The child drew breath as if steeling herself against her mission. Granny Ivy must be fetched, then the consequences must be endured. There was no time to be standing here thinking about the man of mystery who lived at the end house.
She slipped through the back gate and along a narrow dirt track that separated the Paradise houses from the Rec. A few children played on the field, but none called to Sally. At top speed, she flung herself towards Worthington Street and Granny Ivy Crumpsall.
Ivy was holding court in the midst of three spellbound neighbours. She was famous for her opinions, was Ivy. ‘. . . and that there Jimmy Foster’s got extra tinned fruit and tea and toffees, I saw it all being delivered to the shop Tuesday last. Fancy rationing and shortages still going on in 1947. Who’d have thought it would last, eh? Aye, he’ll be stashing all the good stuff for the Worthingtons. Pigs, the lot of them.’ The last five words were stained with bitterness towards the man whose family had built Paradise Mill and most of the cottages that flanked the massive structure.
‘Easy for him, eh?’ Ivy waved a hand towards her small audience. ‘Gets his dad’s money, throws these houses up and sticks a bloody great mill on top of us. Oh aye,’ she nodded vigorously. ‘But for Joseph Heilberg, yon Worthington would have used the Rec for another mill. Good job we’ve got folk like Joe looking after us.’
A thin-faced woman at the table spoke up. ‘Worthington tried to get his hands on Heilberg’s land during the war, while that lovely man were interned.’
Ivy exploded with rage. ‘Aye, and there’s another injustice for you.’ Her eyes, which were so like her only son’s, blazed in triumphant praise of her own oratory. ‘Interning a Jew – I ask you. What were the point in locking up a bloke who came over here years ago to get away from bloody Hitler? He’s a good man, is Joseph Heilberg. Not a penny rent did he ask when he came back. All them in Paradise Lane lived rent-free for the duration.’ She sniffed deeply, eyed her granddaughter. ‘And that’s just as well, because my poor son’s rotten wife would have had to increase her turnover if she’d needed rent on top of perfume.’ It was no good being ashamed, she had decided wisely. Everybody knew what Lottie was, no-one better than the mother of the man she had married. ‘Hello, our Sal,’ she muttered belatedly.
Sally bit her lip, which wasn’t an easy task, as most of her infant incisors had vacated their place of residence. ‘Dad says you’ve to come, Granny Ivy.’
The thinnest of the trio of visitors blessed herself hurriedly.
‘Eeh, whatever next?’ The rhetoric was ignored while Ivy Crumpsall reached for her shawl. Summer, winter, boil or freeze, the good woman never set foot outside her house without her pinny and her shawl. The black skirt swept the floor as she approached Sally. ‘Right, our Sal. Let’s go forward into the fray.’ She had looked at one or two of her son’s books in the past, liked to think she had picked up a smart turn of phrase. She was very proud of her lad. Her lad had been born when she was over forty and ‘on the turn’. Everybody knew about ‘on the turn’ babies being special.
When her neighbours had left, Ivy looked around the sparse home to see if she could find something for her dying boy. With the fringe of her dark shawl, she dashed a tear from a cheek and picked up a couple of old newspapers. ‘That should keep him happy for an hour,’ she mumbled to herself.
‘Me dad can’t read,’ said Sally.
‘Course he can . . .’ The dim light of anger that always glowed in Ivy Crumpsall’s eyes was suddenly fully rekindled. ‘Blind?’ she asked.
‘Nearly. And he can’t get out of bed no more, Granny Ivy. Mr Goodfellow’s been seeing to him.’
The old woman hung on to her composure as best she could. No use falling apart in front of the little lass. ‘Aye, he’s Goodfellow by name and a saint by nature, is yon.’ She moved towards the door. ‘Where’s your mam?’
‘Post office, I think.’
‘Huh.’ She grabbed the child’s hand and marched across the street into Paradise Lane, stopping for just a moment outside the open door of number 4. ‘Mr Goodfellow?’
‘Yes?’ enquired an unusually cultured voice from somewhere within the house.
‘It’s Ivy. Ta for looking after our Derek. I’ll see you later.’
They passed Maureen Mason’s and the Blunts’ house, walked through the front door of number 1. Ivy stopped short when she saw the empty shelves near the parlour fireplace. ‘Where’s his books and papers?’ she asked.
Sally shivered. ‘I don’t know where the books are, Gran. We don’t get papers no more.’
‘Does he know his encyclopaedias is all gone? Does your dad know?’
Sally shook her head, blushed on her mother’s behalf. ‘He stops in the kitchen all the while now, Granny. Me mam said he couldn’t read no more, so—’
‘He could still hold them. He could still touch the pages and remember how much he loved reading.’ Ivy squared her shoulders. ‘Don’t say owt to your dad about the books.’
‘I won’t.’
Ivy Crumpsall squatted down and stroked the child’s thin cheek. ‘I wish I had a few bob, love. If I had a bit of money, I could feed you up and get you a decent frock. I don’t get much for cleaning the pub, you know. Still.’ She stood up and made her face fierce again. ‘We must make best use of what’s to hand, as my old mother used to say.’
Sally followed Granny Ivy into the kitchen. It was sparsely furnished, with flag floors, a black grate and a tattered rug in front of the hearth. The mantelpiece was not bare, though. Across its length lay pots of rouge and powder, two dark blue bottles of Evening in Paris and a stick of eau de Cologne, then a confusion of combs, brushes, curlers. Lottie Crumpsall’s mirror was propped behind a broken clock, and the rest of the shelf was taken up by hairnets and pins. ‘She wants whipping,’ breathed Mrs Crumpsall Senior.
‘Hello, Mam.’
The bed was under the window, its sheets crumpled and torn, the top quilt stained and ragged. His hands clawed at the fringe, while large, uncertain eyes blinked in the direction of his mother’s voice. ‘We’ll get you sorted,’ said Ivy with a cheerfulness that was tailored to hide her distress. ‘I’ll borrow bedding, lad. I’ve good neighbours down Worthington Street. If yon fancy piece had let me in here more often, we’d have had you sparkling – wouldn’t we Sally?’
Sally made no reply, as her gaze was fixed on the fancy piece who had featured so recently in Ivy’s words.
‘Get out,’ said Lottie Crumpsall.
‘No.’ Ivy planted her feet wide, knew that she looked quite terrifying in the long black clothes. ‘I’m stopping. This time, lady, you’ll not see me off, because my lad needs me.’ She unfolded her arms, waved a hand in Sally’s direction. ‘And our little lass could do with a bit of looking after and all. Look at her. She’s all rags and bones, not a pick on her and the clothes in bits.’
Lottie made a noise that sounded like ‘pshaw’, picked up a lipstick, pushed it into her bag. ‘I’ve somebody to see,’ she said. ‘When I get back, you’d best be out of here. If you’ve not gone, I’ll pack my bags and leave.’
‘Oh aye? Are you making that a promise?’ Ivy leaned her head over to one side, put Sally in mind of a rather tall bird looking for worms. ‘It’s nice when you’ve bags to pack, Lottie Kerrigan. It’s nice when you’ve summat to shove in the bags. How many pairs of silk stockings did you collect, eh? And underwear and fancy scarves and bottles of scent? You could happen fill a trunk out of your earnings, ’cos you’re nothing but a cheap whore. Your mam were the same, only she kept her business away from the Yanks. I suppose there were no Yanks then.’ She nodded. ‘Now as I think back, Nancy Kerrigan would have entertained a battalion for some stockings.’ She looked her daughter-in-law up and down, was glad of the distraction. Because while she was attacking Lottie, she wasn’t looking at the haggard face of her son.
‘Shut up, you old bag.’ There was no energy in the words, because Lottie didn’t care any more. In a matter of days, she would be gone. Morton was waiting for her in New York. He’d found an apartment and a job, knew somebody who knew somebody who wanted English hostesses in a club. ‘Do what you want,’ she said while studying a chipped nail. ‘It’s all the same to me.’
Sally had had enough. She crept out of the room, through the scullery and into the garden. The noise still reached her, though. Granny Ivy was going on about Mam being a bastard, about nobody knowing who Mam’s dad was. ‘There were that many candidates, they were thinking of calling a general bloody election,’ screamed Ivy Crumpsall.
All that shouting would do Dad no good at all, thought Sally. But Mam and Granny Ivy were only carrying on like they always did, so happen Dad would fail to hear the racket. There was nothing wrong with his ears, but Derek Crumpsall had stopped listening years ago.
The little girl walked through the gate and down Back Paradise Lane until she came to number 4. Without hesitation, she pushed her way into Mr Goodfellow’s garden and walked to the pigeon cages. Gus was curled up between Scarlet and Beau, a breeding pair who were not in the slightest way perturbed by the grey cat’s presence in their loft.
‘He’s in the birdhouse again,’ said a male voice.
‘They’re supposed to kill birds,’ replied Sally. ‘I never knew a cat who guarded birds.’
‘Always a first time, me dear.’ Tom Goodfellow turned away and shook his head. She was as thin as a rake. Her clothes were probably held together by the filth they had collected over several days. ‘Come inside for a sandwich, Sally,’ he said.
Sally loved Mr Goodfellow’s house. It was filled with shining silver cups and pictures of pigeons. There was always a fire in the grate, even in summer, and Mr Goodfellow made lovely cakes and scones. ‘Thank you,’ she said when her plate was loaded. She was careful to eat slowly, did not want to look greedy. Her stomach moaned with pleasure as the food occupied its cavernous emptiness.
He sat on a chair, sat on his anger, worked hard to keep a smile on his face. ‘How is your father today?’
‘Very ill.’ Her dad was ill and her mother was going to America and here she sat eating butties. No, they were sandwiches, she told herself. Sandwiches were thinner than butties and sometimes, the crusts were cut off. ‘Thank you,’ she said when the plate was empty.
‘And your mother?’ he asked casually.
She could have told Mr Goodfellow anything, as the man was completely trustworthy. When Sally had been left alone during the death throes of a world war, this man had come for her, had fed her and installed her at Maureen Mason’s house. During evenings in the shelter, he had sung nice songs to lull her to sleep. But she didn’t want to find the words, made no effort to frame a proper answer. Dad was going to die and Mam was setting her sights on a future at the other side of the world. ‘I’ll talk him round,’ Lottie said whenever she remembered the small hiccup who was her daughter. ‘Morton doesn’t want children, but you’ll be sent for, don’t worry.’
‘Sally?’
She shook herself out of the gloomy reverie. ‘She’s been to the post office.’
‘Another letter?’
Sally nodded. ‘Same day as yours, Mr Goodfellow.’ Everyone in Paradise Lane, Worthington Street and Spencer Street gossiped about Tom Goodfellow. He got queer letters, envelopes with a piece of paper hiding another address, packages bearing more than one set of stamps. Where had he come from, why did he talk so posh? How had a grown man learned cooking and washing, where did his money come from? But Sally accepted him gratefully for who he was now, occasionally wondered who he used to be. ‘And she wrote back last night.’
Tom cleared the small tea table, picked up a blue-rimmed jug and opened the tap on the copper. ‘I’ll let you wash up,’ he said.
In the scullery, Sally caressed bone china cups and silver knives, made up a story in her head about living in a beautiful house with roses in the garden and roses on the plates. She had never broken a single piece of Mr Goodfellow’s dinner and tea set. To smash even the smallest item would have been a crime, because everything matched, right down to salt, pepper and a sugar bowl from whose handle a tiny spoon was suspended.
He watched her, knew her thoughts. What could he do for her? When was that dreadful woman going to leave the country? After Derek’s death, little Sally would probably live with Ivy Crumpsall. Ivy was a good woman, rather firm in her views, but sound enough. So the child was going to move from one poverty to the next, from one empty larder to another. Though she would doubtless get love from her grandmother, and love was worth a lot.
‘I’ve finished, Mr Goodfellow.’
He sank to his haunches, fought back a groan when his game leg creaked. ‘Why don’t you call me Uncle Tom?’
She blushed, put a finger to her lips. ‘I’ve got no uncles.’
He nodded grimly. She had been visited by several ‘uncles’ during the latter years of the war. In addition to some with ordinary names, there had been Uncle Buzz, Uncle Dwight, Uncle Morton. Tom had explained, when asked, that uncles were brothers to a child’s parents, and Sally had stopped saying ‘Uncle’ when addressing her mother’s consorts. For that sin, she had been beaten and sent to bed for two days.
‘Let me be your uncle,’ he said again. There was a basket and a rope under the child’s bed these days. Whenever she was locked upstairs, she would raise the sash window and lower this container to the ground. The Blunts, Maureen Mason and Tom Goodfellow had been feeding her for some time by placing what they could spare in the empty basket as soon as Lottie Crumpsall had disappeared up the street. Lottie seldom used the back garden, never attempted to clear the waist-high weeds, hung out precious little washing beyond the odd pair of stockings and some French knickers in pink and blue satin. Only when the lavatory was needed did Lottie Crumpsall venture out along the whole length of the rear garden.
‘You can be my uncle, then.’
She was thinning towards transparency, he mused. Fine blond hair hung in greasy rats’ tails about the narrow face, while enormous blue eyes expressed all the feelings she refused to verbalize. In the depths of Sally Crumpsall’s pupils, Tom read poverty, pain, bewilderment. Above all, he saw an aching need to be loved. Ivy was getting on. Some days, she was as straight as a die, bold to the point of belligerence. But in the twilight of her own life, Ivy’s heart was about to be broken by the death of her only son. Would the pale waif be enough to keep Ivy Crumpsall on this side of the frail curtain that divided the living from the dead? Only time would bring the answer to that question.