Little Girl Lost (6 page)

The entire congregation left the church in an orderly manner and followed the six black horses, with their nodding plumes, across the city to Anfield Cemetery. Brendan was devoutly thankful that the heavy rain of the previous night had given way to a clear blue sky, though the wind was brisk, making him glad to turn up his coat collar.

The grave was already dug and Brendan joined the others as the priest began to intone the words of committal. He was standing directly opposite Len, and as Mr Dugdale moved forward and threw a handful of earth on to the coffin Brendan was astonished to see large tears begin to run down Len’s podgy cheeks. When his father turned to him, however, he knuckled his eyes briskly, then bent to pick up some earth and lobbed it gently down on to the coffin. After that, most of those present followed suit, including Sylvie, and when she stepped forward Len gave a strangled sob and tried to join her. The warders were having none of it. They had stood unobtrusively enough beside him, but when he turned towards his wife both men snatched simultaneously at his wrists and the policeman behind him clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward to mutter something into his ear. It seemed to bring Len to a consciousness of his surroundings for he sighed gustily and bent his head, and presently the gravedigger seized his spade and began to shovel the earth briskly back into place. This was the signal for the landlord of the Ferryman to invite the assembled company back to the pub where refreshments awaited them.

Immediately people looked more cheerful, and the procession leaving the churchyard strode out briskly, eager to be back within doors out of the knifing wind.

Brendan saw Sylvie, who had been surrounded by her family, drop behind them for a moment as the crowd manoeuvred its way out of the cemetery, and seized the opportunity to have a quick word. He reached her side and bent his head, keeping his voice down and not so much as glancing at his companion. ‘You all right? I called in to have a look at the rota in the nick on my way here and it looks like my next day off will be in three days’ time. I’ve written to Caitlin asking her to reply as soon as possible.’

Sylvie had glanced up at him as they drew level but she was quick-witted enough now to follow his lead and look straight ahead. ‘Things have changed,’ she said softly. ‘My mam knows and I’m hoping she’ll help us. So mebbe it’ll be easier to gerraway. We’d best talk, though . . . you’re free on Friday? I’ll be doin’ Ma-in-law’s messages and that’ll include visitin’ Charlotte Street for fish. I reckon I’ll be there about ten in the morning; how would that be?’

Brendan hesitated. The market was a pretty public spot, especially on a Friday, but then sometimes it was easier to be missed amongst a crowd. And if either of them saw someone they knew whilst they were together, they could simply move apart. After all, the pub in which she lived was on his beat; it would be natural for them to exchange a few words. He said as much and Sylvie gave a quick little nod. ‘Right, and if something happens, and I can’t get to the market, then we’d best meet outside Lewis’s after work,’ she said.

Brendan was about to reply when they reached the gates and he saw that the Dugdales were waiting for their daughter-in-law. Hastily, he dropped back again, walking so slowly that he was soon overtaken by the last of the mourners. He saw Len and the warders approach the family group. Len spoke, his father answered, and the big woman he knew to be Mrs Dugdale surged forward as though she were about to embrace her son, but her husband grabbed her arm, restraining her, and the warders began to lead Len towards a cab which was standing by the kerb. They bundled him into it, and as Brendan emerged from the cemetery Len leaned out of the window. ‘Not long now, queen,’ he shouted, clearly addressing his wife who stood, hands clasped, gazing towards him. ‘Only another five months an’ I’ll be home. Oh, Gawd, I can’t wait!’

He might have said something else but was jerked back into the cab. The driver whipped up his horses and the last Brendan saw of Len Dugdale was one beefy hand, raised in farewell, as the cab disappeared.

Sylvie abandoned her parents-in-law as soon as she could. Fortunately, they were deep in conversation with relatives, some of whom had come a considerable distance to attend the funeral. Folk had been genuinely fond of the old man, but he had been ninety-two and had been bedridden for the past three years. Now that the serious business of burying him was over they could talk and even laugh once more, so it was an easy matter for Sylvie to jerk at Ma Dugdale’s sleeve and tell her that she intended to hurry ahead. ‘I know Mam will be setting out the food and brewing tea,’ she hissed into her mother-in-law’s ear, ‘but there’s even more people comin’ back than we expected, so I reckon we’ll need at least another couple of loaves of sandwiches, an’ mebbe a few more cakes and scones. I can pick them up from Sample’s if I hurry, and still be back in time to give a hand before most folk arrive.’

‘You do that. You ain’t a bad girl, even though you scarce said a word to our Len,’ Mrs Dugdale said grudgingly. ‘Poor lad, he were longing to hear your voice, but you didn’t go near nor by.’

‘Nor did you; we were told not to try to approach him,’ Sylvie said smartly, stung by the injustice of the remark. ‘I’ll be off then. There’s Becky, too. She’ll be under Mam’s feet I don’t doubt, though she’ll be doin’ her best to help.’ This time she did not give her mother-in-law a chance to reply but turned and began to wriggle through the crowd. She was lucky enough to see a tram going in the right direction and jumped aboard, alighting straight outside the bakery she had intended to visit, so that she was back at the Ferryman and slicing bread well before the funeral party arrived.

Becky was delighted to see her and was full of her own helpfulness, though she plucked, disgustedly, at her droopy black dress. ‘Grandma Dugdale said it were made for Cousin Bertha when she were my age and she were taller and fatter than me, an’ I want to change now,’ she said as soon as she saw her mother. ‘Great-grandpa called me his pretty little rose when I wore me pink cotton; he wouldn’t want me lookin’ plain an’ ugly in this nasty dress.’

‘Black shows you’re sad because Great-grandpa isn’t here any more,’ Sylvie said, slicing bread like a machine.

‘I can be just as sad in pink,’ Becky said obstinately. ‘I can be sadder, ’cos I’ll be thinkin’ about Great-grandpa an’ missin’ him instead of thinkin’ about me dress. How can I be a little ray of sunshine in this horrible old thing? Oh, did you see me daddy, Mammy? Did he give you a present for me? Is he comin’ back to the house? Grandma Dugdale said as how he were bound to bring me a present now he’s workin’ away, though she thought he would be too busy to come back to the Ferryman. I hope he brings me a leprechaun, ’cos he’s in Ireland, ain’t he? An’ I’d like a little green feller of me own.’

Sylvie laughed and rumpled her daughter’s flaxen hair. She and Mrs Dugdale had bought a tiny doll which they meant to present to Becky as a gift from her father. ‘Yes, I did see Daddy and he sent you a big kiss and – and a little parcel, which he gave to Grandma Dugdale. Now be a good girl and don’t ask Grandma to give it to you until all the guests have gone, because it’s bad manners.’

Becky began to ask why it was bad manners, but at that point the door flew open and Mr and Mrs Dugdale, closely followed by their guests, began to stream into the big room behind the bar. Mrs Davies, flushed and beaming, grabbed the kettle off the stove and began to pour hot water into the urn which stood ready, and very soon they were all too busy to answer questions.

It was past four o’clock in the afternoon before the last guests departed, and Sylvie carried Becky, clutching her father’s present, up to their room to change her out of the dreadful black dress and pop her into her cot for a much-needed snooze. It had all gone off rather well, Sylvie told herself, slipping out of her own dress and lying down on her bed. She would snatch a couple of hours’ sleep herself before going off to work. For a little while she lay there looking forward to her meeting with Constable O’Hara, but soon weariness overcame her and she fell asleep.

Chapter Three

‘Mr O’Hara! You told me last night to wake you at seven, so I’m doing it even though, so far as I can recall, this is your day off – or have they changed it again?’ The voice echoing hollowly through the door was his landlady’s and Brendan rolled over and groaned before shouting a stentorian reply.

‘Thanks, Mrs Taggart. You’ve a wonderful memory, so you have, for ’tis still my day off, though almost every shift I’ve worked lately has been messed about. But I’m going out today to see my uncle so I need to be up and about early.’

‘If you’re respectable, there’s a cup o’ tea in me hand which I’ll bring in so’s you can drink it afore coming down to breakfast,’ Mrs Taggart said.

Brendan assured her that he was extremely respectable and she came into the room, a small neat woman, her grey hair braided into a long plait and wound like a crown on top of her head. Brendan, accepting the tea with many thanks, thought how lucky he was to have found such a comfortable billet. Policemen had to be careful when they chose lodgings, or they might find themselves living in what amounted to a den of thieves, might even find themselves prosecuting the person in whose house they lodged. That was why the authorities always vetted one’s digs before allowing one to move in, though this had not been necessary in Mrs Taggart’s case. She was the widow of a police sergeant and had been letting her rooms to policemen ever since her husband’s death, ten years earlier.

Because of her knowledge of the force, she was understanding of the lives her lodgers led, knowing very well that they were not at fault when they did not come in for meals, worked double shifts, or were simply forced to go on duty instead of taking the only day off they had been allocated, perhaps for as long as three weeks.

However, there had been no mention of his working today when he had signed off from his night shift, so Brendan was determined to get out of the house and stay out; if the force was unable to contact him he might actually get his day off for once.

By half-past eight he was making his way towards the market. He knew Sylvie could not possibly arrive at such an early hour, but he still felt he would be safer away from the house. He was wearing civvies, of course, and not the ones which the police force recommended either. They told the men that their off-duty wear should be blue suits and bowler hats, but Brendan knew there was no actual rule which insisted on this, so today he was clad in a navy blue seaman’s jersey, and a pair of heavy-duty denim trousers, tucked into short rubber boots. On his head he wore a woollen hat, for the December day was cold, and despite his height and the way he carried himself he was sure that he did not look like a policeman. He realised how right he was when Sylvie failed to recognise him, though she had known he would not be in uniform. Her incurious eyes looked him over without recognition and it was not until he hissed her name that she looked again, and her slow, enchanting smile broke out.

‘Brendan!’ she said joyfully. ‘Oh, I was beginning to wonder whether you’d forgotten we were meeting here. I’ve bought my fish and the rest of my messages. Do you know Dorothy’s Dining Rooms? They deal mostly with market traders so I think we could pop in there and have a quiet talk over a cup of tea.’

‘Yes, I know it. I’ve been in there once or twice; they do a good special for ninepence.’

Presently, they found themselves a quiet corner table and ordered tea from an elderly waitress, who looked as though her feet were killing her. Sylvie was wearing the long black coat, black stockings and black boots in which Brendan had first seen her, but she had added a black head square which she wore pulled forward so that it half hid the upper part of her face, as well as completely covering her hair. Brendan thought it extremely unlikely that anyone would recognise either of them; folk looked at policemen’s uniforms rather than their faces and, for economic reasons, nine out of ten married women in the city habitually wore black.

The tea arrived, and as soon as the waitress had departed Sylvie began to speak. ‘My mam knows I’m expecting a baby. It wasn’t so much my shape as – as because she guessed. She watched me wash the morning after I’d fallen in the Mersey and instead of pulling my nightdress off and getting on with it I – I sort of dabbled around. Then she asked me outright. I tried lying but me heart wasn’t in it, and anyway it’s a good job she does know, because she’ll help me, though only on certain conditions.’

‘What conditions?’ Brendan asked suspiciously. He wondered whether the old lady might imagine Sylvie’s lover to be a rich man who could hand over money in exchange for her silence, but Sylvie soon disabused him on that score.

‘She agrees that I must leave Becky behind, though I still hate the thought of doing that. But she says it wouldn’t be right to involve the child in deceit, and besides you couldn’t expect her not to mention that she had a baby brother or sister when we came back to Liverpool, which would put the fat in the fire and no mistake.’

Brendan laughed. ‘You’re right there,’ he agreed. ‘Any more conditions? From what you’ve told me, your mother is a sensible woman with her head screwed on the right way, and it’s grand that she means to help us. Fire ahead, then.’

‘She says I must promise her faithfully that I’ll get the baby adopted and come back to Liverpool just as soon as I can. She says if I went off and never came back it would put her and Bertie in a horrible position. But there’s no fear of that – they know I’d never desert Becky.’

‘Fair enough. What reason are you going to give for leaving the Ferryman?’ Brendan asked. ‘Did your mam help with that, too?’

‘Oh yes, that’s the best of all,’ Sylvie said, dimpling at him. ‘I would never have thought of it, but she says we must say that some relatives of ours who went to America years and years ago have come to England to meet various members of our family. She means to pretend to entertain them, and to discover that they need someone to look after their small child when they go over to Ireland to visit the rest of the family. Mam’s pa, my grandfather, came from Donegal, you know. She’ll say they’re rich and will pay well, and Len’s ma and pa will agree to my going because I’ll be earning money so’s Len an’ me can have our own place when he comes out of clink. Me mam’s worked for Mrs Dugdale for years and years, and though the old girl might not believe me, she trusts my mam. We won’t tell Bertie, or anyone else, that there are really no American relatives and I do think it’s a brilliant idea, don’t you? And of course we’ll say that the Americans won’t employ someone with a kid of their own, because they want me to concentrate on their little one and not worry about mine.’