'She had to believe that, naturally,' Maurice said. 'She seen it happen. Fact it were only t'bloody agony of it brought me 'round, see, and I couldn't even feel that at first. I were looking at it a good two seconds. I thought, what's that pink thing in t'bloody fat?'
'Don't think about it, Mr Winstanley. We'll not be long now. What d'you reckon to United's chances, then?'
'I don't want to talk about United, lad! I hate bloody soccer. Listen, no, it weren't that she'll not believe, I've allus been a clumsy bugger. No, see, what it were as caused it in t'first place, I'd just seen summat as frightened life outer me. Froze me to t'spot, you know? Numb, I were. Numb.'
'Sounds like my mother-in-law.'
Ok, Christ." said Maurice Winstanley, subsiding into his pain. What's the bloody use?'
Even though Deirdre Winstanley opened all the windows into the place, the smell of fried skin wouldn't go away; only seemed to get stronger.
When she opened the door, Susan Manifold, having seen the ambulance ran across the street through the torrent, asking her what was wrong, could she help.
'His own fault,' Dee said. 'Silly bugger. Thirty years, I don't know.'
'Will he be all right?'
'Will any of us?'
'I'm sorry?' Susan Manifold stepped inside the chip shop, to escape the wet, wrinkling her nose at the smell.
'Well, look at it.' Dee gestured at the water, now level over cobbles and the drains weren't taking it. She seemed more worried about that than Maurice's injury, or perhaps she was looking for something to take her mind off it.
'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.'