Paradise Lane (27 page)

She leaned back in the hard wooden chair and inhaled deeply. ‘What response have you had from the other mill owners?’

‘Disgusted, they are. I mean, you’d think Worthington’d show a bit of sense what with trained folk being thinner on the ground and the unions spreading like wildfire. We’re still a lot of folk short, ’cos some went fighting and never came back. I mean, whether they were weavers or goldsmiths, the bloody Germans still shot them. Yon feller’s made no effort to shape this place decent, so all the sensible bosses are opening their doors wide, ’cos they know a Paradise worker’s worth having.’

‘Aye, you’re right there, Sam.’

‘And for them who’ve stopped here because it’s near home, there’s mills putting on free transport to fetch folk there and back.’ He nodded pensively. ‘Next news, there’ll be a government inspector coming up. I know that, ’cos I’ve sent word about this dump. There’s very few mills like this one now, thank God. I’ve visited a fair few these last weeks, and they’ve air-conditioning, bright electric lights, space between mules. Canteens and all. Walls painted pale yellow. Nice. Cheerful. Expanding too, keeping up with the times and employing more folk.’

Ivy sighed. ‘Tom Goodfellow reckons even proper mills’ll bottom out, though. They want millions spending on them, you know. New machinery and all that. Nobody can afford what’s needed, but I’m glad to hear they’re making things better for the poor buggers that’s doing the grafting. Aye, well, that’ll put one spoke in his wheel.’

Sam Greenhalgh rolled up the evidence, pushed it into a drawer. ‘I’m not really retiring,’ he said, a wide grin showing many gaps among few teeth. ‘This afternoon, I leave here. Monday I start at Heilberg’s with our Lassie. She’s an alsatian. I’m going in for night-watchman and he’s paying fair, too.’

‘Joseph’s a good man.’

‘He is that, lass. Now, you’d best be shifting. Are they all coming to your house, then? Did you manage to persuade them?’

Ivy nodded. ‘I wrote to each and every one while I were away, then I sent young Red Trubshaw chasing them all up today. We’re going to need every chair in Paradise Lane. Even then, there’ll be standing room only for the stragglers.’

Sam shook her hand warmly. ‘You’ll shut this mill,’ he said, a note of satisfaction in his tone.

Ivy laughed. ‘Oh no, Sam. This mill won’t shut.’

‘Eh?’ Grey eyebrows shunted upward. ‘What do you mean?’

She touched the side of her nose. ‘Wait and see, lad. Just you wait and see. Because, my old mate, things is coming to the boil very nicely. As they say in Sherlock Holmes stories, all will be revealed in time.’

Maureen was ignoring her hands. She was so busy showing off her ring that the burns were no longer important. Ivy smiled kindly upon her neighbour, offered her congratulations, hoped that the words hid a fury she had carefully damped down to simmering point. Worthington had scarred Maureen’s hands. Ivy admired the ring on its chain of pale gold, but she concentrated on the burns and prayed that her plan would work.

The house was already crammed. Behind the parlour sofa, a row of assorted chairs lined the wall. Maureen had saved two for herself and Tom by placing her bag on one and her cardigan on the other. Ruth and Joseph Heilberg sat next to these reserved seats, then Rosie and Ollie Blunt occupied the displaced kitchen sofa with Ivy. Other chairs were ranked under the window directly facing the Paradise Lane residents and the owner of the houses. The landlord tried not to fret about this being the beginning of the sabbath. For the first time, no candle would be lit in his house when sunset approached. He held his wife’s hand, advised her and the Lord of Israel that this was a special occasion. Ivy stared at the empty places beneath the window, crossed her fingers beneath the fringe of her shawl, hoped with all her heart that the people she had invited would turn up.

Tom left Maureen, bent down over Ivy. ‘Do you still want me to go up for Mrs Worthington? You know how she hates going out. And he might be home—’

‘Not at this time. Not on a Friday. Like Scrooge, he counts his gold religiously every week. And he’ll not be alone. There’ll be some woman there with him, you can bet your life on that. Let’s hope she’s willing and getting a few bob for her trouble. Any road, I still think Mrs Worthington’d be better not coming. She shouldn’t get involved with what I’m doing here tonight, ’cos he might even bloody kill her. Only you must tell her what’s afoot, ’cos she’ll cop the flak later on. Just warn her, Tom. You’ll not be giving her any news. She knows the names of most of them that’s expected.’ They must come; they had to come! Ivy sniffed meaningfully. ‘Aye, the main thing is to make sure she’s warned and ready for the rotten mood he’ll be in tonight.’

Tom whispered in Maureen’s ear, left the house. Maureen claimed her seat, waited with the rest for whatever was going to happen.

‘Has he found them bloody pigeons?’ asked Ollie.

‘Yes.’ His wife’s voice held no expression. It was plain that she had answered this question many times.

‘Where are they?’ he insisted.

‘Away.’

‘Will they come home? They’re homing pigeons.’

‘They’ve moved house,’ answered Rosie.

Ivy took Ollie’s hand, stroked the liver-spotted skin. ‘Be quiet, lad,’ she advised. ‘We need our wits tonight.’

He smiled at her. In a moment of clarity, he hit the truth. ‘You’ll get no bloody sense out of me, love.’

‘We still want you here,’ Ivy told him. ‘You’re part of what’s happening, Ollie.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Aye, happen I am.’ He gazed round the room.

Ivy was more determined than ever to get Ollie down to Hampshire. That beautiful and fruitful county would surely cheer the old man. He still had some strength, was wiry enough to withstand a night in the cold looking for Tom’s departed pigeons. She could picture him in the autumn sitting on a cart while the harvest came home. At last, he would reap something after years of failure in his own back garden.

The front door was opened and a voice floated up the lobby. ‘Mrs Crumpsall?’

Ivy’s heart lightened immediately. ‘Come in unless you want money.’ She kept her tone light. ‘Make yourself at home, don’t be shy.’

A woman’s head poked itself into the room, the hair hidden by a scarf. ‘There’s a lot of us,’ she said. ‘Nine, I think. Phyllis Caldwell’s only fetched one, ’cos the other’s abroad in the army.’ She looked shocked when she saw the congregation. ‘You look as if you’re waiting for the main picture to start.’

Ivy got up, pulled the woman into the room. ‘They’re all with you, lass. Is it Rita? Rita Eckersley-as-was?’

The visitor nodded. ‘Aye, I found a good lad at the finish. He took me and Roy on even though Roy weren’t his.’ She addressed the whole room. ‘It were rape. He got me up in his office and . . . I were only fifteen.’

Ivy put her arms round Rita and comforted her. ‘Friends, lass. These are all friends.’

Rita dabbed at her eyes, turned, jerked an arm at those behind her. Roy came in, a fine lad in his mid-twenties. He was followed by Mary Shaw and her two teenage daughters, then Tilly Saxton entered timidly with a girl of about twelve. Phyllis Caldwell brought up the rear with Lizzie. Lizzie’s twin brother was the only absentee, as he was tidying up the British mess in India.

Before taking her seat, Mary Shaw burst into tears.

‘What’s up with you now?’ enquired Rita Eckersley-as-was. When she got no answer, she decided to speak up for the distressed woman. ‘Mary’s upset in case you think she’s cheap with having the two kiddies to that bad bugger. But it were blackmail. Worthington knew summat about her dad, threatened to put him in prison. So it’s a wonder she didn’t have more than the two.’ Pleased with her explanation, Rita sat down.

Joseph rose to his feet. ‘We are not here to judge. Each man and woman carries a burden, but none must criticize another. Do not weep,’ he advised Mary. ‘You have beautiful children. For this we must be thankful.’

Mary cheered up. ‘They’re good girls.’

Joseph beamed upon the gathering. ‘All in this room have suffered or witnessed the tyranny of one man. He will be stopped. This is not about revenge or retribution. To stop the cancer will be enough.’

Ivy kept her mouth shut for a few minutes. Deep in her heart, she wanted revenge, but Joseph Heilberg was right. Worthington must be brought to heel so that no more people would suffer. When the room was quiet, she composed herself before speaking. ‘We have to be quick,’ she began. ‘Mr Heilberg is going to the mill in a minute. He’s going to tell Worthington to come here and talk business. It’s time you lot stood up to him.’ She pointed to the mothers, then to the offspring who stood in an uneasy row behind their parents’ chairs. ‘And I’ll tell you now – in case you don’t already know – that I were nearly in the same boat. I were older than his usual girls, but he had a go and got stopped.’

Joseph picked up his hat and walked to the door. ‘Be calm,’ he advised. ‘We are many and he is but one man.’

Ivy sat down, waited. If any of them wanted to clear off, she had no intention of stopping them. But the fingers under her shawl were crossed again as she watched the troubled faces. He had never admitted paternity, had progressed from one woman to another, had tossed aside each one as soon as his eye had moved along the line to another pretty young thing. Well, these were only some of his children. But there were enough, she thought grimly. If they would all stay, there would be enough.

Prudence ran an eye over Tom Goodfellow. He seemed a fine man, a trustworthy soul. She allowed him inside, placed him in the dining room. ‘I shall be back directly,’ she advised him before rushing off to consult her housekeeper.

In the kitchen, Cora Miles was washing dishes. She listened as her mistress outlined Tom’s message, wrung out the dishcloth, picked up a tea towel. ‘I don’t think I should be there for the comeuppance,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think you should be here, either. When the master gets in, he’ll be mortallious.’

Prudence lowered herself into a chair. ‘I must get out of this house, Cora. Tonight. This is more than my nerves can tolerate. I shall go to Victor.’

Mrs Miles, who had her own opinion of the young master, carried on drying dishes.

‘What will you do?’ asked Prudence.

Cora shrugged. ‘If you want to go down Paradise Lane with Tom Goodfellow, I’ll come with you. But your husband’ll murder you if he knows you’re in with the Paradisers. As for what you might call the long-term, there’s no future here for me if you’re not stopping. I’m all right, I don’t want you fretting over me. There’s a bob or two put by, and I shall get a few little cleaning jobs up Wigan Road and—’

‘You are coming with me.’

The housekeeper opened a cupboard, clattered some pans into place. ‘I’ve got me own place. I shan’t need to stop at Master Victor’s.’

‘Your home is rented. How much is the rent?’

‘I’ll manage.’

Prudence swallowed her pride and it tasted bitter. ‘I need you,’ she said softly. ‘Victor will marry soon, I’m sure. Miss West is just right for him.’

Cora nodded to herself. If anybody could keep that young rapscallion in his place, Margaret West might prove to be the one. ‘Then I’ll do whatever you want, Mrs Worthington.’ This lady had always been good to Cora. When new bedroom furniture had been delivered, the old stuff had gone to the housekeeper. She understood Mrs Worthington, recognized her weaknesses, knew that this woman could not be left alone. ‘Happen we should go to a hotel for a while, madam. We could stop at the Pack Horse till you find a house. As long as the rent’s paid, I can leave my belongings round the corner.’ She jerked a thumb in the direction of her home. ‘But take my advice and leave Ivy Crumpsall to get on with her own doings. He’ll be took down tonight, I’m telling you. Ivy never pulls a punch. Stop out of his road.’

Prudence left the kitchen, stood in the hall for a few moments before entering the dining room. Tom was plainly in a hurry, was pacing about the floor. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ she said.

‘No matter. Mrs Crumpsall heard about your visit to the Heilbergs, so she wanted you to know what’s going on tonight. There’s no need for you to come. In fact . . .’

‘I’ll be safer out of it?’

‘Yes.’

She guided him to the front door. ‘Please give my regards to Mrs Crumpsall and tell her that I shall not be living here from now on.’ She straightened her shoulders, looked him in the eye. ‘For a short time, Mrs Miles and I will be staying at the Pack Horse. I shall telephone for transport shortly, so please go about your business.’

He lingered for a few seconds. ‘Are you sure that this is the right thing for you?’ She was not one for getting out and about, he thought. The shock of so many changes might prove too much for her.

She read his mind. ‘Mr Goodfellow, my life in this house has not been easy. The . . . nervousness was born of unhappiness. A fresh start may well be the best thing.’

He shook her hand, walked down the drive to his car. Second thoughts prompted him to return. ‘Mrs Worthington—’

‘Spencer-Worthington. Shortly to be simply Spencer, I hope.’

He understood that well enough. ‘I, too, intend to change my name.’ And their reasons were not dissimilar, he mused. ‘If you ever need me, go to Joseph Heilberg. While I am abroad – I must go to Africa soon – Mr Heilberg will help you. I hope you find some joy in life soon.’

She smiled at him. ‘I shall do my best.’

Tom drove away, slammed his foot to the floor. It would be happening now, and he needed to be there. In his pocket lay a letter from Peregrine Fotheringay. The money was available, the project was attracting interest. Soon, very soon, Andrew Worthington’s world would be torn apart. Tom, his fiancée and his neighbours needed to postpone the planned return to Hampshire, because there was much to do.

There was no way out. Behind him, the little pawnbroker stood with his back wedged against the door. Andrew Worthington was a large man, but an exit made by forcefully removing Heilberg from the doorway would have been undignified and an admission of guilt.

‘Business?’ roared Worthington. ‘What kind of business is this?’ He pointed to Ivy. ‘And I thought we were rid of you at last.’ Swinging round, he faced the man who had brought him here on false pretences. ‘Considering selling the houses and the land, are you?’ he asked with heavy sarcasm. ‘I take what you say in good faith, and what do I find? Ivy Crumpsall and her cronies. Yes, I thought we’d seen the back of her.’ He swivelled again, stared at the woman he had hated for a lifetime.