Please look after yourself and don’t send anybody to look for me. I’m going a long way away from Bolton. Jessica will be staying with Eva. I’d be grateful if you would keep in touch with Eva, just to make sure that my daughter is all right.
With love, Theresa Nolan
She folded the paper and addressed it to Dr Stephen Blake before pinning it to a staff noticeboard. It was time. With a heart labouring beneath the onus of mixed emotions, Theresa Nolan walked out of prison and into a silent, frost-crisped dawn. Sliding across icy grasses, the escapee made for the woods and the road, stopping only when an owl swooped down into the blackened fingers of a skeletal tree. She was as free as a bird. Or was she?
It was a massive house, three-storeyed and built of sandstone, big enough to be a school, thought Theresa as Monty, taciturn as ever, swept his vehicle along a pebbled, semi-circular path. Neat gardens fronted the hostel, clean lawns punctuated by beds filled with dormant rose bushes. Across the road, gilt-tipped iron railings, proud survivors of the wartime purloining of metals, edged a public lawn which, in turn, ran parallel with a beach and the rather choppy estuary.
‘Some of them fell into the sea.’
Startled by the driver’s voice, Theresa awarded him a nervous smile. After forty-odd miles of virtual silence, she had not expected him to be forthcoming once their destination had been achieved. Monty was famous for his silences. His accent was strange, while the particular damage he inflicted on the King’s English was of a sort she had not encountered before meeting Monty. His breed of slang came from Liverpool. But she was used to him and he could be her touchstone. ‘What fell into the sea?’ she asked.
‘Houses, like. Rich Blundellsands buggers kept finding bits of their back kitchens under water, so they had to move away. Sea’s eating land here.’
‘Oh.’
‘They’re holding it back, but King Canute never managed it, did he? I can’t see Liverpool doing what nobody’s never done before. River Alt, you see.’
‘Oh.’
He was warming to his subject. ‘River Alt started rubbing up and down the front, so the houses were all collapsing in big heaps. You’ve got your Mersey, your Alt and your Irish Sea, three waterways battering away and trying to be boss.’ He grinned. ‘How are the mighty fallen, eh? Into the bloody drink, too, loads of big businessmen and doctors.’
She smiled again.
Monty Sexton studied his companion as if assessing her for the first time. She wasn’t one of the so-called educated, but she had dignity, a kind of classiness, a suspicion of innocence in those large eyes. He suddenly wished he had not brought her. ‘Hey, love, do you know what you’re taking on?’
She nodded. ‘You told me often enough.’
‘It might not be as easy as I made out. This seamen’s shelter is all right. Thirty-two years I was a merchant man, and I’ve lived in one of the attics for a lot of years now. I’ve got a funny neck, so I retired early and I do odd jobs. Downstairs is dead straight, like, reading rooms, billiards, bar, dining room and all that. Now, the upstairs is a different pot of porridge altogether. Everybody knows it’s there, but no bugger talks about it. Right?’
She nodded again.
He pointed. ‘Ground floor’s where the lads come, but they’re not really lads as such – some of them’s in their nineties. They have a nosh and a natter, game of cards, go home, you know the score.’ His finger moved upwards. ‘Them three attics in the roof is mine and storage. Top floor under me’s a couple of big rooms for parties and meetings on one side, then the business is on the other side. Six little rooms, but there’s never been more than four or five girls. Some of them are all right, but there’s a couple of them could scald the lugs off a docker with their language. You have to shut your ears.’
Theresa swallowed.
‘First floor’s bedrooms for old sailors with nowhere to live. They come and go and they pay a bit of rent – I collect that. Your apartment’s there, too, on that floor.’
Theresa nodded. ‘Ground floor for day visitors, first floor for old sailors, second floor is … the girls. Right, I’ve heard and understood, Mr Sexton.’ She gave ‘Mr Sexton’ an encouraging smile. ‘I’ll be all right.’
Out here, in the real world, she looked too nice, too genteel. The so-called board of directors would approve of Theresa. She was a looker, she was the picture of righteousness and she had no family in the area. ‘The police are in on it,’ he reminded her. ‘They know the score and take their cut for staying blind. So, if there’s trouble, they’ll keep you nice and clean as long as you do as your bosses tell you. Not that you’ll be meeting them very often.’
A question hovered and Theresa forced it out. ‘What happened to the housekeeper before me?’
Monty paused. ‘She went off, like. Disappeared. According to the chap who did my job while I was in hospital, she upped sticks and cleared off without saying a word.’
Theresa was dumbstruck for a few moments. ‘Did they search for her?’
Monty shrugged, placed his hands on the steering wheel. ‘What I’m saying, love, is that you have to play the game. It’s no use running to the police if anything happens. Fair weather or foul, the busies turn a blind eye.’
‘If anything happens? What’s going to happen?’
Slowly, Monty Sexton turned and looked his passenger full in the face. ‘The last housekeeper was a good-looking girl from somewhere outside Dublin. A police chief took a shine to her, wouldn’t have one of the pros instead. He had her beat up, but there was no proof as such. She went moaning to anybody and everybody, threatened to have the chief prosecuted, then she was never seen again, and her belongings went AWOL. The police called round, had a few drinks and a laugh, and that was the end of it. Since her, they’ve had to manage without a housekeeper, because local folk won’t do – they know too much and they have friends and families.’
Theresa felt her heart beating erratically. ‘What about her family?’
‘She was Irish and she never mentioned home.’ This one, too, was disposable, he said inwardly. ‘Can I give you some advice, Theresa?’
‘Please.’
He sniffed. ‘Don’t take offence, queen. Dye your hair brown and wear dark clothes, flat shoes, a big cardigan. Flatten your bust and don’t smile. No rouge, no powder, no lipstick. Just do the job, collect your money and say nothing.’
Theresa sighed shakily. ‘You know I have to stay,’ she told her companion. ‘There’s no way I can walk out. I can’t go back to Bolton and I need to earn money.’ She stiffened her spine deliberately. ‘But I’m not changing how I look. I’ll manage them, no matter what. There’ll be new rules printed, I shall make sure of that.’
Monty closed his eyes. The select few who presided over the seamen’s haven were not beyond taking a fancy to this newcomer. Councillors, accountants, doctors, police officers and high-flying tradesmen were backers of this so-called charity, and they were not averse to pleasuring themselves by enjoying fringe benefits, as they called the seamy side of their benevolent works. ‘Just wait till they see what you look like,’ he said softly.
Theresa sat and stared at the house. She had been raped and terrified, but she was wiser now. She would oil this machine till it ran like Swiss clockwork, no hiccups, no windings-down. ‘I’ll be safe enough,’ she replied. ‘You said I’d have a free hand within the household. So I’ll make sure they keep their hands off me, don’t you worry.’ If she couldn’t cope, she would have to do her own disappearing act.
‘Right, let’s get you inside, then.’ He stepped out of the car, his feet crunching on gravel as he went to open the boot.
Theresa alighted from the vehicle and stood poised on the brink of an uncertain future. At a push, she could go back, she supposed, back to the safety of the sanatorium, back to imprisonment, back to a doctor whose facial features haunted her now, while she felt lonely and vulnerable. She noticed the name of the place. ‘JUTLAND HOUSE’ was etched on a plaque next to large double doors
.
‘Are you fit, then?’ asked Monty.
She noticed yet again how kind his face was and was glad to have a friend in this strange city. ‘I’m fit,’ she replied, though the rhythm of her heartbeat told a different story.
Monty hesitated for a split second. He had just caught sight of something in the girl’s eyes, a hardness, a flash of iron. She wouldn’t take much without a fight, this one. If she offered that expression to anybody round here, there’d be no danger for her, none at all.
* * *
Bernard Walsh dozed in a fireside chair. He was a contented man, a man who had done everything possible to keep his family safe and comfortable. The house in which he and his family had lived for the best part of a year was all he had promised to his beloved Liz.
Smiling through a thousand happy memories, he chose his favourite and relived his first day in Crosby, watched it like a film, remembering the script perfectly. As he nodded off, his wife’s voice spoke the opening lines.
‘I like it.’ Liz Walsh fluttered like a bird as she investigated her new front parlour. ‘God, you could fit the Coldstream Guards in here, horses and all.’
Bernard smiled benignly upon his wife. To please her, to keep the secret of Katherine safe, he would have crossed Niagara Falls in a colander, but all Liz had needed was a change of house. She would have preferred Bolton, he supposed, but she had got used to Crosby after a dozen visits. It was a good enough place, with a working flour mill, thatched cottages, homely shops and pleasant people. Outside, Katherine and the dog leapt about on ice-crisped grass, dashing from apple to pear trees, from greenhouse to gate. Yes, Crosby would do quite nicely.
Liz marched into the dining room, then round a small morning room and into the kitchen, Bernard hot on her heels. Next to the sink, a boiler of uncertain temperament spat water into radiators, while a tall fridge hummed its intention to care for leftovers whatever the weather. Laughing inwardly, the fishmonger enjoyed the pleasure in Liz’s face.
Bernard left his wife to her little celebration, walked through the hall and joined John Povey outside. John Povey was a chemist and a character. His father, also a pharmacist, had lived and died in number 1, and John had just sold the large semi-detached house to the Walshes. The man ran a hand through greying hair. ‘If the boiler starts acting up, kick it,’ he advised the new owner. ‘If that doesn’t do it, contact me. I know a few good plumbers, you see.’
Bernard studied the man. He looked for all the world like something that had been shut away in a cellar with test tubes and potions, a mad scientist whose mission in life was to harness lightning or turn water to petrol, sand to sugar. ‘Are you married?’ asked Bernard.
The chemist looked at him vaguely. ‘No. I think I’ll send Harry Foster to look at your downstairs toilet – I don’t like the sound of that flush.’
It was Bernard’s turn to be confused for a split second. ‘Caveat emptor,’ he pronounced eventually. ‘You’ve already been very good to us, John. The caveat’s in the contract because I’ve bought this house as seen and I’m happy with it. My house now, lad. My house, my problems.’
‘Scotland Road,’ came the reply.
‘What?’
‘Your fish shop.’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘Bloody mess the Germans made of that.’ John fiddled with the gate, trying to make the hinges line up. ‘A lot dead, a lot alive and cursing. Decent people; they’ll look after you.’
‘They already do. I’ve been down there a few times and they can’t do enough for me.’
‘Salt of the earth, God bless them.’ The gate was a hopeless case, so John started on the fence. ‘I know a man who’ll replace this rotted section for you.’
Bernard sighed and gave up. It was like talking to the fireback, he decided.
‘The previous owner used to deliver,’ continued the chemist.
The fishmonger was beginning to follow the meandering path of his companion’s probably brilliant mind. ‘The owner of the fish shop?’ he offered.
‘I’ll call into your place of work,’ said John. ‘There’s a list of nursing homes, hospitals and so on – places where I’m responsible for medicines and herbal infusions. You’ll get the fish contracts if I put in the odd word.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all.’ The pharmacist turned his back on the fence and looked at Father’s house. John Povey Senior had been a grand man, the sort of person who would have done anything for anyone. ‘I miss him,’ he mumbled.
‘Aye, we know that, lad.’
‘Chess. Every Thursday evening, we played. He died winning, of course. I’d just set up a supposedly undefeatable stratagem, and he died before I could move a single piece. Now, I’ll never know how that game would have worked out.’
Bernard stared into the road, pretending not to see a tear being dashed from John Junior’s eye.
‘We never know how anything ends, do we?’ mused John Povey. ‘We play the game with the pieces we have and we never guess the outcome. The proof of everyone’s dispensability lies with the grim reaper. People force themselves to work while ill, convinced that no-one else can fill their shoes. But there’s always a pair of size nines ready to jump into our footwear.’
Bernard felt the chemist’s grief, wanted to reach out and touch his arm. Being a man was sometimes a burden, because only women were allowed to offer a shoulder at times like this. ‘Would visiting us do any good?’ he asked.
John looked into Bernard’s round, open face. The man who had bought Father’s house was already on John’s list. Occasionally, one met a person who had always been an old friend, a new man or woman whose goodness precluded all need for introduction or potted histories. ‘I’d be delighted to come,’ he replied.
‘And we’ll be glad to have you.’
Knowing that Bernard spoke the truth, John Povey clapped a battered trilby onto his shaggy head and set off for home. Home was in Walton. He lived a solitary life, just a very tolerant cleaning lady and several stray felines, most of which had moved in while he wasn’t looking.
Bernard leaned on the wonky gate and stared across the road.
‘Nice, that house over there.’
He turned, found Liz at his side. ‘Aye, that’s the Corner House. John said it was built by a sea-captain in 1926.’
‘Worth a few bob,’ commented Liz.
‘Aye, it might be.’ In reality, the Corner House was no larger than number 1, but its detached status probably added to its value. The house’s ‘eyes’ were bright and studded with sections of stained glass. ‘Proper leading,’ said Bernard. ‘Every little pane separate – look how the light bounces off all over the place. There’s not another house exactly like that one anywhere in the world. It’s a one-off, is that.’
‘I’d love to get inside,’ commented Liz. ‘Just to be nosy, see what’s what.’
‘Yes.’ Bernard knew that it was silly to fall in love with another house, especially so soon after buying number 1. But the Corner House looked so happy, so welcoming with its open-arched porch and its setting of laurel and holly. One day, Bernard promised himself. One day, he and Liz would see the interior.
The pair waved as John Povey departed in a cloud of blue smoke. ‘He wants his exhaust seeing to,’ commented Bernard.
‘And his shirt collar turning,’ said Liz. ‘And a square meal now and again wouldn’t do any harm.’
‘We’ll feed him up,’ answered Bernard. ‘Come on, lass, let’s get the rest of our worldly goods inside before it goes completely dark.’
Inside the house, a grandfather clock, a camphor wood chest and a lovely old bureau spoke volumes for John Povey’s generosity. ‘Use them in good health,’ he had told the new owners. Liz sighed. The Walshes’ own belongings looked lost in a place of this size. They needed a proper dining table with carvers, some easy chairs, sofas, bookcases, display cabinets. ‘Like trying to furnish the Albert Hall,’ she told the parlour fireplace. The house wanted brass
candelabra, some Staffordshire dogs, a couple of nice vases.
Bernard slid a tea chest across the parquet. ‘There’s a good second-hand furniture shop on Scotland Road,’ he informed her. ‘One of the few places still intact. Some pretty bits and pieces in there, love. We’ll get your house filled, never worry.’
Liz gave him a huge smile. ‘You couldn’t have picked a nicer place for us, Bernard. You were right enough – it was time for a change. And Katherine’s bedroom is marvellous.’ The little girl’s room had a door in one corner, a low opening which led into the roof space above the attached garage. With electric light and a proper sprung floor, it promised to be an excellent playroom.
Bernard experienced a feeling of near-perfect contentment as he and his wife carried the last of their belongings up the pathway of number 1. The chances of Katherine coming face to face with Jessica Nolan were now negligible. Here, in North Liverpool, the Walsh family was almost forty miles away from poor Theresa Nolan and her problems.
‘Bernard?’
He swung round. ‘What?’
‘Thanks.’ Liz looked up and down the road, watched a coalman delivering a hundredweight, saw people scurrying home from work or from shops that were ready to close.
‘What for?’ he asked.
‘For all this.’ Liz swept a hand across the pebble-dashed frontage of her new home. ‘And most of all, for our Katherine. I couldn’t have made her on my own, could I?’
The fishmonger embraced his wife, glanced upwards and caught sight of his daughter’s face at an upstairs window—
‘Bernard?’ Liz shook her husband’s arm. ‘You’ve fallen asleep again.’
He abandoned his dream, looked around his fully furnished home, saw Liz’s Staffordshire dogs, her vases, the new dining suite. ‘We did right coming here,’ he said.
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