Paradise Lane (16 page)

Maureen Mason let herself out of Tom Goodfellow’s house, went home and finished her packing. Tomorrow, she would sail out of Liverpool and across a cruel sea that often showed its Irish temper. Yes, the stretch of water between England and Eire was aptly named. As was Tom Goodfellow . . .

She sat on the edge of her bed, wondered who on God’s good earth Tom Goodfellow was. He was educated, well-spoken, a reader of books, a scribbler. Her conscience had not pricked when she had read some of his notes on the Industrial Revolution, as these had been on display for all to see. The pages had been numbered and some were missing, others simply torn. What was he doing up here when he was plainly a member of another class?

Maureen rose and went to the mirror. It would be as well if she looked for a husband in Ireland, because Tom Goodfellow might never return. Even if he did come back, he would still be well beyond the reach of an ordinary woman who worked in a pawnshop and collected oddities. Her eyes strayed round the room, lighted on broken dolls, a scratched table, some old books whose pages were deciduous.

Yes, she had better find a man at home.

Tom Goodfellow entered the house without knocking. He walked straight into the kitchen, found Ivy up to her elbows in flour. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re better,’ he said. ‘Where’s Sally?’

Ivy threw down the rolling pin. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked. ‘Ollie’s halfway out of his mind – no – more like three-quarters by now, soft beggar. He keeps losing your bloody pigeons, running round after them. Even when they’re not lost, he’s stood outside his back door every night making funny noises, trying to sound like a bird. Rosie’s shoes don’t need her feet in them no more – they’re that used to chasing him, they can do it on their own. And . . . and it’s good to see you, lad.’

He smiled broadly. ‘I can hear the improvement,’ he remarked. No bronchitic woman could possibly make such a noise. ‘But there’s no time, Ivy. I want you to pack your bags – Sally’s too – and come with me to Hampshire.’

Ivy’s chin all but joined the rolling pin on her table. She closed her mouth with an audible snap. ‘Don’t talk so daft, Tom. Our Sal’s got school. We can’t go traipsing off to some highfaluting place . . . where did you say?’

‘Hampshire. There are schools there, you know.’

‘Never heard of it,’ she said, almost truthfully. ‘What’s in Hampshire? What would I be doing at my time of life?’

‘Having a rest.’ His tone was firm. ‘There’s plenty of open land, a cottage if you want it. Or you can stay with me.’ He could not imagine Ivy fitting in at Goodfellow Hall. He could not imagine anybody fitting in to a place that was so unwelcoming. ‘But if you do stay with me, no cleaning up, no mopping or washing or ironing.’

‘And what would I do with meself?’

‘Enjoy life,’ he replied. ‘Now listen. I’ve important business to attend to – my father has died.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘Eeh, I’m sorry to hear that, lad.’

‘Thank you.’ He would tell her the full story when there was more time. ‘I’ve brought a basket for Gus and some crates for the pigeons.’

Ivy gulped. ‘Would we not be coming back, then?’

‘Of course you’ll be coming back.’

She studied him for several seconds. ‘And you?’

He nodded. ‘In time, I’ll come. But it could be months, even years. There are a lot of things I need to do. And you must pack yourself up and get ready. We leave tomorrow morning.’

Ivy pondered. She had never allowed anyone to tell her what to do. At her age, she wasn’t intending to change her colours and walk meekly behind a bloke. Even if he was a nice bloke. Also, deep inside herself, a feeling akin to fear was bubbling its way nearer the surface. ‘I’m stopping where I am, Tom. So’s our Sal. She’s had a fair few shocks lately, so she wants settling.’

‘She needs a holiday. So do you.’

Ivy picked up a dishcloth, flicked some flour from her person and onto the table. ‘I’ll think about it. Sally’s round at the Heilbergs’ doing sabbath with them, they’ll all be sitting there waiting for the sunset.’ She walked to the door, looked at her clock. ‘I told her to come back once the candles were lit and the prayers had finished. Maureen said Friday night at the Heilbergs’ is a bit like the Catholic mass – breaking bread and praying over wine, all that sort of stuff. Shall I go and fetch her?’

Tom chuckled inwardly. Nations had gone to war over the so-called differences between Gentile and Jew. The politicians and religious leaders should have visited Paradise for a word with Ivy, whose ecumenism catered for all-comers, not just for Christians. ‘No, let her have her sabbath bread, Ivy. I’ll go up for her later. Are you going to make me a cup of tea, or have you forgotten your Lancashire manners, Mrs Crumpsall?’

She flicked him with the tea towel. ‘Listen, you. You’ve come right in the middle of me bacon and egg pie. Sit down and I’ll put the kettle on.’

He hesitated, remained standing.

‘What’s up with you now?’

‘I’ve someone with me. It’s the chap who’s taking the pigeons to Oakmead on a truck. He’d be very grateful for some sustenance.’

‘Oh, wheel him in,’ she said. ‘I hope he likes ham butties.’

Bill Yeats did like ham butties. He did justice to three, washed them down with four cups of tea and most of Ivy’s sugar. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Shall I get the birds now, M’lord?’

Tom could hear the clock ticking in the next room. He laughed over-loudly, clapped his companion on the back. ‘Now, stop calling me names, Bill.’ Ivy must find out the truth soon, but Tom didn’t want to put her off by telling her now. She might just go away with a chap called Goodfellow, but a lord could merit very short shrift. ‘Go and get them loaded,’ he said. ‘And you can sleep in number four tonight if you wish, or you can start back. Take plenty of food for the birds.’

Bill touched his forelock. ‘Right you are, sir.’

Ivy Crumpsall stood in the middle of the hearthrug, a frown creasing her forehead. ‘What’s this “lordship”, then?’

Tom shrugged. ‘It’s probably because I talk posh, as you so politely informed me a couple of years ago. A rose by any other name? Take no notice.’

She pondered, put down her cup, walked to the door. ‘We’ve no suitcases,’ she announced. She was beginning to admit to herself that a few weeks away might do Sally some good. And Ivy was tired, had worn herself out coughing for over a fortnight. Perhaps this was the time to give in gracefully. Well – perhaps not with complete grace . . . ‘We’d look well arriving with brown paper parcels, eh?’

‘I’ve cases outside in the car,’ he told her.

Several moments passed while Ivy went outside. She re-entered the kitchen, a look of surprise on her face. ‘Isn’t that one of them there Rolly-Roycers?’

He kept his laughter in check. ‘Yes, it’s a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Used to belong to my father. Did you find the cases?’

She waved a hand behind her back. ‘They’re in the parlour.’ She circled him, her eyes seemed to bore through his skull. ‘You’re gentry, aren’t you? Not just educated, not some feller from a good school and college and all that. You’re from money, eh? Old money?’

He nodded. ‘Don’t hold that against me, Ivy.’

Her eyes twinkled. ‘Nay, no fear of that, lad. If you’ve money, there’ll be plenty for our Sal to eat.’

He should have known that Ivy would put Sally first. ‘You’ll come, then?’

‘I’ll think about it, like I said before,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve never had a holiday, so it’s time I did. And time our Sal did and all.’

Tom heaved a sigh of relief.

Ivy smiled at him, drained her cup, then went upstairs to sort out her things.

Sally was spellbound. Mr Heilberg wore a cap on the back of his head. Well, he wasn’t so much wearing it as walking about in front of it. The small black circle was fastened to his hair with some of Mrs Heilberg’s hairgrips. And he was talking in a funny language, too.

After a few moments of silent prayer, Mr Heilberg picked up two loaves and talked to them, then he broke bits off and passed some to his wife, some to Sally. ‘Eat,’ he said, a smile stretching his face. ‘This is a sign of rejoicing, because we have food enough.’

Sally bit, chewed, drank some lemonade. ‘What’s a Jew?’ she asked.

Ruth burst out laughing. The candlelight made her so pretty that her husband kissed her hand. ‘Look at my Ruth,’ he said proudly. ‘The mother of my son and the mother of my house. Sally, take some fruit. Fruit is good for you.’

Sally chewed on an apple.

‘We Jews have our own country,’ explained Joseph. ‘But Ruth and I are also Austrian and English. Soon, we will be citizens of Fngland.’ His face grew serious. ‘Sally, a Jew is a person who lives with God all the time. Whatever we do, we do for God and for our families.’

‘Same as us, then.’ Sally took some more bread and ate it with her apple. ‘We’re supposed to be good. Preacher says God can see us all the time.’

‘This, my young friend, is true,’ agreed Joseph. ‘Our actions and our words have God in them. Well, if we listen to God, that is. Some don’t. Some wait till a man is unjustly interned, then they try to take his land and—’

‘Joseph!’ Ruth’s eyes were round. ‘Not now, not on the sabbath. Hatred is bad for the digestion.’

‘Then Worthington should have an ulcer.’

Ruth patted Joseph’s hand. ‘That you should talk of this now when our candles are lit, when our guest visits our home to see the beginning of sabbath. Also, there are crumbs in your beard.’

But Sally had not been listening properly, because she had another problem in her mind. ‘Well,’ she began carefully. ‘I don’t want anybody looking at me all the time, even God. Like when I’m having a bath on a Saturday and . . . and other times when I want to be on me own.’

The little woman at the other side of the table giggled. ‘This I understand, Sally. But God is never embarrassed. He loves us just as we are.’

‘Good,’ said the child. ‘But I’d still rather be on me own when I go down the garden.’

A knocking at the door downstairs ended the conversation. Joseph bustled down to answer the door while Ruth found sweets for Sally. ‘Do not eat these all at once.’

‘Thank you. I won’t, I’ll save some for Red.’

‘Ah.’ The dark-haired woman came to sit next to this little blonde waif of whom she was extremely fond. ‘This is your young man? This Red person? He is the one with the strange hair, very bright in colour.’

Sally placed the core of her apple on her side plate. ‘We don’t have boyfriends at my age,’ she said wisely. ‘I think you have to be in the mill before you get a young man.’

‘Ah.’ Ruth pondered for a while. ‘You will go into the mill, Sally?’

The child shrugged. ‘I suppose so. That’s what happens. People go to school, leave school, go in the mill. Then they get married and the girls look after babies. When the babies get grown up, the mother goes back in the mill. Sometimes, the dad goes in the pit.’ Her face clouded. ‘My dad was in a pit.’

‘Yes.’ A change of subject might be a good idea, Ruth thought. ‘Maureen is in Ireland. Soon, we should get another letter from her, because it is almost the end of her holiday.’

The door opened to reveal Tom Goodfellow. He smiled, came right inside and picked Sally up. ‘Come along with me, young miss,’ he said.

Joseph could not contain his excitement. ‘They may go to Hampshire, Ruth,’ he said. ‘Ivy also. For a holiday and a nice rest.’

Sally touched Tom’s face. ‘Where’s Hampshire?’

‘Oh, Sally.’ He shook his head. ‘Not you as well. Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow, because I’ve come a long way today.’

‘Have you petrol?’ asked Joseph.

Tom nodded. ‘There was some stored. I’ll write to you, Joseph. There are things I need to explain in time.’

Joseph Heilberg touched his friend’s shoulder. ‘I wish you well in all you do. Come back to us, Tom. We’ll be waiting.’

‘I know.’ He knew they’d be waiting. And he knew that he would be back. The burning question was when.

Andrew Worthington leaned back in his leather chair, thumbs hooked into a tailor-made waistcoat, eyes bulging even further than usual from beneath shaggy, grey brows. He was waiting, and he was not used to waiting.

He released one hand, used it to bring a gold watch from a pocket. It was three minutes past ten. Just to make sure, he looked at the clock on the wall, then walked across and opened the door, checked the time in the general office. It was now four minutes past ten. ‘Nothing to do?’ he roared at the nearest worker.

The woman looked at him, bowed her head and typed some nonsense. She had read the mail and now needed the boss’s instructions. All the day-to-day letters had already been typed, but Mr Worthington should be dictating many replies this morning.

The mill owner’s eye fell upon the general clerk-cum-teamaker, sweeper-up, dogsbody. ‘Three teas, lad,’ he roared. ‘With matching saucers, but not the best china, on a tray, no spills, and half a dozen plain biscuits.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The boy ran off to do the master’s bidding. It was usually like this when someone missed an appointment. Worthington’s bad moods were legendary, but he was always particularly devilish when kept hanging about.

The much-hated man re-entered his office and stood at a window. Across the yard and through open gates, he could see the Paradise houses. As the owner of Paradise Mill, surely he should have Paradise Lane as well? His family had named the bloody street, yet he hadn’t been able to get hold of title deeds, because a Jew-boy was holding on as tightly as any bulldog. Aye, and the man was a real foreigner, from Austria or some such highfaluting place.

Behind the houses lay the stretch of land that really annoyed Worthington. It was as well that it was hidden from view, because the failure to acquire the Paradise Recreation Ground was the biggest disappointment of his life. With the possible exception of his wife, he told himself. That wretched mare was more than a disappointment – she was a flaming disaster.

The tea arrived, stood cooling on his desk. Eight minutes and forty seconds past ten. He sat, drank his own tea, left the other containers to go cold. Perhaps Bert and Gert had not been such a good idea after all.

A timid tap at the door elicited no response. He waited for a firmer knock, boomed a reply. ‘Come in, damn you!’