Nest of Sorrows (31 page)

‘Lost a shoe too.’ Melanie pointed to the horse. ‘Otherwise, I might have been on time.’

Rachel reached out her arms, tears of happiness threatening to ruin her discreet makeup. ‘You came. You came, lass. Does your dad know you’re here?’

‘Yes. He was quite reasonable about the whole thing, actually. Though Granny Dora isn’t pleased, she would have liked to be invited.’

‘How’s things?’ Kate’s voice betrayed a tension brought to the surface by the presence of her daughter. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Fair, thanks. He’s off the booze,’ replied Melanie with her customary bluntness. ‘He’s working on ideas to get you back, and he’s told everyone you’re staying with Granny Rachel because she’s ill. Though why he should bother when Phil Carter has blabbed the truth all over Edgeford . . .’

‘Has it affected you?’ Kate lifted a hand and touched Melanie’s arm. ‘At school and so on, has it made a big difference?’

The girl shrugged lightly. ‘Told them all you’d gone for sanity’s sake and they understood – most of them do know Granny Dora. Those who didn’t choose to understand, well, I advised them to mind their own business.’

‘Good for you.’ Rachel pulled her granddaughter to one side. ‘Come and meet my . . . well . . . I suppose he’s my husband now.’

Kate stood back and watched as Melanie shook hands with everyone. She was a brilliant girl, just simply brilliant! She stood out, yet she blended, could mix with anyone and everyone. All this had been coming, all this out of a spoiled and precocious brat. And Kate was missing it, had walked away from it.

Then a dim light dawned in Kate’s brain, its luminosity increasing as she watched the young girl’s very adult behaviour. Yes, it had been Kate’s exit that had brought Melanie on. The child was now the only grown-up in the house, had therefore been forced to mature quickly. Which event might not have happened so becomingly if Kate had stayed. Because, underneath the facade of submissiveness, Kate’s character had always been strong, perhaps too strong for the child to flourish in its shadow. Thus, out of a negative act, had come a positive change for the better. For both mother and daughter.

After the reception meal at the Swan Hotel, where Melanie had arranged feed and temporary stabling for her horse in a garage, the arresting young girl finally managed to corner Rachel and Kate. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘He’s going to start on your school, Mum. Expect some phone calls. I think he’s having your flat watched already.’

‘For what? If he wants a divorce, he can plead desertion.’

‘He’s angry. You’ve hurt his pride, and I must say I do feel sorry for him. But he’s pathetic at times. He seems to need you.’

‘He can’t have me.’

‘I told him that.’

‘Nothing else? You didn’t tell him anything else?’

‘Of course not.’

Rachel’s ears pricked up. ‘Why? What else is there to tell?’

Kate turned away as if to look for a drinks waiter. ‘Oh Gran,’ Melanie went on smoothly. ‘We had a talk, Mum and I. It was little things, her reasons for leaving. Dad wouldn’t want to realize that Mum had confided in me, would he?’

Kate breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. There would be much for Melanie to hide in the coming weeks and months, and trust would be essential. She threw a grateful smile in the direction of her daughter. There had been no mention of drawings and cartoons, so would Mel be tough enough to hide the biggest secret, the one Kate didn’t even think about most days? No. She could not impose on Melanie any more. After the event, after she had left her job at school, that would be the time for real explanations. But between July and November, Kate would be living in Bangor, in Maureen’s caravan. The thought of this long separation from Mel saddened her, but it was an essential part of her plan.

For now, all was well. And she was grateful to Melanie for that.

Santosh Mathur loaded the last of Rachel’s belongings on to Arthur’s van. ‘I am truly sorry that we could not attend your wedding, Mr Bottomley. My wife is not good with her first expected baby. It would not have been pleasant for any of us.’

‘That’s all right, lad. I’m sorry you couldn’t come and all, she sets store by you, does my Rachel.’ These last two words were spoken with an air of happy proprietorship. ‘Now, just you listen here, my son. There’s a few of us down the market could do with a good man. Casual basis at first, like, see how it goes. It’s these damned tax laws. I reckon the Revenue owes us more than what we owe them. Have you studied British tax law?’

Santosh nodded. ‘Oh yes, both in my country and also here as a refresher course. Really, I am looking for a permanent position in order to find a better house for my family. But a trial would be most agreeable, thank you.’

‘That’s settled, then.’ Arthur spat on his palm and held it out to Santosh. ‘Wet thy hand before shaking, eh? There’s other rules here, daft ones. This is more of a market man’s practice, don’t you start doing it anywhere posh.’

Santosh spat and shook. ‘You will make of me an Englishman yet.’

‘Nay, I won’t. You keep your traditions, lad, but learn ours. To live in Rome, you don’t have to become a Roman. You just have to stay one step in front.’

‘Rome?’ Santosh’s brow was furrowed.

‘It’s a saying. It means live here and mind what we do, but carry on being your own selves.’

‘This I understand.’ The serious face was clouded as he said, ‘We shall miss our Rachel, Mr Bottomley.’

‘Arthur! Call me Arthur! Nay, you don’t need to miss her. Come down our house whenever you’ve a mind, fetch her some of them blessed poppy-thingies she’s forever going on about. And bring the nipper when it’s born.’ Arthur studied Santosh closely. ‘Don’t be a stranger, else I’ll send the missus up to flay you. I’m not having her saying I separated her from her best neighbours.’ He shuffled about awkwardly. ‘Er . . . look, I know you’re different, man. I’d have to be blind not to see that you’re different from me. You’re a bloody sight healthier in colour for a kick-off – hey, don’t you be telling her that I swear! She nags enough without that. But we’re determined, Rachel and I, that you will get your rightful job back. She can’t stand to see you coming home mucky from the mill when you should be in a collar and tie job. Right?’

Santosh nodded. ‘Right. Everything is in the van now, Mr . . . Arthur. You must go, or Rachel will be worried. When she is worried, she becomes quite angry.’

Arthur was just thinking how right this man was, when Hamida appeared carrying a large earthenware dish. ‘This is a vegetable curry, Rachel’s favourite dinner.’

‘Ta, lass. Are you feeling mended?’

Hamida’s cheeks dimpled as she fought a smile. ‘Mended? I was not broken, simply sick.’

Santosh laughed. ‘This barrier of language will always be with us, I fear.’

‘Never mind,’ replied Arthur. ‘As long as we can pull a few of the other walls down, eh?’

But as he drove away, Arthur knew in his heart that the barriers would always be there. His country had survived a Roman invasion, a Norman conquest, plus several Germanic attempts to take over. But these brown and black people were visible, noticeable, resented. Hadn’t he himself said a few negative things about them, wasn’t he as guilty as the next man? Only education would help. Rachel had educated him, but who would take on the task for the rest of the Isles?

Perhaps, in the end, it would come down to intermarriage. Perhaps everyone would have to get watered down so that folk would eventually look like peas out of a pod. Pity if it came to that, though. She was bonny, was Hamida. Bonny and different, with her liquid black eyes and that spot of colour stuck to her forehead, something to do with caste. Different and proud, she was. It was the pride that must always be remembered.

Rachel discovered that she liked being married. It gave her a sense of status, a new purpose to her life. Arthur was just a big soft lad at heart, happy as long as his belly was full and his slippers were warmed. And ‘that side’ hadn’t turned out too bad either, because Arthur hadn’t a lot of energy after ten hours in the shop, so once the first flush was over, most activity of an intimate nature was confined to Saturday nights.

Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays found Rachel in the covered part of Bolton’s outdoor market, where she sold all kinds of hardware goods from nine in the morning until six at night. It was here that she discovered her true vocation. With the help of Ernie, who was Arthur’s right-hand man, she learned how to sell. It was no use standing there with a gob like cheese at fourpence; disposing of pots and pans meant believing in pots and pans, so she watched the other traders.

Within weeks, the rest of the market, particularly the hardware trade, realized that it had acquired a thorn in its side. This thorn took the form of a short reddish-haired lady with a voice that could have waged war against the Liverpool liners as they wailed their way up the Mersey.

Rachel believed in ‘fronting’ her stall for much of the time, which meant that she actually mingled with the buying public while Ernie remained behind the counter. Out among the throng, Rachel would yell, ‘There’s no cracks in my pots, missus! My head is where the cracks are! I’d have to be cracked to be giving stuff away at these prices! Ernie?’ And Ernie would rise from his hide behind the stall. ‘Show them, Ernie. Show them that cup and saucer for eighteen pence. Where would you get a china cup and saucer for one and six?’ she would ask the nearest ‘soft touch’. ‘Get them genuine imitation Spode ladies out, lad. Show ’em how they can dress up their sideboard or their window sill for . . . no, not ten bob. No, not nine. For seven and six, madam. Seven and six for a beautiful Edwardian lady. All good stuff, this. All direct from Stoke-on-Trent . . .’

Rachel’s world was further extended by buying trips. She and Ernie would set off on ‘between’ days – days when there was no market – and make for Stoke or Lancaster, coming home with large stocks of surplus goods, seconds, slightly damaged items. These were divided more or less equally between shop and stall, and Arthur quickly realized that he had acquired more than a wife; this little woman was an asset in every sense of the word. If he bought too many buckets or paintbrushes, she simply threw them into the van on market day and off-loaded them to people who had set out with no intention of buying buckets or brushes. It was this ability to persuade that made Rachel a star; also her acting talent, which had never found an outlet until now, was unleashed in all its glory for an unsuspecting world to enjoy.

On a Tuesday morning in late July, Rachel was arranging her stall, expertly mixing ‘throwaways’ with the good stuff, piling dinner services into attractive pyramids and dusting her bits of crystal. It was just on nine o’clock, so only the truly enthusiastic shoppers had arrived at the market. Early buyers usually had lists and a sense of purpose, these were not the types for dalliance. The real business of pot selling would not start until about tennish, when those with a few spare bob would arrive to indulge their hobby of spending money.

Ernie poked his comical face round the corner of the stall. ‘Hey, Rachel.’

‘What?’ She turned to look at him, then doubled over with laughter. He was wearing on his head a particularly capacious and attractive chamber pot, roses round the rim and down the handle. ‘Get it off, you big girl’s blouse,’ she shouted.

He removed the offending item and placed it out of sight. ‘If Hylda Baker could hear you, Rachel, she’d likely sue you for breach of copyright. I’ve some Wedgwood plaques here, what do you want me to do with them?’

‘Oh, pin them on your liberty bodice! And stop capering, this is supposed to be a serious business, Ernie Crawshaw.’

‘Aye, it used to be and all. It were that bloody serious, Arthur were thinking of closing it down. Till you arrived. Even Pot Bailey has a job to keep up with you.’

Rachel arranged a group of salt and pepper cruets. ‘Nay, don’t you be bracketing me with Pot Bailey. He could sell ice-cream to Eskimos, could that lad. I’m coming on. Let’s just say I’m coming on . . .’

‘Good morning.’

Rachel turned to find Dora Saunders standing back and sweeping a disdainful eye over the stall. ‘Hello, Dora.’

‘So.’ This monosyllable was followed by a loud sniff. ‘I wondered what you were up to these days. Now I know. What a pity. At our age, we should be taking our ease, shouldn’t we? Still, I suppose it’s better than cleaning. Though it must get chilly at times, and the smell from the fishmarket . . .’ She waved a hand towards the other side where wet fish was sold. ‘How do you do it?’

Rachel bridled, then fixed a grin on her face, a smile that failed to reach her angry eyes. ‘Give over, Dora! I’m a good seventeen or eighteen years younger than you. And I do this because it’s my own business. My husband has put my name on this stall.’

‘How nice.’ The tone was heavy with sarcasm.

‘Yes, it is nice, very nice to have a husband who believes in me, someone who isn’t afraid for me talents to develop.’ She straightened her shoulders and puffed out her small chest. ‘I’m responsible for all the buying when it comes to china and the like.’

Another sniff. ‘Well, of course, I never had to work. My husband made sure I didn’t need to go out. A woman’s place is in the home.’

‘In a home, more likely,’ muttered Rachel to herself.

‘Pardon?’ The voice was edged with sugar now, though the sweet did not quite conceal the sour. ‘Did you say something?’

‘I said it was a good job you didn’t work. After all, you’ve never been well, have you? And with no qualifications, you would have had to do some kind of manual labour. But this . . .’ she waved a hand across her merchandise, ‘this is different. It’s for myself – and for Arthur too. There’s a definite dignity to this kind of work.’

‘Is there?’ Dora nodded thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t have said so. Not last week when I watched you and heard you screaming like a banshee.’

‘Pardon?’ Rachel’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘What did you just say?’

‘Well, it isn’t very ladylike, is it? Shouting and bawling about pots and pans, grabbing people by the arm and being familiar. Most unpleasant, I should have thought.’

Rachel turned and shouted over her shoulder. ‘Ernie?’