Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  Magsy had never considered that aspect. She had done her best to prepare her daughter for a free place at the local Catholic grammar school, but had never really thought about Beth’s needs. All she knew was that her daughter would want maths, English, ancient and modern languages, general science and a smattering of other subjects.

  In the privacy of her own home, Magsy O’Gara now faced what the doctor had said, but she found no answer to the problem. Bolton School, the best for many a mile, was not the place for a Catholic girl. There were free places at this mainly fee-paying school, but Magsy was Catholic to the bone. ‘You are prejudiced,’ she informed herself out loud. ‘All very well for you to invade a Protestant pub, but look at you now. Afraid of what the priests might say?’

  The private school mentioned by the doctor was beyond consideration, was as out of reach as a full moon. That was a place for the daughters of businessmen, folk with real money and cars and whatnot. ‘Bolton School,’ she murmured. Perhaps Beth might get permission from the bishop to go there. Magsy could explain that Beth needed good science facilities . . . But no. The clergy would not be amused by such a request. What, then?

  A knocking at the door put a stop to Magsy’s wonderings. She sped down the hall and allowed Rachel Higgins – now Barnes – to step into the house. ‘Rachel. Come in – I have the kettle on.’

  Rachel sat at the kitchen table. Grieved by the death of her adopted brother, she sat still for a while, waited until Magsy had poured two cups of tea. She sipped and swallowed, decided to get straight to the point. ‘How’s Beth?’

  Magsy grinned. ‘Up to no good, Rachel, driving the doctors out of their minds, telling them how to do their job.’

  ‘Ah.’ Rachel allowed herself a little smile. ‘So she’s on her way back to normal, then. She will be needing a lot of fresh air now that she’s over the worst. So she’s tormenting them?’

  ‘She is, and God help them.’ Magsy placed her cup in its saucer. ‘I am so sorry about Thomas.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was a terrible blow.’

  Rachel nodded as if attempting to clear unpalatable thoughts from her pretty head. She would have to get back to the shop soon, as she had left her mother-in-law to cope alone with the grocery side of the business. ‘I met Katherine Moore,’ she began, ‘lives opposite the shop in a big house. She needs help.’

  ‘Ah.’ Magsy waited for more.

  ‘She gave me this suit and I made it over.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Magsy.

  Rachel launched into the tale of Miss Katherine, holding back none of the truth, yet emphasizing the fact that Miss Moore’s bark was worse than her bite. ‘She’s lonely,’ Rachel concluded, ‘and Phyllis is useless.’

  Magsy pondered. ‘And I would be living in a shed?’

  ‘It isn’t a shed – it’s a summer house built around a big stone chimney. And the garden’s nice and big, too.’ Rachel omitted to mention the fact that the summer house seemed to have an occasional occupant – that would be dealt with now that the funeral was over. ‘Come and meet her – you have nothing to lose.’

  Magsy’s brain shot into overdrive. ‘The air’s very fresh, then?’ She looked at Rachel’s skin, glowing with health in spite of her despondency.

  ‘It would be the making of Beth, Magsy.’

  With her mind still working furiously, Magsy thought about the future – a change of school for Beth, how would she get to Bolton when she passed for the grammar, was there a church? ‘When does this woman want to see me?’ she asked.

  ‘Any time,’ answered Rachel. ‘Just call at the shop and I will take you across and introduce you.’

  When Rachel had left, Magsy made a bit of toast and continued her ponderings while she chewed absently on the frugal meal. Her head was like a sponge that had soaked up too much water, full, saturated, no room for further expansion. She couldn’t just up and leave, could she? She was due for promotion at the hospital, would be working in an area that might be termed medical, no more sweeping, mopping, polishing. Beth was happy at school, though she could afford to be better challenged – would a village school be an improvement, would it be Catholic, did Catholic matter?

  But the fresh air, the chance for Beth to run free in the countryside, no mills, no smoke, little traffic. Oh, God, why was life so complicated?

  As if to underline that question, a voice greeted her. ‘Hello? Magsy?’ It was Paul.

  She set her plate on the fireguard. ‘Come in,’ she invited wearily. Yes, there was him, too, the eternal suitor, a man for whom she might even develop feelings if she wasn’t careful.

  He entered the room. ‘Oh, I am sorry I missed the funeral,’ he said.

  Magsy shrugged. ‘Tell Sal, not me. Sorry,’ she added, realizing that her voice had been sharp.

  ‘I have told her.’ He lingered in the doorway, the now familiar smell of sand and cement wafting over to greet her. She tried a smile for size, rejected it because it did not fit her mood. ‘Sit down, Paul.’

  He sat. ‘What is it?’

  So she told him, outlined details of the job and the location, gave him her worries and misgivings, saw a trail of varying emotions tracking across his features. She saw fear, relief, concern and the usual affection in his eyes.

  When she had finished, he processed the new information before replying. ‘Think of Beth,’ were his first words.

  ‘I have. I am thinking of Beth.’

  His knuckles tightened on the table. ‘She needs the air, Magsy.’

  It was then that Magsy realized that she was in real trouble. The man cared so much that he would allow his own wishes to be put aside for the sake of her daughter. Loving such a man would not be a difficult task. Oh dear.

  ‘But schools?’ she asked.

  ‘Never mind schools,’ he replied. ‘Beth will get there somehow. You know I don’t want you to leave, but we have to think about the greater good. Anyway, you could well go up there and decide you don’t like Miss Moore. There is no decision to make, Magsy, because you can see only half the picture. Go and meet her – I’ll borrow a van and run you up there on Sunday.’ He grinned. ‘After Mass, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ She returned the smile. He already owned a small corner of her heart and was moving in on the rest of that territory. Why was he so . . . so nice? ‘You are good to us,’ she told him.

  He chuckled softly. ‘I’m a good man, Magsy. My mother would try the patience of every saint. Sometimes, I could choke her. But I don’t, because I am a good man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  His expression changed. ‘Will you love me back one day, Magsy O’Gara? Will you?’

  She made no reply, opting instead for a long look straight into his eyes. If he failed to read what her soul showed, then he was not the right man after all.

  With his heart turning somersaults, Paul Horrocks did what he knew to be the right thing. He lifted cement-coated fists from the table, lifted the rest of himself from the chair. She was saying it, was allowing it to flood from those incredible eyes until it filled the space between herself and him. She had affection for him, was unafraid to show it.

  He cleared a throat that seemed as stiff as the cement he had mixed only hours earlier. There were things to do – supper for Mam, some washing, the arrangement to borrow Pat Murphy’s van at the weekend. And he would buy that second-hand motorbike advertised in the newspaper, because Hesford was a few miles out and he didn’t need to be waiting for buses every time he wanted to visit this delightful, adorable woman.

  ‘Go and look after your mam, Paul.’

  ‘Right.’

  She shook her head in pretended dismay. ‘What am I going to do with you at all?’

  He bit his lip, swivelled and left the danger area. He didn’t know what she was going to do. Whatever, he could scarcely wait to find out.

  Twelve

  Rachel discovered quite by accident the identity of the intruder. She decided to sweep out the summer house,
went across armed with broom and dusters, found herself in the presence of a man she recognized, a figure familiar all over Hesford and its spread-out environs. He was famous for his eccentricity, was renowned for being a contradiction in terms, for this was the educated tramp.

  Startled by her sudden entrance, the man leapt to his feet, removing his ridiculous bowler hat as soon as he achieved a vertical position. He straightened his short spine, smiled and nodded in her direction.

  Rachel, one hand to her throat, leaned on the broom for support. He was not dangerous, she told herself sharply. This man favoured widowed and spinster ladies, was gardener and odd-job man for Hesford and for other villages north of Bolton. All he ever wanted was a couple of shillings and a hot meal. When questioned about his place of residence, he always gave vague replies, mentioning a brother up on the moors, an out-of-the-way house with no address, a smallholding with a few hens and some vegetable plots.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Shelter from the storm, ma’am,’ came the answer in what Frank always called a gobful-of-plums voice.

  ‘There is no storm,’ she replied.

  ‘Where there is humanity, there is always storm.’ He placed his hat on a rickety card table. ‘For a shilling and a hot meal, I shall clean this place for you.’

  ‘For Miss Moore,’ she corrected him rather sharply, noticing how his eyes narrowed at the mention of the woman who owned this property. ‘She is going to let it to a housekeeper.’

  ‘Then God help any such housekeeper,’ he replied, ‘for Miss Moore is not known for her generous nature.’

  Rachel eyed him. ‘Why are you here?’ she repeated.

  ‘I am sheltering from frost, Mrs Barnes. And I am doing no harm, surely? Perhaps my mode of existence would not suit everyone, but I am careful to occupy places that are not needed. When the housekeeper moves in, I shall remove the summer house from my itinerary.’

  ‘Are you homeless?’ she asked.

  ‘My home is wherever my hat and cane rest,’ was the smart answer.

  Yes, his cane. He was famous for that, as well. It was a sturdy item, silver-topped and with a monogram engraved into its spherical handle. There was no doubt that the strange creature had received good schooling, and no-one could ever work out why a man of letters had chosen such a haphazard way of existence. ‘So you have no brother on the moors?’

  ‘That is correct.’ Bright blue eyes twinkled in the weather-beaten face. ‘I am a man of mystery.’

  In Rachel’s opinion, a man of mystery would be younger, taller, more of a Gregory Peck. This little fellow was not much bigger than James Cagney, slightly too plump for his moderate height, rather grizzled around a chin ill-served by blunt razors and a lack of hot water. She liked him and she couldn’t quite work out why. Perhaps it was his cheek, the sheer gall of an older-than-middle-aged person who slept where he chose, worked when he liked and talked like someone educated at Eton.

  He was almost laughing at her. ‘Can’t work me out, eh, Mrs Barnes?’

  Rachel felt the colour rising to her cheeks. ‘No, I cannot work you out, Mr Smythe.’

  He tapped the side of his nose with a strangely clean index finger. ‘Nor can I, I assure you. I could have been almost anything, you know. But being a nothing is something.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And, very soon, I shall be a nothing who has become a something.’

  Rachel leaned her broom against the wall. ‘How do you work that out? And be grateful that I am of Irish stock, Mr Smythe. A background like mine gives me a huge insight into the meaning of nonsense.’ She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, there is nonsense in my blood. Nonsense is my second language.’

  ‘And you are extraordinarily fluent in it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He smiled broadly. ‘I am to be published,’ he said. ‘Very soon, the first Peter Smythe will be for sale in book shops. It is a tale of a travelling man, one who chooses not to be bound by the laws of society. I have studied humanity for many years, you see.’

  She thought about that. Something told her that this man was no liar. It was easy to believe that he had written the story of his life and of all those who employed him.

  ‘Miss Morgan typed it up for me,’ he said, ‘but was bound to secrecy. In return, I have cared for her garden free of charge for several years. Give and take, you see.’

  ‘So, you will buy a house with the proceeds?’

  Peter Smythe threw back his head and laughed. ‘Goodness, no,’ he announced merrily. ‘Why would I need a house? Who wants that kind of responsibility? No, I shall carry on much the same, shall be living as I do now, within reach of all that is rightfully mine.’

  She raised a quizzical brow.

  ‘The world belongs to all of us,’ he explained.

  Rachel picked up the brush and thrust it at him. ‘Right, Mr Author. Clean this place and, in return, I shall bring you food and money. I suppose you would call that a fair trade?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He bowed stiffly and took the implement from her. ‘You are a free spirit,’ he informed her.

  Rachel walked to the door, turned. ‘Tell my customers that,’ she advised, ‘since I seem to be on call twelve hours a day.’

  He pointed to the grimy window. ‘Out there is all yours, yours for the taking. But you have chosen bricks, mortar and safety, predictability and boredom.’

  ‘Security,’ she insisted.

  He bowed again. ‘As you wish.’

  Rachel went outside and wondered whether she ought to tell Katherine about her non-paying guest, but he was harmless enough, a crank who had written a book, a tramp who valued the open road and the ability to sleep when he liked, where he liked. No, upsetting Katherine would be pointless.

  In a few days, Magsy O’Gara would come to be interviewed about the housekeeping position. Rachel laughed aloud. She could not imagine Magsy being interviewed by anyone. It promised to be fun, because both Katherine and Magsy were proud and stubborn women.

  Ernest groaned loudly. Climbing into Charlie Entwistle’s truck had not been easy – in fact, without the help of the rag-and-bone man, Ernest would never have made it.

  Charlie jumped into the driver’s seat. ‘All right? Ready to face the missus?’

  ‘Aye,’ answered Ernest, still breathless after his exertions.

  Charlie, a man of few words, was bemused by this situation. It was nothing to do with him, but he could not understand his neighbour’s desire to see Dot again. It had become plain over the years that the man had disliked his wife. Even Charlie, who spent most of his time out of the house, had heard enough of the violence. Still, he had promised to do the favour, and he was a man of honour. ‘Ready for off, then, Ernest?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Charlie started the engine and pulled away. The truck needed a good run, so this was as good a way as any of burning the dust out of the system.

  They left the town behind and began to climb Tonge Moor, the road that led north to several villages. Even here, on a road that was densely populated, Ernest noticed that the air smelt different, was cleaner and fresher. Oh yes, Dot had fallen on her feet, it seemed. So had that bloody Higgins girl with all her airs and graces. He still seethed inwardly when he thought about a son of his turning Catholic, all that bowing and scraping to plaster statues and holy pictures, fingers dipped in so-called holy water, Signs of the Cross, Stations of the Cross and enough saints’ days to fill a calendar twenty times over. Well, Ernest would have his say at last.

  Hesford was beautiful – even the jaundiced eye of Ernest Barnes noticed the quaintness of the village. His blood boiled when he thought of Dot enjoying these views of the moors, the openness of it all, that crystal sky, all this invigorating air.

  Charlie helped him out of the cabin. When he had righted himself, Ernest stared hard at the shop, a double-fronted affair with the word BARNES printed over the door, still fresh and new-looking. One window announced GROCERIES, the other H
ARDWARE. It looked like a thriving business. Oh yes, they were thriving, all right, while he lived on a measly bit of pension and interest on pathetic savings scraped together throughout years of self-denial. He had fed and clothed them all, he had put bread and meat on the table, so it was time for them to look after him.

  Charlie Entwistle, who seldom took much notice of folk, marked the expression on his neighbour’s face. Uneasy, he stepped forward. ‘Do you want me to help you into the shop?’

  ‘No,’ came the barked response. ‘I do this on my own.’

  He straightened, made sure that his cap was on right, then walked into the doorway. A woman with a basket stood back to allow him in, holding the door for a man she probably saw as a poor old cripple. Well, if everybody had their own, this shop was his by right, because he had raised the man who owned it in the legal sense.

  The shop was empty. He parked himself on the customers’ chair and waited. The bell that had announced his entrance had also proclaimed the exit of the woman with the basket, so the shop’s staff were probably in the back of the house, unaware of their very special patron.

  He gazed around well-stocked shelves, saw little notices on items that were still rationed, breathed in the smell of earth clinging to locally grown winter vegetables. The place was a gold mine.

  At the other side, ironmongery was stacked in boxes, nails, screws, putty, hammers and chisels. There were buckets, clothes horses, scrubbing boards, possers, brushes, dusters, lamps, kettles, pots and pans. Although Hesford was not a huge place, this shop probably provided for residents of several other villages, so it would prosper, no doubt.

  The inner door opened and Dot stepped into the shop, a large box of apples in her arms. She walked round the counter to place this on the floor with other produce kept on the customers’ side, bent, stacked the box, then turned to face the customer. ‘Hell—’ The rest of the greeting froze in her throat.