Little Girl Lost (12 page)

Sylvie moaned, but thanked Caitlin in a cracked whisper when the rag was used to wipe the sweat from her brow, and when Nanny Clarke approved a cup of tea she drank it thirstily – and vomited it up only seconds later. She heard the two women conferring, then Nanny turned Maeve out of the room, examined her patient, and said, after poking and prodding for what felt like hours, that this looked like bein’ some time.

‘But it’s her second child; I thought second children always came easier,’ Caitlin said.

‘Usually, but not always, alanna.’ The old woman settled herself on the truckle bed, for Caitlin had insisted that Sylvie should transfer to the larger and more comfortable bed for the birth, and said philosophically, ‘I’ll have a cup o’ tea, wit’ somethin’ warmin’ in it, so’s me strength keeps up, since I don’t reckon we’ll see the child afore mornin’. She turned to Sylvie. ‘I’m tellin’ you, it’ll be a whiles yet afore you sees this babe, so you’d best try to get some sleep.’

Oh, very amusing, Sylvie told herself sarcastically, as another pain arrowed through her back and reappeared like a red-hot iron in her stomach; fat chance I’ve got of sleeping with all this going on. Doesn’t the woman know I’m in agony? But she did not say it aloud. This was clearly going to be a very different birth from that of her darling Becky and she was going to need all the help she could get. It would not do to antagonise anyone, particularly not Nanny Clarke who was, according to Caitlin, the best midwife in all the Liberties.

Nanny Clarke had been right. It was not until the second day after Sylvie’s labour had started that the child was finally born and, as it happened, Nanny Clarke and Maeve were the only people present at the time. Caitlin was in the kitchen, preparing a meal, and had just sent Maeve in to enquire whether Nanny Clarke needed anything, when the girl found herself grabbed and told that she must provide something for Sylvie to pull against. Maeve had held out both hands to the frightened girl on the bed and Sylvie had seized them in a grip so hard that afterwards Maeve found she was bruised black and blue. ‘Pull, pull, and then I can bear down,’ Sylvie said, and Maeve obeyed.

This was not, by any means, the first confinement she had attended but she thought that it was the strangest. Twice during her labour, Sylvie’s pains had ceased completely and Maeve knew that the midwife had been as mystified as any of them. But now it seemed that things were really going right, and indeed this stage of her labour proved to be of short duration, for Maeve had barely been in the room ten minutes before Nanny Clarke gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Sure an’ haven’t you got a lovely little girl?’ she said. Maeve stared as the old woman hung the baby upside down and slapped its tiny buttocks so that it would draw in a breath for its first cry.

She glanced at Sylvie, at the white sweat-streaked face, the damp silver-blonde hair, and then Sylvie’s eyes flew open. ‘A
girl
?’ she said incredulously. ‘But – but I were sure it were a boy.’

Nanny Clarke grinned. ‘Well, I aren’t one to be making a mistake, alanna, and this ’un’s a girl, you tek my word for it,’ she assured the young mother. ‘Never mind, eh? The next ’un will be a boy, sure as I’m standin’ here.’

As she spoke she had been wrapping the baby in a clean piece of sheeting, and now she handed the child to its mother, smiling as she did so, then turning away to fill a basin with warm water, commenting that she would give the child a good wash when Sylvie felt she could part with the little ’un for a moment. Maeve could not help noticing that Sylvie took the child without a great deal of enthusiasm, saying pettishly as she did so: ‘Well, I’m sure I’m glad it’s arrived at last, but . . . oh, my God!’

She was staring at the baby with a look of horror on her face and Maeve moved nearer, taking a good look at the child for the first time. To her, it looked like all newborns, with a small, reddish, wrinkled face, tightly closed puffy eyelids and a rosebud mouth, which even as she watched began to make sucking motions. ‘I think she’s very pretty,’ she murmured. ‘What’ll you call her, Sylvie? And – and why are you staring at her like that?’

‘Because she’s a girl and I expected a boy,’ Sylvie answered feebly. ‘I’m sure she’s very pretty but . . . but she’s got ginger hair! Oh, poor little thing, ginger hair’s ever so unlucky; in the old days they said all red-haired women were witches!’

Before Maeve could answer, Nanny Clarke waddled across the room and took the baby. ‘Many a babe’s born bald, or wit’ a crop of hair black as soot, but they rubs most of it off an’ then their real hair comes,’ she said reprovingly. ‘This ginger fluff will just go. You want to thank your stars, young woman, that she’s whole and healthy, and the pair of you is still alive.’

Sylvie lay back on her pillow and smiled at Maeve. ‘You know I can’t keep her,’ she whispered, ‘so I dursn’t let myself grow fond of her. I shall rely on you, Maeve, to take good care of her. You do understand, don’t you?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Maeve whispered, ‘and it won’t be hard, ’cos I do love little babies, so I do.’ She thought the baby’s ginger hair was rather appealing and had not really understood what Sylvie had meant. She glanced at her, smiling shyly. ‘Would you be after fancyin’ a cup o’ tea now, Sylvie? And mebbe a bite of bread and jam? If so, I’ll nip across to the kitchen and fetch it in no time. You’ll feel better wit’ some grub inside you.’

Sylvie had been lying with her head turned away and her eyes closed, but at Maeve’s words she opened them, looked round and gave the younger girl a rather wobbly smile. ‘Oh, Maeve, you’re ever such a good kid, and I’m sorry for what I said about ginger hair. It’s all nonsense, of course,’ she said, in a thread of a voice. ‘As for tea and a jam butty, I’d love it. And you might tell Caitlin the baby’s come and it’s a girl.’

When Maeve had gone to fetch the tea, Mrs Clarke picked up the baby and followed the younger girl across the room but paused in the doorway to address her patient. ‘You’ve had a hard time of it, m’dear; best try to snatch some sleep while the tea brews,’ she said. ‘Mrs O’Keefe and the children will be wantin’ to have a hold of the little ’un. Best I take the babby to them rather than have them crowdin’ in on you when you’re weary from the long labour.’

Sylvie murmured her thanks as the door closed behind the old woman, then began to consider her reaction to her first sight of her newborn daughter. Had she given herself away? She had been horrified when she had looked into the small crumpled face, for the baby was the spitting image of Robbie Wentworth! In the back of her mind there had been half-formed, nebulous plans to introduce the child to the Dugdales, when she was older, as a long lost relative of the O’Keefes, or even the child of a friend, but one glance at the baby’s face made her realise that this would not be possible. Everyone would see the likeness, which would undoubtedly grow stronger as time passed. She had declared that the baby had ginger hair, but in fact it was more sandy, just like Robbie’s, and worst of all was the mole, shaped like a tiny apple, on the child’s right cheek. Robbie’s sister Sally, and Robbie himself, had just such a mole, and in the very same position. Should the child ever turn up in Liverpool, no one could doubt who had fathered her!

However, she had known, really, that taking the child back to England was not going to be possible. She had told Brendan she meant to have the child adopted and that was exactly what she must do. Girls, she believed, were easier to place than boys, so perhaps it was as well that the child was a girl, yet somehow she knew she would have parted with a boy more easily. Boys were tougher, more independent; she hated the thought of her little girl going to a home where she might not get the love every child deserves.

Sylvie’s eyes filled with tears but then she remembered what Maeve had said and scolded herself for her foolishness. Maeve was a kind little soul; she and Caitlin, between them, would make sure that the baby went to someone who would truly love her. Satisfied, Sylvie turned her face into the pillow and was soon asleep.

Brendan awoke to find the June sunshine streaming in through his bedroom window and falling across his face. He groaned and rolled over, desperate to get back to sleep, but the truth was he had worked so many double shifts and snatched so little rest between that sleep eluded him most of the time. However, he had been granted two whole days off since it must have been obvious, even to his superiors in the police force, not renowned for their concern for the well-being of their men, that he would not be much use to anyone when asleep on his feet.

The trouble was, superintendents and above did not know, or at best had forgotten, how to walk a beat themselves, let alone work double or treble shifts, and so did not realise that men in the last stages of exhaustion were often too tense to sleep, and kept waking up, convinced that their alarm clocks had gone off, or that they were due in at the station.

However, Brendan had come off duty at six o’clock the previous evening and had slept deeply until this moment, which could not be bad. He glanced at his watch on the bedside table and saw that it was fifteen minutes short of eight o’clock. If he got up now, Mrs Taggart would undoubtedly make him a breakfast, and he knew it would be a good one because he had missed so many meals over the past couple of weeks. On the other hand – Brendan stretched luxuriously, feeling warm and comfortable, and not terribly inclined to move – there was the possibility that he might fall asleep again and it would be good to catch up on lost slumber. He grinned to himself. What a pleasant dilemma! He could choose between sinking back into sleep, relaxing in his comfortable bed, with the golden sunshine falling like a blessing upon him, or he could get dressed and go downstairs to enjoy bacon, fried bread, a couple of fried eggs and possibly some kidneys, as well as plenty of crisp brown toast, butter, and Mrs Taggart’s own orange marmalade. He sat up in bed. Once he had thought about Mrs Taggart’s breakfasts, his rumbling stomach informed him that it did not mean to let him sleep whilst it was so empty. So, yawning hugely, he stuck his feet out of bed and padded over to the washstand. Cold water in winter made washing a misery, but now it was pleasant to lather his face, neck and torso with lovely cool water and plenty of Pears soap, and then to dry himself on the brown and white striped towel which Mrs Taggart had provided.

As he washed and dressed, Brendan considered the events of the last few weeks. Civil unrest had been growing for some time, inflamed by the poverty of the city and the fact that the rich seemed to feel it their duty to oppress the poor whenever the opportunity occurred. Prices rose all the time, yet wages remained obstinately at subsistence level. Women wanted the vote, which seemed a natural enough wish to Brendan, but it was being vigorously denied them, both by the government of the day and those on the Opposition benches. Yet changes were going on all the time. A fellow called Henry Melly broke records when he flew an aeroplane round the city and across the Mersey in only forty-one minutes, and a new laboratory for the treatment of diseases had just been opened at the Mill Road Infirmary. These were momentous happenings, yet Brendan had read somewhere that Liverpool workers were amongst the worst paid in the country.

Sighing, he pulled on his boots and stood up. He was just a humble scuffer, with no need to understand anything but his orders, yet he could not help wondering at the orders he was given. The seamen for instance, who had been the first to go on strike, had only wanted a rise in wages of ten shillings a month, which was not much to ask considering how prices had risen. Brendan had always been a great reader and though his work now limited the amount of time he could give to his hobby, he still read the newspapers avidly and caught up on current affairs by visiting the library on William Brown Street whenever he had the opportunity. Thus, he had realised some time ago that trade was booming, which meant in its turn that workers worked harder, for employers wanted to line their pockets yet more richly, but had no desire either to employ more men or to pay them more money. Even now, with the dockers and transport workers taking part in the strike – and joining their unions in ever-increasing numbers – the employers preferred bully-boy tactics to a calm discussion which might lead to the end of the strikes.

Poor old King George, Brendan thought. He had succeeded to the throne barely a year before and it looked as though his was going to be a troubled reign. Not that kings had to do double shifts, lucky beggars! Neither did they have to face angry crowds armed only with their truncheons, whilst the crowd could be carrying broken bottles, cricket bats and other unusual, but effective, weapons of war. It was protecting the blackleg workers in an effort to break the strike which had kept him out of his bed for three nights running. And of course, there had been constant confrontations with the strikers. Brendan, beginning to descend the stairs, put a cautious hand up to the side of his face where the lump caused by a docker’s hook was just beginning to go down. Still, the strikers always seemed to come off worse, for most of them had almost no money and large families to feed. They were desperate all right, but the police force did not employ weaklings and it was impossible not to fight back, particularly when there were hundreds of strikers all wanting to score a hit on any scuffer who represented the authorities who were denying them the right to a half-decent wage. Nevertheless, Brendan felt bad about it, and knew that many of his fellow policemen felt the same. But orders were orders, and order was order. They had to obey the one and keep the other and that was all there was to it.

‘Mornin’, Mr O’Hara,’ Mrs Taggart said, as he entered the kitchen. ‘I never thought to see you so early, not after the way you’ve been workin’ lately. You poor fellers must be cursin’ these perishin’ strikes as much as the rest of us, I don’t doubt. They say food will run short if the dockers refuse to unload the ships, but I’ve managed to get a nice piece of bacon, and there’s eggs and a loaf . . . I’ll try to see to it that me lodgers don’t starve.’