Midnight on Lime Street (8 page)

‘Well,’ the trainer said to himself, ‘now I’ve seen everything.’ Murdoch walked carefully right round the paddock, returning Babs to her point of origin and
standing motionless while she dismounted untidily.

She patted the horse’s neck. ‘You are gorgeous, and you know it, don’t you?’ Babs grinned when the animal shook his head. ‘Cheeky.’

She spoke to the trainer. ‘The world looks different upside down,’ she pronounced. ‘I like this horse,’ she added when she had clambered back over the high fence.
‘He’s a bit tall, though. I felt like I was on a bloody skyscraper.’

Gordy closed his gaping mouth. ‘Are you Mr Crawford’s Baby Babs?’ he asked.

‘Yes. What about it?’

He shrugged. ‘Will you be living here?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Why?’

‘Just asking. Because if the horse likes you, you could help me.’

She folded her arms. ‘Would I get paid?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Gordon Hourigan took to the little madam immediately. Although blissfully unaware of the truth, she had been blessed with a gift, and that ability should be put to good use. People like her were
few and far between, while Mad Murdoch was a one-off, a powerful machine who, like this little lady, was unaware of his talent.

‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

‘In the gatehouse – Dove Cottage,’ he replied. ‘The boss is poetry mad. Murdy’s best friend’s a donkey called Nicholas Nye – that name’s from a
poem, too. Dove Cottage is where Wordsworth lived for a while; it’s up in the Lake District, I think. Mr Crawford reads a lot.’

‘Does he?’ Well, there went her chance of living in Dove Cottage, she supposed. ‘How many horses?’ she asked, pointing towards the stable block.

‘Just this loony gelding and his mother. She was called Dead Loss, but we changed it to Murma because she’s Murdoch’s mum. The rest are donkeys rescued by Mr Crawford.
He’s a good man, Miss . . . er . . .’

‘Just Babs will do. And you are?’

‘Gordy. Gordy Hourigan.’

Babs continued to stare at the horse. ‘It’s like he knows me, isn’t it?’

‘Aye. It happens. I’ve seen it before. They can seem to recognize people from the future. Have you really never worked with horses?’

‘No. I’ve never even touched one before; look at me, I’m shaking like a leaf in a gale. Where’s Murdoch’s dad?’

‘Ireland.’

‘Who owns him?’

Gordy guffawed. ‘Who owns him? Whoever can bloody catch him is who. He’s a great horse, though – an Arab. Murdy’s mother has all the grace of a crippled elephant and the
temperament of a saint. His dad’s a perfect shape, but the devil’s his master. Out of that accidental mating came Mad Murdoch. The boss is an animal lover, so he bought Murdoch’s
mother at the same time as buying him. He came cheap. They both did.’

‘But he has promise, or so I was told,’ she said.

‘If we can get him to run and jump in a straight line without unseating a jockey or starting a world war, he’ll take prizes left right and bloody centre, believe me. I’ve been
in this daft game for years. Watch him now. Look at his eyes, because he listens to every word. Ah. I see he doesn’t like your friends.’

Eve and Sally arrived. ‘What the bloody hell are you up to now, Babs?’ Eve hissed. ‘That thing could have put you in the wheelchair you were talking about.’

Murdoch raised his upper lip, displaying huge, tombstone teeth.

‘He doesn’t like you,’ Babs announced while Sally tried to swallow a giggle. ‘See? He’s walking away. Good taste in my opinion, Eve,’ Babs concluded, giving
Eve a cheeky wink.

The horse strolled nonchalantly across the paddock. He travelled again along the perimeter, breaking into a casual trot, a canter and . . . ‘Oh, my God,’ Gordy breathed. ‘Get
behind me,’ he ordered. ‘Not Babs – he won’t hurt her or the other young girl, or me.’ He glanced at Eve. ‘You’re the one he doesn’t like. Babs,
he’s coming over.’

She gasped. ‘Has he done it before?’

‘No. But a young man in love isn’t containable, even if he is a gelding.’

Eve tried to conceal about a quarter of herself behind the trainer. Sally held Babs’s hand; if Babs was going to be hurt, Sal intended to be by her side.

The sun disappeared; it was like a slowed-down film that had stuck on its reel, because the animal seemed to be in the air for many seconds, and he cast a large shadow – the event imitated
a brief solar eclipse. ‘Jesus,’ Gordy breathed, ‘we’ve tried for months to get him to . . . whoa, boy.’

The boy whoa-ed, leaving marks in the carefully manicured lawn. He tossed his head and looked daggers at the fat woman. Turning his attention to Babs, he seemed to grin. She was clapping and
shouting, ‘Well done; who’s a clever boy, then? Are you going to win the National for Don and Gordy and Babs, eh?’

Clever Boy neighed his agreement. So this was what they wanted from him. It was against his nature, against the nature of any horse, since the skeletal structure is frail, with a huge body
balanced on stick-thin legs. But the two-legged thought they were in charge and he needed to please them, especially a pair of these here, the trainer and her. He had to jump over obstacles. Well,
he would, as long as she could be there. He stood beside her, his nostrils in her pony tail.

‘Riding lessons for you, girl,’ Gordy said, a grin splitting his face.

‘Are you having a laugh? I even fall off bikes,’ Babs told him.

‘Ah, but you’ve an affinity with this insane bugger. He won’t throw you.’

She folded her arms. ‘Women don’t ride in Grand National types of races.’

The trainer nodded. ‘Not yet, they don’t. But by the time he’s ready, it will be a different story. And he likes you, so he won’t buck you off.’

Babs grinned. ‘I’m glad you said buck instead of . . . look, the bike doesn’t buck me off, but I still hit the floor.’

The trainer shook his head thoughtfully. ‘You’re a natural. I’m going to talk to the boss. Open the paddock gate and take Wonder Horse back to his mother. She’s up the
top end talking to donkeys.’ He nodded wisely. ‘Welcome to my crazy world, Babs. Before you leave later on, cuddle a donkey. Very comforting things, donkeys. Make sure you pick Nye,
Murdoch’s favourite. You’ll know him, because he wears a bell.’

‘Why a bell?’ Sally asked.

‘Because he’s blind,’ the trainer replied, employing the tone of one answering a stupid question.

Sally blinked. ‘Er . . .’

Babs rescued her friend. ‘Why a bell? He’s a donkey, not a cow. I never heard of a donkey-bell.’

‘Two reasons,’ Gordy continued. ‘One, it tells the rest of the stable he’s coming, and two, he has excellent hearing. Something in the bell’s noise lets him know
how far away from things he is. Murdoch looks after him.’

‘Aw, that’s sweet,’ Sally said.

Eve, sweaty and embarrassed, strode off towards the van. She’d had just about enough of Babs, Sally and that damned horse. As for the trainer – well, he looked as if he’d like
to get close to Babs Schofield, too close for Don Crawford’s liking. ‘I don’t know why I bother,’ she told the steering wheel. ‘Oh well, I’ve done my bit. Now,
what am I looking for? The list. Ah, here it is.’ She started the van and prepared to drive off towards Lord Street. Don would just have to do his best, because Eve Mellor was sick unto death
of the whole business. Red velvet for curtains, that was what she needed. And a couple of cream cakes would set her right.

Just as she was about to reverse, something caught her eye. From what was presumably the back door of Wordsworth House, four dogs spilled. Behind them padded two cats, a goose, and a clutch of
fussy hens with a second goose bringing up the rear. Eve blinked. ‘What is this?’ she asked herself. ‘The RSPC-bloody-A? Jesus, I feel nearly sorry for Babs Schofield. I never
thought I’d see the day.’ Smiling grimly, she set off in search of red velvet, gold tassel trim, a nice pot of tea and a plate of cream fancies.

There’s something wrong with him. He’s still kind and affectionate, still good with Matt and Lucy, but he wouldn’t join me at Confession on Saturday, said he
had a chance of overtime, and he would go to Confession in town. On Sunday, he didn’t go up for Holy Communion. I’ve no one to talk to, because I wouldn’t betray him to his
parents or to mine, so I may have a word with Father Doherty.

Neil’s a good man, very religious. I don’t know what to think. Is he having a crisis of some sort, like a breakdown? A man down Musker Street had one of those, and they put him in a
mental hospital over towards St Helens; we never saw him for months, then he came back deadly quiet and unfit for work. His wife Annie says it’s as if she has four kids now instead of three,
and she does several part-time jobs, too. The poor man’s on all kinds of drugs, and the children look after him while their mum works.

Our parish priest often says that the holiest people have the most trouble, because they try so hard to get close to their faith that the intensity of it can knock them sideways. They think too
much, he says. But if I ever put together a list of the great thinkers I know, my Neil wouldn’t be on the list. Not that he’s stupid; no, I don’t mean that, but he thinks in what
you might call straight lines. He decides what he’s doing, goes for it, achieves it, then moves on to the next item on his list.

He re-covered our three-piece suite in beige Dralon, a bit like velvet, only easier to keep clean. That nest of tables he bought second-hand looks new now, because he worked so hard to make the
set pretty. Then he does sweet things like buying a gold cross and chain for my birthday, skates for Matt, and a talking doll for Lucy.

Is it me? Has something changed inside my head, something that makes me look at him differently? He’s preoccupied, a bit distant, worried. It might be a problem at work, of course. For
ages, he’s been looking for promotion to management level, but he’s always talked to me about that. Until now.

A few times in the evenings, I’ve caught him staring hard at the fireplace. There’s nothing remarkable about it; it’s a tiled thing with a clock and some candlesticks on the
mantel and a mirror on the wall above next to the Papal Blessing of our marriage and a Palm Sunday cross. He used to discuss getting a new fireplace, but he seems so attached to it these days.

The other night, he came home injured. I heard him groaning while he bathed his arm. Says he fell off his bike.

I’ve asked him what’s changed, of course. He looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he always says. I know shift work
tires him and upsets his digestion and his sleep pattern, but . . . but there
is
a marked difference in him. He doesn’t touch me any more. We don’t want any more children, so
we’ve always used the rhythm method since having Lucy; we keep a calendar with the safe days underlined, but he’s not interested in me. How do I say that to a priest?

He told me he fell off his bike and his arm landed on a broken bottle. Three great big scratches, he has, as if some wild cat dragged its claws from elbow to wrist. He’s wearing a bandage
till it heals. I don’t know what to do, where to turn. Perhaps I should take that job in the chip shop. It’s for just three hours on weekdays, from eleven till two. At least my mind
would be occupied, and I’d be back home when the children come in from school.

Oh, look at the state of me. I’m staring at the fireplace like Neil does, and this duster in my hand’s getting nowhere fast. The ironing’s done, and that was today’s main
job. A quick flick round, and I’ll be ready for the children. The steak’s braising, and I’ll leave a plate for Neil. He’s two till ten this week. I think he’s worse
when he’s two till ten . . . Dear Lord, what is going on? Oh, I’d better finish dusting.

*

Of course, everything happened at once. The whole crop burgeoned beautifully, and the boys weren’t ready for it. Roy Foley stood, hands on hips, mouth gaping, his
breathing equipment on strike. ‘Overnight?’ he managed finally.

‘What are we supposed to do now?’ Bill Tyler asked.

‘Erm . . .’ Roy was making progress, managing to scratch his head and taking in some oxygen. ‘Get the flowers off. Well, I think so.’

‘I thought you’d learned all this?’

‘We didn’t do exams, you know. I got no certificate for being qualified in grass. We need help.’

Bill shook his head. ‘We have to be away out of here, Roy. Them demolition blokes are getting nearer by the day, and the electric will go off soon. Get some help, and I don’t mean
Ginger and Holy Mary.’

Roy sat down and pondered. From the little he knew, he understood that this was an excellent crop. Somehow, possibly by accident, he had successfully produced a sizeable load of cannabis. The
Halewood lads had a new wrinkle, too, because something called LSD was available and, if sprinkled on a joint, it gave a massive high to the smoker. ‘We’ll sell it to Halewood,’
he announced. ‘They can buy it off us, harvest it and make it fit for sale. OK, we won’t make as much as we’d like, but it’s better than ruining it, eh?’

Bill was past caring. He wanted to get home, have a bath, a bowl of scouse and some clean clothes. Drugs were not his scene; he’d be better off being a builder’s labourer with the
firm his dad worked for. ‘Go to Halewood, then,’ he suggested. ‘I promise I’ll stop here and wait for you even though I’m shit scared.’

‘Will you be too shit scared to get paid a few quid, then?’

‘No. I want compensation. It’s been like prison, but with bright lights and sweat and stinky plants. Just sell it – get rid of it, for God’s sake. When I see the back of
this lot, that’ll be an end of it as far as I’m concerned.’

‘You won’t run and let me down when I go out now?’

‘On me mam’s life.’

‘Fair enough.’ Roy went for help.

Bill sat on a chair, on his frayed nerves and on a burgeoning temper. He wasn’t as clever as Roy, wasn’t as brave as his friend, who had just gone for a three-bus ride into the hands
of professional dealers. ‘I’m not that stupid, though,’ he told a blank wall. He could feel something in his gut, and it was nothing to do with indigestion. He heard an echo of
Dad telling him that Roy Foley was trouble. ‘Stay away from him,’ Dad had said countless times. ‘Do you want to serve time in Walton Jail, Billy?’