The Corner House (8 page)

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up with the aid of a chair. It was time to get a move on, time to start going down the yard again. Buckets were all very well, but the lavatory was preferable.

With shaky knees, Theresa dragged herself along, fingers trembling over the buttons of her coat, legs stiffened by several days in bed. She edged past the lidded pail that used to be her toilet, then looked back at little Jessica.

All that had mattered so far was the money: pounds, the odd fiver, some ten-bob notes and a pile of silver. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d saved so assiduously, but she suspected that the motive might well be revenge. What was that saying about revenge? And where had she heard it? It was something to do with vengeance needing an extra coffin, because it often finished off the perpetrator as well
as the target. Theresa shook off a sudden chill and tried to concentrate on the matter in hand.

But even as she staggered towards the door, Theresa’s brain remained in gear. How was she going to drag herself away from her daughter? So far, Jessica was a warm, mewling infant whose needs centred on a full stomach and a clean, dry body, but she would develop a personality, would become interesting, would turn into a person. As Jessica grew, would the love keep pace?

It was freezing outside, and the cleared area of yard was slick with a thin layer of new ice. Snow piled against the walls looked grey and crusty, as if the miners who had shifted it had brought their trade onto Theresa’s flags. She must not fall. Remaining upright was important for … for Jessica’s sake.

White distemper was peeling off the walls in the lavatory shed. She wanted better, better for Jessica’s sake. A nice house with an inside bathroom, a bit of grass at the back, even a tree or two. Privet hedges, a blue front door with a brass knocker, carpet in the living room, a red Axminster runner up the stairs with white paint at its edges. For Jessica’s sake. But no, she had to stop thinking like this. There could be no house, no neatly trimmed privet hedges, because she would have to leave Jessica behind in a safe place until … until all the other business had been concluded.

Jessica’s fathers’ fathers all had nice houses, two up Chorley New Road, lap of luxury, red-brick boundary walls and wide pavements where no-one threw empty beer bottles or cigarette packets. Even Alan Betteridge had a decent enough home, though it wasn’t as well placed as The Villa and Holden Lodge. The Betteridges had a great big place up
Deane Road, not as fancy as the others, but worth a few bob all the same.

The rapists all enjoyed three meals a day cooked in proper gas ovens and served at decent tables onto good plates. When they were at home, that was. They were all in the army now, all carrying guns and piking about on parade grounds in big boots and daft hats.

She let herself into the scullery, turned on the single brass tap and forced herself to let the scalding cold burn into her fingers. She had to be clean, had to keep the germs at bay with carbolic and a stiff brush. The pain didn’t matter. Just now, the money didn’t matter either, because the child was the pivot, the centre of Theresa Nolan’s universe. The three men could wait, she supposed. Perhaps the Germans would get them. If the enemy didn’t manage it, then Theresa would. When she was ready. In her own good time.

The King’s Head was filled with chatter, smoke and the scent of Magee’s Ale. The hostelry’s landlord, a placid man with a large belly and very little hair, was doling out drinks and keeping a weather eye on three rowdy soldiers who sat at a table just inside the door. Had it not been for their uniforms, he would have asked them to leave an hour ago, but the country needed its heroes. ‘She’ll bleed us bloody dry.’

The trio of champions supped another pint of ale, arms raising in perfect unison, glasses returning simultaneously to the scarred top of a metal-legged table. ‘I imagine she’ll forget it in time,’ replied Roy Chorlton, the lie sliding past slightly crooked teeth. She would never forget. In his heart of hearts, Roy
knew that the girl’s life was ruined for ever. Still, he shrugged off the guilt and straightened his tie.

‘She’d better forget, all right,’ belched Teddy Betteridge.

Roy Chorlton’s father was the spokesperson, the one who dealt directly with the Walshes, so Roy took it upon himself to calm the lesser beings with whom he kept company. ‘She’ll have the baby to think about.’ He smoothed a slick of short black hair, wiped the resulting deposit of oil on a sleeve of rough khaki. If Teddy Betteridge didn’t shut up about Theresa Nolan, Roy might just crown him with his beer glass. ‘Let’s change the subject,’ he suggested for the third time. Things had become very heated a few minutes earlier, and the landlord was watching. Also, something akin to conscience had begun to stir in Roy Chorlton’s breast. Perhaps it was the war that had made him sensitive, the knowledge that he might easily be dead within weeks or months.

Teddy Betteridge shrugged. After three or four jars of ale, he scarcely knew what day it was. ‘She’ll forget it,’ he agreed drunkenly. He always agreed with Roy Chorlton, because Roy was quality. The Chorltons had a jewellery shop on Deansgate and a detached mansion at the best end of Chorley New Road. ‘I wonder where they’ll send us?’ The short sentence was punctuated by several more loud belches.

Roy gazed at his companions, wondering how the hell he had managed to fetch up in such glorious company. Ged-short-for-George Hardman had a face that resembled the surface of a full moon, round and deeply pitted by years spent picking at abundant acne. His father, the unabbreviated
George Hardman of Hardman’s Hides, was a man of influence, a major employer in the township of Bolton. The son was a mess.

Teddy Betteridge, who sat opposite Roy, broke wind, guffawed and lit a Woodbine. ‘Could be posted anywhere, I suppose.’

‘It’s nowhere yet,’ snapped Roy. ‘The fighting’s hardly kicked off. This isn’t embarkation leave.’

Teddy inhaled and blew out a couple of smoke rings. ‘We should tell her to bugger off,’ he declared drunkenly. ‘She were asking for trouble wandering about in back alleys.’

Roy Chorlton bit back a quick retort. He didn’t like to think about his crime, hated to be reminded, wished he had joined a different regiment. He didn’t fancy digging himself in with these two, German bullets flying towards him, Teddy Betteridge going on about that bloody girl. According to a certain shrunken midwife, the victim had been returning from an errand of mercy when she had been pounced on and raped.

Ged Hardman leaned back against the wall. Life hadn’t turned out as expected; it wasn’t what he had imagined for himself. He should have been working with his dad at the tannery, should have had a car, a nice girl, a future, a decent skin. Hardman Senior had taken a tough line with his son, had belted Ged across the face after hearing about Theresa Nolan’s ordeal. That had been a frightening day, because the suave, perfect gentleman who had fathered Ged was not given to displays of strong emotion. ‘I’m fed up,’ declared Ged now. ‘Bloody war, bloody Nolan whore.’ Mother believed in him; Mother swore that her son was incapable of rape.

Teddy Betteridge grinned lewdly. ‘I doubt you’re
the father of that kiddy, anyway,’ he told Ged. ‘You’ve not much lead in your pencil, lad.’

Sensing more trouble, Roy Chorlton left his companions and wandered into the gents’. He shut himself inside the single, evil-smelling cubicle and sighed deeply. Had he seen a picture of himself in that moment, shoulders slightly hunched, hair threatening to thin, eyes bulging slightly, he might have realized how similar he was to his father.

Betteridge. Like the Chorltons, Teddy Betteridge’s family were tradespeople. Unlike the Chorltons, they were not particularly well thought of. Betteridge Fine Furnishings sold stuff that often fell to pieces after a year or two. Alan Betteridge, Teddy’s father, didn’t seem to care. With the threatened advent of Utility items, he might begin to sell something almost decent at last, though he would no doubt be admonished from time to time about overcharging. Yes, the Chorltons and the Betteridges were traders, but they shared no common ground beyond that simple fact.

Roy closed his eyes and tried not to breathe too deeply while keeping company with unsavoury odours. He had never drunk brandy after last April’s fateful occurrence. But the beer had loosened his mind tonight and was allowing unpleasant thoughts to invade the forefront of his brain. It was his fault. He had been the instigator, the first rapist. The child was probably his, born out of lust, greed and several glasses of cognac.

Ged Hardman, the unlovely by-product of a handsome father and a beautiful, wayward mother, had simply taken his first chance, his first woman. With a skin like his, Ged got few opportunities where females were concerned. Inflamed by Roy’s actions,
the tanner’s son had enjoyed a very brief moment of sexual gratification.

As for Betteridge, he was a pig. Like his uncouth father, Teddy Betteridge acted first, thought later – if at all. ‘One more brain cell and he’d be a dandelion,’ Roy muttered to himself. Betteridge was incapable of remorse. Betteridge was probably devoid of pity, forgiveness, charity or any other form of sensitivity.

He thumped a closed fist against the wall. Something had to be done. Roy Chorlton, son of a two-faced and money-grabbing jeweller, had discovered a sense of morality. It had arrived late, but it was here and it was screaming to be heeded. But why should he carry the weight of all this? The answer came swiftly. He had been pickled in brandy. He had raped a woman. And someone was banging on the door.

‘Hast tekken root i’ yon?’ shouted a rough voice. ‘I don’t want th’ urinal, I need a sitting-down job.’

Roy pulled the chain and emerged to face an old man with an apoplectic complexion. ‘It’s all yours,’ he said.

‘Aye, well tha’ll get no lavvy in a trench, lad. It’s a case of drop it where you must in battle.’

Roy stared at the closed door. The hidden man carried on, told his invisible companion about trench foot, the trots, fleas. For good measure, he threw in scabies and a bit of gangrene before settling down in the small cubicle.

Roy re-entered the bar, saw Betteridge and Hardman being removed by two policemen. Near the door, tables and chairs were overturned and sharing floor space with broken glass and spilled beer. Teddy Betteridge’s loudly expressed opinions on the subject
of Ged Hardman’s sexual inadequacy had brought forth yet another fight.

‘Friends of yours?’ asked the publican.

Roy shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘We just happen to be in the same regiment.’ He had outgrown Betteridge and Hardman, he told himself firmly.

‘Another drink?’

Roy shook his head. ‘No, thanks,’ he answered. ‘I have an appointment.’

‘You the jeweller’s lad?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah well. Good luck to you when you get thrown into the thick of it. I got a bellyful last time. Shot twice, I was.’

It had occurred only recently to Roy Chorlton that he might actually die. His father had wanted him to become an officer and a gentleman, but Roy hadn’t been keen. ‘This will be different from the Great War,’ he replied now with a confidence that was not really felt. ‘Should be over by next winter.’

Having heard it all before, the tenant of the King’s Head got back behind his bar. Hitler would take some shifting and, even if he did give up the ghost, the nasty bastard would take a few British lads with him.

Outside, Roy Chorlton stood with his back to the pub, legs set wide, each foot itching to take off in its own direction. Chorley New Road or Emblem Street? Head in the sand, face up to responsibility, run away, run towards? There was nothing to lose. He could take a brisk walk, clear his head, go home later. But as he followed his right foot, Roy knew exactly where he was going. Like a magnet drawn to iron, he pursued his own undeniable destiny.

She cowered in the bed, coverlet clutched in taut fingers, the hand drawn up against her throat. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she managed. Nobody locked a door in Emblem Street, not before bedtime. It was only a quarter to ten, and Eva Harris had promised to return. ‘You’ve no right to come in here,’ she added with a coolness that belied inner terror. For the baby, she must remain calm. She looked hard at the man, the beast she had feared, the nightmare whose features had occupied so many dark dreams. He was smaller than she remembered, less muscular. He was tense. He was afraid of her. ‘Get out of my house,’ she said, her voice steadier. ‘This is my house, my home. You’ve no right to be here.’

‘My dad owns most of the street,’ came the swift reply. Roy Chorlton wished that he could bite back the words. He hadn’t meant to sound aggressive or threatening. He hadn’t even wanted to come here, but his feet had travelled up Emblem Street of their own accord, had forced the rest of him to follow. If only Father hadn’t given Roy the address. But Maurice Chorlton made sure that his son felt every needle of pain, every pang of guilt. ‘Sorry,’ mumbled Roy. ‘I didn’t intend to …’ The words died in his mouth. ‘But my dad does own property round here.’

Theresa swallowed noisily. ‘Oh, does he?’ No wonder Eva Harris had hung on to the rent book, then. ‘Well, the rent’s paid, so it’s my home.’

‘Rent free. That’s part of my punishment. He takes the rent out of my inheritance.’ God, was there to be no forgiveness? One mistake, one drunken night, and the girl in the bed would probably hold that against her attackers for all time.

Theresa glanced down at the sleeping babe. She had not expected to see Roy Chorlton again, especially
here in her own place. Bumping into him outside would have been bad enough, but here? Righteous anger collided with fright, the resulting tremor causing Theresa’s frail heart to chatter drunkenly behind its cage of ribs. ‘Get out,’ she begged.

‘I won’t hurt you. I mean you no harm.’

‘Then go. If you don’t want to hurt me, just go.’

The baby was very tiny. She lay in her drawer, body wrapped in a pink blanket, mittened fist pressed against a cheek. ‘A little girl, then.’ He stepped nearer to the child. ‘Why does she wear gloves?’

‘To stop her scratching her face.’ Theresa bit down on her lip, ordering herself to answer no more questions from the unwelcome guest. ‘If you don’t go, I’ll scream,’ she informed him. Eva would be here shortly. Barring emergencies, Eva always made her last visit between half past nine and ten.