The Forget-Me-Not Summer (16 page)

Steve stared, then pretended to faint. ‘What sort of feller would go for a great lumpin' girl like Beth?' he demanded.

Miranda chuckled. ‘Now she's got a boyfriend Beth washes her hair once a week, same as everyone else, and means to spend her wages on nice clothes and make-up.' She sighed. ‘I wonder what it's like to have a boyfriend? I wouldn't go wasting the ready on make-up or frocks, though. I'd buy cakes and ice cream and pork pies and sausage rolls . . .'

By this time they were nearing their school and Steve gave her a friendly punch in the ribs. ‘You have got a boyfriend. What d'you think I am?' he asked plaintively. ‘Don't I walk you to school, take you to the Saturday rush at the Derby cinema, mug you to a sticky bun when I'm in the money . . .'

Miranda gave a scornful snort. ‘Huh, you're my pal
– my bezzie if you like – but you ain't my boyfriend. And Beth's feller is Spotty Wade; you must know him. When we were in primary they called him Tadpole because he had such a big head for such a little body, but now he's just fat and spotty.'

‘Well, you
are
my girlfriend . . .' Steve was beginning when the school bell sounded. ‘Cripes. Let's gerra move on, chuck, 'cos it'll look bad on my report if I'm late,' he said, breaking into a run as he spoke. ‘Is it agreed then? That we go up to Crosby this Saturday – day after tomorrer – and see whether we can still remember what them two boys look like?'

‘Are you certain the Browncoats are back, though?' Miranda said a trifle breathlessly, running along in Steve's wake. ‘We'll look awful fools if we get up there and find the school's still closed – or worse, that the boys are kept on the premises even at weekends.' By now they had reached the school gates and Steve paused in his onward rush to shake his head reprovingly at Miranda.

‘What a one you are for raising objections and followin' the rules,' he said airily. ‘I reckon the lad weren't born who couldn't escape from a school if he wanted to. And anyhow I've been to Crosby several weekends during term time and it always seems to me that the pavements are thronged with them boys. Still, I reckon we'd best gerroff early, so your aunt can't tie you to the kitchen sink, 'cos that would ruin our chances.'

Neither Aunt Vi nor Beth worked on a Saturday so the alarm was not set. However, Miranda was rudely awakened soon after seven o'clock by her cousin briskly pulling the covers off her sleeping form to the
accompaniment of a shouted ‘Gerrup, you lazy little slut!' which had Aunt Vi mumbling a protest.

Miranda was about to add her own objection to such treatment when she remembered that Beth was not the only one who wanted to be up betimes, so she rolled out of bed with no more than a mumbled protest, grabbed her clothes off the hook by the window and made for the kitchen. She then realised why Beth had woken her so crossly; whoever had been last to bed the previous night had failed to make up and damp down the fire in the range, with the result that it was almost out and one could not possibly boil a kettle, let alone make the porridge, until it was brought back to life once again.

From upstairs, Beth's voice reached her. ‘Bring me hot water up as soon as you've got the fire going,' she shouted. Miranda heard their bedroom door crash open and saw Beth's round, pasty face appear at the top of the stairs. ‘I'm meetin' Herbert early, so's we can have a day out.' She gave Miranda an ingratiating smile. ‘Sorry I had to wake you kinda rough like, but I can't abide washin' in cold water and I want to look me best for Herbert. Yesterday I seen a dress in Paddy's Market what was only twelve 'n' six; it suited me a treat, so I bought it. Herbie's callin' at eight, so if you could just make me some sarnies I'll get meself washed and dressed while you're doin' it.'

‘Okay, Beth. As it happens I'm goin' out myself so I'll put up a few sarnies for me as well,' Miranda said, pulling the kettle over the now briskly burning range.

Miranda enjoyed the bus ride out to Crosby, for though she knew the early part of the journey, the rest was
strange to her. Steve chatted easily as they went, and told her that if they had time they might go down to Crosby beach and paddle in the long seawater pools which formed whenever the tide went out. He seemed confident that they would soon achieve their objective, which at this stage was just to identify the two Grimshaw boys. ‘If we have a chance we'll suggest that they meet us another time to discuss Missie's plight,' he explained. ‘But I don't think we should rush them, because they're bound to be suspicious of two total strangers trying to get them away from their schoolfellows.'

When the bus drew up in the middle of the small town, Steve and Miranda hopped off and turned towards the street where the school was situated, looking for brown blazers trimmed with gold braid with a very imposing crest upon the breast pocket. They saw boys large and small, boys fat and thin, boys who wore their caps tilted rakishly on the backs of their heads and boys who pulled them so far forward that they had to raise their chins to look before them. In fact after five minutes Miranda grabbed Steve's arm and pulled him into a convenient doorway. ‘We're never going to find them, not if we search for a hundred years,' she hissed. ‘There are hundreds of them and they all look exactly alike. Oh, if only Missie would come with us, finding them would be so simple. She could point them out and then go and hide herself somewhere . . .'

‘Yes, but you know very well she won't come out in daylight, let alone travel on a bus which goes perilously close to the docks at times. And, you know, I don't altogether blame her. She had a real horrible experience with them men on the
Pride of the Sea
; it's only natural
that she don't want to walk into trouble again,' Steve said.

‘If only there were some sign that we could look for,' Miranda moaned. ‘If one of them had a wooden leg or an eye missing . . .'

Steve laughed and gave her a friendly shove. ‘Don't give up so soon, Miranda,' he urged. ‘What do you remember about the pictures of the lads which Missie put into our heads? I'm sure Julian's hair was light brown and I think he had a scar above one eyebrow, and didn't you say Gerald had curls?'

‘I can't remember,' Miranda wailed. She had been thrown completely off balance by the fact that, in uniform, all the boys looked so similar. ‘All I really remember is the colour of his shirt, and . . . oh!'

A small group of boys was approaching them, the tallest two in earnest conversation which stopped abruptly as Miranda grabbed one of the boys' arm. ‘Are you Gerald Grimshaw?' she asked breathlessly. ‘I've a message for you from an old friend.' The other boys were staring at her curiously – one or two sniggered – and she felt a hot blush burning up her face, but continued to cling doggedly to her target's arm. ‘You are Gerald Grimshaw, aren't you? It's – it's a private sort of message . . .'

But the boy was shaking her off and frowning, his cheeks also beginning to burn. ‘I don't think I know you, young woman,' he said coldly. ‘Good day.'

Miranda, feeling the most almighty fool, fished the sheet of paper upon which Missie had written her message out of her pocket and tried to thrust it into the boy's hand, but he evaded her. She thought that he had
cold eyes and a superior expression and wished very much that she had asked Steve to speak to him. Then she remembered that of course he had not seen the same image as she, and fixed the cold-eyed one with her most pleading expression. ‘I'm sure you are Gerald Grimshaw, aren't you? This letter is most awfully important; I promised the – the writer that I would hand it to you personally. Oh, please, please read it!'

The boy, however, clapped his hand firmly over his breast pocket so that she could not insert the letter. ‘I'm
not
Gerald whatsit,' he said, and then snatched the paper from her, screwed it into a little ball, and dropped it down the grating at his feet. ‘We aren't allowed to talk to girls, especially ginger-headed gypsies,' he said nastily. ‘Please go away; if I were seen talking to you I should be in real trouble.'

Miranda, her whole face burning by now, dropped to her knees and peered through the grating, but the note had disappeared. Scrambling to her feet, she fired one parting shot. ‘You're a nasty stuck-up snob!' she said furiously. ‘I was only asking you to read a letter from someone you're supposed to be fond of. When I tell Missie how horrible you've been she'll be disgusted.'

If she had expected the boy to show some sign of interest when she spoke the name she was disappointed. He simply continued to walk, speeding up slightly, and when he had got well ahead poor Miranda gave vent to her pent-up feelings in a burst of angry tears. She turned back to where she had left Steve, but could not see him anywhere and for a moment sheer terror gripped her. Steve had provided the money for the bus fares and had the two return tickets in his pocket. To be sure, she had
a packet of jam sandwiches in her own pocket, but she could scarcely use them to bribe a bus conductor to take her home. And she had played her cards all wrong! She should never have tried to engage Gerald – if indeed the boy had been Gerald – in conversation whilst he was with a group of his schoolmates. Now she had spoiled the whole thing and they would have to return to Jamaica House this evening with only failure to report. Of course, it was Missie's own fault for refusing to accompany them, but Miranda understood how she felt, particularly now she had been so comprehensively snubbed. But perhaps if they told Missie what had happened she would pluck up her courage and accompany them to Crosby on their next visit.

But right now Miranda had a problem of her own, and she was about to start searching for Steve when she saw him strolling along the pavement towards her, a broad grin on his face. ‘You got lucky, didn't you?' he asked as they met. ‘I saw you talking to that boy – was it Gerald? Apparently they're on their way to the school playing fields, so they've got teachers with 'em, keepin' an eye; I guess you didn't have time to explain much. Shall we follow 'em up to the playin' fields and wait until Gerald's had time to read the letter? I thought I saw you put it in his pocket. Hey up, what's the matter? Don't start cryin', you idiot! What have I said? You done well. I didn't see anyone who looked like Julian.' He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Look, there's a seat by that monument. If you don't want to follow them now, then we might as well have a sit down while you tell me what's upset you.'

Miranda gave an angry sniff and knuckled her eyes
to get rid of the tears which were forming. It wasn't fair! She had done her very best, had tried to explain . . . and the boy had called her nasty names and refused to listen. She had put on her only halfway decent dress and had braided her hair into two thick plaits besides having a jolly good wash, yet he had called her a ginger-headed gypsy; oh, how she hated him! But the thought of having to admit her total failure brought the tears rushing back into her eyes and she realised she was in no state to approach the Browncoat boys again, even had she wished to do so, so she followed Steve to the bench and sat down beside him. Without further preamble she told her story, including the fact that the letter over which she, Missie and Steve had taken such pains had been thrown down the grid before she had a chance to rescue it.

She half expected Steve to say she should not have offered the letter until she was certain that the boy she had accosted really was Gerald, but instead he fished out of his pocket an extremely dirty piece of rag, pressed it into her hand and told her to mop up her tears. ‘It weren't your fault; we should have remembered that uniform kind of changes people,' he said comfortingly. ‘Of course we'll have to rewrite the letter – or get Missie to do so, rather – but at least it will be a case of repeating what the first letter said which will be much easier than writing a new one. And next time it might be best to go straight up to the playing fields and ask someone, quietly, to point out the Grimshaws, then wait until they've been bowled out or wharrever and ask for a quiet word. So cheer up, kid; we're all but home an' dry.'

Miranda gave a watery sniff. ‘So it probably wasn't even a Grimshaw who chucked our letter down the
drain,' she said. ‘I'm an idiot, I am! What's that thing about rushing in where angels fear to tread? That's me, that is. But I'll make up for it next week, I promise.'

Steve cleared his throat and Miranda saw that he looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Look, queen, you've been great, much braver than what I was, but next week I think I'd do better by meself. The teachers have got it into their heads that the boys shouldn't talk to girls . . . well, you told me that the boy you spoke to said he'd be in trouble if someone saw him with a girl. So I honestly think I'd stand a better chance if I came alone.'

Miranda sighed. She had not enjoyed her encounter with the snooty Browncoat boy, who had not only insulted her – ginger-headed gypsy indeed – but made her feel small. Yet even so she did not want to be left out of the adventure, if adventure it could be called. But Steve was looking at her anxiously, probably guessing how she felt, and waiting for her reaction, so Miranda forced a smile. ‘I know you're right, so next Saturday I'll spend the day with Missie,' she said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. ‘I do hope we can get her away before winter comes, though.'

Steve looked doubtful. ‘It don't do to rush things,' he said, pulling her to her feet. ‘You're a grand girl, you are, so let's go down to the beach and have a paddle before setting off for home.'

I never expected it to be easy, but I never thought it would be this perishin' difficult, Steve said to himself as he approached the playing fields a week later. Missie had been bitterly disappointed that they had not managed to contact one of the Grimshaw boys on their first attempt,
but when Steve had explained his plan she had agreed that it was a good one. Even so, she had been reluctant to write out the letter again. She thought it would be very much easier for Steve to persuade Julian and Gerald to come to Jamaica House so that they could see for themselves that she really was in Liverpool. Steve and Miranda, however, had explained that the boys were strictly guarded and must be convinced that Missie really needed their help before they would even begin to consider venturing so far from school.