He retched, then straightened, cold rage bringing him back to his senses. It would be that bloody, self-righteous Nurse Peel, that’s who would be passing rumours around amongst the neighbours! Well, it just went to prove that you couldn’t judge by appearances. He had thought her downright beautiful, had liked the slim strength of her, the way she held herself. Not like a soldier on parade as so many of them did, but straight-backed nevertheless, and with an easy self-confidence, too. Dammit, he had
liked
the look of her. But no more. One of these days he would tackle her about the wicked rumours she was spreading but not now, not yet. He needed to be stronger before he so much as spoke to an unmarried young woman, even if, like Nurse Peel, she was no better than she should be. She must be shameless, bringing her bastard to a respectable neighbourhood, hoping no one would think the worse of her, chatting to his mam whenever they were out on the balcony at the same time … and slandering him, Derek Knight, in foolish, spiteful gossip with another resident of Ashfield Place! Oh, yes, he would tell her a thing or two one of these days so he would! He would give her a taste of her own medicine, talk about her, tell folk about her love-child. But in the meantime he would take absolutely no notice of her. He would pass her on the stairs or going along the balcony without a word, ignore her if she called on his mother, refuse to mention her in conversation.
True to her word, Mrs Clarke bought cheap material and made all Patty’s curtains. Though there was still a little constraint between them – Patty was still very much the professional midwife – she began to appreciate Mrs Clarke’s breezy personality and to enjoy her visits to the Clarke house.
Perhaps it was because of Mrs Clarke’s friendliness that other neighbours had begun to treat Patty with less formality. They called out to her in the street, sent their children round to ask if she had any messages, offered help when she ran over a piece of glass and tore a great hole in her bicycle tyre, and generally behaved as though they wanted her friendship and were willing to offer her theirs.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Patty had said recently, when she had visited Mrs Ruskin. ‘I’ve done my best to keep them at a distance but it doesn’t seem to work. And to tell you the truth, I rather like the friendliness. I remember what it was like in Great Homer Street, and at Mrs Evans’s; no one liked me very much – not that I liked them either – so I never got any but grudging help, even when I needed it badly.’
Mrs Ruskin had chuckled. ‘It’s the baby, my love,’ she had said comfortably. ‘They all think Merrell’s your own child and that means you aren’t a superior being but just like them. Having a baby – and no husband – makes you human and fallible. See?’
Patty, who did not see at all, had given a noncommittal mutter but thinking it over she realised her friend must be right. Because of her education and qualifications, she had always held aloof from the community she served and she knew she had not behaved any differently in Ashfield Place, yet the neighbours had taken her to their hearts. Smiling a little ruefully she realised she had a lot to thank Merrell for.
Now, Patty dismounted her bicycle and began to heave it up the iron stairway. It had been simple enough when Merrell was tiny, but now her weight made carting it upstairs really difficult. As she struggled, a figure came clattering down towards her, a tall, dark figure. It was difficult to identify him against the light but as he drew level Patty recognised Darky Knight. By now she was used to him ignoring her and expected nothing else, so she was considerably surprised when he looked at the baby in the basket, gave a martyred sigh, and turned back, grabbing the front wheel of the bicycle as he did so. He began to pull the machine up the remaining stairs, though without a word said, and Patty, breathless from the effort she had already expended, held her tongue until they reached the top landing. Then she said: ‘Thanks, Mr Knight.’
He turned away and Patty essayed a small smile, thinking crossly that he might at least acknowledge her thanks, if nothing else. But Darky Knight did not reply. With averted head, he went past her and hurried down the stairs, two at a time. Patty now knew that he was an electrician at Lever Brothers; knew also from his mother that it was a responsible and well-paid job. They do shift work at Port Sunlight so he’s probably in a hurry, she told herself, but she could not help feeling a little aggrieved. Why was he so rude to her? It was impolite to ignore someone who had spoken to you. Mrs Knight had said, excusingly, that her son was shy and had become even more so after losing his wife, but Patty had heard him talking to Mrs Clarke and other neighbours in a normal fashion. To be sure, he did not gossip but he was always polite to everyone, except herself.
It is a nasty thing to feel oneself disliked for no obvious reason, as Patty knew well, but she comforted herself by remembering that she had no interest in any young man and really had no desire for a friendship with Darky Knight.
As she wheeled her machine along to her own section of balcony, Patty’s thoughts reverted to her problem: who was going to look after Merrell now that she was becoming too big for the bicycle basket? She told herself sadly that she could not go on as she did at present, lugging the child around with her. It was fair neither to Merrell nor to Patty herself, for at five months Merrell was beginning to take a considerable interest in her surroundings, and in a few weeks more she would be sitting up by herself and wanting to crawl or to shuffle along on her bottom, the way Patty had seen other children do. Unstrapping the basket, Patty took her bag in her other hand, then had to set it down to unlock her front door. Once this was done, she carried Merrell across to the kitchen table and put the basket down on it, then began to set about the tasks which she performed on her arrival home each evening. First, she lifted Merrell, gurgling happily, from the basket and wedged her into a corner of the one easy chair she possessed. Then she emptied her instruments into the sink and washed them thoroughly before popping them in a biscuit tin and placing it in the bake oven for sterilisation, for the fire was kept alight in the stove day and night.
Patty had noticed a couple of weeks before how intently the baby now watched her every movement and as she prepared the child’s bottle, and a simple meal for herself, she spent a good deal of time chatting to Merrell as though she understood every word. Right from the start, she had realised that the child needed constant loving attention as much as she needed feeding, cleaning and clothing and had done her best to provide it. The lack of such attention in her own childhood had, she guessed, contributed to the deep unhappiness from which she had suffered in the orphan asylum, so she had decided not to take Merrell to a child minder who probably looked after fifteen or twenty small children. Besides, such a person would look after Merrell during the day but would be unable to do so at night, and Patty was on night call every other week. At present, she took the slumbering Merrell with her but this would not be possible for much longer. The baby was outgrowing the bicycle basket and had begun to murmur a sleepy protest when she was bumped down the metal steps and across the cobbled street.
But there’s no way she’s going to end up with anyone but me, Patty told herself grimly, watching the child’s ecstatic face as she sucked enthusiastically at the bottle. I wonder if Mrs Knight might like to give an eye to her? On second thoughts, Patty decided this was not a good idea. Mrs Knight was a delightful lady but her son never took the slightest notice of Merrell and might be unpleasant to the child simply because of his dislike of Patty. If his sad experience of marriage and babies had affected his mind, Patty did not want him anywhere near her little girl.
Besides, there were bound to be plenty of other people who liked children and would take on the care of Merrell when Patty was unable to see to her. ‘And of course, I’ll pay whoever takes you on, my little sugar plum,’ Patty told Merrell, smiling down into the blue, blue eyes. ‘Oh, I wish I knew what to do for the best! But one thing I do know: you aren’t going to land up in an orphan asylum!’
Merrell having finished her bottle, Patty offered her some of the rice pudding she had made earlier. The baby ate it with enthusiasm, and when she had finished Patty replaced her in the chair and began on her own meal. But even as she ate, her thoughts continued to revolve uneasily. It was no good putting it off; she simply must find a solution for her baby-sitting problem before it became insurmountable.
Patty, eating bread and jam, thought of her own life in the orphanage, the strict discipline, the lack of love. Slowly, she let her mind drift back, remembering … remembering …
‘Patty Peel! Wharrever’s the matter now? I’ve never known a child like you for whining and complainin’. Keep up wi’ the rest of the kids or I’ll see to it you get a good slappin’ and no supper when we get home!’
‘It’s me shoes, miss,’ Patty said. ‘Them’s too small. I don’t think they
are
mine, any road. I think they’re Betty’s.’
Patty, with her feet throbbing painfully, had fallen further and further behind. At the sound of Miss Briggs’s voice, however, she hobbled along a little faster, wincing at the pain from her crushed toes, to catch up with her partner in the crocodile.
The children from the Durrant House Orphan Asylum, on The Elms, were being taken for their twice-weekly walk. They usually went to Sefton Park and watched other children feeding the ducks, admired the Palm House and the aviary and, in summer, were even allowed to play for a little on the grass. Today, however, though they had walked as far as the nearest gates, they had not entered the park. Laura Reilly, who happened to be Patty’s partner, had been caught chewing gum and Miss Briggs had immediately boxed her ears and announced that, thanks to Laura, they would all be punished, for Laura had refused to say where the chewing gum had come from. ‘And I trust you other girls will see that Laura never does such a thing again, since she has spoiled your walk,’ the teacher said severely. ‘However, we have to stay out for at least half an hour, so we’ll take a turn around the neighbourhood instead.’
Miss Briggs had called the crocodile of small girls to a halt whilst Patty caught up, and as the child rejoined them she said sharply: ‘Betty’s shoes indeed! It’s so typical of you, Patty Peel, to blame someone else for what is your own fault. Did you not check that the shoes were yours before you put them on? And why, may I ask, have you not apologised to me for your tardiness?’
There was a short pause whilst Patty considered which question Miss Briggs wanted answered first, but even as she opened her mouth to speak Miss Briggs grabbed her by the shoulder and slapped the side of her face sharply. Patty fell back a pace and put a hand to her hot cheek, but she could not help thinking that if Miss Briggs had known the full story of Laura’s chewing gum she would have got a good deal more than a slap on the cheek. Patty had found the chewing gum stuck to the iron railings round the park and had shared it with Laura. There had still been a trace of minty flavour in the grey and gooey mass and she had been enjoying her share when Miss Briggs had shouted at Laura. Naturally, Patty had immediately swallowed her own piece and, had it not been for the pain in her feet, would have worried quite a lot over what the chewing gum was doing in her insides. Suppose it gave her appendicitis? There was a rude song the girls used to sing, about the travels of a peanut …
that
had given someone appendicitis. However, she could not appear to be unmoved by the slap or Miss Briggs would grow suspicious, so she said, breathlessly: ‘Sorry, miss. I were last down to the cloakroom and there were only one pair of shoes left, so I had to put them on, didn’t I?’
She did not expect sympathy or even understanding but felt the familiar sinking of the heart when Miss Briggs snapped: ‘Last as usual, you mean. Can nothing teach you not to dream your life away, girl? Everyone else enjoys their walks and hurries to the cloakroom for outdoor clothing and shoes, but not you. Oh no, Miss Patty Peel comes in her own good time, when she thinks she will.’
There was a titter from the nearest group of girls, no doubt hoping to curry favour with Miss Briggs, though Laura gave her a sympathetic look out of her large, rather tearful-looking grey eyes. Patty knew most of the girls resented her because she was at least a year younger than they. The previous term she had been in Miss Nixon’s class with girls of her own age, but had rapidly become so bored by the childish work that her fellow classmates were stumbling through that she had begun to be naughty and disruptive. Miss Nixon, her gentle, undemanding form teacher, had taken her to one side and explained, almost apologetically, that she had suggested Patty should be moved from Class 3 to Class 4. ‘I don’t have the time to set you special work, which means you are often idle and often, I’m afraid, rather naughty,’ she had explained. ‘In a higher class, with older children, you will find the work more challenging and be less likely to get into trouble. I shall miss you, Patty, because you are easily my brightest pupil, but to hold you back would be selfish and not in the interests of the rest of my class. So when the new term begins in September, you will go to Miss Briggs’s class, where I am sure you will speedily find your feet.’
Patty had liked Miss Nixon but had known nothing about Miss Briggs and was appalled to find that her new teacher was both spiteful and vicious, much given to hitting her pupils and inventing punishments which often affected the whole class.
In a way, Miss Nixon had been right; removed from the company of children her own age, Patty had had to work hard to catch up. Having done so, however, she found herself even more unpopular than she had been with her own age group. The older girls might have tolerated her had she seemed to struggle or ask for their help, but that was not Patty’s way. She had simply slogged at her books, reading whenever she had time to herself, and questioning the teachers until she had no need to enquire further, for she understood what the lessons were all about. And then she had soared to the top of the class once more and had reaped the reward of being called a goody-goody, a know-all, and even teacher’s pet.
This last, as Patty knew to her cost, was very far from the truth but it hurt her, even so. There was something about Patty’s flaxen hair, round blue eyes and rosy cheeks which seemed to mark her out as someone to be watched, and the teaching staff, with one accord, blamed her whenever things went wrong.
Sometimes they were right, Patty acknowledged to herself, trudging along in the wake of the crocodile as it headed along Belvidere Road. Usually, they continued past St Paul’s Church and the Hamlet before turning right into The Elms, but today Miss Briggs led her crocodile down a different street before they reached the church. Patty, with her mind divided between the lump of chewing gum in her stomach and the pain of her crushed toes, did not wonder why Miss Briggs had chosen a different way home; she just hoped it was quicker. She might not have noticed the name of the street at all had Laura not given her a poke in the ribs. ‘This ’un’s your street, Patty,’ Laura hissed hoarsely. ‘I never knew you had a street all to yourself!’ As she spoke, she pointed to a neat nameplate and Patty was astonished to see that the other girl was right; this was indeed Peel Street. It was even spelled the same.
Patty’s mind immediately abandoned both toes and chewing gum and began to revolve the strange coincidence of bearing the same name as a street. ‘I wonder if my relatives live here?’ she muttered. ‘No, they can’t do, ’cos it’s quite near the Durrant, so I dare say they’d pop in to see me from time to time. It’s strange, though, isn’t it? I suppose it might have been named for me dad if he’d done something special. Oh, Laura, I wish I could find out!’
‘I’spect it’s just a co … co …’ Laura said. ‘I’spect it don’t mean nothing, really. People who are special don’t put their kids into orphan asylums.’
Patty gave this some thought and then, as they turned into The Elms, nodded agreement. ‘I s’pose you’re right. I say, what’s today? Is it bread and jam tea or is it bread and dripping?’
‘Bread and dr—’ Laura was beginning when Miss Briggs, at the head of the crocodile, turned to shoot them a suspicious glance.
‘Was someone talking?’ the teacher said sharply. ‘Patty Peel, if you want any tea you’d best button your lip.’
The head of the crocodile turned into the entrance to Durrant House and, fortunately for Patty, Miss Briggs became too busy ordering them to the cloakroom and fussing about the way they hung up their coats, changed their shoes and put on their smocks to bother her further that afternoon.
Meals were taken in the long dining room just past the cloakrooms. The children lined up in the corridor and were then marched in to have their meal, class by class. There was not room for the whole school to eat at the same time, and as one of Miss Briggs’s pupils Patty was now in the second wave to be fed. Since meals were small and skimpy affairs, however, it did not take long for the little ones to finish their food and go along to their playroom at the end of the building. And presently Patty, Laura and the rest of their class took their places on the long wooden benches, bowed their heads for grace and, when the word was given, began to eat the bread and golden syrup which was today’s fare. And very thinly the syrup was spread too, so that it was no more than a few golden bubbles distributed across the surface of the waxy margarine.
As luck would have it, Patty was seated at the extreme end of one of the long tables, right next door to the prefect, who handed out the food, saw to it that no one took anyone else’s portion and generally kept order. Today, the prefect in charge of Patty’s table was Selina Roberts. She was a tall, slender girl with mouse-coloured hair and light blue eyes and was a general favourite with the younger children since she always had time to answer questions or to read storybooks to those still not able to read for themselves. Unfortunately, talking in the dining room was forbidden but Patty, with Peel Street still on her mind, decided to take a chance. When the duty teacher’s back was turned, she asked Selina whether she could have a word with her in the common room later.
‘Of course,’ Selina whispered, also keeping her eyes on the teacher, who was reprimanding someone at another table for eating too quickly. ‘Is it a private matter?’
Patty nodded bashfully and adjusted the neck of her smock; in her hurry she had tied the tapes rather too tightly. Selina suggested that it might be more prudent to go into one of the empty classrooms, since the sight of a senior girl chatting with a child of seven would give rise to the sort of curiosity which neither girl wished to arouse.
When the meal was over, the children filed out in table order and presently Patty found herself in one of the junior classrooms, perched on a desk with Selina smiling comfortably at her. ‘Well?’ the older girl said. ‘What can I do for you, Patty Peel?’
Patty hesitated, but only for a moment. She had so many questions that she wanted answered! However, to begin at the beginning was always a good plan, so she took a deep breath and plunged into her story. ‘Selina, I’m seven years old, but I never gets no visitors. I think me mam and dad are dead – at any rate, when I were in the baby class, Miss Merrell telled me they were dead – but even so, wouldn’t you think I’d have other relatives? But none of them ever comes to see me, nor sends me so much as a line, come Christmas. Then, on our walk this afternoon, Miss Briggs brought us home by a different way and we found ourselves walking down Peel Street. Now I thought, it bein’ so near the Durrant an’ all, and my name being Peel … well I thought it might
mean
something.’
‘Yes, it does mean something, though not what you’re thinking,’ Selina said. ‘Do you mean to say nobody has told you that you’re a foundling? There’s nothing wrong in that,’ she added hastily as she saw the puzzlement on Patty’s face, ‘I’m a foundling myself. It simply means that your mam and dad weren’t able to look after you, so – so they left you somewhere safe, where you were bound to be found by responsible people who would take good care of you.’
Patty digested this, then said doubtfully: ‘But what difference does that make, Selina? I mean I’m still the child of Mr and Mrs Peel, aren’t I? The same as you’re the child of Mr and Mrs Roberts?’
‘Well, no, it doesn’t mean that,’ Selina said gently. ‘In fact, your beginnings are a lot more romantic than that, Patty dear. Your mother may have been very young and perhaps she did not want anyone to know that she had given birth to a baby, so she wrapped you in a nice, bright red blanket and left you snugly under a hedge on Peel Street. I’m positive she must have waited to make sure someone found you, and indeed you were found quite quickly, for though it was a rainy night your blanket was almost dry when a scuffer came along, walking his beat, and saw you. He brought you to the nearest orphan asylum, which of course was the Durrant, and left you in Matron’s charge. But because they did not know your mother’s name, or anything about her, they named you partly after the scuffer, whose name was Patrick, and partly after the street.’
‘So I’m not Patty Peel at all then?’ Patty said doubtfully. ‘It’s just a make-up? Is it the same for you, Selina? Is there a Robert Street somewhere in Liverpool, where you were found?’
Selina laughed. ‘No, not a Robert Street. I was dumped on Lime Street station, but there was a note pinned to the shawl I was wrapped in. It said
This is Selina. Please take care of her
. And the porter who found me was called Roberts, so … well, that was the surname they chose for me, since I already had a first name.’
‘I think that’s nice, that your mam cared enough to name you,’ Patty said wistfully. ‘I wish mine had named me. And to be left under a hedge …’
Selina laughed. ‘Patty Peel’s a lovely name,’ she said bracingly. ‘Much nicer than Selina Roberts, if you ask me. I’m just so thankful that they didn’t call me Selina Lime, after the station, you know. But why did you start wondering about your relatives, Patty dear?’
‘I’ve wondered before,’ Patty admitted. ‘But I just thought me mam an’ dad must have died, and me relatives must be living far away. Only when I saw Peel Street I thought – I thought … and I looked at the houses, real posh they are on that street, Selina, and I couldn’t help wonderin’ if I had cousins or – or aunts or somebody living there. Come to that, why did my mam choose Peel Street? I bet it were because she lived there … you never know. I could ask around.’