Paradise Lane (36 page)

He felt like a punctured balloon, could feel the power draining out of him. His final weapon had been removed from his hands. How many hundreds of miles had he driven to have his moment with this harridan? And she had taken even that away from him. ‘I’ll be claiming her,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve a letter from her mother—’

‘Try,’ she said softly. ‘Try and Bolton will hang you from the minute hand of the Town Hall clock.’

‘I’ll not set foot in that place again.’

Ivy inclined her head. ‘Very wise. In fact, there’s a phone in yon Hall, and I can go now and talk to some very big Labour Party folk from our neck of the woods. Cotton workers’ union’s got a bob or two put by, so they’ll think nowt of having you tailed, Worthington. Some big lads up yonder, eh? Steelmen and all, them as sweats in foundries. They don’t like you. Even the bosses of other mills can’t stand the sight of your mush. Didn’t you get chucked out of the Lodge on top of everything else? Eeh, what a shame that were.’

His heart felt as if it were held in a vice. A hammer seemed to pound in his chest, a large weapon that echoed sounds from the steel factories she had just mentioned. ‘You bitch,’ he murmured.

Ivy suddenly realized that this man was very ill and that she didn’t care how ill he was. ‘Bitches and cows make you feared, don’t they? Just bugger off away from Mr Marchant’s lands, Worthington. There’s a dozen men in them fields who’ll kill you as soon as look at your horrible face.’ She swivelled on her heel and marched away. Not long ago, she had been weak, might have been too frail to manage these encounters with Worthington. She inhaled the clean air, said a silent prayer of thanks to Hampshire. Now, she must do what she had intended in the first place, which was to find Sally and Red. At a four-way junction of country lanes, she paused, then turned towards the brook.

Worthington slumped to the ground and sat in an undignified heap while he fought for oxygen. Death was near, so near that he could almost smell the stench of decay. Reason seemed to be deserting him completely. Even as the anger roared in his skull, a level of consciousness told him that he was losing control. But he didn’t care any more. There was nothing left for him, no work, no home, no future. All he wanted now was the chance to kick back at those who had conspired against him.

He lifted his head and stared across the field just as a pair of children danced into his line of vision. The blonde girl was probably Sally Crumpsall, and the red-headed lad seemed familiar. In a few minutes, once his lungs had settled, he would walk slowly across the fallow land and take the child. She was the only weapon left to him.

Sally watched the silver trout as they cavorted in the stream. There were so many fish that there seemed insufficient water to accommodate them. ‘Do they drown?’ she asked her companion. ‘If there’s not enough water, do they choke?’

Red nodded. ‘Aye, same as we do if there’s no air.’

‘They need more water, then,’ she said.

‘Oh, they’ll be all right. Once they get round yon bend, they’ll be in a wider part of the river. That’s why they’re all rushing about.’ He dropped to the ground and breathed in the smell of damp grass. Red Trubshaw was not a fanciful boy, yet he was beginning to think that smells had colours attached to them. Grass and peas straight from the pod had a green smell, while not-quite-ripe tomatoes definitely carried a burnt yellowish aroma. He wondered for a moment whether, because of his nickname, he ponged of red like strawberries did . . . Sally’s colour was yellow, he mused.

‘We’re going home soon,’ Sally moaned. There were things and people that she missed; there were others best not thought about. The headmaster belonged to the latter category. ‘Back to Craddock Street Juniors and old Basher Bates.’

Red had little time for their headmaster. ‘Don’t worry. Once he’s seen you with me, he’ll leave you alone. I put jumping jacks through his letterbox last bonfire night ’cos he’d thumped me and our Charlie. He never said nowt, old Basher, only when he looked at me, I knew he knew it were me as had done it. And he knew I knew he knew.’

Sally, who had got lost after the second ‘knew’, poked her companion in the ribs. ‘There’s a car stopped over yonder,’ she told him. ‘And a man coming across to us.’

Red yawned. The countryside was great, but it seemed to make him excessively hungry and in need of sleep. The idea of going home to share a bed with three brothers did not appeal. Also, the smell of his house in Paradise matched no colour at all. Brown, perhaps. Dirty, smelly brown full of germs and mildew and cockroaches and—

‘Hello, Mr Worthington,’ said Sally, surprise showing in her tone. ‘What are you doing here?’

Red, instantly alert, shot upright and glared at the shadow between him and the sun.

‘I’ve come to see you,’ announced the intruder. ‘I thought you might like a ride in my car.’

Red poked a hand through his hair so that it stood to attention above raised eyebrows. ‘We’ve to go home in a minute,’ he told the man.

‘Home? Isn’t your home in Bolton, lad?’

Sally answered for both of them. ‘We’ve got a house here and all, Mr Worthington. Rose Cottage. It’s mine, because Uncle Tom gave it me. When I’m twenty-one, I get the doings.’

‘She means the deeds,’ explained Red. He didn’t like this man, didn’t trust him. ‘Get moving, Sal. Your gran’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.’

Worthington placed a heavy hand on Sally’s shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he wheedled, his voice rising in pitch as if he were coaxing a pet cat. ‘I’ve things to tell you, Sally. Things about me and the man you called Dad, things about your mother and—’

Sensing danger, Red threw himself at the unwelcome guest. ‘Bugger off,’ he said clearly. ‘We want nowt off you. Me and her’s got all we want. I don’t know why you’ve come all this way. Is it ’cos they’ve took the mill off you?’ He thrust a balled fist into the man’s soft gut.

Worthington let out a formless roar and grabbed the boy by the throat. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that. I’ll have your hide. This girl is mine – do you hear? She is mine, I tell you.’ Although Red was a big lad, Andrew Worthington’s temper allowed him to shake the substantial child as if he were a doll. ‘I’ve lost enough, boy, and it’s time Ivy Crumpsall shared the pain. This is my daughter and—’

Red’s boot made sharp contact with the large man’s groin. ‘Shut your mouth,’ roared the furious boy. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ He stood back and watched with interest while Worthington folded himself into a ball on the ground. ‘I know where to kick folk,’ shouted Red. ‘And so does she and all.’ He jerked a thumb at Sally. ‘She’s like me sister, is Sal—’

‘If you say “Sally, Sally, Sally” very fast, it sounds like Alice,’ said Sally. ‘Red had an Alice, only she died, so he’s got me instead.’ Why was she talking about foolish things while this man was pretending to be her dad? Because she didn’t want him for a dad, she told herself. Her dad was dead and in heaven with Jesus and God and a load of angels with harps and wings. Talking and thinking daft seemed to take her mind off the confusion.

Red, who had always been a good eavesdropper, had heard tales at home, when his own mam had chatted with neighbours over a couple of jugs from the outdoor licence. There were a lot of boys and girls on a list of what Mam called Worthington’s cast-offs. Surely Sally was in no way connected with this great heap of humanity that writhed about in the grass? He grabbed Sally’s hand. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘Let’s get away from him.’

But Sally shook her head. ‘I’m stopping here till he tells me I’m not his girl,’ she said. ‘I’m not his daughter, I’m not, not, not.’

Red stared at Sally. Her cheeks were fiery and there was a set to her jaw, a stubbornness in her eyes. This was how she had looked that day in the playground when Red and his friends had taunted her about the new clothes. ‘Come on, Sal,’ he begged. ‘Yon feller’s only trying to make trouble for you.’ He pulled at her, tried to drag her away from the scene.

‘He’s got to tell the truth!’ Sally screamed at the top of her voice. ‘Make him tell the truth, Red.’

Worthington waited for the pain to subside, hoped that the discomfort in his chest would not increase. Everything around him was bathed in a dark red light, as if his temper had spilled out to stain the air, the clouds, the faces of these children. He was a doomed man. Within weeks – perhaps days – his heart would give up the fight. The woman he was seeking to punish had been ill, yet she seemed to have been given a reprieve. There had been strength in Ivy Crumpsall’s voice today, energy in her demeanour.

Red pulled hard on Sally’s closed fist. ‘Come on, let’s run.’ A half-crown landed by his boot, and he studied it for a moment. ‘I don’t want your mucky money,’ he said eventually. He hadn’t owned a coin of such value in his whole life. The nearest he ever came to more than a shilling was while doing Mam’s shopping on a Saturday morning. Even then, the change had been counted like gold dust.

Worthington rose to his feet. ‘Pick it up,’ he ordered.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Don’t want it. Don’t want nothing off you.’

‘There’s a lot more,’ whispered the sweating man. ‘A fiver if you’ll take it.’

Red swallowed a hollow lump of surprise. Five quid? He could go to Blackpool for a fortnight, get new shoes, eat all the chips he could carry. Or he could buy a fancy stone for his dead sister’s grave. He glanced at Sally. Sally was real, because she was here and now. For little Alice, there was no hope – and a piece of cold, white marble with writing on would not warm his sister back to life. ‘Not interested,’ he breathed.

Worthington’s lip curled. ‘How much do you want for her, then?’

Sally glanced sideways at the boy who had always supported her. ‘I’m not in Mr Heilberg’s shop window,’ she said quietly. ‘And I am not your girl. You can’t make me be your girl. You can’t buy me, Mr Worthington.’

‘You heard her,’ snapped Red. ‘Her’s not been pledged like somebody’s Sunday suit. Sally’s not for sale.’

‘Ten pounds, then. That’s my last offer.’

Sally exploded. ‘Shut up, you!’ she yelled. ‘You’re not my dad, because my dad died with being in the pit and the war and you’re a horrible man with ugly eyes and Gran hates you.’ She pulled herself out of Red’s grip. ‘Go away. This is a nice place with nice people, fields and everything.’ She knew what she meant, but the words did not arrive easily. He didn’t belong here, looked out of context in such a beautiful setting. ‘Mills is smelly and horrible just like you, so go back. You’ve no house here.’ She stretched her spine. ‘I have a house here, my own house. Go back to yours.’

The man lunged forward and scooped the girl into his arms. She rained blows on his face, but he seemed not to notice.

Red, temporarily frozen by shock, simply stood and watched while people began to arrive from two or three directions, men who wielded the tools of harvest time. ‘What’s going on here?’ asked a farm-hand. ‘Put her down,’ he told the stranger.

Worthington backed away from the field workers. ‘Touch me with those forks and you’ll hit the girl,’ he said. ‘She’s my daughter. Ivy Crumpsall kidnapped her and brought her here. There’s proof in my pocket, a letter from the child’s mother. It states that this child should be reared by an aunt.’ And a second sheet, the page he had never given to Gert, named Andrew Worthington as the child’s father. ‘I advise you all to keep perfectly still.’ He allowed his eyes to travel round the semicircle of men.

Red bit down on his lower lip until he tasted the tang of blood. They must all stay as they were and say nothing, because Worthington didn’t have eyes in the back of his head. Ollie Blunt was creeping softly through the field, the pitchfork held out before him like Britannia’s trident with a prong missing. He didn’t look daft any more. Ollie’s face was set in lines of concentration as he came up behind the hated intruder.

Ivy appeared and stood panting next to a ramshackle stile. She could not believe what she was seeing. Half a dozen workers had placed their implements on the ground, but Ollie continued to stalk his prey. She opened her mouth to scream, but she was too late. As the red-faced Worthington stumbled over a clump of weeds, he dropped Sally and fell back onto Ollie’s pitchfork.

The cruel points entered Worthington’s body, while Sally, screaming with shock and relief, was dragged away by Red. With a strength born of terror, Worthington rolled sideways, heaved himself onto his knees, his mouth set in a perfect O that seemed to illustrate amazement rather than pain.

Ollie stood very still and watched while his victim crumpled slowly. Somebody was screaming. ‘It’s all right, Sally,’ Ollie said. ‘He can’t hurt you no more now.’

One of the harvesters stepped forward and placed his hands on the wooden steel. ‘Leave it,’ shouted Ivy. ‘He’ll bleed less if you don’t pull it out.’ She jerked her head in response to movement from the lane, saw Rosie making haste towards her husband. ‘Don’t touch that fork,’ yelled Ivy to her neighbour. Poor Rosie. A pang of guilt shot through Ivy’s heart, its shards as wicked as the prongs of any hay fork. If Rosie and Ollie had stayed in Paradise, this would never have happened . . .

Worthington sank face down in the grass, lifted his head, saw Ivy Crumpsall standing over him. His mouth widened in a sneer. ‘She knows now, Mrs Crumpsall. That’s no granddaughter of yours – I’ve told her . . .’ Flecks of blood splashed from his mouth and onto the grass. ‘Mine,’ he moaned. ‘Just another one of . . .’ A redhot pain shot through his chest and into his left arm. Compared to this agony, the buried pitchfork was a minor nuisance. There seemed to be no air, no sun. A darkness encircled him, dragging him down and down until his only comfort was the cool pasture that touched his face. Behind Ivy Crumpsall stood a cow, probably the same animal that had terrified him earlier. Now, he was too tired to experience fear.

‘The man’s at death’s door,’ whispered a bystander whose cheeks had whitened beneath the warm glister of summer. The labourer raised his head and shouted, ‘Quick, get a cart – send for the ambulance.’

‘He’s still with us,’ said Ivy. His head was turned sideways, so that just one hideous eyeball stared up into her face. She bent, touched his neck, felt the feeble flicker of a wavering pulse. ‘Repent,’ she beseeched. ‘Do it now, Mr Worthington. If you pray now, the gates will open for you.’