Paradise Lane (19 page)

He frowned. ‘Mine, I suppose. They were my father’s and, according to what I’ve been told, he acted in character and treated them unkindly. Spaniels tend to sensitivity, which means they become nervous when handled badly.’ He paused for a moment. ‘My father, too, regarded everyone and everything the same, no favouritism. He was bad to man and beast alike. We’ll settle the dogs eventually.’

She walked into the kitchen and looked out at her granddaughter. Sally was outside again, was rolling about in a bundle of golden fur with ten legs – counting the child’s – three heads and two pluming tails. ‘You’ve lost your dogs, Tom. We’ll have a terrible time getting yon lass back to Bolton without them spaniels.’

He glanced sideways at the black-clad woman. Her only concession to long-distance travel had been the leaving off of her white apron. She was one of the last remaining pieces of Victoriana, in black from head to foot and with a ridiculous veiled hat perched on top of the iron grey hair. ‘Ivy, black’s hot in the summer. Won’t you let me buy you a couple of lightweight dresses?’

She fixed him with her gimlet stare. ‘Tommy Goodfellow, you might be a lord, but I’ll have you know I’m a lady. I don’t hold with folk dashing about with all their bits showing. I like me black. You know where you are with black. Put me in lilac and I might go on a manhunt down the road. Aye, I’d be in that pub in . . . what’s that little place called?’

‘Oakmead. There are a few grand gentlemen who’d be glad of your company if—’

She clocked him across the head with her dorothy bag. ‘I’ve still got all me facilities, you know. I’m not letting you marry me off to somebody in a bloody smock.’

He rubbed his scalp. ‘The farmers don’t always wear smocks any more, Ivy. And only women in mourning or in service are clad in black.’

Ivy grinned at him wickedly. ‘Well, they don’t even talk proper. Sound a bloody soft lot to me. When we went in that shop, I couldn’t tell a word they were saying.’

Tom didn’t bother to tell her that no-one would fathom her Boltonese for at least three days. He was just glad that they were here, that Sally would be safe from those prowling Simpsons, that Ivy would not become heartbroken just yet at the possibility of Lottie’s sister claiming Sally once the poor child’s Granny Ivy had shuffled off the coil.

‘Uncle Tom?’

Sally’s face was rounder already. The dimples were slightly deeper, less of a hint and more of an actuality. ‘Yes, Sally?’

She bit her lip with the almost-grown adult incisors. ‘Are you really, really rich?’

‘I suppose so.’ In the grand scheme of things, he was not particularly wealthy. But compared to the Crumpsalls, he was Croesus.

Sally glanced at her grandmother, swallowed, cleared her throat. ‘Can we rent this house for ever? We could come in the Bolton holidays, then I can live here all the time when I’m grown-up. I’ll keep it clean. Ask Mr Heilberg – number one’s been clean since me and Gran had it.’

Tom crossed the room, ruffled Sally’s pale blond hair. ‘Rose Cottage is yours for life, Sally,’ he said thickly. ‘And no rent to pay. When I’ve sorted everything, the deeds will be yours.’

Ivy tutted. ‘You’re spoiling her, Tom.’

‘It’s time somebody did,’ he replied.

For once, Ivy Crumpsall was lost for words. Little Sal had never had much, had been blessed with a mother whose few coppers went on fripperies, with a dad who had died young. And here was a man who was no kin to Sally, a man who had just given the child a house and a couple of dogs. More than that, Tom had made Sally smile. ‘I’ll just have a wash,’ said Ivy gruffly when she found her tongue. ‘Then I’ll make us all a nice cup of tea.’

‘I can’t take no more of this,’ said Ivy. ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or bloody going.’ How many rooms had they been through? ‘It’s like your first day in the mill, too much to take in.’

Sally and the spaniels were in their element. It had been daunting for the little girl at first, especially when they had stood in the great hall. That room had not just been wide and long – it had climbed up and up right to the roof and beyond. The far-away ceiling held a circular window with patterns in multi-coloured glass, and she had gone dizzy again while twisting about to look at all the pictures near the sky.

But she’d got used to it within half an hour, had made acquaintance with below-stairs staff in the cellar-level kitchens and service rooms. She had taken in the red and gold Inigo Jones dining room, chandeliers, tapestries, marble fireplaces, polished wood floors. There were four-poster beds, one of which sat in a Chinese room with black chests and cupboards lacquered in gold. She’d been in a withdrawing room filled with huge Tudor chairs and massive silver candlesticks, then into a second sitting room with floor-to-ceiling pillars and arches that held rude statues of naked men and women. After a while, it had become just another place like Oxford, something that was not quite real, not quite reachable.

Ivy tutted into a black marble bath. ‘It’d take three weeks to fill that,’ she said. ‘And this room’s that big, you’d be froze over in winter before you could get dry.’

‘There are smaller ones,’ the host informed her.

Ivy shook her head. ‘How many?’

He shrugged. ‘Ten, twelve – I’m not sure.’

They retraced their steps, reached the massive front door, stood outside on an open terrace edged by a long balustrade. ‘You don’t like it here, do you, Tom?’ said Ivy.

‘There’s no communication in a house this size. When we were small, Jon, Patricia and I could rely only on the staff when we needed help or comfort. Had we looked for our parents, the problem we wanted to solve would have disappeared before we’d found Mother or Father. It’s too big, far too big for me.’

She understood. Tom had gone from trenches to small rooms in Oxford, had lived in spaces that had been confined. During his spendthrift years, he had probably lived in flats or hotels. Now, after an absence of almost thirty years, he was Lord Goodfellow of this huge country seat. ‘What’ll you do with it?’

He shook his head. ‘Not sure. I’m mulling over a few ideas. First, I want to get rid of my title. To do that, I must find Patricia and see if she has any children. Whatever, I’ll change back to Marchant. Then, unless Patricia wants this heap, I’ll find a use for it.’

‘You could sell it to some other lord,’ she suggested.

He heaved a great sigh. ‘Ivy, if it were only as simple as that. There are tenant farms, crops, animals, families whose income depends on me now. My land cuts a jagged swathe almost all the way from Aldershot to Winchester and beyond. People, Ivy. Hundreds of people.’

‘Aye, that’s a tough one, Tom.’

‘There should be no one person in charge of all this. There are dairy and crop farms, we grow hops, most vegetables, maize . . .’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘A lot of thinking to do.’

‘Yes.’ Ivy spread her hands along the balustrade, looked along the weedy path that divided into many patterns what had once been formal gardens. ‘Everything’s neglected, Tom. Furniture’s showing signs of wear, some ornaments are cracked. Mind, them paintings and stuff might be worth a packet.’

‘They are,’ he said. ‘And all I want is to be rid of the lot.’

Prudence closed the door quietly, left him to get on with it. For years, she had avoided eating with him, always had a tray brought up to her room by their one servant. Mrs Miles, from a small street just off Wigan Road, arrived at Worthington House at 7 a.m., prepared breakfast, cleaned the house, then went home at about 1 p.m. Prudence always got her own lunch, then Mrs Miles returned at 5 p.m. to cook and serve the evening meal. The woman came in six days, then had Sundays off. Sunday was a nightmare for Prudence, as Victor visited and things had to look normal while Margaret West, Victor’s fiancée, was in the house. ‘Normal’ meant everyone sitting in the dining room eating a meal prepared by Prudence and indulging in small talk created by the presence of an outsider.

She walked up the stairs to her bedroom, was intending to collect her used tray. But just as she reached the landing, the front doorbell sounded. Mrs Miles would be busy in the kitchen, was probably starting to wash all the dishes, so Prudence retraced her steps, opened the door.

The woman smiled. ‘I’m Gert Simpson,’ she announced.

The name meant nothing, and Prudence worked hard to shift the look of surprise that was visiting her face. Was this another of Andrew Worthington’s injured flock, was she a mother of some deflowered child?

‘I work here,’ said the scarlet mouth. ‘Me and Bert. We’ve to help somebody called Mrs Miles and do the garden and drive the car when you want to go out and—’

‘I haven’t employed you,’ said Prudence, unable to steer her eyes away from the crimson gash from which this female’s words had fallen. ‘Would you wait here for a moment, please?’ She closed the door, left the would-be intruder outside. What a vision that had been! Red lipstick, red hair, red skirt, red shoes, each red clashing loudly with its next-door neighbour.

At the dining room door, Prudence stopped, breathed in, organized a speech. But when she entered, everything seemed to go out of her mind. It was his eyes. She shuddered, remembered yet again the few occasions on which he had forced her to succumb to his perverted will. ‘There’s a woman,’ she said softly.

He looked up from the evening paper. ‘Speak up,’ he barked.

‘On the doorstep,’ she said. ‘A woman in red. She’s horrible.’

Andrew Worthington studied his wife and chewed on a bit of gristle. Mrs Miles’s steak and kidney pies weren’t what they used to be, but with the war, rationing and so on . . . ‘What do you want me to do about a woman in red?’ he asked scornfully. ‘I haven’t even started on my pudding.’

This was Worthington to a T, his wife thought. His belly betrayed one of his appetites – two if she counted the beer – and his third dreadful excess had shown itself many times in the form of weeping girls and their families. ‘She says she works here,’ she said with as much courage as she could muster.

‘Then she does. It’ll be Gert Simpson. She and her husband are due to start here tomorrow. I had intended to start them earlier, but the woman had to work her notice at Woolworths, so they’re a few days late.’ He sucked loudly on his teeth before continuing. ‘Mrs Miles is getting no younger.’

Prudence ventured a little nearer to the table. ‘You’ve never worried about Mrs Miles before.’ He had never worried about anyone, she supposed.

He put down his knife and fork, snatched the napkin from its place beneath his chin. ‘Must I do everything myself?’ he roared, tossing the square of linen into a dish of carrots. ‘Can’t you even answer the door without a bloody song and dance? Look, we need more staff, somebody to put the garden right and do odd jobs about the house. The woman can help in the kitchen and with the heavier cleaning work.’ He sneered at her. ‘This is my house and I say who works in it.’

Prudence nodded, turned, walked into the hall. Several seconds ticked by before she opened the front door. ‘Come in,’ she managed. ‘Is your husband with you?’

‘No.’ Gert placed the red handbag on the hall-stand, preened the dyed hair in a mirror. ‘We were supposed to start a while back, only there were me notice at the shop, then Mr Worthington had another little job for us.’ That other little job had been to hang around in all the cafés and pubs to see if anyone mentioned the whereabouts of Ivy and Sally Crumpsall. It had been a cushy number, beer money thrown in, plus enough to buy the odd round to loosen tongues. But the Simpsons had gleaned nothing. The Crumpsalls had gone off with Tom Goodfellow, but he could have dropped them at any of the local seaside resorts before proceeding south.

‘My husband is eating.’

Gert studied her prospective employer, decided that Mrs Worthington was good-looking in a pale sort of way, that she seemed to have what the toffs might call breeding. ‘I could do your hair for you,’ offered the unwelcome visitor.

Prudence tried not to look at the thatch of henna. ‘No, thank you. I go to a hairdresser in town once a week.’

There seemed to be nothing else to say, thought Gert. She was a boring type, this Prudence Worthington. No wonder the old man strayed from the straight and narrow now and then. ‘Can I look round?’ she asked. If she stood here much longer, she’d be rooted.

‘Feel free. My husband has employed you, so you must do as he wishes. Excuse me. I shall leave you now.’ Prudence walked upstairs, left the strange creature clattering her way into the kitchen in shoes that looked unready for any kind of toil.

In her sanctuary, Prudence locked the door and perched on the edge of her dressing stool. In the mirror she saw a sad and serious face with questions in its eyes. All the whys of her life were burned deep into irises of a colour approaching china blue. These orbs were the feature that kept her looking young, because they were startling and startled, like the eyes of a child who is filled with wonderment at the sights before her.

She picked up a brush, smoothed it through pale blond and silver hair. If she’d had any pride at all, she would have left the brute long ago. There was enough money salted away, cash she had inherited from her parents. If she could get to the bank, she would be able to buy a house, perhaps a car, some small furniture. She placed the brush on its tray, looked round her room. This was the only dainty furniture in Worthington House. Everything else was huge, ponderous, Victorian. Tables had great, bulbous legs. Sideboards and cupboards were heavily moulded – even some of the ornaments were hideous. But here, in her own part of the house, Prudence had created a haven of pretty tranquillity.

She had installed a cream dressing table and wardrobe with a small Greek key pattern gilded round doors and drawers. Mirrors were small and oval, edged again in cream and gold. Curtains as light as morning floated inward on a breath of breeze, and the floor was covered in a carpet of plain blue. Pretty, she thought. Pretty, functional and peaceful.

Where would she go? If she could, where would she travel to? She lay on the bed, faced the wall and brought up her knees into a position that seemed to comfort her. No, she was not mad. Being unable to step outside this dreadful house did not mean insanity, surely? When had she last been out? And why had she lied to that horrible woman called . . . called Simpson? Yes, Gert Simpson. A hideous name for an odious female. Why had she lied? ‘I go to a hairdresser in town once a week.’ Town was fast becoming another planet. The hairdresser, a nice little lady called Sheila Dawson, visited Worthington House on Thursdays.