Lonely Teardrops (2008) (18 page)

Grant would only smirk and slip quietly away, knowing he was safe from being forced to do anything by his adoring mother.

Rose went on feeling poorly, though she didn’t let on just how bad she was. Where was the point in expecting sympathy from Joyce when none would be forthcoming. She gave up arguing and just got on with the job, and in the evenings would escape to chat with her friend, Winnie Holmes, in the Dog and Duck.

‘I don’t know how you’re coping,’ Winnie would say. ‘It might be none of my business but I’d walk out if I were you.’

‘And go where, to the workhouse? They don’t have them any more, do they? Thank the lord for that, or Joyce would book me a bed in one for sure. Nothing would give her greater pleasure than for me to leave too. Then her and her fancy man would have the place practically to themselves.’

Sometimes Rose would call in on Irma to see if she was yet ready to give her a second reading. Her friend was most sympathetic over her concern for Harriet, but didn’t seem to think the time was right.

‘We must see how things pan out first,’ Irma explained. ‘We can’t rush fate along, it must progress at its own rate.’

‘Them cards have been right on two counts so far,’ Rose told her. ‘There was a letter, just as you predicted, one which our Harriet wrote to her real mother, only the poor lass didn’t know where to send it. And now a parting, with her being chucked out on to the streets. You could call it three things they got right since they predicted a great deal of sorrow and there’s certainly been that. It’s heartbreaking.’

‘Don’t take this situation too much to heart, Rose. Remember the cards also stated that there would be a successful outcome in the end; that you must trust in your own intuition and try to offer help at the appropriate time.’

‘And when might that be, I wonder?’

‘You won’t know till it happens,’ Irma consoled her. ‘It’s a pity your Harriet didn’t come round for a reading, like I suggested, but I’m sure your instincts won’t let you down when it comes to the crunch.’

‘I think we’ve reached that already and I haven’t a sensible idea in me head of what I can do to find her! I feel gutted, I do really.’

‘There’s still that ace of hearts, remember. I’ve every faith some newcomer will bring love into your life.’

Rose remained sceptical but said no more. Nor did the two women ever mention Joe, or the fact he might be moving from his wife’s house into Joyce’s any time soon. The subject of Irma’s husband never came up and Rose was certainly not going to be the one to raise it.

Belle Garside, the incumbent market superintendent was busy giving any number of interviews to the local press about the threatened demolition works on Champion Street, and continuing to hold an endless round of meetings.

Joe never missed a single one, though he spent most of each meeting disagreeing and arguing with her. They were like a couple of kids having a slanging match in the playground. He took great pleasure in rubbing Belle up the wrong way at the slightest provocation, somehow managing to imply how much better he could do the job if he were still in charge.

‘Well you’re not any longer, I am, so bite your tongue, Joe Southworth, before you open that stupid gob of yours once too often.’

‘Who are you calling stupid?’

‘You must be, the way you’re carrying on with that hussy.’

‘Oh, so you’re jealous, is that it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Sounds very much like it to me. Well, I’m sorry, Belle, you and I had a good innings, but I called time, if you remember?’

‘To my great and profound relief . . .’

Then Jimmy Ramsay would hold up his great big dinner plate hands and call for silence, rather like a teacher would with a pair of errant pupils. There was an unspoken acceptance that Belle was furious Joe had dumped her in favour of Joyce Ashton, but the danger of losing the market, he tactfully reminded everybody, was far more important than personal feelings.

Every morning as Steve started work on Barry Holmes’s fruit and veg stall, he kept a weather eye out in case Harriet should come strolling by, but sadly she never did. He was beginning to worry in case she might be ill, or some accident had befallen her. Steve was desperate to talk to her, to explain what had gone wrong the other Friday night, and was beginning to think that she might be avoiding him. He only had one week left before he went up to college. Admittedly it was only in Lancaster and he could come home most weekends, but he wanted everything put right between them before he left. This morning, as luck would have it, he spotted Rose coming out of George’s bakery.

‘Mrs Ibbotson, could I have a word?’

Rose looked at the lad blankly for a moment and then, realising who he was, hurried over to him filled with new hope and excitement. ‘What is it lad, have you seen our Harriet?’

Steve looked stunned. ‘That’s just what I was going to ask you. I haven’t seen her since the Friday we fell out at the dance. She’s been avoiding me, I expect, because she thinks I deliberately stood her up. I want you to know, Mrs Ibbotson . . . I want to tell Harriet . . . that I didn’t mean to stand her up at all. I was only late for the dance because I was involved in a great big row with my parents. For some reason they’ve taken against her and . . .’

‘I wonder why that is,’ Rose interrupted, her tone ripe with sarcasm.

The boy let out a heavy sigh. ‘It’s true they objected to the fact that I intended to go on seeing her, despite – well, everything - you know, and they tried to stop me going to the dance. But unlike Sunday lunch when I failed to stand up to them, this time I did. I know they’re my parents but I pointed out to them, begging your pardon, Mrs Ibbotson, that Harriet can’t be blamed for the stupid or wicked things her parents did.’

‘You’re absolutely right, lad.’

‘So will you tell her that our quarrel was just a silly misunderstanding. I hadn’t stood her up at all, I was delayed because I was defending her. Unfortunately, I then got all jealous when I saw her dancing with that Vinny Turner which made things worse. Will you tell her I’m sorry, that I still love her, and I want to see her before I go away to college.’

‘Aye lad, course I will,’ Rose told him, her faded old eyes warm with pity. ‘There’s just one small snag. I haven’t the first idea where she is.’

Across at the bakery Chris George was showing his wife a letter. It had come from the developers’ solicitors and said they were offering him a tidy sum of money to sell up and move out.

‘Think what this could mean,’ he said to Amy, as she sat feeding their small son toast soldiers dipped in egg yolk. She was also pregnant with their second child and, Chris thought, looking a little strained and tired.

‘Why, what would it mean? We’re fine as we are, now that your mother and father have retired and left us the bakery business, and we’ve moved into the flat above.’

Chris sat down next to her at the table. ‘Yes, but we could do so much more with the kind of money they’re offering. Dad has indicated he might accept, then give us a share of the profit so that we could buy a much better, bigger business in a busier street. It would mean more money in the long run, and a more secure future.’

‘And where would we live?’

‘Either over whatever shop we bought, as we do here, or we could happen take on a mortgage and buy ourselves a proper house as well.’

Amy looked at him, aghast. ‘A mortgage, but that would mean more debt, wouldn’t it? I don’t like the sound of that at all. Anyway, I like it here, in Champion Street.’

‘There are other streets, every bit as good.’

‘But we don’t know anyone who lives in them.’

‘We could get to know them, love, and you can’t deny it isn’t tempting. It’s more money than we’ve ever dreamed of. Dad could do with a bit extra cash for his retirement too. It’s a generous offer.’

Amy looked at him askance. ‘Those solicitors also offered Mam and Dad way over the top for Poulson’s Pies, but Mam refused.’

Chris looked sceptical. ‘That’s not what I heard. Your mother was bragging the other night in the Dog and Duck that she’d tossed their offer back at them because it was nowhere near as much as they’d offered Sam Beckett. She admitted that she might accept if they offered more.’

‘Rubbish, she never would,’ Amy protested. ‘Our Robert is going to take over the business, so Mam wants Poulson’s to keep on going, then he can afford to pay her a pension from the profits.’

‘Huh, I can’t see your brother being very reliable on the pension front.’

Amy’s cheeks went bright pink. ‘What are you suggesting, that he’s feckless, a bad manager or too selfish to care about his parents? What?’

‘Nothing, I didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Look, didn’t we agree not to quarrel any more about our respective families, and here we are going down that same old road.‘

‘You started it,’ Amy said, turning her back on him to show that she wouldn’t easily forgive him.

‘I’m only asking you to seriously consider this offer.’

Amy slammed down the egg spoon, making little Danny jump, and again swivelled round to face her husband, her small face all pinched and fierce. ‘How can you even think of accepting? I thought you loved this market. We both do. Haven’t we lived here all our lives?’

‘Times change. Remember that awful house we lived in when we first got married? Doesn’t that need razing to the ground? Weren’t you the one who claimed half the street should be declared derelict, that Manchester should do something to improve its housing stock? That was when you were involved in all that Peace Movement stuff, or have you forgotten?’

Amy had the grace to look a bit shamefaced because joining the Peace Movement had created a few problems for herself and Chris, but then so had his mother. She cast him a sheepish smile.

‘All right, so I might have said something of the sort, and maybe some of these old houses should be pulled own. But not all of them, and not
this
house, not
this
shop. And not the entire market and market hall. That would be criminal. Besides, if they pulled down the market I’d lose all my friends, so not another word Chris George. You write back and tell them the answer’s no.’

Chris sighed, tucked the letter into his pocket and went off to make the next batch of bread, privately promising himself that he’d think about it a bit longer before doing anything definite. He was quite sure he’d be able to win Amy round, in the end.

He certainly had little faith in this campaign the committee were waging. Only last week The Church of All Saints in Weaste closed its doors for the last time, The Cromwell Cinema had closed, as had the Alexandra and the Empire. The new maisonettes in Ordsall were all ready for occupation and The Hare and Hounds on Broad Street was to be demolished shortly. What hope did they have of saving Champion Street Market in the light of such determined progress?

One morning towards the end of September, Joyce staggered into the kitchen after yet another late night out with Joe in the Dog and Duck, in search of something to ease her parched throat and dry-as-dust mouth. Her head was thumping from all the rum and cokes she’d consumed the night before, and she was still inwardly seething over the fact that much of the evening had been spent in yet another argument over her proposal that they move in together. Joe still obstinately refused to make up his mind. So when she found the kitchen empty with no sign of any breakfast being made, she reacted badly, instantly awash with self-pity and rage.

Banging open the door at the bottom of the stairs Joyce shouted up to her mother who slept in one of the attic bedrooms, next to Grant’s, and to Harriet’s, when she’d still lived here.

Joyce was almost beginning to regret having kicked the girl out, since she’d been useful round the house. Yet in other respects she was thankful to be rid of the disapproving looks whenever she came home the worse for wear, as she’d done last night. Not to mention the constant reminder of how the girl had blighted her life, simply by her very existence.

Even so, nothing got done on time these days.

‘
Mother
! Do I have to do everything myself? I work all hours God sends to keep you lot in comfort, and I shouldn’t be expected to put the flamin’ kettle on and cook me own breakfast an’ all.’ She knew this for a slight exaggeration, but the old bat was growing idle in her old age. ‘Mother, are you listening to me? Grant, where the hell are you?’

Joyce marched up the stairs and along the landing, flinging open bedroom doors as she went. Grant lay flat on his stomach, snoring loud enough to wake the dead following yet another hard drinking session the night before, but Rose was still neatly tucked into her own bed, flat on her back, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

Joyce stood in the doorway, hands on hips like a sergeant-major. ‘Well, are you going to get off yer fat backside and make me breakfast, or do I have to do everything meself?’

Rose didn’t move.

‘I’m waiting. Get up, you lazy mare.’

When still her mother made no effort to move, Joyce marched right into the room, and discovered, on closer inspection, that Rose couldn’t get up, or do as she was asked because she was quite incapable of moving at all. The old woman attempted to explain this fact to her daughter but her mouth was all skewed to one side and not a sensible word came out of it. Rose had suffered a stroke.