Saturday's Child (28 page)

Beth lifted her hands in a gesture of acceptance. ‘I’ll have to if Mam decides to come and live here. This is too far from Daubhill, so I’ve got to change schools.’

Katherine took a sheet of paper from a small table next to her chaise. ‘This is a special school, Beth. It happens to be in a house that used to be mine, Chedderton Grange. It’s just
for girls, very clever girls. The school keeps in touch with universities, because some of the girls are too advanced for the teachers and work has to be set by professors. Every child has her own
tutor, someone who will find the right work, the right things to read. It is a very new idea. Would you like to go there?’

Magsy’s heart lurched. Chedderton Grange? Where had she heard about that? Ah yes, she remembered, that funny little doctor of Beth’s – he had mentioned it. But it was
expensive, well beyond the means of ordinary folk. Ah. Katherine Moore was being very clever, was finding a way to ensure that Magsy would take the job. Cunning. Yes, very clever.

Beth took the page from Katherine’s hand and studied the content. ‘I’m not eleven,’ she said, ‘I’m ten. It says here they take girls from eleven years of
age.’

This one was ten but about to turn forty, thought Katherine. ‘They’ll snap you up. They owe me a favour or two, you see. They got that house very cheaply and I think they will be
happy to waive a part of the fee.’ She turned to Magsy. ‘This child has to be dealt with. At the Grange, each pupil has a learning schedule to suit her own needs, which is why they take
only the best. It is not a boarding school, so Beth would still live with you.’

Magsy, unusually lost for words, merely nodded.

‘They have physics,’ Beth pronounced, ‘and chemistry, not just general science. Tennis in the summer, too. And the house is so pretty.’ She passed the brochure to her
mother. ‘Is there a uniform?’

‘No,’ replied Katherine. The school believes in the individual, so it does nothing that seems to conform. As long as you are decently dressed, no-one will notice you.’

Beth clapped her hands in delight. ‘So, even if you’re nine, you still get proper work?’

‘Yes, they will aim for you to reach your full potential.’

Magsy decided it was time for her to speak. ‘Is that the telephone call you were trying to make the other day?’

‘Yes. Rachel told me of Beth’s brilliance, so I thought I would try to get her into the Grange.’

Magsy considered that. ‘And if I don’t take the job?’

Katherine made no reply, but the challenge was there in her eyes. With so much offered to Magsy’s precious daughter, the decision was already made. ‘I have written out a list of my
requirements,’ said the old woman instead, ‘my day-to-day needs, foods I like and dislike. Rachel Barnes has been lifting me in and out of the bath – she will show you what to
do.’

Magsy dropped her chin for a moment and considered her situation. ‘Beth?’ she said after some thought. ‘Would you go downstairs while I talk to Miss Moore?’

Katherine straightened as far as her aching bones would allow. A pang of something approaching fear paid a brief visit to her chest. She had wanted the mother; now that she had met the child,
she wanted the pair. How her life had opened up since the advent of Rachel Barnes and her family. Now, here sat the embodiment of a more comfortable future, a life that might be bearable, at least.
Had she overstepped the mark?

Magsy waited until her daughter had left the room. ‘You should not have done that, Miss Moore.’

She had overstepped the mark.

‘To offer something to my daughter before discussing it with me is a low blow.’

‘Below the belt, Mrs O’Gara?’

‘Well below, and well beneath your own dignity. Now, she wants the school, the books, the chances.’

‘And you do not want those things for her?’

‘Of course I do. But the concept of the school should have been mine to consider, not hers. The point is that you have quite deliberately placed me in a cleft stick, because if Beth does
not get to that school, she will blame me. You have ensured that I will accept the position.’

The old eyes narrowed. ‘So you do not want the work?’

‘I wanted the choice to be mine and yours. In fact, I had already decided to accept, because I know now that Beth’s health is more important than her education. We live in an
industrial town and the air is far from clean. Here, life would be better for her.’ She considered her next words. ‘I am now inclined not to accept, because you have shown yourself to
be manipulative.’

Katherine drew in a sharp breath. This was a strong character, an immovable force. She should not have mentioned Chedderton Grange. The card she had thought of as an ace had turned out to be
just a joker. There was nothing more to be said, because the woman was furious. Magsy O’Gara did not shout, did not frown, but the ice was there, a coldness that would have measured well
below freezing point on the Fahrenheit scale. Was it too late? Should she offer a little more money? Probably not. This Irishwoman was not purchasable, was proud beyond pounds sterling.

Magsy gazed into a pair of eyes that were old but intelligent. The will of Miss Katherine Moore promised to be unbending. What was to be done? ‘If I do decide to work here, you will never
again use my child as a pawn in your game of life. It is unfair and despicable. She is her own person. I am grateful for your proposal, but it was made in the wrong company.’

There was no more to be said.

Katherine could only sit and watch as her visitor left the room, a feeling of disquiet in her wake. Had she been possessed of X-ray vision, had she been able to see beyond that closed door, she
would have been encouraged. Because Magsy O’Gara was leaning against the wall, her eyes closed in silent prayer.

The job was already hers.

There was more wool and cotton in this bloody cupboard than in Yorkshire and Lancashire put together. In the end, Lily finished up with a suitcase full of patterns and three
paper bags overflowing with materials.

Behind Lily and breathing very heavily, Nellie Hulme scrutinized everything that came off those shelves. Mam had not been a lacemaker, but there were some wonderful crochet instructions, so she
saved several, piling them up on the table for future reference and further investigation. If she could get Lily crocheting, there would be saleable items on the agenda soon, things that could be
sold on the outdoor market in Bolton.

Balanced on a chair, Lily pushed her hands into the cupboard’s deepest recesses, hoping against hope that she would make contact with no lower life forms. Thanks to Skinny and Spot, the
rats had moved on to new pastures, but there was still the odd mouse, some silver-fish and the occasional stubborn cockroach. As for spiders, well, Lily hoped they had all hibernated, because
spiders sent her running a mile.

She stopped for a moment, thought about Roy, Aaron and Danny, all improving, none of them well enough for home yet. They had not attended their father’s funeral, though the two older boys
knew that Sam was dead. The job of telling Roy was not something she relished. And she missed Sam, would always miss him. Had she loved him after all? And did it matter? Loving or not loving
– neither would bring him back.

Nellie prodded Lily’s leg and made her get down. They sat together at the kitchen table with mugs of tea and Eccles cakes. The silence really suited Lily, because it gave her the chance to
be herself even when she was in company. As long as she was doing something, she managed to limp through the days, the hospital visits, the difficult yet fascinating business that was
lacemaking.

Nellie’s hand suddenly grabbed Lily’s. For a moment, Nellie looked as if she might be choking, eyes bulging, mouth opening and closing, small, bubbling sounds escaping from her
throat.

‘Nellie?’ Although she knew that it was useless, Lily found herself screaming the name.

‘See,’ mouthed the older woman. ‘See.’ She pushed a document into Lily’s hands.

Lily looked at the old newspaper clipping, just a photograph, grainy, faded, a picture of a house.

‘Mine,’ breathed Nellie, ‘my house.’

‘Oh, I see.’ It was a grand place, steps up to the front door, low pillars making a balustrade, large windows, lions couchant at the top of the stone flight. The photographer had
captured some of the garden, too, had stood back to include flower beds, lawns, a fountain. So this picture had been locked in the sewing cupboard for years.

Nellie closed her eyes and willed it to happen. Closer and closer it came, not always while she was asleep, sometimes when she was making lace, sometimes while she nodded by the fire. Red,
bright red. Before she could remember properly, she would have to reach the red, accept it, wade through it.

But that was her house. The item had been clipped from a newspaper, probably by Mam. So Mam and Dad had known Nellie’s true identity all along – why, otherwise, would Mam have kept
this photograph folded amongst knitting and crochet patterns? And the money – that came from somewhere.

Nellie didn’t need the money any more. After years of working and saving, she probably had enough to buy that house, lock, stock, barrel and furniture. Yes, she had to find it. Opening her
eyes, she grabbed back the cutting, scrutinized it, looked for clues. Nothing. The house could be anywhere. This was a place where she could hear. She had heard. If she went back, would she hear
again? Was the house still there? It was old, probably eighteenth, even seventeenth century. Oh, she knew nothing about houses . . .

Would she never hear again? The red was the thing that had taken away her hearing. Birdsong. Yes, light, like . . . like blue, pale blue. She found herself smiling.

‘Nellie?’ Lily leaned forward. ‘Nellie, love?’

Sounds were colours. The man’s voice was brown, the woman’s gold. Birdsong was blue, a cow’s lowing seemed grey, sad. And red was . . . red was screaming. Red was a wide open
mouth and pain and anger. Red was shock. Red was the end of hearing . . .

‘Nellie?’

‘Red is dead,’ she mouthed.

‘Oh, Nellie . . .’

And the smiling turned to tears. ‘Red is dead,’ the deaf woman framed repeatedly.

Lily didn’t know what to do. ‘Tell me,’ she said.

Nellie brushed the wetness from her face with an impatient hand, then grabbed pencil and paper, wrote furiously for a few minutes.

Lily picked up the page.

Lily, I was born in that house. I could hear then suddenly I could not hear. Something terrible happened. When I am asleep I go back to that house. The birds sing. In the dreams I can hear.
Now all I know is that sound is like colour, but I can’t really remember it when awake. Lily, I have to find that house. I have to find the red, remember the red.

Lily replied in writing, asked Nellie what she meant about the red.

The answer was very stark.
Blood
came back.

‘You think there was blood?’

The deaf woman nodded. ‘A lot,’ she mouthed.

Blood. Had Nellie seen a murder? Was it possible for somebody to go deaf from shock? Well, perhaps this all made sense. Nellie had been adopted by the Hulmes, whose circumstances had been
comfortable – so it was possible that Nellie’s family had set aside money for the rearing of their deaf daughter. ‘Do you still get money?’ she asked now. ‘Apart from
what you get from lace, I mean.’

Nellie nodded.

‘Where from?’

The old woman raised her shoulders. She did not know. The money came to the bank from a Manchester solicitor. She had written to ask about the source, had been informed that certain investments
had been made in her name and that he simply sent on the proceeds. An accountant had been mentioned by the bank, but he, too, had had little to say about the matter.

Lily sipped at her cooling tea. She had seen Nellie’s bank book – it had been open here on the table just days ago. Nellie had thousands saved, so she wasn’t wanting to find
this house in order to sell it. No. The poor woman was genuinely trying to discover who she was and where she came from. ‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said carefully, each syllable
separated so as to be readable. ‘We’ll get there.’ She would look after Nellie Hulme no matter what. And Nellie Hulme would look after her, of that she was very sure.

Ernest opened the back gate to find a strange little man in a bowler hat. ‘Were you knocking?’ he asked.

‘Do forgive the intrusion. I found this outside your gate and wondered whether it might belong to you.’ He help up a rather disgraceful scarf. ‘It is in need of some repair,
but I thought it could have had sentimental value.’

Ernest leaned on his sticks. The item displayed was of no value whatsoever, sentimental or otherwise. In fact, he had seen better on Charlie Entwistle’s rag lorry, but this weird fellow
was holding it as if it had come from the same box as the flaming Crown Jewels. ‘Nowt to do with me,’ said Ernest, ‘and anyroad, it’s a woman’s thing. There’s no
woman here any more.’ He went to close the gate.

‘I, too, am a widower,’ sighed Peter Smythe. ‘My wife passed away last year.’

Ernest pulled the gate wide again. ‘Ah, well, mine buggered off not long since, went of her own accord. Mind, she were useless, so it’s just as well. Can’t be doing with women
under me feet.’

Peter tutted sympathetically. ‘Some people have no gratitude. That happened to a friend of mine, an Orange Lodger. His lady wife went off with a Catholic. The humiliation sent him wild.
Sad to say, he is in the process of drinking himself into oblivion.’

Ernest found himself interested in this creature. He clearly knew what was what, anyway. ‘You from round here?’ he asked.

Peter shook his head. ‘No. I came to see my long-lost brother, but I learned today that he has passed on. However, I seem to have found some work – odd jobs and so forth – so I
shall stay in the area for a while.’

Ernest was rather short of company. Charlie visited infrequently, while the women of the street scarcely bothered with him. Not one for whims, he decided to indulge himself for once. ‘You
might as well come in,’ he said. ‘No use keeping me stood up here gabbing all day – I’ve a bad leg.’