Joseph made his way through the gathering, thanked the officials and mentioned absent friends.
Gert Simpson remained with the throng while Joseph Heilberg did the honours. Mrs Heilberg would be in the Methodist Hall preparing tea and snacks for the visiting dignitaries. Along with the rest, Gert applauded when the speeches were finished, then turned to make her way back to the little house that had become her temporary home.
‘Gert?’
She froze in her tracks, could not move. ‘Go away,’ she managed. There was no need to turn her head, because the voice was a very familiar one.
‘I’ve nowhere to sleep, Gert. Me stomach’s still bad and I can’t get work.’
Suddenly galvanized, Gert stumbled across the lane to the door of number 1.
‘Please,’ he begged breathlessly.
She swivelled, looked at him, saw that he was ragged and unshaven. ‘There’s nowt I can do for you, Bert.’
‘But Gert—’
‘Sorry,’ she said softly.
‘It were him, not me! It were him as made me do it.’
She swept her eyes the length of his body. ‘Did he hold a gun to your head?’
‘No, but he threatened me.’
Gert nodded. ‘You should have seen what he did to me. Sorry, Bert. You and me is finished. Fact is, it were you as burned that shop down. I can’t help you no more, so off with you.’
He reached out, touched her hand. ‘Just a cup of tea, girl. I’ll not stop, I promise.’
‘No,’ she said firmly before closing the door in his face.
Inside, Gert Simpson brewed tea for herself, boiled an egg, made toast at the range. It occurred to her that she had just brought down the shutters on the first half of her life. What would the rest of her time bring? she wondered.
Gert was not a fanciful type, yet it seemed to her that the wielding of that silver spade had been significant for everyone, herself included. A new beginning. Ivy knew that Sally wasn’t Derek’s, knew that Gert would make no move to claim the child. Everything was out in the open – clean, clear and visible.
She settled by the fire, raised her skirt so that the flames might caress her cool limbs. It would all be down to goodwill from now on, she told herself. No bickering, no fighting, just everyone pulling his or her weight to make life bearable.
Gert dozed, saw a horrible face leering down. ‘Clean up that salad,’ he shouted.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she moaned. ‘Leave me alone, don’t—’ Her eyes flew open. He was alive, recovering. She glanced at the clock, realized that she had slept for just a few seconds. ‘God help us,’ she muttered.
Unable to sit still, Gert Simpson pulled on her coat and went to watch the builders laying pipes in the street. Things were going to be all right, she told herself firmly. Then she saw her husband lingering on the corner, his eyes narrowed against a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette. Would Bert help Worthington again? Should she allow Bert back into her life so that she could keep an eye on him?
No. Gert turned her back, fastened her coat and walked towards Spencer Street. She would go to the Methodist Hall and drink tea with the mayor and Ruth and Joseph. She would not falter, would not look over her shoulder. With a firm stride, Gert marched towards the future.
On 24 July, 1954, life was continuing apace for the residents of Bromley Cross. The village of quaint stone houses dozed peacefully through the summer Saturday, obviously unperturbed by the government’s threat to pay Members of Parliament the princely allowance of two pounds per day, plainly unmoved by Maureen Connolly’s third successive Wimbledon title.
A raw-boned man, whose loosened facial skin announced that he had once been larger, shambled along to Darwen Road, stopped outside the newsagent’s shop, appeared to study headlines. A handwritten poster declared that the Chinese were apologetic about yesterday’s small error of judgement, which tiny mistake had resulted in the shooting down of a British airliner. A bulletin board bore Westminster’s promise to furnish the populace with written plans for civil defence in the event of an H-bomb attack. Even this perplexing concept seemed to have failed to stir local residents. The road continued its siesta without a flicker of a lace curtain at the windows of the old weavers’ cottages.
The man yawned, straightened, rattled coins in a pocket. He was Alan Westford now, had hung on to his initials in some small attempt to preserve his diminishing identity. Would anyone recognize him after all these years? he wondered. Who could possibly tell that this slim, weather-touched man was once Andrew Worthington, owner of the Paradise Calico Company and a bad heart?
He entered the shop, asked the woman to put him on the list for delivery.
‘The Times
and the
Bolton Evening News
,’ he said.
She pulled herself up from the stool and out of a reverie, licked the tip of an indelible pencil. ‘Name?’
‘Westford. Alan Westford.’ His heart pounded, threatened, slowed when he breathed deeply. For the sake of his health, Alan Westford had given up beer, tobacco and large meals. To survive, he had taken on a job that had necessitated a certain amount of exercise. To stay alive, he had relinquished most pleasures. At the age of sixty-eight, he was now ready to down tools and pick up the cudgels for his final assault on life. The Crumpsall woman remained alive. For a pound a week, Bert Simpson had been happy to send regular bulletins to London. For another ten bob, the same man had kept Worthington’s new identity to himself.
Westford supplied the shopkeeper with his address.
‘Nice cottage, that end one,’ she said in an effort to start a conversation. After all, the gaining of a new patron was not an everyday event. ‘It were only on the market three weeks. Kept it ever so nice, did old Mrs Cummings. All on her own for years, poor soul. Aye, she were a proper little worker, Ada Cummings. Lovely garden isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He glanced round the shop, suddenly found the Lancashire tongue to be unfamiliar, slow and almost annoying. ‘Have you today’s
Evening News
?’
‘Sorry. There’s the
Green Final
—’
‘No.’ He shook his head. His interest in sport had never been strong, and the
Final
contained no news unless such reports had been written during or after a match.
‘So you’ll not be wanting the
Green Final
delivered?’
‘No.’ He looked over her shoulder, almost salivated when his eye rested on a carton of twenty Capstan Full Strength. Even after a total of seven years’ abstinence, his urge to smoke was strong. ‘Just the papers I mentioned, thank you.’
The newsagent snapped the daily orders book into the closed position. ‘Anything else? Magazines, periodicals,
Radio Times
?’
‘Not just now.’
Disappointed in her failure to draw out her new customer, the woman watched him as he walked through the door and down the road. ‘One of them as keeps to himself,’ she mumbled regretfully under her breath.
Outside, Alan Westford let out a sigh of relief. Bromley Cross was some miles outside Bolton but, even here, he had feared recognition. After resting for about two years in Bournemouth, he had moved to London, had saved most of the equity from the Wigan Road house, had even managed to put away some of the pittance he had earned on Billingsgate Market. A remembered smell entered his nostrils, as if he had conjured up once more the stench of cod, haddock, tainted plaice. For what had seemed a lifetime, he had risen at dawn to await the arrival of stock from the ports. He had scrubbed, weighed, distributed the stuff to retailers. Fish. He coughed, shuddered. If he never saw another piece of cold-blooded marine flesh, he would not be disappointed.
As he made his way homeward, he lifted his head, inhaled air that was clean and fresh, told himself that he must act normal. If he went about doubled over and trying to avoid being noticed, such attempts at invisibility might even make him all the more remarkable.
He closed his gate, stood for a while in the front garden, saw many flowers whose names he did not know. Another stretch down the side of the end-of-terrace cottage was laid as lawn with patches here and there that contained roses. Alan Westford knew about roses. They looked pleasant, but they had a tendency to bite back. Like women, he supposed. Because of women, he had lost the mill, had been forced to work like a common man. Because of women and Joseph Heilberg, he had lost everything.
Behind the row of houses, moors rolled away towards the horizon, their many greens enhanced by a dipping midsummer sun. But he did not notice the beauty, failed to see the gentle slopes that advertised the advent of the Pennine Chain. He was a man with a purpose, a man with a memory. Just a few miles down the road, Ivy Crumpsall was living with his daughter and next door to his wife. When would the Crumpsall hag die? She had to be at least eighty-four by now. But no, she must remain alive so that the plan would fell her. This time, he could not fail. This time, he intended to furnish himself with a well-qualified accomplice.
He turned his face to the sun, knew that the orange orb would soon slip away to the west, knew that his west was about to become someone else’s east. Across an ocean, ships bearing cargo and passengers docked almost daily in British ports. Within weeks or even days, his ship would come in. It had taken time and money, but sweet vengeance was on its way.
Alan Westford entered the cottage, closed a front door that was his own. The Paradise Look. He could see that damned shop now, its bold as brass face staring defiantly at the best West End stores. He had spent many Saturday afternoons staring at Heilberg’s and Goodfellow’s triumph, had watched customers milling in and out of a store whose fame was spreading. By now, Prudence and her cronies should be millionaires.
In, out, he ordered his lungs. The art of total relaxation was relatively new to him, but he had been a good pupil, had never missed a session with his Soho-based therapist. Chinese medicine had its good points, he thought now as he took complete control of his own mechanism. To finish the exercise, he wrapped his right hand around his left wrist, allowed his fingers to encircle the snake bracelet. Ho Lin had told him that though the bracelet had no powers, it was there to serve as a reminder. ‘Hold on to the snake and hold on to your calm,’ the Chinese man had said. At the grand age of 103, Ho Lin knew a lot about survival.
In London’s East End, Alan Westford had rented a tiny room with a cooker and a sink hidden in a corner behind a filthy curtain. Apart from a bed and a table, there had been no comforts. Christmases had passed unmarked, because even his son had not been informed of the new name and address. His only contacts had been fishmongers and a little Chinese person who had seemed older than time itself.
He sank into a deep chair, glanced at all the ornaments and pictures, slid his eyes over side tables, bookshelves, brasses and fire-irons. The whole lot had been sold with the house, so he had stepped into a ready-made home. The previous owner had died, and her relatives had left everything, right down to salt cellar and cutlery. At last, he was comfortable. At last, he was in a position to win.
Sally was doing her homework. Latin wasn’t so bad, but she was always at odds with French, could not quite settle to it. Where did the verb come? She threw down her pen, counted on her fingers, chanted, ‘Nous and vous before le, la, les, before . . .’ Exasperated, she began again.
‘They do everything backwards road about, that lot,’ said Ivy. ‘They don’t have a white cow, they have a cow white and—’
‘How do you know?’ asked Sally.
Ivy tapped the side of her nose. ‘I just do. Even folk what never got to Bolton School know a bit about this and that. Shift while I put me cloth on.’
Sally picked up her books, held them high until the tablecloth was settled.
‘Why don’t you do your homework upstairs?’ asked the old lady. ‘You’ve a desk and a lamp and bookshelves.’
‘Because I like being down here,’ replied Sally. She couldn’t quite explain – even to herself – why she needed to be with Ivy as often as possible. Granny Ivy was . . . safety. At fourteen, Sally knew a little about human nature, but she was still not mature enough to work out the reasons for her dependency on Ivy. Gran had always been there, had always been strong, had always been on Sally’s side.
‘What are you staring at, Sal?’
‘You.’
‘Why? Have I got dirt on me face?’
‘No.’
Ivy walked into the hall, closed the door and made for the kitchen. She filled the kettle, set it on the gas stove, gazed at the blue-and-white wallpaper. With her eighty-fifth birthday looming on the near horizon, Ivy was fully aware of her own mortality. Rosie, who had been widowed for almost three years, was confined to the back bedroom. While tending the little woman, Ivy had come face to face with her own destiny. Fortunately, Gert Simpson had left her prefab to move in with Sally and Ivy. When it came to caring for the elderly, Gert Simpson was a princess . . .
Ivy tutted at herself for allowing her mind to wander again. Sal. She should be thinking about Sal. ‘Oh, I hope Pru and Cora and Gert will see to my lass,’ she mouthed at the teapot. ‘She’s always watching me, is our Sal, always looking to see if I’m all right.’ She couldn’t be all right for ever, that was certain sure. There’d been a few near dos, a couple of brushes with bronchial pneumonia, flu, shingles. Sometimes, she was out of breath before she’d even got up off a chair. Thinking about moving could be tiring enough. And her health had been uncertain for many years, so she must have eaten well into her borrowed time.
‘Sit down, Gran. I’ll brew up and see to everything.’
Ivy turned, looked at the pretty picture who was the dearest person in the whole world. ‘Sal?’
‘Yes?’
Ivy swallowed. ‘There’s none of us goes on for ever, love.’
The girl bit her lip, nodded. ‘I know that.’ Death was upstairs. His ugly face was not visible, yet his presence seeped beneath the door behind which Rosie Blunt’s frail body continued to breathe. Sometimes, Death reached the landing. There was a coldness in the house, an icy draught that defied the warmth of summer. Sally shook herself inwardly, told herself to stop being what Gran would surely call ‘all fanciful’.