Free Midnight on Lime Street by Ruth Hamilton Page B

donkey-bell.’
    ‘Two reasons,’ Gordy continued. ‘One, it tells the rest of the stable he’s coming, and two, he has excellent hearing. Something in the bell’s noise lets him know
how far away from things he is. Murdoch looks after him.’
    ‘Aw, that’s sweet,’ Sally said.
    Eve, sweaty and embarrassed, strode off towards the van. She’d had just about enough of Babs, Sally and that damned horse. As for the trainer – well, he looked as if he’d like
to get close to Babs Schofield, too close for Don Crawford’s liking. ‘I don’t know why I bother,’ she told the steering wheel. ‘Oh well, I’ve done my bit. Now,
what am I looking for? The list. Ah, here it is.’ She started the van and prepared to drive off towards Lord Street. Don would just have to do his best, because Eve Mellor was sick unto death
of the whole business. Red velvet for curtains, that was what she needed. And a couple of cream cakes would set her right.
    Just as she was about to reverse, something caught her eye. From what was presumably the back door of Wordsworth House, four dogs spilled. Behind them padded two cats, a goose, and a clutch of
fussy hens with a second goose bringing up the rear. Eve blinked. ‘What is this?’ she asked herself. ‘The RSPC-bloody-A? Jesus, I feel nearly sorry for Babs Schofield. I never
thought I’d see the day.’ Smiling grimly, she set off in search of red velvet, gold tassel trim, a nice pot of tea and a plate of cream fancies.
    There’s something wrong with him. He’s still kind and affectionate, still good with Matt and Lucy, but he wouldn’t join me at Confession on Saturday, said he
had a chance of overtime, and he would go to Confession in town. On Sunday, he didn’t go up for Holy Communion. I’ve no one to talk to, because I wouldn’t betray him to his
parents or to mine, so I may have a word with Father Doherty.
    Neil’s a good man, very religious. I don’t know what to think. Is he having a crisis of some sort, like a breakdown? A man down Musker Street had one of those, and they put him in a
mental hospital over towards St Helens; we never saw him for months, then he came back deadly quiet and unfit for work. His wife Annie says it’s as if she has four kids now instead of three,
and she does several part-time jobs, too. The poor man’s on all kinds of drugs, and the children look after him while their mum works.
    Our parish priest often says that the holiest people have the most trouble, because they try so hard to get close to their faith that the intensity of it can knock them sideways. They think too
much, he says. But if I ever put together a list of the great thinkers I know, my Neil wouldn’t be on the list. Not that he’s stupid; no, I don’t mean that, but he thinks in what
you might call straight lines. He decides what he’s doing, goes for it, achieves it, then moves on to the next item on his list.
    He re-covered our three-piece suite in beige Dralon, a bit like velvet, only easier to keep clean. That nest of tables he bought second-hand looks new now, because he worked so hard to make the
set pretty. Then he does sweet things like buying a gold cross and chain for my birthday, skates for Matt, and a talking doll for Lucy.
    Is it me? Has something changed inside my head, something that makes me look at him differently? He’s preoccupied, a bit distant, worried. It might be a problem at work, of course. For
ages, he’s been looking for promotion to management level, but he’s always talked to me about that. Until now.
    A few times in the evenings, I’ve caught him staring hard at the fireplace. There’s nothing remarkable about it; it’s a tiled thing with a clock and some candlesticks on the
mantel and a mirror on the wall above next to the Papal Blessing of our marriage and a Palm Sunday cross. He used to discuss getting a new fireplace, but he seems so attached to it these days.
    The other night, he came home injured. I heard him