Little Girl Lost (11 page)

Satisfied that she had no need to be anxious, Sylvie slept.

Chapter Four

‘Ah, you’re back. Nothing happened yet?’ Caitlin said. ‘I wonder should we have a word with the nurse.’

Maeve looked up and smiled as Sylvie entered the room. The little maid of all work was wielding the heavy iron on her mistress’s best white blouse and now she held it suspended for a moment. She noticed how pale and tired Sylvie looked after a day in the laundry and admired the other girl’s courage in continuing the work when her baby was due any day.

Sylvie sighed and shook her head at Caitlin’s suggestion. ‘No, I don’t need to see the nurse. I’ve always been vague about dates. I were late with Becky, so this one will probably be the same. And don’t they say boys are always later than girls? But oh, I’m fed up with looking like an elephant, and feeling like one, too.’

Caitlin laughed. ‘You are pretty large,’ she acknowledged, ‘but you don’t look a bit like an elephant; you’re far too pretty.’ She turned to Maeve. ‘Make us all a cup of tea, there’s a good girl.’

Maeve stood the iron down in the grate and limped over to the teapot. She was distressed by Sylvie’s obvious exhaustion and had been wondering how she could help. Surely there must be something she could do? And now, suddenly, she knew what it was. She carried the brimming cup over to Sylvie, who took it eagerly, curling both hands round the mug. The month was May and the trees in Phoenix Park were in full leaf, but a chilly wind had begun to blow as evening drew on. Maeve turned to Caitlin. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said slowly. ‘That there laundry’s turble hard work, I’ve heared you say so a dozen times. I know I’s only twelve, but I reckon if I were to go round Marrowbone Lane and tell ’em Sylvie were near her time, they’d be quite happy to let me take her place. I’d make ’em pay me the same as what they pays Sylvie and hand the money over at the end of each week,’ she finished.

She looked from one face to the other as she spoke and was secretly rather upset when Sylvie snorted. ‘You? Why, you’d never manage the weight of the wet sheets, you’re so little and thin. And then there’s your lame leg . . . no, they’d never take you on.’

Caitlin was kinder. ‘You’re a dear little soul, Maeve, but the work really is very heavy and I don’t believe they employ any youngsters,’ she said. ‘Besides, who’d help around the house, give an eye to the kids, do me messages and so on, while I’m at work? I really couldn’t spare you, alanna.’

Maeve flushed with pleasure, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. Caitlin was so kind and good. Maeve had always known how lucky she was to have got the job with the O’Keefe family. Her mother, a widow with ten children, had been absolutely delighted when Caitlin had called on her, offering to give one of her girls bed and board in return for looking after her five children, keeping the house decent and doing all the little jobs which Caitlin herself, earning good money at Switzers, could no longer cope with. Caitlin had looked at the three eldest Connolly girls, tall Bridget, pretty Eileen, and Maeve, with her lame foot, limp hair and plain little face. She had smiled at them all but her dark eyes had lingered longest on Maeve, and must have read the desperate appeal in her face, for it had been to Maeve she had addressed herself. ‘D’you like children, alanna? Are you good wit’ the little ones?’ she had asked. ‘Your sisters is grand girls but they’ll be wantin’ proper jobs in a year or two and I want someone who’ll be happy to look after the O’Keefes for years and years!’

‘I love children, so I do, and they love me,’ Maeve had said eagerly, for once not feeling shy because this lovely lady looked so kindly upon her. ‘I’s only nine, so I won’t be after leaving you for ages – if you take me on, that is.’

‘Right. Then if you’re agreeable, Mrs Connolly, Maeve can come back with me now and meet the family. Then she can come home and pack her things, and return to Handkerchief Alley tomorrow morning, if that suits,’ Caitlin had said.

Mother and daughter had exchanged a quick glance. Despite her youth, Maeve had been too wise to say she only had the clothes she stood up in – that she owned nothing which was worth packing and taking with her – but Mrs Connolly got round the problem. ‘I’ll send one of the girls up wit’ a few t’ings, so she can start right away,’ she had said. ‘Eh, but I’ll miss our Maeve, always so willin’ to give a hand . . . you’ve got yourself a bargain, so you have, Mrs O’Keefe.’

‘And I’ll pay you sixpence a week, seein’ as you’ll have to get someone else to help with your chores,’ Caitlin had said tactfully. ‘Come to think, no need for her to bring clothes; I’ve a cousin living two streets away what works for a family in St Stephen’s Green; they’re for ever givin’ her skirts which she passes on to me ’cos she’s only got sons. Most of the stuff is too big for my Clodagh yet, but they’ll fit young Maeve a treat.’

Naturally, Maeve had felt a little tearful because she was leaving the home she knew and going to strangers, yet by the time they reached Handkerchief Alley she knew she was doing the right thing. Mrs O’Keefe had told her to call herself Caitlin and her husband Pat, and had talked soothingly of the life that Maeve was to lead. She had even apologised for the three flights of stairs but had said, with a chuckle, that at least once you were in the flat it was all on one floor.

She had taken Maeve round the flat and Maeve had been delighted and astonished when she was told she would have her own little bed. She had not even complained when Caitlin had filled a large tin bath with hot water, added some sort of strong disinfectant, and scrubbed every inch of Maeve’s skinny little body. Even her hair had been scrubbed, then cut short and combed with a steel comb because Caitlin had told her, kindly, that there were tiny insects called nits in her hair, which she could pass on to the other children if they were not ruthlessly eradicated.

Then – wonder of wonders – she had dried Maeve on a rough towel and given her beautiful clothes to wear: a clean navy blouse with no buttons missing, a grey skirt and some grey woollen stockings, and some knickers, as well as a pair of plimsolls with only a tiny hole in the toe of each. Maeve had never owned a pair of shoes in her life and had always gone barefoot, so the plimsolls were precious indeed. She had longed to go home and show off to her sisters, but that would not have been fair on the O’Keefes. Instead, she had settled down to work as hard as a human being can. She did the messages, pushing the two youngest children and purchases round the streets of Dublin in an old wooden box on wheels. She cleaned the house, kept the children amused whilst their mother was at work, peeled mounds of spuds, gutted fish, skinned rabbits, and did it all cheerfully because she loved the O’Keefes and wished, desperately, to prove that Caitlin had done the right thing in choosing her rather than her older, and better-looking, sisters.

She had now been with the family for three years and thoroughly enjoyed her life, so it had been no small sacrifice to offer to do the job in the laundry in Sylvie’s place. But Caitlin had asked her a question and she must answer it, though it went against the grain to do so. ‘Who’ll help in the house, look after the kids and run your messages? Why, Sylvie, of course,’ she said at once. ‘Sure and wouldn’t we just change places, like the princess and the pauper in the storybooks? And you wouldn’t be losing me, Caitlin, ’cos I’d be back here as soon as me work finished every day, so if there was something Sylvie couldn’t manage, then I’d see to it as soon as I got home.’

Caitlin had been sitting in one of the shabby old fireside chairs, keeping an eye on the heavy black pot suspended over the fire. But now she jumped to her feet and gave Maeve a big hug. ‘You’re the kindest little creature I ever did know. And I believe you could do it, as well. The women in the laundry is awful kind – they’d teach you the easiest way of doing things, same as they did wi’ Sylvie. Besides, if it were too much . . .’ She turned to Sylvie. ‘Well, what d’you think? You wouldn’t lose by it.’

Maeve turned, rather anxiously, to Sylvie, and found the other girl heaving herself out of her chair. ‘Oh, Maeve, if you truly think you could cope, I’d be that grateful, even if you only did it for a couple of days. You could say that I’m sick and you’re standing in for me,’ she said, and Maeve was astonished to see tears in the girl’s big blue eyes. ‘The weight I’m carrying around means I start off tired. It would be wonderful to do ordinary things and of course I’d take great care of the children, I promise you I would.’

Maeve beamed at her. She still thought Caitlin was the prettiest person in the whole of Dublin, but now she acknowledged that Sylvie ran her a close second. Also, the English girl’s combination of silver-fair hair, blue eyes and rose-petal complexion was something rarely seen in Ireland. Since her arrival, Sylvie had not taken a great deal of notice of Maeve, though when she wanted the younger girl to do something for her she always asked very prettily. But now she is smiling at me, Maeve thought, delighted to have won the older girl’s thanks. She’s really very nice and I’ll do my best to satisfy the folk at the laundry so that poor, pretty Sylvie can have an easier life.

Maeve was as good as her word and must, Sylvie thought, have worked really well, since at the end of a week she brought home the same money that Sylvie had been earning, and handed it over without a word of complaint. The youngster admitted the work was hard but she enjoyed the companionship of the older women, and because she was always eager to give anyone a hand she was popular too.

Sylvie, for her part, quite liked everything to do with her new domestic duties save for looking after the twins. Seamus and Fergal were fiends incarnate, accompanying her when she went to the shops after school and then running off before they could be asked to help fetch or carry. They were supposed to chop kindling for the fire and to cart coal and water, tasks to which they had taken without much enthusiasm under Maeve’s gentle rule, but which they saw no reason to perform for Sylvie. Lugging coals and hot water up three flights of stairs was no joke in her condition, but Sylvie knew better than to complain to Caitlin of her sons’ behaviour. Should she do anything so unwise, the twins would wreak immediate revenge: a dead mouse in her bed, her blanket damped with – she hoped – water, or a rotten old potato pushed into the toe of her boot so that she discovered it the next time she put it on. And the twins would look her straight in the eye and deny that her complaint had anything to do with them.

Still, a bit of aggravation from the twins was nothing compared to the dreadful slog at the laundry, and for the first time Sylvie began to appreciate Maeve. She looked so skinny and frail, she dragged her left foot, which turned inwards at an odd angle, she held one shoulder higher than the other, her skin was sallow and her hair stringy, and she was plain as a boot. But she had courage and determination and had made it clear that she thought Sylvie deserved the help she was giving her. Sylvie began to show respect, even affection, for the crippled child, and was delighted when it seemed to make the O’Keefe children like her more. Clodagh had always been polite, but now she became friendly, talking eagerly about the birth of the little baby whose advent Sylvie awaited, and promising to help to look after the little one, to take it for outings and to give it its bath.

Relieved of the cruelly hard work at the laundry, Sylvie went to bed early, got up late, and told Caitlin most of her hopes and most of her secrets, too. She told her friend about the dreadful Robbie, about how Brendan had helped her with no thought of any sort of reward, and even about Len and the Dugdales.

‘I reckon you’re lookin’ forward to goin’ home, once the babby’s born,’ Pat said one evening, ignoring a sharp warning glance from his wife. Sylvie was uneasily conscious every now and then that Pat thought his wife and Maeve spoiled their guest, but she smiled very prettily at him and said that, yes, she would be glad to go home in many ways, though she would miss the O’Keefes horribly.

‘Oh aye?’ Pat gave her a shrewd glance, letting his eyes travel from the top of her head to her slippered feet. ‘Well, it won’t be long now before the babby’s born, be the looks of ye.’

‘It can’t come too soon for me,’ Sylvie said fervently, for the sheer size and weight of her was exhausting, even without the laundry work. She went to bed that night actually hoping that the birth would indeed be soon, yet when she awoke in the small hours with a nagging pain in her back she suddenly realised that she was not so sure; she had forgotten the pain which had accompanied Becky’s arrival into the world, but here it was again, at first just a nagging discomfort but very soon as sharp as if someone was endeavouring to pull her insides out.

She told herself to be brave and sensible; no point in shouting out before the pains were coming every five or six minutes. But soon she forgot her own good intentions and began to groan, to moan, and quite quickly to give breathy little shrieks the moment the contractions started.

It woke the children, of course. Maeve slipped out of bed and ran through to Caitlin, who returned with a shawl wrapped round her nightgowned shoulders. ‘Get the girls up and put ’em in the kitchen, on the sofa; they can spend the rest of the night there,’ she told Maeve. ‘Oh, and boil the big kettle and fetch me through the ragbag. Then wake Seamus and Fergal and tell ’em to get old Nanny Clarke from Meath Street.’

Nanny Clarke was one of the nine-day nurses much prized by Dublin women. She would take complete control of the birth, tending the mother during her labour and only sending for a doctor if something went wrong. After the child was born, she would truly come into her own, ensuring that the mother remained in bed whilst she did all the washing, cleaning and even cooking which the new mother would otherwise have had to do. Naturally, she was well paid for this service, but Sylvie had been glad to employ her, knowing that she could not expect Caitlin to take on such extra work, and that Nanny Clarke deserved every penny.

Caitlin waited until Maeve had left the room, and then turned to Sylvie. ‘By the sounds you’re makin’ it shouldn’t be long now, especially as it’s a second baby; it’s usually only the first what comes slow and difficult,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I durst not give you a drink, not until Nanny Clarke says it’s all right to do so, but I’ll heave you up in the bed so when you start to push you’ll have more leverage, and I’ll sponge your face. I found that a great help, so I did, when I were birthin’ me own babies.’