‘My God! Oh, I’m so sorry . . . you don’t know what’s happened to his son Brogan, do you? We were friends years ago, but I’ve not seen him for a long time. I’d like to send him my condolences.’
Freddy Mack shrugged.
‘He’s gone back to Dublin,’ he said. ‘He went a whiles ago; he’ll be workin’ over there now, taking care of his mammy and the young ’uns.’
‘And – and you don’t think he’ll come back?’ Sara said faintly. She felt as though she had stepped into a pit of darkness, which was absurd, because Brogan was only a friend after all, and she’d not seen him for a long while. ‘Not at all? Not ever?’
‘There’s a young lady,’ Freddy Mack said, wrinkling his brow. ‘I can’t be recallin’ her name, now, but there was a young lady he spoke of from time to time. Likely he’s marryin’ her, Miss.’
‘I see. Well, thank you, Mr Mack,’ Sara said politely, through dry lips. It serves me right, she thought, never really trying to get in touch with him again, always assuming he’d turn up, cap in hand, and we’d pick up our friendship where we left off. Well, that won’t happen now, Sara Cordwainer, so you’d better start wondering what you’re going to do with the rest of your life! Resolutely, she moved away from Freddy Mack, her newspapers fanned out in front of her.
‘Would anyone like a copy of the
War Cry
? Thank you, sir, that’s very generous of you. God bless you, sir.’
And presently, when all her copies of the paper had gone, she made her way back to the Barracks with Clarrie and as they walked home through the chilly night air, she told her friend all about Peader O’Brady, and a little bit about Brogan, too. Because I’ve got to learn to accept it, and acceptance comes easier if you’re frank about something, she told herself. I’m terribly sorry about Peader’s death, but . . . oh, I’m going to miss Brogan so badly! I hated not seeing him, but at least, before, I knew, or thought I knew, that he was going to come back to me, one day.
‘So finding that Peader was killed by a train is tragic, but it’s a coincidence, too,’ she ended thoughtfully. ‘Because there was a similar tragedy years ago, it was how I came to know Peader and his son Brogan, actually. And that involved a train-death.’
‘The young girl? And the baby that simply disappeared?’ Clarrie said at once. ‘Your gran told me that story when I first went to live with her, but I never realised your friend Brogan had anything to do with it. Did you ever ask him what he thought had happened to that baby?’
Sara nodded. ‘Yes, that was the first thing I said to him, as I remember. But he couldn’t tell me much, only that he was sure the baby was safe and happy, nothing else.’ She paused, then took Clarrie’s arm. ‘I’ll tell you something else, Clarrie. The first time I met Brogan I was running after a little girl who I honestly thought might be one of the Carberys. You see she came up to me as I was starting to eat a pastie I’d bought . . .’
The story was soon told and Clarrie eyed her friend thoughtfully. ‘And you thought it was the sister who’d been ill and stayed at home when you met Jess and Mollie? I wonder if it really was her? It could have been just wishful thinkin’, chuck.’
‘I suppose,’ Sara admitted cautiously. ‘Anyway, Brogan was really nice to me, really kind, and we kept in touch for ages. Only then we moved away from Snowdrop Street . . . well, you know how it is.’
‘I do,’ Clarrie said. ‘You like this feller, don’t you?’
‘Very much,’ Sara said at once. ‘Not in the way you mean, though! He’s just a friend and someone I’m sad I’ve lost touch with. But if he’s gone home, to Ireland, we’ll probably never clap eyes on each other again.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Clarrie said. ‘People who matter to each other have a way of turning up. Just keep on living, and hoping, and you’d be surprised at the way God can turn things round. But to change the subject completely, chuck, are you comin’ carol-singing round the wards at the Stanley on Christmas Eve? You’ve a pretty voice and we could do with a female soloist. You’ve been properly taught, what’s more. Say you will!’
‘Of course I will,’ Sara said readily. ‘It’s a date then, Clarrie.’
But for the rest of the evening her mind felt sore with loss. Why hadn’t she made more effort to keep in touch with Brogan? Mr Mack was undoubtedly right, if the poor chap was taking care of his entire family he would need a wife, so he’d marry some pretty little Irish colleen and never think of young Sara Cordwainer again.
And it serves me right, now I’ll be a spinster all the days of my life and undoubtedly that is what I deserve, Sara told herself. I love children, but I’m a teacher, I don’t have to have a family of my own. As for men . . . apart from Brogan, I’ve never met one I’d even consider marrying.
Not that I ever considered marrying him, either, she reminded herself hastily as she and Clarrie cycled through the quiet streets. But I did like him as a friend. Oh, if only I hadn’t been so heedless, so careless! If only I’d gone straight back to the Queen’s Arms, instead of waiting a whole month!
‘What’s on your mind, chuck?’ Miss Boote said presently, as the silence between them stretched. ‘You’re very quiet all of a sudden.’
‘I’m tired, I think,’ Sara said. ‘I’m really ready for my bed.’
But when she got there, it was a long while before she slept.
Chapter Thirteen
April 1934
‘When one door closes another opens.’ Sara had been hearing it all her life, particularly from Gran, and right now she needed to believe it, because things were not good. The job which she had valued was about to finish, through no fault of her own, and a fortnight earlier, Mrs Prescott had suffered a slight stroke. She had been cooking, and had pulled out a chair and climbed on to the seat to reach a high shelf on which were some spices they did not often use . . . and the next thing Sara knew was the crash as Gran and the spices hit the kitchen floor together.
‘She’s one of the lucky ones,’ Dr Pemberton had told her when he had examined Mrs Prescott and was having a quiet word with Sara in the kitchen. ‘Look on it as a warning; if we all heed the warning and take care, she may well live out the rest of her life with no recurrence. And she’s lost none of her faculties.’ Dr Pemberton looked at Sara over the tops of his little gold-rimmed glasses. ‘She could have been partially paralysed, she could have lost the power of speech, she could, at worst, have been little better than a cabbage. As it is, she’s just very shaken and will take more care in future.’
‘No trying to climb on chairs again, Gran,’ Sara scolded her gently when she returned to the bedroom. ‘It was my fault, but I never realised you’d try to get to the top of the cupboard with me around to reach it down for you.’
‘I don’t like being a nuisance,’ Gran muttered. ‘I feel odd . . . funny.’
‘Of course you do! A fall like that isn’t something to be treated lightly at your age,’ Sara told her. ‘But the doctor says a couple of days in bed and you’ll be running around like a spring chicken again.’
‘Wheeling around, you mean,’ Mrs Prescott said, but she smiled at her granddaughter. ‘Oh well, mustn’t grumble, and I’ll heed what the doctor says. I mustn’t act like a ten-year-old, me bones won’t stand for it.’
So now, making her way along the pavement towards the tram stop, Sara told herself that she was grateful for the warning and would take better care of Gran in future. For Gran was her rock, she could not imagine life without her. But she would have to do something quickly or she would be in no position to take care of anyone.
Miss Marks had explained to her why she was going to have to let her go at the end of term, but Sara had seen it coming. The school was a small private one, and as the Depression bit deeper so pupil numbers shrank. The last thing a man without work can do is pay school fees, however reasonable, when free schooling is available.
‘With pupil numbers now so small, Miss Cordwainer, my sister and I can manage easily between us,’ Miss Marks had said. ‘I’m deeply sorry because you are an excellent teacher, but by saving your salary, at least our little school may continue, in a smaller way of course, to flourish.’
Sara understood completely and had taken her dismissal in good part, but that didn’t mean she’d not been secretly dismayed. And now Gran’s stroke had meant they were even more dependent upon the money brought in by herself and Clarrie. So without saying a word to anyone else, Sara decided to go and see her parents. After all, they might have talked about having to retrench when she first returned from Switzerland, but that hadn’t stopped her mother from shopping at the most exclusive stores in Liverpool, nor her father from running an extremely expensive motor car. By now, their economies might well be over, and it would cost them very little to reinstate Gran’s pension.
If it was just myself I wouldn’t dream of asking, Sara told herself defiantly as she got off one tram and changed to another which would carry her the rest of the way to Aigburth Road. But Gran’s different. She brought my mother up, loved her, spent money on her, and she’s had a hard life. How can a Christian such as my mother professes herself to be turn round and refuse to help her own mother when she’s in need?
The tram rattled on its way and when it reached the terminus at Croxteth Gate Sara got down and turned into Aigburth Road, aware, suddenly, that she felt nervous. But the die was cast, it was too late for regrets. She had never contacted her parents since the day they had left her in the house in Snowdrop Street; now circumstances had forced her to ask a favour from them, not for herself but for her grandmother. The worst they could do was refuse!
Sara walked on through the sweet and sunny afternoon; it was good to be away from the city centre, good to breathe fresh, clean air and to hear birdsong rather than the traffic’s roar. She reached the house in its large grounds and stopped for a moment, looking rather apprehensively between the gateposts. The house, at any rate, seemed unchanged. The windows sparkled with cleanliness, the gravel was raked and weed-free. It was not the home of people who were having to count their pennies, Sara concluded, setting off along the curving drive, her shoes crunching on the thick gravel. If she stood on tiptoe she could just see the glasshouses where the gardener had once grown so many rare and delicious things. There, too, glass sparkled and she could see, through it, the healthy green of plants. There was no doubt about it, the place looked just the same, there were no signs of a shortage of money . . . she would really have to make the attempt.
She reached the front door and pulled the bell. She heard it jangle and realised that her heart was beating uncommonly loudly, almost loudly enough to compete with the bell in fact. Still, it was too late to retreat. She must go ahead, having undertaken the journey.
She had already decided to say nothing about losing her own job, though. She neither wanted nor needed help from either of her parents, not after the way they had treated her. I can cope, she told herself, standing on the doorstep. But Gran – she’s a different kettle of fish. She’s been quite ill, and she’s reached an age when she should be looked after; I’ll tell Mother that if she’s difficult.
She heard the tread of someone approaching the door. It opened.
‘Miss Sara!’
‘Hello, Williams,’ Sara said, smiling at the young man. Williams had been employed by her parents for years; some things, apparently, did not change. ‘Is Mrs Cordwainer in?’
‘Well, no, Miss. She and the master moved out the best part of a year ago. They went to Preston, I believe.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘They didn’t tell you?’
‘No. But I’ve neither seen nor heard from them since I left,’ Sara said quietly. ‘Do you have their address, Williams?’
‘No, Miss. But Mrs Arbuthnot might have. I’ll go and ask her.’
‘Wait, Williams! Who’s Mrs Arbuthnot?’
Williams, who had turned away, turned back.
‘Why, the Arbuthnots live here now, Miss. They took the staff over when they bought the house. They’re very nice people, Miss, and I do believe the mistress does have an address for your parents.’ He stood aside and waved her to go past him. ‘Wait in the study, Miss, while I find out.’
But Sara shook her head.
‘It’s all right, Williams, I’ll wait here. It’s a lovely day, I prefer to be in the air. If you could just ask Mrs Arbuthnot to write the address on a piece of paper . . . and Williams, can you just say a friend wants it? I’d rather she didn’t know it was me.’
‘Of course, Miss,’ Williams said at once. ‘I shan’t be a moment.’
He was back quickly, a sheet of blue writing paper in his hand. ‘Here we are, Miss Sara . . . I trust you’ll find it helpful, Mrs Arbuthnot’s written down the telephone number, too.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Sara said gratefully, taking the paper. ‘To tell you the truth, Williams, it’s Nanny Prescott. I’m living with her now, and she’s been ill, so I thought perhaps my mother should know.’
Williams looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss. And if there’s anything we could do, Miss . . . the staff, I mean . . . we were all very fond of Mrs Prescott.’
‘Thank you, Williams. It’s a kind offer, but we’ll manage. Good day to you.’
Walking back to the tram with her hands shoved into her coat pockets and her collar turned up, Sara reflected that she was not really sorry she had not seen either of her parents. I was probably panicking too soon, she told herself. I’ve been very lucky with jobs in the past. First I got the job in Barringtons and when my mother spoiled that for me I found the laundry work, and then I got the teaching job . . . I’ll be all right, I’m sure of it.