‘I won’t,’ Brogan promised. ‘Come on, Delly, let’s see you run now!’
Brogan was back with his bicycle in no time at all, and lifted his second passenger in a couple of hours on to the saddle with great care and tenderness.
‘Sure an’ if you can balance there, you’ll be safe in the Stanley in less than thirty minutes,’ he promised her. ‘What a day this has been already . . . oh, is there anyone waitin’ on you who should be told you’re at the hospital?’
‘Only a friend who works at the Strawberry Field Children’s Home,’ Miss Boote said. ‘I’ll telephone her from the hospital, explain what’s happened. She’ll come down when she can . . . but they won’t keep me in, not for a sprained ankle.’
‘Strawberry Field,’ Brogan said thoughtfully. Where had he heard that name before? ‘That’s a familiar sort of name.’
‘It’s a big old house out on Beaconsfield Road,’ Miss Boote told him. ‘It’s only recently been converted into a home for destitute children – me friend’s a worker there.’
‘I know it. Huge grounds, but they’ve been allowed to go wild,’ Brogan said triumphantly after a moment. ‘’Tis a keen gardener I am, and I thought, at one time, I might offer me services to get the place tidied up. But what wit’ one thing an’ another I’ve never got round to it. And now, wit’ winter all but upon us . . .’
‘They’d be that pleased if you did, Mr O’Brady,’ Miss Boote said earnestly. ‘It was left to the Army, you see – the Salvation Army – in the old lady’s will. They’ve put a mint o’ money into it already . . . any help would be grand. Even in winter there’s work to be done, or so they say. I believe me dad says heavy diggin’s best done when there’s frost to break up the soil.’
‘That’s true; and does the Strawberry Field home only take Salvationist children?’ Brogan asked presently, turning his bicycle, complete with passenger, neatly on to Stanley Road. ‘Are they full?’
Miss Boote snorted on a laugh. ‘Children are children, when they’re destitute they don’t know if they’re Catholic, Protestant or heathen, all they know is they’re hungry, weary, cold and unloved. Strawberry Field is for any child – and it’s only been open a matter of weeks so it’s not full be a long chalk. Why d’you ask, Mr O’Brady?’
‘Oh . . . I know a child, I’ve seen her wanderin’ the streets so I have. I’m a single feller, livin’ in lodgings, but I’d like to see the child settled somewhere.’
‘Well, tell her about the Strawb,’ Miss Boote said decidedly. ‘She’ll be welcome there. Me friend was a teacher and she’s very good wi’ kids. Yes, Mr O’Brady, if you find your little wanderer, send her along. Or bring her yourself for that matter. Then you could tek a look at the garden at the same time.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Brogan said. ‘Here we are, Miss Boote – the Stanley Hospital. They’ll have you right in a trice, never you fret!’
Sara heard with some dismay about her friend’s unfortunate collision with a young Irishman and his dog in the cemetery, but though Miss Boote was obviously shaken by the experience, she sounded quite capable and cheerful when she rang Sara that evening from a public call box on Walton Road.
‘I’m goin’ to ask you a favour, queen,’ she said earnestly. ‘Could you do my stint with the
War Cry
for a week or so? I wouldn’t ask but I know you’re still quiet out at the home, and I’ll not be doin’ much walkin’ for a while, wi’ this ankle. You’ve got your own bicycle still, I know, otherwise you could borry mine.’
‘I’d be pleased to give a hand,’ Sara said at once. Truth to tell, now that the excitement of getting the home ready for occupation had worn off, she often felt herself to be useless, at a loose end. The onset of winter hadn’t helped, of course; the short damp days and long, chilly evenings were enough to depress anyone. Matron told her that she would look back nostalgically on these first few weeks once they were up and running but right now, Sara had too much time on her hands, too much time to think.
She could not forget that when she had decided to take a night off, behave like a normal girl again and go to the cinema with Clarrie Boote, her grandmother had died. Nor that Mrs Prescott had longed for more of her granddaughter’s company. If I’d been at home, she kept telling herself, I’d have spotted the signs, fetched the doctor, got her into hospital . . . she might be alive today. If I’d taken her about more, pushed her wheelchair up to the dances she wanted to attend . . . if I’d not been so selfish . . . Why, if I’d not decided to buy fish and chips all round, waited in the queue, I might have got back in time to revive her.
A part of her mind knew that this was foolish, that it could have happened at any time; when she was working, when she was taking the
War Cry
round the pubs, which could scarcely be considered light entertainment, when she was shopping . . . anything. Naturally she regretted not spending more time on the older woman, but she was sensible enough to know that her grandmother could not be brought back to life by vain regrets. But the knowledge did not stop her moping.
And she had not succeeded in finding either Grace or Mollie. She had kept her eyes open and asked around but there was no trace of the Carbery family; they might have disappeared off the face of the earth. Like Brogan had. Oh, she knew he’d really only disappeared back to Ireland, but she missed him badly, thought about him often. He had made her feel young and carefree, pretty even. She had known when she was in his company that she was valued. Though there were several very nice young men anxious to take his place, she could find none of them even slightly attractive. When young Mr Briscoe had asked her to go to a dance she had gone . . . and seen Brogan’s dark hair and eyes every time she caught Mr Briscoe’s sad, spaniel gaze.
So in a way, taking the War Cry round was a good idea; it would take her out of herself. And Matron was very understanding.
‘You go, my dear,’ she said earnestly. ‘You’ve grown pale and thin of late, you’re working too hard and worrying too much. You’ve not even been working in the soup kitchen as you used, and though I know it’s a long way to go, I’d rather you were active, cheerful. You’ll be much better for the children if you’re more involved in the ordinary life of the Liverpool poor.’ She smiled at her colleague. ‘You might even find us some customers,’ she added. ‘Our two little inmates would welcome additions to the fold.’
Sara bicycled down to the Barracks, explained that her friend was temporarily out of commission and picked up Clarrie’s newspapers. Then she left her bicycle round the back of the hall, where it would be safe from thieves. Since the Army girls always went into pubs in pairs she was happy to see that she would be working with Miss Chadwick, who was a slum officer during the day but sometimes came and sold newspapers in the evening.
Miss Chadwick was a brisk, efficient young woman in her mid-twenties and she and Sara had always got on well.
‘Good evening, Miss Cordwainer, good to see you again,’ she said as soon as she set eyes on Sara. ‘Of course I see you on Sundays . . . but not for long, just for the morning service. Are you busy, out at the Strawb?’
‘Not really. That’s the trouble,’ Sara admitted. ‘Half the time we’re just polishing furniture and lighting fires in the rooms to keep them aired. It all seems . . . oh, I don’t know, I suppose it makes me feel as if all our labour was for nothing.’
‘It takes time,’ Miss Chadwick said soothingly. ‘Surely Matron’s told you that?’
‘Yes, she has, of course. But somehow, I expected we’d be full in a week. There are so many unfortunate children . . .’
‘Yes, but a good few of them, having escaped from their parents, simply want to keep clear of all authority, all adults,’ Miss Chadwick pointed out placidly. ‘But they’ll gradually come in, fill the place. Then you’ll look back on these early weeks as a halcyon period when you had time to think! Now, which pub shall we try first?’
‘The Queen’s Arms?’ Sara suggested. She still had a fondness for that particular pub since it had been Peader O’Brady’s local once. She remembered meeting Brogan’s father there one winter evening. They had talked about his son . . . she could still remember the pleasure the chance meeting had given her, the hope.
But it wouldn’t have been the same now, anyway, she reminded herself as Miss Chadwick said no, not tonight. Tonight, it seemed, they were going further afield . . . to the pubs on Commercial Road.
‘We’ll start at the Eagle and go on to the Union, then we’ll cross over and do the Great Mersey, the Evelyn, the Midland and the Sandhills, I think,’ Miss Chadwick decided. ‘It’s a cold night, so at least we’ll keep warm inside the pubs, and we should do well – I find people buy more willingly coming up to Christmas.’
So off they set, with their bonnets pulled on at a determined angle and every hair smoothed out of sight, their stocking seams straight, their shoes polished. They might be visiting rough areas, where the coin which tinkled most frequently into their collecting tins would be a ha’penny, but that did not mean they should not be spruce, tidy, polite.
It paid off, too. Folk treated the Army lasses with respect because the Army lasses respected them, and they bought the
War Cry
because they knew the Army did a great deal for people like them. So Sara and Miss Chadwick walked briskly along the frosty pavements, with their metal-tipped heels striking sparks as they marched, heading for their first call.
There was a brawl outside the Great Mersey when they reached it, however, so Miss Chadwick decreed that they should continue on to the Evelyn, and return when things had calmed down somewhat. Sara agreed; they were having a good evening, the money which tinkled into her tin was mounting up and the pile of newspapers in her arms was shrinking in a very satisfactory manner. What was more, folk were so friendly – she had forgotten that in the six or seven months she’d not been handling the
War Cry
.
But although all the Irishmen – and railwaymen – they met made her think of Brogan she did not recognise any of them and besides, what was the point of asking for news of him? She knew he was in Ireland, so why make herself unhappy by hearing someone reiterate the fact?
And presently, with full tins and only a couple of newspapers apiece left, Miss Chadwick suggested that they return to their headquarters.
‘For we’ve both left our bicycles at the Barracks and you’ve a long way to go, my dear Miss Cordwainer,’ she said. ‘It’s several miles out to Woolton; it was good of you to come into the city to help me out.’
Sara said, politely, that it was a pleasure but added that she supposed they really ought to go back to the Great Mersey, because it was a generous pub with a generous landlady. ‘We’ll get rid of the last of our papers there,’ she said positively. ‘Mrs Boyce will see we do so.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind a late bicycle ride . . .’ Miss Chadwick said. ‘Come along, then, best foot foremost!’
Grace was hovering near the pub, waiting as she did most nights, for closing time. She was quite pleased with life right now. She came to the pub out of habit and because the landlady still fed her, but it wasn’t cold enough yet to be offered shelter and besides, she had a good place up beside a bakery. The bakers came in early, at around three o’clock in the morning, and from the moment they started work warmth and a delicious smell of bread began to drift through the narrow windows above Grace’s head. One of the best things about her retreat was its narrowness; only a child, and a skinny child at that, could crawl along the narrow passage-like entrance between the wall of the next building and the bakery itself. So tucked up in her blanket and lying on a thick pad of old newspapers, Grace felt both secure and comfortable.
But now, still waiting outside the pub for closing time, Grace saw the Army lasses coming and hid, because she did not know them. The girls went into the pub and Grace stole back to huddle close to the bright lights. She never went in, of course; kids didn’t go into public houses, but she enjoyed being in the vicinity of warmth, laughter, happiness.
After a while, she grew careless. She leaned against the wall, then slid down beside it. She could feel the lovely warmth of the pub from here, it was soothing, it made her sleepy . . .
She woke when someone said: ‘Are you all right, my love?’
She looked up and a beautiful, concerned face was only inches from her own. A dark bonnet framed the face – it was one of the Army lasses, she’d been caught!
Somehow, she managed to get to her feet and move back, gabbling something, saying she was sorry, she’d just dropped asleep . . .
‘You don’t have to apologise, dear,’ the beautiful girl said. ‘But you aren’t very old . . . isn’t it time you were at home in bed? Or are you waiting for your father – is he in the pub?’
‘I ’ope to God ’e’s not,’ Grace said fervently, forgetting herself for a moment. ‘I ’ope to God ’e’s a long way from ’ere.’
‘Where’s your mother, then? Do you live near here?’
She was so pretty, so concerned, but . . .
danger, danger
, Grace’s mind said.
She’ll take you away, put you in the work’ouse – tell ’er something, anything, but gerraway before she teks you in!
‘Me mam? Oh, at ’ome, I daresay,’ Grace said. She moved back a little further. ‘You’re right, Miss, she’s be a-waitin’ for me. I’d best be gerrin’ off ’ome.’
She half turned, but she didn’t really want to leave. Presently the drinkers would go off home and Mrs Boyce would come out, show her Kitty, now a great strong animal with a coat so thick and soft that, come winter, Grace would envy him, and then bring Grace out some food. They would chat a little, Grace keeping a bit of distance between them, as though she were a wild animal and Mrs Boyce a zoo-keeper, and then Grace would say goodnight and return to her bakery.