The Corner House (29 page)

‘Thinking about her again?’

Theresa’s pores opened. ‘What?’

‘She’s all right for now, that child.’

Theresa did not believe in fortune-tellers. No-one but God could read minds. All the crystal balls, tarot
cards and palmistry in the world would never convince Theresa that a sixth sense really did exist.

‘She’s been ill, too. Never mind, queen, let’s see what the cards have got to say today.’

Theresa’s uneasiness grew until her skin crawled. The heart-of-the-matter set produced cards showing a search for truth and justice, while the pile representing the past found fertility, pregnancy and ill-health. It was all nonsense, of course.

‘Three bad men.’ The woman shook her head. ‘You’re looking for vengeance,’ announced Maggie stridently after a pause. ‘There’s victory of a sort, then the death card.’ She looked hard at Theresa. ‘Death cards don’t always mean physical death. This can also be a change of some sort.’

Theresa, unable to meet the woman’s penetrating stare, allowed her eyes to take in the room. Purple rugs, purple curtains, a mauve scarf draped over a small table. On the table sat a square wooden box. Maggie was reaching for it. ‘I’ll go now,’ said Theresa.

‘No.’

‘But—’

‘Humour me. Just a few seconds more, that’s all.’ She took from the box a small sphere of crystal, tiny enough to be held inside a closed fist. ‘I’ll warm it up,’ declared Maggie.

Theresa remembered a wireless like that, an old thing that had taken ages to find a station. She felt oppressed, as if the air in the room had gathered weight before coming to rest on top of her head. That wireless had often found the wrong station and—

‘Two children here,’ murmured Maggie.

‘They must be very small to fit in there.’

Unimpressed by the quip, the woman carried on. ‘I’m of Irish gypsy stock,’ she warned her visitor. ‘So take heed. Three men, two children, same size, same age. They could be cousins, I suppose, but they’re more like sisters.’

Theresa felt herself squirming in the chair. ‘I’ve just one child.’

‘Two,’ Maggie insisted. ‘And they’re sisters, definitely.’

‘No.’

The raddled face peered deeply into the ball. ‘These are not children of the future. They are already among us.’

Theresa raised a shoulder.

‘Ah well, if you won’t co-operate.’ Maggie returned the globe to its box. ‘That’s a shame, because you’d be quite receptive to the gift if you’d open your heart. Never mind.’

Theresa rose and walked to the door.

‘There’s a man who loves you. He’s looking for you.’

Theresa froze for an instant.

‘Take care.’

Back in her own room, Theresa Nolan found herself shaking. Three men, revenge, death. But two children? It was all a great heap of rubbish. And it was time to check the table linen.

The men who frequented the second floor of Jutland House learned, over the years, to treat Theresa Nolan with something rather stronger than respect, though no man feared her absolutely. She was a gently spoken woman from inner Lancashire, a female who would allow few breaches of the rules, yet one who never berated anybody unduly. This small, pretty and eminently desirable young woman had eyes cold enough, stern enough, to stop any man within a twenty-yard radius. It was as if the often steely irises had the power to shape themselves into well-honed weaponry of a similar colour, so piercing and angry were their depths. After a couple of skirmishes early on in her career, Theresa found herself ignored and almost avoided by the girls’ clientele.

With a determination that would have been remarkable in a whole-bodied, agile human, Theresa stuck fiercely to her original brief. She was here to earn, to save, to provide for her child and to bide time until vengeance could be served up coldly and completely. Let the three of them breathe easily, let them live without anxiety. Theresa was simply preparing herself.

It would soon be 1952. For the past six years, Theresa had worked and lived in the Waterloo area of Liverpool. She had registered with no doctor, as she was terrified of being diagnosed once more as a sufferer from tuberculosis. When ill, she took herself off to a Liverpool pharmacy for cough medicines and other potions. She shopped mainly in Waterloo, venturing into the city only when meeting Jessica or visiting Povey’s chemist shop.

Eva brought the child to Liverpool three times each year and, after these brief reunions, Theresa always sank into a depression that lifted only when the weeping was forced to make way for routine. The supervision of staff, the checking of laundry, bedrooms, cutlery and menus was Theresa’s mind-balm. But, behind a façade of capability, she missed Jessica as if she had abandoned a five-year-old child just a matter of days earlier.

No-one in Bolton knew where Theresa worked. Even Jessica’s guardian was kept in the dark, because Theresa was afraid of being traced, even by Eva. But what if Jessica became ill? Theresa’s shame with regard to her work proved more powerful than such worries. Also, Dr Stephen Blake, who still worked at Williamson’s, had a habit of turning up at Eva Harris’s house to ask about Jessica’s health and Theresa’s whereabouts. So far, Eva had managed to stop the child from mentioning Liverpool. The less the now eleven-year-old Jessica knew about her mother’s address and profession, the safer Theresa felt.

Theresa had missed Stephen acutely at first, though time made of him a happy memory, one of the good men who wore white hats and rode grey horses as they overcame the baddies at Saturday cinema matinées. Well, that was the situation during
hours of wakefulness, when Theresa could file her ex-lover in a small section marked ‘heroes’. Nights were a different matter, because dreams took on an uncontrollable identity of their own, a life that sometimes left the waking woman lonely and bereft. He was gone; she could never have him, would not meet his like again. Often, on waking, she could scarcely tolerate the certainty that, although her man was in the world, she could not be with him. The flame of hatred burned brighter than the flame of love, it seemed. Not for one moment did Theresa allow herself to forget her one, true aim. Soon, she would be picking off her rapists one by one.

With the exception of Maggie Courtney, the working girls kept as great a distance as possible between themselves and the housekeeper. Theresa Nolan was, in the streetwomen’s books, a Woollyback, a creature from inland Lancashire, the place where stupid accents were bred. Yet this bold little person was far from stupid. She had no patience with a bit of tomfoolery, was forever leaping onto those whose clients caused a rumpus. The big, faceless bosses kept away, leaving Theresa in sole charge, so her ultimate power was beyond measure. Although she had never sacked a girl, she made it quite plain that such action lay well within her reach.

Theresa entered her living room and tore off a pair of knitted gloves, her face still glowing after the latest altercation. For a madam, she was prudish, to say the least. Occasionally, the carryings-on got out of hand, and she had just lost her temper. Three people in one bed? Theresa had never heard of such a notion. On her way back from the shops, she had met and tackled the ringleader, had made her feelings more than plain.

The door crept inward and a small voice presented itself through the resulting crack. ‘Mrs Nolan?’

‘Come in.’

A childlike figure entered the room. Maria Martin looked about twelve, although she was in fact much older, and the men loved her. Flat-chested and angular, this waif attracted far more business than the fuller-figured variety of prostitute. The small, streetwise face was white, the eyes wide with a mock-innocence that never fooled the housekeeper.

Theresa sighed, wondering yet again what made mankind tick. ‘Well?’ she asked, sounding for all the world like some prim, virgin schoolteacher in her fifties.

‘Sorry, like,’ mumbled the visitor.

Theresa had understood the women’s predicament for some time. They saw no other way of making money. Many had escaped from households containing ten or more children, homes where education was judged to be a privilege rather than a right. Maria could scarcely read. She had spent most of her life rearing siblings before running off into the open maw of some pimp. ‘One man at a time, Maria,’ Theresa advised softly. ‘Sometimes, there is danger in numbers, and we don’t want the powers that be to be displeased, do we? I mean, if the big boys ever found out …’ She left the rest of this sentence to the imagination of her companion.

‘All right.’

‘I make the rules – please remember that.’ Sometimes, the committee sent letters to Theresa, usually filled with words of praise, sometimes containing suggestions, never signed. She was probably the most efficient housekeeper the home had ever employed.

‘I won’t do it again.’ Maria crept back to her boudoir, a room scented by attar of roses, which sickly fragrance failed completely to disguise the lingering odours of constant sexual activity.

Theresa stood and watched until her door was closed. She ran a tight ship and could not be faulted for her decision-making or her efficiency. Nevertheless, she, too, would disappear soon. Unlike the previous incumbent, Theresa intended to vanish of her own accord.

Newly returned from Povey’s pharmacy, Theresa emptied her spoils onto a small table. The pharmacist was a genius of the old school, while his shop was an Aladdin’s cave, all tiny wooden drawers from which a pot pourri of odours spilled with every opening. He made his own pills, dropping measured ingredients into an ancient press which crushed and compressed its contents before spitting out little spheres of pure magic.

Recently, John Povey had begun to look quizzically at Theresa. ‘Have you ever had TB?’ the chemist had asked on several occasions. Theresa’s cough was legendary. Often, during the night, she hacked away until she vomited. ‘Who’s your doctor?’ John Povey had asked today. Theresa had snatched up her purchases, had left the shop in double-quick time. She must begin immediately to think her way out of Liverpool. Yes, her moment was about to arrive.

She tut-tutted under her breath, casting an eye round the room. She had spent a lot of time in here, reading, sewing, knitting jumpers for Jessica. Crime novels were piled high next to the fireplace, pages dog-eared where she had marked a murder. It was all down to orchestration, really. She didn’t want Jessica
to go through life knowing that her mother was a killer. In the stories, detectives were clever. In reality, police were nowt a pound. In the here and now, Theresa planned to become a homicidal genius. Her hatred for Chorlton, Betteridge and Hardman had not abated over the years. She would get them, would pick them off cold-bloodedly, one by one, taking her time, making sure that—

Someone tapped at the door, pushed it inward. ‘Mrs Nolan?’

It was Maria Martin again. ‘What is it?’ Theresa asked.

Maria burst into tears. Maria could burst into tears at the drop of a headscarf. ‘It’s come back,’ she wailed. ‘I’ve just noticed when I went to the lav.’

Theresa walked towards the girl. ‘Are you sure?’

Through a flood of crocodile tears, Maria managed a strangled, ‘Yes.’

‘You know the rules,’ sighed Theresa. ‘Did Maggie write down the names of all your clients and put the list in the safe?’ Maggie was in charge of gentleman callers, keeping lists of names, preferences, dislikes. The pair of old ladies who had ‘minded’ the girls when Theresa had arrived at Jutland House were now retired, leaving Maggie Courtney to shoulder all responsibility. ‘Do you remember the names of your clients, Maria?’

A nod conveyed the answer.

‘Right.’ Maggie would now have to give the list to Monty, who would arrange, with Theresa’s help, treatment for little Maria’s venereal illness. Clients, too, must be advised of the situation so that they could seek medical help. What about their wives? Theresa asked herself for the umpteenth time.

‘Shall I pack me stuff?’ wailed the supposedly hysterical girl.

Theresa sighed thoughtfully.

‘When am I going into the clinic?’

‘Soon.’ Theresa’s mind began to tick, slowly at first, gaining pace as the thoughts blossomed and took root. Oh, yes, yes. How sweet this particular revenge might prove to be. According to Eva Harris, Ged Hardman was still unable to get himself a girlfriend, though the tannery was a thriving concern in spite of George Hardman Senior’s prolonged absence abroad with his secretary. Ged, whose prime loyalty was to beer, was a well-off hooligan with a desperate need for female company. The other two—

‘Mrs Nolan?’

Could she? Of course she could. The housekeeper’s breathing quickened. Elation shot through veins like red hot lava, while goosebumps advertised a cooling, shivery skin. Maria needed money. Here was a chance to help Maria, to help herself, to damage and weaken the foe before the final strike.

‘Only I don’t feel well, see. It’s horrible.’

Gonorrhoea was nasty. It spread like wildfire and thrived with the least encouragement, running through anyone it encountered, leaving grown men shamefaced and their wives in need of penicillin and nerve tablets. ‘I might need you to do something for me,’ said Theresa carefully.

The tears dried magically. ‘You what?’

Theresa’s heart threw one of its quick tantrums. ‘There’s fifty pounds in it, plus expenses. When you get back, you can go into the clinic. I’ll cover for you, say that you’re in bed having your time of the month.’

‘Oh.’ Maria scratched her head, grinned broadly through crocodile tears. ‘Fifty quid? Just for me?’

‘It’s a very delicate matter.’

‘Right.’ Astonishment was leaving its mark on the young-old face.

‘Just a night or two, you’ll be away. That’s all the time we can spare without drawing attention to you being missing.’ She would tell Maggie. It was a strange thing to admit, but the person Theresa trusted most was a haggard old whore.

‘What have I to do, like?’ Maria glowed. In her mind, she was already spending her spoils on clothes, perhaps a fur jacket, some elegant evening shoes in silver. Fifty whole pounds was a tremendous amount of money.

‘I’ll tell you tomorrow. But it will be a secret – do you understand?’