The Corner House (59 page)

Katherine had taken it well, Bernard mused. In a way, she had seemed unsurprised. After half an hour of total silence, during which she had neither wept nor smiled, she had made her pronouncement. ‘There was always something. She was in the woods that day and Chaplin seemed to know her. He tried to keep us together, as if rounding up a couple of lost sheep. I needed to find her, but I didn’t know how to. There were some dreams … and I felt I shouldn’t mention anything to my mother.’

Bernard had remained silent, had listened.

‘The woman in the Mustard Pot was our birth mother.’

‘Yes.’

‘She was very beautiful.’

‘And very brave.’

Bernard scratched his nose, saw seagulls swooping, diving, rising again. Roy Chorlton continued to correspond with Danny, though the letters were sporadic. He had married a widow, had reared stepchildren, had made a success of his restaurant in New Zealand. The other two, Betteridge and Hardman, were long forgotten. Ged Hardman’s mother had sold the tannery, had gone abroad and married a titled Italian. Elsie Betteridge, slimmer, quieter, was the mother of two educated children and the owner of a rather smart dress shop.
Life did go on, though its components remained the same, just as John had recently declared.

‘The day I told her about Jessica, Katherine just went out into the garden and threw the ball for Charlie,’ said Bernard. ‘After she’d thought it through.’ Charlie was Chaplin’s replacement. He was old now and quite stiff, but he still retrieved for his mistress. ‘It was as if nothing unusual had happened.’

‘Quite,’ replied John Povey. ‘You know Stephen Blake’s opinion on the matter. He’s a true scientist, ear-marked for a knighthood, yet he still upholds the identical twins theory. It’s weird, yet it seems to be true.’

‘Stranger than fiction,’ concluded Bernard.

‘It is. It is indeed.’

‘Katherine flicked through all our photo albums that day. She said that Liz would always be her mother.’ He missed Liz. After five months, Bernard still wept in his lonely bed. ‘Thanks for encouraging me to do what needed doing,’ he told his friend. ‘God knows it took me long enough to speak up.’

‘Let’s go,’ suggested John.

Bernard drew a hand across his chin. ‘They both like jelly and cream.’

‘And that’s as good a starting point as any,’ answered John.

John Povey’s car drew up outside number 1, its nose turned inward, tail slewed outward. The chemist’s parking left much to be desired and was invariably unparallel. Bernard had got used to John’s driving, inured to the knowledge that a passenger inevitably suffered premonitions of life after death. John was John. ‘Why didn’t you marry?’ Bernard asked on a sudden whim.

‘Nobody asked me.’

‘You’re supposed to do the asking.’

John Povey clicked fingers and tongue. ‘So that’s where I went wrong. Why did nobody tell me?’ The strong affection John had felt for Bernard Walsh’s wife would never be discussed by him. His love had gone to her grave and the secret would go into his when the time came. He had loved just one woman, and she had never known about his feelings.

They glanced across at the Corner House. It looked so smug with its newly trimmed beard of Virginia creeper, with its shiny black and white paintwork, shaped hedges, flag flying at full mast. Bernard and Katherine still lived opposite in the semi Bernard had bought at the end of the war. The Corner House, bruised and battered until recently by a series of students, was now the property of Katherine Walsh and Jessica Nolan. They could share it, let it, sell it, use it for weekends, do with it whatever they chose.

‘They’ll be all right,’ said John.

‘I hope so.’

Inside Bernard’s house, they fed Katherine’s dog, had several cups of tea, tried, with a terrible lack of success, to concentrate on backgammon. Upstairs, a pair of feet padded about; the bathroom door closed; water gushed; Katherine sang.

‘I know you loved her,’ said Bernard when his pieces had all been blotted out of existence. ‘You cheated,’ he told his friend.

‘I beg pardon?’

‘Just now, at backgammon. Never with Liz. It’s all right, you know. She never noticed, but I did.’

The dog yawned.

‘The Corner House,’ Bernard continued. ‘So
much for you to give away. These are wealthy young women.’

John raised his shoulders. ‘What would I do with it? The students wrecked it and, if I lived there, it would end up condemned. Katherine favours it as a meeting place, somewhere for herself, her sister and their fiancés to get to know each other.’ He paused. ‘When did you realize how I felt about Liz?’

It was Bernard’s turn to shrug. ‘It came on gradually, like a dose of flu. And it doesn’t matter.’

‘Neither does the house.’

‘OK. Pour another cup and pass the biscuits.’

Upstairs, Katherine Walsh lay flat out in water, nose peeping through bubbles in search of oxygen. Starting with her feet and working upwards along her body, she relaxed and allowed the warm fluid to encompass and embrace her. It was like a place in one of the recurring dreams, something from another time, a time when she had scarcely existed. In that dimension, she had not been alone. She had never been alone, had always been a part of … of whatever.

She sat up and dropped a dollop of shampoo on her head. ‘I am stolen goods,’ she informed the wall. For stolen goods, she had certainly enjoyed a happy life, so she wasn’t going to start complaining. With the shower adaptor, she rinsed her hair, heaved herself out of the tub and grabbed for towels.

What should she wear? Her mind flicked through the wardrobe, cast aside the Paco Rabanne copies, her famous chain-mail mini, some geometrically correct skirts and a Quantish white dress with a huge orange flower on the front. She would wear the blue suit, little make-up and her fashion boots.

In the mirror, a solemn, space-age child faced her. At twenty-five, Katherine managed to look eighteen, an asset which she failed to appreciate at this juncture in her life. Thick, wilful hair, cut severely into the nape, flowed longer onto her jawline. ‘A sixties chick,’ she told the reflection. Many men had remarked on her beauty, yet Katherine judged herself to be merely OK, a blank page easily improved by eyeliner and mascara. ‘It’s like painting by numbers,’ she advised the mirror. Fortunately, her fiancé, Martin, had seen her undecorated and had not dropped dead from shock.

Today, Katherine Walsh would be smart, because she was about to meet a very significant person. But why did she need to be smart? Surely Jessica should meet her as she wanted to be, bright, breezy, plastic earrings and jangle-bangles? ‘What does it matter?’ she enquired aloud. A broad grin visited her face. Who was she, anyway? And did the answer to that question have any value? Liz and Bernard Walsh had done a great deal for her. As a result, she needed no framework, no knowledge of her so-called father, no point of reference. She was Katherine. She was her own security.

The East Lanes seemed to be the longest road in the world. Slowed by traffic through Leigh and Lowton, Stephen Blake picked up speed along the carriageway that linked Liverpool and Manchester. On each side, scrubby land was punctuated by groups of houses here and there, then the odd factory, a glimpse of a distant steeple. ‘It’s all the same,’ commented Jessica. ‘Like some dried-up place in Africa.’

‘No hills,’ replied her stepfather. ‘That’s what makes the difference.’

Jessica was not nervous. In a strange way, she was going home, because her twin was there. Also, Jessica and Luke were both going to live in Liverpool, perhaps in the Corner House, perhaps elsewhere.

‘You mustn’t neglect your husbands,’ remarked Stephen. ‘Twinness is very close, but don’t make it exclusive.’

‘OK. Anyway, Luke and I are thinking of buying a place in Woolton,’ she said. ‘And we could all use the Corner House as a place for special occasions or holidays. Perhaps Katherine will live there full time, opposite her father. It doesn’t matter, not yet.’

Jessica had not always felt so calm, but her initial annoyance on discovering Katherine’s existence had died of neglect, as she had ceased to feed it. The subject at whom Jessica’s anger had been directed was a woman approaching seventy. Yes, Eva Coates had acted high-handedly, but who should judge her? Auntie Eva had done her best at the time, had seen Mother’s weakness and had removed the second born. Katherine had grown up privileged, but so had Jessica, as she had lived with Mother, had spent a particularly happy evening with Theresa and Stephen just before Mother had died.

Jessica glanced sideways. Blake had done a wonderful job, all things considered. Devastated by the death of his beloved, Dr Stephen Blake had carried on being a father to Jessica, had continued to live with her at Beacon Farm out on the moors, had carried on with research day and night. He was a great man, and his country was finally recognizing that fact.

‘A penny for them,’ said Stephen.

She laughed. ‘Tell me all about my sister again. Tell me the bits you left out.’

‘Which bits?’

‘If I knew which bits, there wouldn’t be any.’

‘And what if there aren’t?’ He enjoyed bandying words with his stepdaughter. ‘If you know there are bits, then you must also know—’

‘Shut up, Blake.’

‘All right.’ He made a movement that zipped up his lips, then relented. ‘She’s a teacher, as you already know. She likes wild music and tame six-year-olds. According to her Uncle Daniel, she’s a bit of a card. Many of her jokes would not bear repeating in the staffroom of a Catholic school.’

Jessica, an infant teacher with a mid-blue sense of fun, smiled to herself. ‘You’ve told me all that before.’

‘She likes dogs.’

Jessica’s ageing Sheba was at home being dog-sat by Maggie and Monty, who continued to live together in Jessica’s Tonge Moor house. ‘So do I.’

‘She’s a raving socialist, like your good self, and she once bumped into John Lennon in a fish-and-chip shop.’

Jessica gulped. ‘Did she speak to him?’

He nodded. ‘She gave him a chip. Apparently, the wrappings of that meal are framed on the wall of her bedroom. She adores him. She goes very strange when he’s on TV. Of course, with you being a McCartney devotee, there could be quarrels.’

Jessica all but glowered. ‘I like John as well. Did you know they used to come to Bolton before they were famous? Even after they were famous.’

‘I was not aware of that fascinating fact,’ replied Stephen.

‘Well, they met some girls at Butlin’s and they stayed in touch for ages. The Beatles called Bolton
Bedrock because everything closed at eleven o’clock.’

‘Not cosmopolitan enough for boys from the rarefied atmosphere of Liverpool.’

Jessica dug her dear stepfather in the ribs. ‘Stop mocking me, Blake.’ She twiddled her thumbs. ‘What’s going to happen?’ she asked. He was a twin. He should have a few answers.

He pondered for several seconds. ‘Well, you’ll meet a precious stranger today. There won’t be any tension after ten or so minutes, because you’ll … you’ll just reach out. By tomorrow, you’ll be comparing backgrounds and finishing each other’s sentences.’ He nodded sagely. ‘Be careful not to shut out Martin and Luke when they arrive at the weekend.’

Jessica howled with laughter. Luke was the sort of fellow who could never be shut out. He was noisy, vibrant, idiotically funny and he played a guitar loudly and not too well. When he wasn’t twanging, Luke messed about with wood and screws. One day, he might build a bookcase that could sustain itself and a couple of paperbacks. ‘He’s bought a pink pressing of Elvis Presley’s hits, Blake. A pink LP. It’s all “Heartbreak Hotel” and “Jailhouse Rock”. And, of course, he wants to build a record cabinet.’

Stephen nodded. ‘We’ll have the area cleared, Jess, alert the bomb squad. Where on earth did you find that boy?’

‘Under a blackberry bush.’ This was the truth.

‘Ah yes. After he wrote off his scooter.’

Jessica wondered aloud about her sister’s fiancé.

Her stepfather filled in a couple of gaps. ‘I regret to inform you that Martin’s a drummer.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘Exactly.’ Stephen stopped at a red light. ‘Shall I turn back?’

Jessica considered the suggestion. ‘Katherine can play the piano, I believe, so she can do the keyboard bit. And I’m an excellent singer. If Cilla Black can do it, I can.’

Genuinely in the dark, the driver looked at his passenger. ‘Who? Who’s Cilla Black?’

She punched him. ‘Drive on,’ she ordered. ‘My future awaits.’

The door swung inward. Katherine Walsh loitered near a fireplace above which a mirrored overmantel filled the chimney breast right up to the picture rail.

Jessica Blake stepped into the room, pausing fractionally on the threshold, holding her breath. At last, she was slightly nervous. How many years since the adventure in the woods? Nineteen, twenty?

A stair creaked, settled. Upstairs, rooms prepared for this day listened contentedly, waiting for life to begin again. Light softened by evening’s gentle shades trickled lazily down the stairwell into the hallway. The refrigerator hummed; a clock struck a quarter to something or other. Whatever the time, the time was now.

Outside the open-eyed window, shrubs settled as the wind resigned suddenly and without notice. In this microscopic corner of a tiny planet, all was still. Birds rested; the flow of traffic abated; bell-ringers ceased their practice.

The mirror reflected two girls in blue, one with a modern haircut, the other with a sensible French pleat. Both wept silently, happily. Whispered words crept over floorboards, under doors, up the stairs. Differences, similarities, opinions and hopes were all
discussed in damped-down, stilted tones that almost matched.

The sun sank into the river, leaving behind a sky that was magnificent, especially for spring. Dappled golds melted into graded blues, each colour vying for attention and praise. The day’s end was celebrated by a vision fit to grace any canvas painted by Turner and his peers.

Near a rockery, the sea-captain’s flag lay listless against its support. The winking window saw the young women eating together; the kitchen soaked up sound and movement while the new arrivals brewed and poured tea.