Little Girl Lost (25 page)

Caitlin examined the small palm held so trustingly out to her and felt honest fury welling up. ‘The wicked old – old nun,’ she breathed. ‘Why, you’re only five years old, and why shouldn’t you move your feet out of a puddle, indeed? I’d like to go up to St Joseph’s and give her a piece of my mind. And you’ve not told Maeve, you say? Why not, alanna? Maeve would have been round there first thing, telling the creature what she thought of her.’

‘I know. She’d likely make Sister Enda promise never to hit me again,’ Kitty said wistfully. ‘But I
can’t
tell her, Auntie Cait, because she’d be so upset. She’s worked ever so hard, teaching me my letters, and ’splaining about numbers, and getting me decent clothes to wear for school. If she knew I were unhappy . . .’

Caitlin pulled the now three-quarter-full bucket out from under the tap and replaced it with the empty one. Then she bent and gave Kitty an impulsive hug. ‘You’re a good little soul, so you are,’ she said. ‘Look, alanna, if that woman makes a dead set at you again, you’re to tell me, understand?’ She turned the tap off, lifted both buckets and began to walk back towards the house. ‘Now, I’ve had an idea. You said Clodagh and Grainne are rolling bandages for the soldiers in France; well, that’s what gave me the idea, actually. If you go along to Mr Farrington, the chemist on Francis Street, and ask him to sell you a piece of bandage – I’ll give you a penny – enough to wrap round your hand, then I’ll do it up for you. I’ll put some butter on your palm first, which will ease the pain, and I reckon your teacher won’t be too pleased. You see, it will be a sign that some grown-up person has seen the wounds on your hand and knows how they got there, and that’s the last thing Sister Enda will want. I remember my brothers saying that their teachers pulled hair, pulled ears, twisted arms, but very rarely left marks – except when they had a genuine reason for beating a boy, of course.’

‘Oh, but what about Maeve? I can’t bear her to know,’ Kitty said, much distressed. ‘She’d want to know at once why I was wearing a bandage.’

‘We’ll say you fell over playing piggy beds and cut your hand quite deeply, and we’ll say I’ve dressed it very carefully and don’t want anyone to take the bandage off because it will heal quicker if left undisturbed. And if sister asks why you’re wearing it, say your Auntie Caitlin is afraid infection may set in; can you remember that?’

‘Ye-es, but I hope she won’t ask me,’ Kitty said. ‘And I don’t think she will, Auntie Cait; I think she’ll just ignore it.’ She grinned up at Caitlin, her expression suddenly extremely mischievous. ‘She’s a bully, ain’t she? And Maeve says all bullies are cowards at heart. She won’t dare to hit me, not while I’m wearing the bandage, so I reckon she’ll just pretend I’m not even there.’

By this time, the two of them had reached the big kitchen, and Caitlin reached down her purse from the mantel and handed Kitty a large brown penny. ‘Off wit’ you,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And hurry back, ’cos I want that bandage in place before Maeve and the others get home.’

Chapter Nine

Spring 1919

Brendan looked around him as the long column of soldiers in which he marched reached the quayside. It was good to be going home at last, though he would be returning to a country smitten by the terrible influenza epidemic which had decimated both armies since the signing of the Armistice on 11 November.

Brendan had lost many friends over the past few years, but when he climbed aboard the ship which would take him on the first leg of his journey home he was delighted to recognise Patrick O’Keefe amongst a great many other soldiers. Brendan immediately forced his way through the crowd until he was able to clap Pat on the shoulder, and tug out a packet of Woodbines from his pocket. ‘Well, by all that’s wonderful! We haven’t met for four years, despite the fact that I knew your battalion and mine had fought in the same battles,’ he said breezily. ‘An’ now here we are, headin’ home, and the first feller I see on the ship is you.’ He flipped a cigarette out of the packet and handed it to Patrick. ‘Here, hold still while I gets out a lucifer.’

Pat took the cigarette. ‘Thanks, Brendan, old feller,’ he said. ‘We’ve run out of baccy – haven’t had a smoke for a week.’ Then he gestured to the small man beside him. ‘Can you spare one for me pal Barry? Only he’s as desperate for a fag as I am meself.’

‘Sure and he’s welcome,’ Brendan said easily, for though it was the last cigarette in the packet, he was sure he would be able to buy more as soon as they landed. The man named Barry stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and then grinned as Brendan searched his pocket for matches only to find he had none. He was beginning to apologise, to look round for help, when Barry leaned towards him, striking a match as he did so. He held it first to Brendan’s cigarette, then to his own, then turned to Patrick. Even as the match flamed against the cigarette, Brendan said sharply: ‘No!’ and Pat jerked back his head. But it was too late – the cigarette was burning well.

Barry looked horrified and, for a moment, so did Pat. He had taken the cigarette out of his mouth and was staring at the lit end as though he could not believe his eyes, but then he gave a rueful laugh. ‘That superstition was fair enough when bullets were whizzing round your ears and a lighted match gave your position away,’ he observed. ‘But we’re not at war now; as far as I’m concerned you could light a dozen cigarettes from one match, and be none the worse.’

‘That’s true,’ Brendan said, but he said it largely for Barry’s sake because the other man was still looking uneasy over what he had done. He turned to Pat. ‘Are you going straight back to Ireland? They tell me we’ll get a suit of civilian clothing and a bit of money, so I’m staying for that, and then I reckon I’ll go back to Liverpool to see Sylvie and my old landlady, but afterwards it’s Connemara for me, and no messing.’

‘I’m wit’ you there,’ Pat said. ‘Only I’ll not be going back to Connemara, not with Caitlin and the kids waiting for me in Handkerchief Alley.’ He turned to his friend. ‘Where’s you going, Barry?’

‘The big smoke . . . London town,’ Barry said. ‘I’ve a gal there – Betty, her name is. Me an’ her mean to marry as soon as we’ve got ourselves a bit of a room somewhere – I can’t wait.’ He drew deeply on his cigarette then coughed noisily, thumped himself on the chest, and sucked again on his cigarette. ‘Yes, to think I volunteered for this little lot! Well, it’s the last time I volunteer for anything; from now on, it’s home and family, and I hope to God the dairy have kept me job open, like they promised.’ He looked interrogatively at Brendan. ‘What do you do, mate? I know old Pat here is in a bank, an’ they said they’d keep his job open, but you can never tell.’

‘I’m a copper, a bobby – a scuffer, as they call us in Liverpool,’ Brendan said. ‘But it’s too like the army and I’ve had enough of the army, so I have. I can’t see meself walking the beat again, not unless I were desperate. So I’m going back to me daddy’s farm and I’ll be looking to buy a small place of me own in Connemara. I’d like to be near the sea wit’ a little boat so I can fish when the land don’t need me,’ he added dreamily. ‘I’d keep a few hens, a couple of pigs, a donkey to pull the plough . . . I know I’d never make a fortune but at least I wouldn’t go hungry. Country folk don’t, you know.’

‘Except when the potato crop fails,’ Pat reminded him. ‘That was when my family left their farm and went to Dublin, and I guess it were the worst move they could have made because we ended up in the slums an’ it took us forty year to fight our way back to any sort of decent life.’

‘Why don’t you and your family join me, once I’ve got settled?’ Brendan suggested, though there was a twinkle in his eye. He was pretty sure that nothing would turn Pat from the relative comfort of an office life to the hard work and hardships of a small farm. Besides, there was Caitlin’s job to consider. He knew her employers thought highly of her and paid her accordingly. Then there were the children, growing up fast and wanting jobs of their own, which would be easier to find in Dublin than in the wilds of Connemara.

Pat blew a smoke ring and watched it curl hazily upwards. ‘If they haven’t kept my job for me, mebbe I’ll take you up on that offer,’ he said idly. ‘Aha, we’re movin’! Next thing, we’ll be seein’ the dear old white cliffs of Dover. Eh, I can’t wait!’

Sylvie was about to start peeling potatoes when Becky burst in through the back door, but she immediately turned to give her daughter a peck on the cheek and to relieve her of her smart leather satchel, for Becky now attended an expensive private school. ‘You’re early, queen? But I’ve got the kettle on and you shall have a nice cuppa in one minute,’ Sylvie said, helping her daughter out of her navy blue coat and hanging it on the hook behind the kitchen door. ‘Grandma Dugdale is sitting with your father, reading the paper to him whilst he waits for his tea, so if you’d like a snack with your cuppa . . .’

Becky said she would and Sylvie watched affectionately as that young person went over to the pantry and helped herself to a couple of ginger biscuits from the tin. Becky was growing up; she had always been clothes-conscious, but now she was serious about her appearance, spending a great deal of time combing the big department stores in the city centre for exactly the right shade of ribbon to go with a new jersey, or a pair of shoes which had the modern heel but which were not so high as to attract disapproval from her mother. She frequently consulted Sylvie as to what suited her best, and her mother was always delighted to give her opinion and to see Becky becoming a proper little lady, young though she was.

‘I’ll take his tea in when it’s ready,’ Becky said, nibbling her biscuit. ‘Dad likes ginger biscuits; I’ll put a couple on a plate for him.’

‘Right,’ Sylvie said. ‘I’ll do a couple of slices of thin bread and butter for your gran as well, since she says biscuits give her indigestion.’

‘I’ll fetch the loaf,’ Becky said, suiting action to words, and presently she carried a laden tray through from the kitchen into the parlour. A year or so earlier, because Len had improved so much, they had decided that he would be more comfortable if he had a room of his own, though they always left the connecting door open so that they would hear if he called them. He had a small bell by his bed which he could ring at need, for his speech was still uncertain, though it was very much better than it had been. He was still partially paralysed but could now get out of his bed with assistance. Each morning, Bertie or Sylvie helped him to dress, and he sat in a wing chair close to the parlour fire, which was now kept burning winter and summer. He could read a little and enjoyed crossword puzzles, though these had to be the simple ones which some of the newspapers ran for children, and he liked doing jigsaws provided the pieces were large.

Consequently, he had become very much easier to nurse, although, as Brendan had predicted, he had changed, and was no longer the man Sylvie had married. He was gentle, grateful for every small service performed for him, and eager to do as much as he could to help. Not that there was a lot he could do. He had tried peeling potatoes but had cut himself so badly that Sylvie would not let him attempt it again. But he was working his way slowly through his mother’s large collection of brasses, polishing them with such enthusiasm that they gleamed like silver. Once, Mrs Dugdale had provided him with a bowl of hot soapy water so that he might wash the Dresden figurines which she kept in the china cabinet, but this had not proved a success and now Mrs Dugdale had a shepherdess without a nose, and a goose girl with only three fingers and no thumb on her tiny hand. Still, you had to give it to Len, Sylvie mused now as she turned back to the sink, still full of potatoes waiting to be peeled: he really did his best, never complained and ate whatever was put in front of him without a murmur.

She had realised a long while back that she was much fonder of him now than she had been when they were first married, and knew that this was at least partly due to her friendship with Sam Trescoe. He had been a wonderful friend to her and Len since that first meeting, calling in every time his ship docked, bringing small presents, recounting stories of shipboard life and telling her and Len of the ports he had visited.

As time passed, Sylvie became aware that her feeling for him was growing warmer and knew that he felt the same, though he never showed his emotions by anything other than the warmth of his glance. Once or twice, when she had been very down, exhausted by the double demands of her work in the factory and the various tasks in the Ferryman, he had given her hand a consoling squeeze. It had become her habit to walk back to his ship with him to wave him off when she sailed, and these were the only occasions when they could discuss their lives, with any sort of freedom. Sam was full of suggestions for helping Len to improve and encouraged Sylvie to give Len all the help and support she could, and somehow this made nursing Len easier to bear because by so doing, she was pleasing Sam.

It was impossible, of course, not to think wistfully of how things might have been had she met Sam a dozen years earlier, for Sylvie now knew that she had never been in love before; knew also that her love for Sam was deep and abiding, the best thing in her life. They had never exchanged a kiss or a hug, had never spoken of their longing for one another, yet her feeling for Sam brightened every aspect of Sylvie’s life and, paradoxically, turned nursing Len into a labour of love.

As she began to run water on to the bowl of potatoes, the letter crackled in her pocket and she smiled to herself – in two more days, Sam would be back in port! Presently, she would go into the parlour and tell Len the good news, but now she had best get on with her preparations for the meal.

Brendan’s ship docked and the men disembarked. ‘We might as well keep together,’ Brendan suggested, as the three of them marched towards the temporary camp from which they would be demobbed. He grinned at Pat. ‘You’ll be wanting to come up to Liverpool so’s you can catch a ferry back to Ireland. Isn’t that right?’

Pat shook his head and gave an enormous yawn. ‘No, man, I’ll be catching the boat train from Euston and the ferry from Holyhead. It’s quicker if you’re headin’ for Dublin. But we’ll meet up tomorrow for a last crack before we part.’ He gave his small companion a nudge. ‘But Barry here will leave us as soon as the train draws in to Waterloo.’