‘I am still warning you.’ Prudence’s tone was even.
‘For this, I thank you.’ The man sounded wary.
Prudence Worthington jumped from her chair with a suddenness that startled the other three. She walked to the sofa, towered over the small couple who sat side by side. ‘He is just behind you,’ she announced clearly. ‘His office is yards from where you sit. There is nothing he would not do to see you ruined.’
The ensuing silence was decorated by the elaborate chimes of a German clock. ‘Is this your husband of whom you speak?’ asked Joseph.
‘It is indeed.’
‘But why?’ asked Ruth, black eyebrows scurrying upward in her startled face. ‘If he threatens us, why do you come here?’
Prudence smiled, though her eyes remained clouded. ‘Because I hate him, Mrs Heilberg. Because I know his mind, his greed and his cunning. He will not be easy to catch, even for the police. That is the first in his list of commandments – thou shalt not get caught. He has money, ambition and a cruel understanding of people. Worthington will find a weak man, a man who needs money, and he will pay such a man to damage you. The creature he used to fire the Wigan Road shop is in hospital. I know this because the man’s wife works in my house. She told me that “her Bert” has been troubled with his stomach since that night.’
‘I know who you mean, but he was ill,’ interrupted the pawnbroker. ‘I, too, have asked questions. All those in the public houses were interviewed, and Bert Simpson had spent a long time . . . he was indisposed, so he used the facilities and—’
‘And he burned your shop,’ Prudence finished for him. ‘While he was supposedly sick, he was, in fact, committing arson.’ She walked back to her chair, sat.
‘He does have a nervous stomach,’ said Cora Miles. ‘From the war. His wife told me all about it. It flares up something shocking when he’s frightened. And setting light to property won’t do his health any good. Aye, I reckon he did it.’
Prudence, pleased with Cora, flashed her a smile. ‘Incidentally, Bert Simpson had a win on the horses. That is what he told his wife. Gert Simpson is pleased with the dress she bought with money from her husband. Very appropriately, the dress is flame coloured and the money came not from her husband, not from the horses, but from Andrew Worthington.’
Joseph gripped his wife’s hand. ‘What can I do?’ he asked.
‘You can know,’ answered Prudence. ‘Knowledge is a powerful weapon. Let’s have some tea, then we shall discuss tactics. There are many retired dog owners who would gladly give up their nights to watch your shops, Mr Heilberg. A few shillings here and there would almost guarantee your safety.’ She patted her hair, leaned back and closed her eyes. ‘No sugar for me,’ she told the hostess. ‘And two heaped spoonfuls for Cora.’
It was a long walk from the station, but Ivy persevered with the same solid determination that had accompanied her through motherhood, widowhood and the premature demise of her son. As self-appointed matriarch and sage of the Paradise streets, she recognized that her presence in times of crisis was compulsory. Also, she was feeling better, had gained some strength while living in Hampshire. Yes, Hampshire was the real paradise, she told herself as she looked up into a soot-speckled sky. Chimneys belched, trams clanged, trolley buses whined. A ragman’s horse was leaving a deposit outside the Wheat-sheaf while its master sustained himself in the taproom of the same inn, no doubt. Ivy grinned, remembered that she had no roses to fertilize in Lancashire. She patted the animal, gave him a lump of sugar. Lately, she had taken to carrying treats for the horses in farms surrounding Oakmead.
When she took a short cut through the open market, many stallholders and customers greeted her, told her how well she was looking, asked for the recipe. At the bottom of Wigan Road, she rested for a while, placed her small case on the pavement, tried to count the members of a battalion of mill chimneys whose nostrils pierced the sky. Home. This place was home. No matter how dirty it looked, no matter how foul the smells from furnace and fishmarket, she loved her home town, knew that she could never leave it, not in her heart. But she would go back to Hampshire because Sally was there. ‘Them servants had best see to her,’ she mumbled under her breath. ‘Only she’s got to carry on at school. I’ll fetch her next time.’
‘Talking to yourself, Ivy?’ The voice was full of surprise.
‘Rosie!’ Ivy joined her neighbour, looked her up and down. ‘You look like a streak of white paint,’ Ivy declared. ‘Is he worse?’
Rosie shrugged, tried to smile. ‘I don’t know.’
Ivy understood. ‘Aye, it’s hard to make judgement when you see somebody every day, isn’t it?’
The little white-haired lady leaned against a wall. ‘I’ve not seen him since yesterday tea,’ she said. ‘He went missing with a garden spade and no teeth. Police is looking for him now. And I’ve been combing the streets for him. He’ll feel the business end of my temper when he comes home.’
He wouldn’t, thought Ivy. This tiny woman was diminished, had lost her will to argue with anything or anybody. ‘Eeh, whatever next? There’s poor Maureen in hospital, Joseph and Ruth with a shop gone, you traipsing about looking everywhere for Ollie. I can’t turn my back for five minutes, can I? Any road, when we find the owld bugger, you can both come back to Hampshire along of me and Tom, have a change.’ She wondered fleetingly what Tom would say when he found out that Ivy had travelled hundreds of miles without company. Still, she was old enough to look after herself, she said inwardly. ‘You’ll like Hampshire,’ she advised Rosie. ‘There’s hills and forests and loads of farms. The air down there’s as pure as crystal. And the folk are all right, dead ordinary, no side to them at all.’
Rosie’s face was glum. ‘We’re not coming, Ivy.’
‘What? Why not?’
Rosie lifted her shoulders. ‘If he doesn’t know where he is when he’s here, how will he carry on when he’s somewhere where he doesn’t know where he is in the first place?’
Ivy analysed the question, found a reply. ‘If he doesn’t know where he is, why should it matter if he’s somewhere else?’
Rosie didn’t know. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘But it does matter. Anyway, what are you doing up here? Tom said he’d left you and young Sally down yonder.’
Ivy took her friend’s arm. ‘There’s a few folk I want to see, but first, I need a cuppa and to make sure your Ollie finds his way home. Come on, lass. Me throat’s like sandpaper.’
They walked arm in arm up Wigan Road, stopped when they reached Heilberg’s. Ivy cast an eye over charred remains. ‘Could have been Maureen and all,’ she said. ‘At least it’s nobbut things that were burnt to a crisp. At least she lived through it, eh? Not that yon Worthington would have worried if she had passed on, like. Bad bastard.’
Rosie, who was with Ivy only in body, made no reply.
‘There’s two people in this town that have stood up to Worthington,’ Ivy continued. ‘There’s me and there’s Joseph Heilberg. We’re the only two who’ve not run about like whipped dogs. He wants that land. And he wants to hurt me and our Sal. Oh aye, he’d be tickled pink if yon Gert and Bert took Sally away from me. As for Joseph, I reckon Worthington’d go to the ends of the earth to get at him. So this is just a start.’
Rosie looked puzzled. ‘Eh?’
‘Never mind, lass. We’ll get something organized and find your Ollie. He’ll not have gone far, not without his teeth. He won’t even answer the door without his gnashers in.’
‘He’s changed.’
‘I know, love—’
‘There’s no help for him. Sometimes, I wish he were out of his bloody misery.’
Ivy tugged at Rosie’s sleeve, dragged her up Spencer Street and into Paradise Lane. ‘There,’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s back.’
Ollie was standing in the middle of the cobbles, his arms poised over a pigeon. As soon as he bent to retrieve the bird, it scuttered away, seemed to be enjoying this game. ‘Come here, you stupid piece of vermin,’ yelled Ollie. ‘I’ve got to find the rest and all. Stand still a minute.’
In different circumstances, the women would have laughed, but neither showed any inclination towards mirth on this occasion. ‘Looks as if he’s even lost the bloody spade,’ said Rosie. ‘And his head’s full of pigeons. If we could see inside his brain, it’d be all feathers and droppings.’
Between them, Ivy and Rosie managed to steer the old man into his house. ‘You’ll have to lock the doors and hide the keys,’ said Ivy. ‘He’s not fit to be out on his own.’
Rosie Blunt sank into a rocking chair. ‘I can’t stand much more of this, Ivy. I mean, he’s allers been a bit daft, what with his gardening and all that, but he’s like a baby now. It’s getting beyond me, is this. And with you gone and Tom and Maureen, I’ve nobody to turn to, so I—’
‘So you come back down yonder with me. Tom’s pigeons are all settled – I think he only lost two – but the rest are in a hut near the big house. Ollie can find what he’s looking for in Oakmead. You know, it’s amazing what a bit of sun and fresh air can do. You should see our Sal – brown as a berry and her hair’s thickening up something lovely, like corn in a summer field. It were Tom as said that.’
Rosie continued doubtful. ‘I don’t know nobody down yon.’
‘You know me and our Sal and Tom.’
‘Aye, Lord Tom,’ muttered Rosie. ‘And I bet they all talk funny, don’t they?’
Ivy agreed. ‘But so do we.’
This was news to Rosie. ‘Do we heck as like. Least we can all understand one another. They all talk London down there.’
Ivy laughed. ‘No, they don’t. They talk soft, like. Gentle and a bit slow. Sometimes, they near put me to sleep in the queue at the post office. And they don’t go dashing about. There’s no mill hooter, no smoke, no clogs sparking at half past five in a morning. I mean, they start early, but everything’s muffled. Even the horses sound as if they’ve slippers on. Cows wander past our cottage twice a day, big daft eyes, udders swelled up with milk. Sheep and all, they’ve got. Hens, fresh eggs, loads of cheese. Farm butter, Rosie. You can have all that for nowt. The only trouble with the country is you get to be on nodding terms with Sunday’s roast pork. Our Sal won’t eat pork from any farms near us, ’cos she says pigs is too nice to eat. So I have to get a joint she’s not had words with. It’s great, Rosie. So get bloody packed and no messing.’
Rosie made tea, gave Ollie a mug and some bread and butter. ‘Where were you all night?’ she asked him.
Ivy sipped from her cup, noticed that Rosie no longer addressed her husband in her ‘just-you-wait’ voice.
‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ The old man sounded more cantankerous than confused. ‘And I don’t want no cheek from you, Rosie. It were a hard shift last night. I think I’ll have a sleep before me bath.’ He dropped the mug, started to snore almost before the last syllable had left his lips.
Rosie stood and watched while the peg rug absorbed tea, milk and sugar. Tears poured silently down her face, making her older and weaker.
Ivy was determined to have no more nonsense. ‘I’m going looking for His Lordship,’ she said as her cup clattered into its saucer. ‘And I’ll call in on the Heilbergs, then into the hospital. There’s big trouble out there, Rosie. And Worthington’s at the back of it.’ She got up, walked to her neighbour’s side, placed a hand on a trembling shoulder. ‘Ollie’s happy, love,’ she whispered. ‘Sometimes, nature is kind to us that’s getting on a bit. Yon man’s having a second childhood. But you need company, lass. Will you pack up while I’m out?’
‘Aye.’ The withered cheeks were dried on a corner of the shawl. ‘Aye, we’ll come back with you, give Ollie a holiday. I told Tom we weren’t going, so you put him right.’
‘I will.’
Rosie studied her neighbour quizzically for a few seconds. ‘Does Tom know you’ve come?’
‘No.’
‘You always were a difficult woman, Ivy Crumpsall.’ A faint smile visited the pale lips.
‘Just one thing,’ said Ivy. ‘Leave all your weapons at home, will you? Somehow, I don’t think the Hampshire folk would take kindly to your posser.’
Tom opened his door. ‘God,’ he exclaimed.
Ivy looked over her shoulder. ‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Nay, it’s only me, Tom. Far as I know, God’s in His heaven but all’s not well with the world.’
He held the door wide, allowed Ivy into the lobby, followed her through to the kitchen. ‘When did you get here?’ he asked. ‘And where’s Sally?’
‘An hour ago and she’s with the servants in Goodfellow Hall. Any more questions? Or does that conclude the case for the persecution?’
He pretended to glower at her. ‘Did you come as you are?’
‘My bag’s at Rosie’s. Ollie’s back. He’s still chasing pigeons thinking they’re yours. Poor old boy’s lost a spade, but Rosie’s found his teeth.’
Tom dropped into a chair, ran a hand through his hair. He had visited Joseph and Ruth, had heard about their encounter with Prudence Worthington and her housekeeper, so the plot was thickening. He didn’t know who to trust any more. Was Cora Miles a spy from Worthington? Was Lottie Crumpsall’s sister Gert a goody or a baddy? Did Bert Simpson set fire to the Heilbergs’ shop on Wigan Road? And on top of all that, Maureen was still refusing to marry him.
‘What’s up with you?’ asked Ivy. ‘You look like you’ve swallowed a cockroach.’
‘She won’t marry me.’
‘Oh.’ Ivy settled back in an armchair. ‘Happen she’s seen the state of your physog, lad. That mush of yours would stop Magee’s Brewery’s horses and curdle the bloody ale. Try straightening your gob. Like this.’ She used her fingers to drag her own mouth into a semblance of a smile. ‘And ask her again.’
He tapped his hands on the arms of the chair. ‘What the hell’s going on round here, Ivy? The Heilbergs are in real danger, I’m sure. They’re getting watchmen with dogs – a couple of fellows who will stop all night in the shops for a small consideration – but who can guarantee the safety of Ruth and Joseph? Or was the attack on the Wigan Road premises an isolated incident?’
‘No,’ she said immediately. ‘It were deliberate. I’d stake me life on it. That’s why I’m here, Tom. There’s things I remember, things I’ve wrote down over the years. Oh aye, we’ll put a stop to Worthington and his bullying. But first, you can tell me about Maureen.’