The Old House on the Corner

by Maureen Lee

  He shook his head. ‘I’d hate it.’

  ‘Well, now you know how I feel.’ She badly wanted to cry herself, feeling totally let down, betrayed. She’d given up everything for him: her husband, her home, her job, her friends, and had thought he’d done the same. It terrified her that he could so easily be persuaded back to Huddersfield, leaving her on tenterhooks that he might not return. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing, like you said.’ He came and sat at the table. ‘Tea’s cold,’ he said, taking a sip. ‘Jean’ll get over it. I’ve got you to think of now, haven’t I?’ He reached for her hand. ‘I can live without Jean, but I can’t live without you, Mrs Quinn.’

  ‘It’s just coming up to midnight, Gran. I’ll be off to bed soon, after I’ve made meself some cocoa. It’s been a funny old day, you’d have loved it – I did. A boy came this avvy, Danny Jordan, and we played Moon Rider Two on the computer. I beat him every time, but he looked so downhearted I let him win the last few games. His mum came first, just to say hello. Her name’s Marie and she’s as Irish as the pigs of Trocheady, as you would say. They live in one of the semis, number two.

  ‘Right now, I’m in my bedroom, sitting by the window. It’s a fantastic night, still warm, and the sky is an amazing dark blue and littered with stars. Victoria Square looks dead pretty in the dark. There’s a lamp by the garages where you come in and another outside Hamilton Lodge. The houses look as if they’ve been there for ever, not just a few months. It’d make a great painting.’

  Victoria rested her arms on the sill and put her chin in her hands. She sniffed loudly. ‘Our garden smells like heaven, Gran, particularly the lavender.’ She felt almost dizzy from the strong scents that wafted from below. ‘Remember when I was little and used to dry the blossom in the airing cupboard and make little lavender bags for you and all me friends? There’s still some around the house.’

  ‘I can hear Sarah Rees-James’s baby crying, poor little lamb, and there’s music coming from Hamilton Lodge. What else happened today? Oh, Rachel Williams came at teatime to say nearly everyone’s coming to the barbecue, so she’s dead pleased. Her husband spent virtually the whole day in Sarah’s, helping her unpack, putting up pictures and stuff – she wasn’t too pleased about that. Then Mrs Burrows from Clematis Cottage came tottering over – she can only walk a bit. She said I’m to call her Anna and invited me for coffee on Monday morning.

  ‘Anyroad, Gran, goodnight and God bless.’ Victoria blew a kiss at the star-spangled sky. ‘I’ll speak to you again in the morning.’

  Kathleen and Steve

  Chapter 2

  The clerk of the court’s voice was deep and gravelly, carrying to all corners of the wood-panelled room. ‘On the second of November, two thousand, it is alleged that the accused, Steven Alan Cartwright, threw stones at Colthorpe police station and assaulted a police officer, namely Constable George Parsons.’ He turned to the magistrates, two men and a woman, seated behind him, and gave a little nod.

  The woman looked at Steven severely over her gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘Please state your date of birth, Mr Cartwright.’ In contrast to the clerk, her tone was light and cool.

  ‘The twelfth of September nineteen forty-nine, your ladyship,’ Steven replied with a broad grin.

  ‘And how do you plead?’

  ‘Guilty on both counts, your ladyship. It were the tenth anniversary of the pit shutting down and I’m quite likely to do it again on the twentieth.’

  ‘I trust that wasn’t a threat, Mr Cartwright. And I am not your ladyship. If you want to call me anything, call me madam.’

  ‘As you wish, madam,’ Steve replied with an even broader grin. There were titters from the back of the court where the general public were sitting.

  The magistrate opened her mouth to say something, but must have thought better of it. She bent her head towards the clerk who whispered something in her ear. Nodding impatiently, she conversed with her fellow magistrates, then turned towards the accused man, who still bore an amused expression on his tough, handsome face. He was a tall, dignified man, at least six foot, with massive shoulders and powerful arms. There was a suggestion of a curl in his short brown hair that was a slightly lighter shade than his smiling eyes.

  ‘Steven Alan Cartwright, this court finds you guilty of the offences listed. This being your first offence, we do not feel a prison sentence is necessary at this time. I am therefore fining you the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds and would like to offer some advice.’ She leaned forward, looked earnestly at the accused, and said in the manner of an adult addressing a child, ‘Mr Cartwright, you are fifty-one years old, yet have behaved like a teenager. May I suggest you grow up?’

  ‘Thank you for the advice, madam,’ Steven said meekly, although his tone was mocking.

  ‘May I suggest you grow up?’ Bert Skinner mimicked in the pub about fifteen minutes later. ‘Snooty bitch! She had eyes like icicles. Mind you, I wouldn’t have minded giving her one. She were a corker.’

  ‘Was she?’ Steve could only remember the voice, not the face. She could have looked like Julia Roberts and he wouldn’t have noticed.

  ‘I bet she’s a wild animal in bed,’ Fudge said with wistful sigh. ‘Those cold women usually are.’

  Steve laughed. ‘How would you know, mate? Have you ever slept with a cold woman?’

  ‘Nah, but I’ve read about ’em in books. The colder they look, the hotter they are, least so the books say. Anyroad, Steve,’ Fudge went on, ‘you don’t have to worry about finding the whole two hundred and fifty quid. We’ll have a whip round in the club tonight. We were all involved, but you were the only one who were caught.’

  ‘George Parsons knows me from the strike. He was getting his revenge, a bit late in the day, mind. Who’d like another drink?’

  ‘Keep your hand in your pocket, Steve. This is on us.’

  ‘I’ll have another bitter, just a half, this time. I don’t want to be done for drunk driving, I might find meself up before Lady Muck again.’ He made a face. ‘I’m already in Jean’s bad books, not that that’s unusual. “What’ll people say when they read about you in the papers,” is all I’ve had for bloody weeks. She’ll have a fit when she finds she might have to pawn her engagement ring towards that bloody fine, not for the first time, either.’

  It was February, snowing, had been for days. The roads out of Huddersfield were thick with it, the surfaces hard and slippery. Steve drove carefully, worried about the thin tyres on the Micra – twelve years old and unlikely to get through its next MOT. The heater didn’t work and the car felt like a fridge. Snow piled in clumps on the windscreen, the wipers were useless. He shivered violently inside his anorak, wishing he hadn’t worn his best – and only – suit for his appearance in court. It was some sort of man-made material without an ounce of warmth. But Jean had insisted he put it on in case his photo got in the paper.

  ‘Local man sent to the tower to be beheaded,’ Steve had quipped. ‘I’m not exactly a murderer, luv. All I did was throw a few stones and give George Parsons a bit of a shove.’

  He’d phoned Jean from the court, told her the verdict. By now, she’d have contacted the girls, and they’d all be there when he got home, giving him filthy looks, telling him he was a disgrace to the name of Cartwright. It was like having five bloody wives nagging at him all at once.

  It had never used to be like that. Until ten years ago, he’d worked down the local pit, starting as a potboy when he left school. He was proud of himself, of his job, fond of his mates, enjoying the camaraderie that existed between them. Then bloody Heseltine had come along and shut the mines down – coal came cheaper when it was imported from abroad where the miners were paid a pittance. Steve had been out of work for two long and very tedious years.

  Jean behaved as if the whole thing was his fault, as if he was personally responsible for closing the mine. His four daughters, who’d once idolized him, began to look upon him differently once he was unemployed, loung
ing listlessly around the house, getting under their mother’s feet, hanging round Bert Skinner’s allotment for something to do and spending his evenings in the Working Men’s Club, letting a single pint of ale last till closing time. Jean and the girls scoured the papers, pointing out vacancies; van drivers, store men, labourers, bin men – nowadays called refuse disposal technicians or something equally daft. But the blood that ran through Steve’s veins was mixed with coal dust, and it took a long while before he could imagine working anywhere but down the pit. Only another miner would have understood his feelings. Jean didn’t even try.

  He eventually started work as a hospital porter, earning less than half he’d done before. It was a useful job, but that’s all it was, a job, whereas the pit had been part of his very existence. And now the bloody hospital was closing down. It was a decrepit place, an old mental home, built in eighteen something, bits added over the years. Departments were gradually being transferred to a brand, spanking new hospital on the other side of town. Come July, his services would no longer be required. He’d be made redundant for the second time. His daughters, all married by now – most of his redundancy money had gone to pay for their weddings – had already begun to look in the paper for suitable vacancies.

  He reached the outskirts of Huddersfield. Colthorpe, the village where he’d been born and had lived his entire life, was another five miles away. By now, his teeth were chattering and the steering wheel felt as if it was made of ice. Soon, he was driving through fields of snow, the ground falling away to the left of him, rising smoothly on his right in a gently curved blanket of white, the surface broken only by the occasional bush or tree. The sky looked as though it might collapse under the weight of heavy, grey clouds.

  There was very little traffic on the road and the isolation was affecting him, making him feel very much alone, wondering what the hell would happen to him when the hospital closed? Where would he end up next time?

  He reached the top of Cooper’s Hill, awed by the vast white world that lay before him, drove slowly down because the little-used surface was as hazardous as an ice rink, packed as it was with hardened snow. Further down, almost at the bottom, a car had stopped. When he got nearer, he saw the left back wheel had slid into the ditch at the side of the road. The exhaust emitted clouds of white smoke as the driver attempted to go forward, but the car, a black Mercedes, whirred angrily and refused to budge.

  Steve eased the Micra to a halt. He jumped out, approached the Mercedes, and banged on the window. It opened a few inches. ‘Need a shove?’ he asked.

  The driver was a woman, encased in a chunky sheepskin coat, a thick woollen hat pulled down as far as her eyebrows, and a matching scarf knotted under her chin. She turned off the ignition.

  ‘Would that help?’

  Steve shrugged. ‘It might.’

  ‘I tried to ring a garage, but my mobile isn’t working. It must be the signal.’

  ‘Start her up, and I’ll give her a push.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  He went round to the back of the car, put one foot in the ditch, and pressed his shoulder against the gleaming metal. The car started with a jump, his heels skidded on the ice, and he fell back into the ditch, uttering a roar when the ice at the bottom broke and water, freezing cold, seeped through his clothes and down his neck. The top half of him was soaked. He heard the car door open and close and the woman appeared.

  ‘What happened? One minute I could see you through the rear window, next minute you’d disappeared.’

  ‘You bloody idiot!’ he yelled. ‘You took your foot off the clutch.’

  ‘Did I? I’m so sorry,’ she said abjectly. ‘I wasn’t thinking. Are you all right?’

  ‘Course, I’m not all right. I’m about to freeze to death down here. Don’t just stand there gawping, woman, give us a hand out.’

  She extended her hand. Steve contemplated pulling her into the ditch with him, see how she liked it, but it seemed unnecessarily cruel. She helped him out and he stood there, shivering, his body chilled to the bone.

  The woman regarded him with concern. ‘You’d better get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia,’ she said, stating the obvious. ‘Look, my car is still stuck. If you’re up to driving yours, I live less than a mile away. You can get warm and I’ll give you some of my husband’s clothes. I can ring the garage from there.’

  ‘Sod the bloody garage. Just get me into some dry clothes,’ he snarled.

  Neither spoke during the short journey to her house, until she said, ‘Turn right here,’ and Steve drove down a long path lined with trees, stopping in front of a large, bleak Victorian house. The woman leaped out and unlocked the door. Steve could hardly move in his frozen clothes. He managed to extricate himself from the car, which he’d always found too small, and stagger towards the open door.

  The woman was running upstairs. ‘Come on up,’ she called. ‘I’m going to run you a hot bath. That’ll soon warm you up. I’ll leave some clothes outside. Just throw your things on the floor and I’ll have them cleaned. I’ll get coffee on the go. It’ll be ready by the time you’ve finished.’

  ‘Ta,’ Steve muttered ungraciously.

  Five minutes later, soaking in a warm bath in a warm bathroom, encased in bubbles that the woman had been kind enough to add, he didn’t feel so bad about things. At least it saved going home, being the object of derision by all and sundry. He wouldn’t ring Jean. It wouldn’t hurt to let her worry for a bit.

  Another five minutes had passed when there was a knock on the door. ‘Are you all right in there?’

  ‘Fine, ta. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  The bubbles were getting cold. He pulled out the plug, wrapped himself in a snowy white bath towel, and gingerly opened the door. Clothes were folded in a heap outside: a maroon fleece tracksuit, two T-shirts, dinky underpants, socks and a pair of velvet mules. He put everything on, they just about fitted, apart from the mules that were much too small, and went downstairs.

  Music was coming from a room at the end of a long, gloomy corridor that he deduced must be the kitchen. He peered through a half-open door as he went towards it, the mules flapping uncomfortably with each step. A living room, the furnishings and decoration fitting the period in which the house had been built: satiny wallpaper, velvet tasselled curtains, a richly patterned carpet, over-large furniture, everything too dark for his taste. It gave the impression of being little used.

  ‘I thought I heard a noise.’ The door to the kitchen opened, taking him by surprise. The woman had removed her bulky outer clothes to reveal an elegant black suit over a white polo-necked jumper. He’d thought he’d never recognize her again, but he did, even though she no longer wore glasses.

  ‘You!’ he gasped. Bert Skinner had said she was a corker and now that Steve had a proper look he reckoned Bert was right. Her voice was different and she looked smaller, thinner, not so haughty, now that he was looking down on her and not the other way around. Her brown hair was shoulder length, very thick and wavy, making a perfect frame for her beautiful, delicate face: fine nose, perfect lips, high, moulded cheekbones. Her grey eyes were very large and rather sad.

  ‘I thought you recognized me earlier.’ After fining him a small fortune, she had the temerity to smile.

  ‘If I had, I’d driven right past.’

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to apologize for what happened in court. You only got what you deserved.’

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to be grateful for all this.’ He indicated the clothes, the coffee pot and a plate of sandwiches on the table. ‘Because I’m not. If you hadn’t taken your foot off the clutch, there’d be no need for it. By the way,’ he added childishly, ‘I prefer tea.’

  ‘Then tea you shall have,’ she said with a gracious wave of her slender white hand. ‘Sit down and I’ll make it. Have you warmed up after the bath?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said grudgingly. The kitchen had its own little dining area in an alcove in the corner. H
e sat on a padded bench in front of a dark oak table and thought how much Jean would have loved it. The room was about twenty feet square, modern, but made to look Victorian, like the rest of the house: oak units, copper pans on the wall, cream lace curtains suspended from a brass rail, through which the snow could be seen, falling heavier now. Lights gleamed underneath the vast array of wall cupboards, making the room look faintly exotic, more like a nightclub than a kitchen. An Aga kept the place comfortably warm. The music came from a small radio on the stainless steel draining board.

  ‘Do the clothes fit?’ Lady Muck enquired.

  ‘Where they touch.’

  ‘I thought as much. My husband has smaller feet and is much slimmer than you, that’s why I gave you the tracksuit, it stretches. I’ll fetch your shoes down in a minute and put them on the Aga to dry and find you an anorak or something to go home in.’

  ‘Ta.’

  Her back was to him while she made the tea, and he was horrified to find himself admiring her slim ankles, her neat bottom, the way her hair flicked up at the ends and how the lights made it appear more red than brown. He’d always considered magistrates to be barely human, let alone sexual beings. ‘I wouldn’t mind giving her one,’ Bert had said.

  She turned, caught Steve’s gaze, and the world seemed to stop as something indefinable passed between them. Apart from the hum of the fridge, the silence was total. Then, ‘Oh, dear,’ she said shakily when the tea slopped into the saucer. Blushing, she changed it for another. He guessed she wasn’t as sure of herself as she made out. His flattened ego raised its head a little. He’d been overawed, first by the car, then the house, and the fact she’d turned out to be Justice of the Peace, but the blush had shown she was just an ordinary woman.

  ‘What does your husband do?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a doctor.’ She put the tea in front of him and slid into the bench opposite, rather reluctantly, he thought. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ She waved a pack of Dunhill’s at him.