The Runaway
Contents
About the Book
When Dana and Caitlin meet by chance on the ferry from Ireland, they tell each other that they are simply going to search for work, but they soon realise they have more than that in common. They are both in search of new lives in Liverpool, leaving their secrets behind in Ireland. Dana is ambitious and resourceful, however, and when the opportunity comes to own their own tearoom she persuades her friend to join her.
But no-one is willing to rent property to a couple of girls, especially during the Depression, so when Caitlin’s new man friend says he’ll back them, they are delighted and soon the tearoom is thriving.
Then fate intervenes, and soon the girls find themselves fighting to survive in a world on the brink of war.
About the Book
Katie Flynn has lived for many years in the north-west. A compulsive writer, she started with short stories and articles and many of her early stories were broadcast on Radio Merseyside. She decided to write her Liverpool series after hearing the reminiscences of family members about life in the city in the early years of the twentieth century. For many years she has had to cope with ME. She also writes as Judith Saxton.
Also available by Katie Flynn
A Liverpool Lass The Girl from Penny Lane Liverpool Taffy
The Mersey Girls Strawberry Fields Rainbow’s End
Rose of Tralee
No Silver Spoon
Polly’s Angel
The Girl from Seaforth Sands The Liverpool Rose Poor Little Rich Girl The Bad Penny
Down Daisy Street A Kiss and a Promise Two Penn’orth of Sky A Long and Lonely Road The Cuckoo Child Darkest Before Dawn Orphans of the Storm Little Girl Lost Beyond the Blue Hills Forgotten Dreams Sunshine and Shadows Such Sweet Sorrow A Mother’s Hope
In Time for Christmas Heading Home
A Mistletoe Kiss The Lost Days of Summer Christmas Wishes
Katie Flynn writing as Judith Saxton
You Are My Sunshine First Love, Last Love
For Holly Pemberton, who leapt into the breach and
saved the day. Thanks Holly!
Dear Reader,
I first had the idea for
The Runaway
when a mental picture of Sandra and Beryl in
The Liver Birds
came into my head. In
The Runaway
Dana is Irish and a dreamer, but Polly is very much the down-to-earth Scouser, and when she makes up her mind to resolve her friend’s troubles, she dives in feet first, dragging her hapless friend Ernie along with her, regardless of his wishes.
I loved writing about Castletara – no I shan’t tell you where it is in reality – and hope that the differences between Dana’s background and Polly’s make the story more interesting for you; certainly they did for the writer!
Love
Katie Flynn
Prologue
Castletara, 1928
Dana was deeply asleep, did not even hear the light tap upon her bedroom door, but woke when a hand grasped her shoulder and a voice hissed in her ear: ‘Wake up, you eejit! I thought as how you were going to wake me, and here you are fathoms deep and me waitin’ for as long as I dared before I decided to fetch you. Come on, come on! We’ve got to be at the well by midnight, or there’s no point in us going at all.’
Dana sat up, still groggy with sleep, and rubbed her eyes. She began to ask if it was morning and then remembered. The previous day had been her thirteenth birthday and during the wonderful party, at which almost all the pupils at the village school had been present, she and Con had heard about Mrs O’Connor’s well for the first time.
‘’Tis a magic well, a wishing well,’ one of the girls had said. ‘’Tis blessed by the fairy folk, or so my granny told me. She says if you go to the O’Connor well at midnight, when the moon’s at the full, bow to it three times and then ask it to grant you a favour, it will do so. She said it’ll show you the face of the feller you’re goin’ to marry, or something o’ that sort.’
‘Tell you who’s goin’ to win the three thirty, or come
out on top in the Grand National?’ one of the listening boys had put in, his mouth curving into a mocking smile. ‘Or where to put your crosses on the football coupon so’s you win a fortune? You girls! As if it mattered who you marry!’
The girl who had been telling the tale had flushed angrily. ‘I’ve not finished yet,’ she had said sharply. And it ’ud matter to you if you weren’t goin’ to marry at all, because then, when you looked into the well water, you’d see nothin’ but a ghastly skellington, leerin’ at you. So I guess you’d be too scared to try it, Micky, because wit’ a great conk like yours it ’ud be the skull you’d see for sure.’
This remark had caused much amusement and the subject had been allowed to drop but later, when everyone had gone home, Con and Dana had sat side by side on the mossy wooden gate which led to the home pasture talking over the story of Mrs O’Connor’s fairy well. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ Dana had said stoutly. ‘I’ve never heard Mammy or Daddy talk about it, not even when they’ve been tellin’ tall tales. What about you, Con? Has Mr Devlin ever mentioned it?’
Con had shaken his head. ‘No, but my dad isn’t at all superstitious. If he mentioned it at all it would be to say ’twas rubbish. Anyway, in earlier times they’d probably have called Mrs O’Connor a witch.’ He had chuckled. ‘Her nose and her chin damn near touch, so they do. But I tell you what; it would be a bit of a laugh to test it out for ourselves. ’Tis full moon tonight and there’ll not be a cloud in the sky, I reckon, because your daddy says we’re in for a spell of good weather and he’s usually right. What do you say? Are you on?’ He had grinned
at Dana, his dark, lively face alight with mischief, and Dana had grinned back. To go adventuring with Con, who was a whole year older than herself and a great deal braver, was her idea of heaven. It would make her thirteenth birthday very special indeed.
‘Course I’m on,’ she had said accordingly. ‘’Tis a fair walk to the O’Connors’ place so we’d best set out at eleven o’ clock. I’ll come and get you as soon as I wake.’
So now, in the shivery, chancy light of the full moon – for there were some small clouds in the sky despite Donovan McBride’s weather forecast – the two young people set off. Despite her intention to prove to Con that she feared nothing, Dana clutched his arm, trying very hard to be brave when they plunged into the little lane which would lead them to the well and was in deep shadow, but mostly shutting her eyes and simply hoping that Con would not notice.
They reached the well at last and stared up at the moon, waiting for a wispy, scudding cloud to pass before bending over the brick parapet. ‘C’mon, fairies, show us how good you are at tellin’ the future,’ Con said, taking Dana’s hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘Who’s goin’ to win the Grand National, eh? We’re not asking much of the fairy folk, and we could do wit’ the money, so we could.’
But the water in the well remained infuriatingly unresponsive, though Dana was so glad that neither of them saw a skeleton that she forgave the fairies for their ticklish ways, and presently Con hauled the wooden bucket up on to the brickwork and they both had a drink of the sweet, cool water before gently lowering it into the depths once more. Then they watched as the ripples gradually calmed, leaving a perfect mirror below them.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ Con grumbled as they set off for home once more. ‘The only reflection I saw in the water was us – you and me – wit’ not a word about football pools or the Grand National. I was goin’ to tell the fellers at school how we’d heard a mysterious voice, sort of gargling, you know, and it had told us the future …’
But Dana was chilly, and beginning to think longingly of her bed. She tugged impatiently on her companion’s hand. ‘Shut up and walk a bit quicker,’ she said. ‘It’s icy cold so it is, and we did see
something
, even if it was only us.’
Chapter One
March 1936
‘MIND YOUR PERISHIN’
backs, you gairls, ’cos I’m a-coming through!’
Caitlin and Dana, washing up in the kitchens of the Willows restaurant, shrank against the big stone sinks as Mrs Haggerty, the cook, squeezed past them, giving Dana a sharp jab with her elbow as she did so.
‘Ouch!’ Dana said, but she said it quietly so that only Caitlin could hear. It was no use antagonising Mrs Haggerty, who detested both girls anyway, because despite her name she disliked the Irish and saw to it that Dana and Caitlin always got the most unpopular jobs.
But perhaps she had heard; at any rate she paused in her onward rush – she was carrying a pile of clean plates over to the bain-marie to be filled – and nudged Caitlin. ‘You! Gerron wi’ them cups an’ saucers; there’s some folk like a cuppa when they’s ate me good food.’ She turned to Dana. ‘You! Gerrin the veggie scullery an’ start peelin’ spuds for tomorrer. There’s a full sack want doin’ an’ you ain’t much good for owt else.’
‘Right you are, Mrs H,’ Dana said as politely as she could. ‘Only shouldn’t I finish here first? I don’t think Caitlin can lift the metal baskets out of the boiling water without someone to give a hand.’
The cook scowled. ‘Polly can help her; you ain’t gerrin’ out o’ spud bashin’ that easy,’ she said, and gave a snort of laughter. ‘Move!’
Dana would have liked to point out that Polly Smith was small and frail, and new to kitchen work, but bit the words back. She had no desire to see Polly become the next worker on the cook’s hate list. The younger girl was eager to please and, on hearing her name, came over to the sink at a run. ‘Yes, Miz Haggerty?’ she said brightly. ‘What’ll I do? I heered you call me.’
Mrs Haggerty was explaining how one lifted the big metal racks out of the boiling water as Dana headed for the vegetable scullery. It was a horrid, dank little room: a brick-built and brick-floored extension, unplastered and unpainted, with a knee-level sink the very sight of which made Dana’s long spine shrink with horror. She was tall and slim and because of that low sink particularly hated spud peeling. There was an ancient machine in one corner of the scullery, called the rumbler by the staff, which was the nearest thing to an automatic potato peeler the Willows possessed apart from me, Dana thought bitterly. It looked a little like a concrete mixer, with a big bowl for the potatoes and a handle on the side. One filled the bucket with spuds, added water, closed the lid and began to turn the handle vigorously. It was hard work, but nowhere near as tedious as peeling by hand, nor unfortunately as thorough. Mrs Haggerty hated it, and because of the rumbling noise the wretched thing made Dana dared not even think of employing it. Instead, with a sigh, she fitted the big plug in the sink, turned on the brass tap and began throwing potatoes into the water.
She was well into her task when two of the other kitchen workers, Ernie and Sam, entered the room behind her. Ernie had been out on an errand for Mrs H, who had run short of cooking apples – pork was on the menu today – and had now drawn his pal into the malodorous little scullery for a quiet chat.
Dana, peeling the potatoes, grinned to herself. Usually their talk was of girls, football or food, but now it seemed that Ernie had picked up some interesting gossip. ‘You know old Squab-nose, the butcher on Heyworth?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I call to mind you sayin’ weeks back that he were headin’ for the high jump. Well, he’s been and gone and done a moonlight; left the place in a terrible state. I seen it wi’ me own eyes, though I got the story from a neighbour none too sorry to see him go. Seems the old bugger had a grudge agin his landlord so he ordered up as usual – offal mainly – then he closed all the winders, put a note on the door sayin’ he’d gone on his holidays and jimmied off, owin’ a month’s rent. They say the stench made some delicate souls throw up, to say nothin’ o’ the bleedin’ bluebottles what come to the feast.’ Ernie laughed. ‘Reckon that’ll mean another empty shop, ’cos Mr Thwaite’s the landlord and everyone knows he’s mean as hell. Apparently he opened the door, staggered back as a million bluebottles come tearin’ out, then slammed the door shut, goin’ blue in the face. He said he weren’t responsible for the pong, nor the flies, and he’d leave it to the next tenant to clear up.’