Paradise Lane (37 page)

The agony abated slightly when she touched his hand, as if she had the ability to remove even the pain of death. ‘You . . . pray,’ he mumbled.

Ivy Crumpsall clasped his stiffening fingers between her palms and said the Lord’s Prayer. The harvesters joined in with the amen, then stood in an uncertain group while this woman from the north ministered to the felled man.

A flat cart arrived, the shire in its shafts nodding patiently while Worthington was placed face down on a bed of stooks. Two men in working garb climbed aboard and steadied the pitchfork to prevent it doing further damage to Worthington’s innards. The driver clicked his tongue before setting off with the wounded man, the labourers, and Ivy Crumpsall. Ivy glanced down from the cart, hoping with all her heart that Red would settle Sally. Beneath the tan, the poor girl was grey with shock, was plainly reeling from twin blows. She had found an unwanted father, she had seen him felled.

When the vehicle had disappeared, Ollie wandered about, his gaze fastened to the sky. ‘Them’s homing birds up yon,’ he announced to no-one in particular. ‘They’ll be from number four. He’s gone off, has Tom. I’m in charge of things while he’s away.’ He swivelled slowly, saw his wife in tears. ‘Don’t cry, Rosie,’ he muttered. ‘Birds’ll come back, you’ll see.’

‘What do we do now, missus?’ This question was directed at Rosie by a weather-beaten man in a dusty smock. ‘I mean, that man looked just about done for, didn’t he? There be trouble coming, I don’t doubt.’

Rosie faced them. They were good folk, the salt of an earth that was not too far removed from the land from which she had hailed. The only difference was that this lot worked outside. But they toiled like any spinner for wages that depended on the generosity of a master. These were the lucky ones, because Tom Marchant was a fair man, though they and their families had suffered at the hands of his forefathers. ‘I think he had a heart attack,’ she said softly, one eye on Sally.

‘Pitchfork didn’t help, though,’ drawled the spokesman. ‘Questions will be asked. Got a couple of holes right through his back, he has. Ask me, the police are going to take an interest.’ He chewed on his lip for a moment. ‘Mind, when all’s said and done with, this was an accident. And that stranger was trying to take young Sally off to God knows where. We saw what happened, didn’t we?’ he asked the surrounding farm-hands.

A chorus of ayes and yeses answered the question.

Rosie waved a hand towards Ollie. ‘Look at him. He’s forgot already. This weren’t his fault, ’cos he hardly knows what he’s doing. And, like you said, Worthington were going to kidnap little Sal.’ She sighed heavily. The truth might have to come out now, because Ollie needed protecting. The world must be told of the dead man’s past so that Ollie might be kept safe. ‘You all saw what were going on here. Speak up for my Ollie when the time comes.’ Rosie squared her shoulders against the suspicion that Ollie might be arrested today. She cleared her thickening throat and thought about all the anguish that would surely follow today’s happenings. ‘There’s nowt we can mend here,’ she concluded. ‘I suppose we’ll just have to do our best.’

Sally whimpered, turned her head and buried it in Red’s chest. There had been a still, white body in the grass and she was glad it had gone away. And her head was all mixed up, because Dad wasn’t Dad any more and both her fathers were dead.

Rosie stepped to Sally’s side, placed a hand on the child’s head. ‘You’ll understand in time, love. Derek were your dad. It’s the one that brings you up that’s important, Sal. In time, lass. In time . . .’

Worthington survived. Against all the odds and in spite of medical opinion to the contrary, the man was hanging on in defiance of a bad heart and two stab wounds that had miraculously avoided most major organs.

Ollie Blunt, having been cleared by all the witnesses, had been released without spending even one night in the cells. He used up his days looking for pigeons, getting in the way of farm labourers, or snoozing in front of the kitchen fire in Rose Cottage.

Ivy’s main worry was Sally. Each time the subject of parents was raised, the child flew either into a temper or out of the house. There was no reasoning with her. ‘There’s no talking to her,’ said Ivy to Rosie Blunt.

Rosie raised her eyebrows. ‘What are you expecting? A bloody encore like what they have at the Grand after a good turn? There’s no good turn been done for that lass, I can tell you. Her’s disturbed, Ivy. Her’s had the breath knocked out of her body and her little world turned upside down.’

Ivy flopped into a chair and pushed a string of hair away from her eyes. ‘How can I explain summat as a child can’t understand in the first place? Where do I find an answer when she’s not even old enough for the flipping question?’

Rosie dropped the sock she had been darning and stared hard at her best friend. In spite of all the worries, Ivy still looked well. In fact, she seemed to have started counting her years backwards. ‘I’d not rate you as seventy-seven, Ivy. But even if you do look younger than your age, stop taking too much on yourself. Let me do it.’

‘Eh?’ Ivy sat bolt upright. ‘You? How would you go about fettling for a young kiddy?’

‘Same as I do for Ollie. With short words, a hug and a smile.’

‘Get away. There’s more than that to be done here. I mean, she doesn’t even know where babies come from, does she? As far as our Sal knows, they could be left on your step with the milk jug or fetched in with the coal. So how do I tell her about her mother messing about in Paradise Mill with a bloke who weren’t fit to wipe the muck off our Derek’s clogs?’

‘You don’t need to say none of that, Ivy.’

Ivy blew another strand of hair from her face. ‘It’s been all over the papers, too. There’ll be trouble when she gets back to Craddock Street School, everybody pointing at her and saying she’s one of Worthington’s accidents.’

Rosie cast a glance in the direction of the ‘criminal’ who was snoring peacefully with his slippered feet propped on a stool. ‘He very near killed him, Ivy. My poor old feller were trying to do the world a favour, and he doesn’t even understand that. He’s got no memory of that day, or of the day in court. Even when he spoke to them doctors, he talked about pigeons and green spuds. I gave him the
Daily Herald
so he could read about the scandal, and he never even looked at it.’

Ivy nodded sagely. ‘Bloody hornets’ nest we stirred up there, Rosie. They all got listed – Rita Eckersley, Mary Shaw, Tilly Saxton, Phyllis Caldwell. Every last one of them spoke to the papers about Worthington’s carryings-on. Their kids’ll be branded and all. But we had to tell the truth, didn’t we? Worthington had that letter from Lottie in his pocket. He thought he were dying, so he made sure the letter got to the
Daily Herald.
There were nowt else for it, so we had to fight back and damn a sick man.’ Ivy forgave herself for wishing he had died. Had Worthington not survived, many of her troubles would have been six feet under. ‘Mind, damage were already done to our Sal,’ she said quietly.

‘Aye.’ Rosie stood up and looked through the window. ‘I think I’ll go and look for Sally and Red. Keep an eye on yon hero, will you? Don’t let him start wandering off. Remember – we must make sure he doesn’t go messing about with pitchforks and suchlike. An accident’s all right, but he’d better not make a habit of it. Any road, I’ll try and have a word with Sally, see what I can do.’

‘All right. But don’t go upsetting her. I don’t want no more of her tantrums.’

Rosie, who understood perfectly why a hitherto ‘good’ child was suddenly difficult, stepped outside and enjoyed a few moments of solitude. It was a bonny place, she thought. Rose Cottage was about halfway between Oakmead and the Hall. It was a story-book house, painted white and with a thatched roof that hung over the upper windows.

She walked along the lane, nodded at a couple of drovers. The folk round these parts were friendly and hard-working, only too pleased to lend a hand to four strange migrants from the north. They had pleaded for Ollie, had worn best suits and shiny boots to give evidence on his behalf. Ollie would never hurt a fly, not deliberately, the Hampshire farm-hands had insisted. As mild as a lamb and as biddable as any sheepdog, they had told the court. In their opinion, the incident had been an unfortunate mishap rather than an act of aggression on Ollie’s part. Worthington had slipped and Ollie had not moved away quickly enough.

Rosie peered through a hedge, watched the cows walking homeward. Red and Sally could be near the herd, she thought, because both had a fondness for animals. Then Red hove into view, his hair on end above a pink and sweaty face. ‘She ran off, Mrs Blunt.’

Rosie placed her hands on Red’s shoulders, waited until his breathing eased. ‘You shouldn’t go dashing about, not with your colouring. You look like a beetroot.’

‘She’s come over hot and all, went a right funny colour, she did. And she started talking daft. I were trying to catch her.’

‘I know, but don’t be getting overheated.’

Red turned this way and that, his eyes scanning fields and hedgerows as they searched for his adopted sister. ‘She asked me. So I told her.’

‘Ah.’ Rosie sat on a milestone and waited for him to continue.

‘Well, we saw this bull and this cow, see. And I told her what they were doing. “They’re practising for making next year’s calves,” I said to her. Then she asked me if her mam had been practising with Mr Worthington, so I said I wouldn’t believe anything Worthington told me. But her eyes went funny and she ran off. She can get through some small gaps, can Sally. So I lost her.’

‘Oh, heck.’

Red sat on the ground near Rosie’s feet. ‘It wouldn’t make no difference if it were me this had happened to, ’cos me dad’s nowt to be proud of. But Sally loved her dad, Mrs Blunt. And now, she thinks this other dad of hers is a bad ’un.’

‘He is and all.’

‘Aye, I know.’

He sounded like an old man, mused Rosie. ‘Come on, son.’ She got up, smoothed her skirt, took his hand. ‘We’ve got to show her that we love her, Red. See, she doesn’t know who she is no more. A couple of weeks back, she were Derek’s lass. She’s still Derek’s. But she’ll not take that in till we make her know we love her.’

‘I love her.’ He gripped the old lady’s hand tightly and stared at his feet, his face brightened even further by embarrassment. ‘I want to look after Sally. For always.’

‘You will, lad. When we can blinking well find her.’

The sun had begun its descent by the time they found Sally. At first, the child seemed to be sleeping, her legs drawn up to her chest, a hand embracing the dry bole of a felled tree. But when Red walked round the stump and saw Sally’s face, he could not keep the panic from his tone. ‘Like Alice,’ he gasped. ‘All white round the edges and pink in the middle.’

Rosie leaned against a sycamore whose leaves were beginning to curl towards autumn. ‘What?’ She was tired, thirsty and seventy-five years old. It was as if she had walked for a whole day, because every bone in her body was screaming for mercy.

‘Fever,’ cried Red. ‘You stop here. I’ll go to the Hall and get somebody.’

‘Eh?’ The old woman watched while her companion ran away, then summoned her will to step in where energy had failed. The boy was right. Sally’s breathing was shallow and fast, and the little white cheeks glowed along their fine bones. She was not asleep, but ill, very ill. Rosie tore off her shawl and wrapped it round the child. ‘Sweet Jesus, have mercy,’ prayed the old woman.

Sally moved, opened her eyes. ‘Go away,’ she croaked. ‘You’re just a nasty man. My dad were good.’

‘That’s right, love,’ whispered Rosie.

‘You can’t be my dad. You’re really ugly and me gran says you’re a nasty bugger.’

Rosie sucked in her lower lip, ordered the tears to stay off her face and out of her words. ‘Derek Crumpsall were your father, pet. It takes more nor a bull and a cow to make a calf, Sal. God’s in it and all, you know. God makes life. He’s the one what breathes it into everything. Sometimes, He creates a special soul, summat as needs a bit of looking after. God looked at you and decided to give you to Derek. Derek didn’t live long, and he were at the war for most of your little life, but Derek made you into a good girl. Him and your Granny Ivy between them were your mam and dad, lass.’

Sally stared right through her companion. A beautiful smile appeared on the child’s face as she gazed past the haze of fever and into a face she had known and loved. ‘Dad,’ she said before entering a deep sleep.

Rosie shivered, told herself firmly that she was missing her shawl. Yet deep inside herself, Rosie Blunt knew that the child had been looking in to another dimension, another place. And Sally Crumpsall should not be ready to step forth into the next life. ‘Hurry up, Red,’ breathed the old woman. ‘Get a move on while there’s still signs of life.’

Help came eventually. Ivy bustled along through the bushes, dragged two labourers to Sally’s side. They lifted her gently, avoided the flailing arms of Arthur ‘Red’ Trubshaw. ‘Don’t hurt her,’ screamed the agitated boy. ‘Watch her head . . . hold her legs . . . keep that shawl on her.’

‘Come on,’ urged Rosie. ‘There’s nowt’ll come of you fretting, lad.’

But the boy was beyond reason. He climbed into the cart with Ivy and Rosie, kept his eyes fixed on Sally’s face. From now on, he would be good. He would be obedient and willing, would get washed twice a day . . . Well, if she lived, that was. ‘She’ll not die, will she?’ he asked Ivy.

‘No,’ replied Ivy. Sal mustn’t die. Sal was one of the few worthwhile creatures on the earth. ‘Our Sal’s going to come through with flying colours,’ she told the troubled lad. ‘She’s got more than enough to live for.’

‘Will you please stop making such a nuisance of yourself, boy?’ The woman’s quiet tone belied the harshness of her words. She bent and pretended to tug Red’s earlobe. ‘Out,’ she whispered. ‘Go and play in the garden. Sally’s going to be fine, I assure you.’

Red stuck out his chest, pushed his shoulders back. What were these folk doing here, anyway? It was none of their business. But, following the furore about the terrible accident, some newspapers, after investigating fully the history of the injured man, had turned Sally’s illness into everyone’s concern. And Prudence Worthington was here with somebody called Mrs Miles from Bolton. Red’s eyebrows knitted themselves into a long, auburn frown. ‘Are you going to visit Mr Worthington in hospital?’