Daniel Walsh sidled off towards the corner and sheltered in the doorway of Lever’s Grocery. If Pauline came through to her front room, she would doubtless see his van, but he needed to think. He should have thought before setting out, should have thrown their Bernard out of the little room behind the fish shop to give himself a chance to consider his position. Bernard had laughed his socks off, of course. ‘Bring her home, our kid. Let’s be having a look at her before you take the plunge.’
‘Excuse me, I want to get in.’
Danny flinched. ‘Sorry, I thought the shop was shut,’ he said to a little woman in curlers and a dark coat.
‘Black-out,’ she snapped. ‘Lever’s never shuts.’
The shop bell clattered. Danny, feeling totally foolish, clutched at a couple of cod in his overcoat pocket. He would have to go into the shop, because he couldn’t stand here like cheese at fourpence. Spuds. Aye, he’d buy a couple of chipping potatoes to go with the cod. That should give him an extra few minutes …
‘He’s no right coming here in a van. Vans is for business purposes.’ Edna Greenhalgh sucked her few remaining teeth and cast an eye over her willowy daughter. ‘His journey is not really necessary. He could get arrested if somebody clocked him using petrol for courting. There is a war on, in case he hasn’t noticed.’
Pauline raised her face to the ceiling. Mam was a pain – not just in the neck, either. At sixty-four, Edna carried on like an eighty-year-old, always ill, often complaining, usually as petulant as some unfortunate soul locked inside a second infancy. But Mam was not as frail as she liked to make out. She was cunning, manipulative and extremely clever. ‘He’s not coming courting, Mam,’ replied Pauline with exaggerated patience. ‘He’s been good to us, and you know it.’ She liked Danny. He wasn’t all over her like a rash, didn’t take liberties. He had kind eyes behind the thick lenses, a lovely smile and—
‘And once he’s got his feet under yon table, we shan’t ever see the back of him.’
‘We’re eating his fish,’ said Pauline, forbearance still etched deep into the words.
‘You paid for it. And what about the eggs you’re cooking? And you’ve nobbut known him a couple of weeks. Why the heck are you fetching a man to see me when you’ve met him just days since?’
Pauline didn’t know why. Yes, she did. She had invited Danny Walsh because he was ordinary and nice. He knew all about people, was an expert when it came to truculent old women, because he dealt with them day in and day out. With Danny, she wouldn’t need to be ashamed of Mam, wouldn’t have to make excuses.
She smiled to herself as she set the places. He had told her a story or two in the Man and Scythe, had related some of the market’s ongoings. ‘Her elastic went just as she left the stall, so we all stood round her in a close circle with our backs towards her. Once the safety pin was in, she pushed her way through and demanded a penny change because Bob Hewitt had just reduced his prices. Folk. There’s nowt as queer, is there?’
‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Edna Greenhalgh.
‘Nothing, Mam. And you’d better be nice.’
‘Or what? The workhouse?’
Pauline placed a spoon on the multi-coloured tablecloth. ‘Worse than that. I’ll send you to live with Cousin Betty.’ Cousin Betty was the only woman in Christendom who could manage to be as abusive as her Aunt Edna.
The doorknocker fell, was lifted, fell again. ‘He’s here,’ sighed Edna. ‘I suppose you’ll please yourself as always.’
Pauline, who could not remember pleasing herself ever, left the room, walked down a narrow lobby and opened the door. ‘She’s all fired up,’ she whispered.
Danny winked. ‘Leave her to me,’ he mouthed with false confidence.
Edna was all frowns and folded arms when the couple entered the living room. She cast beady eyes over the newcomer, judged him to be as thin as a rake and not particularly handsome, especially with those bottle-bottom glasses. Once introduced, she gave a terse nod and offered no hand to the man.
He removed his coat, sat opposite the old lady and warmed himself at the bungalow range fire. It was a nice enough house: big dresser, fancy mirror with a painting round its edges, a few ornaments, a photograph of Pauline and her husband on their wedding day.
‘Are you owt to do with gas?’ snapped Edna. She knew the answer, but she wanted her oar in right from the start.
‘I’ve still no electricity up in my cottage,’ he replied.
‘Cottage?’
‘Bromley Cross. Nice big garden, grow a lot of my own veg.’
Edna sniffed. ‘I thought you lived up Daubhill?’
‘We’ve a shop. My brother lives there, then I stop a few nights for auxiliary fire duties.’
Pauline spoke up from the scullery-cum-kitchen. ‘He’s been in the paper, Mam. Saved some lives, he has.’
‘And my brother. Bernard’s a fireman, too.’
Edna sniffed again. ‘Her husband got blew up with gas. He was a foreman at the gasworks, very well thought of. As long as you’re not going to get yourself blew up—’
Pauline put her head round the door. ‘Mam? Will you behave yourself? I warned Danny. I told him you’d think we were courting. Well, we’re not, so shut up. He’s nothing to do with the gasworks.’
Danny smiled at the face in the doorway. When Pauline’s retreat had been accomplished, he stood up, walked over to the sofa under the stairs where he had laid his greatcoat, and took out of the pocket the parcel of fish and the potatoes acquired at Lever’s. ‘For your dinners tomorrow,’ he advised the old lady. ‘Good chippers, them spuds.’
‘I don’t like chips.’
‘They’ll mash.’ He returned to his seat after placing his offerings on the dresser. Completely unimpressed by Edna’s animosity, he spoke about the weather, fish trains, a sudden shortage of cod and a trainee who had finished up at the infirmary. ‘You tell them a dozen times a day to watch out for sharp knives, then this daft lad goes and skids along New Street, breaks his leg and finishes up in plaster. He’ll be doing no filleting this side of Easter.’
In spite of her better judgement, Edna found herself almost smiling. Her mind raced ahead towards the future, forcing her to face her biggest fear, the prospect of Pauline entering a second marriage. John Chadwick had been a decent, quiet bloke, had lived here with Pauline, had never complained about sharing his home with Edna. How many John Chadwicks were there?
‘His mam went with him to the hospital and he got no sympathy. She clocked him across his head with her handbag when she found out about his leg being fractured. He was lucky to finish up without concussion as well.’
Edna nodded. ‘He’ll be all right. It’s folk my age as has to watch for broken bones.’
‘You’re not old,’ answered Danny. She was lazy. He could tell from the way she was sitting that she’d scarcely shifted a muscle all day. ‘You carry on moving about,’ he advised. ‘It’s them that sit still who suffer. I can see you’re very fit, Mrs Greenhalgh.’ A muffled giggle from the kitchen was swiftly altered to simulate a cough.
‘So you own a business, then,’ said Edna.
‘With our Bernard, yes.’
‘Doing all right?’
‘So-so,’ he answered. ‘With the war, we don’t get as much fish from Iceland as we did, but there’s plenty to sell.’
‘Short-sighted?’ she asked.
‘We both are. Our Bernard’s specs are thicker than mine.’
Edna was satisfied. He wouldn’t be traipsing off to war, what with providing food and being myopic. He wouldn’t get blown to shreds in a gasworks. ‘You can come again,’ she announced with the air of one giving an order. ‘And ta for the fish.’
In the kitchen, an item of pottery hit the flagged floor and smashed. Edna scarcely noticed. She was busy doing a mental tot-up of her wardrobe. The navy suit would do. And Pauline could get wed in that little green two-piece.
Roy Chorlton’s visit set Theresa back, made her linger in bed rather
longer than expected. Jessica was doing well. After four weeks, she was robust and extremely contented. Eva Harris, who was fully aware of Theresa Nolan’s medical history, continued to visit on a daily basis. The front door of number 34 was always locked, because Theresa could not bring herself to believe that Roy Chorlton was safely back at his camp. She was edgy and very thoughtful, turning over in her mind the man’s words. He had offered marriage, had been willing to accept his responsibilities and shoulder the guilt caused by his terrible crime.
Why could she not forgive? Of course, she could never marry him, could not bear the concept of living with the man who had stolen her virginity so viciously. She had been a mere toy, a recreation for three drunks who had wandered into the warrens between Daubhill and Deane. But why must she hate so strongly?
Theresa stirred the fire, let down the bars and planted the kettle in their centre. Her heart, always weak, had taken a battering with Jessica’s delivery, but its irregularities were slowly correcting themselves. No black-outs for a week now, few palpitations and only one really bad headache.
Someone tapped at the door. She hastened down the narrow lobby and put her ear against a panel. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me. Let me in before I bloody well freeze.’
Theresa was the one who froze. Their Ruth? Ruth had been ordered to stay away from Theresa’s house of sin. The last time the two sisters had met on Derby Street, Ruth had scuttered off towards the post office like a scalded cat. ‘Does he know you’re here?’ The ‘he’ was Michael Nolan, father to Ruth, Theresa and several others.
‘No.’
Theresa turned the key and opened the door.
Ruth, a pale-skinned, dark-haired woman, pushed her way into the house. ‘He’s dying,’ she said without preamble.
‘Dying?’ Again?
‘Pneumonia.’
Theresa didn’t know what to feel, what to say. Her dad was a tyrant, but he was still her dad.
‘Doctor thought he’d pulled him through, but there’s been a relapse.’ The visitor paused. ‘Everybody’s there, even our Frances.’
Theresa led her sister through to the kitchen. With the bed against one wall and Jessica’s drawer next to the table, the room was smaller than ever. But no room on earth could be large enough to contain Ruth’s terrible and inexplicable anger. ‘Sit down,’ Theresa said.
Ruth cast a cursory glance over the baby before settling near the fire. ‘Our Phil sent me, said as how you might want to be there before Dad goes.’
Theresa sat in the opposite chair. She couldn’t go. She couldn’t walk about in all that ice, dare not expose herself to the wintry winds. ‘Who’ll mind Jessica?’
Ruth raised a thin shoulder. ‘I’ll stop till you get back.’
Theresa suppressed a shudder. She would not leave a dog with Ruth, would certainly not place Jessica in the dubious care of this sister. Ruth’s daughter, Irene, was turning out to be very strange. She was strange because Ruth was strange. Right from the start, Ruth had disliked Irene. Irene was ugly, and Ruth stated her opinion about the child’s appearance whenever she had an audience. For almost eight years, Theresa had shared a home with Ruth and Irene, had watched the child’s face growing old and far too wise, too resigned. Irene had never winced, had never reacted at all to her mother’s words. ‘Eeh, Dad, isn’t she ugly …?’
‘Well?’
Theresa braced herself. ‘I’ve to stop in,’ she said. ‘Dr Clarke says I’ve not to go out till the weather gets better. Eva does my shopping.’
Ruth bridled. ‘He’s your dad.’
‘Yes. And he threw me out. He wouldn’t even listen, wouldn’t believe that I’d been raped.’
The visitor lit a cigarette. As long as she had her smokes, she was almost bearable. Almost. On tobaccoless days, Irene suffered immeasurably. ‘Bonny baby, anyroad.’ Ruth nodded in the direction of Jessica’s makeshift cot. ‘At least she didn’t come out looking like that one of mine.’
Theresa sighed. ‘Irene will turn on you one day, Ruth.’ Irene would probably turn against the world in general.
‘Oh aye? Her and whose army? Bad little bugger, she is. Sly. Always up to no good, always missing school and pinching stuff.’
Theresa nodded. ‘Being bad gets her some attention. She’d sooner be thumped than ignored.’
‘Then she’ll have to be thumped, because I’ve had enough, I’ve lost interest.’
There had never been any interest to lose. Theresa watched her sister covertly. Ruth had dark, curly hair which she wore at shoulder length. When her hands were not engaged in smoking, the long, slender fingers were used to twist the healthy mop into ringlets. Her brown eyes were not quite true, one wandering off towards the nose unless her spectacles were in place. She hated everybody and everything; she was always right, always top dog, first in a queue, last to offer help. Ruth commanded attention at all times, no matter what the cost. She resented her own child, because Irene might have stolen a little limelight had Ruth not doused it.
‘Well?’ Ruth’s dark eyebrows were raised above the glasses’ upper rims.
‘No,’ said Theresa quietly.
‘So, I’ve come all this road for nowt.’
‘I suppose so.’
Ruth, in judgemental mode, stood up and towered over her seated sister. ‘Nowt good’ll ever happen to you in this world,’ she said.
‘Yes, I can believe that,’ replied Theresa. ‘Up to now, I’ve had a lousy dad, then I’ve had to watch you torturing that daughter of yours. The way I got Jessica was no piece of cake, either. So if knowing I’m miserable makes you happy, go and have a party.’
Ruth glowered. ‘Listen here, you. Five or ten years from now, you might need me—’
‘Nobody will ever need you, Ruth.’
‘Just you wait, lady. You’ll get what’s coming, believe me.’
Theresa folded her arms. ‘Get out, Ruth. You make me sick and tired. Go and pull wings off flies.’
‘There is none. It’s winter.’
‘Soon be spring,’ answered Theresa smartly. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’
THREE
All the bad things lived in the coal hole under the stairs. There were giant rats, ugly-featured goblins, huge monsters with fiery breath and purple eyes. In the darkest part, where the staircase met the kitchen floor, the devil himself had his own special playground. The devil was as small as he wanted to be, as large as he needed to be. In the night, he crept out and ate all the bits of mouldy cheese in Mam’s mousetraps. He mingled with cockroaches at the midnight hour, disappeared with the silverfish as soon as dawn arrived, shrinking back and back, down and down until he managed to fit himself into that small, secret place in the narrowest, squashiest part beneath the stairs.
Jessica Nolan had not seen the devil, had glimpsed none of his more exotic playmates, but her knowledge of their existence was rooted deeply within her four-and-three-quarter-year-old brain. The cockroaches were just the visible signs of Satan’s malicious presence in her home. Sometimes, when she rose early, she heard the swish of the Dark Master’s cloak as he glided cleverly past the meagre store of coal and wood. As long as she failed actually to see him, she was safe. Soon, Jessica would be five. After her fifth birthday, she would be old enough and brave enough to fetch the wood and coal. The devil would not tackle a great big five-year-old.
She sat in the kitchen where gas mantles had glowed for what seemed like endless nights. With just one penny left for the meter, the fragile globes would soon cease to glow. ‘Don’t break the mantle,’ Mam was always saying. ‘They don’t grow on trees, love.’
Oh, where was Lucy? Lucy, Jessica’s special friend, was invisible to all other people. Lucy, with blond hair like Jessica’s and blue eyes like Jessica’s, had abandoned her creator, had disappeared without so much as a goodbye. Mrs Harris, who held strong opinions on the subject of Lucy’s existence, had not visited for a while now, was probably helping more babies to be born. ‘Lonely children with good im
aginations often make up invisible friends,’ Mrs Eva Harris had been heard to opine.
On the hearth, a blue-rimmed enamel mug held water, while a small bowl contained a few unsavoury crumbs of stale bread. The wireless had given up the ghost, its spent accumulator standing uselessly beside it. In the scullery, milk had soured in the jug, cheese had hardened until it looked like cracked yellow soap. But she would have to eat the cheese, because there was nothing else.
The fire had gone out ages ago. Mam would wake soon, the child insisted firmly. Mam would come down and do the magic, rattling old ashes into the pan, crumpling paper, building a little house of firewood and balancing coals on the structure until the flames licked and took hold. Mam was clever. She could make pies and cakes, could fry an egg so that it was all soft in the middle, but brown and crispy-laced round its rim. Mam was so quiet, so cold.
Jessica had slept with Mam, had piled blankets and coats on the bed, had snuggled close so that the German aeroplanes, if they came, would not find her. But Mam was so quiet, so cold.
No-one had come to the door for ages. There was no jug on the step, so Mr Jones had not stopped to pour milk and replace the saucer-lid that was usually left by Mam outside the front door of number 34. Mrs Kershaw at number 32 was in. Mrs Kershaw was rattling her poker in the fire, was preparing food for her family.
The child’s stomach groaned. She imagined the smell of frying bacon, remembered sausages, black puddings, toast. Even a dreadful concoction involving dried egg would have been welcome.
The clock had stopped ticking. It sat in the middle of the mantelpiece looking down on her like a dead thing. She knew about dead things. Dead cockroaches, dead mice, dead rats. They were always stiff, those little mice, with strange mouths that seemed to set in a very unhappy, thin line.
The Corner House Page 8