Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 1: Midnight, Blood Brothers, Songbird. Josephine Cox
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Название: Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 1: Midnight, Blood Brothers, Songbird
Автор: Josephine Cox
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780007515301
isbn:
He felt sorry to see that the little bridge was no more. With its arched back and curved walls, affording a way over the Blakewater, it had been a pretty thing – a familiar landmark.
The alleyway by the flower-shop was still there. He recalled the slaughter-house at the back, where the Brindle kids were not allowed to go; nor were they allowed to climb the big stone wall that overlooked the deep water below. Somehow though, they always found a way in through the gates when no one was looking. It was rumoured that a neighbouring child was drowned there, but Jack didn’t know if that was true; he only knew what he had heard.
It was sad to see that almost everything familiar was gone. He understood, though. It was right that things had to change, because if time stood still, there would be nothing new or exciting to look forward to. No challenges. No new horizons.
But Jack remembered everything, as if a map had been imprinted on his memory, including every street, every house, every landmark. Just like he remembered the bold, flowered wallpaper pattern on his bedroom walls in that house in Bower Street. And the creaking third step as you went down the stairs. It always puzzled him as a boy, why the step never creaked when you went up the stairs. He smiled wryly, thinking that was a strange thing to remember.
Now uncomfortably aware of his sodden trousers and squelching shoes, Jack caught the unmistakable aroma of a chip shop – and his stomach began to grumble. He hadn’t eaten for some hours, and even if he had to sit in a bus shelter to eat them, wouldn’t it be fun to have a bag of fish and chips? He could watch the world go by while eating his dinner off his lap. But he’d have to be careful of his suit.
The more he thought about it, the hungrier he got. Following his nose, he quickened his steps.
‘There you go!’ The red-faced man finished packing the last hot, damp paper package into the two plastic carrier bags before handing them over. ‘That’ll be fourteen pound, please, love. I’ve thrown a few cracklings in.’ He gave Libby a cheeky wink. ‘I know your Mam’s fond of ’em.’
While Libby counted out the money, he asked, ‘’Ow is she, by the way? We’ve not seen hide nor hair of her for some time now. Keeping well, is she?’
Libby simply replied that her mother had not been too well lately. ‘But she’s getting on all right now. Content one minute and demanding the next.’
He laughed – a loud, raucous laugh that startled the little man next to Libby and made him visibly jump. ‘Aye, well, that’s women for yer!’ he chortled, ‘Want this, want that, and when they get it . . . they want summat else instead!’
‘Stop yattering, yer silly old bugger!’ That was the fat woman on Libby’s right. ‘We’re ’ere for fish an’ chips, not a bloody lecture!’
Libby was still smiling when she came out – until she saw Jack approaching. She recognised his demeanour and the way he held himself. He was the same man she’d seen outside Thomas’s house the other night; but she could not see him clearly then, or now. ‘I’m almost sure it’s that man again!’ She crossed the road, her face averted and her hood up.
Jack didn’t notice her until she crossed the street and turned to look at him a second time. The glance was fleeting, but there was something about the boyish person that niggled him.
Shrugging it off, he went into the chip shop, where the fat woman and the proprietor were having a row.
‘Mushy peas? I never asked for mushy peas – that were the young lass that just went out! I asked for beans. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?’ She spelled it out for him: ‘B–e–a–n–s.’ Exasperated, she rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, now, you’ve made me forget me potato-dabs. I’ll ’ave two o’ them, and forget the beans.’
The man behind the counter did not take kindly to being nagged at, especially in front of the other customers. ‘Yer in a sour mood tonight, aren’t yer, Betty?’
‘What d’yer mean, sour mood? I’m never in a sour mood!’
‘Well, you’re in a sour mood from where I stand, but you’d best not tek it out on me, ’cause I’ll give as good as I get, an’ no mistake!’ He came back at her with humour: ‘What’s up, eh? Is the old man not looking after yer proper – if yer know what I mean?’ He gave a knowing wink to his audience.
‘I know exactly what yer mean!’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘And what me and my old man get up to is none of your damned business! Some folks should look at theirselves afore they start pointing the finger at others. At least my Les doesn’t ogle after other women. Oh, don’t deny it! We all saw yer eyeing that young lass up and down as she went out of ’ere. Yer tongue were ’anging out so far it could’a shined yer shoes! Shame on yer, that’s what I say. Randy old bugger!’ She snatched up her goodies, threw the money on the counter and marched out, muttering and tutting.
Jack tried hard not to smile, but he wasn’t the only one.
‘Touched a sore point there, didn’t I, eh?’ The red-faced proprietor was laughing heartily. ‘She’s that easy to wind up,’ he confessed. ‘I love to get ’er going. It’s the highlight o’ my day.’
Jack had to chuckle at the older man’s antics. If he didn’t know he was back in Lancashire, he knew it now. It was almost as though he’d never been away.
Instead of a bus shelter, Jack found a bench near the parade of shops and sat down to eat his fish and chips. There was a plastic knife and fork inside the bag, but he set them aside and tucked in with his fingers. It was a joyful feast.
‘That’s the way to eat fish and chips,’ said an old man sitting down beside him. ‘I ask yer, what right-minded person wants to eat fish and chips with a plastic knife and fork?’ He promptly took out his bag of chips and, stuffing them two at a time into his whiskered face, made a sighing noise after each bite whilst chatting away with Jack.
When he got up to leave, he turned to Jack. ‘Where are yer from?’ As he spoke, the remains of his hurried meal sprayed the air. ‘I can tell from the way yer talk – yer not from these parts.’
Having taken a shine to the old man, Jack explained. ‘I do come from these parts, only I moved away when I was eighteen.’
‘Eighteen, eh? An’ what did yer parents think o’ that?’
Jack took a moment; even now the memories were painful. ‘My father was caught up in a bad fire at the factory where he worked. He was badly hurt and never recovered.’
The man shook his head soberly. ‘Oh, yer mean the one out Cicely way? I remember that fire. It were a bad ’un – took out half the street, it did. As I recall, four people were lost in that fire . . . So what about yer mum?’
Jack recalled his mother. Claire Redmond was a smart, attractive woman, but she was never a natural-born mother. In fact, during a heated row between his parents, Jack had once overheard her say she had never wanted children. It was a crippling thing for him to hear.
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