Unaware of the emotions nursed in the heart of his exmistress, Richard Chandler rambled on. ‘You will befriend the wife of Alfred Martindale. She will be unknown here, so, as soon as her husband has gone to work, she is going to feel lonely. People in towns are like ants – they live in colonies, help each other, are seldom alone. The country is different.’
‘Yes, I know.’ A town girl, Polly had missed her roots when she had first come to live in Woodside Cottage. Now, she enjoyed the seclusion and needed to keep her home, because she could not manage to wish herself back in town on a permanent basis. Bolton was for shopping only, and she was glad to be away from it.
‘I shall ruin him,’ announced Richard, ‘just as he tried to ruin me.’
It seemed that she was to be used as a weapon, then, one who would be fired like a cannon at the Martindales. And, although she had wondered about playing both sides, this was the man who was keeping her alive and she had no power to stand up for herself. Not just yet, anyway. ‘Will you be putting money in the bank like you promised?’
‘Of course. A Chandler’s word is his bond.’
‘And I don’t need to look after your dad?’
‘Not for the moment. Dave Armstrong is there for a few days yet, then, who knows? I did manage to persuade Dave to stay a little longer, but I shall probably put the old man away somewhere. He is beyond retrieval now, too senile for most situations. You could have managed him, but my wife will not allow that.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
He glared at her. ‘Most men in my position do exactly as they please, but Jean has developed notions; she is under the influence of Nanny Foster, as she has not the brains to make any decisions for herself.’
Inwardly, Polly smiled. She felt a grudging admiration for the wife of Richard Chandler, as she seemed to have brought the un-biddable man to heel for the first time in his life. Oh, how Polly wanted him to leave. She fancied soaking her feet in front of the fire, a nice bit of lunch, then a snooze. But she could not see him off, because her home was his property. She was his property.
Richard stumbled to his feet, staggered, righted himself. ‘Be ready,’ he said before making his way out of the house. He stood at the gate, looked right into woods owned by him, forward into land owned by him, left towards a village that had once been the domain of his family. Here had lived the chandlers, those who had moulded and dipped, who had been grateful for the work provided by the real Chandlers. It was all going, was slipping through his fingers as fast as tallow had dripped its way along wick and into the retrieval bowls beneath.
He forced himself not to roar with rage, then began the walk back into his village. It was a pretty place with rows of terraced houses built in keeping with the rises and pleats of the land, each house constructed from thick, solid stone, their roofs high, then low, depending on the level of the plots on which they stood. There was a public house, named, somewhat predictably, the Chandlers Arms, then a small greengrocery, a post office-cum-general store that sold everything from envelopes to spades. Further on, a few detached homes with gardens announced that the chandlery had housed its management well – these were now the property of educated men, doctors, lawyers, business-folk.
Except for one. Claughton Cottage, the last house – or the first, depending on where one entered the village – was not yet occupied. He watched the builders at their tasks, could see that a considerable amount of work was being done. Still fuelled by drink, he secreted himself behind a tree and tried to calculate the cost of Martindale’s renovations. It was sickening to think that a man who traded in rubbish was displaying such affluence.
He dared not burn it down, dared not damage the place. What could be done to stop this man arriving here? It would have to be achieved in town, before Martindale and his damned family arrived in Chandlers Green. How? Who? Could he deal with this himself and, if he could not, was there anyone he might appoint to undertake the task for a sum? How was such a man to be punished, stopped, hurt, persuaded … killed?
Uncomfortable with his wicked thoughts, Richard slid away onto his own land and strode homeward. At least the fragrant one had stopped threatening to move out. She hadn’t the guts to leave, hadn’t the guts to decide what day it was. God, he was surrounded by fools. He would get home as soon as possible; another whisky would help him organize his mind.
‘Don’t be too hasty.’ Anna sat with Jean and Sally at the kitchen table. She could not remain long, as her nephew might return and she did not want to fuel his paranoia. ‘I must leave soon,’ she said, ‘as he is already convinced that the world conspires against him.’
‘Perhaps it does,’ said Jean, ‘because he is hated not just by his family. You left, Anna. You know that you could not have borne it a moment longer, so how can you expect the rest of us to stay?’
Wreathed in tobacco smoke, Anna Chandler shook her head as if trying to redistribute its contents into some sort of order. ‘Have you seen my brother?’
‘No,’ answered Jean sadly. ‘The excuse is that he is too dangerous and the minders are under Richard’s orders to keep everyone out. He has not left his room for many weeks.’
Anna sighed, then took another puff of best Virginia. ‘I hear that Dave Armstrong is ready to move on, probably back to farm labouring.’
Jean already knew about that. ‘Yes. Richard wanted to install Pol Fishwick as his nurse. That is where I drew the line. I am sorry, Anna, but for my own sake – and for my children and Sally, too – I must get away from here. Please do not make me responsible for my father-in-law. It isn’t my fault.’ Nevertheless, she managed to feel hugely guilty. What would become of the old man when Armstrong left? Who would tend him? Would Richard be willing to pay for care in an institution of some kind? Or would he have Henry committed to a mental hospital? ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated.
Anna rose to her feet. ‘Yes, it is too much for me to ask and I apologize. Of course you must save yourselves.’ She slammed her hat onto her head. ‘Thank you for the tea, Sally.’
Jean stood up. ‘What are you afraid of, Anna? It is all right – you can speak freely in front of Sally.’
‘I know that.’ Anna bit hard on her lower lip. ‘It’s falling apart, Jean – and I don’t mean the heap of stones that used to be the factory. The Chandlers remain landowners and Richard cares nothing for his tenants. He is drinking so much that I don’t even know whether rents are being collected or whether we can trust those invested with stewardship. On top of that, he is imbibing any profits we might be making. And I fear …’ Her voice tailed away.
‘You fear?’ Jean prompted.
‘He may kill my brother.’
There, it was out. The worry shared by these three women had finally been given an airing.
‘I am going now.’ Anna left the house by the rear door.
Jean and Sally remained in the kitchen. ‘What shall we do?’ asked Jean.
‘I have no idea,’ replied Sally. And that was another truth aired.
‘So, what did you think of her?’ Aggie Turner kicked her heels against the wall outside one of her parents’ two shops. This was her home, her territory; the second shop was a lock-up in town, but this one, fastened to the Co-op on Tonge Moor Road, was Aggie’s stamping ground.
‘I thought she was nice.’ Marie glanced at Josie’s deadpan features.
‘They were all nice,’ agreed Josie. ‘But I don’t know whether I would throw my hat into their ring. I’m not sure that they’re sure. From the sound of it, they’re on the run from their father – and their mother won’t be hanging on much longer, either. They’re just three runaways and the girl is the one with the ideas.’
‘She’s bright,’ announced Marie, ‘but a candle factory? How bright is a candle? Sounds a bit mad to me – I’d sooner have a hundred-watt light bulb any day. I mean, I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, but who wants candles these days? We’ve all got electricity now.’
‘They’re making a comeback,’ explained Jos
ie. ‘There are all kinds of new ones – thin, tapering things stuck in special holders that take up to a dozen, then coloured ones for the table. But we have good jobs. To give up a good job, we’d have to be sure.’
Aggie didn’t think much of her job. ‘I’m wasted,’ she moaned. ‘Five subjects including Latin, and all I do is sell chips.’
The smell of hot fat floated through the shop’s open door and into the noses of the three girls. Aggie was desperate to be out of here, because no matter what she did the aroma clung to her clothes and to every other item behind and above the shop’s premises. She had gone through school smelling of lard, often wondered why her parents had sent her to the Catholic grammar when all they had needed was one more fish-fryer. ‘You two can please yourselves,’ she said after a few minutes’ thought, ‘but I am leaving this place. Whether I work for Meredith Chandler or not, I am leaving home.’
‘So am I,’ said Josie, ‘because otherwise I’d never hear the last of Marks and Spencer. I am not spending the rest of my life in hosiery.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ Marie suggested. ‘They could move you up to suspender belts and bras.’
‘And vests,’ added Josie, her tone its usual deliberately grim self. ‘Just think, girls, I could be in corsets by Christmas.’
They sighed simultaneously.
A car drew up at the kerb and two men unfolded themselves from its small interior. Marie and Josie organized their features into unimpressed mode, but Aggie, ebullient as ever, could not contain her joy. ‘Peter! Jeremy!’ she yelled. ‘When did you get that?’
‘Don’t blame me,’ Jeremy grumbled. ‘Peter was the architect of this little mistake. If you’re a very thin dwarf, it’s a good car. But if you are any taller than three feet, keep your head between your knees – even when driving.’ He grinned at his brother. ‘We grew too tall to be jockeys, didn’t we, Pete? So now we are training to be racing drivers. The trouble is, this old girl doesn’t do more than thirty – even then, she needs a following wind.’
But Aggie thought the Austin was brilliant. ‘If we bend Josie in half, we can all get in the back. Come on, girls, let’s go for a spin.’
Josie, who was usually good at not blushing, felt the heat in her cheeks. Jeremy Chandler was clearly smitten; he could not take his eyes off her. At the same time, Peter, the more reticent of the two, kept his gaze averted from Marie. It seemed that the boys had made up their minds to set their caps, and poor Aggie was to be left out yet again. Aggie was usually left out, because she was dumpy and her red hair was too curly to be biddable, yet Josie suspected that she was the most valuable of all of them, the brainiest and the most fun.
Aggie, always determined to make the best of everything, continued to enthuse about the car. She knew what was happening, but she realized, too, that no courtship had started; at this point, she would not be de trop – in fact, she might even be useful, especially where the shy twin was concerned. ‘Are we going?’ she asked.
Peter studied his shoes. Aggie was a good sort, but the car was scarcely big enough for four and would certainly acquire sardine-tin status if three were packed into the rear seat. Marie was gorgeous and he dared not look at her. His brother, forever the leader, was more open in his approach, as he neither feared nor expected rejection.
‘I suppose we could crowbar you all in,’ said Jeremy.
Josie stared straight into his eyes. Underneath all the banter, she remained a good Catholic girl and this Protestant had better keep his distance. She did like him, though …
Marie looked at the car, then allowed her gaze to roam over Josie and Aggie. Josie might well need a hole in the roof for her head, while Aggie, rather rounder, required a seat to herself. ‘You four go,’ she suggested. ‘I should get home, really.’ At last, she felt Peter Chandler’s gaze. He was clearly displeased by her suggestion, yet he made no comment.
‘We can squeeze in,’ insisted Aggie. ‘Come on, Marie, don’t be a spoilsport. I’ll sit on your knee.’
‘No, thanks. I’d rather keep the feeling in my legs if you don’t mind.’
Peter’s cheeks were suddenly red as he spoke to his brother. ‘Erm … why don’t you take Aggie and Josie? I’ll stay here with … er … with Marie.’
Marie felt a dart of panic shooting through her chest. This was not a familiar reaction and she was uncomfortable with it. Did she like him, dislike him, was she indifferent? Surely indifference would bring no reaction at all? Perhaps she was afraid of the hard work he promised to be, because extracting opinion or comment from such a man would require intervention verging on the surgical.
‘What do you say?’ Josie asked her friend.
‘I don’t mind,’ replied Marie. She did mind, but could not admit her reluctance in the circumstances, everyone hanging on her words. ‘Just don’t be long, because I’ll need to get home.’
Peter spoke. ‘These three can sit here while I drive you home later,’ he said. ‘That will be fair play. They get the first ride and you get the second.’
Aggie climbed into the rear seat while Josie sat next to Jeremy. In a cloud of greyish-blue smoke, they shuddered off in a northerly direction, leaving Marie to contend with a boy whose shyness might easily have belonged to someone in early puberty. She reclaimed her place on the wall. Peter took a sudden interest in the shop next door, an ironmonger’s whose display of tools, firelighters, buckets and mops was not exactly riveting.
Marie studied her nails, wished that they would grow, wondered whether nail polish might hold them together. She had managed, finally, to stop biting them, but they were still flaky.
Eventually, he joined her. ‘That’s not the sort of chandlery we are thinking of,’ he began.
‘Oh?’
‘No, we want something more exotic. My sister has a flair for the unusual.’
He was talking, expressing a view. Did he thrive only when he stood beyond the range of his twin’s shadow? Meredith, too, was rather outgoing, so perhaps this twin needed his own plot of earth where he might prosper without sharing light.
‘We don’t know what to do – Aggie, Josie and myself, I mean.’
Peter nodded. ‘A man I know always says, “If in doubt, do nowt.” Sage advice. But I suggest you take an interest, because Merry is going to be a force to contend with. She is the instigator, always was.’
‘While you are rather shy.’
He hesitated. ‘Yes. And Jeremy is the more amusing. I expect you find me something of a bore – most do. I think a lot and try not to talk rubbish.’
She smiled. ‘Rubbish can be fun.’
‘Nonsense can be fun,’ he argued, ‘whereas rubbish belongs in the bin. The knack is to recognize the difference. My life’s work will be sorting wheat from chaff.’
Marie decided there and then that she liked Peter Chandler. He was shy in the company of his siblings, that was all. Apart from that, he seemed an intelligent sort of person, probably capable of great wit in the right circumstances. ‘I wonder where Jeremy has taken them?’ she asked.
It was Peter’s turn to smile. ‘Who knows? Who cares? At least I got the chance to spend some time with you.’
She thought her heart would be stopped by the shock. Quiet, reserved Peter Chandler had spoken out already. Mind, she had met him only twice, so her original assessment of him might have been hasty. Glancing sideways, she saw that his skin was slightly flushed, though, for the most part, his demeanour remained calm and unhurried. ‘That was a nice thing to say,’ she told him.
‘Best to speak the truth. It cuts out a lot of red tape. I think I have changed in the past few days, since we told Father to take a long walk. What’s the point of keeping it all inside, Marie?’
She laughed. ‘If you want your old man to take a long walk, I’ll buy a lead for my dad – he’ll exercise him for you and drop him off the end of one of Blackpool’s piers.’
‘I wonder what happened there?’ he asked.
‘Something in the war.’ She tried to r
emember exactly what she knew, but came up with very little. ‘My dad says Richard Chandler is not a man of honour. But he never talks about the details – not in front of me or my brother, anyway.’
‘Which means that your father is a man of honour.’
‘I think so, Peter, but I may be biased.’
‘He is hated universally – my father, I mean. There is a great deal of the bully about him. Bullies have their feet set in cowardice and cowards are afraid of the world.’ He took a few paces, circled and stood in front of his companion. ‘Are you afraid of the world, Marie?’
‘No, but I have always been a bit reckless.’
‘My sister is the same,’ he told her, ‘which is why I think you should keep in touch, maintain an interest in whatever she does. She will fly or she will crash – there will be no middle road. Whichever, the noise will be heard nationwide. Oh, and Mother seems to be intending to buy a house on Crompton Way.’
Marie processed this new information. ‘So, your father is to be abandoned to his fate.’
‘Yes. Even the housekeeper will leave. Mother will expect the three of us to live with her, of course.’
‘And will you?’
‘For a while, yes. Mother will need support.’
Yes, he was a decent sort of man, not as giddy as his brother, not as pushy as his sister, yet there was a quiet power in him, an element Marie had not expected to find. Handsome, too, she admitted, of decent height, strong yet slender build, with dark blond hair and hazel eyes. She was interested. He was not a Catholic, but that didn’t matter – he would be a pleasant friend. Wouldn’t he?
‘I just want a job,’ he said, placing himself beside her on the wall. ‘Father was keen for us to attend university – wants us to be professionals, the sort of sons he could brag about. But neither of us is cut out for that sort of life. You work for solicitors?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t like the job?’
Marie shrugged. ‘I don’t like dirty old men – or dirty young ones. Lawyers are strange creatures – they go about upholding the rules, then spend their spare time breaking every commandment on Moses’ list. I was brought up to keep my distance, Peter, and to respect marriage. The law is the most corrupt body in the world, I’m sure. As for the police – no comment.’
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