She headed for the shed which seemed, for some reason, likeliest, still keeping in deep shadow whenever she could, darting across great patches of silver moonlight and into black shade once more. The predawn chill nipped at her, the colourless world of the night was suddenly unfriendly, threatening. But then she slid in through the doorway, and it was like stepping into a different world.
The first thing she noticed was the warmth, the smell of food and people, a homely, lived-in sort of smell. The second was that the hut was empty save for a couple of rough wooden benches, a coke burner and a blanket thrown down against one wall. Polly stole forward. It was nice in here, warm and hearteningly normal after being out for so long in the greys and silvers and blacks of the predawn light. Furthermore the night had seemed threatening, it had made her aware that she was trespassing, but here in the hut Polly felt instantly at home. She sat unselfconsciously down on the floor in front of the coke burner and warmed her hands at the faint red glow. She looked around again and noticed, under the nearest bench, a number of tin mugs and plates and a canvas bag. The railway gangs come here to eat their carryout, Polly thought triumphantly. Brogan and Daddy probably came here once; perhaps Brogan comes here still. I knew I should come here . . . Brogan will walk in presently, give me a cuddle and make me go home to me own bed. But first he’ll tell me why I came here so he will.
Polly warmed her hands, then she reached for the blanket and wrapped it round herself. How cosy it was! If she wasn’t careful she’d fall asleep so she would and then how Brogan would tease her when he found her!
She sat up straighter, then leaned against the bench. It would not do any harm to close her eyes for ten minutes . . .
Polly woke when she heard an irritable voice shouting somewhere near at hand. It was a man’s voice, irate, threatening.
‘Gerrout of it, you thievin’ little cat! Go on . . . if I catches you I’ll teach you to come sneakin’ round our shelters . . . go on, clear orf!’
There was a clatter and a cry. Polly sat up. Long experience of living with a family of brothers had made her familiar with the sounds. Someone was shouting at a child and throwing stones to get rid of that child. The clatter had been a sizeable stone hitting a rail – and probably bouncing off and then hitting the child.
Automatically, still more than half asleep, Polly reached out for Tad, and found herself grabbing empty air. Immediately her heart started to thump like a trip-hammer. Oh, Mary, Mother of Jesus, Tad wasn’t here, she was trespassing on railway property all by her lonesome and someone, someone large and fierce and terrible, was just outside the hut, no doubt waiting to thump anyone handy who happened to be smaller than himself!
Polly tried to stand up but the blanket hampered her and she fell, skinning her knees on the hard floor. The pain, however, brought her to her senses. She stood with care, threw the blanket down more or less where she had found it, and sidled over to the door, peering out through the gap, for it was not completely shut.
It was still very dark but no moon or stars shone now; a drizzling rain was falling from the dark clouds overhead and the wet gleamed on the complex pattern of the rails and sleepers, on the huts and warehouses and engine sheds . . . and on a small group of men, one of whom was still poised in the classic throwing action – arm bent back, body angled, a stone held threateningly. And well away now, running across the rails with incredible fleetness, was a thin figure in a long, draggly skirt. Clearly a female figure.
‘Go on, gerrout of it or I’ll break every bone in your bleedin’ body!’
The man broke into a lumbering run. Polly knew a bully when she saw one and she was so indignant that she came out of the shed at a run, shouting as she did so.
‘Hey, leave her alone, will ye? A feller your size, chasin’ a wee young wan . . . pick on someone your own size, you big moocher!’
The man swung round with a roar . . . and Polly was off, running like greased lightning. This is quite like old times, she told herself, skipping across the rails, heading at speed for the gap in the fence. Many’s the time I’ve been keepin’ nix for Tad whilst he did something evil, and ended up runnin’ for me life. But the shouting man was between her and the hole in the fence, she would have to go a bit further along. Polly ran hard, bending low, and somewhere to her right she was conscious of the other figure . . . but then the fence loomed and she ran alongside it for a bit, searching for a gap . . . found one, was through it in one wiggle and dashing across the road, horribly aware that her pursuer had emerged on to the pavement behind her, was screaming after her . . .
She ignored him, doubling down the little roads and alleys until all sounds of pursuit had died, until at last she felt safe to stop and catch her breath.
Phew, Polly thought to herself, that was close! And then she looked around her, deciding which way . . .
She was in totally foreign territory. She had never seen this road before, and when, presently, she began to try to retrace her steps, she realised that she had absolutely no idea where she was – worse, she had no idea where the guest house was. Worse still, she could not for the life of her remember the name of it, or the name of the street on which it was situated.
It was still dark, the houses were still curtained, not a soul stirred. Polly stood like a statue for a moment in the middle of the pavement whilst the rain fell, chill, on her. And then she put her hands over her face and began to cry.
When a voice spoke quite near her ear Polly jumped and almost ran again, but she was worn out and besides, the voice was gentle. So she put her hands down from her face and looked around her.
The speaker proved to be a young girl, thin, light-haired, wearing a draggly skirt much torn at the hem, and a cloak-thing around her shoulders. She was smiling down at Polly with the gentlest, sweetest expression on her face. Polly gasped. It was her guardian angel, she would have known that face anywhere!
‘Wha’s the marrer, chuck?’ her angel said gently. ‘By ’eck, but you can run. You’re well away, though – we both are – so why’s you cryin’?’
None of this made much sense to Polly, save for the last question. She gave a big gulp and then wiped her tears away with the heels of both hands. Then she took a deep breath and smiled at her companion.
‘I’m lost,’ she said baldly. ‘I’m stayin’ in a guest house but I d-don’t remember what it’s called nor where it is. And me mammy an’ me daddy’ll be in a takin’ if they wake up an’ I’m not in me bed!’
Her angel considered this. ‘Why are you in a guest ’ouse?’ she enquired after a moment’s thought. ‘And whar are you doin’ ’ere? You’re from Ireland, by the sound of it.’
‘Me daddy’s a railwayman; we’re goin’ to live at a level crossin’ on the Wirral,’ Polly explained. ‘Me brother Brogan lives here, too, so he does.’
‘Where does your brother Brogan live?’
Polly beamed. So it was that simple – but of course she didn’t have the brains of her angel, or she’d have thought of it for herself.
‘Brogan lives on Salop Road, off the Walton Road,’ she said triumphantly. ‘D’you know where that is?’
‘’Course. Come on, I’ll walk with you.’ The angel tucked her hands into her pockets and then fell companionably into step with Polly. ‘You’ll be ’ome before you knows it, chuck.’
Fortunately, Brogan was awake when the knocker sounded. He waited a moment, then rolled out of bed and headed for the stairs. His landlady would sleep through the last trump, she only woke when the alarm clock had been shrilling away for five minutes. So he pulled his trousers on and padded down the stairs, with Delilah close at his heels, and tugged the front door open.
‘Yes? My God, Polly!’
‘Oh, Brogan, ’tis glad I am to see you,’ his small sister gabbled, clutching his hand whilst Delilah frisked around his little mistress, licking any bit of her he could reach. ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened – I’ve met me angel!’ She glanced behind her, but not as though she expected to see anyone. ‘She’s gone, I knew she wouldn’t stay, but she found me when I was ever so lost, an’ she brought me right to your door! Wasn’t she good, Brog?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Brogan said. ‘And you’ve been bad . . . d’you know what time it is, alanna?’
‘No.’ Polly’s eyes opened very wide. ‘Sure an’ how should I know the time, Brogan, an’ me wit’out a watch? Is it early?’
‘It’s terrible early,’ Brogan said, not mincing words. ‘And what’s all this talk of angels, Polly? Here, get indoors and get that coat off, you’re soaked to the skin! I don’t suppose Mammy and Daddy know where you are, eh?’
‘Well, no-oo, but if you’ll tell me how to get back there, Brogan, I can be into me bed an’ snorin’ before they know a thing! You see, I listened to Mammy an’ Daddy talkin’ last night when they came to bed, an’ they talked about me, Brog, so they did! They said I’d been in Liverpool before an’ they were right . . . I
knew
places, Brog, so I did, just as if – as if I’d lived there meself! So I had to find out, you see.’
Brogan pushed his small sister through the house and into the back kitchen where the fire, though damped down, soon burned up brightly after a prod or two with the poker.
‘Let’s be havin’ that coat off you,’ he said. ‘And the hat, and them foolish shoes . . . oh Polly, your stockin’s is drenched through so they are.’
Polly sat down in the chair nearest the fire, kicked off her shoes and peeled off her stockings. Then she ran a hand through her wet and tousled curls. ‘Oh Brog, I’m glad to see you! But I think you ought to take me back to Mammy at once, or she’ll worry sick so she will.’
‘Get dry first,’ Brogan said. He took the roller towel off the back of the door and threw it over to her. ‘Go on, rub your hair hard. Well, you spalpeen, what in heaven’s name am I goin’ to do wit’ you? Runnin’ away, talkin’ a lot of rubbish, tryin’ to blame your angel for your behaviour . . .’
‘I’m
not
tryin’ to blame me angel,’ Polly said immediately, her cheeks going pink. ‘It wasn’t her fault at all at all. She brought me back, Brogan, she helped me. Only she didn’t know where the guest house was, so she brung me here.’
Brogan had been putting the kettle over the flame; now he looked thoughtfully at Polly. For the first time it occurred to him that bad though his little sister frequently was, she had never, so far as he knew, been a liar. If she thought she had seen an angel then who was he to disbelieve her? And what was more, he remembered Mammy saying that she believed Jess was Polly’s guardian angel. So if someone really had got Polly out of a scrape . . . well, it could have been the living and not the dead sister – Grace, not Jess.
The kettle boiled and Brogan wet the pot, made the tea, poured a cup and stirred in two generous spoons of sugar.
‘There you are; drink it up,’ he said, handing Polly a cup. ‘And tell me about this angel of yours, alanna.’
Polly told the story quickly and well. Clearly, she was totally convinced of the angelic nature of her rescuer. But it sounded, to Brogan, as though two naughty young girls had been trespassing on railway property, two girls had run away from the bad-tempered and bullying gang boss, and then one of the girls had found the other crying in the street and had brought her home. He put this point to Polly who thought about it and then admitted, reluctantly, that her angel had borne a fleeting resemblance to the girl the feller had thrown stones at, but only insofar as they were both thin and raggedy.
‘Because I’ve seen me angel before, in Dublin, so I have,’ she reminded her brother. ‘If it wasn’t me angel who rescued me but a real live girl, then how come I seed her in Dublin, on our stairs?’
Brogan had to admit this baffled him. Indeed, he said no more on the subject until Polly was warm, dry and had a cup of tea and a round of bread and jam inside her. Then he got his waterproof down off its hook and told Polly he was going to take her home on the back of his bicycle, snug under his waterproof.
‘You’ll be back in bed in no time, if you’re lucky,’ he told her. ‘No need to worry Mammy and Daddy with your adventuring.’
He was watching Polly’s face as he spoke and saw relief light her small face.
‘Oh thank you, Brogan,’ she said fervently. ‘I wouldn’t want to worry Mammy and Daddy and the boys, indeed I would not. So if you’ll say nothing, me dearest brother, then I’ll keep the secret too, I’ll not say a word.’
‘Well, good,’ Brogan said heartily. ‘And now you know you really were in Liverpool once, when you were just a baby, is that enough for you?’
Polly nodded. ‘I don’t want to know any more, I just wanted to know if I was right so I did,’ she declared. ‘It isn’t important, is it, Brog?’
‘No, it’s not important. You were here as a wee one for a short time, that’s all there is to it. Look, Poll, are you ready to go back to the guest house now? Because the night’s wearin’ on and it’ll be morning before you know it.’
‘Yes, I’m ready,’ Polly said quickly, nodding her head until her curls bounced. ‘I won’t ask Mammy or Daddy any more questions and I won’t try to get back to Ireland, either, not if you think me angel wouldn’t like it. I’m lucky to have me family, and to be Polly O’Brady, even if I
was
in Liverpool once, when I was very small. It’s strange, isn’t it, that I don’t want to know anything else? But I don’t, I just want to live in this Wirral wit’ me dog an’ the cats an’ me family, and I’ll be happy as the day is long so I shall!’