Bert Simpson entered, his wife two paces behind him. And that, thought the man at the desk, was a woman’s correct position in life. He did not invite the visitors to sit. He simply stared at them for a few seconds, then went through the watch and clock ritual all over again.
‘Sorry,’ exhaled Bert. He was out of breath, anxious. ‘We’ve been all over, sir,’ he managed. ‘Run all round the shops, Derby Road, Wigan Road. Paradise Lane’s empty except for number two. So we didn’t get to visit Ivy Crumpsall, ’cos she’s gone and done a bunk.’ He rubbed his arm. ‘The old woman from next door – number two – chased me with a brush or summat, pretended she thought I were a gypsy or a tramp. And she knows me. There’s no way she thought I were a gypsy, Mr Worthington. Any road,’ he appended lamely. ‘We can’t get hold of Gert’s niece, because she’s not there no more.’
Gert stepped forward. ‘There’s furniture in number four,’ she said. ‘No sign of a flitting. But the posh feller’s been gone a while and the Irishwoman’s not at work in Heilberg’s Wigan Road lock-up. Heilberg’s wife’s running it, but she said nowt when I asked her where everybody had gone. All the doors in Paradise are locked, except for the Blunts’.’
Worthington tapped his teeth with a pen. Nobody ever locked a door round these parts. If they went out, only a latch kept the door closed in case the milkman or the insurance man came for his money. Neighbours flitted in and out of one another’s homes, left notes like ‘Borrowed two spoons sugar, will give it back tomorrow’. What the hell was going on?
‘Did the Blunts say anything at all?’
Gert shook her head. ‘The man were stood at the front door making funny noises when we got there. Then his wife come to the door and told him off, said all the pigeons had gone away to live with Tom down south. Tom’s the posh bloke from number four.’
‘The man of mystery,’ said Worthington. ‘So. What do I do with the pair of you now? You understand the conditions of our agreement?’
‘Aye,’ replied Bert. ‘But what can we do about our side of things? I mean, it’s not our fault if they’ve all upped and buggered off.’
Worthington’s massive fist made sharp contact with the desk, caused inkwells to shiver and pencils to roll. ‘You get that girl away from Ivy Crumpsall, right?’
Gert shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. What did Worthington want with a seven-year-old kiddy? She’d heard tales, of course, knew that the man was interested in tender flesh. But a girl of seven? And she didn’t like this bloke, was uncomfortable in his presence. She wanted a child, yet she didn’t hold with kidnapping Sally and tormenting Ivy Crumpsall. Any road, whatever did Andrew Worthington have against a woman who was long retired?
As if he read her thoughts, Worthington continued. ‘Ivy Crumpsall caused a lot of trouble when she worked for me. Even after her son’s death, she brought my workers out of the sheds for the funeral. She’s a nuisance.’ Yes, and he would have bet his last fiver that Ivy was behind the workers’ whispers about joining a union. Many mills had become unionized, so it was only a matter of time now. He sniffed. Over his dead body would Paradise folk organize themselves.
‘We’ve done all we could,’ said Bert.
Protruding eyes rolled in their sockets until they settled on Bert. The best way to punish Ivy would be to remove the granddaughter from her care. He’d paid Lottie Crumpsall twenty pounds to write that letter to her sister before swanning off to America. ‘Get that child for me,’ he muttered, his tone low and menacing. He pulled himself up, decided to rephrase the instruction. ‘You want Sally. I made sure Lottie left her in your care. So sort this bloody mess out.’
Gert swallowed. ‘What about our jobs, Mr Worthington?’ He had promised them a nice little cottage up Wigan Road, a job as daily help for her, some gardening and chauffeuring for Bert. She swallowed, noticed that her throat was dry. In a way, she didn’t want to work, not for this man.
Worthington tapped his teeth with a pencil, pondered for a moment. He needed these two on his side. Ivy couldn’t have gone far, not in her condition. Only last week, he’d overheard a lunchtime conversation between carders. Ivy’s bed was in the kitchen. Was she dying? He wanted Lottie’s sister and brother-in-law to remove the child before Ivy died. Afterwards would be no good, because his main aim was to see the woman suffer. She was the only one who had ever spoken out against him. Others had made noises, had hinted at blackmail, but the Crumpsall woman stood alone, as always.
‘Mr Worthington?’ Bert’s tone was suitably quiet and humble.
‘I’m thinking.’ Where had everyone gone? ‘The Irishwoman visits family every year,’ he said aloud. ‘And Goodfellow’s travelled south, I believe. But where’s Ivy Crumpsall?’
They didn’t know, so they remained silent.
Worthington threw open the door. ‘Boy?’ he yelled. ‘Get in here this minute.’
The general dogsbody followed his boss into the office, closed the door quietly. He stood shaking from head to foot, his mind chasing round in circles looking for possible sins. Had he forgotten the sugar? No, no, it was on the desk next to two full cups. Had the tea been too weak, too strong, too cold?
‘You live in one of my houses in Spencer Street, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mr Worthington.’
‘Sir will do.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Had Mam paid the rent?
‘Do you know anything of the whereabouts of Ivy and Sally Crumpsall from Paradise Lane?’
The lad shook his head. ‘No, sir. Nobody knows where they’ve gone, but there were a great big car and a motor truck. The motor truck took Mr Goodfellow’s pigeons. Then Sally and her gran went in the big black car with Mr Goodfellow. They had cases and boxes and all kinds of stuff. But they never said where they were going. They’ve took the cat and all, sir.’
Worthington glared at the Simpsons. ‘And you say they haven’t flitted? Why else would they take cases?’
‘Furniture’s still there,’ insisted Bert. ‘They’d not have gone off without chairs and that. Happen it’s a holiday.’
Worthington settled into his capacious chair, dismissed the office boy with a wave of his hand. When just the Simpsons remained, he lit a cigarette, ignored the look of expectancy on Bert’s face. If this rat wanted to smoke, he could pay for his own Players Weights. ‘I shall honour my side of the agreement,’ he said. ‘You will take the Wigan Road cottage and you will work at Worthington House. For now, your brief will be to keep an eye on my wife. She . . .’ He couldn’t tell them that Prudence hated him. ‘She’s difficult, a bit unpredictable. Watch her movements, make sure you report any odd behaviour.’ He would get the bitch committed to an asylum one way or another. She was as daft as a scalded cat, anyway, couldn’t get past the front door some days. Panic attacks. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette. ‘You might as well get moved in.’
Bert picked up the keys to their new home. ‘Shall we start work right away, sir?’
‘Tomorrow will do. Moving furniture and so on will keep you occupied for the rest of today.’ He dismissed the pair with a wave of his hand, then reached into the top drawer of his desk. When four five-pound notes had been folded and placed in his pocket, he took his hat and Burberry from the stand and made for the door. Twenty pounds should be enough to loosen somebody’s tongue. That Tom Goodfellow must have told some bugger what was afoot.
‘Get back to your desk,’ he roared at his hovering secretary.
She blinked rapidly, stood aside to let him pass. Tomorrow, he would scream at her about unanswered mail. With her head moving slowly from side to side, she returned to her chair. At least he had gone out.
When the office door closed, each pair of shoulders relaxed, while a corporate sigh of relief filled the room. They all despised him, but their fear was bigger than the hatred, and their need to work and feed families was the most compelling factor in their endless silence.
The posser was nearly as tall as she was. She stood it on its head, one hand clasped about its steel. The number of sheets, towels, pillowcases and shirts she had battered with the implement did not bear thinking about; nor did the several dozen strangers she had seen off with this weapon in her grip. But she was getting sick and fed up of using it to prod Ollie back to normal.
With a sigh of resignation, she walked to the back gate of number 4, saw her husband gazing at the empty cages.
‘Ollie?’
He turned, looked at her, looked lost and confused.
Rosie suddenly knew that Ollie was beyond a possing. ‘Come on, lad,’ she said gently, her tone belying a feeling of terror that seemed to be chilling her bones right through to the marrow. ‘Come home and have a nice plate of tatie pie.’
Ollie fixed his eyes on her. ‘Rosie?’
‘That’s me.’
‘They’ve all gone.’ He waved a hand towards the cages and lofts. ‘I don’t know why, ’cos I can’t remember, only I’m supposed to be looking after some birds. And they’ve all flew off while I weren’t looking.’
‘They’ve gone to Hampshire, Ollie. I told you last night. Remember Tom and Ivy bringing little Sally to say ta-ra? We’ve three houses to mind now, love. Four if we count our own. Come on, don’t be standing there like a lost soul.’ Inside, she was crying. Something had happened to Ollie these last few weeks. He’d stopped moaning about the garden, was eating little, was wandering off all the time. It was as if he were becoming a kiddy all over again, because he needed constant watching.
He walked towards her, his gait rather one-sided and unsteady. Sometimes, his words got all mixed up. He wanted to tell her things, but his tongue didn’t work properly any more and he kept forgetting. Not Rosie, he’d not forgotten her. But things he should have known were beyond him. Like in the house. He couldn’t find his collar studs, his socks, his shoes. He kept searching for things and forgetting what those things were. ‘I’m not right,’ he managed.
‘I know, lad. Come on, let’s get you fed and watered.’
When she got him home, she guided him to his chair, set a plate of pie and peas before him, watched while he struggled to eat. It was his right side that failed him, as if the arm had gone stiff and stupid overnight. Yet this hadn’t happened overnight. No, the process had been gradual, which was why she’d dismissed the early symptoms. They were both getting on in years. Folk slowed down a lot when they grew older.
She would have to get the doctor, though she believed that she already knew the answer. Things were happening inside his head. Her mam had gone like this, something to do with little blood vessels giving way in her brain.
When Red Trubshaw arrived after school, her relief knew no bounds. ‘Eeh, love, I’m that glad to see you.’
Red blushed to the roots of his carroty hair. ‘I told Mrs Crumpsall I’d keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘So I’ve come.’
‘Nip up and get the doctor, son. Go on. Tell him our address and that I don’t like the looks of my husband. He’s down on the list as Oliver Blunt. Hurry up, now.’
Outside, Andrew Worthington watched the boy running towards Spencer Street. After a day spent making enquiries elsewhere among the Paradise streets, then a long and beery lunch in town, he had decided to come here to see Rosie and Ollie Blunt. They would know. They’d have the answers, all right. Borne along on a tide of Dutch courage, he made his way towards the cottages.
Andrew Worthington crossed the cobbles, knocked on the door of number 2, towered over the tiny, white-haired woman who answered. ‘Mrs Blunt,’ he began.
But Rosie had his measure. ‘Bugger off,’ she said smartly. ‘There’s nowt I want to say to you. My husband’s been took bad, so me hands is full.’
‘I won’t keep you, but—’
‘No, you won’t. Just like you couldn’t keep Ivy in the yard that day when yon miner come and sorted you. There’s nowt here for your sort, so get yourself gone and . . .’ Her eyes rested on the large, white five-pound notes that he was counting.
‘Ten pounds would help,’ he said softly. ‘This could pay for a few doctors, Mrs Blunt.’
‘Hang on a minute while I see to Ollie.’ Rosie walked through the house and into her garden, picked up the implement, retraced her steps. She opened the door and thrust the business end of the posser into Andrew Worthington’s not insubstantial stomach.
She was not a powerful woman, but the attack had been unexpected. The master of Paradise Mill lay sprawled on the narrow pavement, his face purple with rage. Muted laughter drifted out of the breaking shed, and he even heard a man’s voice calling. ‘Give him another one for us, missus.’
‘By Christ, you’ll suffer for this,’ he mumbled.
Rosie pulled herself to full height, achieved at least four feet and eleven inches when her spine was stretched. ‘Threaten me and I’ll have you bloody tarred and feathered,’ she shouted. ‘There’s many a woman round here would join me. Now, see that mill?’ She pointed to the huge building. ‘Get back there and weave yourself a shroud. ’Cos you’ll be needing one if you don’t shape.’
When the door had been slammed home and bolted, Andrew Worthington heaved himself up and turned towards the mill. Not one worker lingered in the yard. Still, never mind. He would wander across in a minute and find some fault or other, some excuse to drop the breakers’ pay. Nobody crossed Andrew Worthington. Unions? He coughed, dabbed his heated face with a large handkerchief. He’d see the lot of them in hell before allowing any card-holding member cross the threshold of Paradise. Yes, they’d soon learn the difference between hell and heaven if they didn’t shape up.
Well, he would sort them all out in a minute. Once he’d got his breath back . . .
Sally had slept for most of that first day on the road. Uncle Tom was taking it slowly, because Granny Ivy hadn’t been in a car before and was a bit frightened. Gus had travelled with the other man and the pigeons in a big motor wagon. Uncle Tom was pleased about Gus, because the cat might persuade some of the birds to stay in . . . in Hampshire? Was that the right name? ‘Is it Hampshire, Uncle Tom?’ she asked the man at the wheel.
‘Yes. A place called Oakmead, on the edge of the hills. You’ll like it.’
‘Will I?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She hadn’t seen anything of Derby, had been carried flat out into the guest house. But Ivy had seen, tasted, enjoyed. He smiled as he remembered the old woman’s face over a plate of lamb. ‘Are we still in England? Is there no rationing round here?’ she had asked.