The twins were running about outside. Daisy, as placid as they were noisy, was sticking pasta shapes on to a bit of cardboard. She was an unusual child whose vocabulary was increasing at a rate of knots. She had declared her breakfast to be delicious, and, after spinning Will’s globe of the earth for a while, had pronounced the item a ‘planet’ before moving on to pasta and glue. She was bright. Harrie wanted to keep her for ever.
The shopping list grew by the minute. Billy and Craig were eating everyone out of house and home. At this rate, Harrie might need a mortgage, and she said so.
‘Mortgage,’ repeated Daisy, who was now covered in glue.
‘Nearly-three going on thirty, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Three. Birt’day.’
Annie would be out of hospital before Daisy’s September birthday, surely?
Harrie’s mobile sounded. She clicked, read the message and grinned.
Hi sis dont laff. Am living with travellers outside Rochdale. Pretty here. Got fortune told, have big future in communications but must never wear red. Cya soon. Ben xxx
She laughed, of course. It was beyond the bounds of her imagination to picture her brother living among folk who had possibly never been to school, people who lived hand-to-mouth and by poaching and begging. Could Ben sell lucky heather? Did travellers do lucky heather and pegs these days?
‘Stuck.’ Daisy, who had just arrived at Harrie’s side, was smiling broadly. Her hands were covered in glue, and there was even some in her pretty hair. ‘Stuck,’ she repeated pleasantly.
‘Worry not,’ Harrie advised. ‘It isn’t poisonous, I checked.’
‘Have a bath,’ suggested the child.
‘Good idea.’
Harrie picked up the little girl. ‘My brother is going to be all right,’ she said.
‘Ben.’
Where the heck had the child heard his name? She had never met him, yet she had absorbed and retained his name. It was plain that Daisy was a listener, that she soaked up information like blotting paper absorbed ink. The child was capable of grasping concepts, however abstract or absent they might be. And she probably wasn’t alone. There were other special kids like Daisy, children who should be encouraged and helped. ‘It’s not just the disabled who need our attention, is it?’
‘No,’ replied Daisy.
The cream should come off the top. The cream deserved attention, or it might curdle in the pot. ‘I wonder whether the cream causes the trouble out there? Nowhere to go with their brains, so they fight.’
‘BillyandCraig.’
Nothing wrong with the old grammar school system? It hadn’t been wonderful, but the top four per cent had got their chance, Harrie supposed. While she filled the bath, she found herself thinking about Ben, who was probably top two per cent. He had been creamed off, yet he had gone astray for a while. Perhaps the bright ones had to go through something because their emotional development was impeded by their intellectual difference from the norm. It was worth studying, certainly.
While Daisy splashed, the twins dashed in. ‘It’s stuck,’ gasped Billy-The-Taller.
‘What’s stuck? Daisy’s been stuck to a bit of cardboard, but other th—’
‘No,’ shouted Craig. ‘Stairlift. And Mrs Iona’s sitting in it.’
Harrie sank to the floor and started to laugh. Life was certainly interesting these days. She pictured Gran, heard the words she was probably using, hoped the lads hadn’t learned any new language. She dried her eyes. ‘Is Woebee with her?’
They nodded in unison. ‘Said it’s our fault.’
‘Is it?’
They hung their heads. ‘It was his idea,’ they said, each pointing to the other.
Billy kicked his twin. ‘We seen it on the telly. A fat man stuck halfway up the stairs. It was funny – everybody was laughing. He was there all night. So me brother shoved some cloth in the underneath bit.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of Craig. ‘It was him, not me.’
Craig puffed up his cheeks and expelled a huge amount of air. ‘It was both of us.’
Harrie attacked the problem. ‘You seen it on the telly?’
They nodded.
‘No. You saw it on the telly.’
‘That’s what we said.’
Harrie sighed. Perhaps teaching was not going to be an easy option. As far as the Nuttall family went, Daisy was clearly in a class of her own. ‘Go and tell Gran I’ll be there when I’ve dried Daisy. Gran needs to be lifted out of the chair – she can get downstairs on her bottom.’
‘Can she?’
‘Yes.’
‘So she doesn’t need her stairlifts really, does she?’
Explanations would take too much time, and there was no point, anyway, because BillyandCraig would carry on as before. She shooed them out and got on with the task in hand.
‘Daddy can mend it,’ Daisy offered.
This was heartbreaking. One concept that Daisy was happily unable to understand was that her daddy was a criminal. Her daddy had put her mummy in hospital. ‘We’ll see,’ she said, remembering how adults had often used those very words when she was a child. ‘We’ll see’ meant no. But Daisy couldn’t grasp that. Yet.
Annie was sitting up in bed. She waved as Lisa entered the ward. ‘Oi,’ she yelled. ‘I’ve been promoted.’
Lisa chuckled. Promotion was a move higher up the ward away from the sister’s office. Annie was too much of a troublemaker to be kept near the staff. But while she was now at a safe distance from the nurses, she was in a position from which she might energize patients who were well enough to give a damn. Since most of the upper end were well enough, Annie was halfway to forming a trade union with a massive charter and an agenda longer than the Bolton ring road.
When she had sat down, Lisa passed a small package to her new-found friend and colleague. ‘That’s for you from Harrie, Simon and me.’
‘You what? It’s me should be sending life support for Harrie – how’s she managing? What have they broken so far?’
Lisa thought for a moment. ‘Three mugs, a bed, some branches off a listed oak tree – quite a few of our trees are protected – oh, and a stairlift.’
‘Buggeration.’
‘Quite.’
‘What did your ma-in-law say?’
‘I wasn’t there, but I understand that much of it would not bear repetition. But she saw the funny side. She usually does.’
‘How’s Daisy?’
Lisa smiled broadly. ‘You’ll have trouble there, because Harrie’s fallen in love with her and won’t want to give her back. It seems that your daughter is unusually gifted.’
‘Like yours.’
‘Yes.’
Annie opened her package and burst into tears. ‘Aw, God,’ she moaned. ‘You knew I liked it. And I know how much it’s worth.’
‘No. You know how much I was selling it for. Stop it, now. You’ll get another headache.’
Annie, who had lost a lot of hair in the operating theatre, was still heavily bandaged. ‘In case my brain cell falls out,’ was her usual explanation.
‘You’re worth it, girl. Every penny,’ Lisa said.
‘It’s Italian.’
‘Yes. Like they sell on the Ponte Vecchio over the Arno. I went there with Harrie. Florence is the most amazing place on earth. See Rome and die? OK, but see Firenze as well. It’s gorgeous. I’ll take you there. At night, the priests plug in amplifiers and so forth so that the kids can dance in the street. I loved it, loved the people.’
But Annie was mesmerized by her bracelet. Never in her life had she allowed herself to imagine that she might own a piece of good, Italian gold. ‘Is it fourteen?’ she asked, drying her tears on the sheet.
‘Yes. Eighteen carat would be too soft, and nine is too heavily alloyed to keep colour. You can be lucky with nine, but fourteen’s safer.’
Annie nodded. ‘So white gold is alloyed with silver, and rose is with copper.’
‘You’re a fast learner.’
‘I am
.’ She closed her eyes and leaned back on an Everest of pillows. ‘How much to mend the stairlift?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ came the reply. ‘It’s under guarantee, and my mother-in-law is an accomplished liar. She was trained well – jewellery trade.’ She paused. ‘Are you feeling tired?’
‘A bit.’ The eyes opened. ‘Where is he, Lisa?’ The bottom lip quivered. ‘God, where is the bugger?’
‘No idea, love. Not since he was seen in town weeks ago. He’s disappeared.’
‘He’ll be back.’ She closed her eyes again. ‘I hate admitting this, Lisa, but I’m scared to death. More for the kids than for me. I’ve got used to being in here, as well. I hate hospitals, but everything’s done for me, no kids to worry about.’
‘You’ll be all right, because you’ll be staying with us until you’re sorted out. I’ll get you a wig from Ideal World shopping channel – they do some great ones. We could turn you into Marilyn Monroe. Hermione is completing the research as we speak. You’ll be a beautiful blonde. Or a brunette.’
The eyes were wide again. ‘Oh, yeah? Silk purses and sows’ ears?’
‘Don’t be silly.’
Annie sat up. ‘You know all this patients’ charter stuff?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s just to make me feel normal.’
‘I know.’ The staff did, too – as did most of the patients.
‘But, Lisa, there is one valid thing. It’s the fat police.’
‘Oh?’
Annie nodded. ‘My consultant – Mr Simpson – he looks like a long stick of Blackpool rock. Sugar-free, of course. We’re all too fat in here. He wants to put us on diets. We’re getting thrown off the operating table and on to the Ryvita. I just want to kick his head in.’
‘Don’t. You’ve seen and felt the results.’
Annie pondered for a few seconds. ‘Are you sure? About me stopping up yon with you and your lot? You’ve already got the kids.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s a lot of trouble.’
‘I know.’
The woman in the bed laughed. ‘Aw – hey – we’re not that bad, are we?’
‘Yes, you are. And that makes me happy. Don’t worry about a thing and do everything you’re told in here. Except for the Ryvita.’ Lisa planted a kiss on top of a white bandaged head. She wanted to weep for this brave little person, but she couldn’t, not yet.
She sat in her car and thought, not for the first time, about the cruelties of mankind. Sometimes, she saw more sense in Will’s dog than she did in her fellows. Annie would have struggled on without help from Lisa and the shop. She would have claimed support, would have broken the law by doing little cash-in-hand jobs like Sal Potter did. It wasn’t right. There was still a poverty trap where people were forced to break the law just to feed a family. ‘I should go into politics,’ she told her rear view mirror. But she hadn’t the time, and she hated London, anyway . . .
Mathilda’s eyes opened and remained open. She seldom blinked and did not seem to react when items were moved inches from her face.
‘Could she be blind?’ Sister Mary Magdalene asked. ‘Or might it be that the messages aren’t getting through to her brain? She hears. I know she hears music, because her hands move. She hears me reading, too.’
‘I shall try him again.’ Mother Benedict had been phoning Mr Earnshaw repeatedly. Mr Earnshaw was Mathilda’s sole visitor. But his mobile phone had remained switched off for several days, and his voicemail was not activated.
‘Send him an email,’ suggested Magda. ‘Perhaps that will get to him more quickly. He needs to know that she is awake.’ Was she awake? Did open eyes mean wakefulness? ‘And she’s on no sedation,’ the nun added. ‘We all know what happened last time.’
Mother Benedict went downstairs to use the computer. Time might well be running out for Mathilda. And Mr Earnshaw had to be told.
Jimmy found an ancient and filthy rucksack at the back of Sal’s shed. He cleaned it up as best he could, got his hands on some food containers, a torch, Stanley knife and a few tools of his own questionable trade. Something to eat and a Thermos of tea were a necessity, as he did not know how long he would be away. Sal was back at work and had promised to keep the office window ajar. Preparations had taken longer than Jimmy had expected, as the canvas rucksack took ages to dry.
He sat in the living room and completed his plans. He’d already hidden the van, driving it further along the path to the left of the cottage and covering its rear with a piece of old carpet from Sal’s shed. He’d have to make his way to Weaver’s Warp on foot. If he moved in a westerly direction across the moors, then took a circuitous route through farmland, he could get to the area in an hour or so. No one on the new estate near Weaver’s knew him. Walking, he could be as quiet as he needed to be. It had to be tonight, before somebody noticed a slight gap in the office window. According to Sal, no one but the master of the house ever went in there, and he would be on his way to the other side of the world by now.
If he couldn’t get the gun, the other method would need to be employed. It was a terrifying idea, yet there was no alternative. Focused solely on the retrieval of the weapon used in the Birmingham raid, he deliberately tidied away recent events, including burglaries and the attack on his wife. The fact that he might have to break the law again was of no consequence – he would do whatever it took to achieve the most important of his goals. The weather had turned unpredictable, so he needed to wait for a dry night. It would be soon, he hoped.
According to Sal, the girl had moved into a wooden bungalow in the rear garden of Weaver’s Warp. She was isolated. If he failed to find the gun in the office, he would remove her from the scene. They had something he needed; it did not take much of a brain to work out that the daughter would be precious, as vital to the Compton-Milnes as the gun was to him. There could be a straight swap; the plan was simple, dangerous and essential. Nothing else mattered. Jimmy was going to save himself. And to hell with everybody else.
Freda Nuttall was very impressed by Hermione’s apartment. ‘It’s lovely,’ she exclaimed after entering. ‘Modern. Makes my place look like Pot Bailey’s stall down Bolton market when I was a kiddy.’ She sat down. ‘But why do you live up here, Hermione? Wouldn’t it be easier for you downstairs? That’s why I have a bungalow – no stairs.’
‘Call me Iona – it’s easier. I live up here because I can see everything and everybody. I like to take an overview, you see.’
‘She’s nosy,’ offered Eileen. ‘Nosier than a herd of elephants.’
Hermione awarded the carer one of her harder stares. ‘Make the tea,’ she said. ‘And I hope you produced a decent cake this time.’ She winked at Freda. ‘Can’t get the staff these days, you see. This one thinks she’s in charge and I am supposed to do as I am told.’
The visitor was still trying to recover from the shock resulting from her first encounter with Eileen Eckersley. It was easy for the Compton-Milnes because they were used to her, but a new arrival often took a few minutes to absorb the vision. It was the hair. No, it wasn’t, it was the eyes. No, it was definitely the teeth. Whatever, Eileen took some digesting at the first sitting. Freda cleared her throat behind a well-mannered hand.
‘The children are fine,’ said Hermione reassuringly. But she continued, ‘We, however, are not. The twins are . . . adventurous.’
‘You’re telling me?’ Freda sighed. ‘I’ve lost more figurines through them two than I have in thirty-odd years. It’s like letting a pair of bulls loose on Pot Bailey’s stall – I mentioned him before. Do you remember how he used to juggle plates? Clever man, he was. Never dropped a plate. Craig and Billy drop everything.’
Eileen reappeared with a tray. She dumped it on a low table between them, sat in a third chair, began to pour tea and cut slices of cake.
Freda glanced at her hostess. Was it normal for a servant to sit down with her boss? Then she watched while Eileen guided a shaking hand, while she fixed a napkin around Hermio
ne’s neck and helped her with a bit of cake. It was a damned shame. But it was difficult to feel pity for very long, because the old woman was more than feisty.
‘What did you use to clean this silver? Sandpaper?’ she asked. ‘I’ve seen a better shine on fitted carpet.’
‘No, I used a nail file. Now drink up and shut up, because I can’t be doing with all the complaining and the whatevering while you’re spilling tea.’ Eileen spoke to Freda. ‘She does half of it on purpose, I swear to God. There’s no reasoning with her some days. My mammy warned me that life would be hard, but she never mentioned impossible. I suppose we all have a burden in life, and madam’s mine.’
Freda smiled uncertainly. It was strange, because the second time she had a good look at Eileen, the woman looked . . . well . . . normal. It was not a face that might launch a thousand ships, and it owned a voice that could sink the same thousand, but she was kind and humorous. ‘You can only do your best, love,’ she replied.
Hermione chuckled. ‘Whose side are you on?’ she asked her guest.
‘My own,’ was the fast reply. ‘I’ve learned to duck while there’s low-flying objects. With my husband and my Jimmy, I had to fettle fast.’
Hermione gave her cup to Eileen. ‘He’s not visited you since that night.’
‘No.’
‘Any phone calls, letters, postcards, pigeons with notes fastened to their feet?’
‘Not a dicky bird,’ replied Freda deliberately. ‘Not even a budgie in a cage. I can’t think where the bloody hell he’s got to.’ She lowered her chin. ‘I’m ashamed,’ she said. ‘Annie always said if he clouted her, she’d get him while he was asleep, but she never got chance, did she? Cos she slept for a couple of days, nearly in a coma, holes bored in her head and I feel so guilty, because he’s—’
‘Don’t upset yourself,’ ordered Eileen. ‘Children can be a blessing or mortallious troublesome – often both. I’d a brother with a limp – one leg a smidge shorter than the other. So Mammy goes down to the market one Tuesday, and there he is, bold as brass and twice as ugly as sin, playing the mouth organ while people threw pennies in his cap. He couldn’t play a tune to save his life. He’d a notice in front of him that read “look what the English did to me”. Mammy clobbered him good and hard with her basket, and that was an end to his game. She never forgave him, and it was ages before she showed her face at the market again.’
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