The Corner House by Ruth Hamilton

heart.
    ‘She’s not a girl, she’s a woman,’ replied Danny.
    ‘How old?’
    ‘Thirty.’ Danny turned a corner rather quickly, causing Bob to rattle slightly in his seat.
    ‘All right, a namow,’ answered Bob once his equilibrium returned. ‘Not bad looking if you like ’em thin. I hear as how meat’s sweeter near the bone. What’s her name?’
    ‘Pauline Chadwick. Works for Maurice Chorlton. And don’t start asking stupid questions and jumping to daft conclusions, because there’s nowt going on.’
    ‘I never said there were.’
    ‘Right.’ Danny steered the van through a slight skid and towards their destination. ‘We’ll have to keep an eye on the lads today,’ he advised his passenger. Danny was referring to the younger members of fish dynasties, boys who served their time byunpacking and preparing cod and hake for elders and betters. ‘One twist of a gutting knife, they could lose a finger and feel nowt.’
    Bob sighed heavily, then rubbed the resulting steam from the windscreen with a gloved hand. ‘Change the subject if you must,’ he invited pointedly. ‘Who cares about you and your new lady friend, anyway?’
    Danny ignored him and thought about the long day ahead. There was just one hot water tap in Ashburner Street Market, a single outlet at which young men queued with buckets to obtain a mere gallon of insurance against frostbite. In weather such as this, the buckets’ contents would cool within minutes. It was a hard life, yet Danny had known no other. ‘We should have more hot water,’ he commented gruffly. If he talked about water, Pauline Chadwick might just escape without further discussion.
    They pulled into the market’s huge doorway, waited until Bolton Refrigeration and Palatine Dairies had unloaded blocks of ice whose usefulness was questionable on this occasion.
    Bob Hewitt beat his hands together. ‘You know, Dan, there’s been more women had their eyes on you than I’ve had cod-and-chip dinners.’
    Danny tapped the steering wheel.
    ‘Have you never noticed?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘The road they look at you.’
    ‘Can’t say I have.’
    Bob chuckled. ‘Have you got your name down for a dog and a white stick?’
    ‘No.’
    Bob shook his head. ‘As old as you are and you stilldon’t notice the come-on even when it bites you on the nose.’
    Danny turned his head and looked at Bob Hewitt. ‘You worry about your dripping nose and I’ll see to my own.’
    The passenger sniffed. ‘She likes you. She flutters when she sees you.’
    Pauline Chadwick was not a flutterer. Pauline Chadwick was a nice young woman who worked for a Scrooge and looked after a virago called Edna Greenhalgh. In spite of the cold weather, Danny tugged at his collar as if seeking cool air. Tonight, he was going to walk into the spider’s web; tonight, he would be sitting down at a table on Tonge Moor Road with a decent woman and an unknown quantity whose reputation preceded her like the stench of rotted mullet.
    ‘Danny?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Are you blushing?’
    ‘Shut up, Bob.’
    Bob shut up.
    Number 301, Tonge Moor Road was a mid-terrace with a tiny front garden, an iron gate and a square-panelled door from which the number three hung drunkenly next to its two companions. A cut above the warrens of Daubhill and Deane, Tonge Moor houses had decent red-brick frontages, reasonable curtains and bits of leaded patterns on windows. As well as these privately owned homes, the road boasted a library, a cluster of presentable council dwellings and a corner Co-op next to some smaller shops.
    Danny stopped at the gate. Behind the door, apromise of poached egg and haddock beckoned, but his mouth was not watering. ‘She doesn’t take to people easy,’ Pauline had informed him. Why was he here? Why hadn’t he made an excuse?
    He bit his lower lip. Taking Pauline to the Man and Scythe for a shandy had seemed innocent enough. In fact, she had instigated that first expedition, had asked him bold as brass