He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s our only chance,’ he said softly.
She noted the ‘our’, put up her hand and clung to his fingers. Still facing away from him, she continued to watch this little piece of the world, Jessica’s place. ‘Maggie will look after her,’ she said.
‘Of course she will.’
A number 45 bus travelled towards Harwood, its lighted windows misted by warm exhalations against cold glass. The policeman who lived across the way closed his gate and went inside, the pointed helmet tucked beneath an arm. Four or five children whooped their way down Tintern Avenue, a dog skipping along behind them.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ Stephen advised. Her hair smelled of springtime. ‘Worry will make you ill.’
Switzerland was such a long way from home. She had been across to the library, had studied travel books. It was a beautiful country: clean, dramatic.
‘And your … differences with the three men seem to have resolved themselves.’
Maggie had been so pleased. In fact, she had laughed for hours when told the tale of Roy Chorlton’s humiliation. For Theresa, the whole thing had been an anticlimax, because the strong feelings she had held for over a decade had evaporated at the sight of that naked, vulnerable man. With the second dead and the third in prison, there remained no axe and no grindstone. ‘I don’t hate anyone any more,’ she told her lover.
He drew her close, folding his arms across the little body whose middle section could be spanned by his long fingers. Years earlier, Stephen had been the happy recipient of Theresa’s first adult kiss, had made love to her. Now, he held her, but refused to express his love fully in spite of all her pleadings. She was ill, far too ill to make love.
‘Will I live?’ she asked.
‘I think so.’ He hoped so with every fibre of his essence.
‘How long will it take?’
‘As long as necessary.’
She leaned her head against him. For her, he had applied for special leave from his job, had provided the money for treatment, was putting his life on one side in order to travel with her and remain near her for a while. ‘I love you, Stephen,’ she said. ‘I loved you before Liverpool.’ She needed to stay alive for him, for her daughter. The thought of a premature death suddenly angered her, though she had accepted for years the inevitable shortness of her time on earth. Now, with so much to hope for, she resented her body’s weaknesses.
‘They make marvellous clocks and chocolate,’ he told her. ‘And the views are breathtaking.’
‘Breathgiving would be better.’
He laughed. ‘There’s plenty of air, believe me.’
After Stephen had left, Theresa stayed for a while in the quiet darkness of Jessica’s front room. She listened to Maggie, who was bumbling about in the kitchen, probably putting together another batch of her famous soda bread, then she heard the large-footed puppy padding about after a ball. She watched the neighbourhood as it quietened towards night, saw the evening-shift mill girls walking home after four hours of sweat followed by ten minutes on the bus. The old lady next door clattered milk bottles; the library lights went out; a man whistled his way home from the pub.
The door opened. ‘Mam?’
Theresa turned. ‘You should be in bed, love.’
Jessica pushed the door home, then sat on the blue, second-hand sofa. ‘I want to ask you something.’
Theresa felt the question before it arrived. She steeled herself, dropped into a fireside chair, waited. The little dog sat, looking as if she, too, awaited answers.
‘I need to know who my dad is,’ said the twelve-year-old child.
In that moment, the whole of Theresa’s life dashed through her head, a fast-moving film on sticky reels that created stills from time to time, photographs which stuck for a second or two before whizzing on at a silly speed. Like a drowning woman, she had to view it all.
‘Mam?’
She was small and her mother had just died. Older, she listened to her father’s ravings, to Ruth’s verbalized black hatreds; she saw her rapists moving towards her. What had happened to her basket? Why hadn’t she recalled the basket before? There had been bread in it, bread she had given away, then the empty basket had gone missing.
‘Are you all right, Mam?’
‘Yes, I’m just … Give me a minute.’ The mill, spools turning fast, rings spilling, cops in a skip, the stench of oil and human sweat, ninety degrees and no shade. Fainting, being told to go home; that little job in the paper shop, weighing sweets, putting toys in the window, marking the newspapers for delivery. The munitions canteen, dinners for those who made murderous weaponry; then Jessica, sweet, hungry, needful.
Sanatorium, Stephen; living at the Mersey’s edge, Maggie, the girls; a house for Jessica, three thousand in the bank until she became old enough to manage her own affairs, Maggie living here …
‘Cousin Irene says you were raped.’
Theresa’s heart beat rapidly. ‘There was … Yes, that did happen,’ she answered.
‘So you didn’t want me?’
‘When I saw you, I wanted you.’
Jessica sighed heavily. ‘What is the name of my father?’
It had to be Roy Chorlton, Theresa told herself silently. He had been the first. One of the others was dead, one in prison. And Chorlton was now a strangely decent man. Were she to choose a father for Jessica, it would have to be Chorlton. Nevertheless, the easiest route had to be followed now. ‘The man who was your father is dead.’
‘In the war?’
Theresa’s next lie was a simple nod of her head. Lying was so, so easy. She moved across the room and put an arm about her daughter’s shoulder. ‘None of this was your fault. Out of a bad thing, the finest thing came. You are the best person in my life, the sweetest child and the most wonderful friend.’
‘I’ll miss you, Mam.’
Jessica’s questions about her father’s identity had probably arisen out of sudden insecurity, Theresa thought. ‘I will be back. It’s only a rest and fresh air.’ It was slightly more complicated than that, but Jessica did not need the full truth.
‘Can’t you get better up at Williamson’s?’
‘It would take longer.’
Leaning against her mother’s shoulder, Jessica blinked away the selfish tears. Poor Mam had to go away to a foreign country where no-one spoke much English. The mountains were always snowy and so bright that they were almost blue. It was a pretty prison, prettier than Williamson’s, but Mam would still be jailed.
Theresa felt her daughter’s breathing as it slowed towards sleep. The danger was passing; the questions were finished.
‘Mam?’
Oh, no. Not again. ‘Yes?’
‘What was his name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wonder whether he had another daughter, one who looked like me. Still, we can’t find out now. It’s too late.’
The fire dwindled. Maggie came in with a cup of tea, saw the two of them together, a strawberry-blonde head resting against a mop of paler, golden hair. Feeling like an intruder, Maggie backed out and took herself and Sheba back to the range.
She picked up her beads, kissed the crucifix, blessed herself. Beginning her own private novena, Maggie Courtney prayed for the twins, for their mother who had to travel towards a half-promise of a future, for herself, for Eva and Jimmy. She even prayed for Theresa’s sister, Ruth, whose wickedness was renowned. Maggie offered up thanks for the Walsh brothers, for Stephen Blake, for all those sent by God to iron out the paths of Theresa and Jessica.
‘Bless us all,’ she begged. ‘Bless the man in prison, the one he killed and the one who remains. Amen.’
She stared into the fire, moving only when the clock showed ten. It was time to get mother and daughter to bed, time to set the table for tomorrow’s breakfast. Whatever happened, whatever befell mankind, daily rhythm and ritual must continue.
SIXTEEN
Teddy Betteridge took his own life in May 19
52. He hanged himself in prison and was buried within its grounds.
Maggie read the reports, cut them out and saved them for Theresa. She considered posting them, but decided against it. Theresa was fighting for her own life; there was no point in worrying or exciting her about the demise of a man who had abused her. Maggie said her beads for the suicide and discussed the event only with Eva. Jessica thrived; beyond that, nothing was allowed to matter.
Jessica found that life without Mam was not quite as bad as she had expected. For a start, there was Sheba, an Alsatian whose humour and gentleness combined to make a wonderful companion for her young mistress. After early teething troubles involving a certain amount of destruction, Sheba became dignified indoors, a raving lunatic in the fresh air. Her devotion to Jessica was obvious, though the young bitch had a soft spot for Maggie, the bringer of food.
Jessica had probably got used, over the years, to being motherless, yet it was Maggie Courtney who made the biggest difference this time. Auntie Eva was lovely, but Maggie was imaginative, colourful and very funny.
She taught her charge how to knit, sew and crochet, but none of this was boring, because the Irishwoman told hilarious stories throughout the lessons, tales of leprechauns, drunken uncles, a priest with an unfortunate lisp, the nun who kept walking seven miles in an effort to get Maggie and her siblings to attend school.
‘How did you get rid of her?’ Jessica would ask, though she knew the answer off by heart.
‘We let the bull out. Sister Imelda ran off like an overweight crow trying to get off the ground. Have you ever seen a nun leaping over a stile?’
‘No.’
‘That’s just as well, because it was a desperate, mournful sight, so it was. And didn’t she get stuck halfway over? Flapping away, she was, with her wimple up her nose and the head-dress off up the lane somewhere. She never came again.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
The other thing was that the items designed and created by Maggie never turned out as expected. Had the goal been missed by a mile, then perhaps an undoing session might have been appropriate – unravelling, rewinding, starting again. But Maggie’s tea-cosies had spout holes that were only just too small, handle holes slightly left or right of centre. She constructed jumpers for the unfortunate, those with one arm slightly shorter than the other, socks for folk with ill-matched feet. The coat she made for Sheba – ‘It’ll keep her warm in the winter’ – was quickly disposed of by the dog, who, after being subjected to a trying-on session, simply dragged the offending item outside and ragged it to bits in the yard.
‘This doesn’t seem to fit,’ Maggie would say as she forced a cosy over the teapot. ‘And didn’t I have it measured just right?’
Jessica loved her guardian. As spring turned to summer, the two grew closer, playing together on swings at the park, entertaining Jessica’s friends from school, girls who came to share in the feasts of scones, soda bread, home-baked ham, home-made jams. All who visited were impressed by the eccentric Irishwoman who dressed mostly in purple, whose earrings all but brushed her shoulders, whose stories were an impossible mix of common sense and an almost certifiable insanity.
Postcards arrived regularly from Switzerland, pictures of chalets perched on hills, of ski-slopes, of people clothed in national dress, beribboned plaits dangling from strange, fly-away hats. ‘They look like the Sisters of Charity in miniature,’ Maggie would remark on seeing these odd items of headgear.
‘They’re Dutch,’ explained Jessica. ‘If you read the back, it’s a festival of dance with people from different countries. See – a group of Irish dancers in daft frocks.’
‘They’re not daft at all. Your English morris men are what I’d call daft. And would you look at your man here – leather shorts. Ah, well. As long as some of these funny-looking folk are mending your ma, they’re good enough for me.’
It was the banter that kept Jessica going. But when she was alone, or when lessons at school were boring, she thought of Theresa, worried about her, wondered when, if ever, Mam would come home. Latin was the worst. During Latin, the poor girl often had her mother dead and buried after ten minutes of declensions. Four months was a long time and, even though all the letters and postcards reassured their readers, Jessica wondered whether Mam and Dr Blake might be hiding something.
Dr Blake’s extended leave had been extended further. His post at Williamson’s was safe, because the man had taken no holidays in five years, so he was staying by Theresa’s side for as long as possible. They loved one another – of that, Jessica was absolutely certain. She would like him to be her stepfather; most of all, though, Jessica wanted her mother back in one piece, reasonably healthy and with many years of life in front of her. TB was one thing; a heart damaged in childhood was far more serious.
Since moving from Eva’s house, Jessica had used buses to get to school. She took the 45 to town, then the 39 to school, walking across the civic centre to make her connection. Often, the man who owned Chorlton’s Fine Tailoring was standing outside when Jessica passed by on her way home. At first, he nodded at her, then began to say hello. He was a funny-looking fellow, with eyes that bulged rather like those in the face of Toad of Toad Hall. He was smallish, roundish and his hair was black, with a wide section of white-skinned skull showing in its centre.
After a month or so, Jessica responded when he greeted her. Trained by her mother and by Maggie not to talk to strange men, Jessica began to file Mr Chorlton in the ‘not strange’ compartment. He was just a nice, ordinary chap who spoke to people as they passed by his shop. He wasn’t always there; sometimes, he would be inside helping people to try on jackets or pick out shirts. Even then, he would wave at her through the window.
The weather grew warm as Bolton Holidays loomed. Jessica’s school did not observe the local wakes fortnight – the girls at The Mount worked right through to July, then took a long rest until September.
When the Holidays arrived, the mills closed, and the town was quieter, almost deserted at times. Her relationship with Mr Chorlton began in the second week. He took to sitting outside with a small table on which was placed a jug of lemonade, real lemonade with fruit floating in its depths. Another chair arrived, and Jessica found herself quenching her thirst in the company of this quiet, rather sombre man. They talked about the weather, about how crowded Blackpool, Southport, Morecambe and Rhyl would be, about the lack of trade, about Latin.
‘You’ll need it for university,’ Roy informed her. ‘One ancient, one modern, a good mark in English and in maths.’
Jessica laughed. ‘I’ve never got past Julia ad oram ambulavit. I mean, who talks Latin?’
‘Priests – the mass,’ he answered.
‘That sounds different. It’s like another language all over again. Anyway, I shan’t need it, because I’m going to teacher-training college. I’d like to work with young children.’
He thought about that. ‘You could do worse. Getting children to read and count must be very rewarding.’
Jessica decided that Mr Chorlton was all right. He treated her like an adult, as if her ideas counted.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked on the Thursday.
‘Tonge Moor Road.’
‘With your parents?’
She shook her head. ‘My mother’s in Switzerland trying to get strong. My dad died in the war, so I live with a lady called Maggie. She’s Irish and very funny.’
So Theresa had consigned him to a coffin. Was this his daughter, though? Could the seed of such a hideous man produce the fresh loveliness of Jessica Nolan? She looked like her mother. She didn’t favour Hardman or Betteridge, either, so Theresa’s genes must have made the larger contribution in the creating of Jessica.
‘Thank you for the drink,’ she said. ‘I was very thirsty.’
He took the plunge, though he had no intention of swimming at the deeper end. ‘You know, I think I remember your mother. She used to work for a short time in a newspaper shop, then in a canteen at the mun
itions factory.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she answered. ‘But with being ill when she was little, she hasn’t been able to do really hard work. That was why she went to Liverpool, because the job was easy.’
‘She’s a lovely lady,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ answered Jessica. ‘I wish she’d get well and come home.’
When his possible daughter had made her way towards the Trinity Street bus station, Roy took himself and his furniture back into the shop. The place was so empty that the chairs echoed when he put them down. A few items of clothing remained, a dozen shirts, a rack of ready-made suits marked down for clearance, some socks, underwear and ties.
Canada. Or New Zealand, perhaps. At home, he had books galore about these two beautiful if rather differing countries. Canada was huge, wonderful, with cold winters and summers that played fair in most parts. The English were often cheated, because seasons were sometimes difficult to define, each blending into the other, each producing grey skies and drizzle. In the climate of Britain, there were few dramas.
Then there was New Zealand, smaller, back-to-front, with Christmas in the heat, New Year spent in the garden or on a beach. So green, so clean, an idealized version of the British Isles. Of the two places, he currently favoured the Antipodes.
He would perhaps buy some sort of business at the other side of the world: he was playing with the idea of a small restaurant. Everyone had a God-given talent, he supposed, and his was the ability to make a good meal and to improvise successfully when cooking.
He locked and bolted the door, then carried the jug of lemonade through to the workroom. Sewing machines and other tools had been sold; his workers had placed themselves elsewhere and the lease had been taken by a man who intended to sell shoes.
The Corner House Page 40