Paradise Lane (39 page)

‘Eat,’ she commanded. ‘Or you will become a pale shadow.’ Tom had made it sound so easy. Labour in the north was cheap, purses in the south were fatter. But even the rich had been rendered careful by the war, so products should be tailored to fit the average expendable income. There were charts in a drawer somewhere, figures that meant little to Ruth. Accountants and bankers had worked out interest rates, projected capital expenditure, percentages, expected inflation levels. The result was that Joseph Heilberg was toiling eighteen hours a day and his wife was worried.

He read her mind. ‘It will work.’

Ruth shrugged, pushed away the plate. ‘The people of Paradise have never made such things. How do we know how to—?’

‘A weaver is a weaver. He follows a pattern, my dear. Did you look at the Lancashire quilts? For those, the cotton was dyed then woven into beautiful designs. So what is different now? The fact that some of our plain cotton will go away to have a pattern stamped onto it? The fact that we will manufacture the end products? There is nothing terrifying about furniture and household linens. Our materials will be the best, as will the workforce. In ten years, you will laugh at your fear. Also, we have good carpenters and other craftsmen here in Bolton. All they need is a chance, Ruth. Just as we needed a chance twelve years ago.’

Ruth washed the dishes, wondered when she would laugh again. The streets had buzzed with the news of Worthington’s misfortune, had hummed with gossip when the names of all those sad women had appeared in the press. Sally. Poor little Sally was just another product of that vile man and Lottie Crumpsall. The world was such an uncertain place. Worthington’s children were known now, and they could easily become targets for people with small minds. ‘She should not come back to Paradise,’ Ruth said aloud.

Joseph stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘Ivy and Sally must not be forced from their proper home,’ he said softly.

Ruth turned, looked at him, remembered a young man who had travelled from Vienna to meet her. ‘Do you have regrets, Joseph?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘We lost our country. We lost so much, so many loved ones,’ she murmured.

Joseph kept his regrets where they belonged. If others had listened, if they had heeded him and come to England or America, they would have remained untouched by the devil’s servants. If, if. How many times could a man say and think that tiny word . . . ? ‘I am glad I came to your father’s farm, Ruth. For myself, I am happy.’ He looked back through the years, saw the crystal-cut facets of the Alps, heard cows lowing as they made their way home. The matchmaker had been right in this case, because he and Ruth were still suited.

‘I, too, am glad,’ she told him.

Clouds that had touched the ice-capped peaks had been white, like small bundles of cotton set haphazardly against an azure backcloth. There had been no warning of the storm to come, not in those early days. But in Vienna, the whispers had begun. And Joseph had listened. ‘We slid down on our toboggan and this is where we landed,’ he said.

‘You steered me away from danger, Joseph.’

He laughed, recalled the mess he had made of his first ride on that home-made sleigh. ‘So wet, we were.’ The snowdrift had been cold enough to burn his fingers. Ruth’s dark hair had looked so pretty against the whiteness. ‘Now, we are safe. And we must make others safe, too. This is the right way.’

While Ruth performed kitchen tasks, Joseph Heilberg looked again at the paper dream. The middle classes were about to establish themselves, Tom had said. The middle classes wanted furnishings that would be better than Utility, cheaper by far than Chippendale. In a place called Paradise, several hundred people were about to embark on a scheme to provide complete suites of furniture, bales of fabric, plans for whole rooms, whole houses. The Paradise Look would swamp the country within twelve months. Advertising costs were going to be astronomical, as was the rent in the centre of London. London mattered, Tom had said. Although most cities should be targeted, the capital must provide the hub of the web.

‘Joseph?’

He swung round, looked at her. She was older, rounder than the child he had chased through crisp, green fields. Beneath her eyes, slight shadows reminded him of soft bruising on the down of a peach. Together, he and Ruth had brought home the cattle, had milked and churned, had sung with her family in a firelit kitchen. Together, they had abandoned their families, had escaped to England. ‘Yes?’ he asked, noting the sparkle in her eyes.

‘How shall I address you when you take the throne?’

He tapped his brow, pretended to think. ‘Sir should do,’ he replied finally. ‘Yes, as Managing Director, I shall be a sir.’

Prudence Spencer’s steps did not falter as she made her way through a maze of corridors. Cora Miles followed her mistress and new-found friend, hoped that Prudence’s nerves would not let her down. After all, this good woman had come a long distance in more ways than one. Within a matter of weeks, the recluse had taken on a divorce lawyer, a house move and the journey from Lancashire to Hampshire. Not to mention a proposed active part in the running of Paradise. Cora crossed her fingers.

‘I shall be perfectly all right,’ announced Prudence in a voice loud enough to bounce itself off walls and along careworn brown lino. ‘Stop worrying, Cora.’

The housekeeper’s mouth twitched, though she could find little to smile about. Prudence was a new woman. She had lost weight, thereby allowing near-perfect bone structure to enhance a face that had always been comely. Her body, too, had fined down, was almost elegant in the dove-grey costume. A stiff frill of cream lace hid a slight crêping at the throat, while a cameo brooch in Wedgwood blue echoed the misleading gentleness of those soft eyes. ‘Where shall I wait?’ asked Cora.

Prudence glanced at a gold wrist-watch. ‘Outside the ward, I suppose. Ten minutes should suffice here. The shops will still be open. We must get games and books for Sally, some small toys to occupy her time. The period of recovery is always difficult for an energetic child.’

Mrs Worthington, now Spencer, was treating this expedition as just another errand. Cora Miles, who had been wondering for some time about the strange rebirth of her mistress, was nearing the conclusion that oppressed folk must develop a core of inner strength, a power created by deep anger. ‘If you want me, just come and—’

‘I shan’t need you,’ interrupted Prudence. ‘This is something I must face alone.’ She left Cora at the door, marched into the ward. Several visitors had already arrived, were placing gifts of fruit and flowers on lockers. Empty handed, Prudence walked steadily towards a man who might have looked thoroughly familiar had he not shrunk.

‘Prudence,’ he mumbled, his features stiffening with shock. Bloodshot eyes glowed like pools of hot steel in twin crucibles of dark stone. ‘How nice of you to take the trouble,’ he said, the voice more certain.

She turned from the bed, found a wooden chair, sat in it and stared at the creature on the pillows. He had aged. Fat had melted from his face, leaving the jowls hanging vacantly above striped winceyette. ‘You are smaller,’ she remarked, her tone light.

‘So are you.’

‘Ah.’ She removed the grey gloves, folded ring-free hands in her lap. ‘Business will suit me, I think.’

‘What?’

She awarded him a tight smile. ‘The Paradise Look.’

Andrew Worthington hung on to his temper by swallowing words he dared not say. This person wasn’t just different, wasn’t just slim and elegant. No, she was . . . she was . . .

‘The mill,’ she advised him. ‘We are going to make furniture, curtains, bed linens, cushions – even wardrobes and so on. Diversification will be necessary if the cotton industry is to survive. I shall work as a buyer of yarns. After all, I’ve learned over the years what to look for in the purchasing of cotton. Goodness only knows how you rambled on about the batches. It used to bore me so, but I am finding your teachings useful at last. Of course, there’ll be linen, then mixtures, perhaps a bit of wool in time. I go to Yorkshire next month to negotiate with a wool merchant. The help and advice of the wool factors will be invaluable.’ She drew breath, hoped that the soliloquy had been born of self-confidence rather than nervousness. ‘Whatever, the venture will be brave and exciting.’

She was jumping all over him. It felt as if she had picked up the pitchfork, driven it home, twisted it in a wound that was already raw. ‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you?’

Prudence arched her brows. ‘Not really. I abhor violence and hate to see its victims. I trust that your injuries are healing.’

‘I’ll sue that Blunt fellow,’ he spat.

‘Waste of time, Andrew.’ She smoothed the grey gloves, folded them, placed them in her bag. ‘He has the mental age of a two-year-old and very little money. Also, it was decided that the accident was your fault.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, you may yet be charged with attempted kidnap—’

‘Nonsense,’ he spat. The Crumpsall woman would not put her so-called granddaughter through such an ordeal. ‘You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’

The eyes still protruded slightly, she thought as she prepared an answer. But the sockets that contained them had darkened considerably. ‘I have had years of thinking time, Andrew. And I am not alone in this new venture.’

‘Heilberg?’ The two syllables were forced between clenched incisors.

‘Managing Director.’

‘That Jew?’

She inclined her head. ‘That businessman, yes. Tom and Maureen Marchant will be on the board, as will Ivy Crumpsall and I. Ivy is ageing, but her wisdom is valuable.’

His lip curled. ‘I’m sure.’

Prudence allowed her gaze to travel round the cheerless room. Even the splashes of colour provided by flowers failed to hide the inherent misery. ‘A coat of paint would not go amiss,’ she ventured. ‘And a few quilts in pastels.’ She looked directly into his eyes. ‘You will not return to Bolton, I suppose?’

‘Why should I?’

‘I can think of several reasons why you should not. After all, many of those reasons would be seeking paternity payments.’

‘Most of the so-called children are grown up,’ he snarled.

She smiled grimly. ‘At least you are admitting to their existence. However, I should perhaps make my intentions plain, Andrew. This is not a social call.’

Andrew Worthington swallowed, realized that his throat was abnormally dry. She made him uneasy, unsure. For years, he had lived with Prudence Spencer, had kept her in her place. But now, she was the strong one. Oh yes, she was the one with a full pack of cards. ‘I did not think you had visited me out of kindness. Duty, perhaps, but—’

‘I have no sense of duty towards you.’ There was little malice in the words. Actually, the more she looked at him, the more she saw him for what he really was – a coward and a bully. She no longer hated him. Had she ever really hated this man? ‘In fact, I am prepared to honour on your behalf the agreement you made with certain women in Bolton. I shall pay your price, Andrew.’

He raised his head, studied the ceiling, saw several patches where various fluids had seeped through from the ward above. ‘Why?’ he asked at last.

‘To keep you away from the town, of course. If I ever see you again, the payments will stop and your many offspring will sue you. Of course, I shall gladly meet the cost of any action they might be forced to bring against you.’

He smiled, lowered his head. ‘Thought it all through, haven’t you?’

Prudence did not flinch as she looked into his mad eyes. ‘Parts of Hampshire, too, will be out of bounds, I’m afraid. Sally and Ivy Crumpsall have property here, so you must keep your distance.’

He nodded just once, raked his eyes over her face.

‘You will have little money,’ she said. ‘However, when you sell the house on Wigan Road, you should have enough to buy a small place somewhere—’

‘But not in Bolton.’

‘No.’

‘And not in Hampshire.’

‘Exactly.’

He pushed his hands against the mattress, urged his body to sit straighter in the bed. Pain from the pitchfork wounds had eased greatly, though he still felt some discomfort from the surgeon’s probings inside his chest.

‘Your heart condition is improved, then?’ asked the visitor.

He shrugged. ‘The chap mended a puncture, I think. It seems I might live for years.’ The last word was drawn out and allowed to linger in a sneer.

Prudence shuddered, hoped that her sudden disquiet did not show. Sally had ‘seen’ Derek Crumpsall, had foretold that the man in this hospital bed would live for a long time yet. ‘You must stay away from that child.’

He sat perfectly still, kept his eyes on her, said nothing.

‘I will protect them all, Andrew. No-one in Paradise would be pleased to see you again. The workers will soon have representation at board level, shares in their own company, a reason to labour and make the firm a success. They will also be encouraged to unionize.’

‘Balderdash,’ he spat.

Suddenly and for no clear reason, she needed to question him. ‘Why have you always been so . . . so horrible?’

Twin dark eyebrows journeyed quickly up the high forehead. ‘Marriage to you hasn’t been easy,’ he replied eventually. ‘You’re a cold fish.’

‘Really?’ She said no more, simply sat with her hands folded in her lap. She would not twitch, would not avoid his eyes.

‘Of course you are. It was like sleeping with a piece of frozen cod.’

‘Oh. Do go on, Andrew. Your philosophy is so interesting. Leaving me aside, do you hate all Jews, or is your malice reserved just for Joseph Heilberg? Have you a habit of setting fire to people’s properties? Are all women natural victims? Did you never stop to wonder about the pain of those you attacked? Is the world here so that you might use it as you will?’ Even as she spoke, she knew that there would be no answers.

His jaw dropped. ‘Get out,’ he finally managed.

Prudence shook her head softly. ‘I believe, Andrew, that you are incapable of putting yourself in another person’s shoes. You are the only one who suffers pain, the only one who deserves protection. A man who cannot sympathize or hypothesize is a cripple. You are unable to mourn for another’s loss. You cannot share grief, joy, excitement.’ She paused, allowed her gaze to search his face. ‘It is such a shame that you bear no mark. Some poor soul with an injured spine sits in a chair, is wheeled about with his disability on show. Unfortunately, there is no sling for a damaged mind, no outward mark from which the rest of us might take warning.’