He held the bell in his palm as he slid through the door, stopping the clang. He listened. Nothing.
Waiting until his eyes adjusted to the darkness the rasp of his shallow breathing sounded loud but when he held it back the only noise he heard was the creaking of floorboards above.
With a grunt of satisfaction he crept around the wooden boxes of bundled firewood in the corner by the counter and to the back of the shop. Opening the door where he’d watched the shop owner take the bag, he lit a match and held it in front of him. It wasn’t a room, it was a cupboard. On the floor were small sacks. He pulled at the top of each, peering inside: flour, sugar, tea. His heart thumped in his chest. The walls were full of shelves stacked high with tins of food and packs of what looked like butter. But no bag of money.
The flame burned along the wood of the match and grew hot against his fingers. ‘Blast.’ Bill blew it out and lit another, studying the shelves. One line of canned meat looked jumbled in the middle of the shelf. Bill reached up and lifted one off. The canvas bag was behind. Grinning, he lifted it down. It was heavy and rustled. When he shook it coins inside jingled softly. He swiftly tucked the bag under his coat.
He was halfway between the counter and the shop door when the man came through the back door holding a candle.
‘What the…’
The two men stared at each other.
Bill’s legs began to shake. He could feel cold sweat trickling down his spine. ‘Stay there or you’ll be bloody sorry!’ The words of warning came out thin and reedy. He backed away.
‘Get out of here.’ John Duffy spoke quietly. ‘Go on, clear off.’ He looked at the open door of the cupboard and then back at Bill, raising his voice. ‘Give that bag to me.’ Carrying the candle he walked towards Bill. ‘Just drop the bag and go.’
‘Keep back.’ Bill pointed at the man, fingers trembling. ‘Don’t come any closer, yer daft bugger. I don’t want to hurt you. Keep back.’ He looked around, saw the empty wooden crates stacked by the door and, dropping the bag, picked up one of them up and flung it towards John Duffy. The candle seemed to hang in the air before the flame flickered, went out. In the darkness Bill knew the crate had made contact from the groan and sickening thud as the man fell.
Oh God. ‘Stupid old fool,’ he whispered, unable to make his feet move. ‘Stupid old fool.’ What the hell had he done? The man moaned again. He was alive. Thankful, Bill forced himself to move. He scrabbled around on the floor for the bag. When he found it he struggled to his feet and limped from the shop. Outside he looked around. The street was empty. He ran as fast as his bad leg would let him.
Chapter 29
The yelling woke Winifred. Without thinking she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. And stopped. Nothing. Had it been a nightmare? The house was silent. And dark. She crept across the room and opened to listen. Nothing. Her parents’ bedroom door was open; there was a stub of a candle on the tallboy. Their bed looked strange and then she understood why; on one side the covers were smooth, unused. Only her mother’s side had the eiderdown thrown back.
The next yell made her skin tighten. ‘Winifred! Get down here. Now!’
Winifred ran. ‘What is it?’ She peered into the gloom of the shop, lit only by the candle her mother was holding.
‘We’ve been robbed. The bolts aren’t on the door.’ Her mother stood behind the counter by the cash register. ‘The old fool hasn’t locked up. We’re wide open to the elements – and thieves. Go, pull the shade down over the window and lock the door.’
‘Where’sDad?’
‘I don’t know. Probably out in the back yard, in the lavatory, the stupid man.’
Winifred pushed passed her mother to go to close the shop door. She had only taken two steps when, with a sharp cry, she stumbled over the still figure of her father lying, face down in front of the counter. She dropped to her knees next to him. ‘Dad!’ With shaking fingers Winifred put her hand on his back. She wasn’t sure if she could sense any movement. ‘Dad? Mother, bring the candle.’ Panic skittered through her.
‘Has he had a heart attack?’ Ethel stared down at him. She put the candle on the top of the counter, pulling the sash of her dressing gown tighter and wrapping the ends around her fingers. She sounded calm.
‘I don’t know.’ Winifred glared up at her, her voice harsh. ‘I can’t tell. For God’s sake, Mother. Help me to turn him onto his back.’
Her mother didn’t move.
‘Well, if you won’t help at least you could go for the doctor.’ Winifred shouted. She gently straightened her father’s outstretched arms down by his side and tried to roll him over cradling his head in the crook of her arm.
‘And meet the robbers outside? They’re probably watching the shop still.’
‘Why? The till’s empty. They’ve got what they wanted. Oh my god…’
There was a huge deep wound at the front of her father’s head, the blood already congealing. His eyes were blank, staring upwards. Winifred fell backwards, her hand to her mouth, a wave of dizziness making her want to vomit. Her father, her Dad, must have been lying there on his own for some hours; probably while she slept upstairs.
‘He’s dead.’ She stared up at her mother.
There was a strange expression on Ethel’s face. When Winifred remembered it, later that day, she thought it might actually have been relief.
Chapter 30
‘Cold he was…’
Bill froze. He held the fish cleaver in mid-air and lifted his head quickly to look into the mirrored wall above the bench. The woman who’d spoken wore the melodramatic expression of someone delivering a line in a play. She jerked her folded arms under her ample bosom. It jiggled under the thin coat she wore.
‘Stiff as a board,’ she added, looking around to the women queued behind her.
There were a few horrified gasps. Bertie continued to wrap the plaice, his mouth set in a grim line. Putting the fish into the woman’s basket on the counter top he said, ‘It’s a bad do all right. That’ll be tuppence, Mrs Kelly.’
Bill swallowed; it couldn’t be…?
‘Been there all night, apparently.’ Another woman, the brim of her hat bobbing in rhythm with her head, peered around from the back of the queue.
The muttering between the customers increased.
‘How awful.’
‘What is the world coming to?’
‘Dreadful!’
‘In his own shop…’
Everything began to spin. Bill lowered the cleaver and held on to the edge of the bench. He closed his eyes.
The first woman’s voice rose, obviously upset that someone was taking centre stage. ‘Thief’s run off with the week’s takings according to Mrs Duffy.’
There was a murmur of sympathy and understanding before Bill heard another voice.
‘Can’t see her leaving a week’s takings lying around. Not Mrs Duffy. A day’s perhaps…’
There was a shocked hush.
‘There’s your change, Mrs Kelly.’ There was impatience in Bertie’s voice. ‘Next please.’
Bill opened his eyes to watch the woman leave.
At the door she turned. ‘Not nice to think there’s a murderer running around the streets. I’d make sure my door was locked, if I were you, Mr Butterworth. The same goes for you ladies, as well.’
Bill brought the cleaver down hard on the haddock, just missing his thumb. Trembling he leaned against the bench staring down at the bloodied fish. What the hell had he done? He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, bile burning his throat. Heaving, he ran out to the back yard of the shop. Pressing the flat of his hands on the wall he retched until there was nothing left in his stomach. When he finally was able to lift his head and look back towards the shop Bertie was standing in the doorway.
‘You all right, lad?’
‘Aye, must have eaten summat rotten.’
‘Aye, well… We best be careful. Take the rest of the day off.’
‘I will if you don’t m
ind. I’ve griping bellyache.’
Bill didn’t remember getting to Lydcroft: the tram ride was a blur, the walk along Marshall Road automatic. It was only when he stood in front of a house on the corner across from the shop that the horror of what he’d done hit him again.
The blinds of the window were pulled down, the upstairs curtains drawn, the door closed. Despite the warmth of the July day he shook. When he rubbed his hand across his face his skin was damp and chilly.
A black car drew up in front of the shop and two black-suited men got out and banged on the door. Bill thought his legs were going to give way under him; he slid down the wall of the house and sprawled. Fumbling with the packet he tugged a cigarette out but crumpled it in his fist when he couldn’t get the match to light, and threw it to one side.
He was conscious of people passing him, looking down at him with curiosity. A woman sniffed as though disgusted and pulled her skirt to one side, away from him as though he would contaminate her.
‘Stupid cow,’ Bill muttered, taking his eyes off the shop to glower at her. When he looked back the door was open and the two men were standing on the pavement. Winifred was with them. Bill struggled to his feet. The movement caught her attention and she glanced across at him. He saw the way she took a second look at him, a confused frown creasing her forehead. His stomach lurched, his skin prickled with fear. Any moment now, he thought and she’d remember where she’d seen him, wonder why he was standing there. He couldn’t get it out of his head that it wouldn’t take long for her to put two and two together. He spun on his heels, walking towards the Wagon and Horses as fast as he could. He didn’t dare look back.
In the pub he collapsed onto the nearest chair, rested his elbows on the small round table and held his head in the palms of his hands. Whatever happened next, whatever he did, would affect the rest of his life. And he hadn’t a bloody clue what that would be.
Chapter 31
The horse-drawn carriage carrying John Duffy’s coffin creaked slowly along the wet street. Turning to look behind her, Winifred saw the long line of people all in black huddled under umbrellas as they followed the hearse through the terraced streets towards the chapel.
Under her own umbrella Ethel walked next to her, keeping her head lowered, the thick veil covering her face. The new full-length serge coat, braided with silk facings and cuffs had cost a pretty penny, Winifred thought resentfully. Yet, unable to bring herself to pay for one of those new motorised hearses, John’s widow had declared the carriage ‘…fuss enough for a man who lived a simple life.’
All week, it hadn’t been the image of her father inert on the floor of the shop that had haunted Winifred; it was the worried expression on his face when she’d rushed into the shop the evening before he died. She’d known he was troubled, she’d known he deserved the respect of an explanation, the truth; what had made her so late, the cut on her forehead, what she’d been doing. She’d told him she was going to the protest. It must have been on his mind all day. So he’d probably been fretting for hours.
She couldn’t forgive herself for that.
At the gate of the chapel six men waited to carry the coffin in.
She walked around to the front of the carriage and placed her hand on the soft muzzle of the black horse. It nudged her arm and blew down its nostrils. She saw her reflection in the large dark eyes; it didn’t look like her.
Her mother’s tone was sharp, coming from somewhere behind the hearse. ‘Winifred.’
She became aware that the line of mourners had stopped, the drumming of the rain on the large black umbrellas the only sound as they waited for the procession to continue into the chapel. The six men had hoisted her father’s coffin onto their shoulders from the back of the carriage and were shifting from side to side under the hard weight. And, grim and holding his Bible close to his chest, the minister was watching her, his cassock streaked with the downpour.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, stepping away from the horse and to one side. The black veil of her hat trembled with the breath expelled, but her voice didn’t; she’d saved her mourning, her sobbing, for the privacy of her room. She and her mother had hardly spoken to one another since her father’s death. Their words had been saved for the police after the robbery and the meetings with the minister and the funeral director.
Not that either Winifred or Florence Duffy had been allowed much say in anything to do with the arrangements for her father’s final resting place. She’d understood from the start that her mother was determined to arrange everything as cheaply and as quickly as possible.
‘A small, simple affair,’ had been Ethel’s stock phrase over the last week, even when her mother-in-law had sent a message by Winifred offering to pay towards expenses.
A small, simple affair. Both of them knew that meant over and done with as soon as possible, so Florence had refused to attend the funeral, claiming she would mourn in her own way. And Ethel had refused the offer from neighbours to provide for a gathering in the chapel hall afterwards. Winifred was convinced that, if she hadn’t been so conscious of opinion, her mother would have opened the shop as soon as they got back home.
Home. It struck Winifred that ‘home’ would have a totally different meaning now. Without her father to stand between them, it would be an uneasy existence.
In the chapel Winifred was only aware of the soft scuff of feet on the stone floor, the hushed whispers, the muffled sobs, the theatrical lifting of the veil when her mother dabbed at her eyes. Putting on a show for everyone, Winifred thought, indignantly, when the woman who truly loved her father was sitting alone in that awful house in Wellyhole Yard, grieving the loss of her only son.
The minister’s eulogy was impersonal and short. The organ began to wheeze and groan and then, each note held just a fraction too long, rumbled out the hymn The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended and everyone stood to sing. She didn’t, despite the sharp jab into her side from her mother.
The rain had stopped by the time the service was over. The burial took only minutes; everything that needed to be said about John Duffy had been said. Winifred was comforted by the silent presence of his friends behind her as she stared down at the cheap coffin nestled in the rectangular square of soil. She couldn’t help the thought that he was at peace now, despite the violent end to his life. She needed to think that, otherwise the unfairness of her father being taken from her would be too much to bear.
Turning away, Ethel rested her hand on Winifred’s arm. The distaste that instinctively rose caused Winifred to take a step away from her mother. She didn’t care if anyone saw.
Taking a last look at her father’s coffin Winifred went to the two men waiting to fill in the grave and pressed a shilling in each of their hands. It crossed her mind that it was as though she was asking them to be gentle. Senseless, but they nodded as though they understood.
Leaving her mother to make her own way, Winifred followed the minister back to the chapel and waited in the porch with him as the mourners filed past, returning the slight pressures on her fingers as some gave her reassuring touches of their hands, dipping her head to the murmured phrases of condolence. She could feel her mother’s impatience at her side, and knew she’d been annoyed at the numbers of people who’d attended the funeral; the unknown amount of friends her husband had gathered during his life. Winifred got a certain satisfaction from hearing her mother’s sighs of irritation.
‘Right, that’s that.’ Ethel followed the last mourners, wending her way through the groups gathered on the path exchanging memories of her husband and ignoring them.
Winifred watched her mother go through the gate and along the road shaking her head in disbelief at Ethel’s last words. Patting Winifred on the shoulder, the minister turned into the chapel with a few murmured sounds of sympathy.
Then she was alone.
‘I’m pure sorry, Win. We’ve been thinking about ya.’
Startled, she turned, to be enveloped in a tight hug from Honora. The familiar smell
of paint and white spirit that clung to her friend comforted Winifred. It made her remember that she had a life with friends away from the shop. ‘Don’t be so long to come to see us.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ was all Conal said. But the light touch of his fingers on her cheek under the veil made her skin tingle.
Chapter 32
Bill hunched his shoulders against the steady rain and pulled his cap lower over his eyes when the funeral procession passed him. He doubted she’d notice, let alone recognise him, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. Once this was over he’d be gone. The thought of not seeing Winifred ever again made his throat tight. But the idea of staying around and possibly being found out was terrifying; he wasn’t going to be fodder for the hangman.
He couldn’t see her face because of the thick black veil, but he noticed she had a white handkerchief clenched in her hand. He needn’t have worried about her seeing him; she looked only into the horse-drawn carriage carrying John Duffy’s coffin in front of her.
The guilt flooded through Bill. It was the same overwhelming remorse that had kept him turning in his bed the last few nights. The same shame that brought the nightmares when he did manage an hour’s sleep. He gnawed at the inside of his mouth, tasting the blood. If he could go back in time he wouldn’t have drunk so much. He hadn’t been thinking straight when he went to the shop. He’d needed revenge. To take something from her in the same way she’d taken all hope from him. Even if she didn’t know it. All he wanted was to hurt her somehow, in the same way she’d hurt him by giving herself to that Irish bastard. In the way she’d stopped being his Winifred.
If only the stupid old bastard had locked the door.
What a bloody mess.
He stared at the coffin in the hearse. The heavy drops of rain smeared the glass so that the white wreath inside shimmered into irregular shapes. Except for the occasional sob and stifled cough, the creaking of the carriage, the gushing of water running in the gutters near his feet, and the clang of metal hooves on the road were the only sounds. The line of people, hidden under umbrellas, moved in the funeral procession without a word.
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