Little Girl Lost (21 page)

Sam smiled down at her, his blue eyes dancing. ‘I could do with a cuppa,’ he admitted. ‘And would this be Mrs Dugdale senior?’

Sylvie looked round and saw her mother-in-law bearing down upon them, an anxious frown upon her face. ‘Sylvie, me love, me an’ your mam have been that worried . . .’ she began, then gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as she took in Sylvie’s muddy and disordered appearance. ‘Wharrever’s happened? You look as though someone’s fished you out of the Mersey!’

Sylvie’s laugh was a trifle forced, for the remark took her back to that other rescue, which had been, in fact, even more dramatic than the recent one. But it had not been safe to tell a soul about Brendan’s selfless act, whereas it was perfectly all right to tell both her mother-in-law and her mother, who had just come panting up, what had happened in that ugly little jigger. She would have started her explanation at once, but Sam shook his head at her, then took her arm and guided her behind the bar and through into the back room, whilst her mother and mother-in-law followed, clucking anxiously. Once there, Sam glanced quickly at Len, who seemed to be asleep, then turned to the two older women.

‘Mrs Dugdale has had a nasty experience,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s still rather shocked and I think a cup of hot sweet tea would help. If one of you ladies would be so good as to make the tea, the other can get her out of her wet things.’

Sylvie was quite amused to see how both women leapt to obey these gentle commands, her mother-in-law pulling the kettle across the flame and getting the tea caddy off the mantel, whilst Mrs Davies pulled off Sylvie’s wet and muddy coat, sat her daughter down in a fireside chair, and began to unlace her boots. Still kneeling at her daughter’s feet, she turned to look up at their visitor. ‘Thank you for lookin’ after my girl, for I’m very sure that’s what you did,’ she said gruffly. ‘As soon as I saw her purse lyin’ on the dresser this mornin’ I began to worry meself, but then I remembered all her good friends at the factory, and I thought she’d be safe enough to borry some cash off one of them.’ She turned back to Sylvie. ‘But I guess you forgot you’d no money until you was aboard the tram – something like that, anyway – so you ended up walking. I can see you fell over, but . . .’

At this point, Mrs Dugdale delivered a large mug of strong, sweet tea to each of them and Sam, after a glance at Sylvie, told his side of the story. ‘I’d just come ashore and was headin’ towards the nearest pub when I heard someone screaming; dear Lord, it was a scream and a half! Enough to frighten most people, which I think it did. It came from a little passageway between two big warehouses, so I thought I’d best investigate, especially when two fellers dashed past me, one o’ them shoulder-charging me so that I nearly ended up in the gutter myself. I thought the fellers were up to no good, so I went a bit of the way down the passage. The young lady had been knocked down so I give her a hand to get on to her pins and brought her out. Then I walked her home and here we are,’ he finished.

Immediately, two pairs of round, astonished eyes swung towards Sylvie. ‘I – I think the men were soldiers . . . well, I know they were,’ she faltered. ‘It’s a wild night and there was no one about so I suppose they thought – they thought . . .’

‘Aye, they’d think the worst, ’cos any gal walkin’ out in this weather . . .’ Mrs Davies began, then stopped speaking as tears filled Sylvie’s eyes and began to trickle down her cheeks. At once, Mrs Davies was all concern. She surged out of her chair and put her arms round her daughter’s shoulders, giving her an affectionate hug. ‘Don’t you worry, chuck, we all know you’re a good girl. But what a blessing this young gentleman came along before any real harm were done.’

Sylvie pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose resoundingly. ‘Yes, it were a blessing,’ she agreed fervently. ‘Because I started to fight as soon as – as – I realised what they wanted, and they got really angry. I kicked their shins and punched the fat one on the nose, and scratched and bit, but it would have gone hard for me if Mr Trescoe hadn’t chased them off.’ She turned to her rescuer. ‘Mr Trescoe, this is my mother, Mrs Davies, and the other lady is my mother-in-law. Oh, and the man in the bed is my husband, Len. I see he’s woken up; I’ll introduce you, but I expect Len won’t understand too well what’s been going on. He’ll be half asleep still, I dare say. And he’s very shy with strangers,’ she added.

Sylvie led Sam over to the bedside, explaining to Len that this man had rescued her from a difficult situation, and Len smiled and shook Sam’s hand, then indicated that he, too, would like a cup of tea. Sylvie went over to the pot and poured him one, then carried it over to the bed. He could not sit up unaided, but when her mother and mother-in-law would have come over to help him into an upright position Sam waved them back. He went to the other side of the bed, put a strong arm round Len’s shoulders, and heaved, telling Sylvie to rearrange his pillows. Then he went back to his place by the fire, whilst Sylvie held the brimming mug to her husband’s lips. Slowly, fumblingly, Len put both hands up and grasped the mug himself whilst Sylvie smiled encouragement and reached for the towel to envelop him in case of spillages. Usually Len submitted, but on this occasion he shook his head violently, so violently that the tea slurped out of the mug and dappled both his pyjama jacket and the top sheet. ‘No, no, no,’ Len mumbled. ‘I – I – I do it.’

‘Yes, of course, chuck,’ Sylvie said soothingly, knowing that she must not interfere again. Len’s grip on the mug might be uncertain, but he was still a good deal stronger than she, and a wrestling match over a cup of tea would be sheer foolishness. So she let him hold it to his lips and sank down on the chair so that she might take it from him when he had had as much as he wanted. He turned to her, giving a secret little smile of satisfaction, and then began to sip his tea rather noisily, but with enjoyment. Sylvie relaxed. It was clear that Len did not wish to seem dependent in front of a stranger. She listened to the talk round the fire, and decided she would ask Sam if he would like to visit her husband from time to time. After all, Len had enjoyed Brendan’s company, and now, with so many of his old friends fighting in France, or aboard warships, he would surely be glad to see a new face now and then. Sylvie would not admit, even to herself, that she would be reluctant to lose touch with this friendly and delightful young man. But when he insisted upon leaving, it was not Sylvie who begged him to come again, but Mrs Dugdale herself.

‘You’ve been real good to me daughter-in-law, and the way you lifted our Len up higher in his bed was kind ’n’ all. It’s clear he likes you,’ she said. ‘You’re a long way from home, for you said you came from Devonshire, so whenever you’re in the port o’ Liverpool you must pop into the old Ferryman. You can share our meal, have a yarn wi’ Len about how the war’s goin’ an’ meet our Becky. She’s me granddaughter an’ bright as a button. Now just you promise me that you’ll come again.’

‘Well, if you’re sure, I’d be real grateful for some home comforts, ’cos the Sailors’ Home ain’t exactly ideal,’ Sam agreed. ‘And you must call me Sam, ’cos Mr Trescoe’s a rare mouthful.’ He turned, smiling, to Sylvie. ‘And I shall call you Sylvie ’cos of there being two Mrs Dugdales, both pretty young things, so we want no confusion.’

Sylvie was amused to see her mother-in-law blush girlishly and thought that Sam Trescoe must have spent some time in Ireland since he seemed to have kissed the Blarney stone so effectively. And there was poor Brendan, Irish to the marrow of his bones, but totally lacking in the sort of easy intercourse which seemed to come naturally to Sam. She went to the door to see him off, and noticed that the blizzard had calmed, though there were still small flakes of snow falling from the dark sky above. She thought the trams would still be running and advised Sam to go to the nearest stop and catch one, since it was a fair distance to the Sailors’ Home on Canning Place and the snow was deep enough to make walking difficult. Sam laughed and shook his head. ‘City snow’s nothing compared with the snow on Dartymoor,’ he said, deliberately exaggerating his soft west-country accent. ‘Why, in winter, the snow on the moor can bury a whole house an’ you can walk by an’ look down at your feet, and see a chimney pot. Oh aye, we have real snow on Dartmoor, not this flimsy stuff!’

Sylvie smiled at him. ‘And if I believe that, you think I’ll believe anything,’ she said teasingly. ‘But of course this is a seaport and they say the salt in the air stops the snow from laying. Good night, Sam, and don’t forget your promise; next time you’re in port, you’ll come straight round to the Ferryman. Agreed?’

‘Agreed. Good night, Sylvie,’ Sam called softly. Sylvie watched him until he was out of sight, then turned back into the pub once more, realising that she was positively longing to plunge her aching limbs into the hot bath that Sam himself had suggested earlier.

Chapter Eight

September 1916

‘Kitty? Are you ready, alanna? We don’t want to be late ’cos you’ll be in Sister Enda’s class and she’s a real tartar, so she is.’

Grainne’s head popped round the kitchen door as she spoke and Kitty, sitting at the kitchen table in a ferment of excitement, jumped off her chair and ran across the room to fetch her coat from its peg. Today was to be her first day at school and she was looking forward to it so much! Maeve had told her over and over how important it was that she should learn to read, write and do sums, so that when she was a really big girl, a grown-up in fact, she could get a good job and earn money for treats such as a trip to the cinema, or to Booterstown to play on the sand.

Maeve, who had also been sitting at the kitchen table, got up. Kitty knew she would have liked to accompany her on this important day, but could not possibly do so since she had half a dozen children who had to be picked up from their homes and looked after whilst their mothers worked. She had asked Grainne to take care of Kitty, and Kitty had been delighted since she admired the older girl very much.

Now, Kitty scrambled into her coat and Maeve buttoned her up, then kissed her three times, once on the forehead and once on each cheek, before gently propelling her towards the door. ‘I wish I could take you to school, me darlin’,’ she said. ‘But you know it’s impossible.’

‘It’s all right, Maeve, you don’t have to worry,’ Grainne said soothingly. She held out a hand to the younger girl. ‘Come along, alanna. If we get to Baggot Street early enough, I’ll play you a game of piggy beds on the pavement.’

‘I’m ready,’ Kitty squeaked, making for the stairs. She skimmed down them with Grainne close on her heels, and emerged into a pleasant sunny morning, though there was a nip in the air as though the weather wanted everyone to be aware that, with the return to school, summer was over and autumn around the corner.

Despite the earliness of the hour, the streets were already crowded. Kitty fingered the end of one of her short fat plaits, checking that it was still held in place by the green ribbon bow which Maeve had tied earlier. Maeve had been determined that Kitty should look her best for her first day at school, but when they reached St Joseph’s and saw the motley crew assembled on the pavement, Kitty felt doubtful as to the wisdom of Maeve’s actions. None of the other children assembled wore crisp white blouses, neat grey skirts and black plimsolls without so much as a hole in either toe. Oh, there were smartly dressed children all right, but they were in the bright jumpers and skirts which were the uniform of Our Lady’s school, situated on the upper floor of the building. The charges for Our Lady’s were high, so Kitty had not been able to follow Grainne and Clodagh there, much though Maeve regretted it.

‘Ah, one of the sisters is beckoning you in,’ Grainne said in Kitty’s ear. ‘Bye-bye. You follow the rest.’ She gave Kitty a little shove. ‘You’re the sharpest knife in the drawer, our Maeve says, so I dare say you and Sister Enda will get on a treat.’ Most of these remarks went over Kitty’s head, for whilst Grainne was speaking the children were cramming into the building and being ushered into rooms on either side of the corridor. ‘Go in and sit down. Don’t say anything until she asks you your name and then speak up good and clear; she don’t like mumblers. Got your sandwich?’

‘Yes, and Maeve said to give me teacher a ha’penny and she’d give me a drink of milk,’ Kitty said, rather breathlessly. The sight of all the children, none of whom was known to her, was a bit daunting and the teacher, standing behind her desk, more daunting still. To Kitty’s eyes, she was a mountain of a woman, even taller than Mr Cavanagh, and somehow even huger because she was dressed entirely in black save for the white cloth which framed her face. She took no notice as Kitty sank into one of the small chairs, but it was obvious that she was counting. Kitty heard her murmuring ‘thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six’, and then she strode over to the door and slammed it shut. Kitty turned to her neighbour, a tiny girl with straggly brown hair and enormous, greenish eyes. ‘Me sister brought me here this morning and she said . . .’ she began in a whisper, but got no further.

‘Silence,’ bawled Sister Enda, if this was indeed Sister Enda, for she had not introduced herself. ‘Sit still and speak when you’re spoken to and not before.’ She looked at a group of small girls who stood before her simply because there were not enough chairs to go round. ‘Sit down, I said. Are you all deaf?’

The little girls collapsed on to the floor as though someone had pulled a string, animating them all simultaneously, and at least three of them burst into tears. Kitty was sitting quite near them and, embarrassed by their predicament, looked down at her feet, but even as she looked she realised that a large puddle had already reached her toes. Quickly, she picked up her feet; one of the small girls was so frightened that she had wet her knickers and Kitty wanted to keep her plimsolls out of danger.

‘You! I said to sit still, and that means not to wriggle or scuffle. Yes, it’s you I’m talking to, the one with the plaits. What’s your name? Sit up straight and answer properly!’