Ivy next, no doubt. Poor old love was bone weary and ready for off. What then? Gert straightened her spine, sat bolt upright in the rocker that had occupied Rosie’s kitchen for a lifetime. ‘I’ll stop here,’ she whispered into the room. ‘I’ll stop near Mrs Spencer and Cora and I’ll be Sally’s auntie. And God help any bugger who stands in my way.’
A crowd had gathered outside number 2 Paradise Lane, which now belonged to a foreman. Nutty Clarke, caretaker of Paradise, lived in number 4, while the other cottages were occupied by various members of staff. These men and their wives stood at the gateway to Paradise, their heads bowed, their bodies draped in black clothing.
When the horse-drawn hearse finally pulled up, there was not a dry eye in the street. The flagpole in Paradise’s yard bore a Union Jack at half-mast, and not a single sound emerged from the factory. As a mark of honour, business had closed because of the death of a founder member.
Tom Marchant took the handkerchief from his wife, dabbed at his own moist cheeks, returned the square of white cloth. ‘Bear up,’ he said to Maureen.
Maureen smiled at him, looked past him, ‘saw’ Rosie chasing Ollie out of number 2. ‘Don’t talk to me about gardening, you bloody pie-can. It were your dad had the green fingers. If you want to grow summat, grow a brain.’ The posser or the shovel or the yardbrush would be raised above that little head. Maureen could see it as clearly as she saw the horse and the coffin covered in flowers. ‘I’ll give thee a damn good hiding when I catch thee, Ollie Blunt! Daft? That’s not the word for thee.’ When seriously angry, Rosie had often used ‘thee’ instead of ‘you’.
Little Rosie had finished up as an advisor in the weaving sheds. Little Rosie had owned shares in a very successful company. Would Rosie have left her shares to Sally? Maureen wondered. Yes. Maureen glanced sideways at her husband. A proportion of the Marchant interest in Paradise would go to Sally, too. Aside from a bequest to the orphanage at Goodfellow Hall, all the Marchant money was willed to Sally Crumpsall. Still, what was money?
Maureen tugged at Tom’s sleeve. ‘What have they done with it?’ she asked.
‘I beg your pardon, dear?’
‘Rosie’s dolly-posser.’
‘I don’t know. It’s probably at Crompton Way.’
Maureen nodded. If possible, she would get that weapon and put it in the garden, train a climber round it. She had a lovely garden, a beautiful house, a wonderful husband. And no children. The tears flowed anew, but they were not just for Rosie. Maureen wept for the tiny boy child who had torn his way out into the light only to die after a few moments. She had called him David.
‘Stop it, Maureen,’ whispered Tom. He knew her every thought, her every mood. She was still mourning a child who would have been five years old by now.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
He sighed heavily, said nothing. No matter what, Maureen would never recover, not completely. She would go through the motions, would continue to enjoy much of life. But at least once a day, she would grieve. At funerals, her pain was compounded. He squeezed her hand, tried to lend her some strength.
Ivy, who had been forced by Gert to use a bathchair, sat right behind the hearse. They’d had some good times, she and Rosie. Rosie and the rest of Paradise Lane had minded Sally, too, while Lottie-Kerrigan-as-was got on with her evil doings. She sniffed, fixed her eyes on the glass case that held a good woman. They’d talked, she and Rosie. They’d had real discussions and arguments. There’d been no reserve between them, no embarrassment.
‘All right, Ivy?’ asked Gert.
‘I’d be a sight better on me feet.’
‘You can’t—’
‘Don’t start, Gert. If I want to get meself out of this pram, then I will. The only road you’ll keep me in here is if you tie me down with two clothes lines and a pair of handcuffs.’
Gert swallowed her sadness, thanked God that she’d had the sense to start wearing low heels. Paradise was on a bit of a slope, so pushing the chair was hard enough without worrying about cobbles and high heels and—
‘Gert?’ Bert had forced his way through, was standing right next to his wife. ‘I’m sorry,’ he managed. ‘About Mrs Blunt.’ He twisted a cap in his hands, kept his head down. Behind Gert stood Tom and Maureen Marchant. Bert could not bear to look at that woman’s hands. The slightest sign of a scar would have borne testament to what Bert had perpetrated in the past. This time, he told himself, he was working properly for Andrew Worthington. This time, he was being paid to keep pace with developments so that Worthington could set up in legitimate opposition. So why did he feel so . . . so uneasy?
‘Go away,’ Gert advised him. ‘This is a funeral.’
Bert raised just his eyes, saw Gert’s set mouth. It didn’t matter whether or not Worthington’s intentions were genuine. He shouldn’t allow himself to be employed by the man, even on a casual basis. If Gert knew . . . If she knew that Bert was spying for Alan Westford by getting Paradisers to loosen their tongues in pubs . . . ‘I wish you’d have me back, love.’ If she would only take him back, he would give up Worthington’s cash, would even get a proper job. He gulped nervously. ‘Job’ was not a favourite word.
‘No. And this isn’t the right time for you to be plaguing me.’
Ivy swivelled, stared at Bert. ‘There’s no right time for you to be mithering,’ she announced. ‘Gert doesn’t want you. She’s set for life where she is, ’cos Mrs Spencer’ll let her keep the house after I’ve gone. And Gert’s got a grand job, too, when she wants it back. Turned out to be a good little weaver, didn’t she, Ro—?’ Ivy bit off the second syllable. There was no Rosie, not any more. She fixed her eyes on the coffin and waited to be wheeled towards the inevitable.
Sally arrived, breathless and still dressed in her uniform. ‘Gran?’
‘How many marks for that French homework?’ Ivy needed something to concentrate on, a subject that might take her mind off Rosie being dead and Bert Simpson being at the funeral, bold as brass and ugly as sin itself.
‘Nine out of ten.’
Ivy nodded. ‘Why not ten?’
‘Got the verb wrong.’
Ivy pointed at the hearse. ‘Good job Rosie’s not here, Sal. She’d have give you a good talking-to.’
Sally placed a hand on her aunt’s arm. ‘I’ll help you to push, Gert.’
‘I’ll manage,’ replied Gert. ‘Only I’ll fettle better when he’s gone away.’ She waved a hand towards the ‘he’, waited until Bert had shuffled his way back into the crowd. ‘You’ve missed nowt there,’ she advised her niece. ‘He were never an uncle to you. He were never on the side of the angels.’
‘You still love him,’ pronounced the seated Ivy.
Gert raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Aye, and you always loved Richard Tauber, Ivy. But that didn’t mean you were going to chase after him.’
Without turning, Ivy bridled. They could tell she was bridling from the set of her shoulders. ‘At least he could sing,’ she said in defence of the tenor. ‘Yon man can’t do owt except lift a glass to his gob.’
Gert bowed her head. They hadn’t lived together for years, but she still hurt when anyone criticized Bert. Anyway, they remained wed, because no divorce papers had been served by either party, so happen she should feel something for a man she was tied to. Perhaps, inside herself, in a place too deep to be obvious, she wanted him back. No, she said inwardly. Not after Maureen’s hands. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at Maureen and Tom. Now, that was a gradely couple.
Ruth and Joseph Heilberg joined the line. They bowed their heads and waited for the procession to move, each praying to the God of Israel for the soul of the departed Rosie. Joseph cast his mind back over recent years, remembered the beginning of it all when Rosie and Ivy had worked day in and day out to bring about the triumph that was now called The Paradise Look.
‘Joseph?’
‘Yes, Ruth?’
‘We will go afterwards to the hall. The food will not be kosher, but God must forgive us.’
Joseph smiled at his lovely wife. ‘It is the same God for us and for Christians.’ He raised both shoulders, lifted his hands. ‘So who are we to say that they are wrong? Perhaps kosher is wrong.’
Ruth smiled sadly. ‘So, who was Jesus?’
‘Messiah or prophet, Jesus was a good man, Ruth. So even if they are mistaken, these Methodists follow a saint.’ Would that members of all religions could accept each other as easily, he thought. How many wars had been fought in the name of Jesus, in the names of other spiritual leaders?
‘Joseph?’ Tom shook the hand of Paradise’s Managing Director. ‘Will you come to the Methodist Hall afterwards?’
Ruth answered. ‘Of course we will.’ She reached out a hand to welcome the newly arrived Prudence Spencer and Cora Miles. Behind them, the polished face of Arthur ‘Red’ Trubshaw was grim beneath a black cap. Below the neb, a few spikes of red hair had escaped from their prison of hair dressing. Red nodded at Sally, then took his place next to Mrs Spencer.
Sally looked round at Paradise, saw the house in which she had lived, first with Mam and Dad, then with Granny Ivy. She remembered Red Trubshaw with his scabby knees and holey socks, remembered how he had cared for her. He was different now. Red had changed and so had she. One day, she would go to Oxford and take a degree in English or history. She glanced at the back of Gran’s hat, recalled the lecture. Yes, she would go to university, no matter what. As for Red – well – he had turned out to be some kind of scientific genius. The Municipal Grammar School was full of itself, because it had found a ‘natural’ scholar from the slums surrounding Paradise.
Sally’s eyes edged along brickwork until they rested on the door that had belonged to the Blunts. The houses were improved, had become almost pretty with their new windows and doors. They were all electric, too, with bathrooms and inside toilets. Poor Mrs Blunt. It was right that the cortège should leave from here, from the place where Rosie Blunt had spent at least a quarter of her eighty-odd years. The young girl crossed her fingers and allowed her eyelids to close. Not Gran, she said inwardly. Not Gran, not yet.
‘Sal?’
‘Yes?’ Startled blue eyes were wide open again.
‘I’ve told you,’ said Ivy softly. ‘Stop thinking, or your face’ll set.’
Sally stopped thinking, then walked with the others along the slow hundred yards to Spencer Street.
‘Well?’ Westford stroked his newly grown beard. ‘Is the place empty?’ He glanced around, though no-one ever came into this narrow alley at the rear of the Kippax Mill.
Bert Simpson nodded. ‘Aye. Everybody’s gone round to the Spencer Street chapel. Even the Paradise caretaker’s left his post.’ He steeled himself. ‘Rosie Blunt had a lot to do with the opening of the workers’ co-operative. She were very highly thought of. Some of Kippax’s have gone to pay their respects and all.’ He gestured towards the mill in whose shadow they were standing.
Westford simmered, hung on to his temper, was determined not to allow his emotions to boil over on the doorstep of an empire that was rightfully his. ‘Let’s go, then.’
Bert sagged against the wall. Nobody would ever recognize Worthington, not now. Of that much, Bert was certain. But he didn’t want to be involved, didn’t want to put himself in a position where he could be asked to do . . . anything at all. Working for the absentee Worthington/Westford had been one thing, but having the man here was another matter altogether.
‘Well?’
Bert shrugged, pushed his hands deep into trouser pockets. ‘I don’t want to be involved no more, Mr . . . Westford. It were bad enough last time when I set fire to yon shop. Nay, you’re taking on a whole town here. Paradise is the only mill where workers gets shares and a say in their own right. No, I’m going no further.’
Westford counted to eight, because ten would have taken too long. ‘I know a lot of things about you, Bert, and—’
‘And I know a lot about you, Mr Worthington. I’ve got your new name and address. If I say one word to Tom Marchant, he’ll have you tarred and feathered.’
The Town Hall clock sounded a knell, intoned the eleven o’clock chime that marked Rosie Blunt’s final visit to her chapel. There would be at least another two hours, thought Westford. Oh yes, that factory could well remain unoccupied till mid-afternoon. This was the one chance, probably the sole opportunity he would get to investigate the size of his enemies’ might. And now, at the actual eleventh hour, Simpson was panicking.
‘You’ve no hold over me no more,’ said the shorter man. ‘Things I did all them years ago is nothing towards what you did. Attempted kidnapping’s serious, like. It’s not the same as pinching a bit of stuff from the back of a shop—’
‘Or setting fire to a pawnbroker’s?’ Sarcasm decorated Westford’s words.
Bert eased himself into an erect position. ‘Say what you want. I’ll tell the police you did it. After all this time, who’s to know the bloody difference?’
Westford smirked. ‘Your wife, for a start.’
‘Eh?’
In for a penny, thought the ex-owner of Paradise. ‘Free with her favours like her sister, is Gert. Yes, I spent time with both the Kerrigan girls, and one gave me a daughter.’
‘Aye, we know all about Sally,’ replied Bert. But this man was lying, surely? Gert would never have gone with Worthington, not willingly.
Westford nodded. ‘Yes, I had Lottie Crumpsall many a time. She’s a lively woman, you know. And her sister’s pretty feisty, too. Bert, your wife and I had an interesting time while you were in hospital.’
Bert was glad of the wall, suddenly needed its rough support. ‘No,’ he managed. ‘Not my Gert.’
‘Yes. Your Gert is anybody’s Gert. There’s no point in your trying to turn a new leaf. Nothing will get you back into Gert’s good books, I’m afraid. It’s over. You’ll just have to face up to it. Nothing will induce Gert to take you back, because she’ll never be satisfied with any one man. She needs her own stud farm.’
Bert’s face was white. He removed his hands from their pockets and placed them palms down against the wall. ‘She’s changed,’ he managed. ‘Even the road she dresses.’ He shook his head quickly. ‘No, no. My Gert were never like that.’
‘Sheep’s clothing is what she wears now. Where there are wolves, there are she-wolves.’