Rainbow's End (33 page)

‘Yes, course I will. But I reckon I’ll miss you worst,’ Tolly told her. ‘And I’ll make new friends. Salvationists are everywhere, they say. An’ . . . an’ mebbe I’ll sort meself out, Ellen, once I’m away from the Pool.’

‘I’m sure you will,’ Ellen said insincerely. She still didn’t really understand just what Tolly thought was the matter, but she had sufficient sensitivity to realise that her friend was doing his best to be fair to everyone, herself included. ‘You’ll be fine, Tolly, just you see.’

Having got back more or less on their old footing, the two of them walked along the beach, then went inland to the tea-room they had already selected. They had an enjoyable meal and in telling her all about how he meant to see the world, Tolly dispelled any last lingering traces of embarrassment between them and soon they were laughing and teasing each other as though the episode on the beach had never happened.

Though not quite as though it had never happened, Ellen thought ruefully as they climbed back aboard the train. They had kissed and she had a shrewd feeling that such a kiss should have changed their relationship in some way, made them more . . . well, perhaps more
aware
was the closest she could get. And it hadn’t. She was still fonder of Tolly than anyone else she knew, but she understood, at last, that she must wait and let him find out just what it was he wanted. If it was her . . . oh, how marvellous that would be! But if it wasn’t she would have to learn to live with it.

They reached the pier head when the street lamps were all being lit and went back to Heyworth Street on the first tram to come along. Then Tolly saw her to her door, saying a very sweet good-night to her on the pavement, and when, at the last minute, he caught her shoulders and kissed her brow, she smiled up at him and tried to pretend that the chaste salute was all she had ever expected from him.

‘Thanks for a lovely evening, Tolly,’ she said as she let herself into the house. ‘See you tomorrer.’

It was quite late so she went very quietly into the kitchen . . . to find herself abruptly in the midst of a drama.

Ada was sitting at the table, whilst a policeman, with his helmet on his knee, sat opposite her, writing in his notebook. Ozzie was leaning against the mantelpiece with his hands dug into his trouser pockets, Fred was making a pot of tea and Bertie was toasting bread at the stove. Everyone looked round as she entered the room.

‘Mam? What’s up?’

‘Oh, Ellen . . . the twins . . . they’ve run away!’

‘They haven’t run away, our mam, don’t say such things, they’ve just gone off on the spree, little divils, I’ll corpse ’em when I see ’em.’ That was Ozzie, scowling and furious.

‘No use carryin’ on, ma’am. Kids is kids, they’ll turn up like bad pennies when they’re hungry,’ the policeman said. ‘Give us that there note, I’ll read it to the young leddy, see if she can help at all.’

Ada handed over a scrumpled bit of paper and the policeman read it aloud. ‘
Dear Mam, Took me next Week’s Wages from the Pot so we can go to the Seaside. See you when our Grub runs out, Love Ds
.’

‘Oh, Mam, the little blighters, worryin’ you so,’ Ellen said wrathfully. ‘But they’ll be all right – you know the twins, they always fall on their feet.’

‘Or someone else’s,’ Bert said. ‘They took all the grub they could lay their filthy little paws on, an’ all. I had to go out for fish an’ chips afore I could have me tea.’

‘What we’re wantin’ to know is which seaside they mean?’ the policeman said. ‘Any idea, miss?’

Ellen shook her head. ‘No, sergeant . . . sorry. It could be anywhere. If they’d the money I reckon it ’ud be New Brighton . . . how much did they take, Mam?’

‘A half crown,’ Ada said. ‘Oh, I’m that worried, Ellie! They’re nothin’ but a couple of babes in some ways . . . suppose . . . suppose . . .’

‘They’ll march in here in another hour or so, demandin’ their supper an’ sayin’ they’d not realised how late it had got,’ Ozzie said. ‘They won’t stay out all night, our mam, they ain’t that daft.’

‘They took the tent,’ Ada wailed. ‘An’ the old pram. An’ the woollen blanket off Deirdre’s bed, an’ food, an’ . . .’

‘The tent?’ Ellen said slowly. ‘That old tent we made for ’em, wi’ sheets an’ the clothes prop an’ that?’

Ada nodded, tears running from her red-rimmed eyes and dappling the table top before her. ‘That’s right, the old tent. Oh, Ellie, they could be strangled in their beds, drownded, ate be wild animals . . .’

‘Mam, pull yourself together!’ Bertie said sharply. ‘Who’s goin’ to strangle the pair of ’em, eh? Not that I’d mind doin’ it meself,’ he added. ‘But a stranger . . . well, they’d marmelise anyone try in’, wouldn’t you say?’

Ada, sniffing, agreed that she had forgotten that the twins had a sharp way with outsiders, but even so, they were only little children . . .

‘Little children?’ Fred said. ‘Little hell-raisers, more like. Anythin’ what eats them two’s got a digestion like an ostrich. Now come on, Mam, gi’s a smile an’ dry your eyes. Cryin’ won’t help.’

‘No, and I don’t think it’s necessary . . .’ Ellen began, to be interrupted immediately.

‘Not necessary, when me kids are missin’? Oh, Ellen, you can be so hard!’

‘Mam, I think I know where they are,’ Ellen said. Light had dawned as soon as her mother had mentioned the tent. ‘I think they’re down on Seaforth Sands. Tolly an’ me went down there for a . . . a walk, an’ I sort of half noticed a white, home-made tent right up at the top of the beach. I saw two kids . . . only I were too far away to see their faces . . . they were roastin’ somethin’ over a little fire . . . Mam, I’m
sure
it was Deirdre and Donal. We’ll fetch ’em in no time, now we know where they are.’

The policeman closed his notebook and got to his feet. ‘Well, there we are,’ he said genially. ‘Mystery solved, Mrs Docherty. In a white tent on the foreshore, you say? I’ll get the Seaforth fellows on the telephone at once and they’ll turn out and fetch your youngsters home wi’ a flea in their ears. Don’t you worry, you’ll be puttin’ them to bed in a couple of hours – and tellin’ them not do to it again, I trust an’ hope.’

‘Oh I will, sergeant,’ Ada said fervently. ‘I really, really will!’

Deirdre woke. She couldn’t remember where she was, but she was cold and there was a funny sort of noise. She sighed and opened her eyes. It was dark, but she could see something white which billowed and moved towards her . . .

Her shriek brought Donal sitting bolt upright beside her, wide-eyed. ‘Wharris it?’ he squeaked. ‘Whassamarrer? Where is we?’

‘Oh, Jeez, it’s the bleedin’ tent, we’re on the sands in the tent,’ Deirdre said, trying to calm her wildly thumping heart. ‘I forgot where we was an’ all, Donny, an’ then the side o’ the tent blowed towards me an’ I thought it were a ghost . . .’

‘The candle . . . who put the candle out?’ Donal hissed. ‘Ah, what’s
that
?’

There was a faint light within the tent; moonlight shining down on them, Deirdre supposed, and now that her eyes had grown accustomed to it she could make out details. The perambulator across the entrance, the pile of their belongings . . .

‘Aaaeeeaah!’ Deirdre shrieked. Movement, slow, creeping movement, something coming towards her . . . ‘Aaaeeeaah!’

She tried to scramble out of her blanket, sinking both hands in the sand as she did so . . . and saw that the creeping movement was water. Only water. A shining flood of it, moving across the sand, slowly engulfing everything. The candle was actually bobbing on the ripples she had caused by her movement and the blanket was wet round the edges. The only safe place was in the perambulator or up on the slight rise where she had spread their bed.

Donal had followed her lead and now they stood, side by side, grimly contemplating their surroundings.

‘We’ll have to up sticks,’ Donal said at last, bending to pick up the now soggy blanket. ‘Shove all the dry stuff in the pram, Dee, an’ we’ll just have to cart the rest. Come on, we’ll have the tent down in a jiffy if we gerra move on.’

Deirdre picked up a pile of stuff and staggered with it over to the perambulator, shoved it on top of the apron and bent and looked outside. Then, wide-eyed, she turned to her brother. ‘Oh, Donny, there’s water all round us,’ she quavered. ‘Waves, an’ all. They’re almost as far as the prom . . . what’ll we do?’

Donal joined her and peered out. Then he said: ‘Right, we’ll have to leave the tent, but we’ll try to get the pram ashore. Come on!’

Deirdre followed him, gripping the perambulator firmly. She could swim, but nowhere near as strongly as her brother, and she had never swum at night, nor in the sort of sea which was sending waves at them in such profusion. And not all from one direction, either. They seemed actually to be coming in from the shore, though that was surely impossible?

She mentioned it to Donal, who said that it wasn’t impossible at all, unfortunately. ‘It’s a very high tide,’ he said. ‘The waves are agin’ the wall up there, before they’s spent their strength, so they’re bein’ pushed out to sea agin to break. Look, Dee, there’s gonna be a sort o’ undertow, a current like. It’ll pull you about a bit once we start into the water, so be prepared, an’ hang on tight to the bleedin’ pram. An’ don’t
worry
, ’cos I’ll tek care of you. Right?’

‘Right,’ Deirdre said resolutely. She was too young to die, she reminded herself firmly and anyway, God wouldn’t let a bit of fun end in tragedy – would He? No, course He wouldn’t, everyone knew that He loved little children. And Deirdre, who, an hour earlier, would have denied indignantly being a little child, found that she was a very little child indeed when it came to facing the waves and the possibility – oh Gawd, oh Gawd – of death by drowning.

‘Right. Off we go, then,’ Donal said, unaware of Deirdre’s silent soliloquy. ‘An’ don’t forget – hang on to the bleedin’ pram unless I tells you to leggo!’

Together, pushing the pram, they stepped off the soggy strip of raised sand . . . and both gave a muffled scream. There was no question of hanging on to the pram for either of them since as they plunged into the water a wave seized it and tore it from their grasp, at the same time taking Deirdre’s legs from under her.

‘Back . . . get back . . .’ she heard Donal say frantically and scrabbled desperately to obey him. But it was too late. She was in the water, pushed around at the waves’ whim, choking, gasping, forgetting everything she had learned, desperate only to find solid ground beneath her feet. She heard Donal’s voice behind her, counselling, advising, then the black water closed over her head, filled her ears, tried to force its way into her mouth and nose. She fought desperately as the undertow tore at her, and for a blissful second her head emerged from the water and she gasped a mixed lungful of air and spray, then she was down again, down, down, down . . . and something heavy hit her, tangled with her legs . . . and she realised that she had no idea, any longer, which was up, or where the surface was. She continued to struggle, feebly, till consciousness left her.

One minute Donal had been hanging on to the perambulator, the next it had gone and so had Deirdre. He screamed at her to come back, then to swim . . . then he plunged in after her.

He had never experienced anything like that undertow, however, and it took him all his time just to keep his head above the increasingly turbulent waves. He turned wistfully towards higher ground where he could still see the tent, just about standing, then to face the breakers once more. He couldn’t go without Deirdre! He thought he saw her head break the surface to seaward, so he began slogging grimly in that direction, but in his heart he thought it was too late. We’re goners, he thought, and was surprised at his own acceptance that this time they had overstepped the mark between adventure and total danger. Poor Mam, when the scuffers come round tomorrer and tell her her kids is drowned-dead, she’ll be that upset.

But you shouldn’t ever say die, Donal reminded himself, and kept on swimming.

‘There’s the tent . . . I hope to God they’re still in it, though it must be a foot under water . . . what in heaven’s name is that little black thing? Did you see it, then, in the trough of that wave?’

The first policeman, the man who had spoken, didn’t wait for anyone to answer his question but began to heave off his heavy boots and to unbutton his cape.

‘It’s a little boat . . . no, it’s a perishin’ perambulator,’ the second policeman said. He, too, began to take off his outer clothing. ‘Bert, go and get the lifeboat out. I’ll just check that pram. Give us the line.’

With no more ado he seized a length of line which another policeman was busy securing to a bollard and jumped into the water. The second policeman followed, then the third. The first policeman reached the pram and grabbed it, then they both turned for the shore once more.

‘I reckon you’re the two luckiest kids in the whole world,’ the policeman told Donal and Deirdre, still very subdued after their ordeal, as they drove home in a cab. The policemen had stripped off their soaking clothes, rubbed them briskly dry, given them a hot drink from a flask, wrapped them in blankets and despatched them back home, with a sergeant to help with the explanations. ‘If we hadn’t happened along you’d ha’ been dead meat, you know that, I suppose?’

‘If Donny hadn’t grabbed me be the scruff of me neck and made me hang on to the pram I’d ha’ been a goner,’ Deirdre said, through chattering teeth. ‘I’d gone down an’ down . . .’ She broke off with a strong shudder.

Donal, sitting next to her in the cab, grinned palely at her and unwound his blanket to give her a consoling punch on the shoulder. ‘Nah, you’d ha’ struggled on somehow,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re too bad to die young, Dee! ‘Sides, the last time you come up you was right under the pram; you’d ha’ caught aholt of it wharrever I did, I reckon.’

‘I was too cold an’ scared,’ Deirdre said honestly. ‘I don’t swim too good either. Well, not in waves an’ in the dark,’ she added, not wishing Donal to remember the remark the next time he was off to the scaldy with his pals. ‘Oh, Gawd, the pram!’