Eve bit her lip; if she spoke, she might explode. Constant references to St Peter’s Waiting Room, Death Valley and Pensioners’ Parlour were wearing thin, and the girls were at it again.
‘That’s Southport all over,’ Babs giggled. ‘But I’ve got to get used to it. Sold to the highest bidder, you see. I’m owned by an old man with false teeth, bad breath, greasy hair and a mad horse. I’m a slave, Sally. Do you think I should complain?’
‘Oh, shut up,’ Eve growled. ‘He’s a decent enough bloke with a big house and plenty of cash, so be grateful for once in your life. Don’s lonely, that’s all. There’s no harm in him – it’s younger men who make most trouble.’
‘He should have got married,’ Babs declared. ‘Then he would have had some company.’
‘He’s scared of women,’ was Eve’s sharp reply.
‘Why?’ Sally asked.
Eve had a ready answer. ‘His ma was a tartar by all accounts. He looked after her right until the day she died. She left him rich, but isolated. A lot of men who don’t marry are reacting to something or other in their pasts. His mother was enough to put anybody off marriage for life.’
Sally’s right hand clutched her companion’s left. She now understood fully what Babs intended to do. She would insist on marriage, and Sally would become Don’s new baby. ‘He’ll have two of us,’ Babs had said, ‘and between us we can wear him out faster than I could on my own.’ Would the old man agree to marry Babs? If he was so afraid of women, why should he marry at this late stage?
They travelled up Lord Street. ‘See?’ Babs laughed. ‘They’re all old. Look at her with the two walking sticks. She came for a fortnight last week, and she’s aged thirty years in a few days. You won’t want me back, Eve, cos I’ll probably be in a wheelchair by next year. Unless you get a weirdo who wants a girl who can’t run away. I’m sure if you look hard enough you’ll find somebody who’ll play that game.’
Eve shook her head and remained silent. Little Miss Clever Clogs was up to something, and God alone knew what it was. The girl was bright, too bright for her own good in Eve’s opinion. What was the besom planning this time? A revolution? Eve would be glad to get shut of her, that much was certain. But oh, she was going to miss her . . .
She parked the van and studied the map closely. Don Crawford had an estate, a tract of land so valuable that local builders were gearing up for a fight, since the Wordsworth site was probably large enough to contain twenty or thirty high-class detached dwellings with decent gardens. Yes, there was a queue waiting for the poor old bugger to die, and that queue included local government whose compulsory purchasing ability might well raze Don’s assets to the level of about seventy corporation houses.
And now Babs was going to join the rest of the retinue, one more greedy gob waiting for Don Crawford to kick the bucket. Where did young Sally fit in? Babs didn’t give a damn about anybody else, which was often the case with working girls. They didn’t always start off hardened, but the lifestyle made them tough and self-protective, and Babs was as harsh as they came, so why was she helping Sally have a day out? What did she want from Sally?’
‘Are we lost?’ Babs asked. ‘Remember, we have to leave early.’
‘Shut up,’ Eve advised, ‘and behave yourselves while you’re there. In fact, Sally should come with me and help with the shopping, because she’s not involved, and you need to talk things through in private with Don.’
Babs gave birth to a loud, wet raspberry. ‘She’s having a day out, Eve. When did she last get away from the farm? Never, is when. Even a dog needs a walk and time outside for a bit of a wander. She’s coming with me, and she can sit in another room while I talk to him.’
Eve stared hard at Baby Schofield. ‘Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking, Babs?’
‘I don’t know what you think I’m thinking, do I? I’m not a bloody mind-reader. Sally needs a break, and she can come to Southport and visit me any time when she’s not working.’
‘Have you taken a turn and gone charitable, then?’ Eve asked.
Babs was suddenly serious. ‘She’s like me, like I was. With her, it was her stepfather; with me, it was my uncle. I’m lucky, because he’s dead, but Sally’s corpse is still leaning on a brush down Lime Street. So don’t take it out on me for having a friend. You’ve got Kate to talk to, and nobody complains about that. What you can’t stand is us having minds or mates of our own.’
They’d be forming a union soon, Eve told herself as she drove towards Wordsworth House. Someone like Babs would be shop steward, and they would all pay into a pot and get badges and printed matter telling them how to work to rule. They’d ban pensioners, baldies, sweaty feet, moaners and warts. She pictured them sitting round a bucket of fire in the yard, placards at the ready, a Babs-like figure in the middle screaming about not taking life lying down. Yes, Barbara Schofield would leave a hole in Eve’s life, because she was always good for a laugh.
They travelled through a pair of open metal gates with Wordsworth and House woven into ornate wrought iron. Dove Cottage stood near the gates, and by most people’s standards, the grounds were vast. ‘Blimey,’ Eve muttered, ‘so this is how the other half lives.’ Even though they were round the back of the building, Wordsworth House was stunning; it looked as if the young troublemaker had fallen on her feet here.
‘Stop!’ Babs yelled.
The van slewed to a halt. ‘What the hell’s up with you now?’ The driver was fast approaching the outer rim of her patience.
Babs offered no reply. Like one in a daze, she clambered out of the vehicle and stood stock still next to it. Love at first sight? she pondered inwardly. He was tall, well muscled, and even from this distance she could see his eyes shining. Next to him a short man leaned on a fence, his gaze fixed on Babs. Dragged along by a force she didn’t understand and didn’t want to question, Barbara Schofield walked towards them across a large expanse of lawn.
It was unreal; it was almost like a dream. Why was she doing this? It was as if some strong and undeniable magnetic force was drawing her across the grass. Eve was right – what was the matter with her now?
Gordy Hourigan stared hard at the approaching young woman. She’d scarcely glanced at him, because she was focused completely on his companion on the other side of the fence, and there was confidence in the way she walked. He looked back at the horse. Mad Murdoch resembled a statue, which fact was nothing short of a miracle, especially in the presence of an alien vehicle on the distant gravel driveway. When the girl reached him, the animal whinnied softly.
‘Hello,’ Gordy Hourigan said, his accent definitely the property of western Ireland with just an occasional bit of Lancashire thrown in as flavouring.
Babs returned the greeting before climbing partway up the tall paddock fence. ‘So you’re the mad bugger, eh? Pleased to meet you.’
Gordy doffed a flat cap and scratched his head. He felt like someone eavesdropping during an intimate moment. She was stroking the horse’s nose and whispering softly at the lunatic. This had been an insane morning; Mad Murdoch had regressed to foalhood, prancing sideways as if practising for Swan Lake, and trying to unseat his rider by stopping suddenly and bending to eat something invisible on the ground.
‘Do you work with animals?’ the trainer asked.
‘Human ones, yes,’ was her terse reply. ‘But this is the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Can I sit on him?’
The man frowned. ‘Not dressed like that, you can’t – unless you want broken bones. He bolts sometimes, so you’d need a hard hat, at least.’
‘He wants me,’ she said. ‘He wants me as a friend.’ With no hesitation, she climbed higher, while Murdoch parked himself parallel to the paddock’s wooden boundary.
Gordy had seen this sort of thing before. Some people were made for horses, and some horses were made for some people. And there she was, lying face down across the back of a crazy, temperamental, skittish beast, no tack, no saddle, not so much as a bit of rope to hang
on to. With her right hand in Murdoch’s mane, Babs clung on and whispered, ‘Walk, matey. Let’s have a little ta-ta, eh?’
‘Well,’ the trainer said to himself, ‘now I’ve seen everything.’ Murdoch walked carefully right round the paddock, returning Babs to her point of origin and standing motionless while she dismounted untidily.
She patted the horse’s neck. ‘You are gorgeous, and you know it, don’t you?’ Babs grinned when the animal shook his head. ‘Cheeky.’
She spoke to the trainer. ‘The world looks different upside down,’ she pronounced. ‘I like this horse,’ she added when she had clambered back over the high fence. ‘He’s a bit tall, though. I felt like I was on a bloody skyscraper.’
Gordy closed his gaping mouth. ‘Are you Mr Crawford’s Baby Babs?’ he asked.
‘Yes. What about it?’
He shrugged. ‘Will you be living here?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Why?’
‘Just asking. Because if the horse likes you, you could help me.’
She folded her arms. ‘Would I get paid?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Gordon Hourigan took to the little madam immediately. Although blissfully unaware of the truth, she had been blessed with a gift, and that ability should be put to good use. People like her were few and far between, while Mad Murdoch was a one-off, a powerful machine who, like this little lady, was unaware of his talent.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked.
‘In the gatehouse – Dove Cottage,’ he replied. ‘The boss is poetry mad. Murdy’s best friend’s a donkey called Nicholas Nye – that name’s from a poem, too. Dove Cottage is where Wordsworth lived for a while; it’s up in the Lake District, I think. Mr Crawford reads a lot.’
‘Does he?’ Well, there went her chance of living in Dove Cottage, she supposed. ‘How many horses?’ she asked, pointing towards the stable block.
‘Just this loony gelding and his mother. She was called Dead Loss, but we changed it to Murma because she’s Murdoch’s mum. The rest are donkeys rescued by Mr Crawford. He’s a good man, Miss . . . er . . .’
‘Just Babs will do. And you are?’
‘Gordy. Gordy Hourigan.’
Babs continued to stare at the horse. ‘It’s like he knows me, isn’t it?’
‘Aye. It happens. I’ve seen it before. They can seem to recognize people from the future. Have you really never worked with horses?’
‘No. I’ve never even touched one before; look at me, I’m shaking like a leaf in a gale. Where’s Murdoch’s dad?’
‘Ireland.’
‘Who owns him?’
Gordy guffawed. ‘Who owns him? Whoever can bloody catch him is who. He’s a great horse, though – an Arab. Murdy’s mother has all the grace of a crippled elephant and the temperament of a saint. His dad’s a perfect shape, but the devil’s his master. Out of that accidental mating came Mad Murdoch. The boss is an animal lover, so he bought Murdoch’s mother at the same time as buying him. He came cheap. They both did.’
‘But he has promise, or so I was told,’ she said.
‘If we can get him to run and jump in a straight line without unseating a jockey or starting a world war, he’ll take prizes left right and bloody centre, believe me. I’ve been in this daft game for years. Watch him now. Look at his eyes, because he listens to every word. Ah. I see he doesn’t like your friends.’
Eve and Sally arrived. ‘What the bloody hell are you up to now, Babs?’ Eve hissed. ‘That thing could have put you in the wheelchair you were talking about.’
Murdoch raised his upper lip, displaying huge, tombstone teeth.
‘He doesn’t like you,’ Babs announced while Sally tried to swallow a giggle. ‘See? He’s walking away. Good taste in my opinion, Eve,’ Babs concluded, giving Eve a cheeky wink.
The horse strolled nonchalantly across the paddock. He travelled again along the perimeter, breaking into a casual trot, a canter and . . . ‘Oh, my God,’ Gordy breathed. ‘Get behind me,’ he ordered. ‘Not Babs – he won’t hurt her or the other young girl, or me.’ He glanced at Eve. ‘You’re the one he doesn’t like. Babs, he’s coming over.’
She gasped. ‘Has he done it before?’
‘No. But a young man in love isn’t containable, even if he is a gelding.’
Eve tried to conceal about a quarter of herself behind the trainer. Sally held Babs’s hand; if Babs was going to be hurt, Sal intended to be by her side.
The sun disappeared; it was like a slowed-down film that had stuck on its reel, because the animal seemed to be in the air for many seconds, and he cast a large shadow – the event imitated a brief solar eclipse. ‘Jesus,’ Gordy breathed, ‘we’ve tried for months to get him to . . . whoa, boy.’
The boy whoa-ed, leaving marks in the carefully manicured lawn. He tossed his head and looked daggers at the fat woman. Turning his attention to Babs, he seemed to grin. She was clapping and shouting, ‘Well done; who’s a clever boy, then? Are you going to win the National for Don and Gordy and Babs, eh?’
Clever Boy neighed his agreement. So this was what they wanted from him. It was against his nature, against the nature of any horse, since the skeletal structure is frail, with a huge body balanced on stick-thin legs. But the two-legged thought they were in charge and he needed to please them, especially a pair of these here, the trainer and her. He had to jump over obstacles. Well, he would, as long as she could be there. He stood beside her, his nostrils in her pony tail.
‘Riding lessons for you, girl,’ Gordy said, a grin splitting his face.
‘Are you having a laugh? I even fall off bikes,’ Babs told him.
‘Ah, but you’ve an affinity with this insane bugger. He won’t throw you.’
She folded her arms. ‘Women don’t ride in Grand National types of races.’
The trainer nodded. ‘Not yet, they don’t. But by the time he’s ready, it will be a different story. And he likes you, so he won’t buck you off.’
Babs grinned. ‘I’m glad you said buck instead of . . . look, the bike doesn’t buck me off, but I still hit the floor.’
The trainer shook his head thoughtfully. ‘You’re a natural. I’m going to talk to the boss. Open the paddock gate and take Wonder Horse back to his mother. She’s up the top end talking to donkeys.’ He nodded wisely. ‘Welcome to my crazy world, Babs. Before you leave later on, cuddle a donkey. Very comforting things, donkeys. Make sure you pick Nye, Murdoch’s favourite. You’ll know him, because he wears a bell.’
‘Why a bell?’ Sally asked.
‘Because he’s blind,’ the trainer replied, employing the tone of one answering a stupid question.
Sally blinked. ‘Er . . .’
Babs rescued her friend. ‘Why a bell? He’s a donkey, not a cow. I never heard of a donkey-bell.’
‘Two reasons,’ Gordy continued. ‘One, it tells the rest of the stable he’s coming, and two, he has excellent hearing. Something in the bell’s noise lets him know how far away from things he is. Murdoch looks after him.’
‘Aw, that’s sweet,’ Sally said.
Eve, sweaty and embarrassed, strode off towards the van. She’d had just about enough of Babs, Sally and that damned horse. As for the trainer – well, he looked as if he’d like to get close to Babs Schofield, too close for Don Crawford’s liking. ‘I don’t know why I bother,’ she told the steering wheel. ‘Oh well, I’ve done my bit. Now, what am I looking for? The list. Ah, here it is.’ She started the van and prepared to drive off towards Lord Street. Don would just have to do his best, because Eve Mellor was sick unto death of the whole business. Red velvet for curtains, that was what she needed. And a couple of cream cakes would set her right.
Just as she was about to reverse, something caught her eye. From what was presumably the back door of Wordsworth House, four dogs spilled. Behind them padded two cats, a goose, and a clutch of fussy hens with a second goose bringing up the rear. Eve blinked. ‘What is this?’ she asked herself
. ‘The RSPC-bloody-A? Jesus, I feel nearly sorry for Babs Schofield. I never thought I’d see the day.’ Smiling grimly, she set off in search of red velvet, gold tassel trim, a nice pot of tea and a plate of cream fancies.
There’s something wrong with him. He’s still kind and affectionate, still good with Matt and Lucy, but he wouldn’t join me at Confession on Saturday, said he had a chance of overtime, and he would go to Confession in town. On Sunday, he didn’t go up for Holy Communion. I’ve no one to talk to, because I wouldn’t betray him to his parents or to mine, so I may have a word with Father Doherty.
Neil’s a good man, very religious. I don’t know what to think. Is he having a crisis of some sort, like a breakdown? A man down Musker Street had one of those, and they put him in a mental hospital over towards St Helens; we never saw him for months, then he came back deadly quiet and unfit for work. His wife Annie says it’s as if she has four kids now instead of three, and she does several part-time jobs, too. The poor man’s on all kinds of drugs, and the children look after him while their mum works.
Our parish priest often says that the holiest people have the most trouble, because they try so hard to get close to their faith that the intensity of it can knock them sideways. They think too much, he says. But if I ever put together a list of the great thinkers I know, my Neil wouldn’t be on the list. Not that he’s stupid; no, I don’t mean that, but he thinks in what you might call straight lines. He decides what he’s doing, goes for it, achieves it, then moves on to the next item on his list.
He re-covered our three-piece suite in beige Dralon, a bit like velvet, only easier to keep clean. That nest of tables he bought second-hand looks new now, because he worked so hard to make the set pretty. Then he does sweet things like buying a gold cross and chain for my birthday, skates for Matt, and a talking doll for Lucy.
Is it me? Has something changed inside my head, something that makes me look at him differently? He’s preoccupied, a bit distant, worried. It might be a problem at work, of course. For ages, he’s been looking for promotion to management level, but he’s always talked to me about that. Until now.
Midnight on Lime Street Page 6
