Alf sat down in the chair recently vacated by his daughter’s friend. Poor kid. Nobody should have to put up with a wicked devil like Richard Chandler. He thought about going up to the house to reason with Jean Chandler, to beg her to get the police in, but the constabulary would likely want to know why she had said nothing thus far. She could say she’d been too scared, but …
Oh, God. Alf had come a long way, had travelled the streets, roads and avenues of Bolton for more years than he cared to remember, had heaved and hauled rubbish, had watched his wife near to death with TB. And what had he achieved at the end of it? A house in a dangerous place, that was all.
Leena wandered in. ‘Oh, has Aggie gone? Our Marie told me she was here. Did you give her a cuppa?’
He nodded. ‘Aye. And I think you’d best start thinking about going up to the grange more often.’ Yes, there was safety in numbers. ‘From what I’ve heard, Aggie could burn water – she needs a helping hand, love. I could run you up there in the mornings if you like.’
‘After Christmas,’ she replied. ‘I want a nice Christmas and everybody’s coming.’ She was looking forward to that. The family from the grange, old neighbours from Emblem Street, her own children – a real party and room to accommodate everyone.
‘You’re talking nigh on a dozen people,’ he told her. ‘Don’t you think that’ll be too much for you?’
‘More like fourteen,’ she replied happily. The dining room was big enough – they could carry the kitchen table through and shove it against the one in the dining room, and—
‘All right.’ He knew when he was beaten and had the sense to keep quiet. Once Leena fixed her mind on something, it was stuck as fast as a bayonet after the charge of the Light Brigade – there was no shifting her. ‘Just … just make sure you lock yourself in and keep safe when I’ve gone.’
‘Why? Is Jack the Ripper about?’
Sometimes, jokes hit rather too close for Alf’s comfort. ‘No, but there’s been a few burglaries, so think on and shut your doors.’
She put the kettle back on the stove. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Is that why Aggie finished up here at the crack of dawn?’
‘Yes.’
Leena nodded. ‘He was on the stairs yesterday when I took the puddings round. He looked like an animal at the zoo, behind bars and on the hungry side.’
‘Bloody predator,’ growled Alf.
‘Eh?’
‘Nowt. Just keep yourself safe – the phone’ll be here in a few weeks anyway.’ He would feel safer when the GPO had been and done its job. Although the kitchen was warm, a shiver travelled the length of his spine. They might have thrown him out of the grange, but Richard Chandler was out there, larger than life and twice as ugly as mortal sin.
‘Eggs, love?’ asked Leena.
‘Scrambled, please.’ He wanted scrambling, that Richard flaming Chandler – though from the sound of things, his brains were already well on the way to being fuddled.
Leena cooked the breakfast, one eye on her husband. Deep down, she knew the cause of his fear, but she didn’t want to say the words, was unwilling to make the threat more real than it needed to be. She served his eggs. ‘There you are, love. Now, straighten your face before the wind changes, or you’ll finish up looking like a smacked bum for the rest of your life.’
He relaxed and ate his eggs. Chandler was gone, the phone would soon be in and it was nearly Christmas. Like everyone else on God’s good earth, Alf Martindale placed his trust in the Lord and hoped for the best.
Outside Preston’s jewellers, the very place where he had bought Jean’s wedding and engagement rings, Richard Chandler was finally sober. With his stomach lined by a full English breakfast and several mugs of strong tea, he waited for a degree of clearer thought to visit his brain.
Bolton. His town. The Romans had been and gone, Flemish weavers had been and stayed, cotton was on the decline and nobody wanted candles unless there was a power cut. King Henry, son of King John, had enfranchised the growing town in January 1253, though its unsigned charter had existed for two years before that momentous date. Free trade for all its burgesses, debts to be honoured, acreages to be allocated, taxes to be collected, the town to have its own identity for the rest of time. Bolton.
He turned and looked at the needle which marked the spot on which the seventh Earl of Derby had been beheaded, at the inn in which that man had spent his last few hours in this fiercely Parliamentarian stronghold. Deansgate, Bradshawgate, Church-gate – these roads marked barriers long gone, places at which an intruder might be challenged before walking among townsfolk in these parts.
‘We were a part of that,’ he said to himself. But life moved on and here stood the son and rightful heir to the legacy of men who had shed blood so that this, the largest town in England, might survive. Where was the pride now? He fingered the car keys in his pocket and considered his next move. His vehicle was recognized everywhere and he sought anonymity, so the car had to go.
He crossed the road and walked up Bradshawgate towards an estate agency. With no intention of living in a boarding house, he would be forced to rent a small place on the town’s outskirts. Unable to see beyond the point of immediate needs, his goals were a roof, a cheaper car and a fire at which he might warm his bones. Once these necessities had been secured, he would be able to plan the rest. And the rest was revenge.
Aggie Turner had always battled against temper. There was probably a grain of truth in the myth about red-haired people, because most of her mother’s family, especially the redheads, were short-fused. Pride straightened her spine as she made lunch for the family – steak and kidney pie, one of her safer options. A natural housekeeper, she still had a degree of catching up to do in the fine-tuning of her culinary abilities.
Village women came and went, the harder jobs completed by noon, and Aggie was left alone in the vast kitchen – just herself, some suet pastry and the smell of simmering meat for company. Until Polly arrived. Aggie looked up. ‘Are you off out?’
‘Later on,’ replied Polly. ‘The old man’s asleep, God love him. Last night took a lot out of him, more than he wants to admit. Are you all right, love? You look a bit peaky to me.’
Aggie tackled her pastry. ‘I’m fine – just tired.’
‘I’ve come for the meeting,’ said Polly.
‘In here?’ The kitchen was fast becoming the centre of this household. ‘I’ve cooking to do.’ Would Jeremy be at the meeting? ‘What’s it about?’
Polly lifted her shoulders. ‘Eeh, don’t ask me. But I was told to come here at twelve o’clock for a conflab and I’m here, but the conflab’s not. Henry was supposed to come, too, but he’s best left where he is.’
Aggie bridled. ‘I wish somebody’d tell me when my table’s going to be met round. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have started this pie.’
Polly sat down. ‘They won’t mind.’
‘Well, I will,’ snapped Aggie. ‘I’m swimming against the tide here. And I’ve the locksmith coming.’ She busied herself with the task in hand, not even looking up when the rest of the household began to collect round her table.
‘How’s Agnes this morning?’ asked Jeremy as he took his place at the end nearest the door.
‘Fine.’ She brought the meat across and began to throw it into her pie dish. When the container was full, she fixed on the lid of pastry and carried it to the oven, leaving it to sit until the time came when it would be pushed inside to finish. Quickly, she cleaned up her mess before finally looking at the assembled group. ‘That’s me done,’ she announced. ‘I’ll carry on with the lunch after your meeting.’
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you staying?’
‘I wasn’t invited,’ she answered.
Jean cleared her throat. ‘But you are a part of the household, Aggie. We want you to stay.’
Aggie faltered for a moment, but held on to her shredded dignity as best she could. She wanted to hit Jeremy with the rolling pin, but she managed to overcome the de
sire to do him grievous bodily harm – she would leave the grange when she was ready, not before, and she would not be leaving under a cloud. ‘I need rest, Mrs Chandler, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and sit down until the locksmith comes.’
‘Go to bed if you want,’ suggested Polly. ‘I’ll put your pie in the oven in half an hour, and I’ll sort the locksmith out.’ She grinned. ‘I’m good at sorting men out.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Aggie, ‘I noticed.’ But the sorting out of Jeremy Chandler would be subtle and would not require a walking stick. She walked to the door, turned, saw him staring at her. Yes, she would deal with him later.
In her room, she picked up a cushion and began to beat it with her fists – this was what her mother would term ‘knocking seven shades of excreta out of life’, a method often employed by the red-headed amongst the clan. When the tears flowed, she did not fight them, although she knew that she would live to regret the outpouring, because another downside for redheads was the fine skin and the way it advertised recent tears. Well, he could play bloody darts on his bloody own, because Aggie Turner was going bloody nowhere.
‘So, there we have it.’ Anna Chandler spread her hand-drawn plans across the table. ‘Factory, shop, offices. The rent is dirt cheap and I’ve found a firm selling the necessary equipment at a reasonable price.’ She took a cigarette from behind an ear and lit it. ‘We are going into business.’
‘And I shall sell more than just candles?’ Meredith asked.
Anna nodded. ‘You and Marie – if she wishes to join in – can sell whatever you like, but the main product will be ornamental candles. Look at the trends.’ She tossed some magazines into the arena. ‘There are tapers set in cast-iron holders, pillar candles with several colours, decorated stuff, too – studs and so forth pushed into the wax. It remains a volatile substance, of course, so your idea of allowing people to make their own candles is rather adventurous, Meredith. However, there are books now for those who want to take the risk at home – we can sell those, the wicks and the wax.’
‘And there’s the name,’ laughed Meredith. ‘Wicks and Wax.’
Jean smiled. ‘No. We call it New Chandlers. I absolutely insist on that. At first, we shall hire just a few people, but as time goes on, who knows? We may expand.’
‘My book will be for sale,’ said Anna. ‘That’s the only chance I have of selling it, I imagine. Did you know that I must pay to be published? And after struggling to translate the ramblings of my inebriated ancestors.’
Peter spoke. ‘If I get into vet college, I shan’t be helping.’
‘We know.’ Meredith pressed her brother’s hand. ‘But you’ll put some of Grandmother’s money in?’
‘Of course. And Jeremy can take the wheel.’
Jeremy was not paying attention. There had been a change in Agnes and he needed to get to the bottom of it. ‘What?’
‘You will be in charge of the factory,’ Jean told him.
‘Fine.’ He needed to get out of here, wanted to follow Agnes, but Great-Aunt Anna, hatless but with the hallmark cigarette in one hand, was holding forth on the subject of business plans and bank loans, investment and interest. And he was losing interest fast. It was strange how his affection for Agnes had developed so suddenly, but it was strong enough to make him worry about the shift of attitude.
‘Jeremy?’
‘What?’ They were all staring at him.
Meredith shook her head. ‘We were just saying that Polly and Aggie will take responsibility for the home front and we were wondering whether you might consider doing a course in management? Evening classes, of course.’
‘Fine,’ he repeated. ‘Whatever needs doing, I’ll do it.’ Meredith grinned. ‘He’s gone into a decline because Josie Maguire’s off to London to seek her fortune.’
‘Is she?’ he asked. ‘Well, good luck to her.’
They droned on about facts and figures while he studied the grain in the kitchen table. The clouds in his mind began to shift and were gathering a slight hint of silver at the edges – the light was dawning. He folded his arms and stretched out long legs.
‘No need to kick,’ grumbled Meredith.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but I have a call to make. About the dog.’
‘Hero’s fine,’ said Peter. ‘I rang earlier – he is going to make a full recovery.’
‘Good.’ With no further excuses on which to fall back, Jeremy remained throughout the rest of the meeting.
Polly pushed the pie into the oven at half past twelve, then lit rings under the vegetables. ‘God help you,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but you’re in for a funny dinner.’
At last, it was over. With fifteen minutes to go before lunch, Jeremy took the stairs two at a time. Grinning foolishly, he approached her door. He knew why she was sulking and had no intention of letting her off his hook …
* * *
The house was on Halliwell Road, just a two up and two down with a bathroom tacked on downstairs. The kitchen was about the same size as the pantry up at the grange, but it held a cooker, some cupboards and a couple of shelves. The other ground-floor room, whose front door led straight onto the pavement, was small, but furnished. It contained a sofa big enough to sleep on; that was vital, as he could not imagine running downstairs in the night every time he needed the bathroom. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.
The estate agent hesitated. ‘It’s only for six months. The owners have gone to stay with family for a while, but they will be coming back in June.’
‘That is no problem.’
‘And … er … I need a month up front, then a month extra in case of damages. If there are no damages, the money will be returned to you when you leave.’
‘Fine.’ Richard pulled his wallet from an inside pocket.
‘And two forms of identification.’
He pushed his bank book and driving licence into the agent’s hands, placing an extra five-pound note on top of these offerings. ‘Keep your mouth shut,’ he ordered. ‘I am taking a rest from family problems and I don’t wish to be traced. Do you understand?’
The young man relaxed. ‘I do, indeed, sir. We all need to get away from time to time. Rest assured, your secret is safe with me.’ He busied himself with plans for his five-pound bonus, and left Richard Chandler in his grim little house. If the landed gentry wanted to take a step down in the world, so be it – as long as there was the odd fiver in their calculations. But for the name and address on bank book and driving licence, Richard Chandler would not have been noticed, anyway – and what did it matter? Just another fat, middle-aged man in transit, but with a bit of money to spare.
Richard sat in his house and wondered what the hell he was doing. He had never boiled an egg in his life, had no idea of how to keep a place clean, would need help with laundry and ironing – could he run to a daily? Weekdays only, of course – on Saturdays he would eat out. Sundays, too – most pubs did meals. He needed a woman. Not a Pan-Handle Pol, not a Fragrant Jean, just a decent body who would keep him fed and clean.
He left his little hovel and walked down to a newsagent, passing his newly acquired Morris van on the way. Parked outside his house, it was not a thing of beauty, but it possessed the anonymity with which he sought to cloak himself.
With the help of the proprietor, he made out a card and paid for it to be displayed in the window. Pushing a rolled newspaper under his arm, Richard then crossed the road and entered a seedy public house. Armed with a double whisky, some pork scratchings and a packet of crisps, he sat in a corner and watched how the other half lived.
Old men played a lunchtime game of dominoes, some hags in a window seat cackled; he noticed that one had not a single tooth in her head. The blowzy landlady screamed with laughter when a salesman type cracked a joke at the bar and, all the time, traffic roared past outside. He did not know whether or when he would get used to such noise. Had he made a mistake? Oh, what did it matter? Two or three more whiskies and he would be able to tolerate just about anything –
or so he hoped.
Yes, Scotch had brought him this far and it would take him the rest of the way. As long as he took a few others with him, he did not fear the concept of death, since he was already in hell.
Aggie faced herself. As she had told Jeremy Chandler, she was not one to stand in front of mirrors, yet here she lingered, naked as the day of her birth, scrutinizing every curve, every fold, every pocket of fat. ‘You are not ugly,’ she advised the mirror. ‘There’s a lot less of you than there used to be.’ She cherished the theory that chip shop fat was absorbed by the system, that a person did not need to stuff her stomach with fried food in order to become its victim. ‘I’m sweating it out,’ she pronounced, referring to her daily walk on the moors.
Her clothes had been the first to announce her improvement – waistbands needing to be made smaller by a few hasty stitches, jeans that threatened to follow the law of gravity, undergarments too loose.
It was a good face, a nice face. Although ‘nice’ was insipid and a long way from perfect, it was a great deal preferable to buck teeth and receding chin. She was all right. She was healthy and bright and she was going somewhere; she was going to college and would become a teacher.
Tiredness forgotten, she dragged on underclothes, jeans and sweater, grabbed a duffel coat and a silly pom-pom tea-cosy hat, then left the house via the back stairs. Now she had to walk him off. There was more than just avoirdupois to lose today – there was him, a different kind of weight, not even a dead weight, because stillborn seemed a more appropriate adjective.
The side door swung behind her; let them have their meeting, because Agnes Turner had just resigned. She would keep the job for a while, but on her own terms from this moment. Mam and Dad would help, of course, as these rather less than visionary people were good to the core; if their Aggie wanted to train as a teacher, they would get behind her. But it would be nice to have some money of her own, a few quid put by so that she might live in a flat rather than in the college hall – Catholic training colleges were notorious for imposing discipline on residents. Another decision made itself – bugger Catholic. She would go neutral, would be an adult rather than a shepherded child.
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