Little Girl Lost (7 page)

‘Right,’ Brendan said, digesting this. Like Mrs Davies, he could see no alternative to Sylvie’s leaving Becky behind, especially since she had made it plain that her in-laws would accept the loss of herself for six months or so with equanimity, but would never consent to losing their granddaughter for so much as six days, let alone longer. So now he smiled encouragingly into the small face opposite his own. ‘’Tis hard on you to be without your little girl for so long, but ’tis for the best, I’m sure of it,’ he said consolingly. ‘Besides, you’ll have Caitlin’s kids, and the new baby, until you can find a grand new home for it. Then you can come back to Liverpool wit’out a stain on your character. Why, once Len is away from his parents’ place, he may become easier to live with; it does happen, I’m told.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Sylvie said doubtfully. ‘But Brendan, I probably won’t be earning a good wage, unless your cousin can find me a job.’

Brendan did not tell her that he intended to send Caitlin money each month, but he had already told his cousin that he would do so. Instead he said that when Sylvie got back to Liverpool she should pretend that she had been robbed, though he personally was sure that she would get work in Dublin.

‘An’ me cousin won’t be after you for money ’cos she and Pat are pretty comfortable,’ he said, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He had told Caitlin that the money was to be a secret between them. ‘An’ now, alanna, I think you must write to Robbie again, explain the situation and say you’ll be in desperate need of money for the next six months. Once he knows there’s to be no scandal, I’m sure he’ll help. After all, it is in his interest to do so.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Sylvie said thoughtfully. ‘The Wentworths live next door to me mam and if it were common knowledge what Robbie had done he’d be afraid to show his face at home, and I don’t think he’d like to be thought badly of. What’s more, he an’ Len were thick as thieves – good pals, I mean – when they were in school, before Robbie went to sea and Len married me, and I guess Robbie wouldn’t want his old pal to know how he had behaved.’ She turned glowing eyes to Brendan. ‘I’m sure he will help,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And I think you’re the cleverest man, as well as the kindest, that I’ve ever met. I’ll write to Robbie as soon as I get home. Ma-in-law will think I’m doing Christmas cards.’

‘It’s great your mam’s going to help you. We seem to have sorted out most of your problems,’ Brendan said comfortably, and stood up. ‘You must write to your mam often while you are away, and I’d be glad of a line now and then.’

Sylvie rose to her feet as he spoke and picked up her marketing bags whilst he went over to the desk and paid the bill. When he returned he gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure Wentworth will be in touch before Christmas,’ he said, taking the heavier of the marketing bags from her. ‘I imagine that you will tell him to write to your mam’s address. Don’t forget, I lodge at 48 Hunter Street, but I’d rather you didn’t call there unless you’re in desperate need. And as soon as I hear from Caitlin, I’ll come down to Lewis’s; you’re usually free about nine in the evening, aren’t you?’

Almost a month later, Sylvie boarded the Dublin packet, in a snowstorm, bound for Caitlin’s home. She had the address in her bulging portmanteau and her heart was high, for she had escaped without anyone discovering her secret. She was beginning to notice a thickening of her waist, which terrified her, and was grateful that very soon now she would be with folk who knew of her condition and understood her plight.

Soon after Christmas, Mrs Davies had asked for a couple of hours off so that she might meet the SS
Arabic
. ‘Do you remember me Auntie Effie and her husband, Tom, what went to the States, oh, a good twenty years back?’ she had asked her employer. ‘Well, me aunt died last year but she were very keen for her daughter to come back to England and meet some of her relatives. The daughter’s a married woman now with a little boy of two and a new baby. They won’t be in Liverpool long because, as you know, my family hail from Donegal, but I’ve promised to get them into a decent hotel – they’re well off, it seems; quite rich in fact – so I think I ought to meet their ship.’

Mr and Mrs Dugdale had accepted this without question. It was by no means unusual for relatives to want to visit ‘the old country’, and when this happened the family still in England, and Ireland, were eager to show friendship towards these strangers who had once been close. So Mrs Davies had gone off on her invented errand and when she had mentioned casually, after a couple of days, that the O’Keefes were looking for a nanny before they went to Ireland, someone reliable who would look after their youngsters whilst they were travelling around, Mrs Dugdale had actually suggested that Sylvie should apply for the job. ‘And I could look after Becky,’ she had said eagerly. ‘You say they’re payin’ well ’n’ all found. Our Sylvie could save a lot an’ it ’ud be wonderful for Len to come out o’ clink an’ find a nice little sum waitin’ for him. I ain’t sayin’ I approve of them movin’ out because it’s right handy havin’ the pair of ’em on the spot, but me and Mr Dugdale would be willin’ to turn the attic floor into a self-contained flat – that means with its own kitchen an’ bathroom – if we could use Sylvie’s earnings to mek the changes.’

Naturally, Mrs Davies had agreed enthusiastically, and that evening she had collared Sylvie in order to tell her what had transpired. ‘But I never knew the old saying were so true before – you know the one:
Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive
,’ she had moaned. ‘Where we are to lay our hands on a large sum of money by the time you get back, God only knows!’

Sylvie, however, had brushed this aside. ‘Brendan says I may be able to work, so with luck I’ll have some money,’ she had pointed out. ‘As for the rest, I shall say I were robbed.’

So the whole charade had been played out to its obvious conclusion: Sylvie had applied for the fictitious job and been appointed, and had given in her notice at Lewis’s. Brendan had booked her passage aboard the packet, waving aside her half-hearted offer of payment. Inevitably, there were times, as Sylvie thought about leaving the Ferryman and journeying to Ireland, when her heart sank into her boots and she truly thought she could never do it. Leaving my beloved Becky will break my heart, she told herself. But common sense reminded her of what she stood to lose should she remain in Liverpool. The Dugdales would turn her out, probably make sure that she never saw Becky again, and that would be far, far worse than an absence of a mere six months. So she squared her shoulders and continued with the scheme.

Mrs Dugdale had professed herself eager to meet the O’Keefes, but Sylvie had vetoed her mother-in-law’s suggestion that she should bring Becky to the Pier Head to see her off.

‘I’ve not actually told the O’Keefes that Becky’s only three, because I don’t want them to think me a heartless mother,’ she had explained, with her most guileless look. ‘But you come, Ma; it’ll be nice to see a familiar face as the ship leaves the shore.’

Mrs Dudgale had actually given Sylvie a kiss as they had said their farewells in the Ferryman’s kitchen. ‘You’re a good gel to want to make a bit of money for our poor lad,’ she had said warmly. ‘And you don’t have to tell me how much you’ll miss Becky, because you’ve always been a grand little mother to her.’ She had hesitated, then added: ‘And I won’t deny you’ve been grand to Mr Dugdale an’ meself; a real help, norrabit reproachful over havin’ to work behind the bar when you ain’t at Lewis’s.’

Sylvie was thinking of this praise as she boarded the ferry. It would make it easier to return to Liverpool, once the baby was born, knowing that Mrs Dugdale would welcome her gladly and not resent her reappearance. Her mother had advised her to pick out a nice family party as soon as she was aboard and attach herself to them, and though this seemed a trifle unnecessary Sylvie did as she was bid. She was presently very glad she had, for as the gangway was removed, and the ship’s siren sounded, she saw her father-in-law on the quayside. He was waving a large red and white checked handkerchief and Sylvie bent down and picked up the child of the young couple to whom she had been talking. ‘Wave to my dear old dad, little ’un,’ she commanded. ‘See him down there? He’s the feller with the red and white hanky.’

‘I see him,’ the little imp exclaimed, putting a plump arm round Sylvie’s neck. ‘He’s gorra big red nose, hasn’t he?’

‘That’s because he’s the landlord of a pub, and bends his elbow too much and gets squiffy,’ Sylvie said untruthfully, and regretted it as the child announced, in ringing tones: ‘Squiffy? Does I get squiffy? Does my daddy get squiffy?’

Sylvie glanced apprehensively at the child’s parents, but they were both laughing. ‘No, Daddy doesn’t know the meaning of the word,’ the young mother said, smiling at Sylvie. ‘And now let’s go below and have a nice cup of tea before we meet the waves of the Irish Sea, because once we get out there I’m sure drinking tea will be the last thing on our minds.’

Brendan was unable to see Sylvie off on the ferry, because at the very moment the ship sailed he had been on parade at the Rose Hill police station. The constables were standing to attention whilst the sergeant marched up and down the line, demanding to see each man’s accoutrements, which meant that one produced one’s truncheon, handcuffs, whistle, and occurrence book and pencil. When the sergeant had closely examined all these objects, he went up and down the line again, impatiently tweaking at tunics and criticising the shine on the large heavy-issue boots which every man had to buy from his own wages. By the time he released them to go to their beats, Brendan thought morosely that the Irish ferry would be clear of the estuary and her bows would be butting at the grey waters of the Irish Sea. Not that it was anyone’s fault, exactly; the sergeant was quite a decent bloke but Brendan remembered the old adage
Never explain, never complain
, which he knew to be all too true, so had said nothing about his wish to wave the Irish ferry off.

Still, he comforted himself now by recalling that they had said their goodbyes the previous evening. They had met briefly, outside Lewis’s, both of them sheltering under Sylvie’s umbrella since, as on their first meeting, the rain, mixed this time with hail, had been driving almost horizontally. He had checked that she had Caitlin’s address right and had given her a packet of envelopes and a pad of notepaper as a parting gift. ‘So mind you write to me to let me know all’s well,’ he had said gruffly. ‘I doubt I’ll be able to see you off tomorrow, but I’ll be thinking of you.’ He had patted her shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself.’

For answer, she had cast the umbrella aside, thrown her arms round his neck and kissed him on the side of his mouth. ‘You are the best and kindest man in the whole world,’ she had said sweetly. ‘One of these days you’ll meet a really nice girl who is free to love you the way you deserve and I envy her.’

He had picked up her umbrella and handed it back to her, saying ruefully: ‘I hope you’re right, but being a policeman’s wife isn’t much fun, you know. And now you’d best run off, or I’ll miss my quarter and be in deep trouble.’

He had watched her go and then had had to hurry through the driving rain to arrive on time at the point on his beat that he was supposed to have reached. He had had little fear that the sergeant would check on such a wild night but one could never be sure. So far, his record sheet was clean, and he meant to keep it that way.

With an effort, he dragged his mind back to the present. The sergeant had given each man his beat, and the constables were enjoying a few moments of conversation before they went their separate ways. Constable Flanagan, who had been in the police force for almost ten years and had recently got engaged to a girl in County Down, was holding forth. ‘I’m goin’ to give in me notice at the end of the month,’ he announced. ‘The sarge told me last week that I can’t get wed until we’ve been engaged for four years and mebbe not then either, if she ain’t suitable. I’m sick of bein’ treated like a perishin’ kid and I’m sick of bad digs and cold food and cold feet. I thought life in Ireland was hard, and so it is, but I’ve saved a fair bit, enough to buy a bit of extra land so’s me dad’s place can support me and the wife. Oh aye, I’ll be gone by March.’

All the men stared at him admiringly and Brendan opened his mouth to offer his congratulations just as the sergeant bawled from behind him: ‘Move on!’ and grinning, they scattered. As he walked, Brendan considered what the older man had said. It was true, the police force did not treat its members well, but he took home a regular wage, a much higher one than he could have earned in most other employments, and because one got so little time off saving money was easy. Indeed, he had amassed a considerable amount in his two years on the force, and thought that, if he could stick it for another two or three years, he would be able to buy a small property of his own. Then, because he was not afraid of hard work, he would speedily begin to prosper. The money he would send to Caitlin would not make much difference, particularly as, to his considerable relief, Wentworth had answered Sylvie’s desperate plea pretty promptly and had promised fifteen shillings a week for the next few months.

As Brendan began to plod towards his beat, he thought again of Sylvie’s fragile beauty and wondered what she was doing right now. He glanced up at the clock above the chemist’s shop and calculated that she would not be in Dublin until his shift was half over. Not that it mattered; he could not possibly get news of her for at least a week. Ahead of him, a row seemed to have broken out between two shopkeepers and half a dozen angry customers. Brendan made his way towards them, walking with the deliberate stride which seemed slow, but carried a policeman towards trouble at a surprising rate. ‘Hello-ello-ello, what’s goin’ on here, then?’ he enquired jovially. ‘Lost a pound and found a penny, ladies?’

Several voices answered him simultaneously. It seemed one customer, a tall angular woman in the regulation black, with sandy hair pulled tightly back from her narrow face, had accused Mr Binns, who owned the nearby hardware store, of selling her a cracked chamber pot. Mr Binns had said that she must have knocked it ’cos it were sound as a bell when he put it in the paper bag. It then transpired that the sandy-haired woman was the wife of another shopkeeper, who had emerged from his premises and was both backing her up and probably slandering his neighbour, whilst the other women, delighted, milled around, first taking one side, then the other.