‘’Cos you’ve got something to lose,’ Nick said bluntly. ‘You’ve a good home and folk what love you; in the Mooney household, I’m tellin’ you, there’s more kicks than kisses. The only food what comes through our door is the liquid kind ’cos it’s cheaper’n bread or spuds or porridge. Me daddy visits the kips in the Monto if he’s any money to spare after he’s had a bellyful of booze, and me mammy hits out at any kid silly enough to be within reach when she’s feelin’ naggy. Believe me, I’m better away. Dunno why I didn’t go years back, when I were your age.’
‘You’re hardly ever home anyhow,’ Kitty pointed out. ‘An’ running right away all by yourself would be horrible – frightening, I mean. But when it’s the two of us . . .’
‘The t’ree of us, you mean,’ Nick said, grinning and jerking a thumb towards Tommy, who was trotting along behind them, tail up in the air as straight as a poker, and not appearing to give them so much as a glance.
Kitty grinned too. ‘Where’ll we get rid of the rest of the coal?’ she asked, for the weight of it, slung between them, was a nuisance and every time the sack banged her leg coal dust drifted from it, blackening her feet – for she had abandoned her shoes and stockings, taking Nick’s advice that street children went unshod.
‘We’re going to take it back to our little cave; I’ve plans for it,’ Nick informed her. ‘And after that, I think we’ll see.’
Chapter Twelve
Brendan arrived in Liverpool two days after he received the telegram. As he hurried to the tram stop at the Pier Head, the sun was shining warmly on his back and the sky was blue overhead, whilst a gentle breeze ruffled his hair. It was impossible not to feel hopeful, but when he drew near the Ferryman worries and doubts began to return. The pub was shut, which was normal for this time of day, but somehow it bore a menacing look, though at first he thought this merely fanciful. When he got close, however, he noticed that the shutters on the bar windows were closed across, and then he saw, with a lurch of sickening apprehension, that an untidy white curtain of some description hung across the large windows on the upper floor. He quickened his pace, and even as he raised a hand to bang on the door it opened. Sylvie stood there. He had never seen her look so dreadful, for her face was white as a sheet, her eyes were red-rimmed, and her mouth drooped so forlornly that it was all he could do to stop himself from snatching her into a comforting embrace. She looked up at him for a moment as though she had never seen him before, then she stepped back, gesturing to him to follow. He obeyed, smelling the familiar odour of the bar – alcohol, cigarette smoke and dust – and, impulsively, tried to take Sylvie’s hands, but she shrank back, shaking her head. ‘Better not touch me,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve just been helping Mrs Bywater with . . . with . . .’
Brendan saw great tears form in her eyes and slide down her pale cheeks. He watched with a sort of fascinated horror as the tears soaked into the grimy blouse she wore. Grimy! In all the years he had known her, Sylvie had made sure that her clothing was always spotlessly clean and beautifully ironed. Now – he took in the black cardigan, half unbuttoned, the draggly grey skirt, the dirty, down-at-heel slippers – she looked as though she had slept in her present outfit for weeks.
‘What’s happened?’ His own voice sounded creaky with disuse. ‘Someone – someone’s passed away; I saw the white sheet in the bedroom window. Oh, dearest Sylvie, was it – was it poor old Len?’
Sylvie shook her head, then nodded it. ‘Yes. He died yesterday. But today . . . but today we lost Becky. We . . . we fought very hard, Mam and me; we thought she’d turned the corner. When I saw her this morning, her little face, which had been red with the fever, was pale and cool, and I thought – I thought . . .’
‘Oh, my dear,’ Brendan breathed, stricken. He knew how she adored her small daughter, how proud she had been of the little girl’s quick intelligence. And he knew how fond Mrs Dugdale was of her granddaughter; it must have been a terrible blow for her, too.
He said as much, but Sylvie shook her head. ‘Granny Dugdale was the first to go,’ she muttered. ‘There’s only Mam and me here now. We sent Bertie and the other fellers home because of the infection, and anyway, there’s no point in opening the pub.’
‘You said you were helping Mrs Bywater?’ Brendan said.
‘She’s – she’s laying Becky out,’ Sylvie whispered. ‘She’s been rushed off her feet. There’s ever so many ill, Brendan, and the hospitals are full, you know. But she did do her best to give me a hand and my mam’s been wonderful. She’s not been home since Len took ill – he were the first to get it – but it seems to me that she and meself must have some sort of immunity, if that’s the right word, and the doctor says we’ve got to wash our hands twenty times day and disinfect all the rooms and maybe it’ll pass us by.’ For the first time, she smiled tremulously up at him. ‘Oh, Brendan, it’s so good to see you! But I knew you’d come – I knew you’d not let me down.’ And then, as though the effort of talking had been too much for her, she swayed, gave a little choking cry, and collapsed into Brendan’s arms.
Sylvie was ill for a week, though it was not the influenza as Brendan and Mrs Davies had feared, but the result, the doctor said, of the strain of continuous nursing and the agony of losing the fight three times over. ‘However, the best thing you can do, young man,’ he added, ‘is to get in touch with the brewery and explain what’s happened. They’ll likely send someone in to manage the place until they decide what to do, because with the landlady gone they’ll want someone else in charge.’
‘I’ll speak to the brewery,’ Brendan said. ‘You’re quite right: it’s something that needs to be sorted out.’
When Sylvie had collapsed, Brendan had carried her up the stairs to her own room, accompanied by her mother. ‘You’re a grand feller, Brendan, so you are,’ Mrs Davies had said. ‘I dare say Sylvie told you when she wrote that a seaman, Sam Trescoe, popped in to visit Len whenever he were in port. Well, Sylvie and meself reckon he brought the infection since Len sickened a couple of days after his last visit. We’ve not heard a word from him since, and when he left he was complaining of dizziness, so I fear he’s gone the way of all flesh, too.’
This seemed very odd to Brendan for Sylvie had never so much as mentioned a seaman called Sam in her letters, yet he must have known the family well. He decided to ask Sylvie about Sam when she was well enough to answer questions, but then Mrs Davies suggested that he should stay in the spare room, so that the two of them might share the nursing of Sylvie, and he quite forgot his puzzlement.
With Sylvie on the mend, the brewery advised them that a temporary manager would be coming in at the end of the week, and Brendan told Sylvie that when the man arrived he himself would leave. ‘Your mam will look after you, alanna, and when I was in Ireland I hardly set eyes on me father or me brother because I came straight back to see what I could do to help you,’ he said quietly one evening. ‘You and your mam will be simply grand, but if you need me . . . well, you know I’ll come running, don’t you?’
Sylvie thanked him but said, rather stiffly, that she and her mother intended to apply to the brewery to become joint licensees and their request would, she felt sure, be acceded to. Then, unexpectedly, she flung her arms round his neck and pulled his face down to hers. ‘I don’t know how I’d have managed without you,’ she said in a small, choked voice. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to ask you to stay because in all your letters you talked about buying some land of your own and I know your heart is in Ireland, really. But oh, Brendan, how on earth will I go on without you? I – I’m so alone, and though it wouldn’t be true to pretend that Len and I had an ideal marriage I do miss him, and I scarcely dare think about Becky because it hurts and hurts like a sword in my heart. D’you know, every morning when I wake I have to convince myself all over again that she’s gone. She – she was so alive, so quick and clever, so very, very sweet.’
Brendan held her gently in his arms, feeling his heart begin to race. He knew it was not the moment to ask her to marry him, not even the moment to declare his love for her, though he was sorely tempted. Instead, he put her gently away from him, then smoothed the silky white-blonde hair back from her forehead and gazed steadily into her large blue eyes. ‘I t’ink you know I’d do anything for you, Sylvie,’ he said quietly. ‘And I’ll be back when I’ve had a chance to settle me affairs in Connemara. Now, I know you’ll t’ink I’m being hard, but Becky wasn’t your only child. How would you feel if I came back and brought your daughter Catherine Mary – they call her Kitty now – with me? Or would it hurt too much, reminding you of your loss?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ Sylvie muttered. ‘I think it’s too soon . . . but later, I might be glad to have her here. Only – only would Caitlin be prepared to part with her?’
Brendan remembered Caitlin’s despair over Pat’s death and how she had threatened to put Kitty into an orphanage or to send her back to her real mother. He took Sylvie’s hands in his and squeezed them gently. ‘Caitlin’s got a heart as big as a bus, so she has, and quite enough children of her own to satisfy any woman,’ he said, bracingly. ‘And she’s lost her man, remember? Things will be as difficult for her as they are bound to be for you, but if you truly want Kitty Caitlin would be the first to acknowledge your right.’
‘I don’t know about right . . .’ Sylvie was beginning, when her mother entered the kitchen.
‘Letter for you, Sylvie,’ she said cheerfully. She turned to Brendan. ‘It’s from Dublin, so it’ll be from your cousin Caitlin I expect.’
‘I suppose she’ll want to tell you that Pat’s dead, since she doesn’t know that I’ve returned to Liverpool,’ Brendan said. He hoped that Caitlin did not mean to reproach Sylvie for leaving the child, for he’d had no opportunity to write to his cousin to tell her of Sylvie’s tragic losses. Sylvie, however, having quickly scanned the letter, pushed it into his hands, her eyes darkening with some emotion which Brendan could not interpret.
‘She’s run away!’ she said urgently. ‘Me little girl’s run away! She’s not yet eight years old and a prey to any bad person who might get hold of her. Oh, Brendan, I were a terrible mother to the little creature and I don’t deserve to have her back after the way I treated her. But – but you said you’d do anything you could to help me; will you go back to Ireland, my dearest friend, and find my little girl for me? Will you tell Caitlin I’ll pay for my child’s keep until she’s a woman grown, if Caitlin’s willing to have her? If not, she’d be welcome to make her home with me.’ She turned towards her mother. ‘Isn’t that true, Mam? Wouldn’t you welcome your other granddaughter if Brendan brings her home to us?’
By the end of the week, Kitty was getting to know Dublin almost as well as Nick. Maeve had protected her from so many things! She had never had to queue at the soup kitchen before, never had to line up in Buckingham Street for a mug of stew, nor follow a milk cart round the streets until the milkman left it for long enough for a child to nip in and dip a small quantity of milk out of the churn. She grew to know which stallholders could be relied upon to turn away for a moment just as one passed the stall, so that a fruit or vegetable could be slid into one’s pocket without starting an outcry.
In that first week of freedom, she learned that the children of the streets stuck together. One would collect wood for a fire, another would steal potatoes to cook on it, others would share anything they could obtain. Nick told her that often, in winter, children who were afraid to go home because of drunken and abusive parents would gather in some quiet spot to pool their resources, try to get some sort of hot meal inside them, and sleep together, curled up like puppies amongst piles of newspaper, straw or rags. She, who had been told by Maeve and Caitlin that the police were her friends, learned that this did not apply if you were a child sleeping rough. Authority did not approve, wanted you back in your parents’ room, even when a return might mean a beating or worse.
Then there were the street fights, generally regarded by the young as a grand form of entertainment. Maeve and Caitlin had not approved of such ruggyups, but now Kitty followed Nick’s example and wriggled through the crowd of watching adults to get a good view, though this was a pastime which they had to abandon after Kitty found herself elbow to elbow with a boy called Jimmy who lived in Handkerchief Alley and would undoubtedly have recognised her, despite her altered appearance, had she not seen him first and beaten a hasty retreat.
Nick had said they would stay in the city for a week, collecting money so that their flight into the country might not be a penniless one, and sure enough, after eight days, they had managed to accumulate almost five shillings in coins. They had slept every night in the little cave formed by the ruined tenement building, but after the eighth night Nick decreed that they should move on at last. ‘The fact is, alanna, that I wanted to be absolutely certain sure we were doing the right thing by getting out of Dublin,’ he explained. ‘You’re not used to the sort of life I live, but I must say you’ve took to it like a duck to water. I reckon we’ve been dead lucky not to have bumped into the twins, or Maeve, or one of your neighbours, but our luck’s bound to run out if we hang around much longer. The polis will have been told to look out for you, and though they aren’t going to reckernise you it’s daft to take chances, so tomorrer we’ll start movin’ out, headin’ for the real countryside.’
Kitty touched her raggedy head cautiously, yet with a certain pride, for Nick had done as he had promised, and she now had a splendid cap which obscured half her face as well as her hair. They had been sitting in the mouth of what Kitty thought of as their sleeping quarters, and now she turned to Nick, eyes rounding, for the remark about the police had just sunk in. ‘The polis? But why should they be looking out for me? I’ve done nothing wrong.’ She saw a gleam in Nick’s eyes and added hastily: ‘Well, nothing that anyone knows about, I mean. We robbed the trousers and shirt and that, but we left my clothes instead. And there was the coal . . . but I don’t see why the polis should be looking for me if they aren’t looking for you.’