I’ve never seen meself as a matchmaker, Miss Boote told herself at last, getting up from her chair and limping over to the kettle to make more tea. But even if I’m not successful, even if it isn’t the same feller, there’s no harm in gettin’ a gardener for free!
Chapter Sixteen
Brogan got off his bicycle at soon as he reached the Strawberry Field drive and pushed it the rest of the way up to the front door. Then he swerved round to the side of the house, because a would-be gardener would scarcely approach the front door in so brazen a manner. Besides, it gave him a chance for a good look around.
The garden was in a state all right, he told himself, eyeing the beds, many of them trampled flat by builders and decorators, some simply winter-bare, but all lacking the clean, tilled look of a well-kept garden. There were roses in need of pruning, shrubs and bushes in need of cutting back, lawns positively begging for draining, cleaning, nurturing. Yes, Strawberry Field could do with someone, and he very much hoped it could be him. I’d start off with a series of bonfires, he told himself, looking disparagingly at the paths, almost hidden beneath a carpet of fallen leaves, hedges straggling across them, a paved patio mossy and puddled where it was not mounded up with dead leaves. Yes, I’d start with bonfires, then I’d go on by doing some good, old-fashioned double-digging. And then I’d get a few cartloads of farmyard muck and spread it all around . . . the place would begin to benefit by the spring.
He reached the back door. He could hear muted sounds from beyond it so he knocked politely, then stood back and waited.
‘Oh dear, every time I put pen to paper someone either rings up or comes to the door,’ Sara grumbled, putting her pen down and jumping to her feet. ‘I’d only just seen the children off for their cinema trip, thankful for at least two hours’ peace and quiet, when Mr Reid arrived, asking about the new geyser for the staff bathroom. Still, if this is the gardener Miss Boote asked to call, he can’t come soon enough. Oh, Matron, I do wonder how I’ll cope when all the children arrive, considering I’m finding three such hard work!’
‘When the place is full there’ll be someone else to answer the door,’ the matron said placidly. The two women were in the staff sitting room, Sara trying to catch up with her paperwork and the matron knitting for Christmas. So far she had made each of their three resident children a scarlet woolly jumper, a pom-pom hat and a pair of brightly coloured mittens. Sara, entrusted with the scarves, had barely got halfway up – or down – the first. ‘Off you go, Miss Cordwainer. And since you’re so busy I’ll do a bit of your knitting, shall I? I seem to have finished mine.’
‘Oh, I
would
be grateful,’ Sara said, pausing for a moment. ‘I’m afraid I’m not a very good knitter. Gran did try to teach me, but she gave up because I kept producing a different number of stitches, though goodness knows how. I really don’t understand it at all, to tell you the truth.’
‘That’s clear,’ the matron said, surveying the uneven piece of knitting which dangled from Sara’s needles. ‘Are those holes part of the pattern, then?’
‘Umm . . . I’m not sure. I’ll just . . .’
Sara hurried from the room, glad to escape the difficult task. Matron, who clearly took knitting quite complex patterns in her stride, seemed to expect her assistant to be similarly gifted, which wasn’t helping either. I’m good at other things, Sara told herself defensively now, crossing the hallway with a quick, impatient step. I do the books and amuse the children, do quite a lot of the cooking when Cook is on her day off or otherwise engaged, I teach Sunday school . . .
She reached the back door and flung it open.
‘Good aftern . . .’ Sara stopped short. ‘Brogan! Oh, Brogan!’
She had told herself he was only a friend, but she did not treat him like one. She simply flew across the short distance which separated them and hugged him. And Brogan hugged her back, hugged her hard, and began kissing any bit of her that he could reach, which was entirely unexpected and entirely lovely, so far as Sara was concerned. Locked in each other’s arms, they both knew the sheer bliss of reunion, and Sara felt tears form in her eyes and begin to trickle down her cheeks because
this
was where she wanted to be,
this
was where she belonged! She had thought a life of caring for children was all she could possibly desire, now she knew she was wrong. More than anything else, she wanted to be with Brogan. It was, in the end, that simple.
Brogan’s face was shining. He hadn’t said a word so far, but finally he held her away from him, his eyes fixed lovingly on her face.
‘Sara? Dear God above, I’ve missed you so bad! But I’d given you up, after they told me you’d got a feller, an Army feller.’
‘An
Army
feller? Who on earth told you that? I’ve never had a feller at all, if you want to know the truth. Oh, and Brogan, I’m so sorry about your father’s death; what a terrible thing to happen.’
‘Indeed,’ Brogan said solemnly. ‘Me father was hit by a train, it near kilt him so it did, but he recovered. Now he’s fit an’ well, and livin’ on the Wirral, mindin’ a crossin’ for the LMS. Boote, your feller’s name was, accordin’ to your neighbour, in Snowdrop Street.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘God love you, Sara, it wouldn’t be Miss Boote she was meanin’, would it? The young woman me sister’s dog knocked over?’
‘That’s right, or I think it is . . . certainly Clarrie was knocked down in Anfield Cemetery by a dog . . . Oh, Brogan, was
that
why you never came calling? Because you thought Miss Boote was my – my intended? She was our lodger, that’s all! And Peader’s fit and well, you say? That’s wonderful news, Brog. A little feller in the Queen’s Arms told me you’d gone back to Ireland to look after your family because your father had died. He said he thought you’d be getting married over there. Honestly, what a fool I was not to check up!’
‘We’ve been a pair of fools, both believin’ whatever we were told about the other,’ Brogan said. ‘And what d’you think you’ve done to me, hidin’ yourself away like this? Ah God, an’ the last time we met sure an’ wasn’t I a tongue-tied idiot! But you were so grand, so special . . . I had no words to tell you the things I wanted you to know . . . ah, Sara, why in God’s name didn’t I just hug you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sara said. She knew her own eyes were shining, she could feel the tears building. ‘Brogan . . . this is madness! Last time we met we almost quarrelled . . . We’ve believed all sorts of silly things about the other one . . . oh, Brog, I’ve missed you!’
‘Not so bad as I’ve missed you,’ Brogan said tenderly. ‘But why the uniform?’
Sara looked down at herself as though she didn’t know what he was talking about, then laughed.
‘Oh, that. I’m a Salvationist, Brog, the same as my friend Clarrie is. Didn’t you know that Strawberry Field is a Salvation Army children’s home? I joined the Army a while back, when Clarrie took me up to the Barracks and showed me the sort of work they did. I knew that if I joined them I’d be able to help the people who needed it most, especially children – it gave me a purpose in life. So I’m working here now, as an assistant to the matron.’
Brogan frowned. ‘You’re a Salvationist, then? I never guessed, never t’ought . . . you said you’d met the Carbs for the first time outside a church, you see. Not that it matters, one way or t’other, alanna.’ But then he began to smile. ‘So we’ve both been livin’ here, believin’ the other to be out of reach! And there was me, searchin’ for the Carbery young wan, and never thinkin’ to ask about yourself!’
‘And there was me . . .’ Sara broke off. ‘We had a new child in recently, Brog; someone you know. Grace, her name is. Grace Carbery. The baby never put in an appearance, Grace spent years searching for her, but at least we know Grace herself is safe, now.’
‘What about the parents?’ Brogan asked. ‘The mother died fallin’ on the stairs, I read that somewhere. But what’s become of the father? I take it he’s not in full cry after gettin’ Grace back again?’
Sara shook her head.
‘No, we found out that he was killed in a drunken brawl outside the Great Mersey public house on Commercial Road a month or two back. The Army was able to trace him, once Grace admitted who she really was. She was so relieved . . . she cried with joy, which sounds terrible, but the things he’d done to her . . . he was a wicked man and the best thing he could do for his kids was to die, believe me.’
‘I believe you,’ Brogan said fervently. ‘Look, my darlin’ girl, can you come out wit’ me for a while? Because we’ve a deal of talkin’ to do, and I can’t talk freely before anyone but you. And Sara, I’m not lettin’ you out of me sight again until we’ve had this talk, so you’d best agree to it or I’ll be makin’ up me bed on your doorstep so I shall.’
‘I’ll come with you, but first you’d best come in and meet Matron and have a word about the garden,’ Sara said. ‘Oh, Brog, I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I realised we’d found young Grace. Nor – nor how wonderful it is to see you again.’
‘Ditto,’ Brogan said briefly. ‘I hope you’ll still think it’s nice to know me when I tell you . . . what I’ve got to tell you. But first, let’s be meetin’ this matron of yours.’
They took themselves off to Calderstones Park in the end. It was a cold afternoon, but the refreshment rooms were open, so the two of them chose a table in the window, ordered tea and cakes and proceeded to tell each other everything which had happened to them, both lately and long ago.
Sara, watching Brogan’s face as he studied the menu, wondered how she had managed without him for so long. He was downright beautiful, with his thick, black hair which shone like coal, his expressive dark-brown eyes, and the slow smile which warmed those eyes, lit that strong, intelligent face. She knew, now, that she loved him, had probably loved him right from the start. But she did not know whether he loved her or simply liked her as a friend.
But this time I’ll find out, she vowed, as they took their places on opposite sides of the small window-table. I’ll find out . . . and if it’s the right answer, I’m not going to pretend. I’m going to tell him I want to be with him for always, no matter how forward and bad it seems.
When their tea arrived Sara poured and Brogan insisted that she choose her cake first. Then he smiled at her, his eyes alight with affection.
‘Who’s goin’ to start? Ladies first, I’m thinkin’.’
So Sara started, with the story of the child calling herself Matty Brown who had arrived on the doorstep at Strawberry Field. She gave Brogan a blow-by-blow account right up to the moment when Grace had brought the little grey fluffy ball out of her pocket, and Sara had recognised the gloves as the ones she herself had given to Jess on that snowy Christmas morning long ago.
It was tempting to leave it at that, to forget the other, darker side, but having decided to make a clean breast of it Sara took the plunge.
‘I think the truth was, Brogan, that because my parents were indifferent to me I felt a real kinship for those other girls whose parents were indifferent, too. The Carberys, I mean. I know the circumstances were not the same, but at the root of it, the Carbery girls and myself all knew what it was to be unloved.
‘So Jess touched me in a way which is probably a bit difficult to understand. It – it wasn’t just the poverty, you see, it went deeper than that. But I could do so little; only give her what I had myself, which was the shilling and the white angora gloves, and of course what I gave her hadn’t helped at all, not really. Indeed, for a while I actually felt I’d almost caused her death.
‘My grandmother – and you – talked me out of a good deal of the guilt, but I did know how lucky I was. I had Gran, for a start, and she truly loved me. And though my parents didn’t love me, they gave me things the Carbery kids would have given their eye-teeth for – food, clothing, education, self-confidence – compared to the kids from the slums, I was rich! So I decided to find the Carbery girls, who were having to fend for themselves now, and help them in any way I could.
‘But it wasn’t easy. I only visited Gran in the school holidays, and by the time the spring term was over and I went back to Snowdrop Street, the Carbs had been kicked out for not paying their rent and seemed to have disappeared.
‘And then of course I was sent away to school in Switzerland and when I came back. the first time I showed any sympathy for the poor, my parents disowned me. So back I came to Snowdrop Street, to earn my own living, help my grandmother . . . and try to find Grace and Mollie.
‘Then Clarrie took me to the Barracks for the first time, and it was a revelation. There were people actually
doing
the things I’d thought about, talked about. They were working for the poor in a way I’d never imagined. They didn’t just collect money, or say things should be different, they worked their fingers to the bone making sure that things
were
different. If a woman was too ill to come to the soup kitchen, the Army went to her. If a child was beaten and abused, the police brought the child to one of the Army shelters and the kid was cleaned up, taken to hospital if necessary, and found somewhere safe to sleep at nights. Old people who’d lost their homes, men who’d lost their jobs, lost hope, were all picked up, dusted down, and set on the path to recovery. I can’t tell you, Brog, all the Army does because I don’t know myself, yet. But I suppose in a way I wanted a share of all that shining faith, all that generosity. I admired them more than words can say and I saw that to become one of them, to work as they did, was not just a good way of helping people like the Carbs, it was the best way of helping, full stop. The Army net spreads wide, you see. Even if I, personally, wasn’t able to help Grace and Mollie, others might well be doing so, and I was helping
them.
’ She stopped talking, putting both hands to her hot cheeks. ‘Oh, Brogan, do I sound an awful little prig? My mother called me a prig once. But I must try to explain what the Army did for me, and why I value it so!’