Little Girl Lost (27 page)

‘No, I can’t say I did,’ Brendan said, rather stiffly. ‘But you know very well Sylvie can’t acknowledge Kitty while her husband is alive. He’s a very sick man and it would break his heart if he believed Sylvie had played fast and loose while he was in prison. Look, the last thing I want is to reproach you, because you’ve done marvels for Kitty, but Sylvie made it plain right from the start that she wanted the child adopted. I know she did because she told me so, and Sylvie is no liar.’

Caitlin sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘I guess you’re right,’ she said wearily. ‘I suppose I’m hitting out, trying to hurt someone else the way I’ve been hurt. Anyway, if I tried to send Kitty away, then Maeve would leave, that’s certain. She thinks of Kitty as her own child and I can’t say I blame her since she’s brought Kitty up from birth. You’ve not seen her yet, have you? You’ll be pleasantly surprised when you do, for though she only goes to St Joseph’s school she’s at least as bright as any of my kids were at her age.’

Brendan got to his feet. ‘Look, if I’m to catch a train to Connemara which will get me home before dark, then I’ll have to leave now,’ he told her. ‘The t’ing is, I’m happy to stay if it will help, but if it won’t, I’d sooner go now than in a couple of hours. No point in getting lodgings just for one night, if you don’t need me. But as I said, I’ll spend a week or so wit’ my parents, so if you need me you can send a telegram and I’ll be back before you can say knife.’ He took a note from his pocket and placed it on the kitchen table. ‘Now don’t start making a fuss. That money’s to pay for the telegram if you need to get in touch,’ he said firmly. ‘If you don’t, I’ll come in again on me way back to the ferry, all right?’

Caitlin nodded. ‘All right, and thank you for everything, Brendan,’ she said in a small husky voice. ‘I think you were very brave to bring me the awful news, and you’ve been ever so kind and understanding, the same as you always were. As for all the nasty things I said about Sylvie, please forget them. I’m – I’m not meself, an’ shan’t be, mebbe for days. You see, I’ve kept me guard up all through, waitin’ for bad news, preparing myself to hear the worst. And then, when the Armistice was signed, I relaxed. I thought Pat was safe, that it was simply a matter of time before he walked through that door. So it was all the harder to face up to your news, and I reckon I let meself down.’

‘You did nothing of the sort; you were bloody wonderful,’ Brendan said warmly. ‘Don’t forget, now, that I’ll always be here for you, even if we’re separated by the whole width of Ireland.’ He had stood his kit bag down on the kitchen floor, and hung up his coat and hat, but now he began to struggle into his outer garments. ‘I must hurry or I’ll miss the train. Are you sure now that you want me to leave?’

Caitlin nodded her head and ushered him to the door. ‘It’s sorry I am that it looks as if I’m pushin’ you out,’ she said as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘I’m not ungrateful, Bren, an’ I’ll probably be glad of you later, but right now I need to be alone.’

‘I understand, and I’m not hurt,’ Brendan said, with false cheerfulness. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ He clattered down the stairs and was about to cross the hallway when a small figure entered in rather a rush. They almost collided; he put out a hand to steady her, for it was a girl, and saw that she was heavily burdened with a large marketing bag and that she walked with the aid of a small crutch, though she wielded the latter so efficiently that she did not seem lame when she approached.

Vaguely, he remembered something Sylvie had told him concerning a child with a crutch, but this was no child. She was a young woman, probably seventeen or eighteen, though she was so slight she might have been older. He was still trying to puzzle out just who she was when she whisked past him without so much as a glance, and began to climb the stairs. ‘Hey, missus!’ he called, rather affronted to realise she had not even noticed him. ‘Let me give you a hand with that bag; it looks heavy.’

She continued to mount the stairs but half turned to look at him over her shoulder, giving him a mischievous smile as she did so. ‘Don’t you be troubling yourself, I’m not a cripple! I’m fit as a flea so I am, and more used to climbing stairs than a grand big feller like yourself,’ she said airily. ‘But t’anks for offerin’.’ And with that she disappeared round the first landing.

Brendan bristled; so she wasn’t a cripple? Then why did she have a bleedin’ crutch? Cheeky young varmint. You’d think a girl with a lame foot would be grateful for any help she could get, but not she! Oh no, she’s too proud to accept an offer of assistance. Someone should teach her a lesson, but it won’t be me since I’ve better things to do than to bandy words with a kid of her age. Brendan went out into the alley.

Halfway to the station, he realised he had still not seen Kitty, but that was no longer important. She would doubtless be there when he returned. And he had done what he had set out to do; the fact that Caitlin had more or less dismissed him, and his proffered help, was hard to accept, but it was her wish and he must abide by it.

By the time he climbed aboard the train his thoughts had taken a new turn, and as the carriage travelled through the lush Irish countryside he began to look, with more than a passing interest, at the little farms and smallholdings he could see through the grimy window. Now he must begin to look for somewhere which would suit him.

Chapter Ten

Kitty had never mitched off school in her life and she was not mitching off school now, since she had a legitimate excuse for being out on the street instead of in her classroom. Since starting school she had worked as hard as she possibly could and had actually gone up a class at the end of her second year, happily leaving the hateful Sister Enda behind. Now she was a pupil of Sister Jeremiah, whose dreadful name was belied by her nature, which was sunny, helpful and understanding, and this was the reason why Kitty was making her way to the Iveagh Market when she should, by rights, have been in school for another hour. But Sister Jeremiah trusted her and had given her a sum of money in a small purse, and told her to go along to the market and to explain to Mrs Fish, a large red-faced woman with a squint, that Sister Jeremiah wanted material which she could make into painting smocks. Painting was an activity previously unknown to any of the children, but a benefactor, a rich woman who had been educated at St Joseph’s many years before, had presented Sister Jeremiah with six large pots of powder paint, a great many brushes and a quantity of beautiful cream-coloured paper. In the accompanying letter, which Sister had read them, she had told how she had won a prize, whilst at St Joseph’s, for an essay about the River Liffey. The prize had been a tiny paint box and a small pad of paper and she truly believed that this was what had started her off on her career as a watercolourist. Now she made a great deal of money by selling her paintings, and she wanted other children to know the pleasures of creating a beautiful picture, even if they never became artists like herself.

She had sent her gift to Sister Jeremiah because she must have guessed that Sister Enda would simply have locked the stuff away and forgotten all about it. And Kitty was thoroughly glad that she had done so, for only the previous day, Sister Jeremiah had found up some bits of broken pottery from somewhere. She had carefully spooned a little powder paint on to each fragment, had mixed it with water to the right consistency, and had then told the children to use one colour at a time, and to wash their brushes, between colours, in the jam jar of water she had provided.

Unfortunately, the children’s enthusiasm and lack of previous experience had led them to scatter paint everywhere, including over their clothing, and though many of the garments they wore were old and shabby they were not improved by daubings of paint, so Sister Jeremiah had decided to have smocks made for them out of any cheap, second-hand material available. Accordingly, she had sent Kitty off on her errand, which included taking the material to an old friend of the sister’s who lived on Dame Street, and was a noted needlewoman. ‘She’s got a sewing machine,’ Sister Jeremiah had said proudly. ‘A wonderful, modern one! She was one of my pupils and is always eager to help, so if you explain that we want as many painting smocks as she can make out of the material you will give her, then I dare say they’ll be ready for collection in a week.’ She had glanced, speculatively, at Kitty’s eager face. ‘Your home is quite near Francis Street, isn’t it? Then once you’ve left the material in Dame Street, you might as well go straight home.’ This had been an unexpected treat but typical of Sister Jeremiah’s thoughtfulness and Kitty had thanked her from the bottom of her heart.

Now, she was heading for Handkerchief Alley, having concluded her mission successfully. She knew it was Auntie Cait’s half day and hurried up the stairs, knowing that for once the kitchen would not contain any other schoolchildren. Because she was early and the day was chilly, she would sit by the fire whilst explaining to Auntie Cait and Maeve all about her errand, and toast slices of bread. It would be lovely; a little treat, for hot buttered toast was a rarity when all the children were home.

Kitty went as quickly as she could up the long flights of creaking stairs, but halfway up the last flight she heard voices and one of them was the voice of a stranger. Startled, Kitty stopped half a dozen steps from the top landing and glanced upwards. The kitchen door was ajar but now she could make out a man’s voice. For one glorious moment, she thought it must be Uncle Pat, and actually retreated a step since she had no wish to barge in on a reunion such as she knew Pat and Caitlin would enjoy. Then she heard her Auntie Cait’s voice, raised and angry, and realised that whoever the man was, he could not possibly be Uncle Pat. She crept up a couple more stairs, listening intently, and heard her own name. Auntie Cait was speaking more quietly now and her words brought a cold, shrinking feeling to Kitty’s heart. ‘. . . you can tell that Sylvie of yours that she’d best take young Kitty back, because I’ll have enough to do wit’ keeping me own kids fed and clothed, and I’ll need Maeve to help me as much as she can. To own the truth, Brendan, Maeve spends all her time lookin’ after Kitty, an’ all her earnings go on the child as well, and it won’t do.’

For a moment, Kitty felt so cold and alone that her head whirled. She knew that her real mother’s name was Sylvie, that Brendan was the name of the man who had sent her mother to Caitlin in the first place, but other than that Caitlin’s words did not seem to make sense. Or rather, they made a horrible sort of sense, the sense that she was a nuisance, unwanted . . . but why? She had not been a nuisance yesterday . . .

But her aunt was still speaking. Kitty crept a little further up the stairs and this time the words came far too clearly for Kitty to misunderstand them. ‘Now that Pat has gone, everything will have to change,’ her aunt said slowly.

Uncle Pat was dead! Kitty felt tears form in her eyes and begin to trickle down her cheeks, and she clung to the stair in front whilst she fought a terrible feeling of nausea. Then Caitlin was speaking again, and at the sound of her own name Kitty simply had to listen once more.

‘I could put Kitty in an orphanage, I suppose – at least they’d clothe and feed the kid, which is more than I’m going to be able to afford to do . . .’

But Kitty could bear to hear no more. She turned and stumbled down the stairs, trying to go quietly, though without really caring whether she was heard or not. She shot out of the door and into the alley, then rushed round the back of the tenement building, knelt on the cold hard ground and vomited violently and painfully. Then, as if by instinct, she made for the bustle of Francis Street, wanting to lose herself in the crowds whilst she thought about what she had heard. As she stumbled along the pavement, she told herself that Caitlin had rejected her not from a lack of love but because, as the overheard conversation had made clear, she had lost her beloved husband and thought she could no longer manage. For the first time, Kitty became aware that she was a burden. She only had to look down at herself to realise that Caitlin had spoken no more than the truth: Maeve spent all the money she earned on seeing that Kitty was as well dressed as any child who attended Our Lady’s school, and a good deal better dressed than anyone else at St Joseph’s. Many a time Maeve had looked proudly at Kitty, saying as she did so: ‘You’re a credit to me, so you are. Now don’t forget to change as soon as you come back from school, ’cos you wouldn’t want to spoil your nice t’ings, would you?’

Kitty had thought she would be able to think more clearly among the scurrying crowds, but now she found the people a distraction. She needed peace and quiet to think out what she should best do, so she turned her footsteps towards Phoenix Park. The one thing that she most dreaded had been threatened. An orphanage! There was an orphanage in the Liberties, probably more than one, and Kitty had seen the children occasionally as they were marched through the streets, and had been horrified by the dullness of their eyes and the air of weary hopelessness which seemed to emanate from them. Yet she could understand how Auntie Cait felt, for without her beloved husband things would be hard indeed. As for returning Kitty to her mother, how could she possibly do so? If her mother had wanted her, she could have sent for her any time, but she had never so much as written a line to her small daughter; Kitty had heard Clodagh and Grainne discussing Sylvie, and Clodagh had made that very remark. Kitty had thought it unimportant at the time, but now she realised its significance. Her mammy did not want her. Maeve occasionally talked about the woman called Sylvie; she had told Kitty that her mother was very beautiful, very elegant, a real lady. But once Auntie Cait had overheard her and had snorted, saying that though Sylvie was indeed pretty as a picture, she was also selfish and idle. Maeve had waited until Auntie Cait had left the room and had then told Kitty, so softly that only she could hear, that this was not true. ‘While your mammy was in Dublin, she took work in a laundry, which was real hard,’ she said earnestly. ‘Auntie Cait didn’t mean what she said. She – she’s a bit upset because money’s a bit short this week.’