When Declan, the elder brother, suggested that Brendan might apply for a banking post with a friend of his in Galway, Brendan had been horrified; he had always worked out of doors and had no desire whatsoever to take on an office job. Instead, he had joined the Merchant Navy and managed to get work aboard a cargo vessel plying between Liverpool and South America. At first he had been content with the life, but by the time he was twenty he had had enough of the sea and decided to take work ashore – if he could get it, that was, for there was a good deal of unemployment, not only in Ireland, but in England as well.
He had thought about the Army, for several of his relatives were military men, but then his favourite uncle, his father’s youngest brother, Sean, invited his nephew to stay for a weekend. Sean was a police constable in a small village not far from Ormskirk. He was married to a plump and comfortable local woman, and they had two nicely behaved little boys, and as far as Sean was concerned no life could be pleasanter than his. ‘The Lancashire Constabulary clothes me, pays me a decent wage, provides me with a grand house and then lets me get on with the job,’ he had told Brendan contentedly. ‘I’m a countryman and this is a country patch. I get on well with everyone, even when I catch ’em scrumpin’ apples from a neighbour’s orchard, or poachin’ on the estate, and when Sergeant Cobbold retires in two years’ time, then mebbe I’ll get his job, move into his house, and enjoy a better salary, though of course I shall cover more ground than I do now.’ He had looked quizzically at his nephew. ‘Ever considered joining the force, lad?’
The truth was of course that Brendan had never given it a thought, but he began to look into it, and had liked what he saw. In due course he had applied to join the Liverpool Constabulary, and since he was over six feet tall and had always taken a pride in keeping fit he had passed the medical without trouble and had actually enjoyed the initial training. He had hoped to be posted to one of the outlying districts of Liverpool, but instead had gone to Hatton Garden, where he knew he was gaining much-needed experience. At first he had lived in police barracks and it was only recently that he had been permitted to go into digs. He was given a lodging allowance, of course, and had moved in with two other constables of a similar age.
Brendan was an easy-going sort of fellow and got on well with constables Collins and Simpson, and the three of them, though they often grumbled over her strictures, liked Mrs Taggart well enough and knew themselves to be a good deal more comfortable than they had been in the barracks.
Just now, however, Brendan was more concerned with getting out of the rain than anything else so he quickened his pace. He saw the slight figure ahead of him, and automatically found himself wondering what a woman was doing out on such a night. Almost certainly she was up to no good, because even as Brendan looked, he saw her turn up her coat collar and shrug her head as far down as she could. No doubt she had been trying to filch something, though what it could be Brendan had no idea. The shipping was all in the docks, apart from such craft as the Mersey ferries and one or two small fishing boats, and there would be little enough to steal from any of them.
Brendan saw the woman jerk up her head and guessed that his helmet had warned her that a policeman was approaching, for she swerved, and then, to Brendan’s complete astonishment, appeared to dive into the river.
There was a tremendous splash, closely followed by a sort of gurgling gasp, and Brendan, breaking into a run and casting aside his cape and helmet, suddenly realised why she had been walking along the embankment so late and on such a night. Suicide! He knew it happened, but this was the first time he’d seen despair in action and it galvanised him, so that he ripped off his tunic and shed his boots without a second thought. He would have to go in after the young fool, but oh, Gawd, what a horrible prospect! He jumped into the water feet first, and gasped as the icy cold crushed the breath out of him. He could see the woman’s dark coat ahead, for the garment had trapped air and floated to the surface. Teeth juddering, Brendan reached the coat in a couple of strokes and thanked God when his hands grasped the body still within it. Halfway to the nearest set of steps, swimming strongly on his back, he realised that this would-be suicide was not a mature woman but a young girl, and a beautiful one at that.
As he hauled her up the slippery concrete steps and laid her on the flagstones, the uncaring street lamps shone down on a mass of wet, ash-blonde hair and a small white face, whose huge dark eyes were fixed imploringly on Brendan’s own. Brendan grinned at her but his teeth were chattering so much that he had to wait a moment before actually speaking. ‘You’re all right,’ he said huskily, at last. ‘You aren’t going to drown, but if I don’t get you under a roof pretty quickly we’ll probably both die of exposure.’
As he spoke, Brendan stood up and heaved the girl to her feet. Her knees began to buckle but Brendan looped an arm round her waist so that she did not fall, then glanced despairingly at the clothing he had cast off. Putting it on again would be madness but he dared not leave his uniform, let alone his grand boots, here, where anyone might pick them up.
Looking wildly about him, he saw a pile of timber alongside one of the nearby buildings and carried the girl across to it, sitting her down and bidding her, rather brusquely, to stay just where she was. Then he ran back to his clothing, crammed his wet feet into his boots, picked up the rest, and returned to the girl. She was sitting where he had placed her, water running off her to mingle with the puddles on the flagstones, and shivering so uncontrollably that Brendan began to wonder how on earth he was to get her into some form of shelter before she simply died of cold. But there was his tunic. He wrapped it round her and buttoned it up, then plonked the helmet on his own head. Then he hauled her to her feet. ‘You’ve got to keep moving or you’ll freeze where you stand,’ he said. ‘Movement helps; can you put your arm round my waist?’
The girl nodded and Brendan slung his cape round the pair of them and urged her into motion. Even in his cold and sodden state, he could not help grinning inwardly at the sight they must make, like some peculiar two-headed turtle, or a couple of drunks indulging in a three-legged race. Fortunately, however, his digs in Hunter Street were not too far distant. They paused for breath under the Dockers’ Umbrella and Brendan looked searchingly into his companion’s face. She was breathing quickly and still shivering, but he thought she looked marginally better. Starting off again, they threaded their way along Water Street and Dale Street, and by the time they turned left into Byrom he could see that there was faint colour in her cheeks; she looked a good deal better and the shivering had stopped. Swift movement, Brendan told himself with satisfaction, was clearly beneficial both to someone just fished out of an icy-cold river and to the fisher-out.
It was probably no more than twenty minutes since he had rescued her, though it felt more like an hour, that the pair of them stumbled round to the back door of No. 48. Even in his present predicament, Brendan quailed at the thought of going in by the front door and trekking Mersey mud all over his landlady’s new linoleum, to say nothing of the strip of drugget which ran from the front door along the length of the hall. However, he knew the hiding place of the back-door key and reached up to the lintel. He opened the door and pushed his companion into the kitchen, which felt gloriously warm even though Mrs Taggart had banked down the fire for the night. Brendan thrust the girl into one of the old easy chairs, stoked up the fire and then, with a curt reminder to her to stay where she was, went across the kitchen and up the stairs to his own room. He grabbed a couple of blankets off the bed, then stole downstairs again and let himself into the kitchen as quietly as possible. Draping the blankets over the chair nearest the fire, he smiled reassuringly at the girl. ‘I’m going up to my room to change,’ he whispered. ‘You get your wet things off and wrap yourself in these blankets. I shan’t be gone more than a couple of minutes, and when I come back I’ll wring your clothes out over the sink, stir up the fire again, and hang them over the clothes horse.’ He looked enquiringly across at his companion. ‘Understand? And don’t you move out of this kitchen, right?’
The girl nodded. ‘Right,’ she agreed weakly. ‘And – and I haven’t thanked you for saving my life. I can’t swim, you see. I’d have been dead in two minutes flat if you’d not grabbed me.’
Brendan bit back the words
Then why did you jump in if you didn’t want to drown?
saying instead: ‘Never mind that. We’ve got to get your stuff dry because none of my clothes will fit you and you’ll be wanting to get home.’ He picked up the kettle, went over to the sink and filled it, then carried it back to the fire and stood it over the flame. ‘I’ll be back before this boils and I’ll make us both a cup of tea.’
He left the room and was halfway up the stairs before it occurred to him that the presence in the kitchen of a soaking-wet girl, naked but for a couple of blankets, might well raise a few eyebrows. On the other hand, one look at her clothing would convince the most hardened sceptic that this was not an orgy of seduction but merely a rescue, which, after all, was part of his job.
He was downstairs again, as he had promised, just before the kettle boiled. The girl had dried her hair on the kitchen roller towel and was looking a good deal more cheerful, though she eyed him rather apprehensively as he handed her a cup of tea. She had spread her clothes out on an old clothes horse which she had pulled around the fire and Brendan, blushing, hastily looked away from the steaming garments. He said, approvingly: ‘That’s right, alanna. We’ll have you respectable again in no time, which will be just as well because I don’t fancy having to explain what’s just happened to my landlady, or to the other fellows who lodge here for that matter. Suicide’s a crime, you know, though how you can punish someone who’s already dead I’ve not worked out.’
He settled back in his chair as the girl’s large eyes – he saw now that they were an unusually brilliant blue – rounded in astonishment. ‘Suicide?’ she squeaked, forgetting to keep her voice low. ‘Suicide? Wharrever do you mean? I were walking along the embankment, mindin’ me own business . . .’
‘Keep your voice down,’ Brendan said, his tone anguished. Indignation was all very well but he had no desire to find himself explaining a situation he did not yet fully understand to either Mrs Taggart or Simpson and Collins. ‘All I can say is, miss, that I saw you dive into the water, and naturally I thought that . . .’
‘Well, you want to think before you think,’ the girl said rather confusedly, but this time she kept her voice low. ‘I were walkin’ along, havin’ a bit of a weep, to tell you the truth, and all of a sudden you loomed up out of the rain and mist, lookin’ twice the size of any mortal man. You scared me so much that I jumped to one side, hit the bleedin’ bollard and went head first into the river. It were an accident, and I’ll swear to it on the Bible if you like.’
Brendan felt a wave of relief at her words. Now he came to think of it, he remembered the cry that she had given when she hit the water, and also her eagerness to be rescued, for she had not struggled in his grasp as he began to tow her towards the steps. Besides, what reason could such a beautiful girl have to kill herself? For he could see now that she was indeed beautiful, with a fragile loveliness which had become clearer now that she was warm and dry. But she had said she was crying, so she could not have been exactly happy as she walked along by the river. Come to that, what had she been doing in such a spot, all alone, and so very late?
He put the question to her and saw the faint pink colour rush into her cheeks. Clearly wanting to gain time, she raised the cup of tea to her lips, staring at him over the rim as she sipped. Then she seemed to come to a decision and put the cup down. ‘I’ll tell you, but remember, I’m tellin’
you
, not a policeman,’ she said. ‘If you went and split on me and if – if it got around, I could be in real trouble . . . well, I could be dead, to tell you the truth. You saved my life tonight and it would be a wicked old waste if you lost it for me tomorrow. Can you understand?’
Brendan smiled at her. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he assured her. ‘And I certainly won’t split on you, I can promise you that; I wasn’t on duty anyway, even though I was wearing my uniform. So go ahead. By the way, I’m Brendan O’Hara; I saw the ring on your finger so I guess you’re married, though you scarcely look old enough, but I can’t call you missus!’
The girl held out a hand, smiling trustfully up at him. ‘How do you do, Mr O’Hara? Or should that be Constable O’Hara?’ she said as they shook hands. ‘I’m Sylvie Dugdale – and I’m married to a feller called Len. You may know his parents; they keep the public house down on the Dock Road. It’s called the Ferryman. It’s a big pub and Len’s an only child, so after we were married we moved in with his parents, and I live there still.’
‘I know it – it’s on my beat,’ Brendan said.
‘Well, Len’s in gaol; he were sent down for assault two and a half years ago,’ Sylvie said. ‘You might be thinkin’ I was cryin’ ’cos I want my husband out of gaol, but you’d be wrong. Len is horribly jealous and – and if I hadn’t been in the family way, I never would have married him. Oh, I expect you think I’m dreadfully weak, but I was only sixteen and my mam works for the Dugdales and so does my brother Bert. If my father had been alive it might have been different, but Mam – and Father O’Reilly – told me, that the baby was as much Len’s as mine, and that it would be wicked to make the child a bastard because of a mere scruple.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘A scruple! The truth is, Len wanted me, and his parents have always spoiled him rotten, so he begged and pleaded . . . and then he got violent. He broke three of me ribs . . . I tell you, I were downright perishin’ delighted when he landed in Walton Gaol.’
‘I see,’ Brendan said inadequately. His own happy childhood had not prepared him for the unhappiness and marital misery which was so often brought to the attention of the Liverpool police. But this girl, with her frail and tender beauty, should surely have been spared that. The very thought of any man raising his hand – or worse, his belt – to this slender, defenceless creature was sickening. Yet it had not broken her spirit; there was resolution in the tilt of her chin and strength of character in her large eyes. ‘So why were you crying?’ Brendan enquired, adding apologetically: ‘Of course, if I’d known you had a child, I’d never have thought you were trying to commit suicide.’