Prudence curled herself into a tighter ball. He never tried to touch her any more. For years, she had lived in terror, had pushed her bed against the door to prevent him entering her room. Then, about ten years into the marriage, he had fitted the door with a lock and two bolts. ‘Just so that you will sleep better,’ he had said. But before he had left the room, he had paused in the doorway, as if struck by an afterthought. ‘By the way,’ he had said jovially. ‘If there’s ever a fire, you won’t get out, because I’ll make sure you’re left to fry in your silly little room.’
She shivered. The evening was warm, yet her bones felt iced and brittle. Fire? Even death by burning would be preferable to the feel of his hands, the sound of his breathing, the ferocity of that final attack when all sense seemed to elude him. He was the insane one. He was the deviant.
One day, she told herself. One day soon, when she felt strong enough, she would visit the Crumpsall woman. Oh, she’d heard her husband talking on the telephone, had eavesdropped while he’d told some unseen person about Ivy Crumpsall and her ‘allegations’. ‘She says she can name my illegitimate children,’ he had boomed into black Bakelite. ‘Nonsense, of course. No, no, I can’t sue. They’ll all say there’s no smoke . . . quite, quite. But I want her silenced.’ Of late, Prudence Worthington had begun to worry about the safety of a woman she had never met.
And now, there was this Simpson person and her husband. Gert had all-knowing eyes and a face that had hardened too early. Why were they going to be here? Worthington House had managed, just about, with only Mrs Miles for many years. What was he up to this time?
A knock on the door made her spring from the bed like a cat. ‘Who’s there?’ she finally managed.
‘It’s me, Mrs Worthington.’
Prudence’s heart slowed. She was not on close terms with Mrs Miles, yet the good soul was no threat. When the door was open, Mrs Miles marched inside and took her mistress’s hand. ‘I’m leaving, madam,’ she said, her face working its way through a maelstrom of emotions. ‘There’s no way I’m stopping here with that . . . that piece downstairs.’
Prudence, uncertain about what to do or say, patted Mrs Miles’s arm. ‘There, there,’ she muttered. ‘Please try to be calm, Mrs Miles.’ This was ridiculous. ‘Isn’t your given name Cora?’
‘That’s right, madam.’ The eyebrows had raised themselves in surprise. ‘I just came to tell you because it isn’t right. I couldn’t walk out without seeing you.’
Prudence dropped her servant’s hand. ‘Cora.’ The name came clumsily from her lips, sounded strange, rusty. ‘You must not leave me. Have you told Mr Worthington of your intention?’
A hybrid sound came from the servant’s mouth, an improbable cross between a cough and a ‘pshaw’ of impatience. ‘No. I’ve not talked to him, madam. I never talk to him unless he asks a question. Can I sit down?’
‘Of course.’
The housekeeper sat on the bed, her hands twisting together as if wringing out a mop. ‘Twenty-odd year I’ve been with you,’ she said. ‘And I stayed for you, not for him. It were you I wanted to fettle for, you I liked. I still like you, madam, but I’m telling you here and now that I can’t work with that trollop.’
Prudence nodded slowly. ‘You know her?’
‘I don’t need to know her, Mrs Worthington. I can see what she is just by looking at her. And her husband’s arrived and all, he’s sat in my kitchen like the King of England. Piggy eyes, he’s got. Piggy eyes and a woman’s hands. And he smells like a brewery.’
The lady of the house sat on the bed next to her servant. ‘Mrs Miles – Cora – if you like me, you must stay.’ She swallowed a bubble of fear that felt like a fruit stone in her throat, huge, dry and difficult to absorb. ‘I’m afraid, you see.’ What was there to lose at this point. Her dignity? She had been robbed of that eons ago. ‘I feel sure that the Simpsons are spies.’
Cora Miles said nothing.
‘This isn’t a persecution complex. He . . . he really hates me, you understand.’
‘Oh aye. I understand, all right. I’ve understood for years how things are for you. He’s took your confidence away and you stay in this house hiding like a frightened rabbit. I’ve said nowt, ’cos I know me place, but I’ve took it all in. But, madam, that there Gert is more than I can stomach. She’s sat at me kitchen table filing her nails all over me clean cloth. And her husband’s got his feet up on the draining board.’
Prudence inclined her head. ‘They will have been told to behave like that. They have probably been ordered to make your life so difficult that you will go and never return.’ She swallowed again. Her parched throat seemed to rasp like sandpaper. ‘If you leave me, these two will start tricks. Eventually, I shall be put away into an asylum.’
Cora Miles pondered for a few moments, made her decision, sighed. ‘In that case, we mun help one another.’ She stood up, looked down on the lady she had pitied for so many years. ‘I want you to come into my kitchen and tell them off. If you can do that, we might just manage between us to carry on, you and me. I can’t do nothing about them, you see. Mr Worthington hired them, and there’s no way I can put me foot down. You can. And I’ll tell you summat else and all, Mrs Worthington. If you come down them stairs with me now, your life will change. Once you’ve acted as if you rule the roost, you’ll get a bit of that confidence back.’ She paused, got no answer. ‘Confidence is all pretend, you know. There’s none of us certain sure of owt these days. But once you start speaking up, you’ll respect yourself, like.’
Prudence weighed each awesome prospect. The idea of bursting into the kitchen and shouting the odds was appalling. But the concept of life without Mrs Miles and with the Simpsons was by far the worse possibility. She got up, made for the door. Whatever it took, she would keep Cora Miles by her side.
The housekeeper remained in the hallway, smiled encouragingly as her mistress entered the kitchen. Prudence, alone and afraid, faced the couple at the centre table. ‘Take your feet down from the draining board, please,’ she said softly to the man. ‘As you will notice from the name, a draining board is a place where clean dishes are left after washing and before drying.’ At last, she managed to clear her throat, thereby strengthening her tone. ‘Dirt from your feet would not go well with the Crown Derby.’
Bert blinked twice, brought his feet down very slowly and placed them under the table.
While the going was good, the mistress of Worthington House continued. ‘Mrs Simpson, my housekeeper prepares food on that table. You will not file your nails, comb your hair or apply make-up in the kitchen.’ Her breathing was quickening, but she continued anyway. ‘My cook-housekeeper is a woman of great value and talent. You will obey her at all times. I know that my husband has employed you, but I would remind you that he is away at business for much of the time and that I am mistress of this house. You will obey me and you will heed Mrs Miles’s instructions.’ She lifted her head defiantly. ‘Whatever he has told you . . .’ She nodded in the direction of the dining room, ‘I assure you that I am capable of making your life extremely difficult.’
‘No offence intended, I’m sure,’ said the man.
The moment she heard his voice, Prudence hated Bert Simpson. Like his hands, the tone was disproportionate to the body, lightweight, fawning, boyish. ‘You will not smoke in here, either,’ she went on, emboldened and calmer. ‘One false move from either of you, and I shall send for my son. Victor is not a man with whom you should trifle.’
The woman sat bolt upright, patted her hair, tried to smile at Prudence. ‘We didn’t mean nothing, missus.’
‘Madam,’ corrected Prudence. She gave her attention to the man. ‘There’s a rather nasty patch of nettles at the bottom of the garden. You will clear that tomorrow. The fish-pond needs cleaning, and the rockery must be weeded by the weekend.’
‘I’m not used to gardening,’ he mumbled.
‘Then you must learn,’ advised Prudence before directing some words at Gert. ‘You will clean the oven and clear the pantry shelves. There is new shelf paper in a box under the vegetable racks. Then I want to see all the windows and mirrors sparkling clean by this time next week.’ She nodded, was satisfied with herself. ‘And I suggest you tone down the colour of your hair, Mrs Simpson. Such a raucous shade is not in keeping with a position of service. Good evening.’ She stalked out of the kitchen and fell into the arms of Cora Miles.
Cora led the mistress back to her room. ‘I’m that proud of you, I could sing,’ she declared. ‘Between us, we’ll beat them two buggers.’
‘We shall indeed.’ Prudence shivered her way through the shock, then began to feel better than she’d felt in ages. She smiled broadly at the woman who had served her for years. ‘You and I will make an excellent team,’ she said.
Bert was brooding. ‘He never said owt about this lot, did he?’ He waved a hand towards the closed door. ‘Never told us we’d be answerable to some bloody housekeeper. He said we could have the run of the place because his wife’s doolally. Well, she looks as if she’s got a full set of roof slates, doesn’t she?’
Gert jumped up, pushed the manicure tools into her crimson bag. ‘Happen we should go and talk to him.’ Really, all she wanted was to put a lot of space between herself and this oppressive house. But they were trapped here, caught in Worthington’s web. ‘I don’t like this place, Bert,’ she moaned. ‘I don’t like him and his wife can’t stand the sight of me. Let’s go and talk to the boss . . .’ Her voice tailed away. The sack would mean nowhere to live, no money coming in because she’d left Woolworths.
Bert shook his head. ‘Nay, that’d be like saying we can’t manage, like. If we go running to him after half an hour in this house, he’ll show us the way home. And the way home’d need a map, lass, ’cos our new house goes with the job and we’ve give up our place next to the Dog and Gun.’ Aye, and he would miss his pub. It had been near enough for him, just a few stumbles from bar to bed. ‘We can’t go to him yet, Gertie. If we can’t find the Crumpsalls, we can happen help him to get rid of yon wife of his.’
Gert reclaimed her seat, thought for a few moments. She hadn’t taken to Mrs Worthington, but the idea of getting her locked up didn’t seem right. She lowered her voice, spoke in a near whisper. ‘Bert, she might be a bit of a la-de-dah, but it all seems very queer to me. I mean, he’s the one who goes about attacking folk. Whereas Mrs Worthington—’
‘She likes being called Spencer-Worthington,’ he interspersed.
‘Aye, and I don’t blame her, neither. Even after what she said about me hair.’ She fingered the carefully cultivated shock of orange that framed her face. ‘That’s a lady, a real lady. I could learn things from her.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘I reckon we’re on the wrong side, lad.’
‘Eh?’ He sat bolt upright, wondered whether his wife had suddenly lost a few of her marbles.
‘Well, her’s the one in the right. I mean, it must be awful sitting in here every day knowing he’s chasing girls all over the place. And he’s no manners, you know. He doesn’t ask before taking what he wants, oh no. He just whips their knickers off and gets on with it from what I’ve heard.’ She nodded pensively. ‘It’ll all come to a head one of these days. Aye, he’ll go down, he will. Then we’ll look bloody daft, won’t we? I say we try to get in with the missus and pretend to be on Worthington’s side. Then, we should win both ways.’
‘You can do what you like,’ said Bert. ‘I’m stopping where there’s thickest butter on me bread.’
Gert stuck to her guns, but said nothing. Bert could do as he pleased, but she intended to make an ally of the woman upstairs. All that rubbish about going to the hairdresser’s – Gert was almost certain that Prudence Spencer-Worthington had been stuck in this bloody mausoleum for years. She would get Prudence through that front door. Whatever it took, Gert would be the one to cure Prudence Worthington. And if the boss had anything to say, Gert would convince him that she was forcing the woman outside to make her nerves worse.
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Bert.
‘Nowt. I agree with you. It’s a shame, only she’s not ours to worry about, is she? No, you’re right, Bert. If Worthington wants his wife put away, he must have his reasons. I’ll make it my business to get to know her – if she’ll let me. Then I can find out what’s best for us to do. Don’t worry, I’m on your side.’ As she spoke the lie, she crossed her fingers under the table and made two wishes. She wished for Sally to become her adopted daughter and for the po-faced Prudence to win the war in Worthington House.
The owner of Paradise Mill was livid. He had rampaged about the offices all morning, had reduced his secretary to tears and was now berating the poor lad who always took the brunt when Worthington was in one of his moods. ‘Call this tea?’ he roared. ‘Cats’ doings, this is. What the hell do I pay you for?’
The boy, who was on just a few shillings a week, shook from head to foot as if he had the ague. All he wanted was a chance to become a weaver. The position he held was supposed to be temporary, had been temporary for months. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he muttered, the words clouded by chattering teeth.
‘Sorry? It’s my turn to be sorry, sorry I ever took you on. What sort of an office boy are you?’
It was no use. He was probably going to get the sack anyway, so he forced himself to speak up. ‘I wanted weaving, sir. You said I could go in the sheds when—’
‘When you’d proved yourself. All you’ve proved is that you can’t make tea.’ Worthington thrust the cup at the boy. ‘Here. Take the bloody stuff away, then report to number two shed. You’ll be on the brush for a while, but somebody will take you on as apprentice. See the foreman.’
‘Th-thank you, sir.’
‘What for? I’m only giving you a chance to prove there’s another thing you can’t do. Go on, bugger off out of here.’
Alone, Worthington paced up and down, his temper cooling slightly towards a steady simmer. Nobody. Nobody knew where that bloody Ivy Crumpsall was. And he’d planned it all so carefully, had been to the Welfare Committee to express his concern about young Sally Crumpsall being left with an old woman.
He walked to the window, looked across at Paradise Lane. The Irishwoman would be back soon. She was a tasty piece, a bit old for his taste, but a good-looker. She might know where the Crumpsalls had gone. He rubbed his abdomen, remembered Rosie Blunt’s posser. They were all in it together, the Paradise lot. And the ringleader was their landlord. Joseph Heilberg.