visit an old friend who had been taken into hospital after a bad fall.

When the front door was reopened, Ruth smiled, though the action seemed to cause some difficulty. It was clear that her face was happier when frowning. ‘Jessica?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I come in?’

The girl hesitated, Maggie’s words ringing in her ears. ‘Don’t let anybody in,’ she had said.

‘Well?’ The stiff smile was fading fast.

‘I’m … I’m not supposed to let people in. Maggie’s gone to Liverpool—’

‘I’m not people, I’m your Auntie Ruth, your mother’s sister. A cup of tea would be good.’ She brushed past Jessica and strode into the house. ‘Very nice,’ she said, peering into the front room and taking note of the tiled fireplace, blue sofa and chair, carpet, handsome rug, pictures on the walls. ‘That’s a lovely tea-trolley,’ she remarked.

In the living room, Ruth was similarly impressed. It was all right for some: new sideboard, decent table and chairs, a square of good carpet, some rockers, a chaise longue under the stairs. ‘A bit fancy for a terraced house,’ she muttered. ‘Is there a bathroom?’

‘Yes,’ replied a bemused Jessica. Auntie Ruth was behaving like someone intending to buy the place.

‘How many bedrooms?’

‘Three,’ was the reply. ‘One for Mam, one for Maggie, then I have the attic with windows on the roof.’

‘Doing well, aren’t you?’

Jessica ran into the kitchen to make tea. Being near Auntie Ruth had always made her cold, almost shivery. Irene had much the same effect, though Jessica had a small corner of pity for her cousin. Ruth McManus looked as if she might be cruel, as if all or many of Irene’s stories had been true. Mam and Maggie were always going on about not talking to strange people, but the strangest people of all were already known to Jessica.

‘Kitchen’s nice, too.’

Jessica all but jumped out of her skin. The woman had crept up right behind her, was standing so close that her breath moved the small hairs on Jessica’s neck. ‘Do you take sugar?’

‘Aye, I do. Would there be any ciggies in the house, love?’

Jessica shook her head. ‘Maggie doesn’t smoke any more. She said she couldn’t afford it.’

Ruth gazed round at the electric cooker, electric kettle, a little Hoover washing machine in a corner. ‘Everything right up to the minute, eh? Have you got a television?’

‘No.’ Jessica warmed the pot and spooned in some tea.

‘Have you got any money? Just for a few ciggies. The outdoor licence is open – I could go down and be back before the tea’s brewed.’

Jessica lifted a ceramic cottage from the window sill. All Auntie Ruth’s questions began with ‘have you got?’ She took out a pound note and handed it over. ‘Eeh, love,’ gushed Ruth. ‘Your blood’s worth bottling.’

Jessica emitted a breath of relief as her aunt dashed off to buy her cigarettes. What had she said about blood? Auntie Ruth seemed the sort who would take anybody’s blood, anybody’s anything. With her spending money all gone, Jessica sat and waited. It had taken ages to save a full pound. A nice man at the Co-op had swapped all Jessica’s coins for a note. That pound had been earmarked to go towards a new summer frock.

Ruth McManus returned with forty Woodbines and two pints of stout. The stout was for her nerves. ‘I’m bad with me nerves,’ she explained. ‘Anybody with a daughter like mine would be bad with their nerves. She’s drove me mad all her life.’

Jessica, feeling very uncomfortable, offered her aunt a cup of tea.

The front door slammed. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ yelled Maggie. ‘It took longer than I thought, Liverpool and back. Poor Ada’s all wound up like a mummy, both legs in plaster, bandages on her arms.’

Ruth raised her eyebrows quizzically.

‘It’s Maggie’s friend,’ Jessica explained. ‘She fell and broke her legs.’

Maggie entered. She was wearing a purple suit, purple hat, purple shoes. In the doorway, she ground to a halt. The devil’s wife had arrived, then. ‘Hello, Ruth.’

‘I’ve bought you a bottle of stout,’ announced the visitor.

Jessica opened her mouth, closed it immediately. She had paid for the beer, but manners forbade her to speak up.

Maggie placed her garish handbag on the sideboard. All her purples quarrelled today, each being
of a shade that played havoc with the next. ‘I’m off the drink, thanks,’ she replied.

Jessica poured tea for Maggie.

‘No smoking, no drinking?’ Ruth laughed shrilly. ‘Are you thinking of taking the veil?’

‘If I did, I’d be a better candidate than some.’ What the hell was this woman doing here? Ruth wasn’t the sort to bestir herself to come halfway across Bolton unless she was after something. ‘So,’ said Maggie as she settled into a chair. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Ruth?’

The intruder plastered a very sad expression across her face. ‘Get me a glass, love,’ she asked Jessica.

Jessica went into the kitchen.

‘I’ve lost my job,’ Ruth moaned. ‘I’ve no money and the landlord’s going to throw me out.’

Maggie tut-tutted. ‘That’s terrible. What are you going to do?’

Ruth grabbed the glass from Jessica. ‘Get me a bottle-opener,’ she commanded.

Jessica left the room again. As she searched though a jangle of implements in the cabinet drawer, the reason for her aunt’s visit became clear. The woman wanted to move in. As her hand closed over the bottle-opener, she suddenly felt sick. She didn’t want to live with Auntie Ruth.

‘Ta,’ said the aunt in question when Jessica handed over the opener. Ruth removed the cap deftly, poured the stout like an expert, running the black fluid down the glass’s side, topping it with a flourish to create a creamy head.

‘You’d soon get a job as a barmaid,’ suggested Maggie.

‘I don’t want to be a bloody barmaid.’

‘But beggars can’t be choosers.’ Maggie sipped at her tea, a little finger crooked outward while she played the lady. ‘A job’s a job. With rent to pay and food to buy, you’ll have to take whatever you can get.’

Jessica felt utterly miserable. The thought of living with Auntie Ruth was awful. Auntie Ruth’s anger showed in her face. It didn’t just visit her features occasionally, wasn’t a temporary guest, it was more a long-term resident, a fully paid-up member.

‘I thought I might move in here for a bit.’

Jessica swallowed. This was her house, her very own place, paid for by Mam on Jessica’s behalf. But how could she, a twelve-year-old girl, forbid an adult to stay here?

‘No,’ said Maggie firmly.

Jessica’s heart soared. Maggie was here. Maggie was her shield, her guardian, her saviour.

‘You what?’

Maggie did not flinch. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth, but we aren’t able to allow that, not without Theresa’s permission.’

The clock ticked. Two or three large vehicles clattered by, probably buses or lorries. Jessica picked at the sleeve of her cardigan. Ruth sat like a statue, the glass of milk stout frozen mid-air, as if the bearer intended to propose a toast. Maggie, wearing her no-nonsense face, kept her eyes fixed on Ruth.

‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are?’ asked Ruth.

‘Maggie Courtney,’ was the tart reply.

‘You’ve no right talking to me like that. This is my sister’s house, not yours. I’ve got rights, I’ve—’

‘You can’t live here without Theresa’s permission,’
insisted Maggie. ‘Just as Theresa couldn’t live in her father’s house without his say-so.’

‘That was me dad – he wouldn’t let her in.’

‘And after he died?’

Ruth’s eyes became harder than ever. ‘He’s still there.’

Maggie made an improbable sound that was half laugh, half snarl. ‘Well, I never saw him. I wish I had, because there might have been someone to talk to, someone who didn’t come out with a load of rubbish about spooks and how horrible her daughter is. Monty pretended to see your ghost, of course. He’s a great joker.’

Jessica wished with all her heart that this argument would stop. Trouble frightened her, and she knew how colourful Maggie could be, how her speech could become as purple as her clothing.

Ruth jumped to her feet, spilling half of her Mackeson’s on Theresa’s new rug. ‘Our Theresa’s never coming home,’ she screamed at the top of her voice.

For a heavy smoker, this one had good enough lungs, thought Maggie. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Our Theresa. She’ll not be coming home no more. Her’s been on the way out for donkey’s years. Switzerland’s just somewhere nice for her to die with her fancy man on the spot.’

It was Jessica’s turn to freeze. For several seconds, she remained motionless while Ruth’s words echoed in her head. Mam not coming back? Mam dying in a foreign country?

‘You black-hearted bitch—’ began Maggie. She stopped in her tracks when Jessica leapt to life. ‘Jessica—’ But it was too late. The sweet, well-educated, well-behaved child had just delivered a blow to
her aunt’s upper body, a punch that sent Ruth McManus reeling backwards onto the chaise longue. There was black beer everywhere.

‘You are a very bad person.’ Jessica’s voice was quiet. ‘No wonder Irene was always in trouble. You can’t stay here. I won’t let you stay.’ She leaned over the woman. ‘This is my house. My mother went away to work so that she could buy this house for me. She’s lovely, my mother. And she isn’t going to die.’

Ruth was thoroughly shocked. Few had stood up to her in years, and here she was, flattened by the one member of her family who was receiving a good education with emphasis on manners, decorum and religion. Where grown men had flinched and shivered, this girl had stepped in and said her piece.

Jessica, appalled at what she had done, fled out of the room and up two flights of stairs until she reached her attic. This pretty, oversized room was twice the length and width of the other two bedrooms on the first floor, as it covered the whole house, with dormer windows front and back. But Jessica didn’t notice the pretty pinks and golds. She lay face down on the bed and sobbed. The tears were born out of fear for her mother’s health and disgust with herself. Maggie’s temper had been on hold. Maggie, who had a habit of speaking her mind, had kept her dignity; Jessica had disgraced herself.