The Corner House (58 page)

In the rear living room, Maggie was leaning casually against a sideboard that almost groaned beneath platters of meat, plates of mince pies, an
enormous Christmas cake. Eva, Jimmy and Monty were seated at the table.

Jessica looked from one to another, saw faces that were deliberately impassive.

‘We’ve decided you can have a quick look at your present before we start,’ said Maggie.

Jessica smiled broadly. There was a new bike in the front room, a red one, she hoped. ‘Are you sure?’

Eva nodded. ‘But hurry up. I’m that clemmed, me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’

Jessica laughed and went off to claim her Christmas surprise.

‘She’s all right.’ John placed Katherine on the sofa. Bernard and Liz hung back, coats still fastened, scarves hanging from their necks. ‘They would have kept her in if they’d been really worried,’ John added.

Liz had forgotten all about dinner, but the smells reminded her. ‘Can she eat?’

Katherine didn’t want food. Getting out of hospital had not been easy. People in white coats had wittered on about concussion, had taken X-rays, had thumped her knees with little hammers. Now, she had to be watched for symptoms like vomiting or falling asleep suddenly. Her bike was leaning against the table and it seemed to be in fair condition – of the two of them, the bicycle had come off best.

‘I’ll … er … go and make the gravy,’ said Liz. Christmas had to happen. She didn’t want it, would have preferred to sit with her beloved daughter, but there was a guest and Christmas was, after all, a fixed feast.

John poured sherry for Liz, whisky for himself and
Bernard. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Katherine,’ he promised. ‘You two go and do whatever needs doing.’

Bernard, who had had enough of carpentry, decided to help his wife in the kitchen. Within ten minutes, he had been expelled with a grim warning about interfering where he wasn’t wanted.

The chess board came out and war was declared at one minute past three o’clock. Katherine watched and listened, smiling when her father cursed after losing a precious piece.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, found herself drifting again.

‘Katherine?’ Bernard’s voice was full of concern.

‘I’m not asleep,’ she replied. She watched the angel as it glided past, its wings outstretched in a perfect line. The darker figure floated along, a guardian angel to the guardian angel. They were both going home, onward and upward.

‘We’re there,’ said the female, pale hair streaming in her wake like silk highlighted by sunset. ‘Bye, bye, Katherine.’

Katherine sat up, opened her eyes and smiled. Everything was all right at last. ‘I’ll have some dinner, please,’ she called.

‘That’s my girl,’ whispered a voice from somewhere else. ‘Oh yes, that’s my girl.’

Jessica pushed open the door and stepped into the front parlour. In an effort to conceal Jessica’s gift, heavy curtains had been closed to shut out the meagre light of a December afternoon. She felt her way past the sofa, pulled back the curtains and found a red bicycle leaning against the window-sill. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she called to the people in the living room.

She squatted down to look at bright, spoked wheels, felt the saddle, counted three gears. No-one had followed her right into the room, yet she suddenly felt someone’s eyes on her. It would be Maggie, she decided, picturing the Irishwoman standing in the doorway with a self-satisfied smile decorating her face.

In an easy chair by the fireplace, Theresa Nolan allowed silent tears to wash her face. This was the daughter she had abandoned, the one she had tried not to love right from the start. A new bicycle, a nice house, twenty thousand pounds invested by a man who might have been her father. What use was all of that without closeness?

The tears slowed. Lucky to be alive, lucky to have Jessica, Theresa calmed herself. For months, she had deliberately widened the already spacious chasm between herself and Jessica. This child was so wonderful, so lovely, that she must never grieve for a dead mother, must never feel hurt. Now, here Theresa was, alive and kicking after sailing through surgery so new, so dangerous, so innovative …

‘Oh, it’s wonderful,’ breathed Jessica. ‘All shiny and new.’

Theresa, too, felt shiny and new, just like her daughter’s bike. The TB had righted itself, but the heart had finally threatened to stop, turning Theresa into a frequent visitor at Death’s dark gates.

Jessica spun a pedal, pressed the brake lever, ran her fingers along a spoke.

‘Jessica?’

The girl remained perfectly motionless until the pedal stopped spinning. ‘Mam?’ she gulped.

‘Yes, it’s me.’

Slowly, almost afraid for her sanity, Jessica turned
and looked at the figure in the chair. She swallowed twice and remained where she was, steadying herself by holding on to the edge of the sill.

‘It’s really me, love. All mended, no TB and my heart’s a sight better.’ The child was so beautiful: tall, straight. And that hair – a film star would kill for it.

Whitened knuckles were pressed against the child’s even, perfect teeth. ‘You didn’t die. Every day, I prayed that you wouldn’t die.’ It occurred to Jessica that she might still be asleep, that the bicycle and Theresa could be parts of some very intricate dream.

Unable to speak, Theresa shook her head. After clearing her throat, she managed an explanation of sorts. ‘I had an operation on my heart. They sewed it back together again. I’ve even come home in an aeroplane. You have to be well to fly.’

‘Oh.’

Theresa smiled tentatively. ‘Dr Blake was there during the operation. He helped out.’ How many men could say that they had literally touched the heart of their beloved? ‘I have missed you so much, Jessica.’

The girl dashed across the room and threw herself at her mother’s feet. ‘I can’t believe it. Oh, I can’t believe that you’re here.’

The door was closed softly by someone in the hall. For several minutes, mother and child simply held one another, sometimes touching, sometimes pulling or pushing away to examine a face, a hand, a pair of eyes, the fall of a lock of hair. They talked then about the missing months, about mountains, convalescent homes, algebra, Mother Olivia’s temper, Auntie Ruth, Irene.

‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’ Theresa asked.

‘Oh yes. Oh yes, please, Mother.’ Jessica grinned. ‘I’m a bit too old to call you Mam.’

‘Then Mother it is.’

‘When will you get married?’

Theresa shrugged. ‘There’s no hurry. I don’t have to go at anything in a rush, because I have time. Before we went away, we didn’t know whether … Never mind. Stephen found someone who would perform this operation.’ She laughed aloud. ‘Trust me to be special, eh?’

Jessica nodded mutely. Mother had always been special. ‘Are you my Christmas present?’

‘Yes, love. Too big to wrap, like the bicycle. I’ll never know how Eva and Maggie kept this secret.’ She paused. ‘Just as I expected, you’re turning out to be a grand girl. You’ve never given anyone the slightest amount of trouble. How many girls would accept the idea of a new stepfather just like that?’ She clicked her fingers.

‘Well,’ replied Jessica, speech slowed as if by deep thought. ‘Somebody has to keep him clean. And he has a lot to answer for, like making my mother talk so posh.’

They fell about in the manner of two schoolgirls with a fit of the giggles, nothing to laugh at really, yet tickled to the marrow by the sheer silliness of themselves.

The door opened softly. ‘Are you two daft buggers going to have some dinner? Only my Jimmy’s that starved – he’s halfway through his tie.’

The result of this statement sent mother and daughter into further peals.

In the doorway, Maggie Courtney and Eva Coates clung together, each acting as life support to the
other. They cried and laughed, watched the antics of the mother and the daughter.

‘Like two puppies,’ Eva managed.

‘Exactly,’ said Maggie. ‘Young and happy. Exactly as they should be.’

The Corner House waited at the junction where it had sat for almost forty years. Because of its position in life, the title was correct, yet the building’s frontage had no corners. Its ‘eyes’ were positioned where right angles were the norm, as if a pair of giant knives had dropped from the heavens to slice off the usual joints, making rooms a slightly crazy shape because of this odd positioning of windows. The square bays twinkled, each tiny oblong of leaded glass throwing off the sun haphazardly, the old, flawed panes attempting to do impressions of faceted diamonds.

One eye was closed, the other open. The winking window, created by a dropped blind, sat at one side of an arched porch, while its wide-awake brother overlooked a rose garden. Buds were erupting on almond and cherry trees, laurels continued to drop and grow their everlasting foliage, blackbirds fussed in the branches of a white lilac, tulips nodded, daffodils curled and folded their petals to make way for the gaudier emblems of summer.

Inside, a small feast had been prepared behind the blind-covered window of the dining room. Platters of sandwiches queued alongside cakes, tarts and quiches. A salad bowl rested between silver servers,
while jelly and cream took pride of place. The new ones, the expected invaders, were each a quarter of a century old, yet their passion for childish puddings had not abated.

The sitting room, dust-free and contented, boasted an almost intact crystal chandelier, a collection of comfortable seats, an open fireplace and a TV. Wicker chairs with plumped-up cushions furnished a small, sun-filled conservatory. In the kitchen, a clock dropped confident ticks into near-silence. The damped-down coke oven sighed softly into its chimney; rows of ill-matched plates covered a dresser; pans hung from a pulley line.

At the top of the stairs, an oriel bay soaked up light and scattered it across the landing and down the flight. At peace with itself, the house creaked gently, waiting quietly, its breath held against a future that had always been uncertain. But they were coming. The red carpet was down, the flag had ascended its pole, paint and wallpaper were present, correct and new. Soon, soon, there would be laughter and noise.

On the erosion at Blundellsands, two men gazed across water over which Viking ships had once travelled to invade and populate the land just north of Liverpool. They turned simultaneously and walked south, each with his hands clasped behind his body in the manner of the Queen’s husband.

John Povey, the already wild grey locks made crazier by a skittish breeze, took the part of pacemaker; Bernard Walsh, whose trilby had already made several breaks for freedom, wore the hat pulled so severely downward that it looked like an integral part of his facial structure. ‘They might not like each other,’ he mumbled. ‘They could be opposites
by now. Mind, opposites are supposed to attract.’

‘What?’ roared John, back-pedalling to look at his slower friend. He saw Bernard’s lips moving, but heard nothing. Bernard’s words had travelled off towards Formby, while John’s hearing was muffled by mobile air scuttering in from the water.

Bernard gave up talking. Speech got whisked off in weather such as this. But his mind continued active. It was amazing, truly amazing. The twins were both teachers, were both engaged to marry teachers in June. Jessica’s wedding was scheduled for the nineteenth, Katherine’s for the twenty-sixth. Jessica and her fiancé had applied for jobs in Liverpool. It seemed that Jessica had fallen in love with the city years ago, when visiting her mother.

Theresa. Bernard sighed, strode over a stranded jellyfish. She had fallen asleep in 1959, had slipped away unexpectedly in her bed. Stephen Blake, OBE, renowned worldwide for his expertise in the field of tuberculosis, had found his beloved dead by his side.

John touched his friend’s arm. ‘Don’t,’ he mouthed. ‘Don’t think sad thoughts.’

Bernard took no notice. All in all, Theresa Blake had been a wonderful woman. She had never approached Katherine again, had lived her short life to the full in a wonderful farmhouse on the moors. Aye, she had been a good person, that little mother of twin girls.

Well, today was the day, the meeting time. Bernard wondered briefly about the forthcoming weddings. How would those two young men react when Jessica and Katherine came together? Twins were always close, even when geographically separated. The girls were both teachers of infants, members of
the same union, had joined the same political party. They had marched, albeit separately, for the cause of nuclear disarmament, had taken up cudgels against fox-hunting, hare-coursing, racial and sexual discrimination. What had Theresa Nolan-as-was released into this unsuspecting world? And could those two young men play a real part in the lives of this perfectly matched pair?

The windblown walkers climbed into John Povey’s untidy car. ‘Poor Theresa,’ remarked Bernard, vocal chords tightened by emotion.

‘Stop it.’ John peeled a shrivelled banana skin off the gear stick. ‘She got six good years, six extra years. Without the op, she’d never have got home from Europe.’

‘Katherine dreamt about a woman in the air. She didn’t remember it until I told her the truth. It was her angel dream. That Christmas, after she fell off her bike, Katherine thought she saw Theresa going to heaven. But Theresa had been flying in reality, though she did use a plane.’

John nodded. ‘Have you seen my car keys?’

‘In your hand.’

‘Ah.’ The pharmacist started his motor. ‘Everything will be fine, you’ll see. Life moves on. Its components remain the same. In the long run, few catalysts have a truly lasting effect.’

Bernard groaned. ‘Don’t go all pharmaceutical on me.’

‘That’s a big word for a fishmonger.’

‘And I’ve dealt with bigger fish than you.’ The car stank of cats. Word had spread among the feline world, and John was inundated with the creatures. ‘Have you started letting moggies sleep in your car, John?’

The chemist frowned, considering the question. ‘It’s not a case of allowing, not with cats. They arrive, they commandeer, they leave.’ He didn’t notice the smell; he was surprised when others did. ‘I need to increase my order for fish heads.’

They remained stationary, each staring out into the estuary, each steeped in his own thoughts.