'Will it flood?' Susan asked.
'Never has before, but there's always a first time. Look at them drains. Is there nowt you can do?'
I'm not a plumber,' said Susan.
'No,' said Dee. 'But you're a Mother.'
'Oh, come on!' Susan flicked back her ash-blonde fringe. We can't alter the weather.'
'Could've, once. Not you, maybe, Susan. Happen before your time.'
'Old wives' tale,' Susan said carelessly, and the full horror of what she'd said came back at her like a slap in the mouth. She was betraying Milly Gill and the memory of Ma Wagstaff. But, God help her, Mother help her, she had no belief in it any more.
Upset, she walked back across the drowned cobbles, Frank wasn't home yet from the pub. When he did arrive he'd be drunk and nasty. Another problem the Mothers were supposed to be able to deal with. Dee Winstanley slammed the door. That was stupid, what she'd said. Stupid what Susan had replied. Stupid what Maurice had done. Stupid to have lived behind a stinking chip shop for thirty years.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
And the smell wouldn't go away; the layer of fat, from fish and pies and peas and fried human skin, hung from the ceiling like a dirty curtain, and the fluorescent tubelight was a bar of grease.
Dee threw up the flap, stumbled behind the counter, slammed down the chromium lid on a fryer full of flabby chips congealing together like a heap of discarded yellow rubber gloves.
Couldn't clean that tonight. Just couldn't.
'Cod and six pennorth o' chips. Please.'
The nerve of some people. 'We're closed,' Dee yelled into the thick air around the high counter.
'… and six pennorth o' chips.'
Dee sighed. Some people still thought it was funny to demand six pennorth o' chips, same as what they'd asked for in old money when they were kids.
'We've had to close early,' she explained patiently. 'Maurice's had an accident. Gone to hospital. All the chips are ruined.'
She peered through the shimmering grease at the persistent customer. Recognised the voice straight away, just couldn't put a name to it.
'…pennorth o' chips. Please '
The customer clambered through the lardy light and she heard the clatter of coins on the glass counter.
'You deaf or summat Matt? I can't serve you. It's Maurice…they've taken Maurice off in th'ambulance. He's had a…'
'.. and six pennorth..: At first there was no sound in the crowded, flowery sitting room, except for the endlessly percussive weather and Willie Wagstaff 's fingers on his jeans picking up the same rapid rhythm.
'John Peveril Stanage,' Macbeth repeated in a stronger voice, because the name'd had the same effect as throwing three aces into a poker game.
Doing this for the Duchess.
Willie said, 'Never heard of him,' about a second too late to be convincing, and Macbeth, suddenly furious, was halfway out of his chair when there were four hollow knocks at the front door, all the more audible for being way out of synch with Willie's fingers and the rain.
'Mr Dawber,' Milly Gill said tonelessly, but made no move to answer the door.
CHAPTER VIII
Milly Gill half rose and then sat down again and looked at Willie and then at Mungo Macbeth.
'I'm sorry, Mr Macbeth. Sorry to've given you such awful news. But…' Spreading her hands: what else can I do?
Telling him to get the hell out in other words.
Macbeth stood up but made no move toward the door. 'I don't think so,' he said.
The hollow knocking came again, a little faster this time, a little closer to the tempo of Wagstaff's restless fingers.
'Why d'you do that?' Macbeth said, in no mood for tact. 'With your fingers.'
Willie looked non-plussed, like nobody ever asked him that before.
'He has a problem with his nerves,' Milly Gill said hastily. 'If you don't mind, Mr Macbeth, there's a gentleman come to see us.'
So they know who it is. Knocking comes at the door, latish, and they know what it's about before they open up.
'Sure,' Macbeth said. 'Thanks for your time.' Maybe he should go. Cancel his room at the inn, drive out of here, head back north. Maybe organise a flight home. And call on the Duchess? Could he ever face the Duchess again?
He nodded at Willie Wagstaff, followed Milly Gill to the door.
'Good luck,' he said, not sure why he said that.
And then something told him to turn around, and he found Willie on his feet, a whole series of expressions chasing each other across the little guy's face like videotape on fast-forward.
'Look.' Willie was clasping both hands between his legs like a man who badly needed to use the John. 'It's not nerves. It's…'
'Hey.' The big woman pulled back her hand from the door catch. 'A few minutes ago you were telling me to shut up.'
'I know, lass, but happen we've kept quiet too bloody long. This… Moira. Dead. Finished me, that has. Too many accidents. Going right back to that lad who fell off top of the brewery. Too much bad luck. And when I hear Jack's name… Hang on a minute, lad. Milly, let Ernie Dawber in.'
Milly said, 'If it's Jack – which I…' She swallowed. 'If it is, we've got to sort it out for ourselves.'
'Oh, aye. Like we've sorted everything else out. Let him in.' This Ernie Dawber was a short, stout, dignified- looking elderly guy in a long raincoat and a hat. He didn't look pleased at being kept wailing in the rain. He looked even less pleased to see Macbeth.
'This bloke's a friend of Moira's,' Willie Wagstaff explained.
'Mungo Macbeth.'
Old guy's handshake was firm. Eyes pretty damn shrewd. 'My condolences,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'
'Mr Dawber,' Willie said, 'I'll not mess about. This lad – Mungo – reckons Moira…' He took a breath. 'He reckons there's a connection with Jack. With… John Peveril Stanage.'
Willie's voice was so thick with loathing that Macbeth had to step back.
'Not possible,' Ernie Dawber said. 'I know what you're saving, but it's not possible.'
'No?' said Willie.
'He was banished, Willie. In the fullest sense. Forty-odd years ago. In all that time he's never once tried to come back. And if your ma was here now she'd go mad at you for even saying his name.
'Aye. But she's not. She's dead.' Willie's voice hardened. 'Suddenly. Under very questionable circumstances.'
Ernie Dawber shook his head. 'You're clutching at straws.'
Milly Gill said, 'Leave it, Willie. We've problems enough. Jack couldn't set foot in this village…'
'While Ma was alive!' Willie shouted.
'He's a rich man now, Willie, he's got everything he needs. And like Mr Dawber says, he's never once tried to get back in. Why should he?'
'Aye,' said Willie. 'Why should anybody want owt to do wi' Bridelow? Why's Bridelow suddenly important? Why's it on everybody's lips when things here've never been so depressed? Why? – Mr Dawber'll tell you, he's got the same disease.'
'Willie, stop it off!'
Willie brought a hand down on the gateleg table with a crack. 'Bogman fever! That little bastard's contagious.
