There had been no hope of an early night after that. He had summoned assistance, seen the two men safely delivered to the nearest hospital, and returned to the station. He had had to write out a long report and then his sergeant had announced that he was leaping to conclusions when he had written that he thought the Dugdales had been deliberately targeted. ‘They was decently dressed and known to most villains on our patch,’ the sergeant had said portentously. ‘I reckon it this way, meself. They might have got mixed up in that riot, been seen by the fellers, noted as bein’ men o’ property, so to speak, and follered. Then the rioters beat ’em up and robbed ’em. How does that sound?’
Brendan was doubtful. He had barely been able to see the features of any of the men as they rushed at him out of the darkness, but he had a strong feeling that they were probably connected in some way to the young man Len had been sent to prison for injuring. He knew, as did everyone else, that the poor fellow had died only a couple of months before, knew, too, that it had been tuberculosis that had killed him and not the fracas with Len; but you try telling that to the chap’s relatives, he thought grimly. Oh yes, if he had to make a guess, it would be that the attack had been motivated by revenge and not the urge to rob, though both men’s pockets had been empty when they were admitted to hospital.
He thought the sergeant might think differently when, a week later, the hospital reported that Mr Dugdale senior had died in the night, but he was wrong. The sergeant merely said that they would ‘prosecute immediate enquiries’ and let it be known that the two men had been attacked for gain, almost certainly by some of the men who, earlier in the evening, had attacked the warehouses in the Goree Piazza.
Others had been too busy over the strikes to take much interest in the affair, though when Brendan voiced his doubts to his landlady, she commented at once that in her view it was almost certainly a revenge attack.
‘Whenever there’s trouble, like them riots, someone uses it to their own advantage,’ she said darkly. ‘I remember when Mr Taggart were put into hospital; they tried to tell me it were “someone in the crowd”, that the blow weren’t meant for anyone in pertickler, but when he were safely home again, Mr Taggart told me it were a feller whose son he’d banged up for . . . oh, well, for something he’d done wrong. Revenge, see? It’s easy, in a crowd, to get yourself a big cudgel and hit someone what you think has done you wrong and, by and large, you get away with it.’
‘Aye, you’re right there,’ Brendan said. ‘But they were robbed, Mrs Taggart, and I’m pretty sure the attackers were all strangers to me. Even if I did know ’em, I didn’t recognise them ’cos it were pitch dark, and besides, they knocked me down; by the time I got to me feet they were long gone. Still, you never know, something may turn up.’ But he spoke without much optimism for the city was still seething with unrest and how could anyone pick out three men from amongst the crowd of rioters, many of whom had been armed, desperate men who might well take to robbery with violence if the opportunity occurred?
‘Morning, Caitlin. Sorry I’m so late but I’ve been awake half the night with the baby whining and grizzling. I fell asleep around five, I s’pose. Maeve woke me when she took the baby, but somehow or other I just drifted back to sleep again. Any porridge left?’
Caitlin looked up. She had been scrubbing out the big, blackened porridge pot but had saved a bowlful for her guest; she indicated it with a jerk of her head, then said a trifle reproachfully: ‘Yes, there’s yours. You know, you do rather put on Maeve, alanna. It isn’t her job to get your baby fed; it’s you who should be taking her round to Mrs O’Mara.’
Mrs O’Mara had lost her own baby shortly after Sylvie’s child had been born, and when Sylvie’s milk had dried up after a couple of days Mrs O’Mara had been glad to earn some money by feeding Sylvie’s little one.
‘I do take her round sometimes,’ Sylvie said. ‘But Maeve likes doing it, you know she does, Cait. And I’m quite willing to get her messages for her . . . only aren’t you going to the shops yourself today? I heard you telling Clodagh last evening that she needed new boots and I thought . . .’
‘Oh aye, we’re going shopping at the markets,’ Caitlin owned. ‘So there’s no need for you to put yourself out. Besides, it’s Maeve’s day to visit her own mam and the family, so likely she’ll take the baby with her.’ She looked speculatively at the younger woman. ‘You’ve not been round there, have you? I reckon you should visit them and see how Maeve lived before we took her on.’
‘Well, all right, I’ll pop round there later,’ Sylvie said. She looked surprised. But not half as surprised as she’ll look when she sees how Maeve’s family live, Caitlin thought with an inward smile. She liked Sylvie, of course she did, but she thought her very selfish, using her undoubted beauty to get what she wanted and rarely considering anyone but herself. Perhaps when she had visited the Connolly family she might appreciate Maeve rather more. Pat had said several times that their guest did not know how lucky she was, for the O’Keefes had a much better lifestyle than most of their neighbours.
But now Sylvie was sitting at the table eating porridge, and since the children had long since disappeared Caitlin decided that it was high time she had another go at the younger woman. ‘Sylvie!’ she said. ‘That child of yours will be two weeks old in a couple of days and still no name to her. It’s shameful, so it is. Why can’t you just pick a saint’s name – Mary, Bridget, something like that – and have her christened, decent like? If something were to happen – which the good God forbid – and her wit’out a name, how would you feel? She’s your own dear little girl when all’s said and done. I know you had a bad time birthin’ her, but even so . . .’
‘I’ll think of a nice name soon,’ Sylvie said, looking hunted. ‘Or . . . I wonder if Maeve would like to have the naming of the baby? She’s that fond of her . . . and she looks after her so well, and . . . remember, Caitlin, I mustn’t let myself love her or take too much of an interest in her ’cos when I go back to Liverpool I’ve got to forget all about her. Please try to understand.’
Caitlin sighed. She did understand what Sylvie meant but someone had to name the baby. Never in all me born days, she found herself thinking, did I meet a woman who puts things off the way Sylvie Dugdale does! True, the baby would have to be left behind, but that was no reason for not giving her a name.
‘Mam, there’s post for Sylvie!’ Clodagh entered the kitchen on the words, holding out two envelopes, which Sylvie took with a word of thanks. She glanced at the writing, then at mother and daughter, both looking enquiringly at her, and smiled her pretty smile.
‘One from me mother-in-law and one from me mam,’ she said. ‘I do hope Becky’s all right.’
She ripped open the first envelope, then gasped and handed the single sheet with its short scrawled message to Caitlin. Caitlin read it aloud. ‘Come back, Sylvie, we’re in bad trouble. Mr Dugdale’s sick unto death; they say at the hospital he may not last the night, and Len’s pretty bad. It were a riot . . . he got bashed on the head . . . you must come home. Becky needs you. We all need you.’
Sylvie had ripped open the second envelope, saying as she did so: ‘This one’s from me mam.’ She began to read aloud, as Caitlin had done. ‘Dear Sylvie, Len come out of prison a couple of days gone. He and his da went down to the docks to see if Len could get work there. They was gone a long time and then a scuffer come to the door and told Mrs Dugdale her men had been injured in one of these here riots. They’re mortal bad. Sylvie gal, you must come back. Please come at once.’
‘What’ll you do, Sylvie?’ Caitlin said after a long pause. ‘I know you’ll have to go back, but . . .’
‘I’ll leave as soon as I’m able,’ Sylvie said at once. ‘I can’t stay here, not with everyone at home in such trouble.’ She turned imploring eyes on Caitlin. ‘You know I can’t take the baby with me but I’ll leave money with you so you can pay Mrs O’Mara and – and buy anything the kid needs. I’ll get in touch just as soon as I’ve sorted things out.’
‘I’m awful sorry about your da-in-law and Len, and we knew you’d be leavin’ once we’d found someone suitable to take the baby . . .’ Caitlin began, then saw Sylvie was already at the door. ‘Hold on a moment . . .’
‘Can’t wait,’ Sylvie called over her shoulder as she headed for the stairs. ‘I have to fetch Maeve back, because I must talk to her about taking care of the baby.’
‘Yes, I dare say, but . . .’
‘It’s no use, Mam,’ Clodagh said prosaically, going over to the sink and beginning to wash up the crocks. ‘She’ll be back in a moment; it ain’t far to Maeve’s mam’s place. And when she does come back, you tell her she’ll have to name the baby afore she goes and pay Maeve extra whilst she’s away. It’s only fair . . . you said yourself the Dugdales were well off.’
‘That wasn’t me, that was your da,’ Caitlin said. ‘Not but what I agree – they’ve got a big pub so they have, down by the docks, and it’s always busy; Sylvie’s told me so many a time.’ She got to her feet and began to dry the delft as Clodagh put it on to the draining board. ‘I suppose Sylvie must go back but it
is
her baby, not ours, so it puts us in a difficult position.’
‘I don’t see that,’ Clodagh said as she turned away from the sink. She dried her hands on the roller towel behind the door, and began to stack the dishes and spoons as her mother dried them. ‘Sure an’ didn’t she say she’d have the little one adopted?’ she said, putting the clean dishes back on the dresser. ‘You know she can’t take her home, Mammy.’
‘Yes, I know, but to tell the truth, Clodagh me love, she’s not a pretty baby and you know how folk in these parts dislike ginger hair. There’s kids by the score wantin’ good homes who would be picked before Sylvie’s little ’un, so I think that’s a horse which won’t run.’
Clodagh, a practical child, sniffed. ‘Well, babies don’t eat much, anyway, and if that feller of hers dies she’ll be able to take the kid back to Liverpool,’ she remarked. She grinned at her mother. ‘Though everyone’ll know he couldn’t possibly be the father, since he were in prison.’
Caitlin blinked. The things children picked up from casual conversations! She frowned at Clodagh. ‘Nonsense! I dare say Len has broken a bone or two, but that’ll be the worst he’ll have suffered and he isn’t likely to die from a broken arm. Now go and get your jacket . . . unless you don’t want to come with me to the Daisy Market?’
As she had hoped it would, the thought of the new boots which were to be bought put everything else out of Clodagh’s head. She gave a squeak of joy and scooped up her mother’s big marketing bag. ‘I’m ready,’ she said. ‘Oh, I do love buyin’ new boots, so I do.’
Chapter Five
A week after the letters had arrived, Sylvie found herself aboard the ferry heading for Liverpool. Leaning against the ship’s rail, she contemplated the last week, which had been exceedingly hectic. She had gone round to the Connolly place and had been appalled by the building, which was a crumbling three-storey tenement, with gaping holes in the wooden stairs, no glass in the windows and precious few tiles on the roof, to judge by the rich growth of mould which seemed to cover all the walls. The Connollys all shared one miserable damp room. Most of the children appeared to sleep in the pile of rags close up against a leaky window frame, while their mother shared a straw pallet bed with her two youngest sons, and the room had been criss-crossed with lengths of clothes line since it appeared that Mrs Connolly took in washing, though how she ever managed to get it dry was a mystery to Sylvie. The room had been fiercely clean, though the furniture, if you could call it that, was mainly tea chests and half-barrels which stood against the wall so that, when seated, one could lean back on something. Sylvie had never seen so pitifully poor a place, yet from the moment Mrs Connolly had greeted her warmly and ushered her inside, she had realised that despite the poverty and lack of material goods the Connollys were a very happy family. The room might have been small, but Mrs Connolly had assured her guest that this was an advantage, so it was, since it was easier to keep warm when you were all cuddled together. ‘Two of me boys sell newspapers, though ’tis only Thomais who’s licensed; Paddy has to scarper when the polis come round. Still an’ all, ’tis a great help so it is, to have a few extra pennies comin’ in.’ She had beamed at Sylvie. ‘I dare say Maeve’s telled you that me eldest, Bridget, has a live-in job. She’s kitchen maid at a big house on the outskirts of the city, but she’s a good gal an’ comes home for her day off, and always brings bits ’n’ pieces for us. The cook sometimes gives her a grand fresh-baked loaf and a bag of apples, or the remains of a pie. Now and again it’s a dress, or some trowsis what may fit one o’ the boys. An’ she hands over as much as she can afford from her wages, sometimes as much as half a crown.’
‘Well, isn’t that lovely?’ Sylvie had said rather feebly as her hostess had paused expectantly. ‘And what about your second daughter . . . is she still at home?’
‘Oh aye, she helps by sellin’ oranges for one o’ the market women, but there ain’t much money in it,’ Mrs Connolly had said, rather sadly. Then she had brightened. ‘But our Maeve’s a grand help, so she is. Whenever she comes home, she scrubs the stairs, does me messages, carts me laundry . . . she even irons a great pile of sheets which is the job I hate the most ’cos of the rheumatics acrost me shoulders. Oh aye, she’s a good little girl is our Maeve.’
All this while, Maeve had been making and pouring three cups of very weak tea, with the baby slung across her shoulder and apparently fast asleep. She had handed Sylvie a chipped and handleless cup, full of straw-coloured liquid, saying with a shy smile: ‘It ain’t as good as you’d get with the O’Keefes, but tea’s a turble price, so it is.’ She had glanced enquiringly up at Sylvie. ‘There’s bread and a smear o’ jam but I’ll doubt you’ll be hungry yet.’
‘No, I’m not hungry,’ Sylvie had assured her, ‘but I’ve come round, Maeve, because something bad has happened back in Liverpool, which means I must go home straight away. As you know, I can’t take the baby, but Caitlin has agreed to keep her for the time being. Only – only I’m afraid it will be you who has the real responsibility, so I need you to say you’ll look after her before I can make any plans. I’ll pay you every week,’ she had finished hastily, though she could tell from Maeve’s beaming smile that the girl had no intention of refusing the favour.