‘Did I embarrass you?’ he asked.
Theresa shook her head, knowing that the gesture was a mimed untruth, because she was embarrassed by his tentative attentions – but flattered too.
‘You are a special woman, Theresa. Give yourself time and—’
‘And what?’ Her face glowed. ‘And I’ll get out of here fit and well?’
‘Better,’ he amended.
‘Better. Not well, never completely well, not after rheumatic fever.’
He waited for her to continue.
‘During my life, I’ve spent months in bed. I had to learn to walk all over again when I was a child. And now, this.’
Stephen’s hands were tight fists. He pressed one against his mouth for a second, as if he could not bear the idea of her distress. ‘Is Jessica well?’ He spoke as if his main aim was to fill the gap with some sort of inanity, anything to help the moment on its way.
She nodded. ‘She’s with Eva. Jimmy Coates is renting a room at Eva’s, too. They’re very good people. Between them, they’ll keep an eye on my daughter.’
Stephen Blake used a fingernail to scrape a bit of rice pudding from his stethoscope.
‘You’re still a bit of a sight at times,’ she advised him. ‘Better than you used to be,’ she added hastily.
‘Always was. I jump into things, you see.’
‘Yes. Like custard and gravy, usually head first, I’d say.’ They had both jumped. They had leapt like a pair of lemmings into territory as yet uncharted. She loved him. The thought of living in a world that contained him yet set him apart from her was so horribly miserable. Touch him, ordered an inner voice. Tell him, make the words, find the language. Oh, how she would miss him, how she would grieve for him and for another innocent soul, her precious, beautiful little Jessica.
He sighed. Her pain was his pain; her lack of hope was communicating itself to him. Without even turning his head, he knew her facial expression. She was right, of course. He could not manage to remain tidy, was forever covered in drops of ink, spots of food, drips of tea and coffee. Now, he was experiencing a love which must, of necessity, become messy or remain unfulfilled and unconsummated. Had his heart chosen Theresa deliberately? A doctor was supposed to be immune to the charms of his patients. Had he picked on this woman, however unconsciously, so that he would be forced to maintain a distance?
Theresa, sensing his discomfort, kept her mouth closed. The atmosphere was tense, as if a message tried to write itself in the heavily disinfected air that divided them.
Stephen Blake knew that she had stiffened. Theresa was aware of him, then. Theresa was slender, perfectly built. Theresa’s strawberry-blonde hair was the result of an impossible alliance between ripe corn and the sweeter, softer fruits of summer. Theresa. That was a lovely name. Her eyes, wide-set and large, were framed by thick, brown lashes. She was so terribly, so dreadfully lovely. ‘I wish I could help you,’ he murmured. ‘I’d do anything.’
‘Yes.’
Yes, what? he wondered.
‘But you can’t,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re forced to keep me here.’
A house on the moors, he speculated stupidly. They could live together, sleep in separate rooms until the bacterium had died its death. Theresa’s windows would need enlarging to let in the air, but nothing was absolutely impossible. He could bring her into the clinic, could treat her, take her home—
‘What are you thinking about?’ Afraid beyond measure of the answer, Theresa felt strangely compelled to pose the question. Something was happening to her – to him, as well.
‘I’m fond of you.’ He cleared a throat clogged by emotion.
‘I like you, too,’ she replied.
He turned and saw the heightened colour in her cheeks. ‘You’re so pretty,’ he whispered.
Stephen Blake was not pretty, but he had a wonderful voice and a kind face. She wanted to soothe his brow, to clean his clothes, to protect a heartbroken man whose brother had died, whose life had been cruelly altered by violence. ‘A bad thing happened to me, too,’ she ventured. Could she? An impatient voice in her head told her sharply, Yes, of course you can. So she did. ‘I was hurt by three men. Jessica came along nine months later.’
Stephen froze.
‘So my world got turned upside down, too.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he managed, his tongue stiffened by shock.
‘Wasn’t your fault.’
He didn’t understand rape, certainly was not prepared for the deep fury he felt now. ‘Do you know … them?’
‘Yes.’
Theresa had few visitors, so her parents must have died, he supposed. ‘Have you any family?’
‘I’ve brothers and sisters. But my father cast me out as a Jezebel. He’s dead at last. My sisters and brothers didn’t bother to defy him, so they can keep their distance for ever as far as I’m concerned. There’s just me and Jessica.’
He waited, but received no further information. ‘How do you manage?’ he asked at last.
‘Their fathers have paid for my silence,’ she answered. ‘It’s called blackmail.’ Theresa swivelled in her chair, waited until he turned and looked into her eyes. ‘I’ll get over TB,’ she promised. ‘I have to. You see, doctor, the money isn’t enough. It doesn’t even take the edge off my fury. I hate those men.’
A thrill of unease crept up Stephen’s spine.
‘They altered my life. My daughter is a little creature who was put into this world by one of the three criminals who attacked me. You know, I think I’ve stayed alive just to have my day with them.’ Theresa blinked slowly, realizing what she had just done. No-one knew of her plans. She had not perfected them, was still unsure of the details. How could she trust this man? How could she fail to trust him? Her instincts were strong; this was a good person, a lovable human.
‘Revenge starts wars,’ he advised her.
‘I know.’ She was fully conversant with her own will, her own state of mind.
‘You might destroy yourself while seeking to destroy others. The good gets damaged along with the bad.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, some nasty things have to happen. And my life is already ruined, I suppose.’
He took her hand. ‘There can be a new beginning,’ he said.
The words were not lost on her. His caress, no more than a cradling of her fingers, made molten lava of her blood, sent it rushing crazily through her veins. One word from her lips, and she could have this doctor, could cherish him, and the task would not be arduous. He was lonely, hurt, charitable. He was what Eva Harris might have termed ‘a gradely chap’. ‘There are things I’ve got to do,’ she muttered. ‘There’s no choice.’
‘Free will,’ he answered. ‘Always, always, there are options.’
Options? Where had her choices been that night? Theresa heard the drunken laughter echoing down the years, felt clammy, rough fingers on her body, took in the nauseating stench of breath tainted by vomit and ale. The agony was still with her, was stored, filed away for future reference, written in a clear and certain hand. Nothing would distract her. No flirting for Theresa Nolan, no marriage, no lover. ‘I have made my decision,’ she said.
‘You could change your mind.’
‘No.’ That monosyllable seemed to seal her fate, because she saw the disappointment in her companion’s eyes. He released his hold on her, allowing her hand to join its partner in her lap. Dr Stephen Blake could never want a woman who lived for vengeance.
‘I must get on,’ he mumbled, stethoscope swinging as he rose to his feet.
Theresa smiled vaguely, nodded, bit back tears as he walked away. That had been just another silly moment, anyway, she informed herself. No-one fell in love in a series of split seconds while discussing sputum and X-rays. No-one could possibly want a man in a soup-stained shirt, or a woman who manufactured germs inside her chest. So. She had to go, had to get out now.
Stephen Blake turned and looked at the woman he desired so much. As still as a painted Madonna, she sat, ha
nds folded, face serene, feet angled to one side, slender ankles crossed. She was waiting for life to start up again, waiting to get out and avenge herself. Although he shivered, he could not bring himself to blame her. It occurred to him that he might have offered help if she had asked. But no. A doctor did not destroy. He had put himself through rigorous training in order to maintain life, not to make others suffer.
As he walked on, the picture of a bloodied field entered his mind. If he had found his brother’s killer, what might he have perpetrated? He shook his head, went to a cabinet and picked out a file. In Room Eleven (Single) a man lay dying, lungs hacked to pieces, throat cut to accommodate a breathing tube, wife and children weeping at home. There was work to be done.
‘There are two choices, Monty. Either you take me with you, or I walk out of here and grab my own chances.’
‘That’s bloody blackmail.’
‘Yes.’ She was good at blackmail … ‘Look, I don’t care what I have to do. I’ll sweep floors, clean windows … Why are you laughing?’
‘You’re not fit.’ But he knew of a job, one that would be less than arduous, a cash-in-hand and no-questions-asked position that might just suit the determined little madam.
Sensing that he was weakening, Theresa maintained a difficult silence. She was desperate enough to know when to shut up.
‘You want to get away from Bolton,’ he stated slowly. ‘But to stay near enough to your daughter so that you can see her from time to time.’ He walked to the window. ‘I help to run a place for retired sailors,’ he told her. ‘Even though I’ve been stuck in here for months, the job’s still there for me. It’s in Waterloo, the north end of Liverpool.’
She held her breath, held her tongue.
‘They need a housekeeper.’ He swivelled and faced her. ‘Somebody discreet and sensible. It’s a charity, run by business folk, lawyers, doctors, the police force.’
It sounded ideal. Housekeepers were elevated people, folk who were often strangers to dusters, mops and scouring powders.
Monty sat down. ‘I’m staying here through Christmas,’ he said. ‘I might as well. So, while there’s a bit of time, I want you to think about this job before you snatch at it. It’s not as straightforward as it sounds.’
‘Oh?’ The syllable emerged as an excited squeak.
He nodded, his eyes fixed on her. ‘There are a couple of … a few girls upstairs.’ He pulled at his collar. ‘They entertain gentlemen.’
Theresa swallowed. Girls? What sort of girls?
‘You’ll need time to think,’ said Monty.
‘No.’ Beggars could not be choosers. Hadn’t she decided already that any kind of work would do? ‘The pay?’ she managed to ask.
‘It’s good,’ he told her. ‘Eight pounds a week with all found.’
All found? Eight pounds, no bills to pay, no food to buy? If Theresa survived for a couple of years … She calculated. Three hundred pounds a year might be saved, even if she allowed herself a modest income from the spoils. ‘I’ll take it,’ she said. Prostitutes were no problem, she insisted inwardly. They probably saved other women from all kinds of attacks.
‘Unless it has already gone to someone else.’
She jumped up. ‘Ask Dr Blake if you can use the phone privately, Monty. That job is mine.’
He was as sober as a judge, as wise as Solomon before offering to cleave that baby into two halves in order to discover its true mother. Along the corridor, Bing Crosby sang of children listening for bells on Santa’s sleigh. ‘Come here,’ ordered Dr Stephen Blake. He wore a new suit and a shirt white enough to hurt the eye even in this darkened room.
Mesmerized, limb and nerve loosened after one tot of Navy rum, Theresa obeyed her master. Christmas was happening somewhere else, not here, not in this spartan cubicle with its narrow bed, hard chairs and chipped, paper-strewn desk. Yet she would not have lost this moment for anything, least of all for the privilege of taking part in Williamson’s festive cheer.
The nearer she came to him, the more slowly her heart seemed to beat. Surely the opposite should be happening?
‘I love you, Theresa,’ he said. ‘And if you want me to bite back those words, I can’t, because they’re said, they’ve floated off to wherever words go when they’re done with.’
The man was a piece of pure magic. ‘I think I love you, too,’ said Theresa Nolan. She thought she loved him? Thought? She knew, understood, though emotion had little to do with understanding. Love simply happened, came along at the least convenient of times. With the exception of her daughter, Theresa had felt little for anyone.
Beyond help, they entered a world created exclusively for them, a timeless zone where nothing mattered save the pleasing of each other. He buried his face in her hair while she breathed in the scent of his throat, her fingertips seeking the pulse in his neck before allowing her lips to capture his life-beat. Remembering nothing, expecting everything, she lay down with him and gave herself up to a joy she had not expected to experience.
‘Marry me,’ he begged afterwards.
Wrapped in a rough blanket and a layer of passion that threatened to return, Theresa smiled into darkness. She was capable of love. She was able to relate to this one, precious man, yet she must leave him. ‘Not yet,’ she replied. ‘Not just yet.’
He touched her hair. ‘When?’
‘That depends on how much “when” I have left.’
‘I want us both to live for ever.’
In that moment, Theresa came to terms with the true identity of love, its symptoms, its side-effects. Love meant that she did not want to live for ever. Love meant that she needed to die before he did.
She could not, dared not bid him goodbye. Dejected beyond measure, Theresa sat on her lonely bed and watched the heavy sky as it darkened to envelop completely a clump of trees. She had made an arrangement with herself, had decided that she would remain here only if pregnant. Pressing her hands against a firm belly, she felt the warning signs, the dull ache that preceded menstruation. There was no baby, then. Disappointment dashed through her heart, while her brain insisted on rejoicing. Deserting her man was almost as confusing as leaving Jessica behind.
She sighed, leaning back against a pillow harder than concrete. Theresa Nolan, mother, ex-mill worker, ex-maker of meals in a munitions factory, was about to become a not-quite-madam.
She remained on her bed, watching the corridor lights dimming as night approached. After dark, alternate sets of lamps extinguished themselves, leaving sufficient illumination for the patients to walk to and from the bathrooms, not enough for reading or playing cards outside the wards.
Williamson’s was as silent as a graveyard. Her transport to Liverpool was to be parked at the other side of a small wood, the copse she had stared into for almost a whole year. At first light, she would slip out through her window and make for that country road. She could do it; she could run a seaman’s retreat. There was a full staff of domestics to do the heavy work, and the … the other business, the less savoury side of the post would be manageable, she felt sure. Monty, who had left a few days earlier, would be driving the van, would be taking her away from Jessica, from Stephen, from Bolton.
She turned her head to look at the single room which had been her home for such a long time. How she would miss Stephen. She could see him now in her mind’s eye, tousled hair, his never-quite-white coat, a stethoscope that went missing several times a day, his smile, that square, strong jawline. He was her heartbeat, her strength, and she could not stay.
The fingers attached to her handbag stiffened. She could not remain with Stephen, could not risk being dragged back to Williamson’s. But oh, how badly she needed his love, his touch, his scent, the sight of him. It was like being split in two, one half trying to remain with her lover and her daughter, the other half screaming for vengeance. But oh, how she needed to have her day with those three men. She was going; she was going to prepare.
In Liverpool, she would be near enough and distant e
nough, ideally placed for the fulfilment of her requirements, the culmination of all those years of thinking, wondering and plotting. Betteridge, Chorlton and Hardman would become lulled into a false sense of security, would believe that their luck had changed, that Theresa Nolan had lost interest, disappeared or died. But before she could punish them she had to make sure her daughter’s future was secure. That must be her first concern.
Jessica must be all right. Eva had taken the savings from Emblem Street, and Theresa would continue to send money for the child’s upkeep. The little girl needed to be safe, must play no part in her mother’s intended actions. ‘I’m a madam,’ whispered Theresa into the thick pall of a winter night. ‘And those three men had better watch out, because I’m coming for them. Madams are tough. I am tough.’ Who on earth was she trying to convince?
The time dragged. Anxious to be alert before breakfast-bearing trolleys began their rattling, Theresa paced the floor, visited the bathroom a dozen times, allowed various scenarios to play their pictures across her mind’s eye. In each drama, she had the upper hand, while three men grovelled across cobbles, clothing torn from their bodies, mouths widened by fear, eyes fixed on the woman whose life they had virtually destroyed.
It was almost morning, surely? On a whim, she pulled a page from a crumpled pad, rooted around for a pencil, then repaired once more to the ladies’ in search of ample light. After chewing absently on wood for several seconds, she wrote her message.
Dearest Stephen,
Please believe that I love you. But I couldn’t stay. When you said another year, it nearly killed me on the spot. It’s hell here, especially for somebody like me, because I don’t know how much time I have left to live.
I want to thank you for all your help, for your care and understanding. I have become [she chewed the pencil again] very fond of you and I know you like me. Stephen, I cannot stay in the same place as you, because I need you and would never leave your side. You might lose your job because of me. But I will miss you so very much. There aren’t enough words to say how I feel, but life without you is going to be far from easy. I’ve got things to do, things I can’t write down. I could die in here, you see. I could die without seeing to certain matters first.
The Corner House Page 21