Little Girl Lost (31 page)

Maeve had shaken her head but taken the proffered sheet, scanned it quickly, and then begun to read it aloud.

Maeve had looked round at the faces; everyone had been shocked, but it was Clodagh who had spoken first. ‘Who’s she with, Maeve?’ she had asked. ‘Do you think she’s gone to your mam?’

Maeve had begun to answer but was rudely interrupted by Fergal who had given a derisive snort. ‘Gone to old Ma Connolly? Are you
mad
, Clodagh? She’ll be wit’ that perishin’ young tearaway, Nick Mooney. Who else would be hangin’ round when everyone else is in school? Mitching’s a way o’ life for the Mooneys.’

Maeve had stared at him, then rushed across the kitchen and given him a hug, despite his vigorous attempts to hold her off. ‘Nick! Nick Mooney! Sure and aren’t you the cleverest boy in Dublin, Fergal O’Keefe! I should have thought of him at once, ’cos the two of ’em’s thick as thieves. Well, all I hope is she’s not spending the night in their room, because if she is, she’ll be coming out wit’ a good deal more than she went in wit’. Lice, hoppers, scab . . . the Mooneys have got the lot!’

Fergal had snorted again. ‘What, go back to the Mooney room? I reckon young Nick sleeps under his own roof no more’n two nights a year. They’ll kip down on a pile of newspapers in a tenement hallway, tucked out of sight. They’ll be back for breakfast tomorrow, ’cos Nick never has a penny to bless himself with an’ I reckon our Kitty’s no better.’ He had pointed an accusing finger at Maeve. ‘And don’t you go hugging me again or I shan’t go out and fetch Tommy in for you.’

Maeve had beamed at him. ‘You’re a grand feller, Fergal, so you are.’

Now, Maeve slid out of bed and got to her feet. She was always first up in the mornings in order to light the fire, fetch water if necessary, empty slop buckets and get the porridge started. She would pull the kettle over the fire as soon as it was well lit because she liked to take Caitlin a cup of tea, even though the other woman was seldom actually in bed when she took it in but was already preparing for the day ahead. Usually she was careful to go quietly in order not to wake Kitty, but today there was no need to steal about the bedroom, for Clodagh and Grainne, no doubt exhausted by the horrors of the previous day, did not stir even when Maeve clattered the jug against the basin when pouring her washing water.

In the kitchen, she went about her morning tasks automatically. The flames began to take hold and the turfs burn steadily. She pulled the kettle over the flame, and presently heard the milk cart rumble past the end of the alley. Grabbing a jug off the dresser, and her crutch from the corner, she slid some coins into her apron pocket and hurried downstairs and out into Francis Street. Already, there was a short queue waiting to be served, and she took her place in it, watching as the ladle was dipped into the churn and the milk tipped carefully into various receptacles. When it was her turn, the milkman measured out the pint she wanted and then added a little extra. ‘Summat for de cat,’ he said jovially as he did every morning, taking the money.

‘Thank you,’ Maeve said, adjusting her crutch beneath her arm so that she would not spill the precious milk. ‘You’ve not seen Kitty, I suppose? I’m – I’m a bit worried. I think she’s stayed over in a pal’s room an’ it’s not like her. She didn’t ask, you see.’

The milkman thought, then shook his head. ‘No, I ain’t seen her,’ he admitted. ‘If I do, I’ll send her home wit’ a flea in her ear.’

Maeve thanked him and returned to the flat, moving much more slowly now and feeling suddenly uneasy. Surely Kitty should have been home by now? She would have to go round to the Mooney room if Kitty was not back by breakfast, because she did not mean to let Kitty’s record of good behaviour slip, which it certainly would if the child mitched off school. She reached the kitchen and opened the door, praying that she would find Kitty within, but the only person present was Caitlin. Across the room, the two women stared at one another. ‘No, she’s not come back,’ Maeve said quietly, answering the unspoken question. ‘I really am worried, Cait. I’m goin’ to the polis as soon as we’ve finished breakfast. There’s that many kids in Dublin, you could search for a week – a month – and never find her.’

Caitlin took the kettle off the fire and poured bubbling water into the teapot. ‘I think you’re right to go to the polis,’ she observed. ‘Mind you, there aren’t many kids in Dublin dressed as nice as she is.’

‘That’s true,’ Maeve said, cheering up a little. ‘But I’ll be that grateful to see her face appear round that door. I dare say I shan’t even scold her for giving me such a fright.’

Brendan walked along the well remembered lane with his heart full to bursting. It had been five long years since he had last visited his family home, but every stick and stone, every cushion of moss and patch of wild flowers, was as familiar to him as the backs of his own hands. He saw the rosettes of primroses and the tiny sweet-smelling violets which grew on the grassy bank to his right, and saw the bright buds on the quickthorn hedge which would presently hide the rough pasture on which his father’s beasts grazed from the view of anyone walking along the lane. He had dreaded having to tell Caitlin that Pat was dead and it had been every bit as bad as he had feared, but once it was over and done he could turn to his own affairs once more and begin to consider what his next move should be.

Yet now, with less than a mile to go to reach the long, whitewashed cottage where he had been born and brought up, he found himself thinking back to the moment when he had left Caitlin’s flat. He had not given another thought to the girl he had met until now, when, for some reason, the sight of the primroses and the sweet scent from the tiny violets reminded him of the girl with the elfin face, who had scorned his help, despite the heavy marketing bag, and the little crutch which she had wielded so expertly. And of course, now that he thought about it, it had been a good few years since Sylvie had given birth to Catherine Mary in the O’Keefes’ small back bedroom, which meant that the child with the crutch had almost certainly grown into the young woman he had recently met.

He wished he had seen Catherine Mary, though – he must remember to call her Kitty, as Caitlin had – because it would be nice when he returned to Liverpool to be able to give Sylvie a description of her little daughter. This thought so surprised him that he stopped short in his tracks. He had told himself, over and over, that he might not return to Liverpool at all; why should he? Sylvie had managed very well without him for the past four years, and though she had written regularly enough he had sometimes thought that her missives read like ‘duty’ letters, and occasionally even suspected that she wrote the same one to a number of people, merely changing the name of the recipient. Yet she had somehow managed to get into his blood, he told himself crossly, and knew that he would go back to Liverpool, even if only to sever his final connection with the Liverpool Constabulary. And whilst he was there, he would of course visit Sylvie and Len; he really must not forget to visit Len. Before the war he had become quite fond of the poor feller and thought his feelings were reciprocated; Len was glad to see him, and always sad when he left.

Just before he reached the cottage he had to ford a small stream, and he saw, without surprise, that the water was running fast and deep. There were stepping stones, but these were awash, so he had to take care because should he slip he would be wet to the knees. It was always the same in winter and spring, he reminded himself as he reached the further bank almost dry-shod; the rain from the moor drained off into the stream and made crossing it a difficult business. The stream put all thoughts of Liverpool and Sylvie out of his mind, for from here he could actually see the cottage and his heart lifted in delighted anticipation of the welcome he knew he would receive. His father and brother might well be working on the land but his mother would certainly be home. The cottage was a single-storey building, heavily thatched, and now that he was so close he could see the peat pile which leaned against the end wall, and was still only half used, and his mother’s vegetable garden, empty now of everything save a few draggly cabbages. There was a potato clamp in the back yard but he could not see that from here, though he guessed that a good deal of it would have been used by now for it was March, when the seed potatoes would be planted, and then his mother used the potatoes as sparingly as she could until the new crop could be harvested.

But we’re luckier than most, he thought contentedly as he swung open the tiny wicket gate and walked up the path and round past the peat stack to the back yard. We’ve got a grand sturdy fishing boat, half a dozen goats and two cows – mebbe more by now – so even when times are hard the mammy can drive the donkey cart into town on market days and sell her goat’s milk cheeses, her fine butter and even a little cream around Christmas, when the rich folk will buy it for the festivities. Even as the thought came to him, he pushed open the back door, and there was his mother in the large and homely kitchen, scooping flour out of a sack and sprinkling it on to the big wooden table; clearly she was about to start her weekly bake. He had telegraphed her to say he was coming home but had been unable to name the day, and now she gave a shriek, dropped the flour scoop and rushed across the room, her face flushing, her eyes bright. ‘Oh, Brendan, me darlin’ boy, you’ve growed,’ she gasped, throwing her arms round his neck.

She was a small, plump woman, but he lifted her off her feet with ease and swung her round, kissing her resoundingly on one rosy cheek. ‘Oh, Mammy, it’s grand to be home,’ he said contentedly. ‘But where’s Daddy and Declan?’

‘They’re ploughing. It’s been a wet winter so they’ve took the donkey to the driest field and they’ll plant the spuds tomorrow,’ his mother said. ‘I’ve tried to tell you about all the changes we’ve made in me letters, but I’ve not said nothing about Declan’s young lady because I wanted you to meet her for yourself. She’s a grand girl, so she is, and will make him a good wife. They plan to marry in twelve months, and when they do they will go to a place of their own.’ She gave him a twinkling look. ‘She’s a woman of property, so she is, and her father means to give them some land and a bit of a cottage as a wedding gift. You must meet her before you go off again, if we can arrange it. But what am I t’inkin’ of? Sit yourself down and I’ll put the kettle on . . . eh, but it’s a grand t’ing to see me boy again, so it is.’

Brendan sat down in the old rocking chair which was his father’s favourite seat. ‘Sure and I’ll meet the young lady just as soon as you like,’ he said. ‘But what makes you think I’m in a hurry to be off? I’m sure I told you in me letters that I wasn’t going to re-join the police force and that I meant to look for a bit of land of me own in these parts.’

His mother clapped a hand to her mouth, then turned to the mantel and took down a telegram which had been propped against the clock. Brendan had noticed it and had assumed that it was the one he had sent telling of his impending arrival, but now he realised his mistake as his mother handed it to him. ‘Sure an’ I’ll be forgettin’ me own head next! This came for you a couple o’ days back. We opened it, your daddy and meself, because we thought it was from you, and when we realised it weren’t . . . but you’d best read it for yourself.’

Brendan stared down at the piece of paper in his hand. The message was short but succinct:
Mother-in-law Len and Becky very ill stop I am desperate stop Please come stop Sylvie

‘I don’t know how she knew you’d be here,’ his mother said.

‘I wrote from Southampton saying I’d be returning to Connemara so wouldn’t be in Liverpool for a week or two,’ Brendan said heavily.

He looked up and met his mother’s anxious gaze. As he did so, he realised that she did not know who Sylvie was, for in his letters home he had referred to her as Mrs Dugdale and had tried to avoid mentioning her very often since he had no intention of letting his mother know that he had fallen in love with a married woman. But now he must make some explanation, for the naked fear and emotion in the telegram would have made any woman suspicious. If only Sylvie had thought, she should have signed the telegram
Dugdale
, but it was pretty clear that she had sent the epistle in a state of desperate anxiety and had never expected eyes other than his own to see it.

‘Well, son? You’ll go, of course?’

Brendan took a deep breath. ‘I’ll have to go,’ he said quietly. ‘Sylvie is Mrs Dugdale. I’m sure I mentioned her in my letters – I got involved with the family when I found her husband and father-in-law left for dead in an alley during the riots back in 1911. The father-in-law died but the husband lay for months in a hospital bed. He did improve a little, enough to be taken home, but the two Dugdale women have had quite a struggle, and whilst I was in Liverpool I visited them regularly. I imagine she’s turned to me because there’s no one else.’

‘I see,’ his mother said quietly, but Brendan thought her face spoke volumes. She knew him too well, that was the trouble. She had known him bring in a half-drowned fox cub which he had come across out on the moor and hand-raise it himself, going to infinite pains to release the little creature back into its natural habitat as soon as it was strong enough. At one time, he had taken a two-mile detour on his walk to and from school so that a younger boy might have a companion on the long trek. And there had been another boy in school with whom he had shared his bread and cheese and apple, because the lad was a town-dweller and seldom got enough to eat. She would know that he would have helped anyone in Sylvie’s position, whatever the circumstances; it was his reticence on the subject that would have told her he cared. Now, she abandoned the pastry she had been making, dusted flour off her hands and came over to him. She put an arm round his shoulders and gave him an affectionate hug. ‘You like her, but she’s a married woman doin’ right by a sick man,’ she said gently. ‘You’ll have to go . . . but this telegram arrived two days past; by the time you reach Liverpool the crisis may be over. If so, you’ll maybe come home almost at once. Oh, Brendan, don’t you think that’s best?’