Midnight (25 page)

Libby could understand how hard it must have been for her mother to come to terms with what happened. In truth, Libby had always believed it was the trauma of losing her husband that had caused her mother’s health to deteriorate.

From the other room, Thomas heard their chatter – about Eileen’s husband being a womaniser, and how she had never really got over the shock of him deserting them. It made him think about what Ian Harrow had missed – seeing his daughter grow up, and having the joy of a wife like Eileen. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Libby’s father might have changed. If he’d been there for them just that bit longer, would he have learned to cherish these two wonderful people? And who knows, there might even have been other children over the years – a brother or sister or both for Libby.

It was a sobering thought. But he reminded himself of the old saying: ‘Once a bad ’un, always a bad ’un.’ Maybe that was true, and this particular ‘bad ’un’ would never have changed his ways. In which case, Libby and the lovely Eileen were well rid of him.

It cut him deep, though, to think of Eileen, made to raise a child on her own, with no man to support her, eking out the days with her savings and doing other folk’s ironing and mending. And Libby, never really knowing her father.

It was a sorry situation; one which he had tried hard to soften over these long years, by starting to love Libby as a daughter, and looking out for Eileen. He never dreamed that he would come to love her so dearly. At first it was just him being a good neighbour – cutting the grass, trimming the hedges and generally helping out. With the passage of time, though, he had learned to truly love Eileen.

When Libby looked up and saw Thomas at the kitchen door, she told him softly, ‘She’s all right, Thomas, really. She just got a bit emotional, that’s all. She’ll be fine.’

Eileen’s mood swiftly changed. ‘When we’ve heard the songs, can we have fish and chips, Thomas? You promised that we could have fish and chips.’

Thomas grinned. ‘If I told you we’d have fish and chips, then we shall
have
fish and chips!’

Libby played her part, ‘You two get along and enjoy yourselves. When I’ve tidied up, I’ll go down to the fish-shop. If it’s all right with you, Thomas, can I have my tea with you two?’

‘Absolutely! Me and Eileen would have it no other way!’

Delighted, Eileen clapped her hands together. ‘We can have the music playing, and eat our fish and chips as well. It’ll be like a party, won’t it?’

A short time later, after finishing a small pile of ironing, Libby called round next door, to find her mother sitting in the armchair, tapping her feet and singing along to the old tunes.

Thomas was in the kitchen, putting plates in the over to warm. ‘I’m off to the fish-shop now, Thomas. Would you both like your usual – medium cod with chips?’ They confirmed that they did.

‘Ask if he’s got any crackling,’ Eileen called out. ‘I do like a bit o’ crackling!’

Thomas walked Libby to the door. ‘I’m sorry about earlier,’ he said. ‘The odd thing is, Eileen’s never asked me to dance with her before. Oh, she’ll dance on her own till the cows come home, but that was the first time she’s ever asked me to join in.’

He looked across at Eileen, who was softly singing. ‘It’s good to dance. Me and my wife had a passion for it. A man loves to feel a woman in his arms.’ He sighed. ‘I miss that.’

When the music came to an end, Eileen began yelling, ‘It’s gone! The music’s all gone!’

Thomas hurried across the room. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘I’ll soon have it back on again, don’t you worry.’

On leaving, Libby called to her mother, ‘I won’t be long, Mum. You just enjoy the music, and I’ll be back with your fish and chips before you know it.’

Outside, the rain was falling fast. She stopped to pull up the hood of her anorak. It was a typical English summer!

Chapter Sixteen

O
UTSIDE, ON THE
opposite side of the street, Jack stood under a dripping tree, sheltering from the rain beneath an umbrella. After much soul-searching, he had finally plucked up the courage to come down to Bower Street. It was only a mile or so from Buncer Lane, but that short walk had seemed like the longest journey of his life. At one point, his courage failed him, so he dodged into the nearest pub for a pint and a quiet moment to think about what he was doing.

After a while, he reminded himself of his reasons for coming back to the North – not for the glory of managing the new showrooms, because that was an opportunity and a bonus. He had come back because of the nightmares, and because he needed to find out if the psychiatrist was right. But how was he going to do that? As yet he hadn’t quite worked out the details. But he would – and soon – because it was constantly playing on his mind.

All these years, so many unanswered questions . . . If, as he truly believed, the psychiatrist was indeed right, then where else should he look, if not the very place where his dreams had started?

More than anything, he had come back because he knew instinctively that if he was to go forward, then he must first go back, to the place where it all began.

After leaving the pub, he had quickened his steps towards Bower Street. Within minutes, he was actually standing across the street from his old house. He found himself travelling back through the bad memories. He felt like a young lad again. He had felt vulnerable back then; and he felt vulnerable now too.

‘Go on, Jack!’ he urged himself. ‘Knock on the door – just tell them you used to live in that house; that you’re back in the area and you were just curious.’

He smiled to himself. ‘They’ll probably think I’m mad, or call the police – and I wouldn’t blame them.’

He thought of knocking on the door of Thomas’ house. Now, that was a better idea. Thomas wouldn’t think he was mad if he knocked on his door. But he might not live there any more, of course.

At that moment he was surprised to see what looked like a young man dressed against the elements, and going down Thomas’s garden path, towards the door. So another family must now be living there. Jack was disappointed.

Not realizing the ‘young man’ was actually Jack, Libby decided to call it a day. ‘Next time I’m here,’ he said to himself, ‘I’ll knock on that young man’s door. Maybe he or his parents will know where Thomas has gone. They might even have an idea as to where Eileen and Libby are.’ It was a comforting thought, but for now, he just wanted to get out of the rain.

Jack had a lot to think about. The fact that Thomas appeared to have moved out of Bower Street was a bitter blow, as he’d been so looking forward to seeing him again. He had not forgotten the help and support Thomas had given him when he needed it most. He wanted to thank him for his help and advice.

Naively, he had even harboured the hope that Thomas might hold the key to his nightmares. Maybe just to sit and talk with Thomas might somehow open a door in his mind – a door that would reveal the truth and give him peace.

Jack was fast becoming obsessed with the idea that he was close. He could not imagine what he might find when he began to probe deeper, but he had to believe. Because he could not live the rest of his life wondering. Never knowing . . .

Jack suddenly decided that he wasn’t ready to go back to his rented house. Fired by a need to revisit old haunts, he made his way towards King Street and Whalley Banks. And as he walked, a feeling of warmth and belonging took hold of him. But the further along he went, the more he began to realise how everything had changed. There used to be a row of houses to the right; he recalled a fun-loving girl at school who lived there with her parents and her many brothers. They were a strong family. But the houses were now gone, to make way for a garage.

The parade of shops was still there, however – although what used to be a tripe shop was now a florist’s. He recalled how a large family called Brindle, had lived in that very tripe shop.

He felt sorry to see that the little bridge was no more. With its arched back and curved walls, affording a way over the Blakewater, it had been a pretty thing – a familiar landmark.

The alleyway by the flower-shop was still there. He recalled the slaughter-house at the back, where the Brindle kids were not allowed to go; nor were they allowed to climb the big stone wall that overlooked the deep water below. Somehow though, they always found a way in through the gates when no one was looking. It was rumoured that a neighbouring child was drowned there, but Jack didn’t know if that was true; he only knew what he had heard.

It was sad to see that almost everything familiar was gone. He understood, though. It was right that things had to change, because if time stood still, there would be nothing new or exciting to look forward to. No challenges. No new horizons.

But Jack remembered everything, as if a map had been imprinted on his memory, including every street, every house, every landmark. Just like he remembered the bold, flowered wallpaper pattern on his bedroom walls in that house in Bower Street. And the creaking third step as you went down the stairs. It always puzzled him as a boy, why the step never creaked when you went
up
the stairs. He smiled wryly, thinking that was a strange thing to remember.

Now uncomfortably aware of his sodden trousers and squelching shoes, Jack caught the unmistakable aroma of a chip shop – and his stomach began to grumble. He hadn’t eaten for some hours, and even if he had to sit in a bus shelter to eat them, wouldn’t it be fun to have a bag of fish and chips? He could watch the world go by while eating his dinner off his lap. But he’d have to be careful of his suit.

The more he thought about it, the hungrier he got. Following his nose, he quickened his steps.

‘There you go!’ The red-faced man finished packing the last hot, damp paper package into the two plastic carrier bags before handing them over. ‘That’ll be fourteen pound, please, love. I’ve thrown a few cracklings in.’ He gave Libby a cheeky wink. ‘I know your Mam’s fond of ’em.’

While Libby counted out the money, he asked, ‘’Ow is she, by the way? We’ve not seen hide nor hair of her for some time now. Keeping well, is she?’

Libby simply replied that her mother had not been too well lately. ‘But she’s getting on all right now. Content one minute and demanding the next.’

He laughed – a loud, raucous laugh that startled the little man next to Libby and made him visibly jump. ‘Aye, well, that’s women for yer!’ he chortled, ‘Want this, want that, and when they get it . . . they want summat else instead!’

‘Stop yattering, yer silly old bugger!’ That was the fat woman on Libby’s right. ‘We’re ’ere for fish an’ chips, not a bloody lecture!’

Libby was still smiling when she came out – until she saw Jack approaching. She recognised his demeanour and the way he held himself. He was the same man she’d seen outside Thomas’s house the other night; but she could not see him clearly then, or now. ‘I’m almost sure it’s that man again!’ She crossed the road, her face averted and her hood up.

Jack didn’t notice her until she crossed the street and turned to look at him a second time. The glance was fleeting, but there was something about the boyish person that niggled him.

Shrugging it off, he went into the chip shop, where the fat woman and the proprietor were having a row.

‘Mushy peas? I never asked for mushy peas – that were the young lass that just went out! I asked for beans. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?’ She spelled it out for him: ‘B–e–a–n–s.’ Exasperated, she rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, now, you’ve made me forget me potato-dabs. I’ll ’ave two o’ them, and forget the beans.’

The man behind the counter did not take kindly to being nagged at, especially in front of the other customers. ‘Yer in a sour mood tonight, aren’t yer, Betty?’

‘What d’yer mean, sour mood? I’m
never
in a sour mood!’

‘Well, you’re in a sour mood from where I stand, but you’d best not tek it out on me, ’cause I’ll give as good as I get, an’ no mistake!’ He came back at her with humour: ‘What’s up, eh? Is the old man not looking after yer proper – if yer know what I mean?’ He gave a knowing wink to his audience.

‘I know exactly what yer mean!’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘And what me and my old man get up to is none of your damned business! Some folks should look at theirselves afore they start pointing the finger at others. At least my Les doesn’t ogle after other women. Oh, don’t deny it! We all saw yer eyeing that young lass up and down as she went out of ’ere. Yer tongue were ’anging out so far it could’a shined yer shoes! Shame on yer, that’s what I say. Randy old bugger!’ She snatched up her goodies, threw the money on the counter and marched out, muttering and tutting.

Jack tried hard not to smile, but he wasn’t the only one.

‘Touched a sore point there, didn’t I, eh?’ The red-faced proprietor was laughing heartily. ‘She’s that easy to wind up,’ he confessed. ‘I love to get ’er going. It’s the highlight o’ my day.’

Jack had to chuckle at the older man’s antics. If he didn’t know he was back in Lancashire, he knew it now. It was almost as though he’d never been away.

Instead of a bus shelter, Jack found a bench near the parade of shops and sat down to eat his fish and chips. There was a plastic knife and fork inside the bag, but he set them aside and tucked in with his fingers. It was a joyful feast.

‘That’s the way to eat fish and chips,’ said an old man sitting down beside him. ‘I ask yer, what right-minded person wants to eat fish and chips with a plastic knife and fork?’ He promptly took out his bag of chips and, stuffing them two at a time into his whiskered face, made a sighing noise after each bite whilst chatting away with Jack.

When he got up to leave, he turned to Jack. ‘Where are yer from?’ As he spoke, the remains of his hurried meal sprayed the air. ‘I can tell from the way yer talk – yer not from these parts.’

Having taken a shine to the old man, Jack explained. ‘I do come from these parts, only I moved away when I was eighteen.’

‘Eighteen, eh? An’ what did yer parents think o’ that?’

Jack took a moment; even now the memories were painful. ‘My father was caught up in a bad fire at the factory where he worked. He was badly hurt and never recovered.’