The Corner House

by Ruth Hamilton

  Within a couple of weeks, she had visited the site of the Bolton Massacre, the place where an Earl of Derby had been executed, the very spot on which John Wesley had tried to preach to a riotous, stone-throwing crowd. She had stood and watched the golden globe above Preston’s jewellers, a time-ball which responded and moved in accordance with telegraphed signals from Greenwich. This was a town with a history, a past in which Theresa had shown no interest until recently.

  She stood now opposite glorious civic buildings, her eyes glued to the war memorial. Why had she never noticed it before? All those young men killed, wounded, battered in mind and body to the point of suicidal uselessness. A deep unease kept creeping its way through her bones, along vertebrae and into her skull. In war or in peacetime, could there ever be an excuse for killing? Was rape an excuse, a reason?

  She sat on a bench and watched the world passing by, doing its shopping, its visiting, its work. Everyone who walked by was a part of something bigger, yet each was trapped inside a body, a mind, a separate essence. Which of these could legitimately judge another? She must not punish Eva. The little woman had probably suffered enough. What, then, must she do about Chorlton, Betteridge and Hardman?

  At this point, Theresa’s heart and mind hardened. Sometimes, a crime was too bad to be tried by a jury of passers-by. No-one could know the pain of rape without having been on the receiving end. She might have married, might have become stronger, might have led a decent, ordinary life. All choices and chances had been stolen from her. They had no right to live, no right to remain intact after a crime of such magnitude.

  Theresa rose, shivered, pulled the scarf closer to her throat. Extremes of cold and heat were never bearable, never easy for a woman whose heart was scarred. With a renewed sense of purpose, Theresa Nolan went forth to seek her prey.

  When she reached the stall, Teddy Betteridge was reeling about and laughing at some joke which appealed to him, but to no-one else. Potential customers hung back while Elsie Betteridge dealt with the bane of her life. ‘Get gone and sober up,’ said the large woman, her voice loud enough to travel several yards. ‘You’re no bloody use at all, you, least of all near breakables.’

  Theresa comforted herself with the near-knowledge that Elsie had already learned to dislike Teddy.

  ‘This is two days in a row,’ Elsie was saying now. ‘You’re about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Get thyssen home and sleep it off.’

  Teddy, who had plainly met his Waterloo for the umpteenth time, sneaked away, his head bent against an icy wind and the even cooler countenance of his irate partner.

  Theresa waited for the huddle of gossips and customers to clear, then she wandered over to Betteridge’s Ironmongers Established 194—, the last digit having been blown away by weather or ripped off during one of Teddy Betteridge’s alcoholic tempers.

  ‘Hello, love? Looking for something special? Nice tea set to brighten up your winter days? A set of cut-glass fruit dishes? And I’ve all the buckets and bowls you could ever want, love.’

  Lying was becoming so easy. Yet Theresa found, to her utter amazement, that she was taking to Elsie Betteridge. There was a weariness about the eyes, humour in the thick, mobile lips, suffering in the woman’s stance. She was about to do Elsie a favour, she told herself firmly. If the man wouldn’t work, his wife could do very well without him.

  ‘Browse if you want to. I think I’ll have a sit down.’ She pointed to a figure in the distance. ‘That’s what I call me little bit o’ th’ ’usband, useless lump, he is. Look at the cut of him,’ she mumbled, almost to herself. ‘His dad killed himself with booze, tore his liver and kidneys to pieces. At the finish, he were nobbut a raving lunatic. Now, my soft bugger’s bent on going the same road as his father.’

  She was so open, so generous. ‘Have you two chairs?’ Theresa asked.

  ‘Stools. Here, get at the back of the stall with me. We can have a sup out of my tea-flask and put the world to rights.’

  Theresa sat next to her victim. No, no, she wasn’t going to hurt Elsie Betteridge. Elsie would be steering a new course, following a better map.

  ‘There’s sugar in it,’ said Elsie. ‘Do you take sugar?’

  ‘I don’t mind. I can take it any way it comes.’ She sipped pensively at the over-sweetened brew.

  ‘You do your best,’ Elsie sighed. ‘Stood out here in all weathers while he props a bar up, then you’re washing and ironing at home, feeding the family. And he’s swilling all the profits down the lav at the Commercial.’

  Theresa placed her beaker on the stall. ‘I came here to see Mr Betteridge,’ she said. ‘It’s a matter of some delicacy.’

  ‘You’d be as well off talking to the wall,’ replied Elsie. ‘At least the bloody wall stands still, doesn’t keep falling down on the floor screaming for a flaming Aspro.’

  ‘Your husband seems to have a problem with alcohol, then.’

  ‘A problem?’ shrieked Elsie, laughter trimming the words. ‘A problem? Nay, it’s no problem for him, love. He’s as happy as a hog in shite as long as he’s drunk.’ She adopted a more serious tone, lowered her voice. ‘It’s me what’s got the problem. Two kiddies to raise, a house to keep, a business to run. And on top of all that, there’s him. His legs keep letting him down, then his eyes. Can’t walk, can’t see proper, can’t keep his food down some days. I’m that mithered, I could spit.’

  Theresa tutted her sympathy.

  ‘There’d be nowt in the bank if it weren’t for me. I’ve hidden some.’ She took a loud swig of tepid tea. ‘I call it me running away savings.’

  ‘Don’t run away,’ said Theresa. ‘You stay where you are.’

  The large woman shook her head, causing a prematurely grey strand of hair to slip from beneath the tea-cosy hat. ‘Funny. I don’t know you, but you’re right easy to talk to. See, I’m not sure how much more I can put up with. It’s his house, so I either stop there or I go.’

  Theresa dived in head first. ‘Mrs Betteridge, I’ve been working in Liverpool for some years.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘With street girls.’

  ‘What? You mean prostitutes?’

  Theresa nodded. ‘I think that lady wants serving.’

  Elsie dashed off to sell a bucket and a long-handled mop. ‘Well?’ she asked as soon as she got back.

  ‘It’s advisable that you should see your doctor, Mrs Betteridge.’

  The woman’s face wore a puzzled frown. ‘Eh?’

  ‘We try to get the girls off the streets, but we don’t always succeed. One of them slipped the net quite recently. She was due to come into the clinic for treatment, because she had contracted a nasty disease.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with the price of flour cakes?’

  Theresa steeled herself. This was a powerfully built person, and God alone knew how she would react to the news. ‘She got as far as Bolton before seeing sense, then she travelled back to Liverpool and came in for treatment.’

  Elsie was very still. ‘Go on.’

  ‘She gave me the names of those she had associated with in Bolton. One was called Teddy Betteridge. He told her that he had a business on the market, so I thought I’d better warn you. The illness is very contagious.’ Like tuberculosis, thought Theresa. What a complete fraud she was. How many people had she infected with her coughing and spluttering?

  Beats of time passed while Elsie Betteridge remained motionless in her seat.

  ‘Are you … all right?’

  Elsie turned her head and looked directly at her companion. ‘No, I’m not. I’m … Oh, I don’t know what I am, to be honest. You think you’ve seen it all when you live with a drunk. He’s like a baby sometimes, doesn’t always get to the lav in time, if you take my meaning. There were blood in it once. Little broken veins all over his face, doctors going on at him to stop before it’s too late.’

  ‘It must be awful.’

  ‘Aye, you can say that again, with knobs on. And now, we’ve got this.’ She st
ood up and stretched her back, as if making herself firm. ‘It’s bad enough for my kiddies living with a drinker, but we can’t have me ill as well.’ She paused. ‘Mind, now as I think on, he’s been too drunk to … you know … for ages, so I’ll be in the clear. I will see the doctor, but there’s no danger.’

  Theresa felt terrible. She had created this situation, had planned it with a precision that had been almost military. Hurting those who had injured her was one thing; causing this woman unnecessary pain was a different matter altogether.

  ‘Ta,’ Elsie Betteridge said before reclaiming her seat. ‘It were coming anyroad, love. Don’t be worrying yourself over me, ’cos you’ve done the right thing.’

  Theresa swallowed her guilt and it tasted vile.

  ‘Will you be going back to Liverpool?’

  ‘No. I’m from round here originally, then I got a job and stayed over there until just before this Christmas.’ She was planning to kill the woman’s husband and two other men. ‘I’m moving soon, but it’ll be in Bolton. I’ve been staying with a friend.’ Elsie’s children would have no father. They’d be better off without a drunkard in the house, as would Elsie.

  ‘It’s curable, isn’t it?’ asked Teddy Betteridge’s wife.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Theresa. He didn’t deserve this rough-edged, big-hearted woman. He was an alcoholic, a rapist, a ne’er do well.

  ‘Well, I’m grateful to you, love,’ declared Elsie. ‘It’s a good thing you told me and not him. He’d have drunk another cartload of ale and forgotten all about it.’

  There was no more to be said. Theresa bade Elsie goodbye and began the walk towards Derby Street. Tonight, Teddy Betteridge would feel the edge of his wife’s tongue. The others, Chorlton and Hardman, had already been informed of their condition.

  She stopped at a newsagency, bought a few toffees for Jessica and a packet of Weights for Ruth. Ruth needed sweetening while Maggie was with her. Even at her sweetest, Ruth displayed all the qualities of spilled battery acid. Within the next few days, Theresa would be visiting a lawyer. He would finish the process of buying the house, then there was the will to write. If Theresa could do anything at all to keep Jessica away from Ruth, then such action would be taken now, before it was too late.

  A car screeched to a halt. She looked over her shoulder, saw that no-one was hurt, prepared to continue her journey. The car reversed, stopped next to her. Strangely, Theresa was not surprised to see Stephen Blake. He ran to her, stood in the middle of the pavement, eyes wide, hands fidgeting. ‘Theresa?’

  She exhaled. ‘Dr Blake,’ she said, looking levelly at him. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  THIRTEEN

  Jessica had got her own way at last. It hadn’t seemed much to ask, just her mother for Christmas, then her mother for life. Mam had arrived with two new people, one of whom had returned to Liverpool. Monty Sexton had been a great boon. What Monty couldn’t do with a pack of cards wasn’t worth knowing. He was a magician, an entertainer who had brought the festive season to life. He could produce coins from nowhere, flags from an empty box, silly paper flowers from his hat. Jessica missed Monty.

  She didn’t miss Auntie Ruth, though. Auntie Ruth, who had refused to cook, had come with Monty and Maggie to spend Christmas Day at Auntie Eva’s. While everyone had played games, the miserable woman had hugged the fire until her legs had reddened, had smoked and smoked until the whole house had reeked of tobacco.

  Well, now there was just Auntie Maggie. Auntie Maggie was all right, but she was a bit prim and proper, something of a Holy Josephine, never missing mass, her bedroom filled with statues, dried crosses from umpteen Palm Sundays, missals, a bible, the Blessed Virgin on a plinth, sanctified water in a dish. And she always wore purple, as if every day was a day of mourning, like Lent.

  Eva was making bread. The dough queued in a row of blue-rimmed enamel bowls in front of the fire, each container covered by a piece of white muslin. Jessica sat in a fireside rocker, her eyes fixed to the nearest bowl of dough, her thoughts several miles away.

  ‘A penny for them?’ Eva was preparing her one-pound and two-pound loaf tins.

  Jessica turned her head slowly, as if she were in a dream. ‘What’s going on, Auntie Eva? What’s happening with Mam? She’s never in and she looks … she looks angry.’

  Eva was in no two minds, though she could say nothing. Theresa had enjoyed Christmas, had been pleasant to everyone. The woman was flagging – on that score, there could be little room for doubt. But underneath the party spirit, another spectre had lurked, the ghost of knowledge, a soul fed by new and unpalatable discoveries. ‘It’s just all the change,’ replied Eva. ‘You know – coming home, giving her job up, looking for a house.’

  Jessica swallowed. ‘Is she going to die, Auntie Eva?’

  For the mother of a young girl to die was terrible, unthinkable. But for that girl to wait, watch and ruin her own life while expecting the event was a million times worse. ‘No, Jess. She’s tired and she’s—’

  ‘Got TB.’

  Eva clutched at straws and caught one. ‘Eeh, she’ll have had that checked while she was in Liverpool. They’d not have let her work with old folk if she’d been infectious. As for her heart – she’s come this far, so she could go a lot more miles. Did I ever tell you about Sammy Pickering?’

  Jessica nodded.

  Eva carried on regardless. ‘Nobbut twenty-four, he were, when they told him his heart were nigh on its last beat. When I laid him out, that man had skin like a baby’s and hair as black as coal. Looked after himself, he did, and he lived to see ninety-seven. I’m not saying your mam’ll get that far, but if she slows down, she’ll have a few more years.’

  Jessica had heard her mother’s coughing, especially during the nights. ‘Auntie Eva, I’ve done a terrible, terrible thing.’

  Eva put down her tins and sat opposite Jessica.

  ‘Spit it out, lass.’

  ‘Mam’s been the spitting one, always coughing and spluttering.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘And she asked me if I was immune. I told her the doctor had said I’d built up a resistance to TB with having had a mild dose. She was satisfied with that, but she pushed her bed across the room and slept under the open window. In this weather, too. So I thought about it and … oh, Auntie Eva.’ Tears threatened.

  ‘Tell me, love. Please.’

  ‘I followed her.’

  ‘Oh.’ Eva paused, waited for more.

  ‘To the market. She was chatting to Mr Walsh on the fish stall, then they went outside to talk privately.’

  Eva felt a cold, closed fist inside her stomach. ‘Just a chinwag, Jess.’ Just a chinwag about a stolen baby.

  ‘She went for a walk, then back to the market.’

  ‘A walk? Where to?’

  ‘Looking at things. Man and Scythe, the Olde Pastie Shoppe, the war memorial, Town Hall. Historical places. Like she was saying goodbye.’

  ‘She’s been away a while. She was enjoying her home town.’

  Jessica gazed into a roaring fire. ‘Mam spent a lot of time with Mrs Betteridge. She runs a stall on the open market – pots and pans.’

  ‘I know the one.’

  ‘They drank tea, then talked. I came home.’

  ‘And what’s so wrong about that?’

  The girl gulped back a sob. ‘He was driving his car up Derby Street. He stopped and asked me where my mother was.’ She bit her lip, bit back the frustrations. ‘I’ve always said I’d no idea, Auntie Eva. We’ve both told him lies about not knowing where Mam was. With all the coughing and the running about buying a house, I was worried. So I told him the truth. For the very first time, I said I knew where Mam was. He went looking for her. What’ll happen when he finds her?’

  In Eva’s unspoken opinion, Theresa should be found. For a start, it was obvious that she was still pursuing the three men who had raped her. What on earth had she been saying to Elsie Betteridge? Elsie was a rough and ready type, a woman who liked a jar of a
le, a natter and a dirty joke. But she had a big heart. More than once, Eva had been on the market when Elsie had shown her true colours. ‘Here, love, take this one off me hands, will you? I’ve had it that long it’s taking root.’ And some old girl had walked off with a free long mop and a big smile.

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt Mam,’ said Jessica.

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Stop your worrying.’ Then there was the TB. Dr Stephen Blake, who had visited Eva over the years, had often said that a spontaneous remission was not unheard of, but Theresa had been living in a city, not in the Swiss Alps. The woman wanted examining.

  ‘He was going to drive up and down until he found her.’

  Eva smiled. ‘Eeh, you do talk lovely, sweetheart. That school’s turning you into a right nice young lady. Now, listen to me, Jessica Nolan. What will be will be. She needs help. Dr Blake’ll give her the once-over, make sure she’s fit. Leave it to him.’

  Jessica inhaled deeply, as if trying to summon up courage. ‘He loves her, doesn’t he? Even after she ran away, he carried on loving her.’

  ‘Aye, I think you’re right there.’

  ‘She might marry him. I could be a bridesmaid.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Eva checked her bowls and decided that the mix had risen sufficiently.

  ‘Who’s my real father?’

  Eva steadied her hands and carried on with the job. ‘I don’t know,’ she said truthfully. Jessica didn’t look like any of them. Whoever had fathered her, this lass was Nolan through and through, good features, Irish skin, her mother’s eyes.

  ‘Everybody has a dad.’

  Everybody came from an egg and a microscopic piece of male flotsam, and the woman was the nurturer, the incubator. Most men, good men, hung around to raise their children, working hard, caring for their wives, playing daft games with the youngsters. Dads were usually proud of their offspring, interested in their progress, their schooling. But sometimes, a child came from a hurried, cruel act, from a streak of slime left by an uncaring ogre. Such a child had only a mother. Theresa Nolan had separated herself from this poor girl, had gone after money on which a foundation might be built for Jess. Jessica had enjoyed little parental love. Even the female, the one who should have been close, had abandoned Jess.