She did Saturdays, Sundays, high days, holy days and midnights if required. Richard had met his match, because, once dusk fell, she drank almost as much as he did – and he paid for that, too. Still, at least he had company, someone who sat with him; the fragrant one with her ponytails and make-up was a thing of the past.
He parked in a more or less parallel fashion outside the house, opened the van’s door, cursed when a bus almost removed it. Climbing from the driver’s seat, he steadied himself against the bonnet before making his way into the house. She was there – he could smell some sort of stew cooking.
Freda, more content than she had been in ages, put her head round the kitchen door. ‘Get yourself a drink, love. I’ve left the bottle and a glass on the fireplace.’ She was not a daytime drinker, but she accepted that men were different, that they drank whenever they wanted to.
He sat down. At least she understood him. Freda didn’t go flapping about every time he looked at her wrong; with Jean, a man would have needed to tread on eggshells in order not to upset her. She was too frail for a real man, a proper man.
Freda appeared again. ‘I’ve stewed a bit of steak, Richard, and I’ll just bob down to the chippy for some mushy peas. The spuds are nearly done. I could open a tin of marrowfats, but that new chippy does a grand job with peas. I won’t be long – you have a little rest.’
That was the other thing about Freda – she knew her place. Although she used his Christian name, she treated him with respect and she talked about matters mundane, chattering away for hours about the price of fish on Ashburner Street market, about nylon stockings and boiled ham on the bone. She was what Richard’s father might term a ‘witterer’, but Freda wittered in a way that was strangely comforting.
She let herself out onto the pavement, cardigan gathered against her puny chest. The wind was bitter today, a harbinger of Christmas. Christmas, yes. She would bring her little silver tree into Richard’s house and would eat with him on Christmas Day. They could have wine. She had a couple of wine glasses somewhere in a cupboard at home.
Turners’ was not too bad – just four people in the queue. ‘I only want peas,’ she announced, ‘if nobody minds – two lots, please.’
Mag Turner doled out the peas. She and her husband were new to Halliwell Road, having opened this, their third shop, only weeks earlier. The other two shops were in the capable hands of staff, but Mag and Jim wanted to nurse this one through its first few weeks. ‘There you go.’ She passed the package to Freda, then rooted for change in the till. ‘You still working for that man – him four doors up from here?’
‘I am,’ replied Freda.
‘He’s just come home in a terrible state.’ Mag had dropped her voice, and with a sideways movement of her head she beckoned Freda to the quiet end of the counter. ‘A double-decker had to swerve – I’ve never seen a man drive so badly,’ she whispered. ‘He’ll be causing accidents, next news, I’m sure. Any road, the police’ll be catching up with him if he doesn’t shape. Is he a heavy drinker?’
Freda pulled herself to full height. Strangely, she felt bound to defend her employer. ‘No more than most,’ she replied. ‘I treat people the way they treat me, and he’s all right. I mean, he likes a drop, but most of them do, don’t they? My Eric, rest him, used to come home in some states when Bolton lost a game.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Mag. ‘Only I’m told he’s new round here – a bit like us, really. We’ve not long taken this shop.’
‘And thank God you did,’ replied Freda, ‘because them there Arkwrights used rancid fat. His name’s Richard Chandler, the bloke I look after.’
Mag tried to conceal her reaction. ‘From Chandlers Green?’ she asked, her voice as controlled as was possible. ‘Up the moors? Them that used to make candles in the olden days?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Well, fancy that.’ Mag shook her head. ‘Bit of a come-down for him, isn’t it? Round here, I mean. They own farms and all sorts, that family – from what I’ve heard, like.’
Freda caught the edge of a memory and she clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Ooh,’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t tell anybody, will you? See, he only told me a couple of days ago – he’s what they call in dispute over land.’ She mouthed the rest. ‘He wants to be incognito till all the legal bits get sorted out with this here dispute.’
He was in dispute, all right. According to Mag Turner’s daughter, Aggie, the chap was in dispute right up to his eyeballs, much of it 70 per cent proof. As soon as Freda and the peas were off the premises, Mag went through to the back of the shop. It was time to phone their Aggie, so she could inform Chandler’s wife of his whereabouts.
As she picked up the phone, Mag shook her head in near despair. Aggie would have been safer in fish and chips – you knew where you were with fish and chips. You cooked them, wrapped them, sold them, paid your bills and slept the sleep of the just at the end of the day. Their Aggie, God help her, was housekeeper in what sounded like a madhouse – and she was talking about getting engaged to Chandler’s son.
Jim put his head round the door. ‘I need more fish, love.’
‘Give me a minute.’ Yes, she had fish bigger than cod to fry first. Aggie had said something about Mrs Chandler’s not knowing where her husband was. Well, she would know any minute now, that was certain sure.
Jim was back. ‘What’s up, love?’
She beckoned him. ‘That woman’s just told me – our Aggie’s boyfriend’s dad is that drunken bugger four doors up. I’m phoning her.’
Jim picked up the fish. ‘She should have stopped at home. She knew where she was with us, our Aggie. Fetch some more vinegar when you’re done, Mag.’
Mag clutched the phone. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly felt uncomfortable about this new shop, as if the whole thing had been spoilt. Oh, she was being stupid, wasn’t she? He was just another drunk and she would tell his wife to come and sort him out.
* * *
Aggie replaced the receiver, then stood where she was, head down, deep in thought. Well, she knew where he was, and soon Anna would know too. It was funny how she always ran to the old woman when she had a problem or something important to say. Anna was … she was what Aggie termed dead ordinary – no side to her, none of that landed gentry rubbish. The whole family was like that, she supposed, but Anna’s eccentricity and quirky brain appealed greatly to Aggie.
Polly joined her. ‘You all right, girl? Not bad news, I hope.’
‘No, no, I’m fine. It’s just … where’s Anna?’
‘Writing her book.’ There was a gloomy edge to Polly’s tone. ‘She’s lost somebody called Richard Cromwell, so the room’s in a worse state than ever. Last time I looked in, she was muttering under her breath, summat about Parliamentarians never being trustworthy. And her stockings are laddered again.’
‘I’ll go and help her,’ said Aggie.
Anna was seated centre-stage, piles of manuscripts around her feet. ‘Don’t bring your dog in here,’ she ordered, ‘I have mislaid—’
‘—Richard Cromwell – I know. Is he in the bottom drawer where you keep your notes?’ Aggie closed the door.
‘I’ve looked.’ Anna sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, he isn’t a note, he’s a small book. Very sneaky, these Cromwells. I prefer the monarchy – easier to keep up with. What’s troubling you?’
Aggie imparted her news. ‘And Mam says he is going to kill somebody when he drives drunk. Anyway, that’s where he is, and this Freda woman is looking after him. She drinks, too, according to my mother. She’s an amazing woman, is Mam – she can find out all about a person in about ten seconds flat. So, if you think Mrs Chandler should know, I’ll tell her – or you can, if you like.’
Anna drew hard on her cigarette and sat back in her chair. ‘Safer to know where he is, I suppose. I’ll do it. Aren’t you going out today?’
‘Yes.’ The younger woman felt the heat in her cheeks. ‘We’re all going – all four of us. Meredith may com
e, and we might meet Josie in town afterwards.’
‘Quite a party, then.’
‘Yes.’ Aggie sat down. ‘You don’t think we’re being a bit previous, do you? I mean, what does Mrs Chandler really think?’
Anna smiled. ‘If her children are happy, she is happy. Enjoy yourself, Agnes. Jeremy says you are to be Agnes from now on.’
‘I know. Mind, he calls me Trouble.’
‘A trouble he is delighted to endure. Agnes, go and enjoy yourselves, all of you. Life is terribly short – I know that sounds trite now, but it is only too true. He adores you and Peter loves Marie. Make the most of each other.’
‘And you will tell Mrs Chandler for me? About him, I mean.’
‘Of course. Go and prepare yourself for an important day. The rest of us will celebrate with you at Christmas.’
When Aggie had left, Anna spotted something lurking beneath the bureau. Ah, there he was. On hands and knees, she went forth to drag Richard Cromwell back into the land of the not-quite-living. ‘You’re not getting away as easily as that,’ she informed the slim volume. ‘Bloody Puritans. All the same; all wind and water.’ Then she set about the business of accounting for the movements of her family in the year of Our Lord 1658, when the aforementioned Roundhead had become Protector of this green and pleasant land.
She would talk to Jean in a few minutes …
Meredith was not finding her journey easy. The decision to stop drinking had not been hard, because common sense had dictated it; but keeping a promise made to herself was a different matter altogether. A promise made to others was easily honoured, because others became one’s conscience, and while she had sworn to family and friends that she would never take another drop, the difficulty lay within herself and the vow she had made to Meredith Elaine Chandler. She was the scene of a huge conflict; she was also both armies. Sometimes, it felt as if the Battle of Hastings was taking place within her belly, lances, horses, arrows and all.
She became very active, almost manic in her preparations for Christmas, in the planning of New Chandlers, for the imminent engagements of her two brothers. The faster she ran, the more desperate became her need for a drink, so life became a circle, a running away from and towards all at the same time. And everything had to be kept away from Mother; Mother had enough on her plate. And now Meredith knew where her father was.
She walked away from the bright blue door, looked back, saw flaking paint and brickwork in dire need of pointing, accepted that there was no-one at home. The van described by Polly Fishwick was not parked outside; this meant that Richard Chandler, possibly in his cups, was out and about with a killer weapon at his disposal. A car was not just a means of transport; in the wrong hands, a petrol-driven vehicle was an unexploded bomb, a guided missile which, if its master failed to hold rein on its path, was capable of killing many.
What to do? She tapped a foot on the pavement, looked at her watch, decided that it was time for her to leave this place. Perhaps Mother was right; perhaps this should all wait until after Christmas. And what might she have said to him – what new aspect had arisen? None. It would have been the same old ground – ‘I am an alcoholic and I know how you feel’ – and what use was that?
In times such as this, times of indecision and defeat, the urge to run to the sherry bottle was gargantuan. ‘One day at a time,’ she whispered as she walked away. She would conquer this. One day at a time, she would get there.
‘Are you sure?’ Marie clung to Peter’s arm. ‘It’s such a big change for you. Look what you’ve been used to.’
He tutted. ‘Yes, look what I have been used to. I am the son of a loveless marriage, my mother is damaged to the point of nerve tablets, my sister is fighting the demon drink, Grandfather has been down the same road, my father is rampaging about in a rusting van – why should I not move? Jeremy will be up there, as will Meredith – I am not needed. And, if I get a place at Manchester, your house is so much nearer to the station.’
‘And everyone will think we had to get married.’ She blushed.
‘They can think what they wish to think. Your priest knows the truth, anyway, so to hell with them all.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come on, let’s go inside – Jeremy and Aggie should be here soon. And I must ask you the same question – are you sure?’
Marie Martindale had never been more sure of anything in her short life. This was the man for whom she would have travelled to the moon and back. They were going to have a joint engagement and a joint party to celebrate the same. Weddings would be separate – she and Peter were to be married in March, Aggie and Jeremy had yet to fix the date. ‘Of course I am sure. I love you. I can’t imagine a world without you in it and I don’t want to.’
He kissed her nose and led her into Preston’s jeweller’s. The rings, which were being sized, would be ready today. Aggie was to have a ruby to reflect what Jeremy called her fire; Marie had chosen a Ceylon sapphire of palest blue ringed by ten tiny diamonds. Later, Meredith and Josie were supposed to join them at the coffee bar. For the sake of the twins’ sister, the four had decided to postpone the usual champagne celebration.
Aggie and Peter came into the shop. The little girl sighed with delight when she tried on the ring, an oval ruby flanked by two white diamonds. ‘I’m going to cry,’ she moaned.
‘God help us,’ quipped her fiancé, ‘we need to get out of here before the flood.’
Two happy couples walked the length of Deansgate, laughing, talking, enjoying their day.
Across the road, a man watched them, his vision blurred by drink. He still recognized the Martindale girl – he could almost smell the enemy. She was with one of his sons and they had just come out of Preston’s jewellery shop. Fury rose in his gorge and he retched unproductively into the gutter. ‘Over my dead body,’ he muttered when he had righted himself.
Unaware of their witness, Peter, Marie, Jeremy and Aggie moved on towards the coffee bar. Nothing could touch them today, because they were outright owners of this island of happiness.
FOURTEEN
‘We can just leave it outside the house,’ argued Aggie. ‘It’s Christmas, for goodness’ sake. And it’s only a tin of ham and a few bits.’
Jeremy looked at the few bits. ‘Have you been talking to Jesus on the quiet, Agnes? Because this looks like the feeding of the five thousand all over again. We don’t even know who he is – and I’m sure we should have told Mother and Polly that he’s living in Woodside Cottage.’
‘It’s Christmas,’ she repeated.
Jeremy accounted for Aggie’s ‘few bits’. ‘Ham, mince pies, a Christmas pudding, nuts, cakes, pasties, home-made biscuits – I hope he has good teeth – sausage rolls, bacon, eggs, bread, butter, marmalade, milk, tea, scones, jam, chocolate, whipped cream, sugar – what on earth are you up to?’
But Aggie had romantic notions about the tramp in Woodside Cottage. On the day of his discovery, she and Jeremy had found each other. It was all a part of that great panorama known as karma. ‘What do you mean by good teeth? There’s nothing wrong with my biscuits.’
‘Try telling that to the dentist.’
It was as if the tramp had been a part of the magic, but Aggie couldn’t work out how, or why. All she knew was that her life had changed minutes after the chap had appeared in that untidy front garden. ‘He’s a catalyst,’ she said.
‘I thought he looked English,’ replied Jeremy, though he was silenced when a tea cloth was whipped across his head. ‘All right, you win. But you’re encouraging him – and don’t tell me again about Christmas. What if he isn’t there? That basket of yours might attract rats.’
She sighed dramatically. ‘Yes, I do tend to be a magnet for rodents, don’t I?’ It was her turn to duck the mock blows.
Leena Martindale wandered in, her face a picture of concentration. So deep was her reverie that she walked right past the young couple and picked up one of Sally Foster’s recipe books from the mantelpiece. She flicked a few pages, found the right one, announced to
the room, ‘Well, mine didn’t turn out like that,’ then walked out again.
Jeremy shook his head. ‘Do you ever wonder about the fourth dimension, Agnes? I mean, are we really here, or are we a circle within a circle? Are they on a different plane with an alternative time-scale?’
‘I’ll just put a few after-dinner mints in,’ replied Agnes.
Jeremy, realizing that he occupied a dimension all his own, laughed out loud, then went to fetch coats. He was in serious danger of becoming contented, because Agnes matched him joke for joke, blow for blow – she was the ideal companion. Josie he scarcely thought about. She had drifted into the small engagement party, had looked elegant, distant and totally uninterested. She was leaving her heartbroken family and a Marks and Spencer that would probably manage without her, was due in London by mid-January. Josie would make someone an excellent display wife, something to put on a shelf alongside golfing trophies. He brought the coats, picked up the basket and followed his fiancée into the woods. Aggie was certainly too real to be a trophy …
Anna stared at them through her window. She had made good progress and was almost ready for the Hanoverians. As far as she knew, George the First had spoken scarcely a word of English, so Walpole must have had his work cut out when it came to explaining the system – it was a bit like Anna trying to decipher the scribblings of a long line of alcoholics. What were those two doing?
She pulled the curtain aside, watched Jeremy struggling with an enormous basket, Aggie skipping along next to him. A picnic a couple of days before Christmas? Fair enough. As long as people did not mind frozen extremities, let them get on with it was Anna Chandler’s motto.
Henry entered, pen in one hand, crossword in the other. ‘Four down,’ he announced, ‘the discussion’s salvation, twelve letters.’
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