Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  He nodded. ‘Miss Morgan has given me a small caravan on her land. I am too old now to take my chances with the weather, so that very kind lady gives me a roof and a supper each night. I am blessed in my friends.’

  He meant it. Here was a man of education, one who had spent his life on the road, a spirit unencumbered, a person who found no task too menial, one who worked hard for his crust. The nicest thing about the educated tramp was that he appreciated everything – a flower for his buttonhole, a bag of toffees, someone’s cast-off clothes, a cup of tea. Yes, he was grateful and he said so.

  She made lunch, wondering all the time about Peter Smythe. Who was he really? Had he done all that university stuff – Oxford, Cambridge – had he fought in a war? Where was his family? He sounded . . . not London, no, because London had its accents just like Manchester and Liverpool. He sounded like somebody on the wireless, a BBC Home Service type of voice, no accent at all, a clean voice, perfect. Yes, he could have read the news with no bother at all, because Peter Smythe spoke the King’s English.

  ‘Funny way of life altogether,’ she told her potatoes as she creamed them, ‘walking about for years, no proper home. There’s no brother in the hills, ’cos he told our Rachel. People don’t just happen, they get born. I wonder who owns him?’

  As both Frank and Rachel were working in the shop, Dot invited Peter inside for his meal. Someone had trained him, she thought as she watched him removing his shoes in the doorway. Or had he always known not to wear dirty shoes inside a house? And he washed his hands so thoroughly at the kitchen sink.

  He ate slowly, like a person who had never known hunger. His manners were perfect – in fact, Dot wondered whether she ought to have given him a napkin.

  ‘Cheese?’ she asked when he had finished his crumble.

  He smiled. ‘A little to take away, if you please.’

  Dot smiled too. He was well known in these parts for wanting a little to take away. Should she ask? Could she?

  She parcelled up some Cheddar with three slices of buttered bread and passed the gift to him. He was standing by his chair, hat in hand, the famous silver-topped cane leaning on the wall beside him.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Again that courtly little bow.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  He pursed his lips for a moment. ‘Do I have to answer? I must plead immunity, Mrs Barnes, from some questions.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Enough that I am here, dear lady, that I might clean your yard several times a month and that you will reward me with food, warmth and kindness.’

  Dot felt like something that had been walked in on a shoe. She repeated her apology.

  ‘No matter,’ he insisted, ‘for human curiosity is at the root of all we value – literature, art, music, medicine. Let us just say that the life I have chosen fits me like a glove, for I have written my magnum opus and it is to be published quite soon. I learn a great deal about people, you see, about how they think, who they are, where they fit, why they need to fit.’

  ‘And you don’t need to fit, Mr Smythe?’

  He chuckled. ‘Of course I fit – we all do. Without me, the hedges and lawns of Hesford, Bromley Cross, Harwood and so forth would be overgrown. I mend walls and fences, paint doors and window frames, tend animals out in the fields. Just like everyone else, I am another piece of the jigsaw. Place me correctly and I shall fit.’

  She understood. ‘I fit now, but I didn’t fit down yon with him lashing out all the while.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he answered, ‘and this is the man who visited you at the weekend? The one who marked the young Mrs Barnes’s face?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You had a bad marriage. I am glad you got away.’

  For a reason she could never have explained in a month of Sundays, Dot found herself delivering her life to this person. She didn’t mind spilling her history and her feelings to this stranger, because she felt as if she had known him all her life.

  ‘You were squashed,’ he said when she had presented the outline. ‘And not just physically. He took away who you are, damaged those you were designed to protect, kept you a prisoner.’ He sighed and shook his head sadly. ‘A prisoner does not have to be in jail, Mrs Barnes. All it takes is a wedding band and a man whose only chance of leaving a mark is by beating those he is supposed to love. That is a sad character.’

  ‘He’s not sad,’ Dot protested vigorously. ‘He’s just evil.’

  ‘Evil,’ mused Peter Smythe. ‘And who created him?’

  What did this man mean? ‘His mam and dad, I suppose. His mam were a tartar. Never left us alone, always calling round at the house and criticizing everything I did. She’d no love for any of her grandchildren and they didn’t reckon much to her, come to think. Then, when she died, she left me a brooch. Silver, it is, like woven, with a black pearl in the middle. Black like her heart. I would never wear it.’

  She sat down again and Peter joined her. ‘Come on, tell me the rest,’ he urged.

  Dot swallowed. ‘I can’t sleep. He’s crippled, got knocked down by a carthorse years back, but he managed to get up here, Mr Smythe.’

  ‘Peter.’

  She smiled absently. ‘I’m Dorothy, Dot for short. Anyway, he got here. He’s bad enough for anything, that one. Hates Catholics, Jews, anybody who looks a bit foreign. Just hates everybody. But mainly, he hates me.’

  ‘I see.’ He waited. ‘Go on.’

  She studied the man, didn’t understand why she trusted him so completely. ‘I want him dead. Isn’t that awful? I shan’t rest till he’s dead.’

  Peter shook his head thoughtfully. ‘No, that is not so terrible. You fear for yourself, your son, your daughter-in-law—’

  ‘And for any grandchildren I might have.’

  ‘I see nothing wrong in that,’ he said carefully. ‘In the animal kingdom, rogues are often sought out and killed by the majority. You see, I know from what you have said that your husband is not going to change. I tried to guess what had made him so bad, but I was not about to excuse him – I was merely interested in what makes him tick.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I collect people, you see. Butterflies would be easier, but people are my hobby.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘May I visit him?’

  Dot’s spine was suddenly as stiff as a ramrod. ‘You what? Why would you want to go and do that?’

  ‘For my next book,’ he answered. ‘I intend to write one.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘I am adept at explaining my sudden appearances, Dorothy. I cannot call you Dot – it sounds like a mark on a page.’ He gripped one of her hands. ‘You are more than that.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘I am changing. I used to say everything twice – people said that was because I had to convince myself that I was worth listening to. Well, I’ve nearly stopped that. I like my life, Peter. I love it up here, the shop and everything. And he just turns up out of the blue and up-ends me.’ She retrieved her hand and beat her breast with it. ‘I can’t let him do it again.’

  ‘No.’

  She bit down hard on her lower lip. ‘Five, Prudence Street. It’s off Derby Street, not far from the Tivoli Picture House.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’ He stood up. ‘I must finish the yard.’

  ‘What will you . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t ask, Dorothy. Let us just say this – I came into this world an accident. I never knew my father, but Mother told me that I was special. She educated me herself, and I must say that she made quite a good job of me.’ He laughed. ‘No colleges or universities for me, you see. She gave me everything. Now, I have told you more than I am willing to impart to most people. Keep my secrets and I shall keep yours. Do not ask any more. I have a yard to clean.’

  And he was gone.

  Dot sat until it was her turn to keep shop. He was a funny one, all right, was Peter Smythe. Yet she would have trusted him with her life . . .

  Fourteen

  Nellie t
ook Lily under her wing. Apart from night time, Lily became a permanent fixture at number 1. They had the two dogs for company, and Nellie’s quiet suited Lily, because she had little to say and much thinking to do.

  Danny was recovering from pneumonia, though he would not go back into the pit for months, if ever. Aaron, whose pleurisy was also clearing, was a shadow of his former self, but, with warmth, care and decent food, he might be back at school after Easter, his last term as a child. But Roy was different.

  With his chicken pox faded, the lad had developed another rash, something far more sinister than the usual childhood illnesses. Dark red spots had appeared all over his body, the angry marks of blood stirred beyond reason and almost beyond human endurance. These marks were the outer sign of an inner turmoil grim beyond belief, because the poor little lad had meningitis.

  She had brought it on. By resenting her position, by being unhappy about tolerating what every other Godfearing housewife endured, she had wished her menfolk out of existence. Sam’s death had been both blow and relief – if one had to die, then it should be a parent, not a child. But Roy? Would he be taken, too? Surely the price had been paid?

  Lily had a book about the disease, one she had picked up in the library. The covering on the brain became inflamed, then the spine was affected. Blood poisoning went hand in hand with this illness and those who survived sometimes suffered after-effects. Oh, God spare him from brain damage and loss of limb. Poor balance and depression they could cope with, but please, not fits, not a little boy in a wheelchair . . .

  Nellie whipped the book from under her neighbour’s nose. ‘No,’ she chided soundlessly, ‘stop. Come.’ She led Lily upstairs into the lace room. ‘Sit. Watch.’

  She had made a contraption the likes of which Lily could not work out. Thoroughly puzzled, she allowed herself to be pushed into a chair, then she watched the deaf woman as she went through a very elaborate rigmarole. On an old padded chair seat, Nellie had fixed a pattern, huge, gargantuan when compared to the delicate items around the room.

  ‘Lace,’ said Nellie. She proceeded to twist wool and bobbins, using nails instead of pins to secure each stitch. ‘Watch,’ she ordered every ten seconds.

  Lily watched. She watched for well over half an hour, saw the twisting and turnings, the impaling of each loop as it was formed. What the hell was Nellie up to at all? There was a funeral in a few days, and here they sat like two kiddies playing cat’s cradle, daft patterns in green wool, twist, turn, pull one, push one, pin it, cross it over . . . ‘What?’ she asked when the bobbins were pushed into her hands.

  ‘You,’ ordered Nellie. ‘Your turn.’

  Lily’s chin dropped so suddenly that she thought her face would split in half. What the bloody hell was going on at all? ‘I can’t do that,’ she mee-mawed, the words exaggerated. ‘This is not for me, Nellie.’

  Nellie frowned. ‘Do it.’

  ‘Bugger,’ muttered Lily under her breath.

  Nellie shoved a piece of paper under her neighbour’s nose and Lily read, Right. You need money to look after the boys so you can’t go to work so you can make lace and I will pay you. Is your eyesight good?

  Lily blinked. She had good eyesight, but lace? Another piece of paper appeared. And if you can crochet and knit we can sell things on the market. I have a deaf friend who has a stall.

  It was hopeless. For a start, complicated explanations were never easy when the recipient was deaf. Lily picked up the paper, wrote, I can sew clothes but I can’t do lace, Nellie.

  ‘Yes, you can,’ mouthed the lady of this much improved house.

  Well, there was no use arguing with a woman as stubborn as Nellie Hulme. Deaf she might be, stupid she certainly was not. And she was right, too. When the boys came home, Lily would be needing work, the sort of work she could do at home. But what was she doing sitting here with a load of nails and wool when she was a woman in mourning? Nellie was magic, it seemed. She made everything calm just by being here, just by being Nellie.

  Nellie left the room and Lily found herself gazing down at a pricked paper pattern, four pairs of bobbins and some green wool. God. Where to start? She wound the wool round a nail, wound another pair of bobbins, made a hole in the windings and thrust a nail in. That was it, more or less. Wasn’t it? Ah, no. Nellie’s wool had gone the other way – that way – no . . .

  Several minutes later, Lily had produced a wonderful mess. There were nails everywhere, while a bulky mass of confused wool lay impaled upon the cushion. She was sweating. A husband to bury, and here she sat, confused, dazed and hating the colour green with a passion. Now, if she had pushed the wool twice round the first nail, happen it might have come out – ah. She could see where she had gone wrong. Nellie was coming. Lily could hear those heavy footfalls on the stairs.

  Nellie looked down at the mess. She picked up the paper and pen, wrote laboriously, tongue protruding from a corner of her mouth. Lily waited, a child from Standard Three who knew that her report would be bad.

  The note read, Yes, a good try, so after the funeral we do some more and you will be my apprentice.

  The apprentice looked up, saw kindness and goodness in Nellie’s eyes. This deaf woman was splendid, she was the best. She reached out and took a hand that was plump, yet thinner than it had been. ‘Thanks, Nellie,’ she mouthed. The tears flowed, streamed everywhere, damping the green wool to a colour even more hideous. He was dead and she could never bring him back. Roy was unconscious, the other two were still poorly.

  But Nellie was here and now, was solid, was ‘talking’ about making tea and toast. Outside the door, dogs were snuffling, each waiting for the mistress, each ready for that walk. Nellie mattered, by God, she did. Because Nellie made a difference.

  And that, concluded Lily Hardcastle, was the true secret of life. Each person was here to make a difference – and not all wool was green.

  Beth was quieter than usual. She took the news about Sam’s death well, but her brow knitted when she heard about the Hardcastle boys. She drank milk, chewed on a biscuit, broke off a bit for her delighted dog. ‘I might not be a doctor,’ she announced when her snack was finished. ‘I might go into germs instead.’

  Magsy lifted the iron and placed it on the table. So now Beth was planning a career in medical research. She would probably go through teaching, law and several other possibilities before reaching adulthood. ‘How are you feeling now, sweetheart?’

  Sweetheart shrugged. ‘I’ve been better for ages.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Magsy, ‘I think they kept you in for the entertainment value. Weren’t you telling them how to do their jobs?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. I just made suggestions. Anyway, I think scientists are far more important than doctors, because they find the germs. Doctors just try to mend people, but scientists can discover the trouble before everybody starts dying.’ She paused for thought. ‘Poor Roy.’

  ‘Yes, we must pray for him.’

  ‘Is it menin . . . What’s it called?’

  ‘Meningitis.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, I hope he gets better. I shall look after him when he comes home.’

  Magsy pressed a sheet. It was best to get things over quickly with Beth. The child did not respond when a subject was skirted – no, Beth wanted facts, the truth, the whole truth. ‘I was thinking of a move,’ she began.

  The child frowned. ‘A move? Where to?’

  ‘North. Into the countryside. I thought we might go up together tomorrow and take a look. It’s beautiful up there, just what you need to get those roses back into your cheeks.’

  Beth stood up and looked through the window. She had always lived here, could not imagine living anywhere else. Why was this happening now? ‘Is it because I’ve been ill? Is that why we have to move?’

  ‘Partly, yes.’ Telling lies to Beth was useless. Sometimes, it was necessary to minimize information, but direct untruths never went down well. Anyway, Magsy was no good at lies. Had she sat an exam in deceit, she would have failed spect
acularly. ‘We don’t need to go up there yet. Paul will take us.’

  Beth swung round. ‘He’s nice.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Visited me twice.’

  ‘I know.’

  Beth sat down again, a hand straying to pet the ever-present Tinker. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’

  Oh, God, not again. This one would have Magsy married in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, papal blessing, nuptial Mass and the massed bands of the king’s guards. ‘He is male and he is a good friend.’

  ‘With a motorbike.’

  ‘Yes, but we shall travel to Hesford in a van. I am not getting on one of those things and there is no sidecar, so forget it. It would not carry the three of us.’

  Beth pondered. ‘He could visit us on his motorbike, then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’d let him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Beth sighed happily. ‘That’s all right, then. Shall I make some toast?’

  Magsy turned to dash a tear from her eye. She thought back to a time not too long ago when she had not been able to visit this precious girl, when she had feared the sort of complications now suffered by poor Roy Hardcastle. People died from influenza. How lucky she was to have this child, this wonderful, troublesome girl who, today, possibly for one day only, was going to become a leading microbiologist.

  ‘I love you, Beth,’ she whispered.

  ‘That’s all right then, because I love you, too. How many slices do you want?’ She picked up the toasting fork and got on with life.

  Lois Horrocks was furious. Her several chins wobbled with anger as she spoke to her son. ‘You know I don’t like them things. Bella Eckersley’s lad’s like a bloody cabbage now, brain gone after he went under that tram. You’ve done it on purpose. You’ve done it so as I’ll die and you’ll have nowt to worry about.’

  For a woman about to die, Lois had a lot of energy, her son thought as he watched and listened. She didn’t like motorbikes. She didn’t like girlfriends, work mates, pub mates, any kinds of mates. She didn’t like cheap sheets on her bed, chip shop dinners, tripe without onions, wool next to her skin. She didn’t like Dick Barton on the wireless, being on her own, didn’t like visitors.