Little Girl Lost (37 page)

‘Right,’ Kitty said, her brow clearing. ‘But will we be able to stop later, Nick, and make a meal? I’m tellin’ you, me belly’s flappin’ against me backbone an’ me stomach thinks me throat’s been cut.’

This made Nick laugh, since they were expressions he commonly used himself but had never heard before from Kitty’s lips. ‘We’ll stop as soon as we’ve put enough distance between us and this clearing,’ he promised. ‘For one thing, the old ’un’s took one hell of a beating and when she comes round she’ll be wantin’ her dinner. All right? If so, I’ll start harnessing the horse.’

Kitty glanced round the caravan. So neatly was it arranged that it was easy to see movement would not bring anything tumbling down, so she nodded. ‘Yes, right you are, Nick; only can you drive a horse? I know you say you’ve been on the hoof on and off for years, but surely no one’s ever let you drive a caravan before?’

Nick, already descending the steps, looked back. ‘As it happens, I shan’t be driving for a bit ’cos mostly the horses is led, but I joined up with a band of tinkers a year back – grand fellers they were, up to every rig – and though I never drove a cart meself, I often sat up by the driver and it’s dead easy.’ Kitty looked at him sceptically and his grin broadened. ‘Well, it might not be so easy wit’ a young horse or a mettlesome one,’ he admitted, ‘but wit’ a placid old feller like the piebald, I reckon I can’t go far wrong.’

With that, he disappeared, and Kitty turned back into the caravan. She looked speculatively at her patient. She supposed that the best way of ensuring that the old woman stayed on the bench would be to stand against it, or even to sit on the edge, but when she did so her nose wrinkled with disgust, for the old woman stank. She looked around for something to tie round the bench seat, then glanced back and stared. Was it her imagination or had the old woman’s eyes actually closed as she turned? She was pretty sure they had, and if so, she realised with a stab of dismay, the woman had probably overheard the conversation between herself and Nick. Desperately, she tried to remember just what they had said. She was pretty sure they must have mentioned that the woman’s companion – if you could call him that – was dead. Would the woman think they had killed him? But Kitty could not imagine that she would object; after all, the man had beaten her mercilessly with a cudgel, ignoring the fact that his victim was old and frail. Bones grew brittle with age, Kitty knew; the old woman would be lucky if she had escaped with only bruises and abrasions. She comforted herself with the thought that the attacker had intended murder, so his victim ought to be grateful she was still alive and not quibble over the unfortunate accident that had ended his days, which had been no fault of theirs.

There was a slight jolt as Nick backed the horse between the shafts and Kitty, keeping her eyes on the woman, saw her wince. Presently, as the cart began to rock a little, she groaned and opened her eyes again. Kitty went to her at once, taking hold of the woman’s filthy, almost skeletal hand, and smoothing the hair back from her swarthy brow. ‘It’s all right,’ she said gently. ‘We’re not stealing your cart or anything – me pal’s movin’ it because . . . because it seemed best to move on. We don’t know how bad you’re hurt but mebbe we ought to find you a hospital?’

The old woman began to shake her head, then muttered something in a strange tongue which Kitty assumed must be Romany. ‘Do you know how bad you’re hurt?’ she asked timidly. ‘And I’m afraid you’ll have to speak English, ’cos that’s the only language me and Nick understand.’

The old woman’s dark eyes fixed themselves on Kitty’s face. ‘I’ve broke me arm,’ she said in a tiny whisper. ‘And I t’ink me collarbone’s gone. I heared it snap. There’s a couple o’ ribs what took a cruel blow too, but no hospital, nor no doctor; me nephew will see to me once he’s over his temper.’

Kitty stared at her incredulously. Assuming that it was her nephew who had inflicted her hurts, surely she could not expect him to doctor those same injuries? But then she looked more closely at the old woman, and though the eyelids immediately descended, Kitty thought she could read the answer in her eyes. The old woman was no fool; she knew her nephew was dead, must have known it was he who beat her up, yet for some reason that Kitty could not fathom she was pretending ignorance. What would be the best thing to do? Join the old lady in her strange game of pretence, or tell her the truth and see how she reacted? But then the cart began to lurch and bump as the horse circled the clearing, heading for the cart track, and the old woman gave a cry of pain and reached out to grab the table. Immediately, Kitty sat down in the curve of the woman’s body and put her own arm round the skinny shoulders. ‘Keep still!’ she commanded. ‘I must tell you right now that your nephew isn’t here and won’t be able to help us to nurse you back to health. What was his name?’

‘Was?
Was?
’ the old woman said, confirming Kitty’s suspicion that she knew more than she was prepared to let on. ‘Why for does you say “was”, darter?’

Kitty stared; clearly the old woman had not been fooled by her cropped hair, or her trousers, since she had known her at once for a girl. But it did not really matter so long as Kitty impressed upon her, later, that her sex must not become common knowledge. She looked again at the old woman’s face. ‘I believe you know very well that your nephew is dead,’ she said bluntly. ‘Indeed, if it hadn’t been for Nick and meself you’d be the dead one, because his next blow would have crushed your skull like a walnut. Why was he beating you? What had you done?’ And then, as the old woman closed her lips tightly: ‘I think you’d better tell me, because if you don’t, then I shan’t feel able to stay with you in the cart and look after you until you’re well again.’

There was a long, long pause. Kitty, who was beginning to realise that the old woman was as wily as a fox, thought that she was considering how much to tell, if anything. But suddenly she seemed to make up her mind. She had shut her eyes, as well as her mouth, probably realising that both could give her away, but now she opened them, though she did not look directly at Kitty, but kept her gaze fixed on her own bony fingers. ‘Me nephew’s name were Jacky Smith and he were beatin’ me because I found out something about him,’ she said slowly. ‘I didn’t mean to let on I knew; in fact if he hadn’t raised the cudgel to me and broke me arm with the first blow, I might ha’ kept my mouth shut.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Kitty said, thoroughly bewildered. ‘If he didn’t know you knew what you knew . . .’

The cart jolted again and the old woman cried out and held out her arm. Kitty could see that it looked strange, though the bone, she thanked God, had not broken through the skin. ‘You’ll find a little plank what I use to prop the door open in hot weather,’ the old woman said faintly. ‘Lay me arm on it, straighten it as best you can, and tie it in place; tie it tight so it can’t move. Then I’ll tell you the rest.’

Kitty found the plank easily but did not feel able to touch the painful-looking arm herself. Luckily, after no more than a couple of minutes, the jolting and rocking stopped and Nick opened the caravan door. ‘I’m going to walk back and get rid of any wheel marks . . .’ he was beginning, but Kitty interrupted him.

‘Nick, can you tie this arm to that plank? I’m so afraid of hurting her that I dare not touch it, but you know much more than I do and you’re older. I’ll go and wipe out the wheel marks if you’ll do the arm.’

Nick came right into the caravan and looked at the pitifully scrawny limb held out for his inspection. ‘Fetch me some strips of material,’ he said brusquely, and Kitty saw that he was looking rather pale. ‘Tear up a bit of old sheet, or a petticoat, or something. Then we’ll both go and wipe out the wheel marks; it’ll be safer.’

Kitty looked wildly round her, then at the old woman. ‘Are you wearing a petticoat?’ she asked. ‘If so, I’ll help you out of it. It’s all right, Nick – she knows I’m a girl.’

The old woman made a scornful sound, and pointed to the bench opposite the one upon which she lay. ‘Lift the top off that seat,’ she said faintly, and sure enough, when Kitty did so, she found a squirrel’s horde of material scraps. Soon enough, the old woman’s arm was bandaged tightly to the board, but she would not let Nick leave the cart until they had had the explanation which the old woman had promised.

It seemed that Jacky had invited the old woman to share the caravan with him, cooking, cleaning and doing other housewifely tasks, because, he told her, his common-law wife, Miranda, had left him. The old woman had been happy to agree, since her own husband was long dead and her children were scattered. She had been living in a tent, too cold in winter and too hot in summer, so the prospect of sharing the cart, which she knew Jacky’s wife had kept beautifully, was irresistible, and she had agreed.

At first, all had gone well, but then Jacky had begun to complain that her cooking was not to his taste. He had hit her several times, and then one night, returning to the cart very drunk indeed, he had actually boasted that he had killed Miranda when he had seen her whispering to a young farm worker, because he had been sure she was telling the man that Jacky was a brute and that she meant to run away from him.

The old woman had been horrified, for it had explained many things that had worried her, but the next day it was soon clear that Jacky had completely forgotten his confidences of the night before. She had thought herself safe, had actually believed that she now knew something which she could hold over his head, but this had not been the case at all. Jacky had used his fists on her several times and had abruptly decreed, the next time he came home drunk, that he did not mean to let her continue to sleep in the caravan, but had decided that she must bed down beneath it ‘like the dogs’. She had pleaded with him to remember her old bones but he had simply laughed, and in the course of a night crouched beneath the caravan whilst the rain beat relentlessly down, and the wind constantly blew the wetness in upon her, she had decided to rebel. By the time she had emerged, every bone ached and she was as cold as if it had been midwinter.

Jacky had been in a reasonable mood until she said, flatly, that she did not mean to cook his meals, do his washing, or fetch and carry for him, until she was allowed to sleep in the cart once more. He had punched her in the face, knocking her to the ground, and as he raised his cudgel she had played what she thought of as her trump card. ‘Don’t think you can kill me as you killed Miranda,’ she had shrieked, staggering to her feet. ‘Ho, yes, you telled me all about it your own self, you wicked bugger, and so I’ll tell Miranda’s fambly an’ anyone else what’s interested.’

She had seen his look of astonishment and chagrin turn to red rage, had realised her mistake and tried to run, but it had been useless. He had knocked her down and begun to beat her with his cudgel, exclaiming as he did so that he would see she never told anybody anything.

After that, she remembered nothing until she came to herself inside the cart, with her poor head throbbing and her whole body afire.

Kitty and Nick listened to the story in respectful silence, but when it was over Nick spoke out firmly. ‘We saved your life, missus,’ he said. ‘Jacky’s cudgel was about to descend on your head when Kitty and me grabbed it and stopped the blow short. Jacky were a strong man and we couldn’t wrest the cudgel away from him, so when he jerked it back sudden like we had to let go. He weren’t expectin’ it so he fell straight backwards and broke his neck agin the nearest tree. And I hope you aren’t going to pretend to be sorry,’ he added, ‘because if so, you’re mad as bedlam and ought to be shut up.’

The old woman whimpered. ‘I ain’t sorry, ’cos another night spent under the cart would probably have kilt me wit’out a doubt,’ she said. ‘What’s youse names? I’s Granny Trotter; Trotty they call me, or Granny, dependin’.’

‘Nice to meet you, Granny,’ Nick said, and Kitty echoed the sentiment. ‘We’re willin’ to take care of you until you’re well but you’ll have to give us your word you won’t never mention what happened to Jacky. If anyone asks, you’re to say he went off to get drink and didn’t return. So after hangin’ around for three days, you set off to find the rest of your band.’

The old woman nodded wearily, but Kitty doubted whether she had taken it all in, for the bruises were beginning to come out and there was a very large lump on Granny Trotter’s forehead. ‘Will you be all right if we leave you for half an hour, Granny?’ she asked. ‘I want to help Nick hide all traces of the caravan back in the clearing. I’d like to make a meal but Nick says we must move on for a few miles before stopping again.’

The old lady gave what might have been a tiny nod. Kitty decided to take it as that, anyway, and the two children left the cart. The horse was still between the shafts but Nick had tied the reins to a low bush, enabling the animal to graze, provided he kept within ten feet of his tethering place. Returning to the clearing seemed strange and Kitty, glancing at Jacky, realised that she was afraid he might suddenly jump to his feet and pursue them. Like all children reared in the Liberties, she had had her fill of ghost stories, and knew that if the banshee threw her comb at you you’d die within twenty-four hours, whereas if the wailing lady who walked the walls in Gardiner Street pointed a long scarlet finger at you, then you’d die within six months. She had always been told that such tales were invented to keep children in their place, and had never given much credence to the stories. But Jacky was real all right, and he looked so natural lying there, so strong and malevolent! If he were to jump to his feet . . .

Fortunately, he did no such thing, and very soon Kitty was so busy helping Nick to eradicate all signs of their presence, that she almost forgot the still figure on the ground. Because of the rain, and the fact that the cart had stood in the clearing for at least twelve hours, if not more, they might have had difficulty filling in the ruts it had left save that Nick suddenly remembered something. He smote his forehead with his hand, exclaiming: ‘Sure and what a fool I am, for didn’t I know that tinkers store such things as spades, turf-cutting tools, scythes and even buckets underneath their caravans; I’ll bet Jacky and old Ma Trotter did the same. Because of last night’s rain the mud’s really thick, but if I can find a spade we’ll be able to get rid of all the signs that the cart was ever here.’