Red stuck out his tongue, said he could taste snow on the way. ‘She’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Living with Worthington all those years didn’t do her any good.’
Sally sighed, tried to think about something else. Derek was her dad. Ever since pneumonia, she had managed to keep that knowledge wedged safely inside her head. But Worthington had performed the mechanical act which had started her existence. ‘Does she think he’s come back, then?’
Red shrugged. ‘She’s not said. But she sits still a lot, as if she’s waiting for something.’ He looked over his shoulder and waved at Ivy. ‘Is your gran in there on her own?’
Sally nodded. ‘Gert’s still out somewhere looking for Bert. She’s strange, you know. First she tells me that he’s no good, that I’ve missed nothing because he wouldn’t have been any use as an uncle. Then she starts running about wringing her hands looking for him.’
The boy nodded sagely. ‘That’s love,’ he informed her. ‘It doesn’t make sense because it doesn’t have to. Take my old man. If you do take him, you’re welcome, but wear a suit of armour. He’s a right bastard, always clouting my mother and screaming at the kids. But Mam loves him. She’s always saving him the best bits of meat and ironing his clothes just the way he likes them.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No sense at all. She should have thrown him out years ago, but she can’t. It’s like that with Gert and Bert.’
Sally jumped down. ‘Coming? I don’t like leaving her alone for too long.’
‘Right.’ He got down from the wall and walked towards one of the people who had saved him all those years ago. He was well-fed, well-educated; he had stopped being an urchin. All the same, he thought as he entered Ivy’s house, the people at number 200 deserved a stink bomb. They were always peeping through the curtains, always trying to keep one step in front of everyone else.
He paused on the doorstep, watched while the woman at 200 backed away from the window. Yes. He would plant a nice big one in her garden tomorrow, one with a delayed action that would not give off its odour until it rained or snowed. That should get her back up. She’d probably have her husband and son scrubbing for days while she sat on the sofa with the vapours. He laughed at the pun and closed the door, was glad that he had not abandoned his roots completely.
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘There’s no point in sitting here. At this rate, next Christmas could come round before you’ve made your move.’
Lottie edged away from her husband. She hated to be near him, couldn’t stand the sound or the smell of him. They slept in separate bedrooms because of his snoring. She looked down at her wedding band and engagement ring, wondered briefly about grounds for annulment. He snored, all right, but not enough to merit such total isolation. The man had never kissed her, not even in the registry office. He had merely forced the ring onto her finger, scowled at the registrar, then steered his new wife out of the building. ‘Why did you marry me?’ she asked.
He thumped the steering-wheel with the heel of a leather-gloved hand. ‘What sort of a question is that? And what sort of a time is this to be asking?’
‘I want an answer.’
He turned his head and looked at her. ‘Because it was the right thing. Because Sally’s our daughter and she’s living with a very old woman who might not last till Easter.’
Lottie opened her bag and took out a small mirror. ‘Why didn’t you marry one of the others, then? You’ve a dozen or more kids you could feel sorry for.’
‘Sally’s bright. She deserves a chance.’
She closed the bag with a loud snap. ‘She’s getting her chance. She’s at a damned good school and she’s living in a lovely house. My sister’s living with her, so we know she’ll be all right. Our Gert might be a bit of a daft bugger, but she won’t turn her back on Sally once Ivy’s dead. Why can’t we leave her where she is?’
Westford ground his teeth, held back an oath. ‘Look, I want to do one decent thing before I die. I want to make sure that our child has the best.’
Lottie stifled a groan, opened the van door, stepped outside. With her heart fluttering like a cabbage-white butterfly, she walked towards the house. She didn’t know what she wanted any more. It would be nice to have a daughter. It would be nice to get the opportunity to make things right with Sally. But time and geography had distanced mother and child, and Sally might not be willing to allow her mother a second chance. She walked up the path and knocked.
‘Who is it? Come in unless you want money.’
Lottie closed her eyes and was transported back seven years and two miles. They closed in on her, tore her clothes, took her money and spattered her with rotten tomatoes. The voice she had just heard belonged to the woman behind that horrible farewell.
‘Come in, I said.’
Lottie entered the hall, saw a runner of red carpet with polished parquet round its edges. A grandmother clock ticked. Pegs on a light oak coat stand bore scarves, jackets, a black blazer with a Bolton School crest on its pocket. She touched it, breathed it in, tried to discover the scent of her daughter.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Ivy,’ she answered.
The clock struck the hour. Lottie lifted her head and saw a photograph on the wall. It was Sally. Perhaps she should just take this and run, because she was so afraid of the woman behind the door.
‘Get in here, Lottie,’ said the disembodied voice. ‘I knew you’d be back. Bad pennies always turn up at the finish.’
Shaking in her shoes, Lottie Westford entered the living room. A very old, thin woman sat next to the fire, her hair sparse and white, her hands pale and folded on a bony lap. ‘Hello, Ivy,’ Lottie managed at last.
Ivy inclined her head very slightly. ‘Sit down. Sorry I can’t make a brew, only this is one of me bad days.’
The visitor perched uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair. It was a lovely room, clean as a new pin, furnished well and with carpet of a warm, welcoming red. ‘Arthritis?’ she asked.
‘Aye. Me bones are crumbling away to nowt.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Ivy cleared her throat, took a sip of water from a glass at her elbow. ‘You sound like a Yank.’
‘I was over there a long time.’
‘Yes. Yes, you were gone a fair while.’ Ivy replaced the tumbler on a little side table. ‘What brings you back?’
Lottie shrugged, remembered her husband’s instructions. ‘I’m married. We live on Darwen Road up Bromley Cross.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’s called Westford. Alan Westford.’ She had been forbidden to disclose her husband’s true identity at this early stage. ‘I’d like to see Sally.’
The old woman’s eyes were hard as she fixed them on her daughter-in-law. ‘Why? You never wrote to her, never sent a card on her birthday or at Christmas. Sally’s likely forgot all about you.’
Lottie inhaled deeply. ‘She’s my daughter, Ivy. I know there’s no love lost between you and me, but you have to admit that I’m Sally’s mother. I’ve got rights, you know.’
Ivy’s facial expression did not change. ‘So has she. She had a right to a mother when she were a little lass, only she never had no mother. She had a right to a hot dinner every day, but it were the neighbours as kept her fed. She has a right to good schooling and a loving home, and she’s got them things now. It’s not all down to me, you know. Loads of folk love our Sal. There’s Tom Goodfellow – only his real name’s Marchant – and his wife. Then there’s the Heilbergs and Sally’s Auntie Gert. Just you leave that lass be, Lottie. Sally’s already a woman of property – she has a country house in Hampshire. She’s got a good future to look forward to. We’ve all looked after her between us. You can’t come and uproot her just to suit yourself.’ Exhausted by the monologue, Ivy leaned back against the cushions.
‘I’ve changed,’ mumbled Lottie.
‘Have you? What have you changed into?’
Lottie licked her dry lips. ‘I’m married. I’ve got a house with a garden and countryside near it. She should live with me now. What happens when you’re not here?’
Ivy raised her head once more. ‘It’s all been seen to.’
‘How? You can’t go making arrangements behind my back.’
The invalid’s mouth curled into a snarl. ‘What were we supposed to do, then? We never knew where you were. It were you as turned your back, Lottie Kerrigan—’
‘Westford.’
‘A rose by any other name, Lottie. Now, I want you to get out of my house and do what you did all them years ago. Just walk away. Just set off and keep going till you reach the other side of the world. You’re not needed. Sally doesn’t need a mother like you. That might be a fur coat, but it does nowt for you. Can you imagine how that poor girl would feel if you turned up at prize-giving? You’re a tramp, Lottie Kerrigan. No amount of money and good clothes would make a silk purse out of you.’ Ivy licked parched lips. ‘Now, bugger off out of it.’
Lottie rose to her feet, stumbled over the edge of the hearthrug. She knew how she looked. She knew that no matter how hard she tried, she always came out cheap. ‘It’s inside I’ve changed, Ivy,’ she said softly. ‘In a place where it doesn’t show.’
Ivy made no reply.
‘You have to make space for folk to improve themselves, you know. I’m older and I’ve got more sense than I had. I’m older and I’ve a right to see my only child.’ She fastened the buttons on her best coat. ‘If you want to be difficult, just carry on. My husband will see a solicitor about all this.’ With her head held high, she stalked out of the room.
‘Keep away,’ called Ivy. ‘I’ll not fight fair, Lottie.’
‘No,’ replied the unwelcome guest. ‘You never did. That carry-on on Trinity Street weren’t fair, half a dozen against one woman. Well, just you wait, that’s all I can say.’ She slammed her way out of the house.
Ivy waited. She waited until Lottie had been gone for five minutes, then she struggled to her feet, picked up the poker and clattered it against the party wall. Prudence would know what to do. Prudence could telephone Tom and Maureen. Between them and the Heilbergs, they could surely save Sal.
Finding the address hadn’t been too difficult. Ivy had made a mental note of the name Westford, had remembered Darwen Road in Bromley Cross. Tom had simply walked into the nearest newsagent and asked for help in tracing his ‘brother’.
Tom Marchant stood on Darwen Road, his eyes glued to an end cottage across the way. A man sat by a fire, the evening paper making a barrier in front of his upper body. Every time a page was turned, Tom got a fleeting view of the man’s face. He seemed to be seventyish, very wrinkled and grey-complexioned. So this was Lottie Crumpsall’s new husband. The word ‘new’ seemed inappropriate, because the shrivelled man looked as if he had lived twice over in the same skin.
With a hand that trembled in the freezing cold, Tom undid the catch on a leather case, pulled out a pair of binoculars and pushed the strap of the case further up his shoulder. He stared through the glasses for at least a minute, his breath seeming to hold itself while he studied the seated man.
Back in the car, Tom sat completely motionless, his hands resting on the wheel. It couldn’t be. No, no, that wasn’t Andrew Worthington. After a moment or two, he made a decision. There was one person in this town who would have an answer. His flesh crawled when he remembered Prudence’s tortured face. Of late, she had been quiet, almost depressed, as if waiting for the sky to fall on her head. Tom was a great believer in the sixth sense. As a country boy, he had often noticed how animals ‘knew’ when danger was near. People were just overdeveloped animals. Many had retained the ability to sniff out misfortune or threat.
He started the car, drove down what locals called the ‘brew’, made for Crompton Way. He needed to be careful and discreet. No-one else knew about the return of Sally’s mother. For the time being, he and Ivy were keeping the news to themselves.
Fortunately, Prudence was alone. Red had gone to visit his family, while Cora Miles had accompanied Gert from next door on another mission to the central police station, because Bert was still missing. ‘What is it, Tom?’ asked Prudence.
He told her. While he skirted the main cause of his concern, she watched him closely, her face remaining calm, as if what she heard came as no surprise. ‘You think it’s Andrew, don’t you?’
Tom nodded, could find no words.
‘I’ll get my coat.’
He followed her into the hallway. ‘The curtains may be closed by now,’ he said.
She fastened her coat, tied a silk scarf around her throat, picked up a pair of fur gloves. ‘Curtains will be no hindrance for me, Tom. I already know he’s there, you see. If necessary, I shall knock at the door and ask after his health.’
Tom placed a hand on her shoulder, felt the stiffness in her muscles. ‘Prudence, my dear, do you think you should—?’
‘Oh, but I do. Indeed, I do.’ The clear, china-blue eyes searched his face. ‘Tom, I need the relief of knowing properly. I need to be sure that I’m not going insane.’
He bowed to the inevitable. This good lady had been making excuses for weeks, had been no further than next door during Christmas and New Year. Soon, the full-blown agoraphobia could return unless someone jolted her out of the doldrums.
As he turned the key and whipped the engine to life, he wished with all his heart that the reason for Prudence’s journey could be less traumatic. But they had to go, had to find out.
‘What’s his name?’ she asked as they turned into Tonge Moor Road.
‘Westford. Alan Westford.’
A long sigh escaped her lips. ‘Just as I thought. He would never completely relinquish his name. A megalo-maniac would always hang on to his initials. Whatever we need to do, we must make sure that Sally is kept away from him.’
‘You’re sure he’s Worthington?’
Prudence nodded. ‘I’m absolutely certain.’
They argued for ten minutes. ‘You should not go in there alone,’ Tom insisted.
Prudence, strangely calm, wanted no company. ‘It’s my nightmare. If I’m not out within a reasonable time, you may come in. If his wife’s with him, I should be safe enough.’ She got out of the car. ‘Stay,’ she told him, smiling when she saw him panting like an obedient dog. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be abrupt.’
‘Be careful,’ he muttered to himself as he watched her walking up the path. Light showed through closed curtains, but he would have no way of seeing inside the room. He folded his arms, tried to warm cold fingers.