The Reading Room

  The Reading Room

  Ruth Hamilton is the bestselling author of nineteen previous novels set in the north-west of England. She was born in Bolton and now lives in Liverpool, and she writes about both places with realistic insight and dramatic imagery.

  For more information on Ruth Hamilton

  and her books, see her website at:

  www.ruth-hamilton.co.uk

  Also by Ruth Hamilton

  A Whisper to the Living

  With Love from Ma Maguire

  Nest of Sorrows

  Bitty London’s Girls

  Spinning Jenny

  The September Starlings

  A Crooked Mile

  Paradise Lane

  The Betts of Scotland Road

  The Dream Sellers

  The Corner Home

  Miss Honoria West

  Mulligan’s Yard

  Saturday’s Child

  Matthew & Son

  Chandlers Green

  The Bell House

  Dorothy’s War

  The Judge’s Daughter

  The Reading Room

  Ruth Hamilton

  PAN BOOKS

  First published 2009 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2009 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-50930-5 PDF

  ISBN 978-0-330-50929-9 EPUB

  Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 2009

  The right of Ruth Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  In loving memory of Laura Latimer, whose surname I borrowed for the main character herein. She comforted my mother when my dad was killed, and was one of the kindest people I have ever known. Until the end of her life, Laura fought to save the church of Sts Peter and Paul, Bolton, which place of worship was so pivotal in many lives, including my own. Sleep well, dear friend.

  Also for Zelia Cheffins who died on Christmas Day 2008. She was a much-loved mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. To her granddaughter, Carol Sharpies, I send much affection. Chin up, Carol. Remember her laughter and the pleasures you shared.

  One

  Many people in the Lancashire village of Eagleton expressed the opinion that Enid Barker had sat at the upstairs window of 5 Fullers Walk since the old mill had been shifted forty years ago. It was further rumoured in jest that she had been pulled down with the mill, and had come back to haunt the newer development. Whatever residents thought of the matter, that grey shape sat, day in and day out, in the same position for hours at a time. Had her son not been so valued by the community, those whose imaginations ran towards the dark side might have likened her to the mummified corpse in Psycho, but Dave was a grand man who probably never took a cleaver into the shower in his life, so that particular piece of lunatic folklore died stillborn.

  In spite of suggestions to the contrary, old Enid was very much alive. At almost seventy, she was astute, judgemental and extremely well versed in the ways of her fellow man. Because of a condition known as ‘melegs’, she could not walk very far. The medical reason was diabetic neuropathy, but she couldn’t be bothered with words of such a size, so she stuck to ‘melegs’. It was melegs that kept her upstairs, melegs that forced her to sit for most of the day, but it was her antipathy to daytime TV, which she could never manage to enjoy, that became the final clincher. Given all these circumstances, the window was the best place to be.

  She enjoyed watching that lot scuttering and meandering out there. For a start, there was Valda Turnbull. Valda was wearing a new coat. She was a very fertile woman with five children already, so Enid knew what was coming and she said so. ‘Dave?’ she shouted. ‘Come here a minute.’

  He arrived at her side. ‘Yes, Mam? Did you want some more toast?’

  Enid shook her head. ‘Now, you mark my words. Just keep an eye on that Valda. I’ll bet you five quid she has another baby in less than nine months. She must be thirty-eight, so you’d think she’d have more sense. Look. New coat.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘She gives him sex for clothes. With their Molly, it was a powder blue three-piece. Terry was red high heels and a matching handbag. I think Anna-Louise was a cream-coloured coat, but you get mixed up when there’s so many of them.’

  Dave shook his head and groaned. Mam was becoming an embarrassment. No, that wasn’t true, because she’d been an embarrassment for most of his forty-seven years, but this was interfering in the lives of all the victims who walked below. They knew she talked about them; she had talked about them when she had helped run the Reading Room. Well, at least she no longer had a big audience when delivering her vitriol. ‘I got you some talking books from Isis, didn’t I? I know your eyes get tired, so all you need to do is listen. You’d get more out of that than sitting here watching life pass you by. There’s some good stuff on that shelf if you’d only try it.’

  Enid glared at him. ‘This is real,’ she snapped. ‘Books is all lies.’

  He bent his knees, puffing heavily because of the exertion, and squatted beside her. ‘They talk about you. They call you the eyes and ears of the world. It’s not nice, is it? For them, I mean. Going about their daily business knowing there’s somebody staring down at them all the while.’

  Enid sniffed. ‘At my age, I can do as I like. No need to ask permission off nobody.’

  Dave cringed. As a purveyor of many kinds of literature, he longed to uphold decent grammar at all costs. But Mam would not endure correction, so he had to ignore her ill-treatment of the most wonderful language on earth. He stood up and walked away.

  At her age she could do as she liked? She had always done as she liked. For a kick-off, he’d no idea who his father was, and he often wondered whether she was any wiser concerning the gap on his birth certificate. How could she criticize anybody after the life she’d led? He still remembered her men friends, noises from the bedroom of their old house, sometimes money left behind the clock. But she was his mam, and he did right by her. ‘I’ll be going down in a minute,’ he told her.

  Enid sniffed again. ‘Leave me a cup of tea, then go and enjoy yourself.’ Her son was a great disappointment to her, and they both knew it. He was a short man, no more than five and a half feet, with a rounding belly and abbreviated legs. Every pair of trousers he bought had to be shortened, while his hair, which had started to thin in his twenties, was allowed to grow long on one side so that he could comb it over. H
is belts always dug into him, causing the pot to seem bigger than it really was. She was ashamed of him. He looked nothing like her, and she wondered where he had come from. The fact that several candidates for paternity had been on the hustings never troubled her. Enid’s memory was selective, and she accepted no blame for anything.

  Dave tidied up, picking up the last slice of toast and loading it with marmalade, then taking bites between tasks. Food was his comfort, and he admitted as much to himself on a daily basis. As long as he had a book and something to eat, he was as happy as he could manage. All he had ever really wanted from life was a wife and at least one child of his own. But no one would look at him, not when it came to love and marriage. So he simply carried on with his life, eating, having the odd pint, looking after Mam and running the shop downstairs. He was determined to be of some use to the world, and that was the reason for his Reading Room.

  Enid glanced at him. He knew full well that folk hereabouts called his establishment ‘the old folk’s home’, but he didn’t seem to care. People gathered in his downstairs back room to drink coffee or tea, eat snacks, and swap newspapers and opinions in a place where they felt safe and welcome. Unlike reading areas in long-deceased branch libraries, Eagleton’s Reading Room was somewhere where folk could chat. Conversation was freer these days, Enid supposed, because she was no longer present in her supervisory capacity. She hated not being there; she hated the thought of him spending time with that woman, but what could she do?

  Dave’s thoughts matched his mother’s at that moment. The back room was a happier place without Mam in attendance. Subjects ranging from politics through religion to the condition of someone recovering in hospital were discussed openly now. The atmosphere had improved a lot since Mam had got past wielding the teapot. Having her sniffing behind the sandwich counter had hardly been attractive for customers, so the whole caboodle flourished much better without her.

  Dave’s helper was a woman who went by the name of Philomena Gallagher. She was a strong Catholic, so she never worked Sundays or Holy Days of Obligation, events which occurred rather too frequently behind the hallowed portals that guarded her complicated and extremely demanding religion. But Philomena made great butties and scones, so her trespasses were eternally forgivable.

  ‘Is she in today?’ Enid enquired. ‘Or is it the feast day of some daft bugger who chased all the snakes out of Ireland?’

  He must not get annoyed with Mam. If he ever did let his temper off the leash, God alone knew what he might do, fired up as he would be by years of anger and resentment. He loved his mam. He kept reminding himself that he loved his mam, because she’d never given him away for adoption even though she hadn’t had the easiest of lives. ‘No. St Patrick’s is in March. She’s clear apart from Sunday for a while now.’

  ‘Oh, goody.’ Enid didn’t like Philomena, because Philomena had taken her place downstairs. Thanks to melegs, Enid had been dumped in the upper storey while everybody praised the newcomer’s food. Still, at least the damned woman wouldn’t marry Dave, because Dave was Methodist. He was lapsed, but he was a long way from Rome. Anyway, nobody in their right mind would marry Dave. Or so she hoped. Because she had to admit that she’d be in a pickle without him. And that was another cause of annoyance. ‘I get fed up here on my own,’ she complained.

  ‘I come and make your meals, don’t I?’ He knew he’d been an accident, but she treated him more like a train wreck.

  ‘I’d be better off in an old people’s home.’ She knew she was on safe territory with this remark, because the places in which society’s vintage members were currently parked cost arms, legs, houses and bank balances. There was no welfare state any more – he couldn’t afford to have her put away. ‘I’m a millstone round your neck,’ she complained.

  Dave thought about Coleridge’s ancient mariner with his albatross. No. Mam was more like the sword of Damocles, because he never knew when she would drop on him. She owned a barbed tongue, and she used it whenever she pleased. ‘Here’s your tea.’ He placed it on a small table beside her chair.

  ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve no sooner cleared them stairs than you’ve forgotten me.’

  As he walked down to the shop, he wished for the millionth time that he could forget his mother. Other men seemed to manage it well enough, though they usually had a partner with them. She’d trained him. She’d made sure nobody else wanted him – hadn’t she all but kicked out every girl he’d brought home during his teenage years? He’d never been Richard Gere, but he’d had hair, at least. His childhood had been difficult, to put it mildly, because she had expected him to bring, fetch, carry, cook, shop and iron. Why couldn’t he have been a rebellious teenager? Because none of the gangs had wanted him, that was the undeniable reason.

  Downstairs, Dave opened the door to his kingdom. Perhaps it was more like a regency, because Madam upstairs still ruled with the proverbial rod, but how he loved his little shop, even if he was treated by her upstairs as mere minder of the place. It was a lone ranger, as there wasn’t another proper bookshop for miles – just chains and supermarkets – and where could a man buy a German–English dictionary these days? Not in Sainsbury’s, that was certain. No. They had to use the Internet or come to a proper bookshop. He provided a service. There was somewhere to sit when the weather was cold or rainy; there was a cup of tea served with scones or sandwiches, always with a smile as the side dish. ‘Hello,’ he said to Philomena. She opened up every day while he gave Mam her breakfast. On holy days and Sundays, Dave did a juggling act, but he didn’t mind.

  She nodded at him and awarded him his first smile of the day. ‘You all right, Mr Barker?’

  ‘Fine and dandy, love.’ For a Catholic, she was a nice woman. She’d nearly become a nun, but she’d escaped at the last minute. There weren’t many nuns these days, Dave mused. There weren’t many priests, either. The chap at St Faith’s ran three churches, so some folk had to go to Mass on Saturday evenings just to pass the confession test. Missing Mass was a sin that had to be told through the grille, but dispensation had been awarded by the Vatican due to the shortage of staff on its books. So Sunday sometimes became Saturday, and Philomena’s life was complicated.

  He walked through to the front of his domain. With tremendous reluctance, he had become a newsagent. Just to hang on to his precious books, Dave Barker had been forced to allow the premises to be desecrated by the Sun and the News of the World. It was a pity, but it remained a fact of life – bookshops were dying, and few people seemed to care.

  Today was to be another milestone about which Dave was in two minds. He was about to become a mini Internet café. Was he making a rod for his own back? Weren’t people already spending enough time glued to the TV or plugged into the ether? ‘Go with the flow,’ he told himself. He already had a computer – it was essential when it came to ordering stock – but did his Reading Room need that facility for its customers? Would the young start to come in? Probably not, since most seemed to receive at least a laptop as a christening gift.

  Ah, well. The world was going mad, so he might as well follow the herd. Being a purist was all very well, but a man needed to earn a living. There was no money in purism, and he needed to allow himself to become contaminated by the twenty-first century. Pragmatism was the order of the day, he had decided.

  ‘Here you are, Dave.’

  He took the proffered cup. ‘Thanks, Philly,’ he said absently. Then he looked at her. She seemed . . . different today. Very smart – was that lipstick? Probably not. Perhaps she was going somewhere after work. She left early, because she arrived early to deal with the newspaper deliveries. He supposed she had learned about early in the convent. ‘You look very nice today,’ he told her.

  She blushed. ‘Visitor this afternoon,’ she said, before fleeing back to her sandwiches and fairy cakes.

  Dave stared into his cup. Forty-seven years old, and he still couldn’t talk properly to a woman in his age and size bracket. She was sh
orter than he was, and she wasn’t in the best shape. But she had lovely eyes, though he had better stop dreaming, because she was a holy Roman.

  Number nine Fullers Walk was Pour Les Dames. Locals had taken the mickey for a while, because Maurice (pronounced Moreese) and Paul (pronounced Pole) presented as a pair of colourful gays with eccentric mannerisms and plenty to say for themselves. The joke had finally died. No longer did anyone ask how poor they were and which of them was Les, and no one had said they were both dames for ages, so they had survived the initial onslaught.

  Their logo was an interesting one, as it portrayed the sign used on most women’s lavatories, but with a curly mop on its head, a primitive scribble that looked as if it had been perpetrated by a pre-school child. They did good business in a large village surrounded by many rural satellites, and were often up at the crack of dawn preparing for the day’s trade, as both were sticklers for hygiene.

  Maurice was standing by the window. ‘She’s got a face like a funeral tea – everything set out in a nice, orderly fashion, but not a desirable event.’

  Paul clicked his tongue. ‘You’re getting as bad as her at number five – Eyes and Ears. Don’t let your gob join in, Mo. Before we know it, you’ll be sitting upstairs staring at every poor soul that passes by.’

  Maurice laughed. ‘I don’t think so, somehow. But look at her. She’s carrying her flowers in now. I can’t put my finger on it—’

  ‘You’d better not put your finger anywhere it’s no business to be.’

  Maurice stamped a foot and dropped a deliberately limp wrist. ‘She’s bloody gorgeous, man. But her face is kind of dead. There’s not one single fault, yet she seems so distant from everything and everybody. A bit like something out of Tussaud’s. There’s history there – just you mark my words. And history catches up with folk every time.’

  Paul came to stand beside his partner. ‘Hmm,’ he breathed. ‘Let’s hope our history doesn’t catch us, eh? We’ve all got something to hide, haven’t we? But yes, I see what you mean. Lovely head of hair, so why does she bleach it? It’s definitely a brunette face, that one. She’d look better with her own colour – it would frame her – so why gild the lily?’