‘Thank you,’ she murmured pitiably.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ she wailed. ‘Ged isn’t home yet. The war might be finished, but God knows when he’ll get demobbed. Couldn’t George have waited? He’s taken everything, even some money from the wages account.’
This news came as something of a shock, because George had always stated his intention to remain at home until Ged’s return. Hardman’s Hides must be in trouble now, mused the jeweller. So George had finally done it, had even upped and offed before Ged’s demobilization. George, a decent chap, had meant to stay until able to speak to his son, but things had got too much for him, it seemed. Maurice shuffled about uncomfortably, grateful that a glass-topped counter separated him from this woman. He was no good with females. His own wife had been a gentle soul, one not inclined to visit the various zeniths and nadirs of human emotions. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he muttered truthfully.
Lily blew her perfect little nose. ‘He’s left me the house and seven thousand pounds. I understand that the tannery is now in my name and Ged’s. What a homecoming poor Ged will have.’
Ged would have a wonderful homecoming, Maurice thought. He’d grab his half of the money, do a bunk, spend the lot and to hell with Hardman’s Hides. ‘What will you do?’ Maurice asked.
Lily slammed a large bag onto the counter, causing glass to shiver and the shopkeeper to flinch. ‘First of all, I’m selling my jewellery to you.’ She eyed him with a look of pure steel, her flood of tears suddenly dammed. ‘And don’t you dare try to fob me off with any nonsense, Maurice Chorlton. After what George did to me, I deserve fair play for a change.’
Maurice nodded, then lifted several boxes out of the bag. Fair play? What did Lillian Hardman know about that particular commodity? As Betteridge always said, somewhat crudely, this woman’s knickers had suffered more ups and downs than a whore’s undergarments.
‘It’s worth a small fortune,’ she snapped. ‘There’s stuff in there that belonged to my grandmother – and to his family.’ The ‘his’ emerged as a hiss. ‘If he’s planning on asking for any of this back, he can go to hell with his secretary bird.’ Lily was deeply insulted. Her husband had made off with a bespectacled child, plain of face, unimaginative in the dress department, a boring, decent, down-to-earth and definitely ordinary woman.
‘There are some beautiful pieces here,’ squeaked Maurice, the tone altered by a sudden lack of moisture in his throat. ‘Could well be out of my league.’ Not for years had he glimpsed such treasure. He felt weak at the knees in the presence of this woman and her trappings.
Lily stuffed both waterlogged pieces of linen into her handbag and altered her facial expression yet again. This time, she portrayed herself as angry and fit to burst. ‘They’re not going to Manchester.’ She jabbed an index finger at the row of jewellery boxes. ‘You will give me two thousand pounds and we shall exchange receipts. When I can afford to buy back my possessions, you will accept from me the sum of two thousand five hundred pounds, not a penny more or less. This, too, will be documented and signed by each of us.’
Maurice, who could not lay his tongue across a single syllable, said nothing.
‘You knew he was going,’ continued Lily. ‘You and Betteridge must have talked about this at your precious Merchants’ Club. So you owe me. It will be an easy five hundred pounds, though it could take some time to acquire, of course. After all, I have a factory to keep up and running.’
Maurice pulled himself together. She was going to run Hardman’s? How? How could a woman of this calibre run a business, a factory that stank like hell itself, a place populated by big, brawny men whose fodder was ale and filthy jokes? ‘I see,’ he managed eventually. ‘Two thousand pounds. That will be cash, I take it?’
‘Nail on the head,’ replied Lily smartly.
‘I’ll bring the money to you tonight, then.’
She almost laughed. ‘Oh, no, Maurice. We’ll go for it now. It’s a lovely afternoon, so the walk will do us good. Your bank’s nearby, isn’t it?’
He nodded mutely.
‘And I have the paperwork prepared.’ She tapped her handbag. ‘I shall trust you for the moment, I think. Take my stuff away and put it under lock and key. Then we shall continue with our business after visiting the bank.’
There was no question of disobedience, no room for discussion or negotiation. It was as if she held a whip with which she would beat him if he refused to co-operate. He excused himself, dashed downstairs and placed Lillian Hardman’s jewels in the walk-in strongroom. As he handled some of the items, a long-forgotten thrill visited his spine, a feeling he had experienced many times when in the presence of such classic, rare pieces.
He sighed, allowing a diamond-set gold bracelet to trickle through his fingers, the leaf-shaped stations flowing like molten lava onto a background of blue velvet. The perfect clear stones flashed across his eyes, while a mixed-cut and cushioned ruby winked solemnly from within its blood-red soul. Forty more diamonds, graded carefully and set with loving attention to detail, nestled in a crescent-shaped brooch. Kashmir sapphires, his favourite among all corundums, stared at him from within cool, cornflower-blue depths. No navy or nearly black sapphires for Lily Hardman, then. Oh no, she had wanted the best, had accepted nothing less. More sapphires, probably Ceylonese, some emeralds, diamonds, diamonds, more diamonds, opals, watches—
‘Maurice?’
‘Coming.’ With reluctance, he closed the safe door. Two thousand pounds? This haul was worth twice, three, maybe four times that price. She was being reasonable, he supposed. The war was over, but jewellery would not feature on many shopping lists just now. Luxury items were worth only what people would pay, and no-one wanted precious stones and metals, not yet. Still, parting with two thousand pounds was hardly cause for celebration. But Lillian Hardman was one of those women who always – well, usually got their own way. Even George hadn’t been able to face her, had chosen to clear off without a word.
Maurice patted his various pockets, accounted for cheque book, wallet and keys. He would co-operate one hundred per cent with Lily Hardman. After all, her situation cried out for pity and understanding. And there was nothing to lose, not while he held such magnificent collateral.
Katherine Walsh, her heart troubled almost to the point of tears, watched her life being packed away into suitcases and wooden chests. Mam and Dad were buying a partly furnished home, because an old chemist had died and his son had sold the house, together with some of its contents, to the Walshes. It was a nice, spacious semi-detached in Crosby, near Liverpool, or, as Mam was wont to put it, ‘halfway between Liverpool and Southport’. Southport was all right, Katherine supposed, though the sea seemed rather coy. On all the occasions when she had visited the seaside town, the water had been a mere grey ribbon stretched across the horizon. But the shops were nice, Mam thought.
There was the Mersey, too, a large river into whose mouth ships drifted every day when there wasn’t a war on, so the docks promised to be interesting once bomb damage had been righted. Dad had become quite excited, had started reading books about the cotton exchange and the wholesale fishmarket. But Katherine was not fooled. Both senior Walshes were unsure about this move, and they compensated by being over-bright and rather too cheerful when discussing the future.
Chaplin huddled by his young mistress’s side. Something terrible was happening. His basket, which bore the marks of several weeks’ labour necessitated by teething, had been removed and shoved into the bowels of a large black vehicle. Ball, bone and blanket had suffered the same fate, so he was sticking by Katherine, who seemed the sanest of all the humans. The other two were running daft, shouting out to one another and wrapping pots in newspapers.
Katherine sat herself down in Uncle Danny’s rocker and stared at the moors. There would be no chance now, she told herself. Even when visiting Danny, she would never rediscover that special place, the little copse inside which she had met her do
uble. Dad had refused to take her again, had ranted on about farmers shooting dogs, something to do with sheep-worrying.
Absently, she patted the nervous dog’s head. She had argued ceaselessly, had suggested that Chaplin could be taken to the copse on a lead, or that he should be left at home. And anyway, there hadn’t been any sheep near that spot. But Dad had become quite cross, not at all like his real self. The child shivered and hugged herself, though the day was far from chilly. All she wanted was a chance to meet the girl again, to talk, to get to know Jessica. Why were grown-ups so silly and childish? Dad’s, final answer had been, ‘We’re not going because I said we’re not going.’ Daft reason. No reason at all, just a stupid decision based on nonsense.
Liz stopped rushing about for a few moments. ‘Have you been crying, Katherine?’
‘No.’
‘Yes, you have.’ The child was clinging fiercely to her roots, was even talking about a girl she had met, someone who bore a resemblance to herself.
Katherine sighed deeply. She couldn’t go back to that thicket because Dad had said no, and she would never be able to find it by herself, as Dad had driven the family to the Belmont area on that day. Now, she must have been crying because Mam said she had been crying. After all, adults were always, always right. She hadn’t cried, not quite. ‘I’m sad, but I’m not crying,’ she replied. ‘I don’t want to move to Liverpool. I want to stay here in this house and carry on at my own school. But I’m only five, so I don’t count. What I want doesn’t matter.’
Liz inhaled. ‘This is Uncle Danny’s house. We borrowed it to keep you safe from bombs. Now, Uncle Danny wants to come back here with Auntie Pauline and Pauline’s mother. He misses his garden, you see.’
‘Yes, but we could buy another house just the same. There’s hundreds.’
These had been Liz’s thoughts, but, after discussions with Bernard, Danny and Pauline, a decision had been reached with regard to the fish business and expansion to Liverpool. Prices at Liverpool’s wholesale fishmarket were competitive. Once the dross of war had been removed, the Walsh brothers could take advantage of broader purchasing bases, allowing Bernard to bargain for bigger and better deals. With a decent van, Danny could easily fetch fish from Liverpool a couple of times a week.
‘I’m all right, Mam,’ insisted the child.
Liz gulped back her own uncertainties, squashing all doubts so firmly that her stomach almost ached. ‘Please, Katherine,’ she began.
‘I’ve told you, Mam, don’t worry, ’cos I’m all right.’
Liz squatted down until she was at her daughter’s level. ‘It’s time to move on, pet. The war’s over and done with at long last. Your dad’s got a special job to do, because so many people in Liverpool got killed. Remember? We explained to you about bombs, didn’t we?’
Katherine nodded.
‘Thousands died in Liverpool. Bernard’s going to help the ones who’re left to get things back together. Three of the fishmongers aren’t there any more, so your dad and a few other men are going to help with mending some shops and getting them open as soon as possible. It’s important work.’
Katherine bit her lower lip. ‘Is the shop in Crosby?’
‘No. It’s in a place called Scotland Road, just a little lock-up. Every afternoon, when the shop shuts, your dad’ll come home. He won’t have to go fire-watching three nights a week any more.’
‘What about my school?’
‘Ainsley House, it’s called. It’ll get you ready for the grammar school. Nuns are very good teachers – the best – and you’ll—’
‘I don’t like nuns.’
Neither did Liz. But, by fair means or foul, nuns forced children to learn. They used moral blackmail, prayer, detention and any other weapon they could lay hands and tongues across. Nuns never accepted second best. In their book, a day of idleness was a day of sin thrown into the face of God Himself. And, in Liz’s opinion, every bride of Christ had endured a sense-of-humourectomy, a total removal of mankind’s most endearing grace, so they stuck to teaching with grim-faced tenacity and left little room for diversion. ‘I think they’re good women inside,’ Liz managed.
Katherine shrugged. She couldn’t seem to care any more. The adults had taken over again and, as always, they were hot in pursuit of trouble and complications. Jessica would have understood, no doubt. Jessica was another wise child, a girl whose vision probably spread itself far beyond the blinkered view of myopic, silly grown-ups. Yet how did Katherine know all that about the girl in the woods? How could she?
‘Katherine?’
She looked at her mother. ‘I’m not happy, Mam, but I know I have to go where you go. If I ask to stay here, with Uncle Danny and Auntie Pauline, you won’t let me.’ No, that solution would have been too easy, too sensible. And really, Katherine did not want to lose Mam and Dad, as they were more important than houses and schools and beloved places.
Liz stood up, bit back words of wisdom. Katherine was grieving and should be left alone with this particular sadness.
In the doorway, Bernard watched the scene, his daughter’s words seeming to echo round the room. This move was for Katherine’s sake, though neither child nor woman realized that truth and its implications. Even if she had to be dragged kicking and screaming, Katherine’s address had to change now, today, for her own safety’s sake. Pauline and Danny were remaining in Bolton because they had nothing to hide. Bernard’s whole life revolved round a lie, and the embodiment of that untruth was railing against change. If Katherine stayed here with her uncle and aunt, the move would be completely unnecessary.
Katherine studied her father, found uncertainty in his expression. He, too, was afraid. She looked up at Liz, noticed misgivings there, a slight frown, a narrowing of the eyes. ‘If it doesn’t work, can we come home?’ Katherine asked her father.
‘Yes,’ he lied. He couldn’t lose her, couldn’t lose either of them. What might have happened had he not followed Katherine into the trees that day? Would the girls have compared birth dates, eye colour, other similarities? If Liz were to lose her daughter, she could well give up and die. ‘Let’s just see how it goes, Katherine,’ he said. ‘You’ll take a while to settle – we all will.’
Liz bent down to stroke Chaplin’s silky head. ‘Look at him – you’d think he was going to prison.’
Katherine, who shared the dog’s feelings, held her tongue. Forces above and beyond child and dog had planned the move. Liz and Bernard were the makers of decisions, while she and Chaplin didn’t even get to vote.
She picked up a pile of comics, grabbed Chaplin’s lead and made for the door. Without a single backward glance, Katherine Walsh walked away from the only home she remembered and towards a future in whose choice she had played no part.
Jessica Nolan, who still had to visit her doctor once a week and the sanatorium’s clinic on the last Thursday of each month, was living quite comfortably in the home of Eva Harris. Eva, directed by Theresa Nolan, had visited the Emblem Street house to retrieve a box of money from beneath a floorboard in Theresa’s bedroom. After opening this container, Eva had shaken her head angrily, had rambled endlessly about folk with no sense who didn’t eat while there was money in the house, who ended up in Williamson’s because they didn’t care about living or dying, who had no thought for anyone who cared about them, who were as daft as brushes, selfish, stupid … She went on about things a fair bit, did Eva.
Jessica was allowed to visit Mam during her own trips to the clinic. Theresa, who was eating and sleeping well, had roses in her cheeks and a lovely sheen on that famous strawberry-blonde hair. Mam was beautiful once more. Dr Blake kept saying that Theresa needed at least a year in the sanatorium, since she continued poorly in spite of looking so well. Still, Jessica’s mam was safe, and safe would have to be good enough for now.
For the first time in months, Jessica was relatively content. Sometimes, when she remembered that strange, brief meeting with Katherine, she felt a bit lonely, but she didn’t really need
a Lucy figure any more, because there were so many children in the View Street area, real children who lived in the here and now, who played hopscotch, skipping rope and ball games.
Occasionally, Jessica came into contact with Auntie Ruth or Cousin Irene. They lived nearby, just a few doors away from Eva, with a grandfather who kept nearly dying and who didn’t want to know Jessica. Other aunts and uncles visited the grandfather, often staring at Jessica as they passed by. But the child instructed herself not to care. They didn’t want Mam, either, so they didn’t matter at all.
On a Friday afternoon in July, Jessica meandered homeward, stopping to look in shop windows, passing the time of day with a couple of Magee’s dray horses, watching trolley buses as they hummed and clicked their way up Derby Street.
A hand clamped itself onto her shoulder. Startled, Jessica swung round to find herself face to chest with Cousin Irene, who was thirteen and rather tall. Irene had eyes which were hard to describe, rather flat in her face, glassy, greenish, yellowish, devoid of expression. Like a pot doll’s eyes, thought Jessica. When Irene spoke, her lips scarcely parted. ‘Grandad’s dying,’ the girl said. ‘He’s been dying a few times, like, only I think he’s doing it proper this time.’
Jessica had never seen anyone quite as plain as Irene. Pasty-faced and marble-eyed, the girl bore no resemblance to Ruth, her mother. Ruth’s ugliness was born of bitterness – lines too deep for a woman of her years, a downturned mouth, shifty eyes, one with a slight tendency to squint inward towards an upturned and freckled nose. But Irene had been born unfortunate and, denounced loudly and frequently by her own mother, had resigned herself to being hideous and to acting hideously. ‘Dying,’ she repeated, a strange, damped-down pleasure in the muted tone.
‘Oh,’ squeaked Jessica.
‘Do you want to come and see him? His mouth’s open and he makes right funny noises. He had a fly in his gob this morning. Come on, I’ll show you.’
The Corner House Page 18