The campaign to save the market was instantly put on hold. A baby’s life was at stake, which was surely far more important.
Everyone began to search and the police were called in to help. Only the men driving the bulldozers carried on working, perhaps glad to be free to get on with the job.
They could find no trace of her. Harriet was distraught, and accused Grant of aiding and abetting his mother to steal Michelle. He denied all knowledge of her plan, and for once looked so earnest that Harriet felt obliged to believe him.
Grant did, however, agree to help search for the baby, while privately thinking that if he found the child first, he would indeed help Joyce to dispose of the little bastard, any way he thought fit. He felt deeply aggrieved at being disinherited, which seemed to encapsulate all the neglect he imagined he’d been subjected to over the years.
He knew all about the rape now, that his father was some drunken sailor, apparently Frankie Morris’s useless younger brother and not a rich businessman at all. It was too much, serving only to fuel his resentment and anger still further.
Unaware of these thoughts, Harriet frantically hammered on door after door, working her way down the street, terrified her child might have been hidden in a house about to bulldozed out of existence. She kept screaming at someone to stop the men from working, but nobody took any notice, perhaps couldn’t even hear her above the din.
She felt as if her life were crumbling to ashes before her eyes. She’d come to trust Margaret, then the woman blatantly eavesdrops on a private conversation and jumps to entirely the wrong conclusion. Steve too had instantly assumed that she’d be eager to rush back to Vinny at a moment’s notice. Could she trust no one? Did nobody believe in her, or listen to a word she said?
Now her precious child was missing. What more could go wrong?
And why would Joyce suddenly take it into her head to run off with the baby? She’d largely ignored them both for months, barely speaking to Harriet and only then when out in public in a rather embarrassing pretence of family unity for the benefit of the neighbours. Surely she wasn’t still trying to prove that Harriet was an unfit mother, or angling to have the child adopted?
It came to Harriet in that moment where Joyce might have taken the baby. To Father Dimmock and that Christian middle-class family who were so desperate for a child. The priest lived at the top of the street, opposite Leo Catlow, right next to the church.
Harriet began to run. She didn’t wait for Steve or anyone else to join her, she just flew up the street in search of her child. Nor, when she reached the presbytery, did she pause to knock or ask politely if she might come in. Harriet thrust open the door and marched right in.
Joyce was sitting in the Priest’s private office. Father Dimmock was seated at his desk and opposite him sat a middle-aged couple who glanced up with a welcoming smile as Harriet charged in. There was no sign of Michelle.
‘Where is she? What have you done with her?’
‘Ah, Harriet,’ Father Dimmock said, getting up to go to her. ‘Do come in. I’m so pleased that you’ve changed your mind about having the baby adopted. We have the papers here, all signed. The new adoptive parents in this very private adoption, are absolutely delighted. Well done, Harriet, for doing the right thing. I’m sure you won’t ever regret it.’
Harriet gazed upon the little group gathered about the priest, numb with shock. In that moment of utter horror she felt as if she had lost everything. Whatever problems she’d had to contend with were as nothing compared with losing her child.
‘I have not changed my mind, or agreed to this adoption. If you have documents in your possession which say otherwise then they are fraudulent, possibly forged by Joyce.’
He didn’t seem to be listening. ‘Now Harriet, don’t get in a state. This little matter has been most satisfactorily sorted out’. Father Dimmock could see no wrong in Joyce. She was a stalwart, loyal member of his congregation and, in his opinion, would never stoop so low as to tell a lie or forge a signature. Her foolish daughter, on the other hand, who’d run off with an itinerant musician and given birth to his illegitimate child in a lavatory was an entirely different matter. An unreliable witness, if ever there was one.
‘Stop fighting this, Harriet,’ he warned her. ‘It is by far the best solution for your baby. Be grateful that she is to go to such a fine, morally upstanding couple who will give her the kind of upbringing you can’t.’
‘But I’m her mother!’ Despite her best efforts, a great sob burst from her. ‘Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘You are a very foolish, silly girl. A wanton little hussy who should beg the Holy Virgin for forgiveness for your sins. Have you even attempted to make confession?’
Steve quickly stepped forward. ‘Hold on a minute, that’s putting it a bit rich. I’ll not have you speak to Harriet in that way. I love her, and I’m hoping to persuade her to marry me soon, perhaps when my probationary teaching year is over, then the baby will have everything she needs, a proper home with two loving parents.’
Harriet looked at him with wonder and love in her eyes. What had she done to deserve such a lovely man?
Joyce’s mouth twisted with bitterness. ‘It’s too late. The deed is done. The papers are all signed.’
‘And you signed them,’ Harriet said. ‘I certainly didn’t.’
‘I am still your guardian. You’ll do as I say.’
‘Never!’
And while they argued, while Harriet wept and railed and the priest and her stepmother refused to listen, the proposed adoptive parents anxiously waited to take possession of their child.
Eventually, Father Dimmock pushed Harriet into a chair and ordered her to be quiet. Then he instructed Joyce to fetch the child. ‘Enough! Let us put an end to this nonsense.’ Joyce disappeared into the back kitchen where she’d left little Michelle sleeping in her pram. Harriet sat frozen by fear, terrified she was about to lose her baby. And then Joyce burst through the door, breathless.
‘She’s not there. The baby’s gone. Someone has taken her.
Chapter Forty-Six
Manchester has a long history of markets, going right back to 1066 when William the Conqueror conferred the manor, together with the privilege of holding fairs and markets, to celebrate his victory at Hastings. Yet despite this, Champion Street Market was about to be closed down, and, much to Rose’s annoyance, no alternative site had yet been offered or found.
Rose had never thought of herself as a rebel, preferring to leave all of that to the younger generation, to her granddaughter and grandson who had more than enough rebellion in their blood for one family. Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to stand back and witness the loss of her beloved street, and her home, without a fight.
Belle had rallied numerous members of the press, both local and national, and she and Rose were even now holding court and giving interviews, while keeping half an eye on what was happening at the bottom end of the street. Rose could hear the bulldozers grumbling and groaning and grinding their gears; heard the thunderous crash as a great metal ball swung through the air and smacked right into the sides of the old Victorian houses behind the fish market.
‘All we are saying,’ Rose shouted at the young reporter, lifting her voice above the din, ‘is that while the bottom of Champion Street may well need demolishing and rebuilding, that doesn’t apply to the rest of it. And the market shouldn’t be affected at all. Why can’t it stay here, even when the new flats are built?’
‘Since no one has paid any heed to these arguments so far, what do you think your next move should be?’ he asked.
It was a good question, one to which Rose had no answer. She was at her wits’ end, her mind a complete blank, yet her fighting spirit, her fury at being treated in such a cavalier fashion was as strong as ever.
‘We’re going to carry on fighting,’ yelled Jimmy Ramsay, waving his home-made banner in the young man’s face.
Cheers went up all round as a gathering of a hundred o
r more people prepared to march on the bulldozers. Big Molly Poulson had barricaded herself and her husband Ozzy in the house, swearing they’d have to knock it down around her ears before she left it. Most of the stallholders were more circumspect, but they were all fired up with anger.
The street was in chaos with television camera crews very much in evidence, men with microphones finding the prettiest girls to talk to for their opinions on the loss of this traditional market. Where would they go for their gossip and their bargains now?
Papa Bertalone was there with his entire family gathered about him, including Gina and Luc, declaring this draconian decision reminded him very much of Hitler. The Bertalone children had decorated both the parlour and the old ice cream cart with home-made streamers and posters. SAVE OUR MARKET, these proclaimed in slightly drunken, bright red, blue and yellow letters.
Barry Holmes had collected together a box of rotten tomatoes, ready to throw at the drivers if they came anywhere near the top end of the street. Not that that would stop them, but rotten fruit and veg were the only weapons he had to hand.
Clara Higginson, together with all her friends from the church, were quietly forming a protective chain in front of her house where they were singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ as if they too were about to go into battle. Clara had escaped from the Nazis in Paris during the war, so had no intention of being fazed by a few bulldozers.
Lizzie Pringle was there too with her husband Charlie, along with Aunty Dot pushing a pram with the usual group of foster children in tow, Joey, Beth and Alan among them, determined to save the home they loved. The actual sweet making took place elsewhere but they’d also be sorry to lose Pringle’s Chocolate Cabin, which had been the inspiration for the entire business. Lizzie was determined to stand firm.
Betty Hemley and her daughter Lynda stood arm in arm, together with her son Jake, and Lynda’s husband Terry ready to withstand all-comers to save both Hall’s Music Shop and Betty’s flower stall. Dena Dobson was with them, stoutly assisted by her new doctor friend Adam, and, of course, little Trudy. Dena could, if necessary, set up her fashion business elsewhere, but she loved this market, this street, and had no intention of leaving it while one house, one wall, one brick remained in place.
The unlikely trio of Irma and Joe Southworth with Belle Garside, as chairman of the committee and market superintendent respectively, placed themselves in the centre of the street, right outside the main doors of the iron framed market hall, as if they meant to guard it with their lives if necessary.
The crowds were growing, everyone who’d ever had any affection for the market had come along, ready to defend it. Joan Chapman and her sewing circle. Constable Nuttall and Miss Rogers, the sour-faced social worker, the whiskers on her chin seeming to bristle with anger. The old men who spent their days mulling over their betting slips by the old horse trough. Young Spider, who’d been taught to box by Barry Holmes at the Lads’ Club, showing he was more than ready for a punch up with these so-called developers.
Benny was handing out free hot potatoes from his cart, to keep everyone’s strength up, and even Chris and Amy George were present, despite them having now left Champion Street. If the market was saved, Chris thought he might open a bread stall, supplying it from the baker’s shop he’d opened on nearby Deansgate. Everyone was shouting and jeering, preparing to begin their march and ignoring the line of police gathering at the end of the street.
‘All we need is for the chairman of our local council to get behind us,’ Rose mourned. ‘We need him to see sense, to realise that Manchester can have its fancy new blocks of flats but they shouldn’t let developers walk all over them and destroy perfectly good houses. Their power and greed should be restrained. If only somebody would be on our side!’
‘I’ve just been talking to Leo Catlow,’ Jimmy Ramsay said, rushing up, ‘I thought, since he’s an important businessman living on the corner of our street and well in with the council, he might put in a word and help us at the eleventh hour.’
Rose set her jaw into a grim line. ‘No matter how long it takes, we’re not moving an inch.’ So saying, she sat down in the middle of the road, and, following her lead, so did everyone else.
The roar of bulldozers grew louder as the huge machines began to make their cumbersome progress along the street, moving ever closer to the demonstrators. The work’s boss had evidently grown weary of all the bad press and attention he was getting, and resolved to put an end to this dispute as swiftly as possible.
‘He’s coming for us now, heading for the top of the street here,’ Clara Higginson pointed out.
‘By heck,’ Rose cried. ‘He’s going for Big Molly’s house first. Right, we’ll show him.’
As one, the stallholders and residents, their numbers swelled by an increasing band of loyal customers, surged towards the machines. Rose lay herself down on the cobbles right outside Molly Poulson’s house. Big Molly’s anxious face could be seen peeping through the lace curtain, yet she stayed put, as did Rose.
It was at this precise moment that Harriet and Steve emerged from the presbytery. Harriet looked rather like a zombie as she walked somewhat unsteadily towards the assembled crowd, Steve supporting her as best he could with one arm about her waist.
Rose sat up, wary of leaving her post but concerned for her granddaughter. ‘What’s wrong, love? Where’s our Michelle?’
Harriet shook her head, quite unable to answer. Steve quietly told the old woman that there was a problem. Swiftly, he explained what had taken place in the priest’s office. Rose’s jaw dropped open, the campaign for saving the market instantly forgotten.
Scrambling to her feet, Rose turned on her daughter. ‘What have you gone and done now?’
‘I’ve done what’s right, what’s best for that child,’ Joyce announced, her mouth firming into its customary tight, forbidding line.
‘You’ve done what’s best for you, as you always do, because you don’t understand the meaning of mother love. Never have.’
‘I will not have my reputation ruined.’
Rose gave a bitter laugh. ‘You’ve ruined your own reputation with no help from anybody. You’ve no one to blame but yourself. You’ve been sleeping with my best friend Irma’s husband for months, if not years. Why is it that you think yourself above the moral issues you freely impose upon others?’
‘How dare you!’ Joyce’s cheeks flamed, acutely aware of the gossiping crowd gathered about her, smirking behind their hands, agog at this very public display of dirty linen being aired. ‘Drat you and your interfering ways, Mother. Somehow you always manage to set yourself against me.’
‘Someone has to. I might be a bit blunt and rough but I don’t hurt childer, as you seem to enjoy doing. I don’t treat people with contempt, or waste my entire life on some misguided mission of revenge. Love and affection seem to be strangers to you, so is it any wonder if your husband came to hate the sight of you? And what did you do when he sought comfort elsewhere? Almost burned to death the lovely girl he’d fallen in love with, then stole her child.’
Whatever Joyce might have been about to say by way of response to this very public revelation of her darkest secrets, was lost in a terrified scream from Harriet.
All eyes turned as one towards the bulldozers. ‘Oh, dear Lord, it’s Grant,’ Harriet cried. ‘Look what he’s doing. He’s putting Michelle down on the cobbles, right in the path of the bulldozer.’
‘Murderer!’ Rose screamed, but her voice was lost in the hubbub as everyone moved at once, surging forward instinctively to rescue the baby.
Despite her disability and age, the old woman very nearly got there in time, shouting at the driver and ineffectually setting her shoulder against the huge machine as if she could single-handedly stop it.
Surprisingly, it was Joyce who reached the pair first. Flinging herself in front of the bulldozer, she pushed her son out of the way, but just as she reached for the baby she somehow lost her footing, slipped on the wet cobbles and fe
ll.
Champion Street Market did indeed earn a reprieve in the eleventh hour, not simply because all work was stopped for the day due to the accident, but because the council had called a halt to the project. Leo Catlow had apparently been negotiating with the developers for some time, and the efforts of Rose and Belle Garside, Jimmy Ramsay, Joe Southworth and the rest of the committee, had also made them think twice.
New meetings were to be held and it was agreed that demolition would continue on the lower half of the street, the damp old Victorian houses would be replaced with modern flats, but the better houses at the top end would indeed be spared. In view of this change, new plans needed to be drawn up. The flats would not in fact be high rise, but a range of two storey maisonettes and apartments, more in keeping with the rest of Champion Street.
The historic, iron-framed market hall would be retained, along with its new extension. The outside market would be relocated to nearby streets, by permission of the council, until all building work was completed, at which point it could return and continue to operate for the next hundred years, if the committee so wished.
The stallholders held a street party to celebrate, attended by everyone: Big Molly and Clara Higginson, the Bertalones, Dena, and Winnie and Barry Holmes, Amy and Chris George, Betty Hemley, Terry and Lynda, Patsy and Marc, Lizzie Pringle and Charlie, not forgetting Aunty Dot and the children, with everyone overjoyed that their beloved Champion Street Market was to be saved and their homes spared from the wrecking ball.
Whether it was the baby she was trying to save or, more likely, her beloved son, they would never know, but Joyce failed to save herself. She was crushed beneath the giant caterpillar tracks.
Ironically, her last act was to save the baby she’d resented so much. Despite a lifetime of seeking revenge in the pursuit of her good name, even Joyce, cold and hard as she undoubtedly was, could not commit murder. As she fell beneath the great yellow machine, she performed the one heroic deed of her life. She pushed the baby, securely wrapped in its blanket, so that it slid across the slippery cobbles and came to rest, unharmed, at Harriet’s feet.
Lonely Teardrops (2008) Page 39