Little Girl Lost (20 page)

She had left her comfortable job in Lewis’s very soon after Brendan had joined up, because workers were needed in the munitions factory. The work was hard, but she and her fellows did their best to enliven the drudgery by singing popular songs and chatting amongst themselves.

Brendan wrote regularly and clearly attempted to keep his letters both cheerful and optimistic, but Sylvie speedily realised that he was trying to spare her as much as possible from the full horrors of the war being waged across the Channel. She read the letters to Len and wrote back whenever she could, though she had very little time. And one good thing had already come out of the war: Len was beginning to respond a little more. He thanked her when she performed some small task for him and he could string short sentences together to make himself understood. To be sure, he was still partially paralysed, but he could now hold a cup to his own lips, though spillages occurred with such frequency that either Mrs Dugdale or Sylvie herself always draped him in a large towel before giving him a drink.

Becky helped with the war effort too, as far as she was able. She knitted scarves, though Sylvie knew that Mrs Davies often unpicked them at night after Becky had gone to bed and knitted them up again before the next day, only without dropping any stitches, something to which Becky was very prone. The child also undertook a good few of the messages on her own, for Mrs Dugdale had acquired an elderly perambulator and Becky enjoyed pushing this round the town and loading it up with potatoes, cabbages and any other foodstuffs on her grandmother’s list.

Sylvie still corresponded with Caitlin. The letters from Ireland were innocent enough, since Caitlin rarely referred to Catherine Mary, and when she did so one could have been forgiven for supposing that the child was Maeve’s and nothing to do with anyone else. Sylvie still sent a half-crown to Dublin every month, but Caitlin never alluded to it, and Sylvie guessed, with real gratitude, that should she find it impossible to send the money Caitlin would never reproach her. Maeve worked hard in order that Caitlin might keep her job and Sylvie guessed that the girl did just about everything for the baby because Caitlin had said, several times, how dear Catherine Mary – now known as Kitty – was to little Maeve Connolly. Sometimes, it did occur to Sylvie that Kitty was no longer a baby, but somehow this seemed so unreal that she never allowed herself to pursue the thought. She was sure she would never see the child again and, for obvious reasons, could remember her only as she had last seen her. Maeve occasionally added an ill-written note to Caitlin’s letters, telling Sylvie that Kitty was teething, crawling, walking or talking, but the information meant little to Sylvie. If Caitlin had done as Sylvie had hoped – as indeed she had asked her to do – Kitty would have been adopted by now and there would have been no news to pass on. Sylvie knew it was selfish to wish that this had happened, but she could not help thinking, wistfully, that it would probably have been the best thing; Caitlin was very good but her family was large and her income restricted. Had Kitty been adopted by a well-to-do family she would have had advantages such as those Becky enjoyed, which were now denied her.

She tried to wrench her thoughts away from Ireland and Kitty; the child was no longer any concern of hers, as Caitlin herself had made clear. The half-crown a month was conscience money but she could well afford it; indeed, as the child grew, she supposed she really ought to increase the amount. Then she chided herself. If the child became a burden – a financial burden, that was – then either Caitlin or Maeve must surely write to her. After all, she supposed that, ultimately, Kitty really was her responsibility; she could not expect either Caitlin or Maeve to give the child more than they were giving already. Which was love, a little voice in her head remarked.

Now, as she turned a corner into the next street, Sylvie missed the edge of the pavement and skidded into the gutter, landing painfully on both knees. Hastily, she scrambled to her feet; the street was deserted, so at least no one else had seen her fall. She was just congratulating herself on the fact and taking off her mud-coated mittens to examine the palms of her hands, which were smarting most uncomfortably, when a voice spoke almost in her ear. ‘Up a dandy, me darlin’! Me an’ my mate ’ere was lookin’ for a fallen woman, an’ it seems like we struck lucky at last. Where’s you headin’?’

Sylvie was so startled that she nearly screamed, but she managed to bite it back and looked into the face of the man who had accosted her. He was tall and broad, with a red, piggy face, and he was dressed in the peaked cap and British warm of a soldier. Sylvie, who had begun to feel apprehensive, relaxed a little. Brendan was a soldier, and so were many of her friends. These men would not wish her harm.

‘Cat got your tongue, missy?’ That was the second man, also a soldier, but this one had a thin ferrety face and mean eyes, which seemed to be crowding too close to his long pointed nose. Sylvie did not like the look of him at all, but it would not do to show her feelings. ‘Where’s you goin’?’

‘I’m going to the Ferryman; I live there,’ Sylvie said quickly. ‘Let me pass, please; I’m already late and my husband will be worried.’

She tried to push past them but the men closed in on either side of her, each one taking an arm. ‘You doesn’t want to go hurryin’ off, missy,’ the piggy one said reprovingly. ‘You’ve already had one nasty fall; you doesn’t want to have another, do you? We’ll give you a hand, make sure you get home safe, like.’

‘I don’t need a hand from anyone, thank you,’ Sylvie said icily. She tried to shake herself free but this merely made both men tighten their grip. ‘If you don’t let go of me at once I shall be forced to scream, and then you’ll be in real trouble.’

The piggy man sniggered. ‘Who’s to hear you, me love?’ he asked derisively, and Sylvie realised, with a stab of sick horror, that the narrow road upon which they stood wound its way between warehouses, of course unmanned at this time of night. No help from that quarter, then. She gave another angry jerk and looked down at the men’s feet. She was wearing stout boots, but theirs looked even stouter. Perhaps kicking would not be a good idea. However, she felt instinctively that she must make a move soon, or something really bad might happen.

The men began to drag her along and it was difficult to resist for her feet slid on the snow-covered pavement, and suddenly it began to snow again, small vicious flakes blown almost horizontal by the strong wind. Ferret face began to pull her into the shelter of a narrow jigger which led down between two warehouses, shouting as he did so: ‘No need to struggle, you silly bitch; we’ll pay you fair an’ square if you tell us what your charge is. Then we’ll walk you back to the Ferryman, nice as you please; we might even buy you a drink.’

‘Let – me – go!’ Sylvie shouted. ‘Wait till I tell my husband how you’ve behaved and I can assure you you’ll be blacklisted by every pub in Liverpool.’

Both men laughed and Sylvie decided that she might as well kick as not, since things were clearly desperate. These were not two decent British soldiers; they were a couple of low animals, incapable of listening to reason, anxious only to satisfy their lust. She kicked out viciously, then drew in a long breath and screamed at the top of her lungs.

Even as the awful sound left her mouth, Sylvie reflected, with satisfaction, that a ship’s siren could not have done better. The scream definitely startled the men and before they had recovered from their surprise she had begun vigorously to kick, first at a pair of stout legs, then at the skinny ones. The piggy man let go of her arm, but she saw his fist travelling towards her face and ducked just in time, then began to shriek again, whilst scratching, punching and biting every bit of them which came within range. The men tried to subdue her and were beginning to succeed when she heard running footsteps. It was dark in the jigger but she saw the pale glimmer of both men’s faces as they turned towards the sound, and in a moment they released her; in fact they released her so suddenly that she fell to the ground, banging her head painfully on the warehouse wall, so that for a moment her senses swam and darkness threatened to descend. However, she had scrambled up on all fours and was kneeling, trying to gain strength to rise to her feet, when hands caught her under the arms and a warm voice, with a country accent, spoke. ‘What’s been a-going on here, eh? You poor little gal; did them brutes run off with your handbag? I’m sorry I didn’t stop them, but I heard your shrieks and thought it was more important to frighten them off than to try to catch them.’ An arm encircled her waist and it was the most comforting arm in the world just at that moment because Sylvie felt, instinctively, that this was a good man, as good as the other two had been bad.

‘Thank you, oh, thank you,’ she gasped. She was shaking all over and her voice came out small and thin. ‘If you hadn’t come along . . . oh, dear God, I’m so grateful that you heard me screaming.’

‘That’s all right. I’m happy to have driven them off,’ the man said. ‘Can you walk, me love, or shall I carry you? I can see you’re only a slip of a thing.’

‘I can walk, only it will have to be very slowly,’ Sylvie said shakily. ‘They didn’t take my handbag because I wasn’t carrying one. I – I think they got the wrong idea about me because I’m out alone and so late, but I’m sure I never . . .’ She was interrupted by her own sobs, but her rescuer seemed to understand what she had been trying to say.

‘It’s all right, m’ dear; no need to explain, nobbut it’s a bad time of night to be out alone, and a bad place to choose for an evening walk. I don’t know whether you lost your way in the snow, but you’re awful near the docks, and women who walk by the docks at night . . . well, I dare say you know what I mean.’

Sylvie looked up at her rescuer but could see very little in the flickering gas light, for by now they had left the jigger behind and were on the flagway once more. The snow was still whirling past; tiny, tenacious flakes which clung to every surface upon which they landed, a category which included both Sylvie and her rescuer. The snow made it even more difficult to make out the man’s features but she thought he had a broad, tanned face, a countryman’s face, and she realised that he reminded her of Brendan. He had the same air of casual confidence, the same warmth, and though he was a total stranger she trusted him implicitly.

‘Where do you live, m’dear?’ he asked as they paused on the pavement. ‘I’ll see you safe home, for ’tis no night to be out by yourself. Is it far?’

‘No, it’s not far,’ Sylvie said. Her voice sounded very tiny against the howl of the wind and she had to keep her chin tucked into her coat collar, out of the worst of the weather. ‘I live at the Ferryman. It’s a public house down on the Dock Road. Do you know it?’

The man chuckled. ‘Do I not? I’m a seaman aboard the SS
Mercuria
; Southampton’s her home port, but lately we’ve been transferred to doing the Atlantic run, so I’m in Liverpool every few weeks and naturally enough me and my mates go to the nearest pub, which is, often as not, the Ferryman. I’m not much of a drinking man, mind – home-brewed cider is my favourite tipple – but I enjoy the company and it’s a deal better than spending me whole life aboard ship.’ He glanced down at her curiously. ‘There’s a couple of young ladies servin’ in the bar . . . would you be one of them?’

‘Yes, I do work in the bar sometimes,’ Sylvie acknowledged. ‘But I work in a munitions factory; it used to be the big fruit and veg market down on Cazneau Street and we do shifts, so I’m not often in the bar these days. My mother-in-law is the landlady, though, so if I’m not actually serving customers, or working at the factory, then I’m probably washing up glasses in the kitchen, or giving an eye to my husband. He’s been very ill and needs a great deal of care.’

‘Aye, someone told me there were a sick feller in the room behind the bar,’ the man agreed. ‘But we’d best introduce ourselves. I’m Sam Trescoe, and I come from Plymouth.’

‘I’m Sylvie Dugdale, Mr Trescoe,’ Sylvie said, then repeated what she had said in a louder tone, since the raging blizzard had seemed to snatch the words from her mouth before they could possibly have reached her companion’s ears. She was feeling very much better and realised that, though she was shaken and bruised, she was little the worse for her adventure. As she spoke, they reached the front door of the pub and she pulled Mr Trescoe to a halt. In the glow of light from the bar she saw that he was caked in snow, and guessed that she must be the same. ‘We’d best get rid of the snow or we’ll trek it into the bar,’ she said, and began stamping and banging vigorously until she was pretty well clear of the stuff.

Sam Trescoe did the same, then pushed open the pub door and ushered her into the warmth and brightness of the bar. ‘There you are, Mrs Dugdale, safe home at last,’ he said, and she saw his eyes widen as she unwound the scarf from round her head and shook out her silvery curls. She thought for a moment that he was dismayed by her dishevelled appearance, but a second glance recognised the admiration in his eyes. She dimpled off at him and, seeing him properly for the first time, realised that he was a very handsome man. He had thickly curling light brown hair and the bluest eyes she thought she had ever seen. For a moment, the two simply stared at one another, then Sylvie remembered where she was and chided herself for such stupid behaviour. She glanced about her but the bar was crowded, and no one seemed to have noticed her entrance.

Beside her, Sam Trescoe stirred uneasily. ‘You’d best get into the back and make yourself a cup of strong, sweet tea,’ he advised. ‘Then you should take a hot bath and get yourself to bed, for I’ll be bound you’re bruised all over. And I’d best be off back to the Sailors’ Home before they let some other feller take my bed.’

He turned as if to go, but Sylvie caught at his sleeve. ‘No you don’t,’ she said firmly. ‘You saved me from those fellers, Sam Trescoe, and I’ve scarcely begun to thank you. Besides, I’m in a bit of a state, aren’t I? I’d rather you were with me when I explain what happened to my mother-in-law . . . that is, if you don’t mind sharing that cup of tea with me?’