Chandlers Green Read online

  There were probably other girls like herself, people who were dissatisfied with the status quo, who wanted new pastures, challenges, a change. They must be found. She crossed the room to a desk, picked up a pen and a sheet of hotel notepaper. After several crossings-out and much chewing of the pen, she achieved the final product.

  YOUNG FEMALE WITH A SENSE OF ADVENTURE, WISHING TO START A NEW LIFE IN COMMERCE, WISHES TO MEET LIKE-MINDED FEMALES WITH A VIEW TO SETTING UP IN BUSINESS. EXPERIENCE AND MONEY WOULD BE WELCOME, BUT ARE NOT PREREQUISITES.

  She read the piece aloud, was reasonably satisfied with it. Tomorrow, she would take this round to Tillotson’s so that it could go into the evening newspaper. While she stayed at the hotel, she would be able to pick up replies to a box number quite easily. No matter what her father’s opinion, she would make something of herself, would show him that women were not the useless creatures he preferred them to be.

  Sleep proved elusive. Her mind was filled with ideas: dress shops, a chandlery, a beauty parlour. She would need premises, staff, scaffolding in the form of trustworthy and talented peers. A bank would have to be approached and persuaded to lend money for the project. What about a shop that sold really fancy cakes for special occasions? A restaurant, a coffee bar, a book shop? There were places in London that catered exclusively for weddings: dresses, flowers, hair, make-up, the provision of cars, the reception. Other companies might join that sort of set-up …

  What about an agency that could place people in jobs? No, the government attended to that sort of thing – but nannies, babysitters, cleaners, casual workers? Or a firm that could go in and spring-clean a house from top to bottom? It was almost two o’clock and she must sleep. She picked up Flops and cuddled him until drowsiness finally overcame her. She dreamt of home, of Mother and Jeremy, of Peter and Sally. Her father did not enter the picture, because he was no longer a part of her life.

  Pol Fishwick was fed up to the back teeth. She didn’t want to live in an attic of that huge, draughty house, didn’t want to spend time in the company of Mrs Jean Chandler. With her husband gone and the house all to herself, she was happy at Woodside Cottage, was free to come and go as she pleased, with no master save the big fellow – and even his demands had become less urgent of late.

  Perhaps that was it. He had found a younger filly and wanted to offload the old stock. Yet he could have waved her off, could have thrown her out. But no, he wanted her help. How the hell was she going to cope? She knew she wouldn’t fit in at the grange, was well aware of her own limitations. Small-talk was not her forte; nor was she given to bobbing up and down in the presence of her so-called betters. Befriend Jean Chandler? Not flaming likely. And she had caught sight of that miserable-looking housekeeper in the shops, was hardly likely to endear herself to the po-faced woman.

  Then there would be the work. Maids in big houses were little better than slaves, bring-me-fetch-me-carry-me, light the fires, sweep the floors, dust the tables, wash the antimacassars, clear the dishes, scrub the pans. So, what was the answer? There wasn’t one. She felt like someone condemned to the gallows, no reprieve, no chance that the execution might be stayed. Well, this was to be her last-ditch stand. The master was on his way to finalize arrangements and she would be at her best when he got here.

  After emptying the zinc bath outside the back door, she made herself up, donned the pretty nightdress he had provided and planted herself on the sofa in a pose she imagined to be alluring. She had to persuade him, had to win him round. The clock ticked on, the fire wanted stoking, she had begun to sweat because of all the worry, hot one minute, cold the next. Oh, bugger. She applied a liberal amount of talcum powder to her damper parts and reclaimed her place on the sofa.

  In the end, she drifted off to sleep, only to be woken by a cold hand on her shoulder. ‘What time is it?’ she asked drowsily.

  ‘Half past nine,’ replied Richard. ‘My daughter ran off today, left home and a bloody good riddance.’ He placed himself in an armchair. ‘There’s no gratitude these days. If I had spoken to my father the way she spoke to me – well, I would not have survived to tell the tale.’

  She pulled herself together, remembered the matter in hand, tried to smile. ‘Richard?’

  ‘You’ll have to call me Mr Chandler from now on. Or sir will do.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘A bloody good hiding’s what she needs,’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘I want to say …’ She licked her drying lips. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to live at the grange. That housekeeper makes me feel sick every time I see her and I don’t think your wife would like me. Can’t I stop here?’

  ‘No,’ he barked.

  ‘I could come up to the grange every day. Only I’m not cut out for housework, see. It’s me knees.’

  ‘You won’t be doing housework – well, not much of it. You’ll be catering for my father’s needs, keeping him happy. He misses the company of a woman and he’s becoming a trouble. Dave Armstrong does his best, but he can’t be a woman, no matter how hard he tries. My father needs to be comforted.’

  ‘Oh.’ The old man was nearing eighty, for goodness’ sake—

  ‘You’ll soon find out how to calm him down,’ he told her. ‘He won’t be up to the full job, but you can work out a few ways of keeping him amused. You’ll have plenty to eat, money in the bank and a comfortable life. Take it or leave it, Pol.’

  So, she was to be a prostitute with just the one client, that client a worn-out bag of bones whose son was demanding that she should pander to the needs of Henry Chandler. ‘So will I have to spend all day with your dad?’

  He shrugged. ‘More or less, though Dave or a lad from the village will stand in when you have the day off. I shall make it worth your while, don’t worry.’

  It was frying pan time again. In fact, Pol felt like clobbering Chandler with her wash tub, or even with the axe left behind by Derek Fishwick. She didn’t mind being used, wasn’t afraid to sell her body for the sake of survival. But to be told to lie down with a man who was older than Adam was one bridge too far for Polly Fishwick. In her mind, she picked up the axe and held it poised over the centre of her ex-lover’s ugly skull. In reality, she smiled and said, ‘All right, Mr Chandler, whatever you say, sir.’

  Was she laughing at him? No, her expression was serious enough. Had Richard Chandler been blessed with a scrap of imagination, he might have read past that fixed smile, beyond the glassy expression in those blue eyes.

  The axe hovered above his head and would remain in that position for the foreseeable future. Pol was not a clever woman, but she was possessed of that intuitive cunning that belongs to many of her kind. This man had treated her like scum and she would bide her time, would become a double agent, one of that happy band who play both sides of the game. It would not be easy, but life carried few guarantees.

  ‘So we’ll move you in as soon as possible,’ he said.

  She sharpened the blade, saw the edge glinting in readiness. ‘Right, Mr Chandler, whatever you say.’

  He stood up. ‘My father would like to see you in that nightdress,’ he said. Yes, she was just right for the job; with luck and a following wind, she could have the old man dead within a fortnight. ‘See you soon,’ he called on his way out.

  When he had left, Pol did something she had not done in years – she wept. But even through her tears, the woodsman’s weapon continued to hone itself towards readiness; yes, Mr Richard Chandler had been signatory to his own death warrant.

  Peter Chandler sat at the foot of his twin brother’s bed. Jeremy, the more decided of the two, was propped on pillows, hands clasped behind his head. The older by half an hour, he was the one who made decisions in the absence of Meredith; and Meredith had gone.

  ‘Do you think she’ll come back?’ asked Peter. He could not even begin to imagine life without his sister.

  ‘No.’ Jeremy placed his arms on the coverlet and leaned back. ‘Too much of the old man in her, Pete. If Merry were drown
ing in quicksand, she wouldn’t call for help, not if she’d stepped in deliberately. Mother says she’s at the Pack Horse on Bradshaw-gate, but she can’t stay there for ever. Granny’s few thousand won’t last long if there are hotel bills to pay.’

  Peter sighed. Father had started his campaign again today, had begun to insist that the brothers take places at universities, that they had been idle long enough, that they had enjoyed a three-year holiday, that they must apply now for the following September. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Not university,’ answered Jeremy. ‘So, we have to stand up to him just as Merry did.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Well, you have to, there’s no choice. There are two of us. Surely, between us, two men can make one Meredith?’

  ‘She’s a woman,’ said Peter. ‘He doesn’t hit women.’

  ‘True.’ Jeremy stared hard at his brother. Unless a person knew them well, he and Peter were like peas in a pod, just an inch separating them in height, Jeremy owning the slightly sharper nose, while each was endowed with a shock of dark blond hair, hazel eyes and a slender body. ‘There are two of us, in case you hadn’t noticed. Father might be big, but we are quicker than he is.’ He swallowed nervously. ‘We fight back.’

  Peter managed a nervous laugh. ‘He’ll kill us.’

  ‘Will he? Well, guess who has the spare key to the gun cabinet?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We disarm all weapons except for one, then we talk to him at gunpoint. I think, given those circumstances, he may listen to reason.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We leave,’ said Jeremy, his calm tone belying fear.

  Peter was so terrified that his teeth began to chatter. For the life of him, he could not picture a situation in which he and his brother would point a gun at their father. And what about Mother? What would the brute do to her if his sons got the better of him?

  ‘Stay if you must,’ said Jeremy, ‘but I am getting out of here. If we simply disappear as Merry did, he will find us, because we are male. Merry does not matter to him, because she had the misfortune to be born female. At this moment, I wish we had been girls, because girls are disposable. But we are men, Peter, and we cannot continue as boys. It will be necessary to make plain to him that we will not go to university, that we will not be bullied and that we intend to join our sister.’

  ‘God help Mother.’

  ‘Yes, I know. She will not leave. She will stay to the bitterest of ends. All we can hope is that the bitter end will be his and not hers. But look, are we going to sit here while he walks all over us? Merry is twice the man that I am, I do know that. I was proud of her today, you know.’

  Peter nodded his agreement.

  ‘We have to do it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jeremy concentrated for a few moments. ‘And we must tell Mother first. She deserves a chance to make herself ready. Once his nest is completely empty, she will become his only target.’

  ‘We should force her to come.’

  ‘Mother will not be forced, Pete. She acts silly, but she has a backbone of steel. No, she wants to be here the day he dies, needs to see him defeated. She’s waiting for him to suffer a stroke, I think, because she is always mentioning his bad colour and how his temper will be the end of him. She is the audience and she will sit this out until the final curtain.’

  Peter left his twin and returned to his own room. The more sensitive of the pair, he could not settle. Pure fear coursed through his veins as he pondered the awesome prospect of facing up to Richard Chandler. All the beatings and humiliations of his younger days flooded his mind, threatening to pour out of his eyes to soak the pillow. But Jeremy was right; they had to leave.

  Elsie Ramsden lit another Woodbine. She had taken some knocks in her time, the worst having been the death of her son, Brian, but this was a real shock. Alf and Leena were leaving Emblem Street. Her Bert had just been invited to supervise the renovation of the cottage and they hoped to be gone by Christmas.

  ‘Marie might stay,’ said Leena.

  ‘Aye, she’s not keen on the countryside,’ explained Alf, ‘so we’ll hang on to the rent book while she makes her mind up.’

  Elsie inhaled a huge amount of smoke, coughed, pulled herself together. ‘I’ll miss you,’ she said, her voice clouded by tobacco and emotion.

  ‘Eeh, you’ll not get shut of us that easily, will she, Alf?’ Leena touched her friend’s hand. ‘If our Marie stops here, we shall visit her, of course. And even if she doesn’t stop, you and Bert can come and stay with us as often as you like. We’re moving on, but we’re not moving away from you, Elsie.’

  Bert, who was seated by the fire, took a swig of beer and cleared his throat. ‘Elsie, you have to remember that Leena’s chest were bad a long time. She’ll get loads of fresh air up yon, so that’ll do her good.’

  ‘I know.’ Elsie sniffed.

  ‘We’re not losing them, love.’

  ‘I know. So why do I feel so terrible? It won’t be the same when I’m pegging out on a Monday, no Leena to help me with me sheets. If Marie goes, too, we could get riff-raff.’

  ‘There’s talk of a lot of these streets being pulled down,’ said Bert. ‘All the demolition contractors are queuing up to get the job when it comes. There’s new corporation houses getting thrown up all over the place, Else. When that happens, when we get moved, we could finish up at Darcy Lever with Alf and Leena miles away – Doffcocker or Breightmet. It’s coming anyway, no matter what. It’s got to be faced.’

  ‘I know,’ she replied yet again. ‘But what I know has nowt to do with what I feel. Leena’s nearer to me than any of my brothers and sisters. It means it’s all over.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Remember the war and how we all clung together? Borrowing and lending, swapping coupons, buying half a black-market pig between us? Leena kept me going after that telegram came …’ She dissolved into tears.

  Bert placed his glass on the wrap-around fireguard and walked to his wife’s side. ‘You can’t do this, Else. You can’t make things hard for Leena – she’s your best pal. It’s got to happen one way or the other – we’ll all be out of Emblem Street in a few years. This is life, you know. Nothing stands still. They say there’ll be men on the moon in ten years.’

  Elsie looked up. ‘Well, don’t go moving there,’ she managed, ‘’cos the buses don’t go that far.’

  Leena laughed nervously. This was so much harder than she had expected – first Marie, now Elsie. And, according to Richard Chandler, they weren’t going to get much of a reception up yonder, either. ‘It’d take more than miles to split us up,’ she said. ‘You’re a good friend, always have been, always will be. Tell you what, me and Alf will drive you up to see the house – we can take butties and a couple of flasks. It’ll be all right, love. I promise you that.’

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘Course it will.’

  But as she walked the few strides between the two houses, Leena Martindale clung to her husband’s arm. They might as well have been moving to the moon, because life was going to be so different. The house was detached for a start, no neighbour fastened on, no chattering over a wall. With Alf at work, she would be left to her own devices, just a house to clean and meals to prepare. The first beat of fear hit her heart, making it jump irregularly. She breathed in deeply, tasted soot, knew that she must get out of here. But oh, dear God …

  He opened the door. ‘Come on, Leena, it’s near bedtime. Everything’ll work out for the best, you’ll see.’

  ‘I hope so,’ she answered. Nevertheless, she would find her rosary and begin a novena tonight. ‘We’ll be all right, won’t we?’

  ‘Course we will, love, course we will.’ He closed his mind against the picture of Richard Chandler’s furious face. Leena needed that cottage and Leena was going to have it.

  THREE

  ‘I am sick and fed up with smelling of chip fat.’ Aggie Turner slammed the thick white coffee cup into its saucer. ‘There’s b
loody dogs following me everywhere. The only reason cats don’t follow me is because the dogs chase ’em off. I could be the Pied flaming Piper of Crufts. There’s all these Alsatians running about saying, “Here she comes, lads, let’s all have a good sniff.” Jesus, I’m a dogsbody.’ She wiped froth from her upper lip and grinned.

  Marie Martindale managed, just about, not to choke on her own bubbly coffee. ‘Give over, Aggie,’ she begged. ‘Why do you always wait until I’ve got my mouth full before you start clowning? Be grateful. One day, you’ll inherit two chip shops and all the mushy peas you can eat.’

  ‘Plus vinegar.’ These crowning words arrived from Josie Maguire, the second of Marie’s close friends. The tallest of the trio, Josie, dark-haired and with good Irish skin, was training to be a manager at Marks and Spencer, a prospect she viewed with considerable gloom. Her mother worked at Marks and Spencer, as did two of her aunts. The names ‘Marks’ and ‘Spencer’ were revered in the Maguire household, since the firm had been its provider for many years. She wondered why her mother had not changed the Catholic blessing, because the Father and the Son should have been followed by M&S, not by the Holy Ghost.

  ‘At least you don’t smell of cod,’ said Aggie.

  ‘No, but if I see another pair of American Tan fifteen-denier stockings, I’ll scream. I’ve been selling hosiery for about three hundred years. My mother keeps reminding me that we’ve got our own chiropodist, a nurse on hand, a good canteen. If she mentions my pension one more time, I’ll make sure she doesn’t live to collect hers. I have to get out of there. I feel like a bird in a cage. Or one of those war prisoners who tried to escape from Colditz.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘I have to get out,’ she repeated.

  Marie pricked up her ears. ‘Out of M&S or out of your house?’

  ‘Both,’ answered Josie. ‘If I leave my job, my mam’ll send for the priest to have me exorcized. They’ll paint a cross on the door and get the house fumigated. No, if I stay at home, I stay at the shop. If I leave, I leave both places. I can’t stand being at home for much longer – we’re too old to be living with our parents. I say we emigrate.’