She stopped again. ‘If you have nothing interesting to say, Peter …’ Now she was being nasty to her brother. Was she becoming a female version of her father? Was she going to be an abusive, intolerant type of person? Oh, why had she not inherited Mother’s patience? ‘I’m sorry. I have decided. Well, I think I have decided. Fancy goods and candles. We make our own candles. We open a factory and employ people. We look into the history of candle-making and make a fuss about it. We demonstrate the ancient art. We—’
But the next piece of information remained frozen in her throat when someone tapped at the door.
Meredith looked frantically at her brothers. She had been about to disclose the most exciting piece of information, the suggestion that customers, under supervision, of course, should be allowed to make their own candles. Now she was interrupted and confused … and very nervous.
Jeremy opened the door to reveal three very jolly-looking individuals who had obviously dressed specially for the occasion, all of them neat and in muted colours, the tallest of the three an extraordinarily attractive young woman. He pulled himself to his full five feet and eleven inches, hoped that he now matched her for height – she was one of the tallest girls he had ever seen.
‘We’ve come about the advert,’ said another girl, green-eyed, also very pretty. The last of the trio was short, rounded, with curly red hair and an amused expression on her face.
‘Do come in.’ He widened the door, stood back and allowed them to walk inside. He was pleased to see that his sister had seated herself and had managed to assume an air of reasonable calm.
Marie, Josie and Aggie stood before Meredith like three soldiers awaiting inspection. Jeremy winked at his brother, then leaned against the edge of the dressing table.
The interviewer invited the visitors to sit, and they perched on the foot of the bed, putting Jeremy in mind of a row of people in a doctor’s waiting room, all anxious, each slightly afraid of diagnosis. The tall one, in the middle, was flanked by a girl of normal height and one who was tiny, so his eyes had to align themselves differently while he studied the interviewees. The tall one was a stunner. He wanted her to get the job – whatever the job was – because he liked the look of her. For a few seconds, no-one spoke.
‘Nice day,’ remarked Peter in an attempt to break the ice.
The middle-sized girl agreed, then went on to introduce her companions. The tall one was Josephine Maguire, the diminutive one was Agnes Turner. ‘And I am Marie Martindale – I work in a solicitor’s office. Josie is with Marks and Spencer, while Aggie is a—’
‘Fish-fryer.’ After completing her companion’s sentence, Aggie grinned. ‘I do chips, too, and I am a good wrapper-upper. I am the best wrapper-upper of fish and chips in Lancashire, because I have an O level in Latin. If you want anything wrapped up, I am your man.’
Meredith found herself laughing and she watched as each girl relaxed. They already had work, they were unafraid and there was intelligence here. ‘I’ll be frank,’ she began.
Aggie, always incapable of resisting a quip, declared that she had an uncle called Frank and that she hoped Frank Whatever-her-name-was enjoyed good health.
‘Meredith Chandler. These are my brothers. The slightly taller one is Jeremy and the shy one is Peter. We have all run away from home.’
‘Are you the Chandlers from Chandlers Green?’ asked Marie.
Meredith nodded.
‘My mam and dad are running away to Chandlers Green,’ said Marie, ‘so you won’t be missed, because there’ll be only one less. Well, then, are you the people Chandlers Green got its name from?’
‘Yes,’ answered Meredith.
Marie grinned broadly. ‘This is going to be fun,’ she remarked, ‘because my dad hates your dad with a passion. He’s not the sort of bloke who hates people, but he has made an exception.’
‘Everyone has made an exception in the case of our beloved papa,’ said Jeremy. ‘He is a nasty piece of work, so we are not in the least way offended.’ His eyes kept straying to Josie and he wished that she would speak, but she seemed to be the quietest of the three.
‘I shall still be frank,’ continued Meredith eventually. ‘I am not completely sure of my plans, but I want to work. The three of us have some money – not enough to start up properly; we shall need to borrow – and I am toying with the idea of chandlery – a play on the name, if you like. And, if we start small, the biggest investment will be premises.’
‘I have a five-pound note sewn into my vest for emergencies,’ announced Josie with great solemnity. ‘My mother’s motto is “Be prepared”, although she did get kicked out of the Scouts for being too aggressive with the boys. So, if you will all close your eyes, I’ll see if I can root it out.’
Jeremy was hooked immediately. The girl had beauty and wit and he would ask her out at the earliest opportunity. As he and his brother tended to have similar tastes, he glanced across the room and was pleased to see that Peter’s attention rested on Marie, who seemed to be leader of the trio.
Meredith thanked Josie and said that the five pounds might well be needed at some stage, after which statement she became serious. ‘You have jobs, so keep them. If you are interested in investing time with me, I shall make sure that you do not lose out – keep those jobs until the very last minute.’
‘Great,’ muttered Aggie.
‘Wonderful,’ Josie sighed.
‘I don’t mind,’ added Marie, ‘because I’ve plenty of paper clips.’ She could feel Peter’s eyes boring into her and was beginning to wonder whether she had lipstick on her teeth …
‘How would you feel about manufacturing candles?’ Meredith was asking now.
‘Water off a duck’s back to me,’ answered Aggie. ‘It’ll be just like frying tonight, only without the cod and spuds.’
The other two girls indicated that they would not mind being involved in a factory. ‘Would there be a shop as well?’ asked Marie.
‘Yes.’ Meredith was warming to her subject. ‘At first, I thought my idea too stupid for words, but it kept coming back. No matter what else I thought of, the word “chandlery” had emblazoned itself on the front of my mind, as bright as the Blackpool lights. Well, now, I no longer think it’s silly. The Egyptians had candles, the American Indians made them out of fish – and our name is right.’
‘Your family made them hundreds of years ago. We did you in local history at junior school,’ offered Josie.
‘True,’ said Meredith. ‘Now, we have to find out about the competition and discover how we can be different. Candelabra, candles moulded into decorative shapes, different finishes, a museum of candle-making. I have a notion about allowing customers to design and make their own. Then there would be the shop. I am sure you three young ladies would enjoy working in that.’
Josie and Aggie looked at each other. ‘No tights and no chips,’ said Josie.
But Meredith rolled on. ‘We need to be competitive in the field of church candles and so forth – also those little domestic ones for power cuts.’
Marie nodded thoughtfully. ‘The thing is, I am very well paid where I am. We are thinking of moving into my parents’ old house – the three of us – and although the rent is low, it will still want paying.’
Peter, afraid of losing sight of Marie, allowed himself to speak. ‘But you will carry on working in your current posts until we are set up properly.’ He blushed. ‘Just a thought.’
Aggie smiled inwardly. As ever, no-one was interested in her, but her generous nature prevented her from feeling jealous as the meeting continued. It seemed that both her friends had hooked a fish and that neither catch was struggling to get away. And these fish were certainly an improvement on battered cod, that was certain …
FOUR
‘It will do.’ Jean Chandler placed the estate agent’s printed details in her handbag and walked down the path to a green-painted gate. ‘Yes, it is adequate for our needs, even if the boys and Meredith move in with us. Jeremy and Peter woul
d have to share a room, but I am sure that they would not object.’ The situation at the grange had quietened; it was plain that Richard expected her to stay, and she had allowed him to believe that she would, because she needed peace and quiet while making her decisions.
‘Nice house,’ replied Sally Foster. It promised to be noisy, though. After the wide-open spaces of Chandlers Green, Crompton Way, a section of Bolton’s ring road, seemed as busy as a Saturday market, people coming and going on foot, plus cars, lorries, motorbikes and cycles rushing by. But the house was a bargain. It had a corner plot, so the gardens were large when compared to others nearby, while the neat, red-brick building was detached, at least.
‘We’ll get used to it,’ promised Jean. ‘It’s just a case of steeling ourselves for the change. And, let’s face it, we have no future at the grange. He is drinking enough now to merit the purchase of his own distillery.’
‘He’ll not last,’ replied Sally.
Jean shook her head. ‘Sometimes, the sickest live longest. Never mind, we shall do very well here, I am sure.’ Poor Henry. She had not seen the old man for months, but oh, how she dreaded leaving him to the tender mercies of Richard and his minions. ‘Please don’t worry, Sally. We shall be quite all right here.’
Sally wasn’t quite sure. Mrs Jean had no training for work and her dead mother’s money would not last for ever. Yet there was a new confidence in the mistress, a sign that her backbone had stiffened, that she was finally adult. She didn’t appear to care any more, took her meals in the kitchen, walked past her husband without speaking, without flinching, had planned the purchase of a house, knew which items of furniture she would claim from the grange.
‘I shall bring all my mother’s things,’ she said now, ‘and he will still have more than enough. Come along, let’s get home – if such it might be termed.’
They climbed back into the taxi and rode in silence up the moors until they reached Chandlers Green. On their way into the village, they passed Claughton Cottage, a sturdy, rather neglected house that had belonged to a Miss Forrester. A builder’s van was parked outside; while two men worked on the broken fence, a third was balanced precariously on the roof. ‘A facelift at last,’ commented Jean. ‘That’s a pretty house and it deserves some attention.’
On the driveway of Chandlers Grange, they passed Richard. He was on unsteady feet, was clearly unfit to take his car and had apparently retained sufficient sense to realize that. Jean and Sally glanced at each other, said nothing until the taxi had delivered them to the door.
‘Just look at him,’ mused Jean.
‘Do I have to, Mrs Jean?’
‘Can we stop this Mrs Jean, Sally? When old Mrs Chandler was alive, I suppose the Mrs Jean separated me from her – thank God. What a harridan she was. This is to be a fresh start, Sally. Call me Jean, just Jean. Look – he almost fell into that holly bush – the man is heading for an accident. He thinks I have forgotten about moving out. In fact, from the state of him, I wonder whether he remembers my original threat? He has promised to keep you on and to leave Pol Fishwick where she is, so he thinks I am going to remain here.’ She sighed. ‘He knows my fear, Sally. Moving is something he considers to be beyond me – if he considers anything at all, that is.’
They stood and watched until Richard had managed to negotiate his way towards the gates. Then, both heads shaking in despair, they went inside to enjoy a cup of tea and the freedom his absence brought.
She must have got the heating process wrong again.
Anna Chandler smiled ruefully at the mess on her hands. At great risk to life and limb, she had harvested a small amount of wax from her hives and, after saturating a wick in paraffin, had tried to soften and coil the product of her bees into a simple column by winding the malleable material round and round until a sizeable candle had been achieved. It would be very pretty – as long as she could retain the honeycomb quality produced by those tiny, buzzing workers. Well, that had been the theory. The result was not as pleasing as she had hoped, but there was always tomorrow.
She sat now at her front window and engaged herself in an attempt to remove debris from under the tips of her nails. She was proud of her hands. They managed to remain younger than the rest of her, and the nails were always neat and polished. ‘Vanity,’ she mumbled under her breath. Yes, she had wonderful skin and hair that had turned silver rather than grey. Her hands bore none of the stains of time, those liver spots which seemed to arrive after the age of seventy. Really, some new clothes might be a good idea, but—
What was that? Ah. She rose and sighed heavily as she saw the taxi returning to the grange, narrowly missing her nephew as it swept past the gatehouse. ‘Fool,’ she muttered. ‘What on earth is he doing?’ He could scarcely walk. He was hanging on to a post as if his life depended on its support. She lit a cigarette and continued to watch Richard. He seemed to be struggling with his breathing and, for a moment, she committed the un-forgivable sin of praying for his death. But no, he was righting himself, was preparing to move out into a world too innocent to be deserving of his intrusion.
Anna sat down again. The behaviour of Richard Chandler was becoming more bizarre by the day. After removing his own father from society, he was now following a similar crooked path, mind clouded by alcohol, body bloated and weakened by the same substance, his own life floating away on a sea of whisky, brandy and the contents of the grange’s cellars. He was forty-five years of age, yet he looked at least sixty.
She rose slowly, then emerged from her house and walked to the gate. ‘You are an absolute fool,’ she told him.
Richard concentrated, focused, looked at her. Thin as a rake, she was covered in an ugly grey dress that would have fitted a woman twice her size. ‘Aunt Anna,’ he managed.
‘I am ashamed of you,’ she advised him. ‘You have imprisoned my brother, you refuse to allow him visitors, yet your behaviour is more spectacular than Henry’s ever was. If you do not stop drinking, you will be dead within months.’
‘Mind your own business.’ The words arrived slurred. ‘It’s none of your concern.’ Richard belched loudly before continuing, ‘I do what I think best.’
‘Think? You can’t think. Your brain cells are dying off. Is it true that Meredith has left home?’
‘Yes. And you are still smoking like a chimney.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, we are a family of addicts, Richard. Fortunately, although tobacco may shorten my stay in this mortal coil, it does not alter my behaviour.’ She looked to the heavens, shook her head, then awarded him her full attention again. ‘You will bleed to death,’ she announced.
‘So will you. You’ll get a bad cough and I shall have liver trouble – what’s the difference?’
Anna inhaled deeply and blew the smoke in his direction. ‘The difference is that I lock no-one in a bedroom and I do not inflict damage on my family.’
He grinned. ‘I haven’t hit anyone.’ He was proud of that, at least.
‘Your tongue hurts people,’ she told him quietly. ‘You are detested by everyone for miles around – most particularly by your own household.’
He steadied himself, drew himself up to full height. ‘And everybody laughs at you. You’re a ridiculous old woman. You carry on as if you own the bloody church – they all talk about you behind your back.’
‘I know.’
Richard could think of nothing further to say, so he advised her to bugger off, then stepped out into the lane. She could go to hell; they could all go to hell.
‘Hard as bloody nails, stripping the place bare, mending fences. But he’ll mend no fences with me, oh no.’ Richard Chandler threw himself into Polly Fishwick’s greasy armchair. ‘Gall of the man, coming to live here in my village. My grandfather would have had him chased out.’
Polly, who was confused to the point of desperation, kept her mouth tightly closed. She could have mentioned that this was no longer his village, that the Chandlers now owned just a few farms, a handful of tied cottages and their own
house, but it was pointless. First, he had used her body, then had demanded that she move to the grange in order to care for his father. But all that was forgotten now, because his wife would not tolerate Polly’s presence in her home.
‘They went out in a taxi,’ he slurred.
‘Did they?’ Polly couldn’t have cared less, because he was making very little sense. Was he talking about the Martindales?
‘Passed me on the drive, almost ran me over, completely ignored me. It’s like living with a coven of witches.’
Ah, his thoughts had returned to his wife and Sally Foster, it seemed. ‘There’s thirteen in a coven – I read that in the Reveille. They meet in woods at night and say the Mass backwards, then they sacrifice things.’
He looked at her. God, what was he doing here? The only person in the world who would listen to him was the abandoned wife of a woodsman. This was all wrong; he had a wife of his own at home and she should offer comfort, she should be the one to soothe away his troubles. ‘What use are you going to be now?’ he asked.
Polly attempted no reply. Terrified by the threat of homelessness, she sought only not to anger him. He was very drunk, too, so his behaviour promised to be even more erratic than usual. The whites of his eyes were streaked with red, while his face, white at the outer edges, displayed a variety of colours from pink through to blue, the more purple sections on a bulbous, alcohol-damaged nose pitted with open pores. Well, he was no oil painting, that was for sure. Yet she had to be compliant, was forced to listen, to dance to whichever tune he proposed to play.
‘You’ll stay here till I think of a use for you,’ he announced.
‘Right.’ True hatred burgeoned anew in that moment. She had not liked him for some time, but now, reduced to the status of beggar, one whose body was no longer required, whose person was valued so poorly, she took up the remnants of her pride and gathered them in. Eventually, she would have her revenge against this man.
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