The Corner House (24 page)

Irene had few friends. Occasionally, she bought a couple of satellites, persuading them with money from her mother’s slim purse or with bits snatched from a counter in the local sweets-and-tobacco shop. No-one liked her. She expected not to be loved,
because even her own mother had no time for her. ‘Ooh, Dad, isn’t she ugly?’ How many times had Irene heard that piece of rhetoric? The words were scored into the front of her consciousness, as was Ruth’s other accusation. ‘Your dad left home when he saw you. He couldn’t believe his eyes, so he went back to his pigs and cows, because they’re better looking.’

Jessica shuffled on the spot, needing to go, too afraid to take the first step.

Irene looked at her pretty young cousin. Unable to sustain actual affection for anyone, Irene found herself drawn magnetically towards beautiful people. They fascinated her. Their appearance endowed them with a power about which she was destined merely to speculate.

However, most young people, plain or pretty, were purchasable. Adults, on the other hand, had always insulted her, derided her, or, worse still, had ignored her. The only grown-ups she trusted not to judge her ugliness were those in silk-lined boxes in the back parlour of McRae’s Funeral Home. She liked them. She could curse them, laugh at them, even poke them with a pencil or a ruler. There were other possibilities, too, but they wanted thinking about first. If she stole wedding rings, would the undertakers notice?

Jessica bit her lip. When could she get away? What was this girl thinking about?

Children responded to Irene when she produced sherbet dabs, halfpenny spanishes or, at a push, cocoa and sugar. For sixpence, she could get a crowd, while a full shilling had the ability to invite a congregation. It seemed doubtful, however, that Jessica Nolan would be willing to join an audience
with Irene. ‘I’ve give you threepence,’ she accused, little anger in the words.

Irene always sounded the same, pondered Jessica. There was no anger, no laughter – did she ever cry? Probably not.

The older girl, inexplicably keen to captivate the attention of her younger cousin, peeled a threadbare coat from her thin body before turning around. ‘Look,’ she commanded. ‘Look at me neck.’

Jessica looked. A huge purple bruise sat beneath the basin-cut, mouse-coloured hair. ‘How did that happen?’

Expressionless as before, Irene swivelled on the spot. ‘Me mam did it. She knocked me head against a drawer, kept hitting me, she did, shouted as she wanted to kill me. The room went all dark and I nearly died. Grandad saved me. Then he fell down and now he’s dying with the pneumonia. But I’m not, I’m all right now.’

Jessica nursed the strong suspicion that death would have been welcomed.

‘I went to sleep for three days,’ continued Irene. ‘When I woke up, I was thirsty and Grandad was dying.’

Jessica shook as she dropped the unwelcome threepenny piece into its owner’s frayed pocket. She wanted to run, needed to escape from this weird child. But Jessica’s feet felt as if they had been welded to the pavement.

‘Do you not want t’ money, then?’

‘No.’

The lifeless eyes scanned Jessica’s face. ‘I haven’t got no sisters. Neither have you.’

Jessica swallowed.

‘So we should pal up, like.’

It was like being in the presence of a reptile, a beast whose unpredictable temperament never showed through the thick outer skin. What had happened to make Irene so awful? Why didn’t she muck about with hoops and sticks like other children?

‘What do you think, Jessica?’

Jessica thought she felt sorry for her mother’s sister’s daughter, but sorrier for herself. She struggled to find an answer, because Irene was one of those people who commanded answers. It wasn’t fair, Jessica thought. She was only five years old, still unable to work things out properly, and her mother was in the TB place. Irene was thirteen years of age, and her mother had tried to kill her. The idea of a mother trying to kill her own daughter was terrifying. And was it the real truth? Was Auntie Ruth capable of hurting Irene, or had Irene invented the whole terrible story? ‘I don’t know,’ she said again.

‘Like I said before, you know nowt.’ Irene walked away at a leisurely pace, no sign of resentment in her demeanour.

Jessica found herself scratching her own neck, her scalp, the backs of her hands. Had she caught fleas, or some terrible skin disease? When her cousin had disappeared round the View Street corner, Jessica crawled homeward. Although technically clean, the child felt a sudden and overwhelming need for an all-over wash.

She fell in at Mrs Harris’s door.

‘What’s up with you?’ asked Eva. ‘Have you seen a ghost or summat?’

Jessica sat down at the table. ‘I met my cousin Irene,’ she answered eventually. ‘On Derby Street on my way home from school. She kept … talking to me.’

Eva studied the face of her young charge. ‘Ah, so you have seen the dark side. Stop away from her – she’s got some funny habits.’ Like messing about in the funeral parlour, stealing money, pinching fruit from outside the greengrocery. The midwife decided not to enlighten Jessica any further on this particular occasion.

But Jessica already knew about the funny habits. ‘She’s not like other people,’ she said.

Eva carried on peeling potatoes. ‘You can say that again, love.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘Wash your hands, then set the table, Jessica. Mr Coates’ll be here soon. He’s going to lodge with us.’

Excited now, Jessica ran into the scullery and washed her hands. Mr Coates was nice. There were good people in the world. Irene just wasn’t one of them.

Maurice Chorlton lifted the last tray of cheap and cheerful jewellery from the window display, flicked a desultory duster over diamond chips in illusion settings, closed and locked the casement’s inner safety barrier. Another Saturday over, another session of mending watch straps and straightening fastenings on brooches. Soon, he reminded himself yet again. The war’s end had been celebrated, street parties, bonfires, bunting, singing. Once the economy stabilized, Maurice Chorlton could become a prosperous businessman once more. Patience, patience, he urged himself grimly.

He had never replaced Pauline Chadwick, now Pauline Walsh. Because of that, all business had to be transacted within the body of the shop, as Maurice could not leave his counter and be in attendance downstairs at one and the same time. People selling
to him had learned to come at lunchtime, knocking at a door which bore the legend ‘
CLOSED
’ in order to do business with the jeweller.

Pickings had been slim of late. Most family valuables had been off-loaded in the war’s earlier years, while thieves seemed to have gone on strike. Not that Maurice had ever knowingly purchased items from criminals, though he had to admit to a degree of uncertainty with regard to the sources of some goods. Still, the sins had never been his. As a Christian, he had merely helped customers through some appalling times.

Twelve to eighteen months, he reckoned, before the country could learn to walk again. That wasn’t long; Maurice had enough put by to see him through the rest of the decade. Reunion babies would begin to appear, necessitating a decent level of stock in expanding silver bracelets and christening mugs. Marriage would be reinstated as a national sport, so engagement and wedding rings would need to become readily available.

He placed velvet-lined trays on a counter in readiness for transfer to the cellar. From the cash till, he reaped a few miserable pounds, writing the sum in a ledger, sighing heavily as he totted up the week’s takings. While he added two pounds, eleven shillings and ninepence to the larger sum, the shop door opened. ‘A moment, please,’ he murmured.

‘Put the pen down now, Mr Chorlton.’

Maurice raised his head. ‘I beg your pardon?’ He saw that the customer was dressed as if for winter, woollen hat pulled over the eyes, a scarf stretched across the mouth. ‘Is this a robbery?’ The words emerged with difficulty as Maurice’s dry tongue appeared to cleave to an even drier palate.

‘That’s right.’

Stunned, Maurice dropped the pen.

‘We’ll be going downstairs,’ said the masked man.

Maurice was riveted to the spot. Here was the nightmare scenario he had envisaged for so many years. Here was a clear demonstration of the fact that all jewellers needed an assistant, even if the back-up was female. After all, a mere woman could have been a witness, might have managed to stamp on the button beneath a counter, a system designed to ring a huge alarm bell outside in the yard. But Maurice was alone except for this uninvited and frightening guest.

‘Move.’

Maurice moved.

‘One foot wrong and you get this.’ The intruder waved a crowbar. ‘Now, down the stairs and get that safe open.’ The man stepped back, locked and bolted the shop’s front door, and drew down the blind so that the glazed section would be covered.

‘There’s not much worth taking.’ The jeweller’s voice trembled.

‘Tell that to the taxman,’ suggested the stranger. ‘Everyone for miles around knows what goes on in your cellar, Mr Chorlton.’ He laughed drily. ‘Maurice the Mole, I believe they call you. Fat, greasy little bastard, always with your snout halfway up somebody’s arse.’ He paused for a split second. ‘Losing your hair? You’ve done one of them wind-around jobs, haven’t you? Aye, I can see it now. I reckon you could drive a horse and cart down your parting.’

Maurice tried to clear a sandpaper throat.

‘Enough small talk, eh, Mr Chorlton? Go on. Get yourself down them stairs.’

The jeweller stumbled down the first few steps,
heart clanging in his ears. No-one would come, not at this time. No face would appear at the back-yard window, no customer anxious to liquidate an asset. This was terrible, unbelievable.

The cellar was stuffy, workbench piled up with the neglected tools of Maurice Chorlton’s noble trade, dust hanging in the air, a few shards of light from a window piercing the gloom.

‘Open it.’ The crowbar was waved in the direction of the large, walk-in safe.

‘I can’t.’

‘Can’t? Or is it won’t?’

Maurice flinched, but tried not to let his fear show too clearly. ‘It’s a two-key job,’ he lied.

‘And where’s the other key?’

‘Er … next door, in the shoe shop.’

‘Lying bugger.’ The man crossed the room in two strides, raising the metal bar as he moved. ‘Open it or die,’ he mumbled through his scarf.

‘I can’t. There has to be a second key.’

By way of reply, the man in black dragged Maurice across the cellar and pinned down one of his hands on the workbench. ‘Fingers important in your line of work?’

Maurice’s lips failed to frame a reply.

‘Can you set stones with just the one hand?’

The jeweller shook his head.

‘Because I’ll break every finger on your right hand if you don’t shape up, Chorlton. There is no bloody second key. Everybody for miles knows you work on your own, too much of a Scrooge to pay a minder. Well?’

Maurice groaned. ‘Don’t hurt me.’ The words were forced through stiff lips.

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ The tone was soft,
almost gentle. ‘The last thing I want to do is break your fingers, Mr Chorlton. On the other hand – the hand I won’t be breaking at the moment – I have to point out …’ A smile entered the man’s voice as he acknowledged his own feeble pun. ‘… I have to tell you that I’ll stop at nothing to get into yon safe.’

‘Why me?’ the shopkeeper moaned.

‘Just because you’re here and because I need the stuff. You were handy – now, there’s another joke for you – so I picked you out. You were on my way from here to there, so you got chosen. Hand-picked.’ He raised the crowbar.

‘I’ll open it,’ whispered Maurice.

‘Good. I knew you’d see sense.’

Released, Maurice shoved the hand into his pocket. ‘Can I ask why you’re doing this?’ It was a Bolton man – Maurice could discern that much from the accent.

‘You’re rich,’ came the swift reply. ‘And there’s folk out there with nowt to their name, not a penny in the purse, kiddies to feed, old grannies to care for.’

‘And you’re Robin Hood?’

The man nodded. ‘I drew the line at green tights and I’m useless with a bow and arrow. All right? Anything else you’d like to know? Like name, address, what I had for my breakfast and do I vote Labour?’

Maurice took the keys from his pocket and walked slowly to the safe. The number combination was etched deep into his consciousness, though that particular secret was no use, not now. If he refused to comply with the intruder’s wishes, he could end up with no fingers and, possibly, with a fractured skull. Here he stood, a few feet from riches galore. In
his mind’s eye, he pictured valuable prints, some priceless china, gems of almost matchless quality. He could not lose all that, surely?

‘Open it.’

Even now, Maurice played for time. ‘The key’s no use without the numbers,’ he said. ‘And I’d have a better chance of remembering the combination if you’d put that thing down.’ He glared at the crowbar. Nothing would save him. All the tea in China, all the diamonds in Africa were useless now. For a split second, Maurice recognized his own foolishness. Bodily integrity was worth far more than priceless artefacts. He paused mid-thought. Did he really want to live without his treasures? And how could he claim on insurance for items that were not strictly kosher? ‘I’m thinking,’ he mumbled. ‘Trying to get the numbers in order.’

‘I’m not daft,’ said the unwelcome guest.

‘Aren’t you?’ Maurice looked down at his own flabby body. ‘Do you think I could win if we came to blows? You need no crowbar, son.’

The man shrugged impatiently.

‘Look, the numbers are in my brain and my brain’s gone numb. The combination got changed just days ago,’ he lied. ‘I’ve a job to think of it without all this carry-on.’

The thief placed his weapon on a work table, folded his arms and waited.

Maurice swallowed a lump of pain. For decades, he had run this shop. To the outside world, Maurice Chorlton was a funny little man, short, unattractive, going bald. But here, in his own tiny cavern, Maurice was a king. He could polish gold to perfection, could shape gems, string beads, manufacture jewellery to virtually any set of specifications. He loved his work,
could not imagine life without it. ‘What would you say to five hundred pounds?’ he asked.