Authors: Ruth Hamilton
Ruth’s lip curled. She had no intention of allowing this loud Irish Liverpudlian woman to deprive her of her niece. Even if Monty Sexton had heard Dad talking, Ruth wanted that child. Irene would never look after her mother. In spite of all Ruth’s sacrifices, Irene would neglect the one who had borne and raised her. Jessica was a nice child. Jessica would look after Auntie Ruth in her old age. ‘You must have heard him wrong,’ Ruth barked at Monty. ‘If owt happens to our Theresa, that kiddy comes to me.’
‘No,’ replied Monty. ‘Not if you want to keep your father happy.’
Ruth had enjoyed having visitors and was dreading the day when they would leave. But this bloke was pulling her leg something merciless and she was unable to fight back. The ghost, invented by Ruth to amuse herself, was brought to life now by a know-it-all, a man who was giving her a very funny look. ‘If you see my dad again,’ she said, ‘ask him where he put my scissors. He was always pinching them to cut his toenails.’ She marched past the two visitors and stamped her way upstairs.
‘Well, that wiped her eye,’ commented Maggie.
‘It’s a kick up the backside she needs,’ answered Monty.
Maggie touched her old friend’s arm. ‘I’ll miss you, lad. I’ll be stuck here with all these foreigners.’
He laughed. ‘You’re the foreigner,’ he reminded her. ‘You’re Irish, from another country.’
She punched him. ‘You know what I mean. I’m used to the Scouse.’
‘And you know where I am, queen.’
‘Aye, that I do, Monty. That I do.’
After a bite to eat in a café on Great Moor Street, Theresa felt almost fit enough to confront the next demon. She wandered around Gregory and Porritt’s for a while, looking at lampshades and very uninteresting counters packed with nails, screws, nuts and bolts. From there, she sauntered past the Wheat-sheaf, glancing across at ‘him outside o’ Bowies’, a plaster figure of a man in overalls. How long had he stood there? How many mothers had goaded a child into action by asking, ‘How long are you going to stand there gormless like him outside o’ Bowies?’
Theresa was well and truly home. Apart from the job on hand and the worries about her health, she
was as happy as a pig in a muckyard. The need to deal with her rapists was an old feeling, as was her tendency to illness, so little had changed. She was on familiar territory, yet, like many a Londoner who had never bothered to visit St Paul’s or the museums, Theresa was suddenly aware of how little she knew about her home town.
Within a couple of weeks, she had visited the site of the Bolton Massacre, the place where an Earl of Derby had been executed, the very spot on which John Wesley had tried to preach to a riotous, stone-throwing crowd. She had stood and watched the golden globe above Preston’s jewellers, a time-ball which responded and moved in accordance with telegraphed signals from Greenwich. This was a town with a history, a past in which Theresa had shown no interest until recently.
She stood now opposite glorious civic buildings, her eyes glued to the war memorial. Why had she never noticed it before? All those young men killed, wounded, battered in mind and body to the point of suicidal uselessness. A deep unease kept creeping its way through her bones, along vertebrae and into her skull. In war or in peacetime, could there ever be an excuse for killing? Was rape an excuse, a reason?
She sat on a bench and watched the world passing by, doing its shopping, its visiting, its work. Everyone who walked by was a part of something bigger, yet each was trapped inside a body, a mind, a separate essence. Which of these could legitimately judge another? She must not punish Eva. The little woman had probably suffered enough. What, then, must she do about Chorlton, Betteridge and Hardman?
At this point, Theresa’s heart and mind hardened.
Sometimes, a crime was too bad to be tried by a jury of passers-by. No-one could know the pain of rape without having been on the receiving end. She might have married, might have become stronger, might have led a decent, ordinary life. All choices and chances had been stolen from her. They had no right to live, no right to remain intact after a crime of such magnitude.
Theresa rose, shivered, pulled the scarf closer to her throat. Extremes of cold and heat were never bearable, never easy for a woman whose heart was scarred. With a renewed sense of purpose, Theresa Nolan went forth to seek her prey.
When she reached the stall, Teddy Betteridge was reeling about and laughing at some joke which appealed to him, but to no-one else. Potential customers hung back while Elsie Betteridge dealt with the bane of her life. ‘Get gone and sober up,’ said the large woman, her voice loud enough to travel several yards. ‘You’re no bloody use at all, you, least of all near breakables.’
Theresa comforted herself with the near-knowledge that Elsie had already learned to dislike Teddy.
‘This is two days in a row,’ Elsie was saying now. ‘You’re about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Get thyssen home and sleep it off.’
Teddy, who had plainly met his Waterloo for the umpteenth time, sneaked away, his head bent against an icy wind and the even cooler countenance of his irate partner.
Theresa waited for the huddle of gossips and customers to clear, then she wandered over to Betteridge’s Ironmongers Established 194—, the last digit having been blown away by weather or ripped off during one of Teddy Betteridge’s alcoholic tempers.
‘Hello, love? Looking for something special? Nice tea set to brighten up your winter days? A set of cut-glass fruit dishes? And I’ve all the buckets and bowls you could ever want, love.’
Lying was becoming so easy. Yet Theresa found, to her utter amazement, that she was taking to Elsie Betteridge. There was a weariness about the eyes, humour in the thick, mobile lips, suffering in the woman’s stance. She was about to do Elsie a favour, she told herself firmly. If the man wouldn’t work, his wife could do very well without him.
‘Browse if you want to. I think I’ll have a sit down.’ She pointed to a figure in the distance. ‘That’s what I call me little bit o’ th’ ’usband, useless lump, he is. Look at the cut of him,’ she mumbled, almost to herself. ‘His dad killed himself with booze, tore his liver and kidneys to pieces. At the finish, he were nobbut a raving lunatic. Now, my soft bugger’s bent on going the same road as his father.’
She was so open, so generous. ‘Have you two chairs?’ Theresa asked.
‘Stools. Here, get at the back of the stall with me. We can have a sup out of my tea-flask and put the world to rights.’
Theresa sat next to her victim. No, no, she wasn’t going to hurt Elsie Betteridge. Elsie would be steering a new course, following a better map.
‘There’s sugar in it,’ said Elsie. ‘Do you take sugar?’
‘I don’t mind. I can take it any way it comes.’ She sipped pensively at the over-sweetened brew.
‘You do your best,’ Elsie sighed. ‘Stood out here in all weathers while he props a bar up, then you’re washing and ironing at home, feeding the family. And he’s swilling all the profits down the lav at the Commercial.’
Theresa placed her beaker on the stall. ‘I came here to see Mr Betteridge,’ she said. ‘It’s a matter of some delicacy.’
‘You’d be as well off talking to the wall,’ replied Elsie. ‘At least the bloody wall stands still, doesn’t keep falling down on the floor screaming for a flaming Aspro.’
‘Your husband seems to have a problem with alcohol, then.’
‘A problem?’ shrieked Elsie, laughter trimming the words. ‘A problem? Nay, it’s no problem for him, love. He’s as happy as a hog in shite as long as he’s drunk.’ She adopted a more serious tone, lowered her voice. ‘It’s me what’s got the problem. Two kiddies to raise, a house to keep, a business to run. And on top of all that, there’s him. His legs keep letting him down, then his eyes. Can’t walk, can’t see proper, can’t keep his food down some days. I’m that mithered, I could spit.’
Theresa tutted her sympathy.
‘There’d be nowt in the bank if it weren’t for me. I’ve hidden some.’ She took a loud swig of tepid tea. ‘I call it me running away savings.’
‘Don’t run away,’ said Theresa. ‘You stay where you are.’
The large woman shook her head, causing a prematurely grey strand of hair to slip from beneath the tea-cosy hat. ‘Funny. I don’t know you, but you’re right easy to talk to. See, I’m not sure how much more I can put up with. It’s his house, so I either stop there or I go.’
Theresa dived in head first. ‘Mrs Betteridge, I’ve been working in Liverpool for some years.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘With street girls.’
‘What? You mean prostitutes?’
Theresa nodded. ‘I think that lady wants serving.’
Elsie dashed off to sell a bucket and a long-handled mop. ‘Well?’ she asked as soon as she got back.
‘It’s advisable that you should see your doctor, Mrs Betteridge.’
The woman’s face wore a puzzled frown. ‘Eh?’
‘We try to get the girls off the streets, but we don’t always succeed. One of them slipped the net quite recently. She was due to come into the clinic for treatment, because she had contracted a nasty disease.’
‘And what’s that got to do with the price of flour cakes?’
Theresa steeled herself. This was a powerfully built person, and God alone knew how she would react to the news. ‘She got as far as Bolton before seeing sense, then she travelled back to Liverpool and came in for treatment.’
Elsie was very still. ‘Go on.’
‘She gave me the names of those she had associated with in Bolton. One was called Teddy Betteridge. He told her that he had a business on the market, so I thought I’d better warn you. The illness is very contagious.’ Like tuberculosis, thought Theresa. What a complete fraud she was. How many people had she infected with her coughing and spluttering?
Beats of time passed while Elsie Betteridge remained motionless in her seat.
‘Are you … all right?’
Elsie turned her head and looked directly at her companion. ‘No, I’m not. I’m … Oh, I don’t know what I am, to be honest. You think you’ve seen it all
when you live with a drunk. He’s like a baby sometimes, doesn’t always get to the lav in time, if you take my meaning. There were blood in it once. Little broken veins all over his face, doctors going on at him to stop before it’s too late.’
‘It must be awful.’
‘Aye, you can say that again, with knobs on. And now, we’ve got this.’ She stood up and stretched her back, as if making herself firm. ‘It’s bad enough for my kiddies living with a drinker, but we can’t have me ill as well.’ She paused. ‘Mind, now as I think on, he’s been too drunk to … you know … for ages, so I’ll be in the clear. I will see the doctor, but there’s no danger.’
Theresa felt terrible. She had created this situation, had planned it with a precision that had been almost military. Hurting those who had injured her was one thing; causing this woman unnecessary pain was a different matter altogether.
‘Ta,’ Elsie Betteridge said before reclaiming her seat. ‘It were coming anyroad, love. Don’t be worrying yourself over me, ’cos you’ve done the right thing.’
Theresa swallowed her guilt and it tasted vile.
‘Will you be going back to Liverpool?’
‘No. I’m from round here originally, then I got a job and stayed over there until just before this Christmas.’ She was planning to kill the woman’s husband and two other men. ‘I’m moving soon, but it’ll be in Bolton. I’ve been staying with a friend.’ Elsie’s children would have no father. They’d be better off without a drunkard in the house, as would Elsie.
‘It’s curable, isn’t it?’ asked Teddy Betteridge’s wife.
‘Yes,’ replied Theresa. He didn’t deserve this
rough-edged, big-hearted woman. He was an alcoholic, a rapist, a ne’er do well.
‘Well, I’m grateful to you, love,’ declared Elsie. ‘It’s a good thing you told me and not him. He’d have drunk another cartload of ale and forgotten all about it.’
There was no more to be said. Theresa bade Elsie goodbye and began the walk towards Derby Street. Tonight, Teddy Betteridge would feel the edge of his wife’s tongue. The others, Chorlton and Hardman, had already been informed of their condition.
She stopped at a newsagency, bought a few toffees for Jessica and a packet of Weights for Ruth. Ruth needed sweetening while Maggie was with her. Even at her sweetest, Ruth displayed all the qualities of spilled battery acid. Within the next few days, Theresa would be visiting a lawyer. He would finish the process of buying the house, then there was the will to write. If Theresa could do anything at all to keep Jessica away from Ruth, then such action would be taken now, before it was too late.
A car screeched to a halt. She looked over her shoulder, saw that no-one was hurt, prepared to continue her journey. The car reversed, stopped next to her. Strangely, Theresa was not surprised to see Stephen Blake. He ran to her, stood in the middle of the pavement, eyes wide, hands fidgeting. ‘Theresa?’
She exhaled. ‘Dr Blake,’ she said, looking levelly at him. ‘How nice to see you again.’
Jessica had got her own way at last. It hadn’t seemed much to ask, just her mother for Christmas, then her mother for life. Mam had arrived with two new people, one of whom had returned to Liverpool. Monty Sexton had been a great boon. What Monty couldn’t do with a pack of cards wasn’t worth knowing. He was a magician, an entertainer who had brought the festive season to life. He could produce coins from nowhere, flags from an empty box, silly paper flowers from his hat. Jessica missed Monty.
She didn’t miss Auntie Ruth, though. Auntie Ruth, who had refused to cook, had come with Monty and Maggie to spend Christmas Day at Auntie Eva’s. While everyone had played games, the miserable woman had hugged the fire until her legs had reddened, had smoked and smoked until the whole house had reeked of tobacco.
Well, now there was just Auntie Maggie. Auntie Maggie was all right, but she was a bit prim and proper, something of a Holy Josephine, never missing mass, her bedroom filled with statues, dried crosses from umpteen Palm Sundays, missals, a bible, the Blessed Virgin on a plinth, sanctified water in a
dish. And she always wore purple, as if every day was a day of mourning, like Lent.