Saturday's Child (11 page)

‘Please,’ Rachel begged.

Frank plucked up his courage and faced her. She was a right little madam, cheeky, outspoken, adorable. There she sat, a finger placed in the centre of a plump lower lip, her eyes riveted to his
face, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. ‘I’m having nowt to do with it,’ he announced with the air of a man who pretends to be in charge. ‘If you want her here,
then get on with it. But I’m not carrying nobody.’

She had won. Rachel picked up a shive of soda bread and dipped it in gravy. She would deal with the details later, would persuade Frank to help her with Miss What-ever-her-name-was. As she
finished her food, she made up stories about the old woman, imagining her abandoned at the altar, or engaged to someone who had perished at the front in the First War.

Dot picked up the dirty dishes and went to fetch apple crumble from the kitchen. As she poured custard into a glass jug, she wondered briefly about Ernest. He would be alone at Christmas, she
supposed. Happen that would teach him a lesson, she pondered as she carried the pudding through. There’d be nobody for him to scream at, no target for his sticks. But no, folk like her
husband didn’t learn lessons. They marched in orange sashes, threw stones at Catholic statues, defiled churches, hated their neighbours.

Back at the table, she shared out the pudding. ‘Thanks,’ she said quietly.

‘What for?’ asked her bemused son. ‘You made the food, Mam.’

‘For letting me live here – both of you.’

Rachel’s laugh, as light as any crystal chime, floated through the air. Frank, his eyes wet, grabbed his beloved mother’s hand. ‘Don’t mention it,’ he answered,
‘because we’re kind to old ladies at Christmas – aren’t we, Rachel?’

The laughter ground to a sudden halt. ‘Dot’s here for always,’ she answered solemnly. ‘She’s not come just for Christmas.’

Dot picked at her crumble. If she got any happier, she would surely burst.

Ernest Barnes had decided to be heartbroken. As a result, the neighbours had started to be good to him. Also, since he was now without a skivvy, he was forced to push himself
onward, thereby discovering that he remained quite strong in spite of his disability, that he could get down the yard, could manage to boil potatoes and vegetables, was able to cope with most
things with the exception of shopping.

His shopping was done by Magsy O’Gara, an Irish Catholic with a no-nonsense attitude to life, a beauty whose features deserved committing to canvas. Too young for him and from the wrong
side of the religious divide, she walked in and out of his life on a daily basis, was beginning to disturb his sleep. He was tormented by dreams of her, nightly scenarios in which he took the upper
hand, in which he was young and whole again.

He lived for the unmistakable sound of her footsteps in the narrow hall, could tell immediately when Lily Hardcastle took it upon herself to become a poor replacement for the younger woman.
Magsy floated; Lily plodded.

In spite of his growing affection for Magsy, Ernest refused an invitation to spend Christmas with her and Beth. To use a Catholic as a servant was one thing, to break bread under her roof
another matter altogether. Orange could not sit down with green – that was one of Ernest’s extra commandments. And yet . . .

Well, he would see her, because she had promised to plate a Christmas dinner and fetch it across for him. He had refused an invitation from the Hardcastles, too. He felt uneasy in the presence
of Lily Hardcastle, because she looked at him ‘funny’, as if she remembered Dot’s screams, as if she saw right through him, as if she knew that the poor abandoned husband he
pretended to be did not really exist. Well, she didn’t matter; all that he needed was to see Magsy O’Gara on Christmas Day. That would be the best present of all. In fact, it would
probably be his only present.

Lily Hardcastle had always taken Christmas seriously, but the lethargy which had visited her since September was still upon her. She couldn’t be mithered with it.
However, guilt sat heavily on her shoulders, so she relented quite late in the day, made a couple of puddings, a cake and some sticky toffee. Roy was a beggar for toffee, as were these daft bloody
dogs whose presence made the house smaller than ever. She shoved the toffee in a tin, stuck almond paste on her cake and threw a couple of threepenny bits in her puddings.

Lily eyed the youngest of her three sons. ‘Listen, you,’ she said, ‘you have to get rid of these pups. I keep falling over them – they’re getting in me
road.’

‘They’re only six weeks, Mam,’ came the plaintive reply.

‘Seven,’ she snapped. ‘I should know, I’ve had to live with the little buggers. Now, get rid, or they go to Vernon Street.’ Vernon Street was where dogs went when
nobody wanted them.

Roy sighed dramatically. There were only four pups, all male, all healthy enough, but he did not know where to begin when it came to disposing of them. Beth O’Gara had been right –
she was always right, that one – Skinny’s babies were nothing like greyhounds. They had big feet for a start, dinner plates as Mam called them. Their heads were out of proportion with
their bodies, while their tails were like bits of string, straggly and fraying at the ends. Nobody would like them. Like any decent father, Roy adored the offspring, but he tried to view them
objectively and had to conclude, however reluctantly, that these were not things of beauty.

‘I want them gone by Christmas,’ she continued, ‘they’ve already ate three socks and the peg rug.’

Roy looked at the evidence, holes in the rug Mam had pegged from old clothes. ‘We needed a new rug any road,’ he mumbled.

‘And I need a week in Blackpool, but I won’t get one,’ replied his mother.

He sighed again, waited for the lecture to continue.

‘Anyway,’ added Lily, ‘Mags says Beth can have one.’

Roy grinned broadly. That was nearly the same as keeping a puppy, because he would see Beth most days. Skinny was staying, but she had to have an operation to stop more pups being born. Mam had
an operation jar on the mantelpiece where she saved for the vet’s bill. Mam wasn’t as hard-hearted as she pretended to be.

‘Can we keep one?’ he begged.

Lily rounded on him, a large knife clutched in her right hand. ‘Now, listen here, you,’ she chided. ‘I’ve kept me promise and she’s had her pups. They’re
weaning, Roy. They want meat and biscuits – I can’t hardly afford to keep Skinny, never mind the others. Now, get out of this house and start fettling. There must be some crazy
so-and-so out there who wants a pup for Christmas.’

He picked up the least ugly of Skinny’s brood, placed it under his coat and dragged his way out of the house. Argument would be futile, because Mam was right – the Hardcastles could
not afford to feed more than one dog. He tried not to look at the trusting little face that peeped out from his jacket, blinked back tears as a tongue licked his throat. This was the fattest pup,
its markings lopsided, a black patch surrounding one eye, another ink-blot right in the middle of its mostly white back.

He sat on the step and wondered where to start. The O’Garas were having one, so that left three. Who could manage to look after Spot properly? Who would care enough for the little
creature? And he wouldn’t cry, no, he definitely would not cry.

A hand touched his shoulder and a familiar smell assaulted his nose. It was Nellie-Next-Door. ‘Hello,’ mouthed Roy.

She bent forward and stroked the little dog’s head. The boy was near to tears and Nellie knew why. ‘Me,’ she said, though no sound emerged from her mouth. ‘Me.’ It
was a sudden decision, but she stood by it. There was enough money to keep a houseful of little dogs – and a bit of company would be nice.

Roy’s brain went into top gear. She wasn’t fit to have one of his puppies, wasn’t clean, even if she had started sorting her way through the wreckage. It stank, did
Smelly’s house. And she ate daft stuff, would give daft stuff to Spot. He clung to the little dog, his mind scuttering about all over the place, thoughts colliding, worry making him
stupid.

‘Me,’ she repeated.

Well, there was another way of looking at this, Roy told himself. Number 1 might not be the poshest house, but it was next door. Spot and Tinker – the pup he had assigned to Beth
O’Gara – would be right on his doorstep. He would be able to keep an eye on them both. And anyway, there was such kindness in Nellie’s eyes that she would surely do her best for
Spot.

Nellie handed him a pound.

Startled, he shrank back. A whole quid? For a mongrel?

The large woman nodded vigorously and pushed the money into Roy’s pocket.

He gulped, then drew the shivering pup out into the cold December air. ‘Spot,’ he said.

‘Spot,’ she repeated silently.

For the first time in his young life, Roy Hardcastle actually thought about Nellie Hulme. Being deaf must have been horrible. She couldn’t listen to the wireless, never heard anybody
knocking at her door, had to lip-read at the pictures. She had no husband, no children, no company. She lived every day the same, sewing or whatever in that upstairs room, walking to the chip shop,
visiting the cinema or the library. He had never worked out why she went to the cinema, because she couldn’t hear anything. Yet he did know the answer, yes, of course he did. There were other
people at the pictures. At the pictures, she felt normal. Nobody liked her because she smelled funny, but she paid her money to watch the film and became the same as everybody else. He handed over
the puppy and tried to smile.

Nellie held the creature, felt its warmth, was pleased that it did not turn away from her. Humans objected to her; this little fellow would love her no matter what. Her own affection was born in
that moment, in the instant when the tongue licked her chin. She had a dog; she had a companion.

In the past three months, Nellie Hulme had made considerable progress inside her hovel. Piles of newspapers, old clothes and broken furniture had been removed by Charlie
Entwistle, the rag man from the end house. The narrow hall was all but cleared, while Nellie’s living room now boasted an area of ground clear enough for linoleum to be visible.

She placed Spot in a box, knew that he was whimpering, saw the little mouth opening and closing as he fretted for his mother and his three brothers. Poor little mite – he was probably
hungry. After removing the pastry from a pie, Nellie cut up the meat and fed the dog crumb-sized morsels of beef.

Spot’s eyes widened. This was all suddenly very promising – good food, a box to himself, a nice hot fire burning in the grate. He yawned when his stomach was full, accepted his lot
with the equanimity born into dogs of mixed breed. He had a good home – what more could a puppy want?

Nellie stroked her pet until he slept, smiled when he ‘ran’ in his dream, wondered how newborn animals could possibly manage to dream. It was bred into them, she decided; it was
race-memory, was handed down through the ages, passed from dog to dog right back to the Stone Age and before. Like the first wolf brave enough to approach humanity, this puppy had come in from the
cold to warm himself at a caveman’s fire.

If this little mite knew exactly what he was, then she, too, had the right to know. Like Spot, she experienced dreams; unlike Spot, she had no idea of her own identity. A room, a garden, a man,
a woman. Birdsong that eluded her during hours of wakefulness, a man’s voice, a woman’s laugh – Father, Mother? And the other thing, the nightmare whose edges had begun to touch
her troubled soul when dawn approached, a nameless fear that made her sweat.

So far, she had found nothing here, no birth certificates, no adoption papers, no clue. Yet this tiny creature with its white and black coat seemed to embody hope. More important than that,
Nellie would have company this Christmas.

Magsy O’Gara opened her front door. She knew who it was before actually seeing the handsome square-jawed face, startling blue eyes, the shock of near-black hair that
seemed to scream for a comb. Oh, he was screaming, all right, was becoming a nuisance, so persistent, almost desperate.

‘Hello,’ he said.

She folded her arms and leaned on the door jamb. ‘Hello. Again.’ She spaced the two words carefully, deliberately.

‘I just wondered . . .’ His voice tailed away.

‘You do a lot of wondering,’ replied Mags.

Paul Horrocks bowed his head. He felt like a child who had been sent to the head teacher’s office for some small playground misdeed. ‘Well, it’s Christmas soon,’ he
advised the doorstep.

‘I had noticed.’

He raised his eyes and forced himself to look at her. She was the most beautiful woman on God’s earth. ‘I thought you might like to join me and Mam,’ he said. ‘Being as
you and young Beth will be on your own.’

‘We shall have each other, Mr Horrocks.’

‘Paul.’ It was like dragging blood from a stone, he decided. Magsy had the voice and face of an angel, yet she was as stubborn as the average mule. ‘But you’ve no
family,’ he added.

‘Beth is my family and I am hers.’

‘You’re Irish,’ he told her, ‘and I am from Irish stock – my mam comes from Mayo.’

‘Does she now?’ Why should I make this easy? Magsy asked herself. ‘And how is that pertinent?’ she asked.

Pertinent. Here she came again with the big words. ‘Irish usually have big families and they get together at Christmas.’ His words tailed away, as if they died beneath her steady
gaze.

‘Then Beth and I are atypical,’ she replied.

This was hopeless. He wished with all his strength that he could drag himself away from this impossible female, that he might set his sights elsewhere, but she was like a drug on which he had
come to depend. ‘I’m a good cook.’ This last statement stumbled from his lips like a challenge.

‘So am I.’

Hope blossomed – perhaps she would invite him to come to her house? He waited, but she offered no more words.

Magsy, who had decided some weeks ago that enough was enough, stepped onto the pavement, causing Paul to back away while she closed the door in her wake. ‘This has to stop,’ she
informed him, the tone gentle. ‘I have no wish to offend you, but your attentions are not welcome, Mr Horrocks.’