Paradise Lane (9 page)

The Spencer Street Methodist Chapel was full. Everyone had heard the story about Derek Crumpsall. The whole of Paradise was represented; even members of other churches had come along to say goodbye. Elsie Bickerstaffe and Mary Dawson from Spencer Street sat at the back among a clutch of Catholics, every last one of them counting prayers on rosary beads. Several of St Augustine’s C of E had turned up in the company of three Anglican nuns. But the most noticeable presence was that of two Jews, Joseph and Ruth Heilberg. They sat not at the back, but just behind Ivy, Sally and the other residents of Paradise Lane. Never before had Joseph been seen to enter a Christian church.

Ruth nodded and smiled sadly at other members of the very mixed congregation. Ruth knew her bearings, because she was an avid attender of jumble sales and beetle drives. Nevertheless, her presence caused a slight stir among the various Christians who packed the small building.

The minister beamed over wire-rimmed spectacles, spread out his arms in welcome. ‘There are good men in the world,’ he began. ‘And Derek Crumpsall was one among that category. Even now, he has brought together people of differing opinion and culture. Even now, Derek’s love is strong enough to reach the heart of each and every one of us.’

Sally stared at the shiny wooden box that contained her father. It was so small, far too small for the Dad she remembered. Although he had been at war for most of Sally’s life, he had made up for his absence during the first year after his return. If she closed her eyes, she could see him now, all black and shiny about the face, the darkness of coal tattooing itself into laughter lines, into the small creases below his eyes. The bath would be dragged in, the copper and kettle filled. With a tall, white enamel jug, he had mixed hot and cold until the temperature was just right. ‘Go out now, Sal,’ he used to say.

In the scullery, Sally would wait with the loofah, then, when Dad had submerged himself, she would go into the kitchen and scrub his back. For a year, that had happened almost every day.

She opened her eyes. The second year had been different. Dad had gone very thin, had started to refuse food. A short walk across the Parry Rec became too much for him. One night, she had overheard Mam talking to Mrs Blunt. ‘Cancer,’ Mam had said. ‘There’s nowt more they can do for him.’

Mrs Blunt hadn’t answered, but the good woman had slammed her back door very hard. Sally had never been completely sure, but at the time, she might have heard something like a laugh. But no. Even Mam wouldn’t have chuckled about Dad having some terrible illness. Would she?

The man at the front continued. ‘He never shirked his duty. He devoted his life to working and caring for his family.’ He smiled at Sally. ‘His dear daughter was the very core of his existence. This was a man who was near to God in his daily routine, who worked in the earth’s belly to bring warmth and comfort to many. Let us say our own private prayers now. Let us offer up our thanks for the privilege of having known such a man; let us also ask the Lord to give strength to Sally and Ivy Crumpsall.’

A few people shuffled about, gave one another knowing looks. There had been no mention of a wife, because the bad creature had upped and left her husband knocking on death’s gate. Some dabbed at their eyes with handkerchieves, many bowed their heads and prayed as hard as they could for the welfare of the poor orphan child.

At first, Sally couldn’t imagine what to say in her mind. She knew about silent prayers – it was like silent reading – no need to say the words out loud. What could she say to God? God shouldn’t have taken Dad. It would have been better if He’d taken Mam, because everyone said that Lottie Crumpsall was no better than she ought to be and a damned sight worse than most. Damned. She shouldn’t have thought ‘damned’, not in chapel.

She decided to pray to her father. Her father was a good man. Being a good man meant he was still alive, but in heaven and without a body. She glanced at the coffin and an idea struck. Perhaps when the piece of Dad that was his soul had gone, the man had somehow shrunk even further. That could be the reason for such a little box, then. ‘Dad,’ she said in her head. ‘What’s going to happen to me and Gus? See, he’s only young, about two and a bit, so he can’t manage on his own. Uncle Tom would have him, I suppose, but I want Gus with me.’

Sally glanced sideways at Granny Ivy. She was very, very old. If old people who were only as old as Dad died, then what chance was there for Granny Ivy? The little girl’s chest hurt when she thought of losing her gran. There would be nobody once this lady was gone. ‘Dad, please make Uncle Tom marry Maureen Mason. I could go and live with them. Me and Gus could stay in Paradise Lane if they got married. And—’

‘Come on, lass.’ Ivy pulled at her granddaughter’s navy mac. ‘We have to go now.’

They walked behind the coffin, looked at all the weary faces in the chapel. Sally didn’t want to watch the sad people any more, so she fixed her eyes on Dad’s coffin. Uncle Tom and five other men in black suits were carrying Derek. She kept pace, kept her grip on Ivy’s hand. Outside, the chief mourners waited until the coffin was in its hearse.

Then two things happened. First, a man appeared at the Spencer Street end of Paradise Lane, marched across the road and stood against the chapel wall. In his hands, he held a notebook and pencil. Several mourners rushed back into the chapel when they saw the man, though most simply stood with their heads bowed. ‘What’s going on now?’ whispered Rosie Blunt to Ruth Heilberg.

Ruth’s lips curled into a sneer of disgust. ‘Worthington’s sent that man to see how many have left their work to attend the funeral. He’s taking names. They’ll lose their jobs, I dare say.’

The second event was caused by Sally. She opened her mouth and screamed. She didn’t know where the scream had come from, did not connect it to herself at first, yet her mouth was wide and the noise was definitely coming from somewhere inside her. ‘Dad!’ she shouted. ‘I want my dad.’ She forgot all about bodies and souls, wanted to be with whatever was left of Derek Crumpsall. Knowing that she was in the wrong, she tried to clamber inside the glass cage that held the coffin, but the men in black held her.

‘You’re not taking him, you’re not. He’s my dad. He can’t go in the ground. He was always under the ground in the pit and he hated it. My dad can’t go back down there, so get him out now.’

Ivy took Sally away from the undertaker’s men and shook her. ‘Come on, Sal. You’ve been a love up to now. He’ll be nobbut six feet down, lass. This is just something we have to do, child. See, in that coffin, that’s not your dad. Them’s just what we call his earthly remains. Your dad’s watching us now. Look up there.’ She pointed to the sky. ‘He’s an angel, is our Derek. He’s just behind them clouds and he’s wanting you to be strong. Please, Sal.’ The old lady’s voice cracked and she wept copiously into one of her dead son’s ragged handkerchiefs.

Sally gulped, tried to compose herself.

‘Leave her to me,’ said a new voice.

Ivy turned to her left, noticed a red-haired boy with a torn jumper and concertina socks. ‘Who are you?’

‘Red Trubshaw,’ he replied. ‘And I’ll look after her.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ asked Maureen Mason.

The lad nodded. ‘Aye, but I wanted to see if she were all right.’ He focused his attention on Sally. ‘Come on with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home and we’ll sit quiet till everybody comes back.’

Sally stared at Red and nodded. She didn’t want to watch her dad going in a hole.

‘He may be right,’ said Maureen. ‘Sure, she’s a bit on the young side for a graveyard service.’ Maureen squatted down, made herself level with Sally. ‘Look.’ She took a package from her bag. ‘I know you’re not a Catholic, but I bought you a nice little rosary. You can use it for counting with. And I’ve left a banana cake in the scullery. Go to my house, but don’t eat any sandwiches until the grown-ups get there.’ Out of the goodness of their hearts, the folk of Paradise had prepared the funeral tea.

Red took Sally’s hand, started to lead her across the road. But before they had reached the corner of Paradise Lane, another commotion began. Sally lingered in the care of Arthur ‘Red’ Trubshaw and saw, for the first time ever, that Mr Heilberg had a temper.

He accosted the man with the notebook, pushed him hard against the wall. ‘Well, now. And here we have the hero,’ said the tiny Jew. He squared up to the larger man. ‘You don’t know nothing from nothing,’ spat Joseph. His anger was fuelled even further, because he became impatient with his own tendency to use poor English whenever he became heated, and Joseph was extremely proud of his command of the language. He was furious with Worthington’s spy, livid with himself, heartbroken because a good man lay in a coffin just feet away.

‘Hang on,’ said the flat-capped man. ‘I’m nobbut doing the job I’m paid for.’

Sally pulled Red’s jumper. ‘What’s wrong?’

Red bent his head. ‘See them women near the back? That lot over yon, near the chapel door?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, if you look close, you’ll notice they’re not got up proper for a funeral. They’ve dark coats, but can you see the mill pinnies hanging down? Them coats is likely borrowed. Look – that one with the blue scarf on her head – her black coat’s never hers, ’cos it’s miles too little. That’s a mill overall showing where the buttons won’t fasten.’

‘Oh,’ said Sally, who didn’t understand.

‘They’re on the ‘ook,’ he whispered.

‘Eh?’ Which hook? she wondered. Their clothes weren’t on pegs, they were on their backs and—

‘They should be in work. They’ve sneaked out for the service. Their mates’ll be covering up for them, like, but it looks as if Worthington’s on to them.’

The two children watched while Joseph Heilberg tackled the situation. ‘He was a good friend to these people. Ten minutes is too much for a good friend? One funeral is all we get. And Worthington cannot afford to lose half a dozen workers for a few moments? He is a poor man, then. For him, we should feel sorry.’

The man brushed away the small body as if dealing with an annoying and persistent bluebottle.

‘Your mother is alive, I hope?’ asked Joseph.

‘No.’ The man scribbled on his pad, counted heads, wrote again.

‘Were you at her funeral?’

‘Aye, but she were family.’

Joseph removed his black hat, handed it to Tom Goodfellow. ‘For this I came to England?’ he shouted. ‘For this I brought my Ruth out of Austria?’ He inhaled deeply, looked the intruder up and down. ‘I am a Jew,’ he said with the air of one who imparts new information.

‘I know.’ Another name was scribbled on the page.

‘So I know from persecution. I know.’ He beat his breast dramatically. ‘My family all died,’ he announced. ‘And a few million others, too, many of whom I did not know. For this, I grieve. For all the funerals I never attended, I feel sorrow. My shop is closed and shuttered; my wife is here. Maureen Mason who runs my other shop is also here. Business is suspended, business I have lost. I cannot bring back those who would buy in my shop today. I cannot chase them down the street and make them pay me. He . . .’ Joseph waved a hand at the hearse. ‘He cannot be replaced. Tomorrow, other customers I will have. Tomorrow, more cotton will be spun. But the man inside that box is gone for all eternity.’

Sally sighed. Mr Heilberg was wonderful, much better than the preacher. Mr Heilberg had said all the things in Sally’s heart. ‘Red,’ she mumbled. ‘Let’s go to the graveyard.’

He frowned, making many of the large freckles on his forehead join up until they looked like maps of countries. ‘You sure?’

She nodded.

Joseph Heilberg stepped away from Worthington’s spy, was plainly limbering up to land a punch.

But the flat-capped man nodded, removed his headgear, tore off a sheet of paper. ‘All right, Mr Heilberg. I’ll face the wall while they go back in, then I’ll say I saw nowt. I mean, I weren’t close up, were I? From this distance, a woman is a woman. So when I turn round again, there’ll be nowt for me to see.’

‘May you have long life and happiness,’ replied the little pawnbroker.

A flurry of women shot along Spencer Street and into Paradise Lane. ‘All gone,’ announced Joseph.

‘Right.’ The cap was replaced, the notebook and pencil tucked into a pocket. ‘I’ll be off, then, Mr Heilberg.’

Joseph shook hands with the man who had so recently been an enemy agent, then ushered the mourners into a semblance of order. They were strange, these Christians. They left their dead to lie for days before burial, ate any old thing that appeared on a butcher’s slab, served meat and milk at the same meal. Well, they were good-hearted for all that, so he stood in line with the others and followed Derek to his final resting place.

Maureen and Ruth, both social animals, were in charge of arrangements. The kosher side of the funeral meal proved very popular with everyone except Red Trubshaw. He scowled when offered lox, said he wasn’t going to eat no funny-looking fish, not for nobody, even if this was a funeral. But most were begging Ruth for pâté and bread recipes, and everybody had a comment to make about Ruth’s German porcelain.

Maureen, whose house was being used, made much of Sally and Red, kept saying what a wonderful thing it was for Sally to have a young man all to herself. Red shrugged this off, said he was nobbut minding a girl who used to be a victim of bullying. The fact that he had been an offender had apparently been erased from his very selective memory.

Sally spent most of the afternoon staring at Granny Ivy. She didn’t know where they were going to live. Would Ivy come to Paradise Lane, or would Sally move to Worthington Street? If Worthington Street was to be their address, would Gus settle? Gus loved pigeons, and no-one in Worthington Street kept them. And Gran looked older, wearier than ever. Living with her was going to be a terrible worry, because if Gran got ill, Sally would have to be in charge.

Rosie Blunt bumbled across the room, a glass of stout in one hand, a sandwich in the other. ‘How are you, Sal?’

How was she? Lonely, frightened, missing her dad. ‘I’m all right.’

‘Ivy’ll look after you. Your gran’s a good sort.’