He sounded so grave that Kitty was frightened. She had quite made up her mind to leave the city before Caitlin could incarcerate her in an orphanage, or send her back to her mother, but Nick’s words had impressed her. Alone, she would never have the courage to rob so much as a fruit barrow, let alone a washing line. With Nick beside her, she would dare anything. She assured Nick, eloquently, that she understood what he meant and agreed with everything he said. And indeed, by the time they reached Francis Street, they had decided that she, too, should take appropriate clothing from a washing line. She did not add that she meant to leave her own nice clothes in the place of those she had taken. After all, she reasoned, no one could turn from a good little girl into a robber overnight; doubtless wickedness would grow on her.
Despite Kitty’s fears, they saw no one they knew amongst the jostling crowds round the stalls in Francis Street. In an effort to disguise herself a bit, Kitty had unplaited her hair and combed it through with her fingers until it hung forward over her face in draggly witch locks. She had then had the brainwave of buttoning her grey cardigan on the wrong buttons, so that it looked bunched up and peculiar, and she had rolled up her sleeves and hitched up her skirt on one side, though she had refused to take off her shoes and stockings, despite Nick’s urgings. ‘Me legs is as white as peeled celery sticks, and me feet’s the same, so everyone will guess I isn’t used to goin’ barefoot. And besides, me feet are so tender I’ll be hobbling like an old woman,’ she said pathetically. ‘Honest to God, Nick, it wouldn’t do.’
Nick had shrugged but said he understood and presently they arrived at a large, well-laden stall selling all sorts of delicious-looking fruit. There was a fat red-faced man, without one hair on his head, serving the customers, many of whom were buying a quantity of goods, for his prices were all a penny or two cheaper than those on surrounding stalls. Nick waited patiently until there was a lull, and then stepped forward. ‘Mr Marriott, give us a lend of your pencil and a bit of paper for five minutes, will you?’ he bawled. ‘Me cousin here is after gettin’ a load of messages for her gran and we wants to write ’em down afore we forgets ’em.’
Mr Marriott turned to the back of the stall and picked up a large sheet of paper which had been covering a box full of rosy apples. He handed the paper and a pencil to Nick, and the two children moved into an adjacent doorway. Kitty saw Mr Marriott’s gaze following them and muttered apprehensively to Nick that she thought they had been rumbled, but after flicking a quick glance behind them, Nick shook his head. ‘No, he’s watchin’ his bleedin’ pencil,’ he explained. ‘There’s kids what’ll nick anything and though he knows me better’n most . . . well, pencils cost money. Now stop imagining things and get on, do, or I’ll be delivering your message at midnight, when the hue and cry is already up and your family’s frantic.’
So Kitty settled down to write her note, which speedily became quite a long letter as she strove to assure the O’Keefes and Maeve that she had gone for their sakes, would be perfectly safe and quite all right, and would never forget their kindness to her.
Nick watched with awe as Kitty, crouching in the dusty shop doorway, wrote line after line, almost covering the paper by the time she had signed off and handed it to him. He folded it into a four-inch square and shoved it into his pocket. By now, darkness had fallen, and as he gave the pencil back to Mr Marriott he suggested that she might as well accompany him to Handkerchief Alley, since he had no desire to lose her yet did not think it advisable for her to hang around in one spot. Mr Marriott, who had not appeared to be listening, turned to the apple box behind him and picked out two very nice fruits, handing one to each of the children. ‘Little missy here looks as though she could go gentle with me apples and pears. I’m going to start putting the fruit back into its boxes any minute now, so if you want to go off on your errand, she can give me a hand and I’ll keep an eye on her,’ he said jovially. ‘If she’s careful an’ gentle, like, wit’ me fruit, she shall have an orange or two as well.’
Kitty looked a little doubtfully at Nick but he was nodding enthusiastically and Kitty saw his eyes examining the oranges, and guessed he was choosing the two largest, in case he should be invited to pick his own. ‘Thanks, Mr Marriott. She’s a real good kid. She won’t bruise your fruit, an’ I’ll be back afore you can say knife,’ he said, and before Kitty could put in a word he had vanished into the crowd.
By the time he got back, Kitty and Mr Marriott were chatting like old friends. Kitty, emboldened by Nick’s story, had invented a large family living several streets away from Handkerchief Alley. It was her grandma, she had explained glibly, who lived in the alley, and she had reeled off a list of messages half a mile long. Nick had taken the list she had written round to her gran’s to make sure she had left nothing out. Mr Marriott, for his part, had talked about his customers, his fruit, which he said was the best anywhere in Dublin, and his friendship with Nick. This had come about because the boy had taken to appearing late on a Saturday night to help him dismantle his stall, and they had become so friendly that Mr Marriott had asked his wife, ‘a generous critter, so she was’, to pack up a bit of new bread, a good slice of cold bacon, and a couple of pickled onions for his young helper.
Kitty was about to expand on her own usefulness, for as they talked she had been gently transferring the piled-up fruit on the stall to the boxes which Mr Marriott had indicated, when Nick reappeared. ‘It’s all right, alanna, you hadn’t misremembered,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Now we’d best get on or the shops will be closed before we’re through.’
When they left the bustle of Francis Street behind them, Kitty demanded to know just what had transpired in Handkerchief Alley. ‘Nothin’,’ Nick said, sounding surprised. ‘I went up them stairs like a bleedin’ ghost – good thing I know the creaking ones off by heart by now – and shoved the paper under the door. I could hear voices, but they weren’t angry or frightened, they were just chattin’. Then I made off down the stairs, still quiet like, and come straight back here.’
‘I expect they think I’ve gone round to a friend’s place,’ Kitty said, trying not to show the disappointment she felt. She was
never
this late; if they truly loved her, surely they would have grown anxious by now. Maeve had always stressed that she must let them know if she intended to visit a friend. But then she remembered the terrible news of Uncle Pat’s death and thought that that probably explained it. They would be so busy deciding on details for the funeral and the wake which would follow it that they might not even notice she had not come in at her usual time. She turned to Nick, eager to ask what he thought, but he was already speaking.
‘. . . so we’ll go straight round to Handkerchief Alley, because there’s a line of washing, looking awful droopy, behind the first tenement block,’ he said. ‘Is that all right by you?’
‘No, it is not,’ Kitty said indignantly. What on earth was Nick thinking of, planning to rob a washing line so close to her home? ‘For one thing, the moment they open that note I reckon they’ll come flying out to see if they can find me. And for another, when the neighbours start asking questions about who robbed their washing line, they’ll think it’s me.’
Nick started to speak, then stopped short, gazing thoughtfully at Kitty. ‘That’s an idea,’ he said, though Kitty was very certain that she had said nothing to give him any sort of idea. ‘And you’re right, of course, there’s no sense in hanging round here any longer. We’ll leg it for the Coombe, or even to Marrowbone Lane; is that sufficiently far for Miss Goody-Two-Shoes?’
Kitty punched him. ‘Don’t call me that,’ she said, trying to sound severe but failing dismally. ‘And what’s this bright idea that I give you, eh?’
Half an hour later, she knew. Nick had taken the clothing he wanted from various lines and had shoved three garments at her. There was a blue shirt with no collar or cuffs, and precious few buttons; a man’s much washed V-necked pullover, which had shrunk until it more or less fitted Kitty; and a pair of quite decent trousers, though they were much darned and patched. Kitty had donned the first two in the dirty little yard of the tenement from which Nick had taken the clothing, but now she brandished the trousers, giving a scornful sniff. ‘You are an idiot, Nick,’ she whispered. ‘There were a long skirt on the next line; did you think you’d got that?’
‘No I didn’t; put ’em on,’ Nick said briefly, and as soon as Kitty, much mystified, had obeyed, he got out his old pocket knife, which had a minute pair of scissors folded in the back, and proceeded to chop at her hair, strand by strand, saying as she protested: ‘Sure and isn’t this the best disguise you could hope for? If anyone twigs that we’ve both run off, they’ll be lookin’ for a girl and a feller, not two lads. What’s more, when we’ve made ourselves a few pennies doing odd jobs, we’ll buy you an old cap. It’ll keep the rain off and you’ll look completely different. Isn’t that what you want?’
Kitty sniffed and knuckled the tears from her eyes, for the cutting of her hair had been a painful business, but she was quick to realise that Nick was absolutely right. No one, not even her darling Maeve, would look twice at a scrawny lad in the dreadful clothing which Nick had stolen for her. She said as much to Nick, who beamed approvingly at her, though it was now so dark that she could really only see the flash of his teeth in the gloom. ‘But now I know the very place where we can lie up until we set out for the country.’ He put a comforting arm round Kitty’s waist and began to propel her out of the little yard. ‘I reckon you’re tired, old Kitty; you’ll sleep like a log tonight.’
Maeve came home with the messages, having first delivered the babies in her care to their respective homes. She hurried up the stairs, gaily refusing an offer from a strange young man to give her a hand with her marketing bag, and burst into the kitchen to find Caitlin sitting at the table like a wax image, staring at nothing. Immediately, Maeve realised that something was wrong. Was one of the children hurt? The twins had acquired roller skates the previous Christmas and terrified the life out of their elders by swooping in and out of the traffic along O’Connell Street. They had been forbidden to do so, of course, but Maeve and Caitlin both realised that forbidding was one thing and getting the twins to obey such instructions quite another. So Maeve’s anxiety was chiefly for the boys as she said: ‘What’s happened, Caitlin? I can see it’s something bad.’
For a full minute, Caitlin stared at her as though she did not understand the question. Maeve was about to repeat it when her friend spoke. ‘It’s me darlin’ Pat,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘He’s dead of the flu, died a day or so ago in hospital. Me cousin Brendan came in on his way back to Connemara to tell me what happened.’
‘Oh, Cait. Oh, you poor darling! And wasn’t Pat the best husband in the world, to be sure? Oh, it’s a terrible thing to happen, especially when he fought all through the war wit’ scarce a scratch on him.’ Maeve put both her thin little arms round Caitlin and tried to hug her, but the older girl pushed her gently away.
‘I’ve not told the children yet, and I’m dreading it,’ she said bleakly. ‘He must be buried out at Glasnevin wit’ all his family and friends. It’ll cost, but folks is generous. I dare say everyone who ever knew him will put a few pence towards the cost of buryin’ him.’
‘Of course they will; everyone were real fond of Pat,’ Maeve said, feeling the hot tears begin to slide down her cold cheeks. They had all been longing for Pat’s return; it had never occurred to anyone that he might not come back. Why should it? The war was over. Men were being repatriated all the time and then demobbed, though it was a slow business. Oh, God, how would they explain to the kids? Her own beloved Kitty, though not even related to Pat, adored him, for wasn’t he the nearest thing to a father she had ever known? Maeve knew Kitty wouldn’t understand why Pat’s life had been spared through all the terrible dangers of the war only to be struck down by an illness from which, surely, he could have recovered. He wasn’t old not yet forty-five, and he must have been strong to survive the rigours of the war. Maeve thought that God had a lot to answer for.
Caitlin seemed to have pulled herself together, for she stood up and went over to the mirror which hung beside the kitchen door. She unpinned her hair, then reached for the comb on the ledge beneath the mirror, running it through her thick dark locks and pinning them back into a bun once more. Then she rubbed vigorously at her pale cheeks. ‘We’d best get a meal going,’ she said, and her voice was remarkably steady. ‘I’ll not tell the children until we’re all sitting down together. Oh, Maeve, it’s so hard. I’ve got to be brave, to pretend for their sakes, but inside I feel as if my life ended when I realised Pat was dead.’
‘I’m hungry,’ Kitty said plaintively, as Nick dragged her along the dusky streets. The lamplighter was ahead of them, but only just, and as the lamps bloomed gold it seemed to make the shadows between them more menacing, turning the sky from the palest of blue to indigo. Nick, with his arm round her shoulders, gave her a comforting squeeze. ‘There’s a soup kitchen a few streets away, don’t you remember?’ he said. ‘You must have been there, ’cos it’s not far from where you live. They give you a decent hunk of bread an’ all.’
‘I’ve never been to a soup kitchen; Caitlin makes our soup,’ Kitty explained. ‘What is a soup kitchen anyway? And how d’you get the soup home? You can’t carry it in your hands.’
‘You takes a pot or a bowl, but they lends cup things to kids, only you ain’t allowed to take ’em away from the steps, and you have to hand ’em back as soon as the soup’s done,’ Nick told her. ‘Often it’s cabbage soup – well, mainly cabbage – wit’ some spud to thicken it, like. It’s good, I’m tellin’ you.’
‘But what if they ask us why we isn’t at home wit’ our mammies?’ Kitty said, as they rounded a corner and saw a queue of children and adults waiting outside a lamplit doorway. ‘What if the soup lady knows us?’