Midnight on Lime Street (7 page)

Babs stood her ground. ‘I want to take Sally with me, give her a few hours off in a place where her stepfather can’t find her. She never goes to Liverpool, because she might bump
into him, but Southport’s safe, so I’m taking her.’

‘No,’ Eve snapped.

‘Then I’m going nowhere.’ Babs sat down and wrapped her arms round her upper body.

The others left, though Sally lingered where she was.

‘OK.’ Eve’s face wore an angry expression. ‘But you’ll have to be back in time for work, both of you, so I’ll pick you up at about five.’ Was she losing
her grip? Babs had bested her on at least two occasions lately. ‘Go and get ready. We’re leaving in ten minutes.’ Eve turned and plodded down the corridor. ‘Up to your
rooms, now,’ the two remaining in the kitchen heard. It was clear that the rest had been listening on the stairs.

Sally grabbed Babs’s face and deposited a sloppy kiss on her forehead. ‘Are you up to something?’ she whispered.

‘Oh yes. And you’ll soon see what, Baby Sal.’

The younger girl swallowed audibly. ‘Why are you helping me?’

Babs shrugged. ‘You remind me of somebody.’

‘Oh? Who?’

‘Me. You remind me of me, Sally. I still remember being young and frightened, you see. We might have a couple of wrinkles, but we don’t lose our memories at thirty.’

‘Are you working on a plan?’ Sally asked.

Babs nodded. ‘I want you out of here. Say nothing. Just get dressed in something girlish and come with me to Southport. I’ve no idea what his place is like, but it’s in grounds
and there’s a cottage. Sometimes there’s a horse, too. I know he’ll take both of us. He’ll compensate Eve, and we can have the run of his house. For a kick-off, we might
lose his cleaner, because we can do her job. And we’ll get time off, so we can go out and meet people. Decent people, not johns. Go on – get ready.’

Sally gulped. ‘So Eve will lose two of us.’

‘She has a queue of part-timers. Look, stop worrying about other people and think about yourself for a change. When were you raped for the first time?’

Sally blanched. ‘I was nine, going on ten.’

‘So that’s how you think of yourself, as just a toy for men. I am going all out on this one, sweetheart. Don Crawford’s not a bad man – he’s sick, like your
stepfather, but I’m sure he never raped a child. Look at it this way, Sal: there’ll be three in the bed. We can keep him happy, and we’ll have each other.’

‘And if he says no?’

‘He won’t. I’m the love of his life, and if I want you there, you’ll be there. When he dies, I’ll get the lot.’

Sally frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh yes, especially if I can manage to marry him. Don’t say anything, because he doesn’t know yet, and neither does Eve. You can be my bridesmaid.’ Babs grinned. ‘I
think your jaw just hit the floor, Sal. You’d best shut it – there’s a bus from town due.’

Sally laughed before pressing her lips together. ‘I’d feel safe with you, Babs.’

Babs shook her head sadly. ‘Women are never safe, kiddo. Men have the upper hand out there in the real world, which is why we have to make a life without them. You know what your dad is,
and mine’s no better, always beating my mam, me and anything else that moved. So we have to go all out for a better life for ourselves. I was reading about it.’

They went to get ready, both dressing young, both with pony tails, ribbons, short skirts, white socks and flat shoes. Babs drew the line at freckles, because she was going out today, so this was
different. Wotsername Sefton-Hope in the magazine reckoned that there was more to emancipation than a cross on a little piece of paper. It was about raising women to the top of the pile, about
decision-making and the enhancement of life. ‘Me and Sal are going to be enhanced,’ she told her reflection, ‘so watch this space.’

‘If I’d known you were going to act so daft, I’d have brought buckets and spades and little paper flags for sandcastles,’ Eve grumbled. The two girls
were counting green doors along the route and getting on her wick. Most exterior woodwork had been painted a dark shade of green in wartime, and Babies Babs and Sal were calculating how many folk
hadn’t bothered to redecorate since 1945. Eve had dropped Belle at her parents’ new address; Belle had been happy to sit in the body of the vehicle, while Eve’s two other
passengers had travelled from bad through worse and all the way to bloody ridiculous in the best seats at the front with the driver.

The pair of giggling idiots sat beside her cracking stupid jokes. The back, a separate compartment, was where clients were contained while being transferred to and from Meadowbank Farm. It was
dark and dingy, and it smelled of men – hair cream, tobacco, sweat and semen. ‘You’re like a couple of kids,’ the driver complained. ‘Behave yourselves.’

She should have forced them to sit in the rear of the van with Belle, but Babs remained in an almost unbearably uppity frame of mind. ‘It stinks like our bedrooms,’ Baby Schofield
had pronounced. ‘We’ll ride in the front with you.’ And Eve had felt like kicking herself, because she’d allowed Babs her own way yet again. Who was the real madam here? Who
owned the business? Who had sunk every last cent into a safe place where girls didn’t need to fret about being worried by pimps, beaten up by punters or arrested by coppers for working the
streets?

Babs grinned broadly at her companion, who was clearly enjoying the childhood of which she’d been robbed by her mother’s second husband. Sal hadn’t been out for months, as she
dared not return home, and was too afraid to spend a day in the city centre, where her stepfather pretended to sweep the streets between taking furtive sips from a small bottle kept in a pocket.
The younger girl exclaimed over posh houses in Ainsdale, and even got excited by the sight of desert-like sand dunes along the coastal road into Southport. ‘We came here years back, before
Mam married
him
,’ she said. ‘We went somewhere called Peter Pan’s Playground. It was dead boring. Somebody sold tea, and it was always stewed. And there was usually sand
in our butties, so we called them sandwiches.’

Eve bit her lip; if she spoke, she might explode. Constant references to St Peter’s Waiting Room, Death Valley and Pensioners’ Parlour were wearing thin, and the girls were at it
again.

‘That’s Southport all over,’ Babs giggled. ‘But I’ve got to get used to it. Sold to the highest bidder, you see. I’m owned by an old man with false teeth, bad
breath, greasy hair and a mad horse. I’m a slave, Sally. Do you think I should complain?’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Eve growled. ‘He’s a decent enough bloke with a big house and plenty of cash, so be grateful for once in your life. Don’s lonely, that’s all.
There’s no harm in him – it’s younger men who make most trouble.’

‘He should have got married,’ Babs declared. ‘Then he would have had some company.’

‘He’s scared of women,’ was Eve’s sharp reply.

‘Why?’ Sally asked.

Eve had a ready answer. ‘His ma was a tartar by all accounts. He looked after her right until the day she died. She left him rich, but isolated. A lot of men who don’t marry are
reacting to something or other in their pasts. His mother was enough to put anybody off marriage for life.’

Sally’s right hand clutched her companion’s left. She now understood fully what Babs intended to do. She would insist on marriage, and Sally would become Don’s new baby.
‘He’ll have two of us,’ Babs had said, ‘and between us we can wear him out faster than I could on my own.’ Would the old man agree to marry Babs? If he was so afraid
of women, why should he marry at this late stage?

They travelled up Lord Street. ‘See?’ Babs laughed. ‘They’re all old. Look at her with the two walking sticks. She came for a fortnight last week, and she’s aged
thirty years in a few days. You won’t want me back, Eve, cos I’ll probably be in a wheelchair by next year. Unless you get a weirdo who wants a girl who can’t run away. I’m
sure if you look hard enough you’ll find somebody who’ll play that game.’

Eve shook her head and remained silent. Little Miss Clever Clogs was up to something, and God alone knew what it was. The girl was bright, too bright for her own good in Eve’s opinion.
What was the besom planning this time? A revolution? Eve would be glad to get shut of her, that much was certain. But oh, she was going to miss her . . .

She parked the van and studied the map closely. Don Crawford had an estate, a tract of land so valuable that local builders were gearing up for a fight, since the Wordsworth site was probably
large enough to contain twenty or thirty high-class detached dwellings with decent gardens. Yes, there was a queue waiting for the poor old bugger to die, and that queue included local government
whose compulsory purchasing ability might well raze Don’s assets to the level of about seventy corporation houses.

And now Babs was going to join the rest of the retinue, one more greedy gob waiting for Don Crawford to kick the bucket. Where did young Sally fit in? Babs didn’t give a damn about anybody
else, which was often the case with working girls. They didn’t always start off hardened, but the lifestyle made them tough and self-protective, and Babs was as harsh as they came, so why was
she helping Sally have a day out? What did she want from Sally?’

‘Are we lost?’ Babs asked. ‘Remember, we have to leave early.’

‘Shut up,’ Eve advised, ‘and behave yourselves while you’re there. In fact, Sally should come with me and help with the shopping, because she’s not involved, and
you need to talk things through in private with Don.’

Babs gave birth to a loud, wet raspberry. ‘She’s having a day out, Eve. When did she last get away from the farm? Never, is when. Even a dog needs a walk and time outside for a bit
of a wander. She’s coming with me, and she can sit in another room while I talk to him.’

Eve stared hard at Baby Schofield. ‘Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking, Babs?’

‘I don’t know what you think I’m thinking, do I? I’m not a bloody mind-reader. Sally needs a break, and she can come to Southport and visit me any time when she’s
not working.’

‘Have you taken a turn and gone charitable, then?’ Eve asked.

Babs was suddenly serious. ‘She’s like me, like I was. With her, it was her stepfather; with me, it was my uncle. I’m lucky, because he’s dead, but Sally’s corpse
is still leaning on a brush down Lime Street. So don’t take it out on me for having a friend. You’ve got Kate to talk to, and nobody complains about that. What you can’t stand is
us having minds or mates of our own.’

They’d be forming a union soon, Eve told herself as she drove towards Wordsworth House. Someone like Babs would be shop steward, and they would all pay into a pot and get badges and
printed matter telling them how to work to rule. They’d ban pensioners, baldies, sweaty feet, moaners and warts. She pictured them sitting round a bucket of fire in the yard, placards at the
ready, a Babs-like figure in the middle screaming about not taking life lying down. Yes, Barbara Schofield would leave a hole in Eve’s life, because she was always good for a laugh.

They travelled through a pair of open metal gates with
Wordsworth
and
House
woven into ornate wrought iron. Dove Cottage stood near the gates, and by most people’s
standards, the grounds were vast. ‘Blimey,’ Eve muttered, ‘so this is how the other half lives.’ Even though they were round the back of the building, Wordsworth House was
stunning; it looked as if the young troublemaker had fallen on her feet here.

‘Stop!’ Babs yelled.

The van slewed to a halt. ‘What the hell’s up with you now?’ The driver was fast approaching the outer rim of her patience.

Babs offered no reply. Like one in a daze, she clambered out of the vehicle and stood stock still next to it. Love at first sight? she pondered inwardly. He was tall, well muscled, and even from
this distance she could see his eyes shining. Next to him a short man leaned on a fence, his gaze fixed on Babs. Dragged along by a force she didn’t understand and didn’t want to
question, Barbara Schofield walked towards them across a large expanse of lawn.

It was unreal; it was almost like a dream. Why was she doing this? It was as if some strong and undeniable magnetic force was drawing her across the grass. Eve was right – what was the
matter with her now?

Gordy Hourigan stared hard at the approaching young woman. She’d scarcely glanced at him, because she was focused completely on his companion on the other side of the fence, and there was
confidence in the way she walked. He looked back at the horse. Mad Murdoch resembled a statue, which fact was nothing short of a miracle, especially in the presence of an alien vehicle on the
distant gravel driveway. When the girl reached him, the animal whinnied softly.

‘Hello,’ Gordy Hourigan said, his accent definitely the property of western Ireland with just an occasional bit of Lancashire thrown in as flavouring.

Babs returned the greeting before climbing partway up the tall paddock fence. ‘So you’re the mad bugger, eh? Pleased to meet you.’

Gordy doffed a flat cap and scratched his head. He felt like someone eavesdropping during an intimate moment. She was stroking the horse’s nose and whispering softly at the lunatic. This
had been an insane morning; Mad Murdoch had regressed to foalhood, prancing sideways as if practising for
Swan Lake
, and trying to unseat his rider by stopping suddenly and bending to eat
something invisible on the ground.

‘Do you work with animals?’ the trainer asked.

‘Human ones, yes,’ was her terse reply. ‘But this is the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Can I sit on him?’

The man frowned. ‘Not dressed like that, you can’t – unless you want broken bones. He bolts sometimes, so you’d need a hard hat, at least.’

‘He wants me,’ she said. ‘He wants me as a friend.’ With no hesitation, she climbed higher, while Murdoch parked himself parallel to the paddock’s wooden
boundary.

Gordy had seen this sort of thing before. Some people were made for horses, and some horses were made for some people. And there she was, lying face down across the back of a crazy,
temperamental, skittish beast, no tack, no saddle, not so much as a bit of rope to hang on to. With her right hand in Murdoch’s mane, Babs clung on and whispered, ‘Walk, matey.
Let’s have a little ta-ta, eh?’