Little Girl Lost (28 page)

Nevertheless, Kitty thought that being returned to her mother would be as bad as being sent to an orphanage, and she knew that poor Maeve would do anything to save her from either fate. Maeve was so good! But how could she expect Maeve to do even more for her than she had already done? Maeve was lame and could not hold down a proper job, nor earn proper money.

Hurrying along the pavement, she turned her thoughts to a possible solution of the problem: she could run away! Maeve had passed her love of books on to her adopted child and Kitty read anything she could lay her hands on. Many of the stories told of children, oppressed by adults, who had run away and made everything right by so doing. But where would I run to, Kitty thought, rather pathetically. I certainly don’t mean to go to England, but perhaps I could make my way into the country and find someone who wanted a little girl of their own, someone who could afford to look after me. This seemed so unlikely, however, that she was on the verge of giving up the idea when she saw a familiar figure mooching along the pavement in front of her. Immediately, she began to feel almost cheerful, for it was her old friend, Nick Mooney, and Kitty did not doubt that he would advise her. Joyfully, she called his name.

Nick turned and came back towards her, a grin spreading across his dirty face. ‘Hello, kid. Why you ain’t you in school?’ he asked, as soon as he was near enough. ‘Don’t say little Goody-Two-Shoes is mitching off? Sure, and I never would have thought it!’

Kitty opened her mouth to explain, and felt tears rush to her eyes. She turned her head sharply, ashamed, for it was a well-known fact that Nick despised weakness and she did not wish to annoy him. However, it seemed that he was in a generous mood for he put his arm round her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘What’s up, alanna?’ he said. ‘Why’s you cryin’? Don’t say that old devil of a nun has started beating you again?’

‘N-no, it’s much worse than that,’ Kitty said, her voice breaking. ‘A man came – his name’s Brendan – to tell Auntie Cait that Uncle Pat’s dead.’

‘That’s awful sad,’ Nick said. ‘I liked your Uncle Pat; he were a grand feller. Is there anything I can do? To help your family, I mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ Kitty said. She felt deeply ashamed. She had loved Uncle Pat dearly, as indeed she loved Auntie Cait, but the truth was, her own predicament had chased her sorrow out of her mind. She looked hard at Nick. He was her best friend, and despite being older had always stood by her, sharing her sorrows and joys. Since the day he had met her out of school, after the nun had whipped her hand until it bled, they had been good friends. Kitty often saved some of her carry-out for Nick and he liked nothing better on winter evenings than to go home with her after school and share the high tea Auntie Cait provided. Then they would all sit round the fire in the kitchen doing homework, playing games or telling stories, until it was time for him to make his way home. Kitty knew that quite often, when he got home, Nick would be greeted by a flood of abuse from his short-tempered mother or by physical violence from his drunken father, and then Nick would join the other young vagrants sleeping in the entrance lobby or on the landings of one of the tenement houses. Not much of a life, but still infinitely preferable, Kitty thought, to living in an orphanage, or to being sent far away to a foreign country to live with a woman who did not want you. ‘Nick, can I tell you a big secret? It’s a really, really big secret, so you’ll have to promise not to tell.’

‘Cross me heart an’ hope to die,’ Nick said immediately, drawing one finger across his throat in the time-honoured fashion. ‘Not that you need to ask me, ’cos I’ve never split on a friend, and I don’t mean to begin with you,’ he added, a trifle reproachfully. ‘What’s this big secret then?’

‘I’m going to Phoenix Park . . .’ Kitty began, and was interrupted by a shout of amusement from her companion.

‘Sure and if that’s your big secret, I don’t know why you’re worried I might tell,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m going to Phoenix Park meself!’

Despite her misery, Kitty giggled. She was very glad she had run into Nick, for even though her troubles still loomed large she felt more cheerful, certain that he would help her. ‘Idiot! What I meant to say was that I’d tell you when we reached Phoenix Park,’ she explained. ‘There’s rather a lot to tell, you see, but there’s nice places to sit in the park and not nearly as many folk around.’

Nick acknowledged the truth of this, and neither child spoke again until they were settled on a bench in a little arbour with a stretch of grass before them, and a stout beech hedge at their backs. Kitty plunged into her story halfway through, but Nick stopped her short by clapping a grimy hand over her mouth. ‘Start at the beginning with why you aren’t in school and go on until you reach the bit where you caught me up,’ he said firmly. ‘You say you want me to tell you what you should do; well I can’t do that unless I know the whole story.’

As soon as she began to marshal her thoughts, Kitty realised how clever and sensible her companion was. Simply by going carefully through the events of the day, she grew calmer and was able to explain what she had overheard without starting to cry once more. Indeed, her situation actually seemed less desperate when put into words. She still felt rather ashamed of the fact that Pat’s death had seemed less important than her own plight, but Nick told her that this was perfectly understandable. ‘There’s nothing you can do about your uncle’s death, ’cos it’s happened,’ he assured her. ‘But what you’re afraid of hasn’t happened yet. Are you certain Caitlin meant it? She’s ever so nice, your auntie; surely she wouldn’t just turn you out?’

‘No, of course she wouldn’t,’ Kitty said, rather impatiently. ‘I
told
you, Nick, that she’d either put me in an orphanage, or send me back to my real mammy, who lives far across the sea, in England. The t’ing is, she don’t want me.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Nick asked. ‘You’re a nice little thing, so you are, and you’re useful. Oh, I know you’re still in school, but you could mitch off like I does, so’s you could run her messages, help in the house and that. I agree wit’ you that an orphanage would be real terrible, but if your mammy’s a nice lady . . .’

‘If she were a nice lady, would she have left me here as a burden on me Auntie Cait?’ Kitty asked wildly. ‘She could have took me to live wit’ her any time.’

Nick nodded reluctantly. ‘Right, then you can’t go back to your mammy,’ he agreed. ‘And there’s no way you can go into one of them bleedin’ orphanages. I wish I could say you could come home wit’ me . . .’

‘It’s all right, Nick; just talking to you has cleared me mind something wonderful,’ Kitty said. She stood up, dusting down her skirt automatically as she did so. ‘I’m going to run away. It’s the only thing left to do, isn’t it? Only will you do one thing for me: will you go round to Handkerchief Alley and let Maeve know that I’ve gone and tell her not to worry?’

‘No I will not!’ Nick said, looking horrified. ‘D’you think I’d let you run away all by yourself? A kid of your age? I’m coming wit’ you. It’s not as though I shall be missed,’ he added bitterly. ‘My mam and daddy would give three cheers and help me on my way wit’ a kick on me backside.’ He, too, rose to his feet, and took Kitty’s hand in his. ‘Summer’s coming; we’ll live off the land, help the farmers in the fields, earn ourselves a bed for the night, or snuggle up in a haystack,’ he said enthusiastically, and Kitty saw that his eyes were shining at the prospect. ‘As for your Maeve, you can write her a note, an’ I’ll deliver it.’

Kitty squeezed Nick’s hand. The prospect of running away, alone, had been terrifying, for she knew herself to be ignorant of real life, having lived such a sheltered existence. But Nick had been fending for himself for years; she doubted whether he ate more than one or two meals at home in a week. She knew that he not only cadged, but also stole, and knew, too, that for Nick there was no alternative. If he did not steal, he did not eat, and if one did not eat, one starved. The O’Keefe family knew that it was wrong to steal, but to the Mooney family it was a way of life. Mr Mooney stole from the docks, though no docker ever really considered they were stealing; it was thought to be a perk of the job. Mrs Mooney worked as a cleaner and stole from her employers, and the kids . . . well, they too had to eat. Kitty remembered Uncle Pat, home on furlough, saying that the poorest kids in the Liberties would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. And though he had said it jokingly, Auntie Cait had told him off, reminded him how the war had forced up the cost of living without also raising wages, and Uncle Pat had looked sad and said she had made him eat his own words; a phrase which had had Kitty in fits of laughter, because if there was one thing she did know, it was that words would make a pretty poor meal.

‘You are good, Nick,’ she said gratefully now. ‘I was ever so frightened at the thought of going off by myself, but with you along as well it will be grand, a proper adventure. Only . . . how can I write a note? I’ve got no pencil nor no paper. And we’ve got no money, either.’

Nick laughed. ‘We’ve got to go back into the Liberties to deliver the note, so we’ll nip down Francis Street. The stalls will still be there, so I’ll borrow a pencil and a scrap of paper off one of the stallholders; that’s no problem. And if we hang around till they begin to pack up, we’ll likely get give some bruised fruit, mebbe even a tatty or two.’

Kitty frowned. ‘But Nick, I can’t eat raw potatoes, even if you can. And I don’t want to be cotched by Clodagh or Maeve or someone. I thought
you
was goin’ to deliver the note, not me.’

‘So I am,’ Nick assured her. ‘But I can’t write the note, can I? Your mam . . . I mean your auntie would know it weren’t your writin’ at once, let alone your spelling, ’cos mine’s chronical bad, I’m tellin’ you.’

Kitty giggled. She could well imagine what Nick’s writing must be like, since he could only read with difficulty. ‘All right, I’ll come along to the market and write the note,’ she agreed. ‘Only then I really must hide somewhere, Nick. You know how it is – whenever you want not to be seen, you run slap bang into your best friend, your worst enemy, and the feller next door. I’ve heard Maeve say so, many a time, when she’s in a hurry to get the messages done.’

Nick looked at her measuringly. ‘You’re difficult to miss with them clean clothes an’ all, and your hair tidily plaited,’ he agreed. ‘We’ll have to change all that afore we take to the road, else we’ll be picked up within five minutes.’

Kitty looked rueful. ‘I know what you mean about me clothes. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been grateful to Maeve for the trouble she takes and the money she spends seein’ I look respectable, but it makes me stand out and that’s the last thing anyone wants really, not just when you’re running away, but in school even, or when you’re playing out.’

‘Yes,’ Nick said, giving her his broadest grin. ‘Only wit’ me it’s the opposite way round, so it is. I get picked out ’cos I’m the filthiest kid for miles. Still, there you are, it’s something we can both of us change. I’ve not bothered much about me appearance ’cos it hasn’t mattered up to now, but if we really are goin’ to run off we want to blend in wit’ each other, so I’ll clean up a bit and you can get muckier.’

‘All right,’ Kitty said. Like most children, she had no objection to a bit of dirt, but she did not fully understand how her pal could clean himself up. He was wearing a ragged jumper full of holes and an equally ragged pair of trousers. Kitty did not see how such garments could possibly be improved and said so, causing her companion to give a snort of amusement.

‘You’re a dafty, so you are,’ Nick said derisively. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of washing lines?’

Now it was Kitty’s turn to snort. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’d look ever so smart dressed in a washing line,’ she retorted. ‘What’ll you do wit’ it? If you take off all your clothes and put the washing line on, do you think you’ll be like that king in the story books, the one who bought invisible clothes off of the swindler, and walked down the street in his birthday suit?’

Nick gave a growl of pretended annoyance and leapt on her, and for a moment the two of them rolled around on the grass, giggling and exchanging half-hearted punches. Then Nick fended her off, got to his feet and pulled her to hers. He was still grinning. ‘Trust a girl to miss the whole point,’ he commented. ‘Washing lines have clothes pegged to ’em? Right?’

‘Right, I suppose,’ Kitty said. She was brushing twigs and dust off her skirt, thinking as she did so that she already looked a good deal less tidy than she had done five minutes earlier. ‘Wet clothes, I suppose you mean?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Nick said. ‘But it don’t matter if they’re wet or dry, really. The thing is, there’s always the odd careless housewife about what forgets to take her washin’ in. When I feel the need for a change of clobber I goes out in the dusk, quiet like, walkin’ round the tenement blocks, till I find a line wit’ washin’ on it. I don’t want good stuff, nor nothin’ that stands out, I just find a decent enough shirt and trousers, and an old jumper, with only the odd hole.’

Kitty looked thoughtfully at her companion. This was definitely stealing and would, she knew, have been frowned upon by both Maeve and Caitlin, especially since they had suffered losses from their own clothes line once or twice. By now, they were walking along the crowded pavements once more, so she slid a cautious look around her before saying softly, in Nick’s ear: ‘But the tenements is full of poor folk what can’t afford to lose such t’ings. An’ you say you take clothes wit’ holes, so that’s robbin’ the poor, isn’t it?’

Nick pulled a face. ‘I never take all me clobber off the same line if I can help it,’ he said righteously. ‘So put that in your pipe an’ smoke it, Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, and if we’re goin’ on the road together, you’ll soon have to learn that folk don’t give much away to a couple o’ hungry kids. Of course, we’ll earn whenever we can, but often it’ll be take what isn’t yours or go hungry.’ He pulled Kitty to a halt and swung her round to face him, looking extremely serious. ‘Do you understand that, Kitty? Once we’re on the road, it’s every man for hisself, and if you don’t like it, say so now an’ go home to your Maeve wit’ no harm done.’