The Corner House (31 page)

‘You’ve already said that.’ Theresa replaced the photograph.

‘Shame,’ continued Maggie. ‘No dad, then a killer for a mam. Prison’s horrible. I should know, I’ve been inside twice.’

‘I will not go to prison.’ The words arrived squashed, forced past gritted teeth.

‘Course you will. You can’t blow three men’s heads off without putting your own in a noose.’

Theresa made no reply.

Maggie dropped back into her chair, a hand at her throat. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘You’re going to kill yourself as well. Aren’t you?’

The housekeeper maintained her silence.

‘You can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’ snapped Theresa. ‘Will I go to hell four times, once for each of them, once for myself? Might as well get punished for the full-grown sheep, Maggie.’

Maggie leapt up, paced about, ground to a halt in front of the window. The Welsh hills were invisible today, shrouded in low cloud. The Mersey and the sea fought along the eroded shore, saline and mucky river water battling for dominance, waves threatening to gush inland to swamp the coast where Vikings had landed centuries earlier. ‘You’re like that water, a desperate mess,’ she commented. ‘All seething and angry and not knowing which way to turn.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’ Theresa’s head was beginning to throb. ‘Leave me alone, Maggie.’

‘No, I won’t.’ She stayed where she was, her back turned against Theresa. ‘Look, I know I might be a bit soft in the head, like, but I really believed you when you said the gun was just to frighten them into giving more money for your daughter. Then I started thinking—’

‘Don’t wear your brain out, love.’

The sarcasm was lost on Maggie. ‘Then I started thinking.’ There was a hard edge to these repeated words. ‘You can see your own end coming, and you’ve no intention of shuffling off on your own. Am I right?’

‘Probably.’

Maggie swivelled on the spot. ‘Sorry, queen, but you’ll have to find your own gun.’

Smiling grimly, Theresa walked to the fireplace and opened a door in the ornate overmantel. She drew out a piece of blue cloth and unfolded it to reveal a small handgun. ‘I found it,’ she said. ‘With bullets, too. I wanted you to get me the second one
in case this doesn’t work.’ She stroked the mother-of-pearl handle. ‘I’ve had no chance to practise yet.’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘In a dead man’s chest.’

Maggie blinked rapidly, processing the words. ‘One of ours?’ Many of the old sailors kept belongings in metal trunks. ‘The stuffs supposed to go to relatives or friends, or towards the cost of a burial at sea or whatever—’

‘So I’m a thief,’ said Theresa, no emotion in the words.

‘You just took it after the bloke died?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yankee Jack,’ pronounced Maggie. ‘It’s his lady’s gun, the one he bought in Chicago years since. It was his lucky charm.’

‘And now it’s mine, bullets included.’ There were twelve pieces of ammunition in a small cardboard box. A dozen should be plenty, she thought.

It was plain that Maggie could not lay her tongue across one more sensible syllable. She tapped an impatient toe on the floor, raised both hands in a gesture of despair, then left the room.

Theresa wrapped the small weapon and locked the package in the casing of a wall clock. The home was full of timepieces, each one ticking away vital seconds while three men thrived, drank beer, laughed.

Teddy Betteridge was married. Theresa thought about Maria, balking slightly at the idea of deliberately passing on a venereal illness to Teddy’s wife. Whether or not the woman was worthless, she did not deserve the clap. Should Maria confine her favours to Chorlton and Hardman, who both
remained single? No, no. It was every man and woman for him- or herself, no room for exceptions.

Theresa set the kettle to boil in her neat little kitchen. Today, in an hour or so, she would set forth to meet the Manchester train. Eva would be full of gossip, Jessica full of bounce. She was doing very well in her first term at the grammar. If the child carried on working so assiduously, she might even end up with a decent career.

A clock chimed, marked another quarter. ‘Will this be the last time?’ Theresa asked the empty room. ‘Will I ever see Jessica again?’ It was becoming so hard. Walking tired her, breathing was sometimes difficult, headaches were frequent. But oh, no. Not yet. She had no intention of dying now, of giving up while there remained so much to do.

With cup and saucer on a low table, Theresa sat in her living room and gazed across the water. She had not been unhappy here. The flat was well furnished and decently carpeted. She had a bathroom, a bedroom, a kitchen and a living room. She had chosen wallpaper and paint, was given permission and money to decorate every alternate year.

The bosses remained invisible up to a point. Every summer since 1947, a Strawberry Fayre had been held in the grounds, stalls supervised by the wives of eminent citizens, entertainment laid on by the board of governors. At these affairs, councillors patted one another on well-padded backs, policemen paced about with their feet in the ten minutes to two position, while doctors and lawyers huddled in their sombre, dark-suited fraternal groups. At the Strawberry Fayres, there were no upstairs girls, though their clients and clients’ wives were very much in evidence. The wives had fur coats, double chins and
smiles that spoke volumes of their patronizing attitude towards their husbands’ favourite charity. If only they knew what went on just yards away …

Theresa watched a tanker floating across the horizon. Although the water near the coast was choppy, the big ship seemed to glide along on glass. ‘I got used to this,’ she told the estuary. ‘I got used to running a brothel. They say you can get used to anything.’ She didn’t really manage the upstairs, she reminded herself yet again. She was housekeeper to men who had served their country, some in the Royal Navy, others with the Merchant Fleet. Many had been injured and most were grand men. The other side of the business was nothing to do with her except for the occasional keeping of order during cat fights, and the provision of bed linen and towels. Even those items were laundered by someone else.

She had learned, over the years, to cope with all kinds of people, could even look without flinching into the eyes of the clientele of Maria, Brigitte and Adele. Some males she had seen in a state of accidental undress as they rushed towards a forgotten meeting. Others were wont to acknowledge Theresa even while they sneaked towards their bodily pleasures with collars turned up and scarves wound high to disguise delicate, important identities. She was trusted, was trustworthy. How little they knew of human nature, these men. Theresa despised them, laughed inwardly at the stupid creatures who kept their brains in their trousers. Still, at least they paid for their sins, didn’t hover in back alleyways waiting to commit rape.

Theresa closed her eyes again, heard her attackers, allowed herself to feel the pain, to breathe in
their stench. In order to strengthen her resolve, she replayed the scene over and over like a cinema advertisement. She could not, must not weaken.

But her eyelids flew open of their own accord, and her heart jumped about, causing her to catch her breath. Could she? Could she? Yes, yes! First, Maria would go in and leave a gift for Betteridge, Chorlton and Hardman. Then … then Theresa herself had to finish the job, leaving enough time for the ugly illness to show itself in full glory.

‘Stand firm,’ she begged herself. ‘Remember, remember.’ Some animals toyed with their prey. The three Jutland House cats were beggars for messing about with mice, patting, biting, plucking up the poor little rodents and tossing them in the air before the kill. Winston, Viscount and Ike lived for cruelty, often not bothering to finish off their wounded victims, never eating the spoils. Theresa was not a particular lover of cats, because she saw evil in the slanted eyes and murder in those vicious claws. They were walking, stalking killers – and so was she. Sending in Maria would be a cat-like thing, an interesting exercise in the art of torture. VD just before death – what an excellent last meal for those condemned creatures.

It was one o’clock. Theresa went into her bathroom, closed the door, took an aspirin, washed her face. Sometimes, when she gazed in the mirror, she shuddered inwardly at the echo of herself in the glass. She was thinner and paler than ever. Dark shadows beneath the eyes demanded cream and powder, and she had to fight to keep the corners of her mouth upturned. Once made up, she looked all right; passable, though not quite healthy.

She brushed her hair savagely, as if trying to
unravel a tangle of knotted thoughts. It was time to go, time to meet her daughter.

Jessica and Eva stepped off the train and into noise that made Bolton’s Trinity Street seem like a poorly attended church. People darted about with luggage, children, boxes and bags. A man propped on crutches yelled as he sold newspapers, an upturned orange box waiting to act as seating when the job became too tiring. A couple of painted ladies leaned against the waiting-room wall, one filing her nails, the other rouging cheeks that were already over-bright, both pairs of eyes assessing every man who passed by.

Eva marched out into the city street, almost falling over a flower-seller’s cart. As ever, Liverpool heaved with life. Jessica, who had grown fond of the place, strained her ears in preparation for tuning into the dialect. Folk here had ‘never dun nuttin’, didn’t ‘ave a lorra money’, waited for ‘are kid’, promised to be ‘bach in a mini’. The end of ‘back’ seemed to prompt the speaker to clear his throat of some heavy congestion. It was great, almost like being in a different country. Here, Jessica was ‘queen’ or ‘gairl’ and it wasn’t ‘fur’ that she had such lovely ‘fur hur’, better than a ‘fair’ coat any day. They were a friendly people, generous, noisy and mischievous. One day, Jessica would live here.

Eva and Jessica strode towards the little café in which they always drank tea or coffee with Theresa. It was a comfortable place with circular tables covered in floor-length linen cloths. They took their usual place by the window, ordered tea for Eva, cocoa for Jessica. People rushed by in winter clothing, small clouds of breath preceding them, shoes and boots sliding occasionally on thin skids of ice.

Eva took a sip of hot, sweet tea and dabbed at her lips with a starched napkin. In spite of the passage of time, Eva had not managed to get used to this situation. She didn’t know where Theresa worked, because Theresa refused to tell her. There was a poste restante number to which Eva and the child could write, but Theresa withheld any further information.

Jessica, who had laboured long under the delusion that her mother’s work involved a lot of travel, meant business this time. In a few weeks, it would be Christmas. No matter what the nature of Theresa’s work, she could surely come home this one time. ‘We could hide her if anyone came,’ she said.

‘What?’ Eva placed her cup in the centre of its saucer.

‘Mam. If she comes for Christmas, we’ll pretend she’s not there. Dr Blake will have to give up looking for her soon. They wouldn’t put her back in the sanatorium, anyway.’

‘They might,’ replied Eva. She didn’t like the state of Theresa’s health. The girl was going down, was on her way out if Eva wasn’t very much mistaken. As for Stephen Blake – well, his whole reason for living seemed rooted in the pursuit of Theresa Nolan. Like a man obsessed, like Emily Brontë’s Heathcliff, Dr Blake never gave up, was always questioning. One day, he would probably follow Jessica to Liverpool, Eva mused.

Jessica studied Eva closely. Mam could not stay away for ever, surely? ‘What if you die?’ the girl asked.

‘Oh, thank you very much, I’m sure,’ came the taut reply. ‘That should go down very nice with my afternoon cuppa.’

Jessica grinned impishly. ‘You know what I mean.
We should have a telephone number, at least. Even if she travels, her bosses probably know where to find her. How would you send for Mam in a hurry if I had an accident?’

Eva shrugged. ‘I’d have to write,’ she replied lamely. This was none of her own fault, Eva told her troublesome conscience. Theresa’s desperate need for secrecy had caused this problem, but Eva was the one who had to listen to the child and answer all her questions.

‘Writing’s no good if you’re in a hurry.’ Jessica reached across the table and patted ‘Auntie’ Eva’s hand. ‘You know I love you,’ she said. ‘Uncle Jimmy, too. But she’s my mother.’

Eva nodded. She agreed completely with the child – young woman was a nearer description of her wise companion. In spite of being a clever clogs, Jessica was commonsensical, down to earth. At eleven-going-on-twelve years of age, she was easily as adult as many whose majority was expressed on yellowing birth certificates. And the fact remained that Jessica had a right to know where her mother lived. Eva’s hands closed tightly round the napkin. Bernard Walsh was in Liverpool, too.

‘Mam’ll be here soon,’ muttered Jessica.

Eva did not reply. Fortunately, Liverpool was a large city, big enough to make space between Theresa and Bernard. What if …? Eva shuddered inwardly. To think that she had practically forced the Walshes to move to Liverpool … Oh, it didn’t bear thinking about, not on a day as cold as this one. How short-lived Eva’s sigh of relief had been, because Theresa had run off to Liverpool without so much as a by-your-leave after escaping from Williamson’s sanatorium.

‘Are you cold, Auntie?’

She was very cold. ‘I’m all right.’

Jessica pursed her lips in the manner of a much older person. She had decided some years earlier that grown-ups didn’t know whether they were coming or going. The simplest question could give rise to the most complicated thought processes, many of which brought forth either no response at all, or a stumbling, monosyllabic reply. Auntie Eva was thinking. Thinking never did much good, so Jessica decided to shut up.

Eva stared through the window, watching a man helping an old woman whose apples had tumbled from her basket. Here, somewhere on the outskirts, Katherine Walsh lived with her supposed parents. Danny, who still ran the stall in the Bolton fishmarket, had said that Katherine’s family lived in Crosby. Where the hell was Crosby – and where did Theresa live and work? Why did she have to be so secretive? Surely Theresa knew by now that Eva would never betray her? And God forbid that Theresa should ever come across Katherine Walsh. Perhaps similarities between the girls had diminished with the passing of time. Perhaps pigs would grow wings and—