Saturday's Child (33 page)

Alone, Katherine picked up Peter Smythe’s newly published book.

He had delivered it only this morning, had handed it in to young Beth at the front door. A slim volume of some two hundred pages, it was entitled
The View From Up Here
, with a plain cover
in white, black and gold. Well, there was little else to do. Beth had not returned from tennis, while Margaret, fussy and almost breathless in the cornflower blue dress, had set forth for Bolton in
search of her young man.

She settled back on down-filled cushions, opened the book and began a fascinating journey through the life of a man who had never settled, whose origins were uncertain, who took what was
offered, asked for little, worked when necessary. As she made her way through the early pages, Katherine encountered the real Peter Smythe, a self-made wit and gentleman whose written prose was as
perfect as his delivered English. This was, indeed, a man of mystery . . .

Katherine woke as Beth entered the room, pink and damp after several sets of tennis. ‘Beth,’ she said, ‘you should take a bath. Must you get so hot?’ The child’s
fair skin looked as if it were glowing from the inside.

‘I won,’ cried Beth, ‘and Angela Corcoran is older than I am.’ She placed her racquet on the floor. ‘Where’s Mam?’

‘She has gone to Bolton to visit friends.’

Beth sat on the stool next to the chaise. ‘Will she see Paul?’

‘I expect so.’

‘Good.’ Beth blew a strand of hair from her face. ‘She has been miserable without him. I think that she didn’t know she loved him until he wasn’t here any
more.’

What a concept for a child to express. Katherine removed the threatening smile from her own face. Living with precocity had its delightful moments. ‘Did you go into school?’ Although
these were summer holiday weeks, Chedderton Grange never closed its doors to pupils. There was always at least one member of staff available at weekends, while two or more were present during
holidays. Learning never ceased, so school never closed.

Beth nodded. ‘I did photosynthesis, but some of the words were too big and I need to look them up.’

‘Ah.’

‘It’s exciting. It’s about how plants eat. Mr Smythe was telling me about it – they need light, air and water. Is there anything to eat?’

Katherine waved a hand at a biscuit barrel. ‘Two only. Your mother has left salad for us.’

‘Yuk.’ Beth pulled a face.

‘Now, when you eat lettuce and watercress, you will be eating things that have, in their turn, eaten photosynthetically. This is called absorbing your work.’

Tinker came in, leapt on Beth, stopped dead, then licked Katherine’s hand. The old woman never ceased to marvel at this dog, because he had always been aware of her infirmities.

When Beth and Tinker had demolished the biscuits, the latter lay in the doorway, as this was the coolest place, while Beth rattled on about photosynthesis and excited molecules. When she spoke
of the sciences she adored, her whole face lit up like a Christmas tree.

‘Beth,’ implored Katherine, ‘please go and bathe before we eat. At the moment, you resemble cooked meat. I shall be eating you with a spot of horseradish.’

The child laughed. ‘No, mint sauce. Mam sometimes calls me her pet lamb.’ She dashed off to cleanse herself.

Katherine smiled and shook her head. She could not imagine life without Margaret and Beth, would not allow herself to remember life before Rachel. Out of the bowels of the Hades below, from mean
streets guarded by mill walls, from that huge, industrial town, these wonderful people had arrived to colour her days.

Rachel was practical, beautiful, seemed to have been hand-made for business, for contact with the public. Margaret was quietly clever, a reader, as practical as Rachel, but with a hint of
academia about her. Beth – oh, Beth was just wonderful. From a mating between a soldier and a pretty woman, this rare product had emerged, beautiful, talented and brilliant beyond words.

The brilliant-beyond-words child put her head round the door. ‘Katherine?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I use some of your nice smelly powder?’

Again, Katherine squashed a smile. ‘You may. Can implies that you have the physical ability to use the talcum. May tells you that you might, that you have my permission.’

‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’ Beth went off to soak herself in water, bath oil and all she had learned today.

Katherine picked up the book again, smiled when she read about some of the idiosyncracies of Peter Smythe’s clients. There was the widow with seventeen cats, a spinster who wore a hat at
all times, rain, shine or when seated at her table. Another lady talked her cows into giving more milk, yet another old maid chased every man who came within a mile.

Then, she met herself. There was no name, but she was the featureless face at a window. Startled, she placed a hand at her throat. There she was, invisible, bitter, daughter of a drunk, her eyes
welded to a pane of glass through which she observed life, though she never entered it, never entertained it. This had been written before the advent of Rachel, long before Margaret and Beth had
entered Katherine’s house and heart.

She inhaled deeply, put the book down. The matter was scandalous, almost libellous. She had not been identified by name, but everyone in these parts would surely recognize Miss Katherine Moore,
daughter of the father from hell, bitter spinster crippled with arthritis, one who criticized others while protecting herself from their barbs by remaining hidden and unavailable.

Her hand, already on its way to the telephone receiver, creaked to a halt. No. If she made a fuss through her lawyer, that would exacerbate matters, would draw more comments, closer attention.
She would talk to the man, by God, she would. If only . . . if only she could walk to that summer house. No, she had to think. There was no point in rushing in, because she had not yet worked out
what to say to Peter Smythe. The old pride reared its head – how dare anyone, let alone a tramp, write about Katherine Moore, daughter of the Moores of Chedderton Grange?

Democracy, came the answer. No names, no proof, though this was definitely her. Yet she had smiled while reading about others in the book – would people smile about her? Would they? This
was probably another nine-day wonder and she should not allow it to affect her. He had provided her with this book, wanted her to read it, was waiting for her reaction. Well, she intended to play
him at his own game. Let him wonder whether she had bothered to read it.

She placed a bookmark between the pages and waited for Beth. After their meal, the two of them could enjoy an unscheduled game of chess. To hell with Peter Smythe; he was, after all, a mere
employee, a gardener.

Yet the subject rankled for the rest of the evening and Beth triumphed in the games.

Magsy O’Gara caught sight of herself in the window of Gregory and Porritt’s. She looked good, looked great, in fact. The shoes were of kid, navy to match the
handbag, the dress was an understatement in cornflower, while a loose silk scarf of blue and white completed the crisp outfit.

As she passed through town, heads turned – women as well as men stopped in their tracks to look at her, and she found herself smiling. For how long had she done the exact opposite of this?
Years and years she had spent in hiding, clothes loose and black, a headscarf concealing remarkable hair, shoes flat and heavy, head down, always down as she made her way home to safety. And safety
had been a photograph of a dead man and a certificate of thanks from the king. Oh, William. She had loved him, still loved his memory, but it was time to move on, time to make a life for herself,
for Beth, also for Paul.

She kept her head high as she walked up Derby Street, answered shouted greetings, was pleased when people told her she looked pretty. She was pretty. She had always been pretty, should make the
most of herself before life closed in and made her old.

Prudence Street looked mean and narrow, the Kippax Mill at the bottom, Kershaw’s close to the house in which she and Beth had lived. How had they survived the din of that, the smoke that
poured even now from tall brick nostrils whose supposed superiority sullied a sky that was duller here, dirty, clouded by filth? King Cotton, saviour of the north, killer of thousands – God,
what was that monarch doing to these people and why had she never noticed before?

But here in the grey shadows, children played, housewives sat outside on old chairs, pigeons pecked in an everlasting search for crumbs between those filthy cobbles. Dear God forbid that she
should ever be forced to live here again.

She stood opposite the dwelling she had occupied so recently, wondered anew at man’s blind acceptance of conditions imposed by the real kings, the Bank of England and its stock exchange.
Beth would never live in a place like this, would earn her way out by sheer hard labour at her books.

She opened the door of number 1 and stepped inside Nellie Hulme’s newly decorated home. ‘Hello?’ she called.

Lily Hardcastle clattered down the stairs. She was pink in the face after the exertion of learning new patterns in the lace room. ‘Magsy,’ she exclaimed, ‘you look
beautiful.’

Magsy hugged Lily. ‘Where’s Nellie?’

Lily folded her arms in an attitude typical of a northern housewife who pretends to be angry. ‘You might well ask,’ she replied. ‘I’ve been asking myself the same
question this past hour. She went down to the market to help our Aaron. He’s left school and he’s going to sell stuff – that deaf stallholder’s retiring – so
Nellie’s with him. Or so she says. But she’ll not be educating nobody, Mags, oh no, she’ll be listening to things. She found trains last week.’

Magsy sat down and smiled encouragingly. ‘I see.’

‘Well, I wish I could see. She were terrified of all sorts when she first got her hearing back, but that didn’t last. Oh, she’s wanting adventure now. Her’ll be stood on
that bridge at Trinity Street waiting for trains. They rattle about underneath her and she gets covered in all sorts of muck.’

The visitor nodded. ‘It’s all a novelty to her.’

Lily sniffed. ‘Aye, well, that’s as may be, but I’m stuck here with two dogs, a dinner to make and fourteen napkins in ecru wanting finishing for some Scottish lord on an
island up yon.’

Magsy laughed. ‘But you’re happy.’

Lily grinned. ‘Ooh, Mags, we’re like sisters, in and out of one another’s houses all the while. See, she still struggles to talk, but she manages to tell my lads off.
It’s as if she’s another mother for them.’ She slowed down, perched on the edge of a chair and studied her visitor. ‘So, what brings you down here?’

Magsy raised her shoulders. ‘Just thought I’d have a wander, see how you are.’

‘Right.’ Lily cleared her throat. ‘Have you seen anything of Paul Horrocks?’

‘No.’

The monosyllable contained sadness, Lily thought. ‘Lost his mam.’

‘Yes.’

Lily did not want to say that she had called on Paul Horrocks, so she jumped up to make tea. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Sal’s little lad’s doing well, but she never takes
her eyes off him. You’d best go and see her after, she’d expect that. Ernest Barnes still pulls faces at them across the street. There’s another Catholic family in your old house.
Would you like a ginger biscuit?’

While Lily rattled about, Magsy realized how much her life had changed. This house was tiny and oppressive. Even with new paint and wallpaper, it was dingy, almost claustrophobic. At Knowehead,
she and Beth had a big sitting room, a bedroom each, a bathroom and a kitchen. Windows opened to admit fresh air, not this soot-laden rubbish breathed in by the poor of Bolton. There were
night-birds, owls, nightingales, there was peace, sunshine, a good, fresh breeze. No hooter sounded, no clogs rattled by in the morning, no chimney belched into the clear sky.

Lily brought the tea. ‘Are you all right up there with that owld battle-axe?’

Magsy giggled. ‘Ah, she’s very kind to Beth and she is in a lot of pain, Lily. Once I got to know her, I found her quite decent.’

‘And Dot’s all right?’

‘A different woman, she is. He came up and clouted Rachel, you know, that creature from number five. Then he wrote demanding money – Rachel is furious. But Dot has blossomed, she
really has.’

Lily sat down and sipped her tea. ‘When Dot got out, ooh, I envied her. I wanted to get away, but this is where I was put, Mags, so I have to get on with it, God help me.’

Nellie came in, thinner, hatless, wreathed in smiles. With a croaky voice, she greeted Magsy before apologizing to Lily. She had been standing under the Town Hall clock waiting for it to strike.
As it struck only four times throughout the hour, she had needed to stay for a while to get the full chime. ‘I have heard it before,’ she explained, ‘but I wanted to be near
it.’

Lily sent a knowing look to Magsy, an I-told-you-so expression.

Nellie rattled on, consonants fairly clear, vowels often distorted, excitement making the delivery even worse. She had heard newspaper sellers, horses, singing emerging from a pub, the tooting
of several horns and the whistling of trains. The horses’ hooves were purple, apparently, like the ticking of a clock but with more blue in the mix.

Lily thrust a cup into Nellie’s hands. ‘Here, drink up and shut up, for goodness’ sake.’ She glared at Magsy. ‘It’s like dealing with a five-year-old on
Christmas morning, ooh-ing and ah-ing over every new thing.’

Magsy laughed. It was lovely to see Nellie so alive, so excited. In her bones, Magsy knew that Lily shared Nellie’s excitement, that all who truly cared for Nellie Hulme appreciated her
happiness and her confusion. Yes, Nellie was a child again and it was wonderful to behold. ‘You can listen to the wireless now,’ she said.

Lily bridled again. ‘Have you tried making lace to the signature tune of Dick Barton, Special Agent? I tell myself I won’t let it get to me, only you start rattling on without
realizing it. Then she has the Home Service plays on, murders and all sorts. I wouldn’t care, but she talks back to the wireless.’

‘Practising,’ said Nellie.

Lily ignored the interruption. ‘And she sings, all on the one note, like, sounds like a cat howling in the night. Poor dogs go out of their minds, they don’t know what to make of
it.’