Saturday's Child (25 page)

‘Nellie?’

Magsy nodded. ‘She understands . . . things.’

Sal pondered for a few seconds, then went across the street to disturb Spot, that little dog who had become the ears of Miss Nellie Hulme. For the life of her, Sal would wonder at Magsy’s
decision to nominate Nellie as the one who would put things right.

Magsy waited at the table, her eyes riveted to Lily. Tinker tried bouncing up and down, licking Lily’s hands, but the mantra continued, that same statement repeated over and over.

Nellie arrived, her loud breathing audible long before she entered the room. Sal, who had a meal to prepare, went next door, leaving behind the message that she would return if summoned by a
knock on the wall.

Magsy wrote on a piece of paper,
We think someone has died, but we cannot get sense out of Lily.

Nellie read the words, then took the nearest dining chair and parked herself next to Lily. She sat for several moments, eyes straining to get the drift of her neighbour’s words.

Magsy scribbled
It’s all my fault
, passed it to Nellie.

The deaf woman placed a hand on Lily’s shoulder, made eye contact with the grieving woman, her other hand coming up to cup Lily’s chin. Chanting and rocking stopped.

Magsy stepped out of the picture, stood near the sideboard and waited, aware, after a few seconds, that she had been holding her breath. Why? Both these women were deaf now, one clinically, the
other shutting out all sound in a world that had suddenly become unacceptable.

It all came out then, every syllable enunciated clearly. Sam had suffered a heart attack, had died in the night. So here she sat, poor Lily Hardcastle, three sons sick and her husband dead.
Magsy took a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and mopped her streaming eyes. So this was it. This was what happened to people who lived in dirty towns where the air was filled with smoke
and grime. How lucky she had been, because Beth had survived.

People were still going down with this new plague; the isolation unit was filled to capacity and there was talk of closing the hospital to all except urgent cases. Those awaiting surgery would
wait longer, their wards taken up by the victims of Asian flu. Doctors, nurses and cleaners were ill, the service was stretched almost to its limits . . .

Lily continued to talk, her voice cleared now by the need to communicate with the deaf. Yes, Nellie had been the answer. And Beth’s future lay in the countryside. Sal had been right
– survival first, education lower down the list. The decision had made itself.

Dot was clearing out the yard in preparation for a good swill with hot water and Lanry. The thing about a food shop was that cleanliness was vital, so the yard got bleached
every other day. It was cold, so cold that she shivered as she opened the back gate. And there he was, that funny little man with his stubbly chin, daft bowler hat, scruffy bow tie at his throat,
an over-large overcoat hanging from his shoulders. No, she would not laugh. He had twinkly eyes and a lovely smile – and he was well respected hereabouts.

‘Mrs Barnes.’ He removed his hat as if it had been the feathered variety favoured by cavaliers.

‘Hello, Mr Smythe. Cold enough for you?’

‘I don’t mind the cold,’ he replied, ‘so allow me to clean that yard for you. All I ask is a meal.’

She rewarded him with a smile. The cleaning of the yard was the worst job, one she had volunteered for. She was grateful to Frank and Rachel, and this was her way of showing that gratitude.
‘Fair enough,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Will sausage and mash do you? And I’ve a bit of apple crumble left over from last night.’

‘Nectar.’ He took the rubbish from her hand and stacked it in the alley.

Dot wrapped her thick cardigan tightly around her slight frame. This was an easterly wind – how did the man survive in this weather? ‘Did you have shelter last night, Mr
Smythe?’

He nodded. ‘Miss Morgan has given me a small caravan on her land. I am too old now to take my chances with the weather, so that very kind lady gives me a roof and a supper each night. I am
blessed in my friends.’

He meant it. Here was a man of education, one who had spent his life on the road, a spirit unencumbered, a person who found no task too menial, one who worked hard for his crust. The nicest
thing about the educated tramp was that he appreciated everything – a flower for his buttonhole, a bag of toffees, someone’s cast-off clothes, a cup of tea. Yes, he was grateful and he
said so.

She made lunch, wondering all the time about Peter Smythe. Who was he really? Had he done all that university stuff – Oxford, Cambridge – had he fought in a war? Where was his
family? He sounded . . . not London, no, because London had its accents just like Manchester and Liverpool. He sounded like somebody on the wireless, a BBC Home Service type of voice, no accent at
all, a clean voice, perfect. Yes, he could have read the news with no bother at all, because Peter Smythe spoke the King’s English.

‘Funny way of life altogether,’ she told her potatoes as she creamed them, ‘walking about for years, no proper home. There’s no brother in the hills, ’cos he told
our Rachel. People don’t just happen, they get born. I wonder who owns him?’

As both Frank and Rachel were working in the shop, Dot invited Peter inside for his meal. Someone had trained him, she thought as she watched him removing his shoes in the doorway. Or had he
always known not to wear dirty shoes inside a house? And he washed his hands so thoroughly at the kitchen sink.

He ate slowly, like a person who had never known hunger. His manners were perfect – in fact, Dot wondered whether she ought to have given him a napkin.

‘Cheese?’ she asked when he had finished his crumble.

He smiled. ‘A little to take away, if you please.’

Dot smiled too. He was well known in these parts for wanting a little to take away. Should she ask? Could she?

She parcelled up some Cheddar with three slices of buttered bread and passed the gift to him. He was standing by his chair, hat in hand, the famous silver-topped cane leaning on the wall beside
him.

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Certainly.’ Again that courtly little bow.

‘Where are you from?’

He pursed his lips for a moment. ‘Do I have to answer? I must plead immunity, Mrs Barnes, from some questions.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Enough that I am here, dear lady, that I might clean your yard several times a month and that you will reward me with food, warmth and kindness.’

Dot felt like something that had been walked in on a shoe. She repeated her apology.

‘No matter,’ he insisted, ‘for human curiosity is at the root of all we value – literature, art, music, medicine. Let us just say that the life I have chosen fits me like
a glove, for I have written my magnum opus and it is to be published quite soon. I learn a great deal about people, you see, about how they think, who they are, where they fit, why they need to
fit.’

‘And you don’t need to fit, Mr Smythe?’

He chuckled. ‘Of course I fit – we all do. Without me, the hedges and lawns of Hesford, Bromley Cross, Harwood and so forth would be overgrown. I mend walls and fences, paint doors
and window frames, tend animals out in the fields. Just like everyone else, I am another piece of the jigsaw. Place me correctly and I shall fit.’

She understood. ‘I fit now, but I didn’t fit down yon with him lashing out all the while.’

‘Exactly,’ he answered, ‘and this is the man who visited you at the weekend? The one who marked the young Mrs Barnes’s face?’

She nodded.

‘You had a bad marriage. I am glad you got away.’

For a reason she could never have explained in a month of Sundays, Dot found herself delivering her life to this person. She didn’t mind spilling her history and her feelings to this
stranger, because she felt as if she had known him all her life.

‘You were squashed,’ he said when she had presented the outline. ‘And not just physically. He took away who you are, damaged those you were designed to protect, kept you a
prisoner.’ He sighed and shook his head sadly. ‘A prisoner does not have to be in jail, Mrs Barnes. All it takes is a wedding band and a man whose only chance of leaving a mark is by
beating those he is supposed to love. That is a sad character.’

‘He’s not sad,’ Dot protested vigorously. ‘He’s just evil.’

‘Evil,’ mused Peter Smythe. ‘And who created him?’

What did this man mean? ‘His mam and dad, I suppose. His mam were a tartar. Never left us alone, always calling round at the house and criticizing everything I did. She’d no love for
any of her grandchildren and they didn’t reckon much to her, come to think. Then, when she died, she left me a brooch. Silver, it is, like woven, with a black pearl in the middle. Black like
her heart. I would never wear it.’

She sat down again and Peter joined her. ‘Come on, tell me the rest,’ he urged.

Dot swallowed. ‘I can’t sleep. He’s crippled, got knocked down by a carthorse years back, but he managed to get up here, Mr Smythe.’

‘Peter.’

She smiled absently. ‘I’m Dorothy, Dot for short. Anyway, he got here. He’s bad enough for anything, that one. Hates Catholics, Jews, anybody who looks a bit foreign. Just
hates everybody. But mainly, he hates me.’

‘I see.’ He waited. ‘Go on.’

She studied the man, didn’t understand why she trusted him so completely. ‘I want him dead. Isn’t that awful? I shan’t rest till he’s dead.’

Peter shook his head thoughtfully. ‘No, that is not so terrible. You fear for yourself, your son, your daughter-in-law—’

‘And for any grandchildren I might have.’

‘I see nothing wrong in that,’ he said carefully. ‘In the animal kingdom, rogues are often sought out and killed by the majority. You see, I know from what you have said that
your husband is not going to change. I tried to guess what had made him so bad, but I was not about to excuse him – I was merely interested in what makes him tick.’ He paused for a
moment. ‘I collect people, you see. Butterflies would be easier, but people are my hobby.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘May I visit him?’

Dot’s spine was suddenly as stiff as a ramrod. ‘You what? Why would you want to go and do that?’

‘For my next book,’ he answered. ‘I intend to write one.’

‘Well, I—’

‘I am adept at explaining my sudden appearances, Dorothy. I cannot call you Dot – it sounds like a mark on a page.’ He gripped one of her hands. ‘You are more than
that.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘I am changing. I used to say everything twice – people said that was because I had to convince myself that I was worth listening to. Well, I’ve nearly
stopped that. I like my life, Peter. I love it up here, the shop and everything. And he just turns up out of the blue and up-ends me.’ She retrieved her hand and beat her breast with it.
‘I can’t let him do it again.’

‘No.’

She bit down hard on her lower lip. ‘Five, Prudence Street. It’s off Derby Street, not far from the Tivoli Picture House.’

‘Leave it with me.’ He stood up. ‘I must finish the yard.’

‘What will you . . . ?’

‘Don’t ask, Dorothy. Let us just say this – I came into this world an accident. I never knew my father, but Mother told me that I was special. She educated me herself, and I
must say that she made quite a good job of me.’ He laughed. ‘No colleges or universities for me, you see. She gave me everything. Now, I have told you more than I am willing to impart
to most people. Keep my secrets and I shall keep yours. Do not ask any more. I have a yard to clean.’

And he was gone.

Dot sat until it was her turn to keep shop. He was a funny one, all right, was Peter Smythe. Yet she would have trusted him with her life . . .

Nellie took Lily under her wing. Apart from night time, Lily became a permanent fixture at number 1. They had the two dogs for company, and Nellie’s quiet suited Lily,
because she had little to say and much thinking to do.

Danny was recovering from pneumonia, though he would not go back into the pit for months, if ever. Aaron, whose pleurisy was also clearing, was a shadow of his former self, but, with warmth,
care and decent food, he might be back at school after Easter, his last term as a child. But Roy was different.

With his chicken pox faded, the lad had developed another rash, something far more sinister than the usual childhood illnesses. Dark red spots had appeared all over his body, the angry marks of
blood stirred beyond reason and almost beyond human endurance. These marks were the outer sign of an inner turmoil grim beyond belief, because the poor little lad had meningitis.

She had brought it on. By resenting her position, by being unhappy about tolerating what every other Godfearing housewife endured, she had wished her menfolk out of existence. Sam’s death
had been both blow and relief – if one had to die, then it should be a parent, not a child. But Roy? Would he be taken, too? Surely the price had been paid?

Lily had a book about the disease, one she had picked up in the library. The covering on the brain became inflamed, then the spine was affected. Blood poisoning went hand in hand with this
illness and those who survived sometimes suffered after-effects. Oh, God spare him from brain damage and loss of limb. Poor balance and depression they could cope with, but please, not fits, not a
little boy in a wheelchair . . .

Nellie whipped the book from under her neighbour’s nose. ‘No,’ she chided soundlessly, ‘stop. Come.’ She led Lily upstairs into the lace room. ‘Sit.
Watch.’

She had made a contraption the likes of which Lily could not work out. Thoroughly puzzled, she allowed herself to be pushed into a chair, then she watched the deaf woman as she went through a
very elaborate rigmarole. On an old padded chair seat, Nellie had fixed a pattern, huge, gargantuan when compared to the delicate items around the room.

‘Lace,’ said Nellie. She proceeded to twist wool and bobbins, using nails instead of pins to secure each stitch. ‘Watch,’ she ordered every ten seconds.

Lily watched. She watched for well over half an hour, saw the twisting and turnings, the impaling of each loop as it was formed. What the hell was Nellie up to at all? There was a funeral in a
few days, and here they sat like two kiddies playing cat’s cradle, daft patterns in green wool, twist, turn, pull one, push one, pin it, cross it over . . . ‘What?’ she asked when
the bobbins were pushed into her hands.