Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  Paul extracted himself from beneath a fast-growing Tinker and grinned ruefully. ‘That’s a very affectionate dog, Beth.’

  ‘Yes.’ She studied the man for a few seconds. ‘Sorry about your mother.’ She paused, assessed his mood. ‘If you go back in the van, you might catch her, because that’s faster than a bus.’

  He thanked her for her condolences, but stated his intention to remain.

  ‘You love my mother, don’t you?’

  He stared hard at this troublesome, lovable child. ‘That’s a grown-up thing, Beth, not something you need to know about.’

  The lovable child tut-tutted in an adult fashion. Why weren’t adults plainer and simpler? They had to run three times round the houses just to find out where they were. As far as Beth could work out, life became more complicated once maturity set in. Children played, liked some people, didn’t like others, got on with it, didn’t question themselves. Whereas the older and wiser folk spent so much time thinking about stuff – well – they needed to get on with things.

  ‘She’ll be back,’ he said.

  ‘I know, she’s my mother.’

  He stared at his shoes, at the rug, at the recumbent Tinker. ‘Beth?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He raised his head. ‘When your mother does come back, make yourself scarce, will you?’

  Beth stood up, indignance in her expression. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ she said haughtily. Then she stalked off to her bedroom, leaving him to indulge his nervousness. Sometimes, grown-ups were just too stupid for words.

  Magsy was hot, tired and rather cross as she climbed the hill from the bus stop. The dress hung sadly, any semblance of crispness destroyed by this afternoon’s murderous heat; the shoes rubbed, her hair hung damply around a face that screamed for cold water, she was thirsty and well on her way to exhaustion.

  She saw the van, dust all over it, remembered the night when he had stayed with her outside the hospital. Her heart rose unbidden, and she swallowed, the movement almost painful in a mouth as dry as blotting paper. She had half expected him, had half dismissed such expectation, as he must have been here for a couple of hours. And she was a mess and—

  ‘Mam?’ Beth was leaning out of one of the upper windows. ‘Paul’s here.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He’s been waiting ages.’

  Magsy sighed, remembering how proud she had always been of Beth for knowing exactly how to behave, yet now, at this crucial time, the child was yelling all over the road while Paul Horrocks listened, no doubt.

  She entered Katherine’s kitchen, dabbed cold water on her forehead, pulled the dress into some semblance of order. When she had consumed a large glass of lemonade, she began the climb towards a moment that might well shape her future, each stair a mountain in the relentless heat. It was after seven o’clock, yet the earth continued to burn.

  Paul stood up as she entered the room.

  ‘Thank you for waiting,’ she said. ‘We must have passed each other. Shall I make some tea?’

  ‘No.’ He walked past her and closed the door. ‘Little ears,’ he said.

  They stared at one another for a few moments. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  ‘Getting through the guilt,’ he replied.

  ‘Ah. Your mother. I am sorry.’

  He pushed a damp curl from his slick forehead. ‘This may sound ridiculous, but it is too hot for a proposal. I thought I should make an appointment for some other time, though.’

  Magsy grinned. ‘So you are proposing to set a time for a proposal?’

  That’s it,’ he replied.

  ‘I accept your proposed idea for a proposed proposal. Of course, I have no idea what my answer will be. We must make an appointment that is mutually suitable.’

  ‘Saturday,’ he suggested, ‘Town Hall steps, two o’clock, don’t be late.’ He picked up his wrinkled jacket and walked to the door, pausing as he touched the handle. He turned and looked at her for several seconds. ‘By the way, you have a black mark on your nose. And you are still beautiful.’ He left, a huge smile on his face as he descended the stairs. She would marry him, so all was well in the civilized world.

  Beth dashed in. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘That I have a dirty mark on my nose.’

  ‘You have.’ Beth stood, feet planted apart, arms akimbo. ‘So he sat here all that time, waited for you and never asked if you would marry him? That was all he said? About your nose? He only stayed about two minutes after you got back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mam?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He wouldn’t come all that way for nothing.’ Adults really were stupid, absolutely mad. ‘Tinker’s got more sense than you two,’ offered the young genius before stalking out, head in the air, scruffy puppy at her heels.

  Alone, Magsy looked in the mirror, spat on a thumb and rubbed the smear from her nose. She picked up William’s photograph and kissed it. She would meet him again one day, when the world was a little older and real time had been left behind by her earthly self.

  But for now, while her life remained fastened to this globe, Magsy O’Gara had discovered her new love, so she whispered a goodbye, then went to wash her face properly.

  Peter Smythe watched the van as it drove away, wished with all his heart that he could have begged a lift. But a lift was out of the question, because he had to remain invisible, safe and totally undetected.

  He had done his stint at the shop, had come home to his little summer house, was about to embark on one of the more adventurous of his journeys through a well-travelled life. He brushed his shoes, washed his face, found a pair of bicycle clips. The bike was a borrowed one, though he had failed to inform the owner about the loan. Well, that should present no problem, because the man whose bike this was had gone away for the week. ‘No harm done,’ he told his reflection in the small mirror.

  The time had come. He stuffed a small package into his pocket, took a deep breath, left the summer house. Dusk was still not happening, but he had no time to waste. The route would take him through fields and narrow country lanes, as he needed to be anonymous to the point of non-existence.

  He slipped through a gap in the hedge, skirted a field, found the bike where he had left it, began the journey of several miles. Once at the outskirts of Bolton, he would wait for the light to fail before continuing along the populated section. He was afraid, yet he knew that he was doing the right thing; he was doing it for Dorothy.

  At the age of sixty-two, Peter had arrived at love very late in life, but Dorothy was his life, his hope, his future, however brief that might be. The main thing was to make sure that his life was not ended by the hangman.

  Because Peter Smythe was on his way to free Dorothy; he was going to rid the world of Ernest Barnes.

  Nineteen

  Paul and Magsy Horrocks were among the early arrivals at Chedderton Grange.

  This was the first night of Olivia Tangle, a play written by one of the seniors. It was a comic and all-female version of Oliver Twist and Beth, proud as a strutting peacock, had the meatiest role. As Ferocia McFadden, she was to play the Fagin role, her face covered in warts, body bent in the shape of an old woman, several teeth blacked out.

  ‘You look lovely,’ said Paul as he drew the final wrinkle across his stepdaughter’s face. ‘A picture of glowing youth and innocence if ever I saw one. In fact, if I were single, I’d ask you out for a date Saturday night.’

  Beth grinned at him, showed him the ‘bad’ teeth. ‘I do not associate with commoners, Mr Horrocks,’ she informed him. ‘I only pickpocket the high and mighty. Am I ugly enough?’

  ‘Yes,’ chorused her adult companions. She looked like nothing on God’s good earth, thought Magsy, face a greenish-white, dark circles around the eyes, stringy wig dangling down to her shoulders, black clothing that looked as if it had come straight from one of Charlie Entwistle’s rubbish wagons.

  Chedderton Grange school had outgrown itself. As its
reputation had spread to encompass the whole of England, another location was earmarked, a huge, rambling mansion about a mile away, a place large enough to take a dozen boarders. So this would be the final dramatic effort from the Grange.

  Magsy was sad. The very size of the school had been its strength, yet she must continue to believe, because the headmistress had reassured all parents that standards would not slip, that each girl would have her own needs covered.

  Magsy squeezed Paul’s hand. Her happiness was so precious that she had to make sure of it, was having to damp down her fears that this man, too, would disappear. William had been lost in a war, and there was no war now. But she feared for Paul each time he set off for work on that motorbike, was happier when he borrowed Murphy’s van.

  He knew her fears, squeezed her hand in return. He was a happy man at last. Living at Knowehead was all right. He actually liked the old dragon downstairs, but he wished that they could get their own place, a proper house with two floors all to themselves. Nevertheless, he was grateful to be out of the slums, happy to be married to the most wonderful woman on God’s earth.

  It had been a quiet wedding, just close friends, little Beth and Paul’s neighbour from Bolton. Magsy had forbidden him to take instruction, so he remained a Protestant, though he had agreed that any children would be raised in his wife’s faith.

  Magsy’s opinion was that all men were equal, that Catholics and Protestants were basically the same, human flesh, human blood, divided only by the likes of Ernest Barnes, whose remains had been lowered into the earth just a few months ago. A stroke, the certificate said. And how lonely had that man’s last journey been? Just a few old Lodgers and the undertaker’s men, no wife, neither of his sons, no friend to see him on his way. Even his paltry legacy had been given away by Dot to a charity for children. She had muttered a few dark words about how Ernest had abused his own boys, had declared that he would now pay for a couple of orphans to be fed, had never since mentioned his name.

  Beth looked in a mirror. ‘Jesus wept,’ she exclaimed.

  Magsy put a hand to her mouth, held on to her laughter. Beth was not a child who took the good Lord’s name in vain, yet these words had tripped so easily from that sweet mouth.

  ‘Mam, I look terrible. Isn’t it brilliant?’ She pulled faces at herself in the glass. ‘Perhaps I’ll be an actress.’

  Paul looked at Magsy, Magsy looked at Paul. In the past few months, Beth had been a doctor, a scientist, a mathematician and now she was an actress. They waited for each change of mind, smiling at each other as the world unfolded before this wonderful, mercurial mind. Whatever she chose, Beth would do it well.

  Other parents and children arrived, fussy voices and bodies filling the classroom until Paul and Magsy decided to leave in order to escape the nervousness. They said tata to Beth, noticing how she did not fuss. Other girls recited lines, stared in mirrors, pulled at hair that would not obey its owners. But Beth simply sat and read a book. ‘Keats,’ said Magsy quietly.

  ‘I’ll bet you ten bob she’ll be a poet tomorrow,’ replied Paul.

  Magsy shook her head. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘I’m not playing that game. She was talking about being an astronaut last week, said there’d be people on the moon in twenty years. No, I’m betting no money, love.’

  Arm in arm, they walked into the small hall where a stage and curtains had been installed. It was time for Beth to make yet another of her débuts.

  A much thinner Nellie Hulme and a much plumper Lily Hardcastle travelled on the bus up to Hesford. Closer than sisters, these two were welded together by lacework so strong that only God would ever undo that stitching. They also shared the rearing of Roy and the control of Aaron, whose marketing skills were amazing. In fact, he had done so well that several dozen homeworkers were now knitting day and night to fill the orders he had taken without informing his employers. ‘But Mam,’ he had answered when reproached, ‘I can sell it, I can sell it all.’ Which was true, because the lad might have sold coal to folk from Newcastle.

  ‘Nice up here,’ said Nellie, whose speech was coming on in leaps and bounds.

  ‘Lovely,’ agreed Lily, her mind fixed on Aaron and Roy. ‘They’ll be all right, won’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they will.’

  Each woman carried a shopping bag containing nightdress, clean underclothing and toiletries. After the play, they were to take supper with Magsy, Paul and Beth. Tonight, they would sleep under the roof of Miss Katherine Moore of Knowehead, once owner of the house to which they now travelled, Chedderton Grange. Lily swallowed a lump of nervousness. ‘I can’t remember the last time I slept away from home.’

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ said Nellie, ‘you’re with me.’

  ‘I know. But she’s reckoned to be fierce.’

  Nellie laughed. ‘Yes, well, so are we. And there’s two of us, so she had better watch out.’

  ‘They’ll remember to feed Skinny and Spot, won’t they?’

  Nellie sighed. ‘Yes, they will. Now stop worrying, here’s where we get off.’

  They walked up the road to the Grange, each looking forward to the play. It was good to be out, good to be together even in the chill darkness of October. The house hove into view, its gardens lit by lamps, the driveway long and winding.

  Yes, this would be a good night.

  Katherine had not picked up Peter Smythe’s book in weeks, but she had asked Beth to fetch it for her this very afternoon. Weary and made cross because of her inability to watch the play, Katherine decided to indulge herself.

  She opened it at her mark, chewed absently on a rare treat, Belgian chocolate with strawberry filling. Yes, the man had enjoyed an interesting life, but the new painkillers were extremely effective. After just a couple of paragraphs, her eyelids closed and she was asleep.

  The author of the slim volume walked smartly along by the side of his wife.

  They moved at exactly the same pace, even strides, she swinging her left arm, he his right. The other two arms were linked, while Peter bore in the free arm that famous cane which had become his trademark.

  They had married within weeks of Ernest’s death. Peter, who had come late in life to love, insisted on keeping his little wooden house. It was snug, tiny, and just about adequate for the couple. They had a bedroom, a sitting room, kitchen, bathroom and an enclosed wraparound porch. They talked endlessly, listened to certain programmes on the wireless, had obviously been created with this partnership in mind.

  Dot had not expected a second chance. She kept her independence, was still employed by her son, but the centre of her life was now this small, lovable man who was well read, kind and very affectionate. ‘Peter?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We were lucky, weren’t we?’

  ‘We were indeed, my dear.’

  She tutted quietly. ‘Fancy him dying just like that. As if God had planned it so that we could be together, you and me.’

  She seldom mentioned her dead husband, and she plainly expected no reply, so Peter kept his counsel. He had led Dorothy into his ways, had encouraged her to wander country lanes with him, to learn about plants and wild flowers, about cuttings, cultivation, about growing from seed. But his knowledge of poisons sat deep within him and he would never tell her that particular truth.

  Peter Smythe owned no God and was owned by none. He saw humanity as an extension of the animal kingdom, a layer not above, yet slightly apart from the rest. Humans had developed beyond plucking berries from trees, beyond digging for roots and scratching for grubs. Humans killed. They killed not just for food, but also for territory. And he had made Dorothy a widow.

  ‘I hated him,’ she said now.

  ‘I know. So did everyone else, or so it would seem.’

  He looked back on that night, shivering as he wondered anew that he still owned his freedom, though he regretted not at all the action he had taken. Peter had helped rid the world of a rodent, a creature who would not have been allowed to remain alive as a m
ember of any other animal group.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘That were a big shiver, love. Do you want to borrow me scarf?’

  ‘No, thank you. It is rather cold, but we shall soon be inside.’

  Monkshood, sometimes called Monkshead, had done the trick. Peter pulled his coat tightly to his chest, relived that fateful evening. Dot paced along beside him, quiet, adoring and adorable, a loving woman who had required just a small amount of respect and affection to bring her back to life . . .

  Aconite in his pocket, Peter let himself in through Ernest Barnes’s back door. He listened, just as he had listened many times before, to the moaning of this abandoned ‘widower’. Dot was a bad bitch, Dot had never fed him properly, she was a parasite, a thief, a nightmare. She had spoilt his sons, had turned them into nancy boys, had driven the whole household into madness.

  Peter boiled the kettle, made tea, dropped the aconite into Ernest’s cup, poured a measure of scotch into the drink so that the taste would be disguised. This poison, brought into England in the Middle Ages, had been used by ancient cultures to finish off old men who had become burdensome and useless. How apt.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Dot. ‘I can tell you’re thinking.’

  He returned to the present. ‘Vermin control,’ he replied.

  The first symptoms were negligible, just a slight numbing of the tongue, a tingling sensation around the mouth. Ernest sat back, empty cup placed on the table, tongue flicking around lips that were suddenly pale.

  ‘Ooh, very nice, I’m sure,’ laughed Dot. ‘Here we are on our way to see Beth in a play, and you’re thinking about rats.’

  Yes, very nice. The sensation of small insects crawling over the skin, cold sweats, irregular breathing. Peter knelt beside the perspiring man and whispered, ‘Your pulse is slowing and breathing is difficult. You are so cold. In a moment, you will vomit. I do this for Dorothy, the woman I love. I do this for all those Catholics who live across the street, decent people whose faith I do not share, but whose rights I defend.’