Where the Heart Is

by Glenice Crossland

  Emily Simms woke in the middle of the night with a blinding headache. She heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. That was the trouble with being a bit psychic, storms always gave you an aching head. The thunder rumbled again, closer this time, and a streak of lightning lit up the room. She got out of bed and took out the metal curlers from her hair, then she went downstairs and removed all the stray items of cutlery which were lying about the kitchen. Emily had been struck by lightning once, at the age of seven, wheeling her little brother along St George’s Road in his pram. Fortunately the baby had avoided any hurt and Emily had soon recovered, but the experience had been frightening and she had ever since been wary of being near metal objects during a storm.

  She made a cup of tea and took a couple of Aspirin but still couldn’t shake off the headache or the feeling of uneasiness. Something awful was about to happen … She hated these premonitions of hers but couldn’t ignore them. She got out the tarot cards and sat up to the table, unfolded the silk scarf in which the cards were wrapped and shuffled them. Emily very rarely consulted the cards these days. After the death of her husband she hadn’t seen much point in learning what the future might bring. Tonight, though, that feeling of uneasiness was too strong to ignore.

  She cut the pack into three, shuffled them again and cut them into two piles. She placed the top pile to the bottom and chose three cards at random, placing them upside down on the table and turning them over, concentrating all the while.

  The first card wasn’t a good one. Emily didn’t like the Moon card at all. From past experience, it meant that someone was up to no good, usually a woman. The second card suggested there was a neighbour in trouble. The third, the Tower, filled Emily with apprehension. This spread clearly indicated trouble in store for someone close to her.

  She shivered as lightning illuminated the room, more feeble now. Thunder rolled some distance away. The storm was passing over. It would have been better if it had rained and cleared the air. Emily shivered. She might as well go back to bed. Whatever was about to happen, there was nothing she could do about it.

  Nellie was almost as upset as Betty. For three weeks now she had delivered no letters from Clarence. Betty waited on the step every morning, anguished and sometimes in tears when Nellie apologised as if it was her fault. Amy tried consoling her daughter by reminding her about Mr Harrison’s son, who seemed to have disappeared for months and was then found to be a prisoner-of-war, but that only made Betty more agitated than ever.

  ‘You’ve got to stop worriting,’ Amy said. ‘You’ve got our Ernie to think about.’

  ‘I am thinking about him. I don’t want him to be fatherless.’

  Little Ernie just grinned as he spooned oatmeal porridge into his mouth.

  ‘Da-da,’ he said, pointing at the photograph on the dresser and setting his mother off crying once again.

  Charlotte found an old can of paraffin. It had once served to keep a lamp burning in the outside lavatory in winter, before a bedroom had been converted to an indoor bathroom. She dug out a bundle of old rags and rolled the can inside them. Then she tied a scarf round her head and put on her coat. It was a dark night but she was more afraid to stay in the house than to venture out into the darkness. She cut through the council estate where nothing stirred at two in the morning.

  Uncle Walter’s was also in darkness. She was sorry if the pretty little girl had to suffer for her mother’s sins, but it couldn’t be helped. The child reminded Charlotte of herself in years past. It was that woman she wanted to hurt. Charlotte would never rest until she’d had her revenge.

  She knew Jim Butler was on night shift. She knew everything about the family, after watching the house for weeks. She poured paraffin on to the rags and crept up to the front door. She poured the rest of the oil through the letter box then dug a lighter from her pocket. Swiftly she stuffed the rags through the letter box and held the lighter to one end before letting it go. It was aflame even before she even let go of it, but what was a burned finger in comparison to the thrill of revenge? Charlotte hurried away in the direction of the Donkey Path; that way there would be less chance of being seen. There was no hurry, there would only be the dogs waiting for her at home.

  The draught curtain behind the door was ablaze within seconds, the flames licking along the carpet towards the stairs. If it hadn’t been for Dippy, Sally and her daughter would no doubt have died. The dog barked frantically, waking Sally upstairs. At about the same time, Alf Ramsgate was on fire-watching duty. He could see the red glow showing through the fanlight over the door, even from across the field.

  ‘Sally!’ he bawled as loud as he could, and saw the young woman at an upstairs window, her daughter in her arms.

  ‘Stop where yer are!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t open’t winder, and make sure the bedroom door’s shut.’ Alfie ran to the shelter where he knew a ladder was kept for eventualities such as this. He also blew his whistle, alerting the neighbours. Mr Dawson was the first on the scene and began dealing with the fire. He sent young Trevor to ring for the fire brigade. Alfie was by this time up the ladder and carrying Daisy to safety. Sally was out of the sash window after him before he had reached the ground. Daisy was hysterical.

  ‘I want Dippy! He’ll be burned.’

  Alfie made his way through the entry to the back door. He kicked at it until it gave way and Dippy almost knocked him over in his haste to escape. The stairs were well alight by now and the fire beginning to spread to the living-room, but with Alfie and Mr Dawson working together they were able to keep it under control until the fire brigade arrived.

  ‘This looks as though it was lit deliberately,’ Bobby Jones said when he arrived to investigate.

  ‘It certainly was,’ agreed the firemen. ‘There was paraffin involved.’

  ‘Who would do a thing like that?’ Alfie looked askance.

  ‘Not kids, surely?’ Mr Dawson couldn’t believe anyone local would do such a thing.

  ‘Could be, but I doubt it at this time of the morning.’

  Only Mrs Simms immediately suspected who was responsible. ‘Can I ’ave a word?’ she asked Bobby Jones. She told him of her suspicions and he immediately went off to investigate.

  Charlotte Kaye was a good actress, though, as Mrs Simms had once said. She answered the door in her nighty, looking bewildered and full of sympathy for the victims of the fire. The police could prove nothing.

  Bobby Jones was still troubled, though. Not once had Charlotte Kaye questioned him as to why they should have suspected her. Most unusual, that.

  By the time Jim arrived home from the night shift, the fire was out, but the stair and living-room carpets were ruined, the walls black, and the whole house stinking of smoke. They would also need a new front door and a new lock on the back. Alfie, not knowing about the key hanging in the letterbox, had broken the lock in his haste to rescue Dippy.

  Jim didn’t care about the work that would need to be done, or the expense. He only cared that his wife and daughter were unhurt. But what of the future? If someone had intended hurting them once, it could happen again. If it hadn’t been for Alfie Ramsgate, he would have lost them both. When he told Alfie he was a hero, his neighbour said, ‘Nay, Jim, if it hadn’t been for that dog o’ yours they’d never ’ave ’ad a chance of getting out alive.’

  Jim knew different. Never again would he grumble about Alf Ramsgate being a scrounger. To Jim he was a hero, and always would be.

  Daisy was allowed to stay off school the day after the fire. Normally she would have insisted on going, but it was games day so she didn’t need any persuading. In the afternoon the lady from the Salvation Army called at Sally’s. ‘Mr Powell told me about the fire,’ she said, ‘and I wondered if there was anything we could do?’

  Sally wondered how Danny had heard. Considering he never went out, he didn’t seem to miss much of what was going on.

  ‘It’s very kind of you but we’re managing, with help from our sisters and friends.’ Sally decided she
liked this friendly-faced woman.

  ‘Mr Powell really appreciates your help,’ she told the visitor.

  ‘And yours. If your little girl hadn’t had the presence of mind to fetch help, he might have been lying out there all night.’

  ‘Yes, I’m proud of my daughter.’

  ‘Well, if there’s nothing I can do, I’ll let you get on. Just remember, that’s what we’re here for – to help at times like these.’

  ‘I will, and thank you.’

  When she’d gone, Sally carried on clearing up the mess caused by the smoke and water. It could have been worse. A shiver ran down Sally’s spine as she realised how much worse. If the fire had been started deliberately – which it was believed to have been – she doubted she would ever be able to sleep here in peace again.

  If Charlotte Kaye were responsible, as Mrs Simms seemed to suspect, Sally wondered if the woman would strike again. They would have to be vigilant at all times. Sally wished she had never inherited this house. They had been safe in their rented property on Potters Row.

  Betty knuckled down to help her sister-in-law scrub out the house on Taylors Row, hoping the hard work would help her forget her worries about Clarence, who still hadn’t written. In fact, her husband was one of 25,000 men who had been taken prisoner by the enemy in Tobruk.

  Joe Denman was feeling his age. Even though he had been given a lighter job on the pit head it was still not an easy one, and with the Home Guard duties and his allotment to tend to he seemed to be tiring more easily of late. Lizzie was worried about him. Combined with the worry about Ernest and now Sally’s fire, she wondered where it would all end. Enid, too, had advised her father to take things a bit easier.

  ‘Let Bernard and our Jim take over the garden, Dad. You must start slowing down a bit.’

  ‘Slowing down? In war-time? What the hell do yer take me for? If everybody slowed down, the bloody war’d never be over. I’ll get Lizzie to buy me some Phosferine, that’ll help.’

  ‘All right.’ Enid knew nothing would change his mind, but she could see why her mother was worried. Her dad had lost weight and seemed different somehow, more withdrawn. When she voiced her fears to Bernard, he said, ‘Well, he’s never had a lot to say for himself. Says little and thinks a lot, that’s your dad. Of course I’ll give him a hand with the allotment.’

  ‘Thanks. We’ll just have to keep an eye on him.’

  One thing Enid was thankful for was the change in Pat. If she went to the Palace now, she would take Norah with her and sometimes Daisy. Pat worked hard at school and never shirked her homework. Most important of all as far as she was concerned, she had got herself into a theatre. Not that she was being paid, but that didn’t matter. She had gone to the Empire first but they’d had nothing for her there. Then she had tried the Lyceum.

  ‘I’d like to speak to someone in charge, please,’ she’d said. The doorman had wandered off and Pat was left wondering whether to go when a smartly dressed woman rushed towards her. ‘Yes?’ she queried eyeing Pat up and down.

  The girl never paused for breath, afraid this brisk woman would turn away. ‘I want to work in the theatre. I don’t expect to be paid, I just want to learn about the work here. I’m not a starstruck little girl who wants to go on the stage. I’ll do anything – clean, sell tickets, shine the torch …’

  ‘Stop!’ the woman said, laughing, and held up her hand. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Patricia Cartwright.’

  ‘Well, Patricia Cartwright, I’m glad you don’t expect to be paid because our funds won’t run to it. How old are you?’

  ‘Nearly fifteen.’ Pat had added a year on.

  ‘Come with me then. You can call me Liz.’ She led Pat through the foyer and into the auditorium. Pat, who had only seen inside the theatre from up in the Gods, couldn’t believe the spaciousness and magnificence, and stood mesmerised. ‘Come on!’ Liz was leaving her behind. Pat ran to catch up and they were soon in the vicinity of the dressing-rooms.

  ‘Can you iron?’

  ‘Yes.’ She could. Enid had taught her daughters from an early age.

  ‘Right, iron that shirt, and if it’s not done properly, you’re out. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’ Pat had no qualms about ironing a shirt. Enid had shown her how to iron all the seams inside first, then the cuffs and collar, then the sleeves, and lastly the shirt body. She saw a hanger and hung the shirt on a hook behind the door. She noticed another shirt, a blue one this time, and ironed that, too. When Liz bustled back in she examined both garments closely.

  ‘Pat Cartwright, you’ve just earned yourself an unpaid job!’ Pat jumped up and down in her excitement. ‘And, even more importantly, you’ve just ironed a shirt for Noël Coward.’

  Pat felt the colour drain from her face. ‘The real Noël Coward?’

  ‘Who else? This is the Lyceum, not a second-rate establishment. You’ll have to get used to seeing important stars here.’

  ‘Yes, but Noël Coward …’

  Liz laughed. ‘He’s appearing here in Blithe Spirit. I promised his dresser I’d iron his shirt, but I hate ironing, even for Noël Coward.’ Pat was speechless, not only at touching something belonging to a famous star but at actually landing herself a job at the Lyceum, even if it was an unpaid one.

  Sally was feeling happier now the house was clean again. The staircase had been redecorated and the carpet thrown out. At least they hadn’t bought a new one when they’d moved in. The living-room carpet would have to be replaced along with the lino. Long Sam the insurance man was sorting out the claim. A new door had already been fitted. Today Sally was taking Miss Appleby shopping.

  ‘We’ll go to the library first,’ Ida decided. ‘Then I’ll fetch me shoes from Mr Whitaker’s.’

  ‘What do you want from the shops?’ Sally asked her.

  ‘Me rations from the Co-op and owt they’ve got extra. Oh, and a bottle of lemonade,’ she whispered in Sally’s ear. ‘I’ve started ’aving a port and lemon sometimes, it helps me to sleep.’

  Sally grinned. ‘Well, I suppose it’s as good an excuse as any.’ They queued at the Co-op and managed to get a few cans of peas and another of Spam. As they were waiting for the change to come back through the tube system, Ida advised, ‘You want to stock up wi’ tinned stuff, there won’t be any soon.’

  ‘Right then, we’ll go and have some dinner now,’ Sally said.

  Ida was excited at the thought of eating out again. Laden with shopping, they found a table near the window where there was room to place their bags. Not that there was much to see out of it except the soot-coated roofs and chimneys of the steelworks.

  ‘Eeh, let me get the weight off my feet, these shoes are killing me.’ Ida slipped her feet out of the Cuban-heeled shoes she had insisted on wearing.

  ‘Change into the ones you’ve had repaired then.’

  Ida looked round. ‘Oh, I can’t, somebody might see me.’ But there was only one man sitting in the corner, and he was hidden behind a newspaper. Not that it could hide much these days with only four pages allowed.

  ‘Shall we have some tea while we’re waiting for the meal?’

  ‘I ’ope it’s not like dishwater.’

  Sally couldn’t believe this coming from a woman who had insisted on making two cups out of one spoonful of tea!

  ‘How long has this place been open then?’ Ida enquired.

  ‘Just before last Christmas,’ Sally answered.

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s so long since I used to come shopping?’

  ‘Well, with your legs being bad …’

  ‘There’s nowt wrong with my legs that a bit of exercise won’t cure! It’s a wonder they ’aven’t seized up altogether, the way I kept sitting there, day in, day out, with nowt to occupy me mind. It’s a wonder me brain hasn’t seized up as well.’

  ‘Maybe Dr North was right, then.’

  ‘Well, yes, but he’ll never be as good a doctor as Dr Sellars.’

  The waitress brought th
eir lunches, steaming hot and smelling delicious. Ida sat gazing across the room at the man in the corner.

  ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!’ she said.

  ‘What? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I feel as though I have. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Doug Fletcher over there.’

  ‘Who? Him who …’

  ‘Our Donald’s father,’ Ida whispered.

  Sally couldn’t help but stare at the elderly man. His hair was grey and curling over his collar but Sally could see how handsome he had been in his youth. In fact, he was still good-looking in a way. He didn’t look well, though, and his clothes were shabby and unwashed.

  ‘Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘There’ll only ever be one Doug Fletcher. A more handsome man never walked the streets in his heyday, nor a more charming. You ought to ’ave heard him when he turned on the flatulence!’

  ‘You mean flattery, Ida.’

  ‘Well! Whatever it was he turned on, I was daft enough to fall for it. Eeh, just look at ’im now – ’e looks as though a good meal wouldn’t do ’im any harm. Now where are my shoes?’ Ida struggled to get them on under the table and patted her hair into place. ‘Is my hair all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s fine. But don’t tell me you’re titivating yourself because you fancy him?’

  ‘Of course not, I do ’ave me pride, you know!’

  ‘My mother always says pride comes before a fall, so watch out. Besides, he looks as though his face could do with a good wash. Your stew’s getting cold.’

  Ida took a mouthful of stew and was mortified when Doug Fletcher got up and came and sat down on the free chair beside her.

  ‘I beg your pardon but I saw you looking, were you talking about me?’

  Sally blushed crimson as she realised he must have overheard. ‘Oh, no, I was just saying this place could do with a good wash. The floor, I mean.’

  But, Doug was staring at Ida. ‘It can’t be … It is, though. I’d know that flawless complexion anywhere, and those eyes could only belong to Ida Appleby.’