Saturday's Child (16 page)

It was none of Nellie Hulme’s business, so she closed her new curtains and went to put the kettle on. A bit of toast and marmalade would go down a treat, then it would be time for
Spot’s walk.

Lily had put Beth O’Gara in the front room. Confused almost to the point of madness, Lily was running around like a screw-necked chicken, flapping, panicking, unable to
settle. They were all ill. Roy had gone down first, then Sam, then Aaron, then Danny. And Ernest Barnes was knocking on the wall, was sending the signal for Roy, and Beth was waiting for the one
remaining pup, and there had been a scream from next door, then, to top it all, the beef tea was bubbling too fast.

Lily deposited Tinker in Beth’s lap. ‘Now,’ she said, her mind racing, ‘go next door and see what that bad owld bu— what Mr Barnes wants. And don’t come back,
love, because there’s summat nasty in this house, like germs or a fever, so get gone. Tell Mr Barnes as our Roy is took badly, so he won’t be coming in to see him. Then get yourself
home, shut that door and stay in. Do you understand me, love?’

Beth nodded. There was an hysterical edge to Mrs Hardcastle’s tone, a rise in pitch that spoke volumes about the woman’s state of mind. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’ asked
the child.

‘You can get gone and be safe. Oh, don’t go to church and tell your mam not to go and all. I know it’s Christmas, but I think this is that there influenza or some such fancy
illness. All right? Go next door, see what he wants, then get home.’

Beth dragged the little dog on his new red lead. Tinker did not like the lead, so he progressed down the hall on his rear, eyes wide with surprise when he was picked up and dumped on the
pavement.

‘Right,’ said Beth, ‘let’s get this straight before we start. You are the dog and I am the boss. The boss is the one at this end of the lead, and the dog is the one at
the other end. I walk, you walk. You can do as you are told, or you can go through life with a sore bum. Do you understand?’

Tinker scratched his ear and yawned.

Beth watched her mother as she disappeared into number 2, Paul Horrocks behind her. Now, that was a good thing. Another good thing was that Beth was standing in for Roy, who was ill, so Mam and
Mr Horrocks would have a few minutes together.

The dog adopted the line of least resistance and followed his new mistress into number 5.

Ernest Barnes looked up and glared at Magsy O’Gara’s daughter, the supposed genius child of a soldier and an Irish immigrant. ‘What’s that bloody thing doing in
here?’ He waved his stick at the dog.

‘He’s mine,’ came the succinct reply.

‘I never asked whose it was, I just want to know what it’s doing in my house.’

Beth sighed. ‘He is with me,’ she said.

‘Where’s Roy? I knocked for Roy.’

‘Ill in bed,’ answered Beth.

‘Well, what about the others?’ He didn’t want this child in here, couldn’t bear to think what she might say if she found out he had upset her mother.

‘They’re all ill except Mrs Hardcastle,’ explained the child.

Ernest handed her the note. ‘Push this through Charlie Entwistle’s letter box,’ he demanded, ‘and don’t bring that dog in here again.’

Beth took the note, taking care not to come into contact with Ernest’s hand. She didn’t like him, didn’t want her flesh to touch his. She glared at him levelly. ‘Did my
mother scream before?’ she asked.

He raised a shoulder. ‘I never heard no scream.’

‘Well, Mrs Hardcastle thought she did,’ replied the child, ‘and so did Skinny, because she started barking.’

‘Likely some kiddies laking,’ said Ernest.

Beth, who understood the old Lancashire term for play, placed the note in her pocket. ‘It didn’t sound like laking to me, Mr Barnes.’

She was the same as her flaming mother, he concluded. So bloody sure of herself, so confident. ‘Get gone,’ he blurted, ‘and shove that note through Charlie’s
door.’

Beth picked up her puppy and left the house. It would be a long, long time before she set foot in number 5 again. She went next door to the end house and posted Ernest Barnes’s message
through the letter box. Mr Entwistle’s house was in darkness, as usual. Even on Christmas Eve, the man would be down at his yard, separating wool from cotton, iron from lead, would be
counting his money, retrieving anything of value. His house was reputed to be filled with antiquities thrown out in error by the people of Bolton.

She glanced up the street towards her own house, wondered whether Mam would start to be nice to Mr Horrocks. The giddiness hit her then, a sudden wave through her head, a feeling that seemed to
match the movement of the tide coming in at Blackpool beach. It passed in a second, so she decided to walk her dog round the block. He had to be trained, and she might as well start now.

It took two ambulances to shift Lily’s family. Sam and Roy went in the first, Aaron and Danny in the second. The clanging of bells disturbed the whole street – even
Ernest Barnes stood at his door and watched while the Hardcastles got carted off.

Advised to stay away from the hospital, Lily re-entered her house and sat in silence while the shock melted from her bones. They were going into an isolation unit. Nobody knew what the disease
was, but the ambulance men had worn masks while carrying Lily’s menfolk out of their home. The doctor might have said something about trying penicillin, but Lily wasn’t sure.

So this was what happened to women who wanted their freedom. She had wished this upon them, had made it come about by her resentment. Such dreadful symptoms, too, vomiting, coughing, fever,
delirium. And now she had what she wanted. No Sam to pick his nose, no Aaron to stink the house out with his feet, no Danny to churn his open-mouthed way through Christmas dinner.

Then there was Roy, poor little Roy who had gone down first with this filthy illness. He was right out of it now, was burning up and talking a load of nonsense, eyes glazed and fixed, lips
cracked, wet hair plastered to his head like a dark red cap.

‘Why didn’t I get it?’ she asked the chair opposite, the seat in which her husband usually rested after a day down the pit. And it had come on so quickly, too, man and boy
toppling one after the other, pains in limbs, sweat-beaded brows, then the delirium. Was it typhoid? There had been talk of that, something to do with imported corned beef. But they hadn’t
eaten any corned beef just lately. And what about the others, those who worked with Sam and Danny, kiddies who were in Aaron’s class, in Roy’s class? Was this going to turn into an
epidemic?

The door opened. ‘Lily?’

It was Magsy O’Gara. ‘Stop where you are,’ yelled Lily. ‘They’ve got summat and it could be typhoid.’

There followed a short silence. ‘Are you all right?’ was Magsy’s question.

‘Aye, I am the only one what is all right,’ replied Lily.

‘Only my Beth’s gone missing.’

Immediately, Lily’s spine was rigid. ‘She came for the dog, love. Then she went next door to do a message. Eeh, that was over an hour ago, Mags, because I went for the doctor, then I
waited for the ambulance men, and . . .’ Oh, God. Roy and Beth had spent a lot of time together lately, training pups to walk on leads, encouraging the dogs to go outside to perform their
toilet. ‘Aye, it’s well over an hour,’ she concluded, her heart banging in her chest.

‘Paul Horrocks is looking for her,’ shouted Magsy.

Lily jumped up and pulled on her coat. ‘Get home,’ she said, ‘wait there in case she comes back. I’ll go out and search for her.’ It was too late to worry about
spreading germs. In her heart of hearts, Lily already knew that little Beth had the same illness as Roy, that the child was in trouble.

Then she heard the noise. It was an unearthly sound, something between a roar and a screech. Without hesitation, Lily ran out of her house, down the yard and into the back alley. There she found
Nellie Hulme, two little dogs at her feet, the unconscious Beth in her arms. Nellie was crying, screaming, howling. In all the years she had spent in Prudence Street, Lily had heard no sound from
Nellie. ‘Wait,’ she ordered, her mouth wide so that Nellie would get the drift.

Yes, it was far too late to worry about germs and quarantine. Lily dashed back through her house and dragged Magsy inside. ‘Back street,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Nellie’s
got her. Go on, hurry up.’

Lily forced herself to sit down while Nellie and Magsy carried the child into her kitchen. The two little dogs greeted their mother with a joy that seemed inappropriate on this occasion. When
Beth was stretched out on the horsehair sofa, Nellie sat down at the table, tears streaming down her face. She had carried Beth for two blocks, had found the child in a frozen heap, the already
loyal Tinker lying on top of her, as if offering his warmth to the sick girl.

Lily sighed, weariness and misery etched into the sound. ‘Get the ambulance,’ she advised Magsy. ‘Go up to Dr Clarke’s – he’ll sort it out for you.’ She
watched the Irishwoman, who seemed frozen to the spot. ‘Magsy,’ she yelled, ‘get gone, because there’s talk of typhoid.’

Galvanized by this statement, Magsy fled from the house, Lily’s front door slamming in her wake.

Lily studied the cleaned-up Nellie, watched the face of a woman who seemed truly grief-stricken. ‘You’d better go,’ she mouthed. ‘All my lot’s in
hospital.’

Nellie nodded, stood up and took hold of Spot’s lead. ‘Write a note if you want anything,’ she mouthed. She pointed to Spot. ‘Get me if you need me. He tells me.
He’ll tell me if you come.’

Lily kept a close eye on Beth after Nellie had left. The child’s breathing was rapid and shallow, while twin spots of colour on her cheeks advertised fever raging beneath the skin. Was
this going to be like the plague all over again? Lily had read about that, had learned that the fire of London had been the killer of that particular epidemic. Oh, God, she felt guilty.
‘I’m selfish,’ she told Skinny and Tinker. ‘I prayed for change and it looks like I’m going to get it.’

Absently, she fed the bitch and the pup a few scraps from the beef tea meat. She covered Beth with a shawl, gave both dogs a dish of watered-down milk, brewed tea for herself.

The third ambulance arrived just as the doctor and Magsy walked into number 3. Lily sat by the fire, the two dogs held in close so that they would not interfere in the work of the masked men.
Like Lily, Magsy was told to stay away from the hospital and to report any symptoms of her own which might develop.

Paul Horrocks arrived, his square jaw dropping as he entered the house unannounced. ‘How long has she been like that?’ he asked Magsy, a hand pointing towards the stretcher on which
Beth lay. ‘She was all right, wasn’t she?’

Magsy shook her head. ‘She seemed all right, but it’s plain that she wasn’t.’ Her whole life lay on that stretcher. Without Beth, Magsy would have no reason at all to
continue alive. When Beth had been removed from the house, when the bell announced the ambulance’s departure, Magsy walked to the door.

‘Shall I come with you?’ asked Paul.

Magsy shook her head. ‘No. Thank you, but I want to be alone just now.’

When Magsy had gone, Paul placed himself on a kitchen chair. ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Lily.

‘We’ve some brandy at home.’

‘No,’ she said again.

He inclined his head. ‘What the hell’s going on? Beth only came for her dog.’

‘Nellie must have found her unconscious,’ said Lily. ‘Walking her puppy, I should think.’ She raised her head and looked him full in the face. ‘They’re
talking about typhoid.’

‘Good God.’

‘Aye.’ She turned her face to the fire. ‘Ever since Dot Barnes got away – no – before that – I’ve been fed up. I even took to talking to meself in yon
mirror.’ She lifted a limp hand and pointed to the overmantel glass. ‘I wanted to get out of here, Paul. I wanted it so bad . . . and bad’s the word. All I could see in front of
me were years of drudgery here and up at the pub. I kept imagining living out yonder where Dot’s gone with her Frank and young Rachel. It’s as if I were jealous of her.’

‘But you’re not like that, Mrs Hardcastle. Stop blaming yourself. You’ve enough trouble without hitting yourself with a big stick.’

‘It should have been me,’ she said. ‘If anybody deserves typhoid fever, it’s not my kids and it’s not my husband – it’s me.’

‘Rubbish,’ he answered.

‘And you shouldn’t be here, neither. It’s catching, you know. You touch summat they’ve touched, and you could be dead in days. So get off with you, Paul, and give my
regards to your mam.’

He had no intention of going home. No way would he leave Magsy O’Gara by herself on Christmas Eve, the beloved daughter in hospital, not even the pup for company. ‘Will you hang on
to Tinker?’ he asked.

‘Course I will. Go on, love.’

He went. He would call tomorrow, just to make sure that Lily was all right. But for now, Magsy needed him.

It was plain that Magsy wanted no-one. When his knocking brought no response, he let himself into number 2 and searched the house from top to bottom. She was not there.

He sat by a dying fire, his mind rushing about like a mad hound. He knew where she was, oh yes, he knew, all right. Without her darling Beth, Magsy would shrivel and die like an autumn leaf. She
had gone to the infirmary, of that he felt sure.

Right. He stood up and drew a hand through unruly hair. It was time to call in a favour, time to appeal to the good nature of Pat Murphy. First, he must see Mam, explain what had happened, then
he needed to get a van or a wagon from Pat. He would force Magsy to come home . . .

An unbidden smile visited his face. Trying to imagine Magsy being forced into anything was not easy. She was a woman of guts and determination and that was why he loved her. However, he could
only try . . .

When Paul Horrocks reached the infirmary, midnight had arrived. He drove Pat Murphy’s van up the side of the hospital, noticing as he passed the front entrance that a
fracas had developed. He saw a couple of policemen, at least two nurses, then a blonde head that was definitely familiar. The mother tiger had arrived, it seemed, and was unwilling to depart before
determining the condition of its cub.