‘Of course what, Miss?’
‘Oh! Of course she must have slipped away from a – a group of children being taken shopping,’ Sara said wildly. ‘Thank you, officer, for bringing her back home. Do we owe you anything?’
The policeman touched his helmet and turned away. ‘No Miss, nothing at all. Any time, Miss. You do good work here, everyone knows it, I’m glad to be of help.’
As soon as the policeman had climbed back into the taxi, Sara turned back into the hall. Her unexpected guest stood at bay by the stairs, looking frightened out of her wits . . . and somehow defiant, too. The wound on her face looked livid against the extreme pallor of her skin, Sara thought, eyeing the dirt which was liberally smeared over the child’s face. The other night she had scarcely noticed the child’s condition, but now she realised she had never seen anyone quite so dirty, nor so battered. Poor kid, she had been in the wars! Sara walked towards her, a hand held out.
‘My dear child, I’m so very glad you came to me when you felt you needed a Mend. If you’ll come through into the kitchen I’ll get you something to eat and drink. There’s plenty of milk and some really delicious scones . . . but we’ll take a look in the pantry, shall we, see what you fancy?’
The girl looked rather wildly round, then stared up into Sara’s face. After a moment the doubt which had filled her eyes seemed to clear and she said in a low, rather hoarse voice, ‘Awright. I – I like milk, I does.’
As Sara and her charge passed the staff room door on the way to the kitchen Matron emerged. She smiled placidly at them both.
‘Ah, another inmate, I see. I don’t imagine that this young lady came from one of the other homes, so I suppose it was our friends the police? Can you manage, Miss Cordwainer? Anything I can do?’
‘Yes, a policeman brought her,’ Sara said. She realised that Matron had guessed the child had not come from another home by the state of her. Their other inmates had come from reception centres where they had been cleaned up before being sent on to the Strawb. ‘We’ll manage, thanks Matron.’ She turned to the child once more. ‘Here’s the kitchen, dear . . . bless me, I never asked you your name!’
‘Matty,’ the child said without a second’s hesitation. ‘Matty Brown.’
‘Nice to meet you, Matty,’ Sara said. She smiled and held out her hand and after a long moment, the child took it in a scratched and filthy paw. ‘I’m Miss Cordwainer, I’m Matron’s assistant here. And now let’s fetch milk and scones and see how you feel after you’ve had a meal.’
Sara took it very gently, wooing the child, talking about the other children who lived at the home but who were going round the Walker Art Gallery this afternoon, and when the child had eaten as much as Sara thought she ought, she took her upstairs to the pleasant bedroom with six beds, only two of which were claimed so far.
‘Would you like a bed by the window?’ she asked. ‘Or would you prefer to sleep on the other side, which is perhaps a bit warmer?’
‘Winder,’ Matty muttered. ‘Only – only I telled a lie to that scuffer. I only come ’ere ’cos I ’ad your address in me pocket. I di’n’t want ’im to take me to the work’ouse, that was why.’
‘Well, dear, I’m glad you came to me, by however circuitous a route,’ Sara said cheerfully, walking towards the long cupboard at the end of the room. ‘There are quite a lot of clothes in here, I’m sure we’ll find something to fit you. What about these?’ She took down a blue woollen skirt and cardigan, a white blouse and some white woolly vests and knickers. ‘They look as if they’d fit – shall we try them?’
‘But I aren’t . . . I don’t . . . this ain’t my ’ome,’ the girl said desperately. ‘I can’t take them clothes – it ain’t like food.’
‘No, I agree clothes aren’t much like food, but this is a children’s home, Matty. We want to help children and – forgive me – you look as if you could do with some help. So won’t you give us a chance? See how you like us, how you fit in?’
The child’s eyes filled with tears and she turned her head away, scrubbing at them surreptitiously with both hands. Then she turned back.
‘Awright, I’ll try them clothes,’ she said gruffly. ‘If – if you’re sure.’
‘Good.’ Sara gathered up the nice new clothes then headed out of the room again, knowing without having to check that the child was close on her heels. ‘Then I think perhaps a bath, with something nice and freshening in the water . . . what d’you say to that? Only you wouldn’t want to put clean clothes on a dirty body, would you?’
To judge from her expression Matty had no objection to such behaviour herself, but she agreed, obediently, that it would not do and the two of them went into the bathroom. It was large and rather old-fashioned, but the big tub looked comfortable and there were clean towels over a clothes rail in one corner.
‘Would you like to take your things off?’ Sarah asked. ‘A bath’s better for getting you clean all over, a wash is a bit hit and miss, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d sooner wash,’ Matty said. ‘Just me ’ands an’ face.’
‘I think a bath would be best, love. Because if you’re going to be putting on lovely clean new clothes . . .’
Matty, it seemed, had never washed all over and did not fancy starting now. But when Sara ran warm water into the bath, splashed disinfectant and got out a bar of carbolic soap, Matty, with a shudder, began to undress.
She got her jacket off easily, and threw it across the cork-topped bathroom stool, but the filthy shift beneath seemed almost glued to her skin. Sara tried to get it off and realised that it wouldn’t come. Dirt and dried blood had welded the garment to the child’s body . . . and her hair was definitely verminous.
‘Look, your – your shift could do with a wash,’ Sara said finally. ‘I think if you hop into the water . . .’
She picked Grace up, appalled by the lightness of the little body in her arms, and dumped her, shift and all, in the bath. Then, whilst Grace was still gasping from the shock, Sara held her torso gently beneath the water until the shift could be pulled painlessly from the child’s grey, bruised flesh.
‘Hair too, dear,’ Sara said, reaching for the jug which stood handy. ‘I’ll just wet it, then work up a nice lather . . .’
Matty was very good, all things considered. Sara had heard stories from Army officers of how children would fight to protect themselves from a bath, how they howled and shrieked when they felt soap stinging wounds and eyes, but Matty did all she could to help, even rubbing away at her blackened knees with a soapy flannel and letting Sara pour the jug of water repeatedly over her filthy, matted hair.
But at last the job was done. Matty stepped out of the water clean, with every bite, scratch, bruise and abrasion now clearly etched on her pale skin and her little hip bones standing out from her almost concave stomach. Sara, helping her to dry herself, asked her what the marks were, though she could guess. The child glanced down at the red bumps and the scratches and bruises, then shrugged indifferently.
‘Dunno. Bed-bugs, fleas . . . some are from fights, old ones, some’s where me dad battered me. Oh, and a rat bit me cheek.’
Sara shuddered, she could not help herself.
‘It’ll have to have some antiseptic on it, dear, or it may go bad. It’s festering already. In fact you’ve got several nasty wounds. But we can soon set them to rights; I expect you’ll not mind if the stuff I put on stings a bit.’
Sara fetched antiseptic, cleaned and dressed the wounds, then took Matty, now paler than ever, back into the bedroom. She gave her the clothing she had already selected, as well as some long black stockings and a pair of lace-up shoes which proved to be a bit too big.
‘But it’s better than too small,’ Sara said cheerfully. ‘Shall I plait your hair, Matty? It’ll be lovely smooth hair one of these days, such a pretty light-brown colour, too. But for now perhaps it’s best tied back. I’ve got a nice piece of scarlet ribbon somewhere . . .’
She found the ribbon, tied the child’s hair back, and then gestured to the pathetic little pile of rags which Matty had brought through from the bathroom.
‘What shall I do with your old clothes, love? Only you’ve got all this nice, new stuff, you won’t need your other things, will you? We’ll keep them if you wish, of course, but if not, perhaps we might throw them away?’
Matty looked doubtful. One did not cast aside perfectly good clothes, her expression said. But then she looked round the room, at the flowered wallpaper, the pretty curtains, the beds with their white coverlets.
‘That’s my bed, izzit?’
‘Yes, that’s your bed.’
‘An’ these are me clothes, eh? No one else won’t take ’em off me?’
‘They’re yours for as long as they fit you, and when you grow bigger, you’ll be given new clothes.’
Matty gave the pile of rags a disdainful flick with her toe. It said a lot, Sara thought.
‘Chuck ’em out,’ Matty said. ‘Oh . . . wait on; there’s suffin’ . . .’ She delved into the pocket of the torn old jacket she had worn and produced a small, round object. It was greyish-white, soft and fluffy. That’s all I want to keep,’ she said rather shyly. ‘Them were me sister’s. It’s the only thing of ’ers I’ve got, see?’
‘What is it?’ Sara asked idly. ‘Is it a ball? It’s a bit dirty, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s filthy,’ the child agreed. ‘But it’s not a ball.’ She pulled at the object, which became two. ‘See?’
Sara held her hand out wonderingly and took both small objects in the palm of her hand. She looked at the once-white angora gloves for a long, long moment. Then she looked up.
‘Grace,’ she said quietly. ‘Oh, my dear, you’re not Matty Brown, you’re Grace Carbery – and these are the little gloves I gave to Jess!’
Miss Boote had been right; the hospital strapped up her ankle, lent her some crutches, and sent her off home. Brogan, who had had to move his family out to their new home later that day, visited her there as soon as he got back. Miss Boote lived in a neat ground-floor flat in Florence Street, just up the road from his own lodgings in Salop Street.
‘How are you feelin’ now, Miss Boote?’ he asked her when she came to the door in answer to his knock. ‘I’ve been thinkin’ about you for two days, worryin’ in case the ankle got worse. But you look fine an’ fit, so you do.’
‘Do come in, Mr O’Brady, and thanks for the compliment,’ Miss Boote said, ushering him into her living kitchen. ‘Sorry it’s a bit untidy, but four of us share the place and sometimes we could do with more space round us. Did you manage your move all right?’
Brogan had told her, whilst they waited in casualty, about his family’s move out of the city, and now he grinned reminiscently, remembering that awful day, the complications caused by Polly’s behaviour and the way her livestock had behaved.
‘We managed very well in the end, if you don’t count the cockerel gettin’ loose and scarin’ the livin’ daylights out of the guard on the train, and Delly bein’ sick as . . . as a dog. Heaven knows what he’d ate but it must have been an unsavoury meal. And Lionel takin’ a dislike to the cat basket and tryin’ to claw his way out of it. When I got back to the city I had to start work again of course, me holiday bein’ up, but if all holidays are as exhaustin’ as that one, I’ll be more relaxed in the cab of me engine.’
Miss Boote laughed. She went over to a small gas stove and lit it, then pulled the kettle over the flame.
‘You do cheer me up, Mr O’Brady! Sit down, I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’
And presently, with the tea-tray before her, she began to ask Brogan about himself and what he intended to do with the rest of his life.
‘Because you mentioned giving a hand in the garden out at Strawberry Field,’ she said. ‘I’ve not said too much, in case you felt you’d better things to do with your time – after all, for all I knew you might have decided to stay with your family – but I did say I knew someone who liked gardening and I was told to send you along whenever you had a moment to spare.’
‘Well, now that I’ve me family settled, I’ve a moment to spare,’ Brogan decided. ‘I’ll go along there now so I will. I’ll go back home and fetch me bike . . . I don’t use the tram much – and I can be there in half an hour.’ He drained his teacup and then stood up. ‘Thanks, Miss Boote – you say I cheered you up – you don’t know how much better I feel. First I know you’re comin’ on nicely so you are, and next I’ve the prospect of gettin’ me hands on some gardenin’ again!’
Miss Boote beamed. She stood up as well and accompanied him to the door.
‘And you’re going to do a good turn,’ she said exuberantly. ‘There’s nothin’ like doin’ a good turn to cheer a person up. And you never know, Mr O’Brady – sometimes when you do something for someone else it’s you that actually benefit.’
‘Uh?’ Brogan said, rather bemused.
Miss Boote laughed again. ‘I didn’t put it very well, did I? What I meant was that doing good sometimes brings unexpected rewards.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Brogan said. ‘Well, I’ll be off if you don’t mind, Miss Boote. It’s a nice day for once, I might get some diggin’ done this afternoon!’
When she had seen her visitor off, Miss Boote returned to her favourite chair and carefully put her injured ankle up on a small footstool. Then she reached for her book, but though she turned the pages at intervals she did not read a word. Her mind was far away, with Sara at Strawberry Field. She had deliberately reminded Mr O’Brady of his offer to do some gardening because she had a feeling that he might be that friend of Sara’s who had gone back to Ireland to take care of his family. She could be wrong, of course, she acknowledged that. Or Sara might be no longer interested in her old friend. Nevertheless, there was a good chance, Miss Boote thought, that she had actually done something to bring two very nice people together.