When the procession stopped outside the small chapel he watched Winifred walk to the front of the carriage and stroke the muzzle of the black horse, heard her mother speak sharply to her. Saw the way the girl stiffened and, with her head held high, follow the coffin.
Waiting until the last people had filed into the chapel, Bill followed, stuffing his cap into his jacket pocket and slipping into the back row. Despite the rain it wasn’t cold outside but now, hunched in the far corner of the pew, Bill shivered in the cool air of the small chapel.
He shut out the drone of the minister’s voice. Deprived of sleep for so many nights he almost dozed, but was startled by the rumble and whistle of the organ. Coming from a family that had never seen the inside of a church he didn’t know the hymn but he stood anyway, craning his neck to see Winifred when everyone rose to sing.
It was a quick service; even he could sense that. As soon as he noticed the restless movement of the congregation; the standing, adjusting of hats and gloves by the women, the men giving release to long-suppressed coughs, Bill left. From behind he heard the scuff of the bearers’ footsteps on the stone floor, as they went to take the weight of the coffin again.
The rain had cleared. He ran through the puddles on the gravelled path to hide behind a large oak that towered over the wall of the cemetery. Heavy drops of water fell off the leaves and down his neck but he couldn’t move; the mourners were making their way to the freshly dug grave. Scowling, he jammed his cap on and turned up his collar.
The burial was as short as the service. When the minister led the way back to the porch of the chapel, followed by Winifred, Bill took the opportunity to climb over the wall and down onto the narrow lane. He scurried along to watch from the safety of the sycamore trees that lined Harrison Street.
He saw people stop in front of the chapel to say a few words to Winifred and her mother; gathering in quiet groups before eventually drifting away from the cemetery. At first he wondered where they would go for the wake. But everyone seemed to be going in different directions.
The crowd dwindled, and the mother walked off on her own. Bill moved back so he was partially hidden by the trunk of the sycamore. The old cow didn’t even glance back to look for her daughter. And it certainly didn’t appear to bother her that Winifred greeted the last of the mourners alone. Bill couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked so small, so lonely. He wouldn’t have left her on her own; he would have been proud to stand alongside her, to put his arm around her. Given the chance, he would make up for what he’d done, even if it took a lifetime. He was so consumed with the guilt and the urge, the need to comfort her he took a couple of steps forward.
But there were still two mourners left. Bill squinted to see them better, took in a short harsh breath. It was the Irish girl, and the Irish bastard.
When he saw the way the man put his hand on Winifred the resentment boiled over, swamping the guilt, and Bill clamped his teeth together as the Irish pair walked past him. They didn’t even realise he was there. He felt so useless he could have wept.
He waited for Winifred’s next move. It was obvious there was to be no wake, no gathering to mourn the man outside the chapel.
Pitiful excuse for a funeral.
Chapter 33
Winifred couldn’t stand the thought of following her mother home, of being alone with her. Keeping the thick black veil over her face and averting her head when she passed anyone, she turned onto Wellyhole Terrace and made her way slowly to her grandmother’s house, hot in the heavy mourning clothes, the hem of her skirt soaking up the now steaming wet from the pavements.
The smells in the yard were particularly obnoxious today. An unsmiling woman, iron-grey hair falling untidily from a knotted turban, the front of her pinny splattered with greasy stains, was brushing foul water and garbage towards a central grid. She looked towards Winifred without speaking. Behind her, one of the dustbins was overturned and two mangy dogs were scavenging amongst the waste.
Holding her breath until she could open Florence’s door, Winifred willed herself to be strong for her grandmother.
Florence’s eyelids were swollen, the tears sliding slowly down the creases of her cheek. Winifred perched on the arm of the armchair and they held hands, sitting in silence for a long time.
Eventually Florence spoke. ‘She never loved him, you know.’ She dabbed an already-wet handkerchief across her face, took in a breath. It was as though she was going to say more but merely sighed.
‘But a lot of people did, Granny, the chapel was packed. And, afterwards, there were so many who had nothing but good things to say about him.’
‘She got her way, though, I suppose; it was a paltry affair.’
There was a question in her tone that Winifred had to acknowledge. ‘She did. I’m sorry, Granny.’
‘Not your fault, ducks, not your fault.’
‘It didn’t do Dad justice, Granny. But, like I said, there were such a lot there. It showed how respected he was, how many friends he had.’ She studied her grandmother’s hand, held in her palm. The knuckles along each finger were enlarged with arthritis, large blue veins pushed up against the thin skin. She ran her thumb over them. ‘You should have been there, Granny, you would have seen for yourself.’
‘No. It’s enough that you’ve told me, ducks. That’s my comfort.’ Florence closed her eyes. ‘I’m tired, Winnie. I think I’ll have a lie down. It’s this heat, it gets to me; makes it difficult to breath.’
‘I know. Even the rain was warm this morning.’ Winifred helped her grandmother to her feet. ‘Come on, let’s get you settled down.’
They climbed the ten steps to the landing, which led to Florence’s small bedroom under the eaves of the house. Winifred noticed that the thin wooden edges of the treads were splintered, sharp. She caught her lower lip between her teeth; the whole place was so dangerous. There had to be a way to get her grandmother somewhere else to live.
‘You’ll stay for a bit?’ Florence eased herself onto the bed and, with a few stifled groans settled back onto the mattress.
‘I will, Granny.’ Winifred covered her with just the sheet, folding the eiderdown to the end of the bed. ‘I’m in no rush to get back.’
She didn’t for a minute think that her grandmother would be able to sleep amidst the cacophony of noise coming from the front house and the shouts of women in the yard, drifting from the open window of the parlour below. But, in no time at all, listening at the bedroom door, she heard the soft whistle and snore.
‘Goodness me, out like a light,’ she murmured.
She pottered for a while, clearing away a cup and a plate of bread and dripping from the table, rinsing a pair of her grandmother’s pink bloomers in the stone sink and hanging them on the rack in the kitchen. When she could find nothing else to do she went back up to the parlour and, closing the window against the stench and noise outside, settled into Florence’s chair.
She’d always hated the thought of her grandmother living here. Now matters were worse; without her father calling in each day, the responsibility rested with her. She didn’t resent that. In fact, at one point in the days since his death, Winifred had debated if she should move in with Florence. But, even if there’d been a second bedroom, she knew she couldn’t live with the chaos that was Wellyhole Yard.
The only answer was that her grandmother should live with them at the shop. But with that decision came a lot of difficulties: the main one being her mother.
Winifred knew just how much she was going to miss her dad. There was no-one now to talk to, to advise her. Except her grandmother. And this was one problem she couldn’t discuss with her; Florence Duffy would never be beholden to her daughter-in-law.
Winifred closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of the chair. In no time at all she too slept, oblivious to the noise around her.
Chapter 34
She hadn’t lifted the thick black veil over her face and she’d turned away when she passed him but he heard her
quiet sobs and the guilt rose in him again.
She obviously wasn’t going home. He followed her, curious to see where she went. When she turned into some sort of yard he stopped, surprised. Even standing at the entrance he could smell the obnoxious stench of the place. What the hell was she doing here?
He lingered for a few minutes to see if she came back out. Some kids came out of one of the houses, yelling and kicking a tightly rolled up ball of string. Once it came near him and he kicked it back. But they just stared at him, wary of a stranger in their midst. A fat woman, scratching her armpits, came to the door to watch him.
Bill returned her stare, oddly reluctant to leave without seeing Winifred come out of that yard; to make sure she was safe.
What did he care? But he did. He also needed to leave. The longer he stayed around Lydcroft, the more dangerous it was for him. What if he’d been seen that night? What if that person saw him now?
He leant against the nearest wall, trying to look casual, and lit a cigarette. But his heart was thudding. Sometimes, in the dark early hours of the day, he imagined himself explaining to Winifred about that night. Imagined she would understand that he hadn’t meant to kill her father.
But then he’d have to tell her why, that all he’d wanted to do was to get some money so he could leave Morrisfield because he’d seen her with another man. And there it stopped, the story he’d concocted. Because how could she understand when she didn’t know how he felt about her. Hardly knew he even existed.
It was her fault he was in this mess. If he told himself that often enough he would believe it. Perhaps.
Well, he’d got the money now. Enough to get him right away. And that’s what he’d do.
Bill spun on his heel and walked away. He’d leave. Leave Morrisfield. Leave his job. Leave Winifred behind. But inside he knew he wouldn’t leave the memory of her behind. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter 35
In the end, it was the reading of John Duffy’s will that sorted out Florence’s housing issue.
After the solicitor left, Ethel went to her bedroom without a word, lips tight, her face and throat scarlet with anger. She’d listened in glowering silence as Mr Winterbottom ponderously laid out the conditions of the bequests. When he tried to hand her a folded copy she ignored him and didn’t look his way when Winifred took him through the shop to the front door.
Winifred picked up her copy of the will and took it into the yard to read. The heat of the day had soaked into the stone of the house and the bricks of the yard’s walls. Even though the fierce August sun was no longer on the back it was still stifling hot, and within minutes she could feel the dampness of perspiration between her breasts. Even so she was reluctant to go back into the kitchen where the air seemed rancid with her mother’s hostility. She read the document again; there was no doubt what her father had wanted. Her eyes pricked with tears, even as she smiled; he’d made sure she would be all right. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time as the realization of what she was about to do filled her with relief.
Leaving the shop she hurried along Marshall Road, dodging around whoever got in her way on the pavement, her hand clutching the folded will in the skirt pocket of her dress. She forced herself to slow down before she got to the Wagon and Horses. There were groups of men sitting at the wooden benches, holding large glasses of ale and sucking on pipes, their shirt collars undone and sleeves rolled up to combat the heat of the evening. Head lowered, she ignored their whistles and catcalls and turned onto Wagon Street where she began to run, aware only of the thud of her heels on the ground and the tightness in her chest. Yet still she couldn’t stop, she needed to see her grandmother.
At Wellyhole Yard a group of screaming children were chasing one another around the street. One older boy had fastened a rope to the gas-lamp and was swinging on it. A large woman sat on the doorstep of the house that backed onto her grandmother’s nursing a small baby in her lap, her legs so far apart Winifred could see her grubby grey bloomers. When she looked up at Winifred her wary scowl changed to a toothless smile.
‘You come to see yer gran then, lovely?’ She turned her head to bellow down the hallway. ‘Shurrup, you lot.’ Looking back at Winifred she smiled again. ‘I do try to keep ’em quiet but they’re such a bloody rowdy lot. I were round at yer gran’s again this morning to tell her I were sorry.’ She wiped the back of her hand across her nose. ‘I stopped fer a bit cos I could tell she were upset. She told me her son had passed over.’ She sniffed, raising her voice to be heard above the sound of the children inside the house. ‘Yer da were it?’
Winifred nodded.
‘Well, I’m sorry. I often saw ’im on his way to see her since we moved in ’ere; he always ’ad a word. I’ve seen you too. She gestured with her thumb over her shoulder. ‘She thinks the world of you, you know, lovely.’ Without turning her head she yelled again. ‘I’m warnin’ yer, keep the bloody noise down.’
‘I need to go,’ Winifred said. ‘I need to see Granny.’
‘Course you do, lovely. Well good to chat wi’ yer.’ The woman opened her blouse and pushed the baby’s head to her large breast. ‘See yer again. Oh, and I’m Bertha, by the way.’
Winifred smiled. ‘My name’s Winifred.’ She avoided staring at the baby, sucking noisily on Bertha’s breast, looking over the woman’s shoulder at the peeling wallpaper in the hall.
‘I know.’ Bertha rocked slightly, not in the least self-conscious.
‘Bye then.’ Relieved, Winifred turned into the yard, slightly guilty that she’d resented her granny’s new neighbours; had even judged them to be common. But moments later she’d forgotten about them when she burst through the door of the house.
‘Granny? Granny?’
‘Up here, ducks.’ Florence’s voice sounded hoarse with tears. ‘I’m in bed.’
‘Granny, I have something to tell you. ’
Chapter 36
‘I’ve told you, I won’t have it.’
‘This place belongs to me and Granny just as much as it does you, Mother. Dad left us all equal shares and you know it. I’m not having her live in that hovel any longer.’
‘No!’ Her mother crossed her arms, her face puce with fury. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘It is, Mother.’ Winifred was weary of the argument; it had gone on for days. ‘It’s happening and there’s nothing you can do about it.’
She’d seen the way her grandmother had aged rapidly since her father had died. Tears, and a quiver in her voice, were never far away, so Winifred was convinced more than ever that Granny moving in with them was the only answer. The evident relief when she’d told her about her son’s will had shown how fearful she’d been about the future. The following doubt emerged almost as quickly.
Winifred had had her work cut out persuading the old woman that it would be all right.
‘I need you to, Granny. Please.’ Kneeling at Florence’s side, Winifred struggled in the heat of the room. It could only be worse for her grandmother. Even though the sash window was down as far as it would go and the net curtain shivered in whatever breeze there was, the place was stifling, and the stink from outside infiltrated the whole house. She had to speak loudly to be heard above Bertha’s children behind them and the noise from the yard.
‘She’ll not like it one bit.’
‘She’ll have to put up with it. And I’ll be there.’ Winifred knew she’d be torn between staying home to protect her grandmother from mother’s vicious tongue and wanting to escape; to live her life. To fight for the cause. But there was time enough to worry about that. ‘Please, Granny.’
She looked around the crowded room; saw the old mahogany furniture so dark and cumbersome, the damp patches on the outer wall, the worn carpet that barely reached the corners. How could they have let her stay in this awful place for so long? Winifred was determined to persuade her this time.
‘It’s your right. It’s what Dad would have wanted.’ She could feel the sweat trickling down th
e back of her neck. ‘It’s what he always wanted—’
‘But was too scared of her.’ The words could have sounded bitter but Florence’s tone was sad. ‘She always had him right where she wanted. And she knew he had no choice…’
Winifred frowned. ‘What do you mean…?’
The closed expression on her grandmother’s face, the pressed lips told her not to pursue the question.
‘Please say you’ll come to live at the shop. You have every right to be there.’ Winifred played her last card. ‘I miss Dad so much, Granny. It doesn’t feel like home without him there. And I could do with an ally.’
Florence’s eye twinkled. She gave a soft chuckle. Straightening her shoulders she dipped her head in acquiescence. ‘All right, ducks, I give in. But only as long you realise I’ll be leaving my share to you when I go.’
‘Don’t talk like that, Granny, I can’t bear it.’
‘All right, just as long as you know. I’ll be making a will with Winterbottom the solicitor to show that’s what I want. And I’m warning you, there’ll be some right argy-bargy when you tell her I’ll be moving in with you.’
‘She already knows.’ Winifred grinned. ‘And there’s not a damn thing she can do about it.’
Florence’s eyebrows rose so high it gave her face a comical expression. Then she smiled and said, ‘Not a damn thing.’
‘I will not have that woman in my home.’
‘That woman, as you call her is my grandmother, my father’s mother. She will be moving in next week.’ Winifred continued to clean the windows in the spare room. ‘And that’s an end to it, Mother.’
She glanced over her shoulder to see Ethel open her mouth to speak and then snap it shut.
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