Paradise Lane (11 page)

‘Gertrude Simpson. Most call me Gert. It’s a scream, because my husband’s Bert. Gert and Bert – funny, isn’t it?’

Rosie, whose concern for Ivy and Sally was the burning issue, found the small quip almost as amusing as the skin off yesterday’s rice pudding. ‘If you want to come back tonight, I’ll tell Ivy to expect you. Once she gets roaming round Bolton market, she can spend up to two or three hours. She knows everybody, see. Has a lot of friends.’

‘Oh.’

‘And she’s busy now, what with her job, then Sally to care for. She loves her Granny Ivy, does little Sal. It’s a good thing Ivy were here to pick up the pieces after your sister ran off. If it hadn’t been for Ivy and the neighbours, Derek would have been left to die with Sally watching.’ She looked the stranger up and down. ‘She were a very tarty woman, your sister. Always dyeing her hair and carrying on like a kid, short skirts and daft shoes.’ With deliberation, she allowed her eyes to move from short skirt to daft shoes.

Gert Simpson bit her lip. ‘It’s work, you see. I’m on toffees. They like you to dress nice at Woolworths.’

Rosie pondered for a moment. ‘Haven’t they started giving you overalls to wear? Like a coat that covers all your clothes?’

Gert realized her error, lifted her head until the light of defiance shone in the direction of the door. ‘It’s morale,’ she explained. ‘They tell us to wear something nice underneath for our morale.’

Determinedly stupid, Rosie spoke up again. ‘Moral? Eeh, I wouldn’t call your frock moral, love. It’s stretched that far across all your bits and bobs that I can nearly see straight through the front as far as your backbone.’

Gert, who could see right through Rosie, stepped back. There was going to be trouble here. But Lottie had left the girl to Gert and Bert, and this would probably be Gert’s only chance of rearing a child. She wanted Sally, wanted a little girl so badly that it hurt. ‘Tell Mrs Crumpsall I’ll be round just after seven. And Bert’ll be with me.’

‘Right.’ Rosie followed the woman into the street, closed Ivy’s door, watched while the creature stumbled over cobbles. Ivy was going to go straight through the roof like a blinking rocket. No way would Ivy Crumpsall let Sally go without a fight. And once Ivy saw the state of Lottie’s sister . . . well, it didn’t bear thinking about, especially on an empty stomach.

Rosie entered number 2, closed her door, went into the kitchen with the intention of preparing a meal.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Ollie was fiddling with four failed potatoes that sagged on newspaper in the middle of the table. ‘Spuds should grow anywhere,’ he grumbled. ‘But they’ll not grow in Paradise.’

She touched his shoulder, smiled at him. ‘Thanks, lad,’ she said.

He jumped to his feet. ‘What the bloody hell do you want now? You’re only nice to me when you’re after summat.’

‘No. I just wanted to say ta before it’s too late. You’ve minded me and kept me safe for a long time, Ollie.’

‘That’s all right.’ He watched her as she walked into the scullery, tried to judge whether she might be ill in mind or body. ‘Are you sickening for summat?’ he asked.

Rosie leaned against the slopstone, thought about all the children she’d never reared. She wasn’t ill, just tired. But Ivy was more than tired. Ivy was worn out and heartbroken, too exhausted for the kind of trouble promised by Gert Simpson. Rosie filled the jug, carried it to the kitchen copper. ‘Take them things off my table, Ollie Blunt. And if you’ve walked anything in, I’ll sort you out and no messing.’

He smiled to himself. His Rosie was all right after all.

Tom Goodfellow picked Gus out of the cage, placed him on the floor next to a plate of flaked fish. ‘I’ll never understand you,’ he said to the cat. ‘There are mice to chase, yet you come in here and nest with a pair of birds. Here, eat that.’

Gus sniffed at the cod, sat down, fixed his suspicious eyes on Tom. This fellow was going to let the birds out again. They were warm and comfortable, and Gus would miss them. He watched while the man held a bird, listened to the cooing. After a quick flurry of wings, the pigeon rose into the sky. The whole process was repeated, then the box belonging to Beau and Scarlet was empty. Gus ate his fish, lay down to wait. He’d tried being friendly with some of the other birds, but only Beau and Scarlet accepted him for what he was – a docile creature who liked soft feathers and enjoyed being groomed by thorough beaks.

Tom entered the scullery, picked up the letter, read it again. He would bank the cheque later, but he needed to read through this wretched thing once more. His presence was requested in Regent Street, London, as soon as possible. He was to make an appointment with Matthew Marsh of Marsh, Marsh and Fotheringay. So, he was summoned by a senior partner. Which was a shame, he told himself in a small moment of levity. Fotheringay was a wonderful name, quite Shakespearian. It would have been fun to spend another hour in the company of Peregrine Fotheringay, as that splendid man failed completely to live up to his elegant name. But today’s message had been signed with a flourish by no less a personage than Matthew Marsh himself, so Tom would respond immediately.

The pigeons would be cared for in his absence by Maureen Mason, Gus and Sally. Maureen would feed them, Gus would watch them and Sally would clean out the cages and lofts. London. He disliked London with a passion, hated the noise, the bustle, the almost total lack of human contact.

He went inside, stood deep in thought. ‘I could have lived in the country,’ he eventually told the cat who had followed him in. ‘But I’m so glad I didn’t.’ Tom pointed to his ‘reason’ for living here, a pile of papers and folders on the dresser. The doctorate in sociology would never materialize, because he was too busy enjoying the company of those he was meant to interview. ‘Lancashire, A Social History, Industrial Revolution to Present Day’, was curling at the edges. He’d coped with the Industrial Revolution, had decided to remain in the present day. Though Andrew Worthington might be a suitable candidate for close questioning, he told himself. Andrew Worthington was as Victorian as the Albert Memorial, a man whose views were so definite as to brook no discussion. Perhaps silent vigilance might be preferable to interview, then.

‘Sociology is an inexact science,’ he informed the feline audience.

Gus stuck a rear paw in the air, began to wash his behind. They did go on, these two-legged ones. Birds went on too, but that noise was softer, gentler.

‘I’m off to hell tomorrow,’ he informed the furry contortionist. ‘It may be that the money is about to dry up. If so, I shall be forced to join the labouring classes. In which case I shall, no doubt, gather sufficient material to write a tome rather than a thesis.’

Gus remained unimpressed.

‘Talking to that cat again, Tom?’

Tom grinned. ‘Hello, Rosie. Do come in.’

‘I already have. Make a brew lad. My daft bugger’s sat at the kitchen table having a conversation with four King Edwards. I’ve stuck a tater pie in the oven and left him moaning.’ She sank into a chair. ‘At least the cat’s breathing, so you’re one up on Ollie.’ She watched as he made the tea. He was easy on the eye, was Tom Goodfellow. In spite of a slight limp, his movements were fluid, sure and relaxed. Tom didn’t go mithering on about poor soil. He just cut the weeds and let the garden take care of itself, but at least it looked like a lawn when it was short. ‘We’ve still not worked out why you’re living here, lad.’

‘You promised not to ask again,’ he told her mildly.

‘I know, but I’m a liar.’ She took a noisy slurp of tea, waited hopelessly for some information about the man’s origins. ‘There’s bother, Tom.’

‘Oh?’

‘A woman’s just been hanging round number one. Gert Simpson, says she’s Lottie’s sister. I think she’s after taking Sally to live with her.’

Damn, he cursed inwardly. ‘Why must every problem float to the surface at once?’ he asked the cat. He smiled ruefully at Rosie. ‘I do hope there’s no trouble, because I have to go away for a day or so – something’s come up. It’s business in London. It might take only twenty-four hours, or it could use up a week. But I’ll get back as quickly as possible. Now, stop eyeing me expectantly, Mrs Rosemary Blunt, because as I’ve told you before, you must take me as I am now, not for who I used to be.’

She cocked her head to one side. ‘Have you been thrown out, Tom? Did your dad chuck you to the four winds with one of them “never darken my door” looks on his face?’

How near the mark she was! ‘No. Now, there’s no immediate danger to Sally or to Ivy. I’m fairly sure that the system would decide to leave Sally with her paternal grandmother. I should be very surprised if any so-called welfare committee moved the child into the home of a stranger whose sister deserted a young girl and a dying man.’ He got up, paced about. ‘Look, I’ll go and see somebody. I’ve a Bolton lawyer – he negotiates with London, keeps my finances in order. In an hour or so I’ll pop down and have a word with him.’ He rooted in a drawer. ‘Here’s his card. If Ivy has any trouble with the woman while I’m away, send her to my lawyer.’

Rosie took the card. ‘It’ll be all right for now, Tom. But Ivy’s not well, you know. I mean, she’s good enough some days, worn out the rest of the time. Something tells me her system’s getting a bit tired.’

‘I know. But I still think she’ll fool us all by reaching ninety – even her century.’ He walked about, pondered. ‘When is this sister of Lottie’s going to call again?’

‘After tea. She’s fetching her husband with her. Gert and Bert Simpson – did you ever hear the likes of that?’

‘No,’ he answered absently. ‘Though Peregrine Fotheringay’s a name to conjure with isn’t it?’

‘Eh?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Who the hell’s Peri-green Featheringay?’ She knew she’d got it wrong, but it was a mouthful, all right.

‘Sorry, I was dreaming. A chap I used to know. Go home, Rosie. Wait for Ivy, sit on her if necessary. We must all be there when Lottie’s sister returns. Myself, you and Ollie, Maureen, Ruth and Joseph. Let her try to take Sally then. It will be as well if we make it plain that there will be a fight. That man’s dying wishes were for us to act
in loco parentis
.’

Her face shrivelled into a frown. It was no use saying ‘eh?’ again, because he was of an educated turn of phrase, was Tom Goodfellow. ‘Right. I’ll go and wait for her then.’ She walked to the doorway, paused. ‘Is there summat bothering you, lad?’

He nodded. ‘You know I’ve a private income?’

‘We guessed as much. I mean, nobody manages to eat as well as you do without the odd copper coming in. But what’s wrong with your face, eh? You look like you’ve lost a bob and found a tanner. I wish me and Ollie had a private income. We’re living on savings, hoping we’ll peg out before the money does.’

Tom smiled at her. ‘Money isn’t everything, but it helps. My source of income may be about to dry up – I shan’t know until I get to London. If necessary, I’ll get a job when I return.’

‘What were you in the war?’ she asked sweetly.

‘A trainer of pilots.’

‘In the Air Force?’

‘Yes. Fighters, mostly.’

She remembered him arriving here with a bad leg and a brass-headed cane, remembered Joseph Heilberg’s solicitor bringing Tom for a look round number 4. Going on three years Tom had been in Paradise Lane. He was a man of mystery with a heart of gold. ‘You’ll tell me when you’re ready.’

Tom inclined his head, then in perfect Lancashire he said, ‘Aye, an’ ’appen ah will an’ all, lass.’

When he was alone, Tom picked up his notes, looked through them. It seemed stupid now, downright mad to start studying for a doctorate at his age. What on earth had he intended to do with it? Go back to Oxford and lecture callow youths on the subject of northern life?

Goodfellow. Wasn’t that a name to conjure with? He wondered yet again why he had hung on to it – after all, there were other family names he might have used. Was he trying to live up to it? Was he aiming to become the first decent Goodfellow within living memory?

Smiling to himself, he shook his head. No. He had stuck to the name out of habit or laziness, had grown in to it like an item of clothing that had been passed down through a family. One day, given a good enough reason, he might just do something about it . . .

He read some of his work, spoke it into the empty room. ‘The most distressing and annoying factor in this field is the apparent blindness of cotton factories. Few mill owners are developing or diversifying. While machinery improves, attitude remains unchanged. There is a markedly severe and blinkered structure to the cotton industry and it will die a natural death within two or three decades. Overseas markets will not be sustained; cheaper fabrics will infiltrate from Eastern countries.’

He riffled through the pile, found more words of pseudo-wisdom. ‘However, what is remarkable is the continuing importance and vigour of the family unit. Beyond that, a social stability has been achieved by the almost accidental creation of interrelating aid groups within the community. A strong sense of local culture makes these people somewhat insular, yet they absorb with ease migrants from other Lancashire towns.’

He tore the pages into four pieces, placed them on the fire. Bolton had also taken to its bosom a man who was so markedly different that he should have stood out like a boil on the face of a baby. How would they react, he wondered, if they knew the truth about him? What could a member of the landed and titled gentry expect from these proud working people?

He watched the dancing flames, answered himself. ‘They would still care for me,’ he told the heat-curled notes. ‘There are more similarities between classes than there are differences. So, “Dr” Goodfellow, you will remain a simple MA Oxon. And your main job, after seeing Matthew Marsh, will be to keep safe Derek Crumpsall’s daughter. After all, aren’t you the one who always saves females in distress . . . ?’

Maureen Mason was putting her face on. She never went over the top with her make-up, was not in the same league as the dear departed Lottie Crumpsall, but she liked to make the best of herself. At thirty-five, she was still an attractive woman, with near-black hair and eyes of a startling green. The Irish skin had remained fine, but it never reacted to the sun. So Maureen helped nature a little by applying mascara to lashes, plucking brows that had a tendency towards thickness, stroking a little rouge along cheek-bones.