Saturday's Child (13 page)

It was happiness that drove her now in the direction of the unknown, because she wanted to share her newfound joy. No, she could not help her prejudiced father-in-law, but perhaps she might melt
some of the iciness with which Miss Katherine Moore had apparently surrounded herself.

As arranged, Phyllis Hart opened the back door of Knowehead. She looked at the prettily dressed visitor, then widened the gap to allow Rachel into the kitchen. ‘Don’t know why
you’re bothering – her’s in a filthy mood,’ announced Phyllis cheerfully. ‘Her’s chucking things. Mind, she’s no good at chucking, what with her
arthritis.’

Rachel gulped. ‘Oh,’ was all she managed.

‘Eeh, don’t worry,’ said the girl, ‘her won’t hit out at you, like. It’ll be me what gets it for letting you in.’

Rachel’s eyes travelled round the room. It wore a film of neglect, as if it had not had a proper bottoming in months – even years. Everything was in its place, yet none of it
sparkled. It was plain that this young madam did not stretch herself unless pressed.

‘Follow me.’ Phyllis led Rachel into the hall. ‘Second on the right,’ she advised, ‘and try not to wind her up. I’ve already cleaned the carpet – bloody
soup and boiled egg everywhere.’

With her heart in her mouth, Rachel climbed the stairs. The house smelled musty, as if it had been left empty for a decade. Wallpaper was stained and scuffed, while paintwork looked as if it
needed a good scrub or a new coat all round.

She tapped on the door.

‘Go away,’ rasped a voice. ‘I’ve had enough of you for one day, Phyllis Hart.’

‘I am not Phyllis.’ Rachel’s own voice emerged high-pitched and wavery. ‘I am Mrs Barnes from the shop across the road.’ Without waiting for a reply, she opened the
door and entered the room.

The woman was seated on a chaise longue, legs stretched out, a blanket spread over her lower body. Thin to the point of emaciation, she was not a pretty sight – iron grey hair scraped
back, face lined, brownish eyes clouded by age and pain. She stared at Rachel, the eyes quickening as she cast them over the young woman’s attire.

‘I just . . .’ Rachel’s voice died, so she covered the pause with a cough.

‘I don’t want any diseases,’ snapped the householder. ‘Don’t bring coughs and colds in here, please.’ The girl was dressed neatly, but in clothes that
screamed off-the-peg, no real style, just a set of loose covers for a youthful body. Katherine placed her in a category she termed ‘poor-but-proud’, then looked at the face. This was a
stunner, yet the owner of these looks had no awareness of her power. Yes, she was decent and boring, probably. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘It’s . . . er . . . well . . . it’s nearly Christmas.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I was wondering if you wanted anything.’

Katherine Moore tilted her head to one side. ‘All I need has been purchased, thank you.’

‘We have the shop across there . . .’ Rachel pointed to the window, ‘and we wondered—’

‘If I need anything, I shall send for it.’

Rachel decided that this was a losing battle, yet she struggled on. ‘No, I was meaning – would you like to come for Christmas Day dinner?’

Katherine frowned. ‘And why would I do that?’

Rachel raised a shoulder. ‘Just because it’s Christmas, I suppose.’

‘Ah.’

‘The season of goodwill, Miss Moore.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes – love thy neighbour – all that sort of—’

‘Love thy poor, spinster, crippled neighbour – is that it?’

Rachel frowned. Now she could see what Phyllis Hart meant. ‘I was told that you are a bitter woman, Miss Moore.’ God, had she really said that? She felt the heat rising in her
cheeks, yet something prompted her to continue. ‘I am here as a new neighbour, not as the representative of some charity,’ she added. ‘Take it as you will, Miss Moore – I
shall trouble you no longer.’

‘Wait!’

Rachel, who had turned to leave, responded to the sudden strength in the old woman’s tone. She stopped in her tracks, then counted to ten before facing the dragon again. ‘Yes?’
she asked, patience etched into the syllable,

‘Sit.’ Katherine waved a stick at an armchair.

The young woman fixed a pair of flawless eyes on the crone in the chaise. ‘Why? Why on earth should I want to spend one more second with someone as selfish and as rude as you
are?’

Katherine picked up the gauntlet. ‘As you wish, then.’

Rachel knew full well what was afoot here. She had dealt with teachers similar to this, nasty old women who resented youth, who laughed when girls were forced by poverty into the mill. Knowing
that she had a fine brain, Rachel Higgins had left school at fifteen, had gone into one of the Derby Mills, had worked like a sweating pig for eight hours a day. But she was out of there now, was
as good as anyone. Without taking her eyes from the shrivelled occupant of the chaise, Rachel Barnes seated herself.

‘You are a beautiful woman.’

Rachel nodded – she had no need to deny her own looks.

‘So why are you here, then?’

Again, Rachel shrugged. ‘I am from a large family. We were brought up to look after one another. An upbringing like that leaves a mark, Miss Moore.’

‘So it would seem. Now, why do you want a miserable creature like myself to grace your table?’

Rachel found no answer.

‘You need to satisfy some urge to be charitable, is that it?’

Again, the visitor maintained silence.

‘I do not leave my house. Movement causes pain, so I keep it to a minimum.’

Rachel lifted her chin. ‘But you will seize up even more if you don’t try to move.’

Katherine Moore sighed heavily. If only people understood the sheer agony of arthritis! On a whim, she decided to confide in Rachel, mostly because she needed to talk to someone in order to
achieve her goal. ‘There is something you might do for me.’

The younger woman inclined her head.

‘It’s that girl, you see,’ continued Katherine, ‘she is utterly and absolutely hopeless.’ When no response was forthcoming, the rusty voice raised itself. ‘I
have a summer house in my garden – wooden – but sturdy and quite warm, as it is built around a central stone chimney. There is, of course, no bathroom, but the facilities here in the
house can be used by the occupant. And there is an outside lavatory.’

Again, Rachel nodded.

‘I need someone to live there.’

The visitor saw the sense in this. ‘That sounds ideal, Miss Moore. So you are letting Phyllis go?’

‘Yes – but do not tell her that.’

‘Of course I won’t. But what do you want me to do for you?’

Katherine plucked at the blanket with a clawlike hand. ‘You may know just the right person.’

Rachel rifled through her list of acquaintances, came up with no immediate answer.

‘The pay will be good,’ added Katherine, ‘but I do not want a young person. I would much prefer a woman who is clean but needy.’

Rachel guessed that whoever applied for this job would have to be very needful. Miss Katherine Moore was possessed of few social skills, was as tactful as a bull in a china shop. ‘What
about somebody with a child?’

The old woman shook her head, the small movement causing her to grimace with pain. ‘Well, I suppose if one must employ a mother, as long as there is just one child – one well-behaved
child – I might take that into consideration.’

Rachel rose from her seat. ‘I’ll ask around,’ she said. ‘Now, if you refuse to come for a meal, may I bring the meal to you? One more plate won’t make any
difference.’

Miss Katherine Moore attempted a smile. ‘Very well. And I have . . . enjoyed meeting you, Mrs Barnes.’

‘My name is Rachel. Good afternoon.’ She left the room, closing the door quietly in her wake. Phew. What an ordeal that had been. She began to walk away.

‘Rachel?’

She stopped, breathed deeply, retraced her steps, poked her head round the door. ‘Did you call, Miss Moore?’

‘I did.’ There followed a short silence. ‘I want to thank you,’ said Miss Katherine Moore.

Dumbfounded, Rachel could move neither backwards nor forwards. She stared into rheumy brown eyes, saw a glimpse of moisture. Had she, Rachel Mary Higgins-as-was, made a difference? Had she
rushed in, a fool in the wake of reluctant angels? ‘You are most welcome,’ she stammered.

‘I know,’ came the reply. ‘And that is why I am thanking you.’ The tone changed. ‘Send that fool of a girl up, will you? I need a hot drink and my
medicines.’

‘Right, Miss Moore.’

‘Katherine. And tell no-one beyond your immediate family about this meeting, if you please. I cannot afford to have my reputation as local harridan tarnished at this stage.’

Rachel inclined her head. ‘Whatever you say . . . Katherine. Always the dragon, eh?’

‘Exactly. Always the dragon and forever breathing fire.’

Rachel closed the door. She had just touched real loneliness, complete solitude. And suddenly, she thought of Nellie Hulme – poor old Smelly Nellie in her silent, isolated world.
‘Never mind, Rachel,’ she told herself as she descended the stairs, ‘just do your best, like Mam says. Make a difference where you can. Where you can’t, just pray.’
Yes, tonight she would say an extra decade for Nellie Hulme, then another for Katherine Moore.

Nellie Hulme had fallen head over heels for the daftest dog in Christendom. Spot was just feet and ears, all points between thin and bony, a coat of white fur doing little
towards covering a skeleton that was frighteningly fine. The black patch over one eye lent him a look of rakishness, as if he were planning something dramatic – perhaps piracy on the high
seas.

She spent ages just looking at him, watching him as he chewed bones, clothes, shoes, books and anything else that happened to grace his path through life. How had she lived without him? Why
hadn’t she realized that love came packaged like this, with a wagging tail and soft, liquid eyes that showed a soul filled with generosity and unconditional affection?

Still busy with her clearout, Nellie had found that the pup had his uses. Whenever Charlie Entwistle sent a cart to collect rubbish, Spot told her. He did this by running up to her and pulling
at her clothing. He knew that she was deaf. Quite how he knew she could not work out, but within days of moving into number 1, the little dog became her ears. She had started to cook, too, was
always making a stew or a pie to share with Spot. He liked a bit of liver and was passionately fond of carrots, so Nellie had begun to eat better and to walk further, was becoming a familiar sight
on Deane Road, ball in one hand, red lead in the other, a proud Spot trotting along by her side.

It was quite a hike to Haslam Park, but Nellie achieved it at least twice a week, making do with a quick march around the streets on other days. Soon, she would get to the park every other day,
thereby exercising herself and the dog simultaneously.

The main problem was clothes. Within a week of acquiring the pup, Nellie noticed that her skirts were suddenly loose around the waist, that she could bend and stretch, that her breathing was
easier. Lace-making was abandoned for a while, as she needed to take in a few garments.

She noticed the smell of herself then, when she started to work on clothes that had never seen soap or water. Spot didn’t seem to mind the pong, but Nellie found herself restless and
needful. The slipper baths were only a few hundred yards away, but how could she possibly go there? To be fit to go to the public baths, she would need to have a bath . . .

How? She was still far too big for any standard zinc tub – how could she hope to clean an expanse as big as she was? It was a puzzle and no mistake. She knew that the dog shared her
bewilderment while she put clothes to soak in a bucket of Acdo. He stuck a paw in the bubbles, looked quizzically at his mistress, then yawned and fell asleep.

She scrubbed the clothes three times, then set them to drip in the hearth. The fire burned all day while she heated water and filled the bucket at least twenty times. With painstaking slowness,
she washed one leg, then the other, one arm, then the other. She lifted rolls of fat and cleaned crevices where her skin, broken down by decades of sweat, was red, rough and sore. Wrapping towels
round a broom, she scrubbed her back, amazed at how exhausting this whole process became.

When her hair was dripping wet, she let out a huge sigh and dropped her corpulence into a ladder-back chair. Right. She had clean clothes, new towels, a loofah, a sponge and some lavender soap.
For Christmas, she would furnish her living room, would get Charlie-at-the-end to remove all this stinking upholstery. Tonight, Nellie Hulme would walk up Derby Street to the public baths. Like any
other customer, she could present herself as ready for a good soak, because now she smelt of lavender and talcum powder. It was time for Miss Helen Hulme to reclaim her membership of the human
race.

Spot grinned at her. Plainly of the opinion that all this activity had been a great source of amusement, he licked his owner’s fragrant hand. It was an interesting life – and there
was a stew in the oven . . .

Paul Horrocks was not happy.

He had visited Magsy O’Gara, had waited on street corners for her, had bought flowers, chocolates and even a silk scarf. She wasn’t interested. She wasn’t interested in anyone,
because she was still in love with a man who had been dead for years. How could he compete with a ghost, with the idea, the memory of a person who, according to his widow, should be canonized?

A handsome face looked back at him from the overmantel mirror. He was not a proud man, was not self-obsessed, but he recognized his own good points. He was square-jawed, with bright blue eyes
and a shock of dark, wavy hair. His height was six feet and some inches; he was broad without being fat, firm without being over-muscled. What the hell did she want? Had he been unemployed, a
drinker, a breaker of the law, then he might have understood her hesitancy, her reluctance to step out with him.

Lois watched her son. He was up to something, was spending far too much time grooming himself, forever looking in mirrors, shaving, combing his hair, staring into space while eating, missing
what she said, ignoring her.