The Corner House (54 page)

Ruth lit up, calmed down.

‘I have to get back to work,’ said Irene mildly.

‘Lucky for some. I’ve no work to go to.’

Irene nodded. ‘That’s not my fault.’ Mam believed that the world owed her a living. She had always thought that she was possessed of some divine right to easy money.

‘I’ve got to come and live with you. What’s going to happen when I don’t pay my rent?’

Irene studied her shoes for a moment, then allowed her gaze to travel round the crescent-shaped civic buildings. Finally, she gave her mother full attention. ‘I’ve got to lay out a baby boy today. His mother killed him, just like you tried to kill me.’

‘I never—’

‘You battered me, threw me against doors. When that didn’t work, you tried to kill who I am inside. I told you a few weeks ago, Mam, that I don’t want anything to do with you. We’re not going through all that again. You’ve got a nice little room to live in, and all you need to do is get a job and keep it. It’s simple.’

‘Simple? You little rat …’

The little rat walked away in the direction of those who truly needed her. Irene knew that she had not been a good person, that she had invested time and
energy into trying to bring others down to her level of misery. With shame in her heart, she recalled interfering between man and wife, spying, sending nasty, filthy and unsigned letters. She had broken lifelong friendships, had divided neighbours, had set street against street, sister against brother, house against house. But now, strangely, the dead had taught her how to live.

Ruth stood with her mouth agape, then sat on the library steps and smoked three or four Woodbines. When her mouth began to taste like an open sewer, she made off towards Deansgate and a cup of tea. She needed to think. With three shillings and fourpence in her purse, there was no chance of paying rent, of feeding gas or electric meters, or of feeding herself.

She tapped her fingernails against a plastic tablecloth, drank her tea, smoked another two or three ciggies. Her family didn’t want her any more, especially now, since her troubles. The Nolan sisters and brothers, all long married, many with over-large families, had neither time nor patience for their Ruth. Ruth was the bad apple, the one who should be avoided whenever possible. Just lately, when trying to visit members of her family, Ruth had seen curtains twitch, had listened while mothers ‘shushed’ their children, her nieces and nephews.

Niece. Jessica. She hadn’t tried Jessica’s household for a while, not since receiving that snotty letter about guardianship. Ruth worked on the erroneous assumption that people forgot after a while, that her sins would be buried beneath the layers of life’s other happenings. It was Jessica’s turn, she decided as she left the café.

Ruth’s room was in a terraced house near Tonge Park and not far from the house in which Jessica
lived with that terrible woman and a stupid dog. Ruth threw herself onto the bed and stared at a stain on the ceiling. It bore a passing resemblance to a leg wearing a long boot, like Italy. None of the furniture was her own; she had sold her dad’s bits and pieces for a measly twenty quid, that lovely dresser, the sofa, rockers, tables, beds.

Here, she had the use of a narrow bed that sagged in the middle, one easy chair, a rickety table with a couple of mismatched diners, a wardrobe, a meat-safe and a sink which had to double as a washbasin. There was a shared bathroom on the floor below, and the whole house stank of boiled vegetables and fatty bacon.

She was fed up. Just a few months ago, she had lived in a decent house, had held down a job in the carding shed. Now, she was reduced to a smelly bed-sitting room in a place that housed people who were practically vagrants. Her next-door neighbour, an Irishman of indeterminate age, with a beard that looked like a matted carpet, was wont to sing all kinds of maudlin songs right through midnight and into the early hours. Ruth didn’t know how to deal with him. Not long ago, she would have flattened him with a word, a glare or a crack with the yardbrush, but uncertainty had taken hold. She was losing her grip.

There was a hole in one of her curtains. The view wasn’t worth looking at, just a back yard complete with dustbins, a clothes line, a brick shed that used to house a lavatory. Across the cobbled alley, another row of houses blotted out the sky, chimney stacks poking their noses upward and emitting smoke of various shades. Then, on top of all the other problems, there was the gas cooker, which had a mind of
its own. Mottled blue in colour, it squatted on bent legs next to the sink and had two settings: too low to cook, and too hot to manage.

This was not meant to be. She should have been a grandmother by now, ought to have had a decent husband, a couple of gradely children, three or four grandchildren. And what did she have? Nothing. Just frayed curtains, threadbare rugs and an oven that fought back.

She sat up, lit a cigarette. Irene had moved into a two-bedroomed house on the road to Harwood. It was a semi-detached with gardens front and back, room for a garage, a nice, Accrington-brick finish, leaded bay windows. Irene didn’t need her mother any more. All through childhood, adolescence and into adulthood, the girl had been Ruth’s shadow, looking for attention, depending completely on her sole parent. Even when newly married, Irene had sought out her mother at least three times a week. ‘She’s got past herself,’ Ruth said through a perfect smoke ring. ‘A long way to fall, so she’d best watch out.’

The clock on the mantelpiece showed a quarter to three. It was an alarm with greenish fingers that glowed in the dark. Because it would not work in the correct, upright position, it lay on its side like a drunk after a heavy night. She could not stay in here. There was a cleaning job at the Starkie pub, so she would wander up Thicketford Road, have a look at the landlord and then make her way to Jessica’s house. After all, even bad luck had to run out at some stage.

‘I thought you were leaving the country.’ Danny Walsh looked Roy Chorlton up and down. ‘That’s what it said in the letter, anyroad.’

Roy shuffled on the spot. ‘I just wanted to make sure that the money was safe and that it would be accepted.’

Danny raised a shoulder. ‘How should I know? As guardians, me and our Bernard and the others will hold onto it, but Theresa might not want it.’

‘It isn’t for her. It’s for my … for Jessica.’

Danny put down his skinning knife and glanced about. There weren’t too many customers hovering, not at this time in the afternoon. He lowered his voice. ‘You think she’s yours, then?’

Roy shook his head. ‘No, she’s Theresa Nolan’s. I just couldn’t go off without making sure that I’d done all I could.’

Danny felt a bit sorry for the chap. His two best mates were dead, and he was not the sort of man who attracted women. For a split second, Danny played with the idea of mentioning Katherine, but he dismissed it instantly. Bernard would not approve. As for Liz – well, the whole of Bernard’s life had been dedicated to keeping Liz in blissful ignorance. ‘When do you go?’ he asked.

‘In a few weeks.’

‘Where to?’

‘I’m off to New Zealand. It looks so clean, very fresh, a bit like England, but so much prettier. They’ve given me the all clear to open up a little restaurant in Hamilton. It’s not a huge town, not by our standards, but people have to eat and, though I say so myself, I’m a bit of a dab hand in the kitchen.’

Danny waited. There was obviously more to come.

‘Will you write to me?’ the man asked.

Danny’s reply came swiftly. ‘Of course I will. I’m not a great one for letters, but I’ll let you know about
Jessica. Don’t worry, because there’s a few of us keeping an eye on her.’

Roy nodded thoughtfully. ‘Do you know how Theresa is?’

‘No. She’s still in Switzerland with Dr Blake. It’s the TB. When she went off like that to Liverpool, she risked her life, you know.’

Roy knew all right. He knew that she had almost died in childhood, that the damage to her heart had not been improved by rape and childbirth. She had fought for money from the three putative fathers, had developed tuberculosis, had worked in Liverpool for the sake of her child. ‘She’s a wonderful woman.’

‘Aye, she is,’ answered Danny.

‘If I could go back in time …’ Roy’s voice faded away.

‘We’d all do things differently given half a chance,’ said Danny.

Roy inhaled deeply. ‘She got hold of a gun, you know. I think she wanted to shoot holes in all three of us, but Ged was already dead and Teddy Betteridge was in prison. He killed himself a few months later. So I was her only target.’

‘Good God,’ exclaimed the fishmonger.

‘She dealt with me very well. It was an unforgettable experience, to say the least. And I’m still alive and kicking.’

Danny noticed that the man was almost smiling. ‘She had her moment with you, then?’

‘Frightened me halfway to hell,’ replied Roy. ‘And I don’t blame her, not one jot.’

The men shook hands, then Danny watched as Roy Chorlton walked out of his life. From the back, he looked about sixty, and tired – not quite finished, but well on his way.

‘Oi,’ yelled a customer. ‘Are you selling that plaice or saving it for the museum?’

Danny eyed the old man, an adversary for many years. ‘Here,’ he said, throwing two plaice onto a sheet of paper. Deftly, he folded the parcel. ‘Have these on me.’

‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed the man. ‘What’s the world coming to?’

‘Not another word,’ warned Danny. ‘And no heart attacks, please. I can’t be bothered with ambulances and the like, so hop it.’

The old man hopped it.

Roy parked his car at the top of Scafell Avenue and sauntered down Tonge Moor Road. He was a free spirit; there was no shop to run, his house was sold and he was able to wander wherever he chose. Often, he chose Tonge Moor Library. Not because Jessica Nolan might be an occasional visitor, he told himself repeatedly, but because it was quieter than the big central library.

Just beyond the squared-off area where librarians lurked, there were tables on which were spread all the national and local newspapers. Beneath the terrifying glare of an almost female staff member, Roy perused
The Times
, often glancing up to stare back at the tweed-clad, iron-haired monster who presided over the building. Behind her, revolving doors admitted other rate-payers who had the effrontery to read within the dragon’s sphere.

His heart leapt ridiculously when the child walked in and offered her book for exchange. The Evil One grabbed the volume, searched for marks and scribbles, studied the date stamp in case a penny might be owed. This woman would not have looked out of
place had she stood in the proud and perfect ranks of Hider’s SS.

Jessica saw him, remembered chats and lemonade, ran to him. ‘Hello,’ she said.

The librarian’s face became uglier.

‘Hello, Jessica.’

‘Silence!’

Jessica giggled and went off to find another book. Roy folded his paper, leaned back in his chair and played a staring-out game with the hideous keeper of the word. Anyone would think that she owned the books, that she had written, edited, printed and published the damned things. Reading was a source of information and pleasure; a right, not a privilege. This was not a free service; patrons paid their dues in rent or in rates.

She glanced away. Roy congratulated himself silently. Until recently, he might have cowered beneath such withering looks, but the throwing off of shackles seemed to have given him new confidence. He had made the right decisions at last. His only regrets embraced two people, one of whom was taking a rest cure in Switzerland while the other, behind a pair of glazed doors, was picking out a book to read.

Roy decided that the gargoyle in no-man’s land was probably a Beryl. There was a Beryl in every workplace, an officious, self-righteous creature whose sense of self was defined by her job description. Not all Beryls were female; Roy had, in his time, been a Beryl, had cursed his tailors and cutters for a crooked seam, a bit of fabric wastage. His father, Maurice, had definitely been a Beryl. Why Beryl? he wondered. Why not Edna or Frances? Then he remembered Mrs Foster. Mrs Beryl Foster had been
the Chorlton housekeeper many years ago, had ruled the house with an iron fist clad in a feather duster. So that was why his subconscious had landed on that completely innocent name.

Still musing, he stared at his feet, waiting for Jessica. The woman behind the counter was furious. Roy was taking up a chair and he was not reading. He wondered where she kept the sackcloth and ashes.

At last, Jessica emerged, a triumphant grin plastered across her face. When the stamping and card-filing ceremony was completed, Roy followed the girl outside, pausing in his travels to growl at the tight-faced librarian. One day, there might be a riot in this branch, because everybody hated her. Perhaps he should organize a petition before leaving for new pastures.

They sat side by side on the wall. ‘I got it,’ she cried happily. ‘The book I wanted.’

He told her about New Zealand and she told him about Auntie Ruth. ‘She wants to take me to live with her,’ said Jessica. ‘She says that my mother will die, then she’ll get me.’

‘Why does she want you?’

Jessica considered the question. ‘Because she thinks Irene’s ugly and she thinks I’m not. She’s been in court for stealing. Maggie keeps the doors locked, because we think Auntie Ruth came one day when we were out and stole fourteen shillings and sevenpence.’

‘Oh dear.’

Jessica raised her library book. ‘I hid this one and Miss Atherton didn’t find it,’ she explained. ‘You can only get one book each day so, if you find two, you try to hide one behind another row. So it’s there next time. She didn’t find it.
Swallows and Amazons
.’

Roy scarcely heard the child. He was still thinking about Ruth McManus, whose reputation was depreciating by the day. If Theresa died, would that dreadful aunt have a claim on Jessica?

‘Colin Duckworth did a wee in her wellies,’ Jessica was saying now.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Jessica jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards the library. ‘Miss Atherton, the librarian. When we had the bad weather, she left her wellingtons in the lobby and Colin did a—’