Saturday's Child (30 page)

The whole Hardcastle/Hulme family made its way to the High Street Baths every Thursday, separating only when divided by gender, female to the left, male to the right. Afterwards, they always met
outside the slipper baths, then Nellie treated them all to ice cream sodas at Drinnan’s Parlour.

Roy’s recovery was slow, as they had been warned to expect. Nellie was amazing with him. In spite of her affliction, she read with him, mouthing the longer words, breaking into syllables
any that proved too difficult for the lad. She painted with him, made models, played soldiers, walked with him and the dogs.

So the Hardcastles had two homes now. They slept in number 3, ate in number 1 and number 3, dashing from one place to the other depending on menus. After a while, Lily found that she actually
enjoyed widowhood, took pleasure from being the only adult in her household. She was the boss, yet not the boss, because Danny became a father figure, while Nellie was closer to her than any of her
real sisters.

Nellie was content for the most part, though nights were still filled with dreams of that other place, that garden, the stables and horse trough, the fountain whose trickling she heard only when
she slept. The red was still there, was still waiting to claim her, but she continued to back away from it, waking each time the big, bold colour tinted the edge of her subconscious. So . . . loud?
. . . it was, so frightening, dominating, terrifying.

She had done nothing about the house in the photograph. The same element that feared the red made her hang back, as if the truth might prove too much to bear. Apart from that, she was happier
than she had been in her whole life. She had three adopted nephews, a wonderful adopted sister, and more reasons than most to want to continue in this vale of tears.

It was Monday afternoon. Lily had gone off to the market with some crocheted babywear for the stall, Danny was at work, Aaron and Roy at school. She mused about her plans for Aaron. The
influenza had left him rather weak, so she had set out to find work that would suit the lad. Her deaf friend on the market was ready to retire; Nellie’s idea was that Aaron would take over
the stall. Nellie had a contact at the Society for the Deaf, many of whose members were skilled in craftwork. Aaron could sell their products, would be out in the fresh air, which situation would
serve his health better than would a position down a mine or in a factory.

Pleased with herself, she put the final touches to a massive tablecloth, folded it, placed it in the bag for the Chinese laundry. Although her house was now clean and tidy, she still preferred
her pieces to be washed before delivery, as many of them took weeks to perfect and they were all handled for hours on end during preparation.

She left the lace room to find that Spot was carrying on something daft outside the door. ‘Silly boy,’ she mouthed.

But the dog refused to be quietened, which fact indicated that he was trying to tell her something.

She descended the stairs, walked to the front door, opened it.

Across the street, Sal Higgins staggered, her form doubled over, her mouth opened in a perfect O.

Nellie shut Spot in the house and hurried across. It was plain that Sal was suffering and was having difficulty standing up. Nellie dragged her into the deserted house and forced her onto the
bed beneath the front window. The woman was in labour. Although Nellie had never dealt with a birth, instinct came to her rescue, told her that there was no time to fetch a doctor or a nurse. She
removed Sal’s undergarments and saw that the infant’s head was already crowning.

Sal screamed so loudly that Magsy’s replacement at number 2 put in an appearance. She assessed the situation, announced her intention to fetch the midwife from Fox Street, then left the
scene.

Nellie took a deep breath. She had to be calm, had to deliver this child safely, must not panic. She grabbed Sal’s hand. ‘Baby coming,’ she mouthed. ‘Very
good.’

The baby came. Nellie held him, made sure that the cord was not twisted around the little neck, framed the words that told Sal that she had a fine, big son. The umbilicus was rather beyond
Nellie’s comprehension, so she placed the infant in a towel and watched . . . and watched . . . and hurt . . .

The red came. It was not profuse, but it was red, a steady stream that edged its way out onto Sal’s mattress. And this time, Nellie was swept into it, had no choice in the matter. The room
darkened, changed, became another time, a different place. This was the big house, the one in Mam’s cupboard, photograph curled with age, grey, grainy, unclear.

She was small, so small that she could scarcely reach the handle on the door. But she persevered, finally managing to push open that large, heavy wooden barrier. And there it was. Red,
everywhere red. The man was shouting, but she could not move. ‘Go,’ cried Daddy. ‘You have a sister, now go.’

But she remained riveted to the spot.

A terrible scream came from the red, then another noise, high-pitched and breathy. A new baby, a new life, a sister. The baby screamed and the red screamed and the red stopped screaming. He
scooped up the new baby and placed it on a table in a blanket. There was a woman there, a servant or a nurse, but she was unclear, not known to Nellie.

The red was Mother and Mother was no more.

In both times, Nellie blacked out and hit the floor. Just before she fainted, she heard the baby screaming. It was her sister; yet it was not her sister . . .

Pain, oh God, such pain. Shapes, mouths, great black holes making the pain, teeth biting on the pain, tongues shaping it, making it worse, better, bigger, smaller. Lily. Lily
giving pain, Aaron, Danny, Roy, Spot, Skinny, pain and pain and
pain
.

Lily sat on the edge of the sofa. ‘Nellie?’

Oh, please stop the hurt!

‘Nellie?’

The pain was in the shape of Lily’s mouth. The real agony came from Spot and his mother. Red, red, the red had gone, but the agony remained, here, real and now.

‘Nellie?’

That was her name. She recognized the shape of her name, but no more than that. There was huge discomfort beyond the window, outside the house where life continued, where Sal Higgins had just
given birth.

So. The red had been her own mother, her birth mother, bleeding to death. The man was her father. The newborn was her sister. And if this was hearing, Nellie begged God with all her heart to
take it away from her again. Where were the birds, the lowing cows, the gentle trickle of that fountain, the soft breezes in the trees? Hearing in the dreams had not been like this. Although her
concept of dream-hearing had been vague during waking hours, she could not recall it being frightening until it reached the red part.

Lily stood back. ‘Danny?’

‘Yes, Mam?’

‘Fetch Dr Clarke. Unless I’m very much mistaken, I think your Auntie Nellie can hear again. Tell the doc she’s been passed out for well over quarter of an hour, then get him
here. Aye, something’s happened and this one can hear again, so can we have a bit of hush?’

While she waited for the doctor, Lily sat and held Nellie’s hand. ‘You’ll be all right, love. No matter what it takes, I’ll make sure you’re all right.’

It was not all right, it was all wrong. The words were the correct shape, but voices hurt, scalded her head, made it sore. Then there was another thing, a heaving thing, almost black, dark. It
was her own breathing. Sharp things, bold, purple, happening all the time – was that the clock? Mam’s clock. Mam was dead and Mother was dead, so what about the sister?

Air made noise. Air moved, was not silent. It was too much. She placed her hands over her ears and forbade them to work. She would never sleep again, would never rest. How did the hearing sleep?
How did they shut out all this disturbance, all this agony?

By the time the doctor arrived, Nellie was wild-eyed and her stomach had begun to heave. She vomited, lay back, her face bathed in sweat. There was no peace, no relief. The enemy had invaded her
territory and she was defenceless.

He took her pulse, watched her face. ‘You say she can hear? She has always been deaf.’

‘No,’ said Lily, ‘she spoke about dreams. She remembered hearing and could hear in a way when she was asleep – birds singing – she wrote it all down for
me.’

‘So she suddenly went deaf?’

‘I think so,’ answered Lily, ‘and that was why she got adopted, I’d say. They gave her away, Dr Clarke.’

The woman’s heart was racing. ‘I think we’ll have her in the infirmary for a day or two, see what’s what. We don’t want her having a heart attack. How long has she
been like this?’

‘Since she delivered Sal Higgins’s new baby.’

‘Ah.’ He stood up. ‘Shock of some sort, I’d say. Let the experts look at her. Now, don’t worry,’ he advised Lily. ‘You have had enough on your plate, so
stay calm. Miss Hulme will be cared for.’

By the time Nellie was removed from her house, her appearance had decayed until she resembled an insane person, somebody from a nasty film, the sort who should be locked up for the rest of her
life. Lily went with her. Guilt struck again, because Lily knew that the absence of this woman would hurt her more than the death of Sam. As they drove away, she patted Nellie’s hand.
‘Don’t you fret, love, I’ll get that new tablecloth up to the laundry and I’ll look after your lads.’ Yes, they were Nellie’s lads, too.

Nellie cried. The vehicle was loud, almost red, so terrifying. Monstrous clatterings went on outside the ambulance, crudely interwoven colours from the primary end of the palette. It was
invasive, cruel, nasty. There was no space for thought, no escape, no comfort. ‘Lily,’ she mouthed, ‘help me.’

But no-one could help. Nellie Hulme, now cursed with the gift of hearing, had entered the reality of her nightmare. She gave herself up into the pain and passed out of consciousness.

Peter had never been summoned into the Presence before. He waited outside the front living room of Knowehead, bowler twisting nervously between very clean fingers. He had
washed in Dot’s kitchen behind the shop, had shaved, had even allowed Dot to find a shirt of Frank’s that was not too grossly large for him.

Why was he so afraid, so shaken? She was just another woman, another unwed female who needed his help. According to rumour, she had started to walk again, just a few steps, just into her own
garden. It seemed that Magsy and Beth O’Gara had changed Katherine Moore, had managed what no-one had achieved before. Through them and through Dot’s daughter-in-law, the crone had
finally begun to show a degree of humanity.

Magsy came out of the room, held the door wide for him. ‘Go in now.’ She smiled. He had not been told about the summer house, as that was Miss Moore’s business, but Magsy
wished that she could keep an ear to the door. Peter Smythe was a character, one who would not easily wear the guise of one of the old lady’s chess pieces. More locked horns, she thought as
the door closed behind him.

He studied Katherine, so frail, thin, almost translucent. But the voice was strong. ‘Sit,’ she commanded.

He sat without thinking, would not have dreamt of disobeying.

She stared at him, unblinking, eyes hard and cold. ‘You work in my gardens.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? I have never met you before, of course, though people hereabouts say that you have clearly had a decent education, so why do manual labour?’ The eyes twinkled for a second.
‘They say you “talk proper”.’

‘Yes, I was taught by my mother, though I trained for no particular occupation. She was an educated woman, so I speak as she did.’

‘Very good,’ she replied absently, ‘and I feel I must congratulate you on the way you have dealt with my land, especially the garden at the rear. It was quite a wilderness. I
was beginning to feel that I had invented England’s first true jungle.’

He relaxed slightly. ‘I know a great deal about plants and their habitat. And I study people.’ For a reason he could not understand, he did not mention his writing. ‘People
fascinate me,’ he added.

‘I have heard about your book,’ she told him. ‘I have also heard that you are living in a caravan.’

He bridled slightly. What business of hers was that? His mode of living had been chosen. He did not want to be tied to a house. Even this short stay in Knowehead was making him feel
claustrophobic.

‘Will you buy a house when your book makes money?’

‘If it makes money,’ he replied. ‘No. I do not have the desire to own a property.’

She nodded wisely. ‘But you do not mind using other people’s properties?’

‘No. The world belongs to everyone. I consider borders and boundaries to be in direct conflict with nature.’

‘And money is of no interest to you?’

He shrugged. ‘I believe in inheritance. But I never knew my father. Mother lost him before I was born; thus I had nothing to gain from my predecessors. My way of life may seem strange to
you, but I am happy with it.’

‘So your mother was widowed?’

‘Yes,’ he replied after a short pause.

The pause was noticed and Katherine identified him as illegitimate. This was, indeed, an interesting man. Something about him made her feel as if she had known him for ever. Like herself, he was
eccentric, was ploughing his own furrow. ‘You used to live in my summer house.’

He made no apology. ‘Yes, that is the case.’

‘Now, a caravan?’

‘Yes. Miss Moore, if my book were successful, I might buy a horse to tether between the shafts. Then I could move house on a regular basis.’

Katherine loved the sound of that, indulging herself for a few moments, imagining the freedom, the sheer joy of travelling aimlessly through life, a gypsy, a liberated spirit. Without arthritis,
naturally. ‘The summer house is yours, if you wish. No rent, just tend my garden and take the accommodation as payment. I shall also supply you with coal to heat the place and oil to light
it. I may have electricity put in eventually, but not just yet.’

He swallowed. He loved that summer house, had written much of his prose and some of his poetry in there, while the light had lasted. ‘I don’t know what to say.’