But before she considered her future, she would go and see Mrs Prescott. She had announced her intention of going over to Snowdrop Street as soon as she reached home, but somehow it had never been convenient for her to go visiting, and because she wanted her homecoming to be as trouble-free as possible, she had postponed undertaking the journey. She could not believe that her mother and father would continue to disapprove of her visiting her old nurse but in any event, she did not intend to put it to the test. She would go first and talk about it later, she decided.
Accordingly she got up, dressed in a bronze blouse, grey suit and black court shoes, then went down to the breakfast parlour.
Mrs Cordwainer was sitting at the table, nibbling toast. She looked up and smiled as her daughter entered the room.
‘Ah, Sara dear – good morning! I thought we’d go out to Crosby later to visit my friend Fanny.’
Sara smiled and took her seat at the table. She reached across for the toast, then changed her mind; it would be cold by now, she was late. Instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee from the tall silver pot.
‘Good morning, Mother, isn’t it a lovely day? But I’m afraid I can’t come out to Crosby with you, I’ve a previous engagement.’
‘Oh? With whom, dear?’
‘I’m going to see an old friend, someone I’ve known for years,’ Sara said truthfully. ‘But I’ve not seen her since I left the city, though we did write from time to time.’
‘Ah, a school friend. And will you be back for luncheon? You won’t forget the harvest supper tonight, dear? It helps to raise funds for the poor of the Indian subcontinent, I believe. I’ve bought half a dozen tickets, several of our friends and relatives will be coming.’
‘How nice,’ Sara said vaguely. ‘I’ll be back in good time, Mother.’
‘Good. You’re calling a cab, I presume?’
It was a discreet way of finding out just where she was going, Sara guessed. She smiled, looking down at her plate. ‘No, indeed. It’s not far at all, only a few steps in fact.’
Her mother relaxed. She really doesn’t want me to see Nanny, Sara realised. It’s absolutely ridiculous, but I’m going to have to be very careful. If Mother was jealous of my affection for Nanny I could understand it, but she doesn’t love me herself, I’ve always known that. She
likes
me now I’m a grownup, a young woman, and she is beginning to enjoy my company, but loving . . . well, that’s a very different kettle of fish.
‘Oh, then if you really can’t come with me, my dear, I’ll get a cab to Crosby as soon as I’m properly dressed. Your father has the car. I wonder if Mrs Spry would care to accompany me? She’s thinking of buying a little property outside the city. I believe I’ll send Fletcher round to ask if she’d like to come with me.’
How extraordinary! She doesn’t like to be alone, that’s why she’s been clinging to me, Sara thought, astonished. Well, I never would have thought it – and when I was a child she was always so eager to get rid of me!
Presently she went up to her room and got her handbag, settled her new hat at a becoming angle on her dark curls, and set off. She found herself more excited than she had been since her homecoming, for once in the streets, by herself and on foot, a good deal of her past came flooding back. Going off to school in the city with her satchel on her back and her hockey stick in one hand and one of the maids, impatient to return to her work, hurrying her along. The tram ride with other girls also wearing the navy and scarlet school uniform, everyone chattering, exchanging gossip, writing in each other’s autograph books. A craze for fortune-telling, another craze for cigarette cards, a time, earlier, when she never trod on a crack in the paving stones for fear that it would open up and swallow her. Then there had been the piano lessons, to which Jane had accompanied her whilst Robson drove them to the teacher’s home and came back for them an hour later. That had meant going through the city at night, with the lamps lit, the gas flaring softly, white, primrose, deep yellow. And the great buildings towering above the small girl and her companion – St George’s Hall, the Picton Library, the Walker Art Gallery – as much a part of her past as were the stairs which led up to the nursery, the long, echoing corridors of her school and the smell of cabbage and boiled socks which heralded a school dinner.
But nostalgia attacked her hardest on the tram, when she climbed aboard it on Croxteth Road and it began to rattle along towards the city centre. They passed her old school and she saw that it wasn’t a huge or imposing place but quite small compared with the Swiss school, and they passed a friend’s house and she craned her neck, hoping to see Eliza, but all she saw was a black cat, sunning itself in the front garden.
She had to change trams on Old Haymarket and stood for a moment, tapping her foot impatiently on the big, fudge-coloured paving stones. But then her tram came along with ‘Stanley Road’ written on its board and she hopped aboard and went and sat on one of the hard slatted wooden seats. Well she remembered
them;
her bottom had been striped by them many a time!
And presently, the excitement began to build as the tram rattled along, sounding its bell warningly as the crowds on the streets, trying to dodge amongst the traffic, grew thicker and less willing to give way. The tram roared along the Vauxhall Road and Sara saw familiar, much-loved sights and the smells which went with them; the great bulk of Tate & Lyle’s sugar refinery, scenting the air with sweetness, further along the smells from the distillery, further yet the scent of freshly cut wood from the saw mills . . . and a glimpse, always longed-for when she was on the tram with her nanny, of the Leeds & Liverpool canal, the water gleaming dully, like unpolished pewter, under a cloudy sky.
And then they were on Stanley Road and she was so excited that she could not stop smiling. When she was first in Switzerland she had thought about Brogan a lot, remembering him with great affection, but gradually, as the years passed, she began to see that they had scarcely known one another, really. But she had liked him so much, even being on Stanley Road again made her see a picture of him in her head. His dark hair and eyes, the height of him, the easy strength . . . her tummy gave a most peculiar lurch when she remembered him hugging her in the cinema once, when she’d been scared by the film. She must find him again, tell him she was back, renew their friendship.
Through the window she saw the long procession of milliners and hairdressing establishments, picture palaces and pawnshops, passing in front of her eyes. And then she saw her stop approaching and she jumped to her feet and the conductor tinged his bell, the tram driver applied his brakes . . . and she was getting down . . . she was there!
Chapter Seven
In three years, very little had changed. There were still a great many people thronging the pavement, many carrying small attaché bags or worn suitcases. They were women, Sara knew, going to the pawn to collect their decent stuff for Sunday. Soon they would be reclaiming blankets as the weather grew colder but for now it was mainly Sunday suits, the respectable shoes, the ornaments for the mantel if you were having a bit of a hooley round your place, Saturday night.
Several people glanced at her, then looked away again. The differences between a child not yet fifteen and a young woman of eighteen are considerable, Sara realised, and besides, though she had been respectably dressed as a child, she had not been smart or fashionable. Now she was both, and suddenly she began to feel a little uncomfortable, even a little ashamed.
Who was she to walk down this busy, happy road in a suit and hat which had cost more than a good many of these people earned in a year? She had done nothing for it, after all. She despised her parents for being greedy and uncaring, but what had she actually done for those less fortunate? Once, long ago, she had given a child a pair of gloves and a shilling and because of it, the child had died. Oh, she knew it hadn’t been her fault, she could not possibly have known that a spontaneous, generous act would have such terrible consequences. But what had she done since?
Sara sighed and turned the corner into Snowdrop Street. It was no use feeling sorry for herself, because that was just what she was doing, really. A child has very little real power; she had done what she could without arousing adult wrath and if it hadn’t been enough she was sorry, but the past is the past. Now, however, she was eighteen years old and had real earning power, if only she could find someone to employ her. And then she would use her money properly and wisely, and she would make those enquiries about the Carbery girls which she had always intended to make once she grew up. Or she hoped she would. Human nature being what it is, she reflected gloomily, she would probably marry some suitable young man, leave her job, and start a family. That was what most girls did and Sara knew it was what her parents expected her to do. Whether she would or not remained to be seen, for though she thought Mr Hepworth very pleasant, she was not at all sure that she actually wanted to marry him.
She reached number three and took the brass dolphin in her hand. She no longer had to stand on the step to reach it. She lifted the knocker, let it fall, then stood back and waited.
She heard the footsteps at once and smiled to herself. Good old Nanny, the years hadn’t changed her light step! In fact she sounded younger than ever, as though not seeing Sara for three whole years had brought about a magical shedding of the burden of age. But before Sara had done more than think this the door opened and a woman appeared in the doorway. She was probably in her middle thirties, Sara thought, with a plain but kindly face, dark hair pulled back into a bun and very bright dark eyes.
‘Good mornin’, queen,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And what can I do for you this fine mornin’?’
‘Oh!’ Sara stammered, totally taken aback. ‘I’ve come to see my nanny . . . Mrs Prescott, I mean. Don’t say she’s ill!’
‘Oh no, she’s not really ill, but she’s not been too good . . .’ The woman peered at her, then light seemed to dawn for she smiled suddenly. ‘You wouldn’t be young Sara, would you? Sara Cordwainer?’
‘That’s right,’ Sara said. ‘What’s been the matter with Nanny? I’ve been away from home for three years, you see, so I’ve not seen her all that time, but we’ve been exchanging letters and she never said anything about her health failing. Only she’s not one to grumble about herself, so I suppose she wouldn’t have said? Er . . . are you a neighbour? A friend?’ Another thought struck her. ‘Mrs Prescott is here, isn’t she? She’s not in hospital or anything?’
‘No, she’s here,’ the woman said. ‘I’m sorry, chuck, wharrever am I thinkin’ of?’ she stood aside, gesturing Sara to enter the narrow hallway. ‘I’m Mrs Prescott’s lodger, my name’s Boote – Clarrie Boote.’ She held out a square, capable hand. ‘How d’you do, Miss Cordwainer! Your gran’s much better now, out of hospital, on her feet, but she’s having a sit down and a cuppa, wi’ a biscuit or two to dunk in it.’
‘How do you do, Miss Boote,’ Sara said, feeling quite weak with relief. Thank goodness Nanny was all right now – but what had ailed her?
She put the question to Miss Boote, who sighed.
‘Well, I could say anno domini, Miss Cordwainer, but I suppose it’s a combination of things, really. She got a nasty old infection which swelled all her joints and gave her a high fever so they whipped her into the Stanley. They did a good job, cured the fever, but ever since she’s found it hard to move about much. It’s chronic rheumatism, if you ask me, brought about by the ’flu, or whatever it was.’
‘How awful,’ Sara breathed. She could not imagine her nanny ill. But Miss Boote said she was better, which was something to hold on to. If Nanny wasn’t here I don’t know what I’d do, she thought. She’s like a rock, always steady, always understanding – always there.
‘Yes, Mrs Prescott has a good deal to contend with,’ Miss Boote agreed. ‘But I give a hand when I can.’
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Sara said, though she wondered why Nanny had suddenly decided to let one of her rooms. ‘She isn’t getting any younger and the company will do her good.’
‘And me rent helps,’ Miss Boote said frankly. ‘I gather there was a rift in the family and she don’t get much help from
that
quarter.’
‘I don’t think she’s got any family, or not anyone really close,’ Sara said cautiously. ‘But Nanny’s always been very independent.’
Miss Boote, who had been about to open the parlour door, turned and stared at her.
‘No family?’ she said slowly. ‘Then what do you call yourself?’
‘Mrs Prescott was my old nanny,’ Sara explained. ‘She is no relation. I call her nanny because . . . well, because she was my nanny until I started school.’
Miss Boote snorted. ‘Your nanny? She’s your grandmother, child – didn’t you know? Oh aye, her daughter Letty married your dad and she’s had no time for her mam since the day she was wed. She let your gran move into the house and take care of you when you was small . . . d’you mean to say she never let on that you was all related?’
Sara leaned against the wall, with its pattern of brown roses on a cream ground. ‘Related?’ she said faintly. ‘My grandmother? But she can’t be – Mother’s mother lives in Devonshire, she’s an eccentric and doesn’t care for children. And I know Father’s mother quite well, though to be honest, we don’t like each other much.’
‘Devonshire! When your gran telled me she’d let her daughter tell you fairytales rather than lose you altogether I couldn’t believe me ears,’ Miss Boote said scornfully. ‘Didn’t anyone ever let on? They must ha’ known, surely?’