The Corner House

by Ruth Hamilton

  She walked into the covered area, almost raising her hands to protect her ears against the noise of stallholders competing for business. ‘Cheapest in town, love’, ‘Come and get your cups, missus – saucers thrown in free’, ‘Two for a shilling, five for a florin’. Theresa realized how much she had missed her home town. She felt at home with the accent, the skyline – even the smells.

  It was a smell that drew her further, past the chandlers, the flower-sellers, the loose covers and second-hand books. The fishmarket had never been one of Theresa’s favourite places, but there was someone she wanted to see, a man who, like his brother, had always been kind and generous to neighbours and customers alike.

  Danny Walsh was still there, at the same stall, in the same uniform of blue-and-white striped apron over a white coat. On his head he wore a white hat with a brim and a chequered band. Into the band he had inserted a small flag which bore the words: ‘NO FLIES ON WALSH’S FISH’. He hadn’t changed at all. Still as thin as a rake, he presided over his kingdom with a beaming smile and a joke for everyone.

  Theresa stood in front of him. His smile wavered, returned, then was switched off like a redundant electric lamp.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Theresa. She looked around, made sure that nobody was listening. ‘I know about Katherine. I met her.’

  ‘Our Bernard told me.’ Danny wrapped some kippers for a woman who was in a hurry.

  ‘I’m not well,’ Theresa continued.

  ‘I know,’ Danny replied.

  ‘When I’m gone, will you help Bernard to keep an eye on both my children?’

  The fishmonger held up a hand to Theresa, indicated that she should wait. He called an assistant to take over, then followed Theresa out to Ashburner Street. ‘I didn’t know what to do that night,’ he began. ‘When Liz’s little girl died. Neither did our Bernard.’ He leaned against a wall. ‘That was when we got your baby. I know you met him and Katherine in Liverpool.’

  ‘They’re doing a good job on her,’ said Theresa. ‘She’s a nice child, well mannered.’

  ‘She’s an angel.’ He removed his hat, pulled the silly flag from the band, then replaced the trilby-shaped item on his head. ‘Liz knows nothing about it. She thinks Katherine’s her own.’

  ‘Yes, so I was told.’

  Danny stared at Theresa, but seemed to be looking through her towards the junior library across the road. ‘The little one was in a shoe box. Liz kept telling us to warm her near the fire, but she was past warming. Then Eva came, took the box away and left us a bundle.’

  ‘One of my twins.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’ He cleared his throat. ‘A few years later, Liz had to have an operation. She can’t have any more children.’

  Theresa experienced mixed emotions about Liz’s predicament. It was a shame that such a good mother could not have a larger family, but, at the same time, Katherine, an only child, could get all the attention and affection she needed. Although she had met her only once, Theresa remained struck by the similarities between Jessica and Katherine. The likeness went beyond the merely physical. Yes, the Walsh family would do very well for Katherine.

  ‘What brings you back to these parts?’ Danny was asking.

  ‘Loose ends.’

  Something in her tone prompted him to ask no further questions.

  ‘Like I said before, my health isn’t up to much. I want as many people as possible to keep a watch over Jessica when I’m gone. I’ve a feeling our Ruth might try to claim her.’

  ‘Not while there’s breath in Eva’s body.’

  Theresa tutted impatiently. ‘I’m not sure that I trust her any more. She never told me. Even later on, she didn’t say a word. I don’t want her to have Jessica. I’ve found someone else to take care of her.’

  ‘But Eva’s always done a good job.’

  ‘Has she?’ Theresa’s anger was inexplicable because it came from instinct only. She did not understand it, could not justify it, could never have described it. ‘Time she had a rest, then.’ She glanced up and down the street, decided that it was time to face the sizeable Mrs Betteridge. ‘I’m buying a house,’ she told Danny. ‘On Tonge Moor Road.’

  ‘My mother-in-law lived up there.’

  Theresa nodded in the manner of someone who wasn’t really listening. ‘It’ll be in Jessica’s name. I’ll let you and Bernard have the address. Just a weather eye, that’s all I ask.’

  He reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘On my life, I promise you,’ he said.

  Theresa, who was adept at hiding emotion, found herself close to tears. ‘I don’t blame you or your brother,’ she said. ‘And I certainly don’t blame Liz. You’re good people, all of you.’ Sometimes, she felt as if the gun had started to bore a hole through her handbag and into her body. This was one of those times. The bad people needed stopping, deserved punishment, merited no mercy. Good folk should not be standing so close to deadly weaponry.

  ‘Look after yourself, love,’ Danny said. ‘I’ll have to get back to the stall. And don’t worry about anything. I’m so sorry. None of this should have happened.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she said yet again.

  She looked so thin, so fragile that a wintry blast might well push her out of existence. ‘Don’t hang about in this weather,’ Danny advised. ‘You might catch your death.’

  A corner of Theresa’s mouth twitched. ‘It’s death that’s catching up with me. I reckon I’ll take my chances.’

  Ruth McManus was, without question, the most irritating person Maggie Courtney had ever met. For a start, Ruth had to be the centre of attention at all times and at any cost. When she wasn’t out at work, she sat for endless hours in front of the fire, handing out her opinion on every subject, smoking continuously, pulling at her hair, condemning mankind with her whiplash tongue.

  Maggie, who was baking in the kitchen, listened while Ruth went on about nuns and the Catholic Church.

  ‘They’re bloody evil, the lot of them,’ yelled Ruth.

  Maggie, who recognized evil only too well, blessed herself with a floury hand. Evil was in the next room, was burning coal paid for by Monty and tobacco donated by Maggie in the interests of world peace. When she had her smokes, Ruth was simply nasty. Without cigarettes, she was a devil incarnate. After counting to ten, Maggie made her reply. ‘I’ve known some nice nuns.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not. We got the cane for holes in our stockings, for missing mass, for talking.’

  She never stopped talking, thought Maggie. The only chance of a bit of quiet was when the woman was eating.

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Steak and kidney pudding.’

  ‘I don’t like it’

  ‘Good,’ mouthed Maggie. ‘There’s bacon,’ she called.

  ‘I had that yesterday.’

  Maggie walked to the door, poked her head into the living room. ‘Hanson’s is still open. Would you like to walk down and find yourself something?’

  ‘I’ve been on my feet all day. You’ve no idea what it’s like in that mill. Hot as hell, it is.’

  Maggie returned to her pastry. Ruth McManus belonged in a fiery furnace, so the mill would be good practice for her.

  ‘I’ll have a bit of that pudding,’ shouted Ruth, as if she were doing Maggie a great favour.

  Maggie thought fleetingly of rat poison. In all her years as a professional woman, Maggie had never met anything quite like Theresa’s sister. Ruth’s daughter, Irene, was another queer one. She used people: scrutinized them, activated them, tossed them away once their purpose had been served. She was ugly, and had been made uglier by her own mother’s hatred. ‘How’s Irene?’ shouted Maggie as she shredded suet.

  ‘A rat. She’ll always be a rat. Did you know she beats her husband? Such a nice lad, he is. I warned him, you know. I told him she were no good. But once she’s got her claws in, she’ll not let go till she’s good and done. I reckon she’ll stick with him, get him insured and then work him to death. I hop
e she never has a daughter. Girls take after their mothers.’

  The ridiculous thing was that Ruth never heard herself, did not realize that she was admitting her own guilt, that she was allowing the world to know that she had created a monster. Who had created Ruth, then? Her bigoted father?

  ‘Our Theresa’ll not last long,’ Ruth was saying now. ‘She were at death’s door as a kiddy. Every time she had a cold, there were a song and dance, bloody doctor never away from the door, pills and potions. You can tell how bad – she had Extreme Unction twice. Anyroad, when she pops her clogs, I’ll look after Jessica.’

  Maggie’s hands stilled themselves.

  ‘It’ll be nice to have a good-looking kiddy in the house,’ continued Ruth. ‘Grammar school and all. Jessica’ll get a proper job when she’s grown. She’ll not be washing corpses and ironing shrouds.’

  It was little wonder, thought Maggie, that Irene had chosen to work with the dead. The dead didn’t answer back, didn’t sit there twiddling their hair and shouting the odds through a dense cloud of Kensitas fumes. A corpse couldn’t call Irene ugly or accuse her of being a rat.

  ‘I’ll be her nearest when Theresa dies. So Jess will come to me.’

  Maggie’s fingers curled round the rolling pin. She suddenly understood Theresa’s need to kill. If she could have been sure of remaining free, Maggie Courtney might well have smashed Ruth McManus’s skull there and then. Panic rose, causing the Irishwoman to gag. How? How would she, a retired prostitute, keep hold of Jessica Nolan after Theresa’s death?

  ‘That’ll be why our Theresa’s come home, you know. She’s not well and she wanted to be near me. Eva won’t be able to hang on to Jessica once our Theresa’s dead. Blood’s thicker than water.’

  Maggie left her pastry and went out to the yard. She locked herself in the lavatory shed and sat down. What on earth could be done to stop Ruth getting her hands on Theresa’s daughter? Maggie knew that Theresa, who was feeling particularly depressed, was investing all her limited energy in her stupid search for justice.

  ‘Are you there? Only I’m waiting.’

  Even in the outhouses, there was no hiding from Ruth. The wash-house, next door to the lavatory, had provided no sanctuary at the weekend. Ruth had stood, cigarette hanging from her lip, telling Maggie how to poss and washboard properly.

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  From what Maggie had heard, Irene had, in her time, been battered halfway to death. She had been locked in cupboards, in the outdoor coal shed, in the space beneath the stairs. She had grown up in a house that was supposedly haunted, had been left to fend for herself in a place without food, warmth or distraction. With no-one to mind her unloved child, Ruth McManus had gone out to work leaving Irene to her own devices. On her own, lonely and furious, the girl had amused herself by inflicting discomfort on others. The inhabitants of the undertaker’s premises had fascinated Irene. Frozen into eternal silence, the bodies had not uttered a sound. Maggie shivered as she wondered what on earth Ruth McManus’s daughter had done to those dead people.

  ‘I’m plaiting me legs here,’ shouted Ruth.

  Maggie emerged, stormed past her hostess and shot into the kitchen. As she scrubbed her hands, a terrible anger entered her body, causing her to inflict on her skin what almost amounted to grievous bodily harm. She threw the bar of carbolic back into its dish and picked up a towel.

  ‘You all right, girl?’

  Monty was a welcome sight. He was straighter today, happier. ‘She’s driving me mad,’ replied Maggie.

  ‘Me, too.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘I can go back now,’ he told her. ‘The job’s done.’

  ‘Have they made arrests?’

  He nodded. ‘But somebody’s got to look after all the old boys. Are you coming with me?’ He already knew the answer.

  ‘No. That one out there …’ She jerked a finger towards the yard. ‘She thinks she’s going to get a grip on Jessica once poor Theresa’s gone. Can you imagine that?’

  Monty, who had met Irene, didn’t want to imagine anything.

  ‘There’s something missing in Irene and Ruth, isn’t there?’ asked Maggie. ‘Something normal’s missing, and—’

  ‘And something abnormal’s in them. My nephew’s talked to me about people like Ruth. They don’t feel anything for other folk. Well, if they do feel something, it’s soon over. It’s number one all the way, take, take, take. Stamping on a worm or stabbing a human being – it’s all the same to them.’

  Maggie’s flesh crawled. ‘There’s a bit of this in Theresa. She wants … Oh, never mind.’ She could not tell Monty the truth. Theresa had a gun and a stubborn streak.

  ‘No, she’s all right,’ said Monty. ‘Theresa Nolan’s a sick girl, but it’s her body, not her mind that’s letting her down. She’s said nothing definite about moving Jessica away from Eva just yet, and Ruth won’t be in the picture even then. When Theresa buys the house, the three of you can get away from here.’

  ‘And when Theresa gets too ill? If she dies?’

  ‘Cross that one when you get there, girl.’

  Ruth entered the house. ‘And another thing,’ she began. ‘I don’t want anybody touching anything of me dad’s. His walking stick’s been moved out of the—’

  ‘I knocked it over,’ explained Monty. ‘When I was getting my cap off the hook.’

  Ruth squared her shoulders. ‘He’ll not be pleased.’

  ‘He haunts the house,’ Maggie informed Monty. ‘You can hear him climbing the stairs sometimes. You can tell it’s him because he walks with a limp. Isn’t that the case, Ruth?’ Maggie, who knew about such things, was absolutely sure that no spectre existed in this unhappy house.

  ‘Shrapnel.’

  Monty blessed himself. ‘Holy Mother,’ he blasphemed softly. ‘Oh, Lord, he’s materialized. I’ve seen him, I think.’

  Both women looked around, but saw nothing.

  ‘Not now – the other night. I thought I was dreaming,’ continued Monty. ‘There I was, lying in bed and—’

  ‘And what?’ Ruth, scared halfway to death, was hanging on to every syllable.

  ‘A man with a stick and whiskers. Shouting and bawling, he was. It was an Irish accent and he kept telling me to get out of his room. “Where’s Ruth?” he asked me. Then there was the sound of chains rattling and people moaning.’

  ‘Go on.’ Ruth’s face was a picture of concentration.

  Monty, who had seen a photograph of Michael Nolan, was enjoying himself. According to Eva a few doors down, Mr Nolan had been rather less than likeable. ‘He calmed down. I still thought I was dreaming, though. After a few minutes, he said something really queer.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Ruth, a hand to her throat.

  ‘He said he forgave Theresa. Then he said he wanted Jessica to be brought up by Maggie here.’ He jerked a finger towards his friend. ‘He disappeared and I must have fallen asleep.’ Monty stared at Ruth. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This house is haunted, because I saw your father with my own eyes.’

  Maggie, fully aware of Monty’s deliberate tomfoolery, was fascinated. A very mixed bag of emotions flickered across Ruth McManus’s lined face. There was incredulity, shock, fear and determination.

  ‘Well,’ Ruth said carefully. ‘I’ve been telling everybody for years that me dad’s still here.’ She glanced around the room and gulped. Her lies had risen up to face her. Even if this Liverpudlian were telling untruths, there was not a thing she could do about it without betraying herself.

  ‘He didn’t seem too happy to me,’ said Monty. ‘Kept on and on about Theresa and he wanted the quarrel mended. Still, we have to abide by the wishes of the dead, I suppose.’ He turned to Maggie. ‘So that’s you stuck with the little girl if anything happens to Theresa.’

  Ruth’s lip curled. She had no intention of allowing this loud Irish Liverpudlian woman to deprive her of her niece. Even if Monty Sexton had heard Dad talking, Ruth wanted that child. Irene wou
ld never look after her mother. In spite of all Ruth’s sacrifices, Irene would neglect the one who had borne and raised her. Jessica was a nice child. Jessica would look after Auntie Ruth in her old age. ‘You must have heard him wrong,’ Ruth barked at Monty. ‘If owt happens to our Theresa, that kiddy comes to me.’

  ‘No,’ replied Monty. ‘Not if you want to keep your father happy.’

  Ruth had enjoyed having visitors and was dreading the day when they would leave. But this bloke was pulling her leg something merciless and she was unable to fight back. The ghost, invented by Ruth to amuse herself, was brought to life now by a know-it-all, a man who was giving her a very funny look. ‘If you see my dad again,’ she said, ‘ask him where he put my scissors. He was always pinching them to cut his toenails.’ She marched past the two visitors and stamped her way upstairs.

  ‘Well, that wiped her eye,’ commented Maggie.

  ‘It’s a kick up the backside she needs,’ answered Monty.

  Maggie touched her old friend’s arm. ‘I’ll miss you, lad. I’ll be stuck here with all these foreigners.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re the foreigner,’ he reminded her. ‘You’re Irish, from another country.’

  She punched him. ‘You know what I mean. I’m used to the Scouse.’

  ‘And you know where I am, queen.’

  ‘Aye, that I do, Monty. That I do.’

  After a bite to eat in a café on Great Moor Street, Theresa felt almost fit enough to confront the next demon. She wandered around Gregory and Porritt’s for a while, looking at lampshades and very uninteresting counters packed with nails, screws, nuts and bolts. From there, she sauntered past the Wheat-sheaf, glancing across at ‘him outside o’ Bowies’, a plaster figure of a man in overalls. How long had he stood there? How many mothers had goaded a child into action by asking, ‘How long are you going to stand there gormless like him outside o’ Bowies?’

  Theresa was well and truly home. Apart from the job on hand and the worries about her health, she was as happy as a pig in a muckyard. The need to deal with her rapists was an old feeling, as was her tendency to illness, so little had changed. She was on familiar territory, yet, like many a Londoner who had never bothered to visit St Paul’s or the museums, Theresa was suddenly aware of how little she knew about her home town.