Midnight on Lime Street (26 page)

‘I will.’ She kissed his forehead.

Sally returned with the bell and a face like thunder. ‘It was in the hall.’

‘The bell?’ Babs asked. ‘I’d swear it was in the kitchen.’

‘No, the bloody horse was in the hall. I know, I know, it’s a he. So I told him to bugger off, and he went in the wotsit – drawing room. He was sniffing at the books on the far
wall. Some of them books is leather-backed. And he’s dribbled on the piano lid.’

‘Where is he now?’ Don asked.

Sally shook her head. ‘He’s in the hall again, bottom of the stairs, blowing and snuffling. I think he’s trying to work out how to get to Babs. Just out of interest – can
horses do stairs?’

Babs sighed heavily. ‘Can they do stairs?’ she asked Don.

Don pondered the question. ‘Depends on the horse and the slope of the flight. My stairs aren’t steep, and the treads are deep enough. You’ll have to start shutting the kitchen
door to keep him out of the carpeted areas.’

Babs laughed. ‘You are joking, aren’t you? He can open doors whether they go outward or come inward. If we bolt the back door, he turns round and knocks with a rear hoof; we’re
losing paint and bits of wood. As for the paddock – well, he clears that gate twice a day, floats over like a big feather. Oh Lord, here he comes now.’

Sally sat down suddenly in the bedside chair. What next? she wondered.

All three remained stock still and listened while the horse made a determined effort to achieve a more elevated position in life. After a few seconds, a beautiful red-bay face insinuated itself
into the bedroom. Murdoch whinnied and grinned, obviously pleased with himself.

Babs and Don stared open-mouthed at each other.

‘Do you believe your eyes?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen his like before. What a pest.’

The animal strolled in as if he owned the whole Fylde coast. Babs bridled, arms folded, head shaking. ‘Don’t come running to me if you break your leg on the way down, you soft sod.
What the hell on a butty are you doing up here anyway? We might need the roof off and the fire brigade to get a crane and winch you out.’

‘God, he’s naughty,’ Sally breathed.

‘Or a builder might manage it,’ Don speculated. ‘They have big machinery. Babs, go down and he’ll follow you. I’ll stay with his back end.’ He leapt out of
bed with more agility than some men half his age. ‘Take his head, Babs. Keep him steady – we don’t want any accidents.’

For a reason she failed to analyse fully, Sally found herself laughing uncontrollably. Don had just told Babs to take Murdoch’s head, but Murdoch had buried his nose in Babs’s mop of
thick, long hair. It was almost like being at a circus in which she, Sally and Don were clowns put there to be taunted by a horse who thought he was ringmaster.

Don glared at Sally. ‘Doesn’t take much to make you laugh, does it?’

‘What’s up with you now?’ Babs snapped. ‘Don’t start with the hystericals, Sal, because we’ve half a ton of horseflesh to shift. You’re at the front
with me.’

Sally sobered immediately. ‘What if he falls?’

‘We all die and get used for dog meat,’ was the older girl’s swift reply.

On the landing, Murdoch studied the situation while the three bipods fussed and pushed and argued among themselves. After deciding that humanity had no idea where to start, he left his rear legs
on the landing while the two forelimbs stepped one at a time onto the first, then the second stair. So far, so good. He put forward his right fore, then his left fore onto the third step before
jumping with both back legs in order to catch up within two stairs of his frontage. There was nothing to it. Once he had judged the distance between his back and front ends, which became three
clear stairs after a while, he was away.

‘Bloody hell,’ Babs grumbled, ‘we can expect a daily visitor upstairs now. He’s stubborn; must have learned that from your donkeys. This has to be dealt with.’ She
was a bit sad, because she loved the horse’s arrogance and mischief.

Sally sank to the floor, tears of laughter flowing down her face. ‘Talk about hop, skip and jump,’ she howled.

‘He rules our lives, Don.’ Babs watched the equine lunatic as he reached the end of the staircase. ‘Isn’t he brilliant?’

‘He certainly is. I wonder what Wordsworth would have made of him? Or Coleridge?’

Babs tutted. ‘Coleridge wrote about an albatross. Yes, I’ve been looking at your poetry books. Maybe a horse is the cross we have to bear. Still, as long as we keep him alive, we
won’t have to wear him round our necks like that poor old sailor had to do with the bird. Oh, sweet Jesus, look.’

Murdoch decided to practise and perfect his new skill. After travelling up and down twice more, he lost interest and made for the kitchen, where he found his carrot and two apples, one for
himself, the other for Nicholas Nye. He would return later for his bread with the scrape of jam, because the two-legged were still fussing upstairs. Sometimes, his blind donkey friend made more
sense than those who were supposedly in charge.

The three people on the landing composed themselves. ‘See?’ Don said. ‘There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to get to you, Babs. But I’m afraid my beautiful house
is about to become his second stable.’

‘No, it won’t,’ replied the soon-to-be trainee National Hunt jockey. ‘Discipline. He has to learn what Gordy calls his boundaries. Sally’s right when she says
he’s naughty. There’s a streak in him and yes, it’s all the fault of that dad of his who’s streaking about like lightning all over Ireland. It’s not going to be easy,
because he’s so lovable, but me and Gordy are going to have to start talking tough. He can race blinkered, but he can’t spend his life in blinkers, can he? He’s too easily
distracted, Gordy says.’

A muffled laugh reached their ears, and they turned to find John and Phil in a bedroom doorway. Don introduced himself and shook their hands. ‘That was Mad Murdoch,’ he explained,
‘and I suppose you can see why the word mad is used to describe him. Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ Phil replied. ‘John’s a bit nervous, so his stammer’s worse today. We don’t know where we’re going to be put, you see, sir.’

‘Well, if it’s anything to do with me and Gordy, you’ll be in Dove Cottage with him or here with me, Babs and Sally. It all depends on welfare and what the police say, though
you’ve committed no crime beyond stealing essentials. There’s a decent school within walking distance, and Mr Macey usually gets what he wants. Oh, and you can help with the
animals.’

‘Th-thanks,’ John managed.

‘I didn’t know a horse could climb upstairs and go down again,’ Phil said.

Don chuckled.

‘Neither did the bloody horse,’ Babs told them, ‘but he’s a quick learner, especially when he wants to be naughty.’

Don sat on a ladder-backed chair. He had saved geese, starving mongrels, battery hens, ill-treated donkeys and two near-feral cats. He had rescued Murdoch’s mother and changed her name to
Murma. It was time to help some young humans, preferably of the male variety. He remembered the struggle while the cruelly contained chickens had learned to walk for the first time. They were now a
coven of feathered witches with a metaphorical and actual pecking order in place, the biggest being in charge for much of the time – until the smaller ones formed a posse and bit her legs.
These lads needed to learn to live, and they would require support. ‘I’ve got some good shoes down in the laundry room,’ he told them. ‘Babs will find each of you a pair to
fit. Go down and wait for Mr Macey.’

The boys and girls left Don to himself while he considered a philanthropic future, though he wasn’t alone in his room for long. ‘Oh, bugger,’ he heard Babs muttering as she
ascended the staircase.

She burst into the room, and she was rather breathless. ‘He’s done another one,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s on the radio. Shirley Evans was her name, a working girl
from Liverpool, though they never said which part. Strangled with wire, she was, and left where she dropped. We thought he’d stopped. Well, we hoped. It has to be the same man, because he
always uses the same wire.’

‘Shit!’ Don cursed. ‘What’s wrong with this world is that some people won’t make room for others. What harm are the women doing? It’s the world’s oldest
profession for a reason. I’m sure there is true love and happy-ever-after marriage, but not always, and men need a release valve. Going with a whore’s better than knocking the wife
about.’

Babs agreed. ‘Then there’s women who marry for money. The only difference between them and prozzies is that they have only the one client.’

Don chuckled. ‘I know – I’ve seen them. They’re in the winner’s enclosure with the digs, all fur coats, jewellery and h’aitches where there h’are none.
It’s a mad world, baby girl.’

‘With a mad horse in it.’

Don laughed again. ‘Go and wait for Lippy, my love. I’ll come down before he gets here; oh, and send Sally to help me get dressed.’

In the kitchen, Gordy and Ian had joined the party. Ian smiled at Babs. ‘Where’s Sally?’ he asked rather too casually.

‘Helping Mr Crawford to get dressed. He’s got a bad heart, so me and Sal look after him and the house.’

‘Oh, right.’ Ian was blushing.

Babs sat down. Ian was nearly fifteen, while Sally would soon be eighteen. It wasn’t too much of a gap, she decided. By the time one was twenty and the other twenty-three, nobody would
notice the difference. The sweet, gentle love between the two girls was just a stepping stone; after several discussions, they were agreed on that subject. Both wanted the normal life. What was the
normal life? Husband, children, bills and worry? And who decided what was normal? The government, the Pope, God? Questions, questions. But the most immediate was what was going to happen to the
boys?

Sally entered with her right arm supporting her employer. She sat him in a comfortable chair near the range, then looked straight into Ian’s eyes.

Babs smiled. She was right, and she loved being right. She was right about Gordy, too, because he was working at the opposite end of the scale by looking everywhere except in her direction.

According to Don’s will, Wordsworth House would belong to the RSPCA after his death, but she and Sally could live out their lives here rent free. There was ample room for two families, and
Babs would own outright the gatehouse, Dove Cottage. She smiled at Don. He was an eccentric old man with a bad heart that was really a good heart. She intended to look after him as best she could
manage, because he had done more for her and Sally than anyone else in the world had bothered to try. Eve had always seen what she termed ‘bad’ in him, but Babs knew differently. He was
a bit senile sometimes, but he did his best.

‘I hope they’re on their way,’ Sally said almost to herself.

The camper van rolled audibly through shingle and parked outside the kitchen window. ‘Right,’ Don ordered, ‘drawing room, everyone. He seems to have brought half of Southport
with him.’

Everyone sighed, and the boys looked fearful.

‘It’ll be all right, Ian,’ Sally promised.

They transferred to the best room, a rather grand place with two walls of crammed bookshelves, a massive fireplace, four sofas, several armchairs and a baby grand piano from whose lid
Murdoch’s spittle had recently been removed. All new arrivals introduced themselves briefly before disappearing. The three boys were taken upstairs to be examined by a police doctor and
interviewed by two plain clothes detectives, one of each gender, and a psychologist.

Mr Macey’s remaining retinue comprised three welfare workers and Mr Macey’s wife, Lillian. She and the welfare people followed Gordy to his cottage in order to size up the
accommodation and to judge his character. As Dr Macey already knew him, Gordy stood a good chance of being found appropriate as temporary guardian.

Only Don, Babs, Sally and Lippy Macey were left in the drawing room.

‘We could have stayed in the kitchen,’ Babs said.

Don tapped the side of his nose. ‘The stammerer plays the piano,’ he said. ‘And he sings. When he sings, the stammer disappears. I’m within yards of the gatehouse and I
have a baby grand. They’ll notice that, and it’s a point in our favour.’

‘Sorted,’ Babs finished for him.

Sally grinned; Ian would be living nearby. She returned a cheeky wink from Babs. Life was getting better all the time.

Within the hour, everyone but the boys and the psychologist had returned to the drawing room. It was time for cups of tea all round, and everyone was given one of Sally’s butterfly cakes
with real cream, light as duck down and very moreish. The cake stand was empty within a few minutes. Silence ruled while the company enjoyed the offerings.

‘You can bake for me any time.’ Lippy glanced at his wife. ‘Lillian’s too busy to bake, aren’t you, my love? She has to cure the stomach pains of all whose wives
can’t cook properly.’

Wisely, the good doctor offered no reply.

They talked about the weather, the unbelievable cost of living, the beauty of Wordsworth House and Don Crawford’s love of poetry.

The psychologist entered. ‘Remarkable boys,’ was his first comment before he looked at the denuded cake stand and asked who had eaten his.

‘I saved some,’ Sally announced. ‘I’ll just make a fresh pot of tea.’

‘Well?’ Don asked.

A female welfare officer spoke. ‘There’ll be a meeting held in camera, just the professionals involved. It’s something that has to happen, especially when children or young
people have suffered abuse.’

Psychology stepped into the conversation. ‘They all expressed fondness for Babs and Sally. Female influence is vital for boys of this age.’

Babs felt heat arriving in her cheeks. ‘Yes, we were staying with friends in a house not too far from the hut.’ What would these folk say if they knew the truth about her and
Sally?

‘Will you please go away?’ These shouted words arrived from the kitchen.

Murdoch, who hated to be left out of anything, entered the drawing room, closely followed by Sally. Jaws dropped as if choreographed to perform simultaneously. The horse made a beeline for Babs
and shoved his nose in her hair. Sally stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. ‘He’s ate two cakes,’ she pronounced angrily. ‘I was making the tea, and he pinched two of me fairy
butterflies. Should horses eat double cream?’