Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Hell’s about right,’ snapped Ernest. ‘Hell’s living on your own while your family pikes off to new pastures.’

  She backed away into the gap, slamming down the hinged barrier that separated staff from customers. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, her tone shrill.

  ‘I only want what’s mine.’

  She breathed hard against the need to vomit. ‘There’s nowt of yours here.’

  ‘Oh aye? How do you work that out?’

  Dot inhaled again. ‘Our Frank saved for this. He did without for years until he got the down-payment and a mortgage.’

  ‘And who kept him while he saved?’

  ‘He kept himself.’

  ‘Right. And who kept him till he could afford to rent that room? I did. I bloody kept him – and I kept you – and the other one.’

  She gripped the edge of the counter, tried to hold on to her sanity at the same time. Was nowhere safe? Would she never escape completely? ‘That’s the way it works,’ she told him. ‘We look after our kids, then they grow up and look after their own kids.’

  ‘And you. They look after you.’ His eyes narrowed. She looked a damned sight better than she had in Prudence Street, was clearly doing well out of this arrangement.

  ‘That’s your fault,’ she said quietly. ‘They had to bring me away from you, because they knew that you would kill me in the end.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he roared.

  The noise brought Rachel into the shop. She stood for a few seconds in the doorway, then leapt forward, placing herself between Dot and the seated man. There was a counter separating them, but the man was armed with his sticks. ‘Get out of my shop,’ she ordered clearly.

  ‘You what?’ He rose to unsteady feet and raised a stick. ‘Your shop? Your bloody shop, you bloody whore?’

  ‘That’s a lot of bloodies.’ Rachel knew that her tone was annoyingly cool. ‘I am not a whore, Mr Barnes.’

  ‘Where’s my son?’ he demanded. ‘I want nowt to do with women. Let’s have a bit of sense spoken – fetch Frank.’

  Rachel allowed her eyes to travel down to Ernest Barnes’s waist, then up again until they met that wild, ugly face. ‘My husband is out at the moment. He should be back in about half an hour, but he will not welcome you. In fact, he will bundle you out in two shakes.’

  ‘Your husband.’ These two words were hissed between narrowed lips. ‘You fooled him into marriage, seduced him.’

  Rachel nodded calmly. ‘You should see a head-doctor, Mr Barnes. There’s a new department at the hospital for people with mental illnesses.’

  He snapped. In an instant, one of his sticks made hard contact with Rachel’s cheek and she fell sideways, arms flailing in a vain attempt to save herself. Tinned fruit and Nestle’s Cream toppled down, a dozen or so tins unseated by Rachel’s arms.

  Dot tried to catch Rachel, failed, saw her crumpled in a heap on the floor. And it simply happened. Where fear had lodged, a bubble of fury rose in the chest of that thin, meek woman. She strode around the corner, lifted the mahogany flap, dragged the stick from his trembling hands.

  She beat him repeatedly, mercilessly, forced him to the ground where he crawled like a dog towards the door. Again and again she brought the stick down on his back, her breathing even, her aim true and straight. With a strength that denied and defied her size, she forced him to the door just as it opened.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Charlie Entwistle had crashed the door into his neighbour’s head.

  Dot fixed her gaze on Charlie. ‘This pile of rubbish you fetched up here from the slums – stick it back on your cart,’ she ordered evenly. ‘No point weighing it in, ’cos I can tell you now it’s worth nowt a pound.’ She allowed herself a slow breath. ‘Now, listen to me, Charlie Entwistle. If you bring that load of shite anywhere near my shop again, I shall sue you. You knew what he wanted, you knew why he was here—’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘Then you’re dafter than them horses that used to pull your carts. How many years did you hear him beating me and my lads? Eh? And shut your gob, there’s a number nine trolley bus coming.’

  Charlie gulped. The biggest shock had arrived not with Dot’s turning on her husband, but with her language. Shite? He had never heard that from a woman’s mouth before. His gaze wandered to the back of the shop. Rachel Higgins-as-was had struggled to her feet. Blood poured from a split lip.

  On the floor, Ernest groaned. ‘I’ll get you for that, you bitch,’ he managed.

  Dot’s lip curled. ‘Oh aye? You and whose army, you stupid owld cripple? Now get gone before I fetch a constable.’

  When Charlie had removed her husband, Dot threw the sticks into the street. She closed the door and leaned her head against cool glass for a second or two. Her whole body shook, while the urge to vomit was almost overwhelming.

  ‘Dot?’ Rachel could not believe what she had just seen and heard. ‘Dot?’

  ‘You all right, love?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll just go and fetch the first aid.’

  Alone in the shop, Dot staggered to the chair and sat down. Every ounce of that fury-stoked energy had drained from her body. As the adrenalin left her blood, she began to shake uncontrollably. But her mind remained unnaturally cool.

  She heard Charlie Entwistle’s engine starting, listened while gears meshed and the nightmare visitor was pulled away from the shop. He had found his way here, would always find his way to wherever she was. And what would Frank do when he found out, when he saw the marked face of his beautiful wife?

  Rachel would deal with that, would stop Frank doing anything rash. But what about next time? Could they live like this, waiting for him to come again? No, they could not and would not.

  Dorothy Barnes dragged herself up, was grateful for the lack of customers. She went to a mirror that advertised Monk’s Custard, flattened her hair, prepared herself to go and tend her daughter-in-law’s wounds.

  And the decision made itself as she stared at her own face in that little glass. Like the man from the council who cleared rats from slums, she knew what her next task would be.

  Dorothy Barnes was going to kill her husband.

  Magsy, dressed neatly in a charcoal grey coat and matching hat, waited for the arrival of Paul Horrocks. She was nervous, yet she could not work out why. Yes, she could. There would be a decision to make, and life was hard enough without having to implement great changes. No, she didn’t have to travel in a new direction – nobody could force her to alter her course through life. They could stop here in Prudence Street. Once Beth got out of hospital, they could both step back into the old routine, Beth at school, Magsy at work. There was promotion coming up, another sixpence an hour, a respectable job assisting nurses. But . . .

  There it came again. But. But was a word that altered many a life. The But was Beth. Bolton was not the healthiest of places – the death of the wee mite next door had illustrated that fact well enough. Mill chimneys poured their smoke from morning till night, many factories now doing evening shifts right up to nine-thirty or ten o’clock. When the sun could be bothered to shine, it gave forth a brownish-purplish light, its rays refracted through layers of soot and grime. Whereas up on the moors . . .

  She pulled herself up, tried to stop thinking at this point, because she knew nothing about up on the moors. As Paul had said, without knowledge, a person was powerless, unfit to decide. Paul. He was another factor . . .

  Magsy sat down, sat on her thoughts. If only her mind would be still for a while, she might just be able to get on with life. The New Year had seen itself in, bells had proclaimed a fresh start, Beth was due home any day now. ‘Let the year decide for me,’ she told her handbag, ‘because I am too tired for it.’

  Paul let himself in, hands cupped as he blew warm air into them.

  ‘You should wear gloves,’ she chided gently.

  ‘Can’t drive in ’em. Are you fit?’

  She remained where she was while a small thought grew. Yes, she could do it. Slowly, she
stood up and walked to the Utility sideboard, opened a drawer, pulled out a cardboard box. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘take these.’

  He opened it, gasped in amazement.

  ‘William was a chauffeur for a while. The owner of a mill bought him those. They don’t slip on a steering wheel.’

  He stared down into the opened box, breathed in the moment and the scent of leather. This was a big thing, an enormous thing. ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded.

  He pulled string-backed kid gloves onto his hands. This was more than just a gift; this marked the beginning of Magsy’s letting go of her dead William. He tried to minimize the intensity of this second by smiling broadly at her, but the wetness in her eyes told all. Yes, she was saying goodbye – not to him, not yet, but to a man she had adored. ‘Shall we go?’ he asked.

  ‘Drive on, Rupert,’ she replied.

  ‘Rupert?’

  ‘In a library book.’ She sniffed back a tear. ‘The chauffeur was Rupert.’

  ‘Bit posh for a servant,’ he offered.

  ‘Yes, I thought so, too. A Rupert would never learn his place, would he?’

  Would Magsy? wondered Paul as they went out to the van. He could not imagine her bowing and scraping to the gentry, doing exactly as she was told. ‘I’ve bought a motorbike,’ he told her as they pulled out of the street. ‘So I can visit you up yon.’

  Magsy squashed a grin. Even if she had emigrated, he would have visited her, would have found his way to the other side of the world. And that didn’t annoy her any more. In fact, she felt rather pleased to be in receipt of such affection.

  Oh, well. Time to face the dragon, the future, the decisions. ‘Why buy a bike now?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t gone yet.’

  ‘But you will,’ he forecast. ‘I’d bet me new gloves on it.’

  She looked at William’s gloves and smiled faintly. Something told her that William would have liked this man, would have wanted him to have his things. ‘Like I said before, drive on, Rupert.’

  Rupert did as he was ordered.

  Katherine, too, was nervous. Dressed in her best housecoat, she half-sat, half-lay on the chaise, hands plucking at an open-weave blanket, mind darting about like an aimless butterfly. That girl had been and gone, had delivered very limp toast and a runny egg for breakfast. Lunch would be brought by Rachel, that fine young woman who had now become Katherine’s only friend.

  And what a mess that man had made of Rachel’s face. If only Katherine had her health and strength, she would have visited him. Rachel had refused the offer of a lawyer, had told Katherine about Dot’s actions. It was probably time to meet Dot, too, because that meek little woman had found the strength to deal with the bully. Oh, well, there was today’s encounter to be dealt with first.

  When Rachel led Magsy O’Gara into the bedroom, Katherine was almost dumbfounded. They were like positive and negative, two beautiful women, one dark, the other fair. Bolton was a dirty industrial town, yet neither of these people had suffered by living in it, perfect skin, bright eyes, shining hair.

  Rachel introduced the two, then went down to make tea.

  Katherine eyed the visitor. ‘So, what do you think of Hesford?’

  Magsy, too, was nearly tongue-tied. ‘Lovely,’ she managed eventually.

  Katherine pointed to a chair, waited until Magsy had seated herself. ‘I am not easy,’ she began.

  Magsy produced an absent nod.

  ‘I am not liked.’

  ‘Rachel likes you.’

  ‘She is unusual.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Yes, I have been told that. Rachel sings your praises very loudly and very often. You live next door to her family, I understand.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So. Tell me about yourself.’

  Magsy squirmed in her seat, put herself in mind of a child dragged before the headmistress for some misdemeanour. ‘I am Irish, a widow, have one child and I work at the infirmary.’

  ‘Which information tells me nothing.’

  The visitor did not know what else to say. She was not in the habit of granting confidences to a total stranger. ‘I can cook, clean, wash and iron. My cooking is plain, but nourishing. I am strong enough to carry you to and from the bath and I would have you living downstairs if at all possible. You should look directly at life, not from as great a height as this.’

  Katherine pondered the final comment. Was this woman criticizing her attitude? Was she accusing her of looking down on the world in more ways than one? ‘There is no bathroom downstairs,’ she replied at last.

  ‘Then get one put in.’

  Katherine tried not to smile. It was almost as if this young woman knew that shares had picked up, that Katherine’s broker had made quite a profit on investments. ‘When can you start?’

  This question caused Magsy’s back to become ramrod-straight. ‘Er . . . there is much to consider.’

  ‘Is she out of hospital?’

  ‘Soon.’ Right away, this woman had found the hub of the matter. Well, at least she understood the priorities, then. ‘She is my life,’ Magsy said quietly.

  ‘And she is brilliant, or so I am led to believe.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, she is.’

  Katherine nodded. ‘Bring her to see me. Now, I ask you to leave me alone for an hour, as there is an idea I must think about. Go and look at the countryside – that young man will take you, I am sure.’ She inclined her head towards the window. ‘Are you going to marry him?’

  Flabbergasted, Magsy froze at half-mast, her body rising from her seat. ‘No,’ she spluttered.

  ‘Well, we shall face that when it comes,’ Katherine said, almost to herself but not quite under her breath.

  On the landing, Magsy all but shook herself. This was unreal, a dream, a nightmare, a terrible confusion. The village was wonderful, the harridan seemed sensitive up to a point, there was Rachel in the shop just across the way. But schools, churches? When could she start? She didn’t know whether she was coming or going.

  Rachel smiled from the bottom of the stairs. ‘She got you all mizzled, has she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then she likes you. If she hadn’t liked you, she would have thrown you out in under ten seconds.’

  ‘What a comfort.’ There was sarcasm in Magsy’s words. Sometimes, it was best not to be liked.

  The summer house was lovely, even in winter. Rachel had lit a roaring fire and was plainly keen to influence Magsy in favour of taking the job. ‘It’s lovely,’ she bubbled, the words emerging from a scabbed lip. ‘There’s fields and hills and lovely people—’

  ‘He wants killing,’ stated Magsy baldly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your father-in-law.’

  ‘Oh, him. Well, Frank would have done the killing, but I managed to hold him back. And that Paul Horrocks – he is head over heels with you, Magsy. He could live here too, and—’

  ‘One bedroom.’

  ‘Ah.’ Temporarily deflated, Rachel soon recovered. ‘You could rent a cottage with what he earns—’

  ‘There’s his mother—’

  ‘And you could all live up here. Magsy, you’ll be paid eight pounds a week with all found – free coal, free food, no rent. You could build another bedroom on . . .’ She stopped, saw the confusion in her friend’s face. ‘Sorry, Mags. I know you have a lot to think about with Beth and all.’

  Magsy allowed a tight smile. ‘And I’d be grateful if you would stop marrying me off, Rachel. Yes, I like Paul, but there’s nothing settled or sorted, so stop carrying on about him. This is all a very big thing.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Magsy turned to the window and looked out. The moors, blue-green in the frost, drifted skyward towards Yorkshire. Here and there, farmhouses and outbuildings had settled into folds, looked as if they had been born there.

  And, in that moment, Magsy O’Gara knew that she was home.

  Thirteen

  Nellie Hulme was getting scared, but she didn’t fu
lly understand why.

  It was the dreams, of course, but she wasn’t getting any nearer to the source of the redness. It was wet, was probably blood, yet she could not quite home in on it. So why was she frightened? Was the answer going to be murder?

  In the dream, she was walking, but small. Everything went on above her head and she reached a lot for door handles, for a doll on a table, to peer over the lip of a horse trough. Grass was high – was it grass, or was it a crop of some kind? Barley? The house had a balustrade around it, stone pillars that were fatter in the middle than at the tops and bases. She often stood and peered through at a long garden with rose beds and patches of lawn.

  There was a yard, cobbled. Sometimes, she slipped because the cobbles were wet. At other times, they were baked by the sun, so she did not dream the same day every time. These dreams were a diary of unremembered time, a period from long ago that had quit her conscious mind, yet the pictures remained seared into her subconscious. She had no control. Asleep, she was a victim of this circular, endless and seemingly pointless drama, a play with no conclusion, no real form, no plot.

  She stabbed brass pins into the cushion, made another stitch, stabbed again. This set of antimacassars would go to Chatsworth, to the Devonshires. Somewhere, she had a photo of Chatsworth, very grand, it was, a beautiful place owned by beautiful people who paid her well and who always took time to write letters of thanks.

  A balustrade. Places like Chatsworth had balustrades and stables and a fountain. Now, where had that fountain come from? She wasn’t asleep, wasn’t dreaming, yet that fountain had just spurted all over her dress . . . yellow dress . . . black, shiny boots, tight-buttoned, small feet. Her heart quickened and she drew a series of short, panicky breaths.

  Lace-making abandoned, Nellie leaned back in her work chair. She could sense Spot snuffling outside the door – he was not allowed in the lace room. There was a proper bedroom now, the one across the landing, as Nellie had not wanted to ruin her new front room furniture by sleeping on it. Spot used the bedroom, too, often curled up in a box on the floor, occasionally under the bedclothes on her feet, a breathing, furry hot water bottle.