She pouted, then stretched her lips, smoothed on a mere fingertip of rose lipstick. It probably wouldn’t make any difference, anyway. He would be too engrossed in Sally Crumpsall’s problems to notice an Irish flower in full bloom.
‘I could go home,’ she told her reflection. ‘I could go back and get me a fine Irish farmer. But I’m stupid. I like my job and I love the man next door. Above all, I want to keep that baby out of reach of the Kerrigans.’
She pulled on a navy skirt, looked over her shoulder to judge the straightness of stocking seams. A pretty white blouse completed the picture once a small cameo was pinned at the neck. ‘It’s himself is the fool,’ she told herself jauntily. ‘Because I’m a woman in my prime. If he can’t see that, then the man needs a white stick and help to cross the road.’
‘Hello, Maureen?’
Oh God, it was Tom! ‘Come in,’ she said, her tone carefully controlled. If he’d arrived a minute earlier, she would have been undressed and talking to herself. Talking to herself about him. The thought of being semi-naked in the presence of Tom Goodfellow made her cheeks glow naturally beneath the film of applied colour.
‘I want a word with you,’ he said.
She carried on brushing her hair, looked at his image in the mirror. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m going away.’
Her heart sank. She felt sure he must have heard it hitting her diaphragm with a sickening thud. ‘I see.’
‘Just a few days, that’s all. Rosie and Ollie are old, Maureen. So is Ivy. I wondered if you would keep a weather eye on the situation while I’m in London.’
Ah, London, was it? Did he have a family there – brothers, sisters . . . wife, children? ‘I’ll do my best, Tom. Mind, I do have to work, you know. Mr Heilberg’s a splendid man, but I don’t think he’d pay me for staying at home. Also, I’ll be away to visit my family in a couple of weeks.’
‘Joseph will help. I’ve spoken to him. Sally has a few days’ holiday from school next week. Ruth will fill in at your shop in the mornings, then she’ll watch Sally till Ivy gets back from work. Between you and Ruth, you can cover both situations. According to Rosie, this Gert person seems quite capable of kidnapping Sally. I’ve spoken to a lawyer, and there is little we can do unless a crime actually occurs. However, we must be watchful.’
Maureen laid down the brush, pushed her feet into navy court shoes. She had nicely turned ankles, and she felt his eyes brushing her legs as he spoke again. ‘I really don’t like the sound of Gert,’ he continued. ‘She is, after all, Lottie’s sister.’
‘And a Kerrigan,’ she replied. ‘That mother of hers was the biggest disgrace ever to come out of Ireland. I mind she went once to the doctor – she was pregnant, I think – and the doctor sent her home, told her to have a good wash before he would touch her. So she must have been entertaining some men of poor taste if they didn’t mind the smell of her. Blood will out, Tom. They’re bad daughters of a bad mother. Mind, Sally will be all right because she has a lot of her father in her.’
He stood in the doorway while she pulled on her jacket. If only he were free to ask this sweet woman to walk out with him. On the moors, she would look perfect, because looks as Irish as hers wanted wind, sun and space. With a breeze in her hair, she would be truly beautiful. Her attentions and excuses would not have become a problem if only . . . If only what? He needed to stop thinking, conjecturing. After all, things might change once he’d been to London.
‘I’ve left my bag upstairs.’ She squeezed past him, gave him the benefit of the subtler perfume she had bought for an occasion such as this one.
Freedom. Just a couple of syllables, yet he couldn’t afford it. ‘You’re not married,’ he whispered to himself. But he could not be convinced that a normal life was within his reach. ‘You are fastened to a secret,’ he murmured. Tom would never be able to marry unless his bride knew the whole truth. He was a man whose crime had not been a crime, yet the disgrace hung heavily about his shoulders. In order to contemplate marriage, he must force himself to pass on the burden. A woman like Maureen would take the problem on board, he felt certain of that. But could she or any other working woman consider a man of his so-called class?
She came down the stairs, handbag looped over an arm.
‘Why do women always carry a bag?’ he asked. ‘After all, you aren’t going far.’
She laughed. ‘It’s a symbol, I suppose. If I were going to ask for a loan of some butter, I’d leave my bag here. But it’s a sign of . . . of formality, I’d say. When Sally’s so-called auntie and uncle see how I’m dressed, they’ll know we mean business.’
Tom stood back, allowed her into the street. He had learned the answer to another of life’s small mysteries. A handbag was a statement of intent.
The parlour was cramped, even without Ruth Heilberg. That good woman had been sent off with Sally, because none of those present wanted the child to worry about what might happen here tonight. Ivy gazed across the small room, decided that Maureen Mason was definitely setting her cap at Tom. And so she should. They were both lovely people, both alone. She didn’t want to think about losing Sally. If she kept her mind busy for these few minutes, then she might just hang on to some control. Anyway, the Simpsons could be visiting their niece, no more than that. But then again, they’d never shown an interest before . . .
‘Are you all right, Ivy?’ Rosie, squashed on a horsehair
chaise
between Tom and Ollie, looked smaller than ever.
‘I’m ready for anything,’ answered Ivy calmly. She noted that Tom had just risen and was moving to position himself behind Maureen’s chair. He looked like a knight preparing to protect his damsel. So he was receiving Maureen’s unspoken messages, then. Joseph Heilberg sat in a straight-backed chair against the wall. His eyes were closed, as if in prayer.
‘Half past,’ announced Maureen. ‘Will they come?’
‘They’ll be here.’ Ivy smoothed her hair, spread the skirt of her brilliantly white apron over her knees. ‘Joseph knows them.’
Joseph Heilberg’s eyelids flew open. ‘I do indeed,’ he said. ‘The woman’s a loud-mouthed person. She dresses to look like a girl of twenty. For her I feel sorry, because her man has a thirst. Him – well – that I should ever meet such a man again!’ He shook his head. ‘He drinks straight from the barrel, I think. We hear him coming home, Ruth and I. Such songs he sings, words I would never wish my Ruth to hear.’
Maureen leaned back in her chair. She could feel Tom’s warmth, as if his aura reached out to caress her. ‘There are too many of us,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine the Simpsons getting past all of us.’
‘Not while Ivy’s alive.’ There was a sombre note in Tom’s voice, as if he had edged the words in funereal shades. ‘We expect you to be among us for some years,’ he added hastily. ‘But should you die before Sally comes of age, the Simpsons’ claim may be validated. After all, the woman is Sally’s aunt.’
Ivy nodded slowly. ‘She’s an Aunt Sally, more like, summat to chuck things at. Her sister were the same, and we Aunt Sallied her all over Trinity Street.’ She looked at Rosie. ‘Got your posser handy, love?’
‘I have.’
‘As usual,’ moaned Ollie. ‘And don’t I know it.’
Rosie gave her husband a look that was meant to be mild. ‘It’s the running away from me and the posser keeps you alive, Ollie Blunt. Gives you plenty of exercise.’
Tom smiled. ‘There must be no violence,’ he told them. ‘If any one of us hits out, then Sally might be taken away to an orphanage. The welfare people would have a case.’
‘Never,’ said Ivy, her hackles preparing to rise. ‘I’ve never laid a finger on that child.’
‘Behave yourself, Ivy.’ Tom Goodfellow was one of the few who could frame such an order without fear of recrimination. ‘We shall be calm and collected.’
They remained outwardly composed for several further minutes, then Mr Heilberg spoke up again. ‘He’ll be in the public house,’ he declared. ‘Sober, he is quiet, but in drink – ah.’ He waved a hand downward to express his opinion of Bert Simpson. ‘Yes, he will be drinking beer. She, also, may need what people call the courage of the Dutch.’
‘Dutch courage, Joe,’ advised Ivy wearily. She wasn’t correcting him, but she had played no small part in Joseph’s mastery of the English language, which fact had, in its turn, played no small part in the man’s tendency to pepper his speech with colloquialisms. ‘I wish they’d hurry up.’
‘So do I,’ grumbled Ollie. ‘My stomach thinks my throat’s cut.’
‘He’s had near enough half a plate-size tater pie with peas and onion gravy,’ snapped his wife. ‘There’s no road he’ll starve – unless we start depending on what he grows in that there wilderness he’s made at the back of our house.’
Ollie bridled, but refused to be drawn on this occasion. It was no use arguing among themselves while adversaries were about to knock at the door.
Maureen checked a hand on its way to her mouth, told herself she’d stopped nail-biting years ago.
‘Happen they’re not coming,’ said Ivy. ‘Happen seeing Rosie once was enough.’
‘There’s no sense in that,’ muttered Ollie. ‘Rosie is only dangerous when she’s armed. Happen she didn’t have the posser with her.’
Someone clattered a fist against the front door. Tom glanced at Ivy, saw nervousness lurking beneath a mask of bravado. ‘I’ll go,’ he said. He strode out of the room, threw the outer door wide.
Each member held on to his or her breath, listened while Tom said, ‘Yes? May I help you?’
‘It’s about the kiddy,’ announced a second male voice. ‘Come this way, please,’ said Tom, his accent sounding as if it had been cut with great delicacy from lead crystal. He was followed into the room by Gert and Bert. The intruders ground to a halt when they saw the gathering. ‘Oh,’ said Gert feebly. ‘We’ve only come to see our Sally.’ Pale eyes scoured the room. ‘And her’s not even here,’ she added.
Bert lingered in the doorway. He was small and plump with colourless piggy eyes and dark brown hair. ‘Where is she?’
Ivy scoured the couple thoroughly, taking in as many details as her mind was capable of collecting. Gert was dismissed fairly quickly as a sight not worth looking at, all make-up, henna and too-tight clothing. But Bert was something . . . different. He carried a lot of spare lard, probably due to over-indulgence in beer, looked like an idle swine. Yet Joseph Heilberg had declared this man to be a labourer, a carrier of bricks, a mixer of mortar. His hands had signs of wear ingrained in the flesh, yet they were wrong. The wrong hands, thought Ivy. Aye, they were small, like the hands of a woman. He was weak, she decided. Weak, easily led astray, yet wily.
‘Shall we come back another time?’ ventured Gert.
‘No.’ The woman looked like a circus clown. Ivy folded her arms, leaned back in her chair and hoped that the palpitations would slow down in a minute. ‘All I want to know is why you’ve never been before. I mean, they needed help. Your sister were about as much use as a dead dog, wouldn’t fettle for nobody. As for our Sal, she were in rags till the day her mam buggered off.’
Gert cleared her throat. ‘She’s no good, our Lottie. Only she asked me and Bert to have Sally, like. We have seen the lass before, you know. We’ve seen her on the road after school. Only I’ve never spoke to our Lottie for years. This letter came out of the blue, from me sister, asking us would we mind Sally till Lottie sends for her to go to America.’
Ivy nodded. ‘Lottie asked you to take our Sal just to spite me.’ She moved her head, looked at all her neighbours. ‘Tell this woman our Derek’s dying wish,’ she instructed the company.
Tom took up the cudgels. ‘Derek asked us to look after Sally.’
Bert decided to have his say. ‘Aye, well Derek’s dead and Lottie isn’t. It’s what the living wants as matters. So we’ll be taking her to live with us.’
Ivy’s heart did a somersault, though her demeanour did not alter. ‘What’s the point of moving her up to Derby Road?’ she asked. ‘It’s nobbut a spit from where she is now.’
Rosie was bridling. Ollie held on to his wife’s arm in an effort to restrain her. ‘Shush, love,’ he whispered.
‘We might not be stopping,’ announced Gert. ‘We’ve a chance of living-in jobs in a big house at the top of Wigan Road.’ She glowered at Bert, hoped he’d have the sense not to mention the family for whom they’d be working. Andrew Worthington was not a favourite with the famous Ivy Crumpsall. ‘The lass’ll get plenty fresh air up yon, away from all the chimneys.’
Ivy rose to her feet, rested one hand on the mantelpiece. If these Simpsons had bothered to visit Sally in the past, they would have noticed a change in the place. In the centre of the shelf against which Ivy was leaning sat the clock from the kitchen. It was ticking happily, had been given yet another overhaul by a friend of Joseph Heilberg. There were clean lace curtains at the window, new rag rugs, a polished table with Maureen’s aspidistra as a centrepiece. ‘I’m Sal’s granny,’ she said softly. ‘And she’ll stop here with me. She’s at Craddock Street School, and I reckon she should stop there instead of piking off to another school up Wigan Road.’
Gert and Bert looked round at all the faces in the room. There was Joseph Heilberg from the pawnshops – he was worth a penny or two, might have a bit of influence. Ivy herself was forbidding in the long black skirt, while the little woman on the couch was plainly ready to burst a blood vessel at any minute. Her husband was glaring at the Simpsons, as if he blamed this pair of intruders for Rosie Blunt’s anger.
‘Have you anything more to say?’ asked Ivy, sarcasm trimming the words.
Gert glanced at Maureen, was immediately jealous. Maureen had the sort of beauty that needed little help from jars and bottles. She saw that Bert was looking in the same direction, felt like clouting him with her handbag. ‘We’ve no kiddies of our own,’ she said lamely.
Tom cleared his throat. ‘I have no car, but I would not consider stealing someone else’s.’
Gert could not help answering this posh bloke. She’d heard about him with his airs and graces, was determined not to be taken in by his patronizing manner. ‘Who said owt about cars?’ she asked snidely. ‘We’re not after a car. All we want is to carry out the wishes of my sister.’