Paradise Lane (29 page)

Over a cigarette, he pondered on something he had heard in his mill some years previously. A winder had been summarily dismissed for saying, ‘H is for hell, not for Paradise, and this place is hell.’ Oh, how little they knew, those idiots who merely kept the mill ticking over. Hell was here, in the midst of so-called affluence. This big, proud house at the top of Wigan Brow was the real Hades.

She was icy, terrified of sex. Like any young man, he had been adventurous, inquisitive, keen to experiment. Nothing abnormal had been expected of her, he told himself firmly for the hundredth time. Women had to do these things. It was their duty, their role in life. She had been beautiful, rounded, supple. And she had refused to allow him into her bed after Victor’s birth. She had done her duty by producing a son. If he had forced himself upon her, she would have returned to her parents with tales of his ‘perversions’.

To hell with her. He rose, pushed back his chair so fiercely that it fell over and clattered on to the wooden floor at the edge of the central rug. She wanted telling. He paused, the hand holding a Navy Cut cigarette frozen mid-air. How loud that falling chair had sounded. It was as if every noise echoed right through the house and up into the gables. Were the bedroom doors standing open? he wondered.

He climbed the stairs, stopped on the landing. Her bedroom door hung wide open, as did the door to her dressing room. The single bed with its white cover of broderie anglaise looked unslept in, virginal. An uneasy feeling crept from the base of his spine right up into his skull, an icy finger that seemed to trace a warning along the surface of his body. The dressing table was bare except for a free-standing set of mirrors, three ovals edged in cream and gold. A hanger lay on the floor next to a tan-coloured shoe.

The dressing room led off her bedroom, its outward-opening door hanging free against the cane chair in which she often sat while reading. Two steps covered the area between rooms, and he found himself standing in an oblong of perfect emptiness. Bars from which her clothes had hung were naked, as were the shoe racks. No, there was one thing left. He reached across to a shelf and picked up a band of gold. She had gone. His fingers folded over the wedding ring as if to crush it.

In his own room, he removed studs and collar, threw Prudence’s ring into a bin and rinsed his hands at the washbasin. Alone. He had never been alone before. Life had been solitary, but she had always been here, a parallel line whose existence had merely served to mirror his.

A niggling headache caressed his temples, began to weave its sadistic web across his forehead and into his brain. Today, he had lost a wife and found six children. Victor. Would Prudence have gone to him? He lifted the telephone receiver, barked his son’s number at the operator.

‘Hello?’

‘Victor? This is your father. Is your mother there?’

‘No.’

The big man fell back on to his bed, decided to be comfortable. ‘She’s gone,’ he said baldly. ‘She’s taken all her clothes, so I assumed that she would be with you.’

‘I haven’t seen Mother,’ replied Victor. ‘But she phoned and said she’d be staying in a hotel.’

‘Did she give a reason?’

‘No.’

Without bidding goodbye, Andrew Worthington slammed down the receiver, then lay glaring at the instrument for several seconds as if laying the blame at its feet. The pain in his head was less severe, so a walk might do him good. He replaced his collar, fastened the tie, pulled on his jacket. He would go and fetch Mrs Miles. After all, somebody would be needed to clean up. He couldn’t leave that mess in the dining room.

With a determinedly carefree stride, he set off along the road, wondered whether any of the neighbours had noticed Prudence’s exit. He smiled to himself. She wouldn’t go far, wouldn’t stay away long. The woman had an irrational fear of everything beyond the bounds of her own home. Though she seemed to have gained some strength of late. A chill visited his spine again, but he shrugged it off. Prudence would not move on, not after all these years . . . would she?

In Kitchener Street, he hammered at the housekeeper’s door, watched a few curtains twitching when he got no response. The woman in the next house emerged, teeth removed, woven headscarf failing to conceal a row of steel curlers. ‘She’s gone,’ announced the crone, a hand clawing at the front of her grey shawl.

‘Gone?’

‘Took things. Bags, like. Went off with your wife in a taxi cab. Nobbut half an hour ago, it were, happen nearer three-quarters.’

He tried to act nonchalant, felt his eyes glazing over with the effort of appearing unshaken. ‘I see. I thought they were going tomorrow,’ he explained. ‘A little holiday, you understand.’

She smiled, bared gums that glistened in the evening light. ‘I heard them talking,’ she said. ‘Nowt up with my hearing, Mr Worthington. Your missus said as how she hoped you wouldn’t find them.’

He swallowed. ‘Where?’

‘Can’t remember.’

He jangled some coins, approached the woman. ‘Will this jog your memory?’

‘Might.’

He dropped a handful of silver into outstretched talons.

‘Pack Horse,’ she said gleefully. ‘Till they can find a house.’

‘Thank you.’ He tipped his hat, turned on his heel and walked away. In a gap between houses, he found the bottom of Randall Street. The other woman lived there, the floozie whose stupid husband was in hospital with a ticklish stomach. He marched along, tried to hold up his head.

Gert saw him coming, ran to the door. ‘Mr Worthington,’ she exclaimed. ‘I called round your house after coming back from town, let meself in. Where’ve they gone?’ She had half expected the exit, but not yet. For days, she had watched Mrs Worthington’s increasing unease, yet she felt hurt now, because she had received no warning from the mistress or from Cora. Perhaps they didn’t trust her, then. ‘Do you know where they are?’ she asked again.

‘That’s no concern of yours,’ he snapped. ‘I need you to come and clean up the dining room – had a bit of an accident, dropped my plate. And, as from tomorrow you will take over the position as housekeeper.’

Gert didn’t like this man, didn’t trust him. Her loyalty lay with his wife. ‘Isn’t Cora coming back, then?’ she asked.

He looked at her blankly. ‘Cora?’

‘Your housekeeper.’ Even after all these years, he had no idea of his servant’s name, thought Gert. She found herself hoping that Mrs Worthington would stay away from this husband of hers. Gert had seen a lot of life and she knew a nasty bloke when she saw one. ‘I’m going down to see Bert. They have an extra visiting hour on a Friday evening.’

He nodded. ‘Right. If you’ll walk to the house, I’ll drive you to the hospital and bring you back. Then you can clean the dining room.’

She hesitated. She had never been alone with Andrew Worthington. There had always been his wife or Cora Miles or Bert – sometimes all three. ‘I’m tired,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve been to visit Bert this afternoon and all. He’s very low in his spirits.’

Worthington bit back a flippant remark about a bottle of whisky being the cure. No, he had better take this seriously. If Bert Simpson were to crack and tell the truth . . . The man was too lily-livered for that. Anyway, the main thing was to keep life ticking over as normally as possible, to shrug off the Ivy Crumpsalls and the Prudence Worthingtons of this world. ‘I’ll take you and bring you back,’ he insisted. ‘Then we shall discuss the terms of your employment. Of course, your wage will be commensurate with the level of responsibility.’

Gert couldn’t manage to care about the wage. Oh, she knew she was a cut below most folk, but this was the way Bert liked her to be, nicely turned out and made-up to look cheerful. Yet for all that, something deep inside her was a cut above this chap. He had a special slyness about him, an arrogance, as if he expected the whole world to do his bidding just for money. ‘I’m not sure I want to be a housekeeper, Mr Worthington,’ she said carefully. ‘I were took on as a general help, like. And Bert’s the odd-job man and driver. Them were the jobs we went for.’

He lowered head and tone. ‘I pay your rent,’ he reminded her.

She heard the threat, remembered the days when she and Bert had been penniless and tramping about the streets with a few possessions. The thought of homelessness was Gert’s Achilles heel. She sniffed, took a step back into the house. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’

Worthington did not wish to be seen in the company of the brash-looking woman, so he set off for home. Let her follow him, he thought. Let her walk behind, as that would illustrate her position in life. And his. He held up his chin and marched back to the hated house.

Joseph and Ruth finally cobbled together their sabbath, though they had never been so late in the past. They begged forgiveness, divided the bread, looked at each other in the candlelight. ‘I can’t stop thinking about that man,’ said Joseph, his eyes raised to the ceiling. ‘May I be forgiven again for my anger.’

Ruth sighed, swallowed a lump of bread that threatened to stick in her throat. ‘We learn our lessons. We are taught to treat all men as equal children of God, yet I cannot think with charity about Worthington.’

‘There is something wrong with that man, Ruth. He feels nothing for other people, worries only about himself. To him, I would never admit this, but those staring eyes terrify me. He is, perhaps, insane.’

‘A demon.’ Ruth looked into the flickering candles.

‘Maureen escaped the madness.’ Joseph blinked away some wetness. ‘She must have felt that fear, the same fear our people endured in the camps. We must take care of Maureen.’

Ruth smiled. ‘His Lordship will do the caring, Joseph. Let us thank God that her pretty face was saved. On hands, she can wear gloves, and they will heal fully in time. But at least she needs no mask to hide her face.’

He nodded. ‘The rest of the business begins on Monday.’

‘We should not talk business now,’ she told him.

‘I know. But the men from London will come soon. Worthington’s workers are on the move as we speak. He is in for some shocks, because his reign is almost over, Ruth. It would have been better for him if he had allowed the workers to make a union. Now, he stands to lose everything.’

‘Yes. For the mill workers we must give thanks.’

They gave thanks, though their hearts were heavy with worry about the days to come.

Ivy stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. ‘They’d never miss me,’ said Arthur ‘Red’ Trubshaw. ‘If you took me to Sally, there’d be one less mouth to feed round our house. And after a bit, I could come back meself on the train. I’m ten, nearly eleven.’

This poor lad missed Sal something terrible, thought Ivy. His little sister had died, and Red had loved Alice with a ferocity that showed again now in his concern for Sally Crumpsall. ‘Lad, I can’t traipse halfway up and down England with you. And what do you want with our Sal? She’s nobbut seven, no company for a boy your age.’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She ‘minds me of Alice, I think. She were good fun, our Alice, not like a girl. Like she stuck up for herself. Sally does and all. And she’s got no mam and dad to look after her.’ He eyed the old woman up and down. ‘You’re getting on, Mrs Crumpsall. I could help you.’

‘How?’

‘Different things. Same as lifting and carrying and cleaning up. And I can paint windows.’

Ivy nodded wisely. ‘Aye, I’ve seen your painting, son. There’s more green on the bloody glass than there is on yon frames.’

‘I were only nine.’ His tone was indignant, hurt. ‘I’m older now. A lot older.’

Ivy struggled to hide a grin. This Trubshaw kiddy was a gem, rough round the edges, but worth his weight in gold. Would Tom mind, she wondered, if Red came to Hampshire with them in a week or so? Schools would be closed soon, and the Crumpsalls would be returning to Lancashire in September. They could spend holidays in Hampshire. Oh, how posh that sounded! She imagined herself saying jokingly, ‘My granddaughter has a little place in Hampshire – Oakmead. It’s only a cottage, but it makes a wonderful holiday home’. The details needed completing, but Tom was positive that Rose Cottage would be Sally’s as soon as the paperwork was completed. ‘I’ll see,’ she told the boy. ‘I’m promising nowt.’

The smile almost split the homely face into two distinct halves. ‘Ta, missus.’ He whooped along the lane, feet flailing in mid-air as he cleared imaginary hurdles.

Ivy went back inside, made yet more tea. ‘Do you think we could get six folk in yon Rolls Royce?’ she asked Rosie.

‘Six?’ Rosie kept her voice down because Ollie was sleeping in the chair.

‘Me, you and Ollie, Tom and Maureen.’

‘That’s five.’

‘And Arthur Trubshaw.’

Rosie almost dropped a saucer. ‘You what? Nay, if you’re thinking of taking him, you ought to send a telegram first. Folk should be warned. Do you know what he did last week?’

Ivy raised a shoulder. ‘I weren’t here last week.’

‘Well, I were. He took a pair of Elsie Bickerstaffe’s unmentionables off the line and climbed the Paradise chimney. Then he stood there waving Elsie’s doo-dahs round his head and shouting, “Take cover, here comes the Zeppelin.” She never come out of her house till Friday, and that were only to fetch her husband’s best suit from Heilberg’s.’

Ivy lifted the teapot from its stand. ‘Well,’ she managed while squashing her mirth. ‘Have you seen the size of Elsie Bickerstaffe’s knickers?’

‘Aye,’ said Rosie. ‘And so has everybody else between here and bloody Manchester. Tea-rose in colour, they were. Tea-rose with the elastic missing in one leg. Proper shown up, she were.’

‘Farming’ll sort him,’ declared the matriarch. ‘Give him a pitchfork and he’ll soon learn manners.’

Rosie took a sip of tea. ‘Give him a pitchfork and he’ll be armed and dangerous.’

Ivy fled to the scullery and laughed quietly. There was nothing to laugh at, really. The next few days were going to be very trying. Tom’s plan might work, but it might not. It all depended on how desperate Worthington got. All the same, if it came to a battle of wills, she would certainly put her money on Lord Goodfellow.

Lord Goodfellow leaned over the bed and made eye contact with its occupant. ‘Nothing will happen to you,’ he whispered. ‘If you did fire the shop, you were under orders. We have all committed unsavoury acts while under orders from a superior.’