‘The tinkers call hedgehogs urchins,’ said Con, but Deirdre said smartly: ‘And who are you to be talking to tinkers what everyone knows to be bad lots?’ which shut Con up pretty fast.
Mammy had prepared a lovely lunch. Cold chicken, salad and new potatoes boiled in their skins the way the children loved them. Afterwards there was fruit: raspberries and Beauty of Bath apples. Then the grown-ups lay down on the rugs with their straw hats over their faces. Daddy said they would just have five minutes so they’d be obliged if the children could play quietly, but Dana and Con knew it would be a couple of hours before the three adults awoke. Deirdre announced her intention of climbing up to the top of the cliffs to see if Strawberry and the pony, Colette, needed moving, so Con said he would walk along the beach to where there was a cave which he longed to explore. Dana went with him which was brave of her because on some previous occasion he had told her it was inhabited by an evil enchanter called Prospero who ate small children for breakfast or turned them into crabs or lobsters, depending on his mood. However, once they left the sheltered bay behind it was possible to collect a fair quantity of driftwood, and although this task was usually performed by the men of the party today Con told Dana that they would surprise and delight their elders by returning to the little bay laden with the best and driest driftwood they could find. Mrs McBride liked the curly-twirly pieces for her flower arrangements, which won many prizes at village shows, but the men always made a huge driftwood bonfire with the rest and cooked supper over the flames.
So Dana and Con had explored the cave, which smelt excitingly of the sea and the great beds of rubbery seaweed which flourished in the deep ocean and only came ashore after a storm. They went right to the back, where the roof came down until only a tunnel was left;
Dana could perhaps have wriggled through the tunnel but Con suddenly became aware of his responsibilities and refused to let her try on the grounds that it would be his head that rolled if she got stuck – or met the magician and got magicked by him.
Then they collected driftwood, great armfuls, and returned to the bay to find their parents awaiting them. Deirdre had told them where the children had gone but even so they were greeted with relieved smiles, although Mr Devlin said apologetically that he had known Con would take good care of Dana. Deirdre reported that Strawberry and Colette had already eaten three quarters of their way around the sweet-smelling herbage, so she had moved their tethers to give them fresh grazing and thought both were very content. She herself, after the stiff climb up the cliff, had sat down with her back against the rock and snoozed for a good twenty minutes.
Now they piled up the driftwood, the men adding their own contribution, and as the sky darkened and the fire blazed they roasted sausages on sticks and ate Mammy’s new potatoes cooked in an old blackened tin of sea water, which were regarded as a great delicacy by all concerned. This, Mammy declared, as they ate the exciting, smoke-flavoured food and watched the sparks fly into the darkening sky above, was the perfect end to a perfect day.
They lingered on the beach until the sun set, then slowly made their way home. The climb up the cliff path had been negotiated on Daddy’s shoulders when she was very small, but now she was five Dana merely took her mammy’s hand and together they pushed their way through the valerian, pink, deep red and purest white.
The climbing moon, of course, had robbed the flowers of colour, but nothing could steal their faint scent of summer.
Dana finished her recital in a dreamy voice like the buzzing of a contented bee and Polly stared at her, open-mouthed. ‘Oh, Dana, you don’t know how lucky you are! It ain’t only that I’ve never been to the sea; I can’t remember a time when I was really happy.’
‘Well, I suppose orphans don’t have the same fun that I had as a kid …’ Dana began, but was quickly interrupted.
‘I’m not an orphan. Didn’t you realise that? I had a mother and a father – still have for all I know – and I wasn’t sent to the children’s home until I was three or four, maybe even five. But the years before …’ She looked consideringly at her friend. ‘I don’t much like to talk about it, but maybe I ought to. It would show you how very lucky you are. Oh, I know your father’s dead and I’m very sorry, of course, but if someone were to tell me tomorrer that mine had fallen off his perch I’d probably think it were a good thing ’cos he wouldn’t be smacking kids or fighting his wife no more.’ She looked solemnly across the kitchen at Dana’s startled face. ‘Yes, I mean to tell you what life was like for me when I had a home and a fambly. So pin back your lug’oles and don’t you go interrupting.’
Polly sat on the dirty cobbles of the court, wearing a ragged man’s shirt which was much too big for her. In order to stop it trailing on the ground and tripping her up a length of orange box rope had been tied round
her waist and the shirt pulled up so that it resembled a frock of sorts. She was watching half a dozen older girls skipping rope, and could hear the words they were chanting: ‘salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper’ followed by the triumphant cry of ‘out you goes Sally-Anne big nose’. One of the girls twirling the rope was her sister Hannah, the other Hannah’s friend Susie. Polly, sitting on the paving stones drawing pictures in the dust with one extremely dirty forefinger, wished that she were bigger so that she might join in the skipping, but you could only do that if you were old enough to go to school. Polly did not know her age and birthdays were not celebrated in the Smith family, but she rather thought she was probably nearly five or possibly nearly six; it was not important. What mattered was that you weren’t allowed to go to school unless you had boots and so far as she could recall she had never owned a pair. This made her one of the barefoot brigade, of which there were plenty in this particular court. Hannah was nine or ten and went to school but she had found somewhere safe to hide her boots, otherwise Mam would’ve pawned or even sold them. Polly remembered the Salvation Army lady once giving her a real nice pair of plimsolls, but no sooner had her mam clapped eyes on them than she had whisked them away. ‘I shall give ’em a good clean so’s you can wear ’em when the weather gets cold,’ she had said, but since the month was January at the time and the puddles iced over Polly knew that this was just an excuse, knew too that she would never see her lovely plimsolls again.
‘Polly perishin’ Smith – oh, where’s the bleedin’ kid got to this time?’ Her mother’s sharp voice caused Polly
to flinch and scramble hurriedly to her feet. She looked around and there were the twins, Andrew and Alex, both sitting as she was on the paving stones but not watching the skipping; they had other fish to fry. Andy held a large red apple which the boys were sharing, bite and bite about, and Alex held – oh bliss – a banana, which was being shared too. There were two sets of twins in the Smith family and Alex and Andy were older than she; they came somewhere between herself and Hannah. Since they were the only boys in the family it stood to reason that they were her mam’s favourites. Blessed with golden-brown skin, dusky black curls and sturdy bodies, they never lacked for food – or boots for that matter – so if anyone went short it would be Polly. Little skinny Polly, with her thin yellow hair and plain features, Polly who was always hungry, who never stood up to either parent though she dreaded her seaman father’s occasional homecomings most, and clung to Hannah like a drowning man to a spar, knowing that Hannah would protect her if she could.
‘Polly! Come here at once or I’ll give you a clack you won’t forgit in a hurry!’ Her mother’s strident voice caused the skipping children to turn round eyes in Mrs Smith’s direction, though the steady twirling of the rope did not falter. Polly, who had already jumped to her feet, ran to where her mother stood at the top of the three steps which led to their home. It did not do to delay when Mrs Smith had that nasty look on her really rather nasty face.
‘I’s here, Mammy,’ Polly said breathlessly, though the breathlessness was not caused by the speed with which she had answered her mother’s summons but by fear
that she was in trouble of some sort. She gave a tentative smile. ‘Does you want messages runnin’, Mammy—’
Her mother cut across her. ‘No, I don’t want no messages.’ The woman stared down at her daughter as though seeing her for the first time, an expression of distaste crossing her face. ‘You’re filthy,’ she said accusingly. ‘Best clean you up a bit or they won’t take you.’
Polly knew she was filthy; only the previous day one of the Barlow children had said that Polly Smith was the dirtiest child in the court. At the time Polly had thought this a compliment, but Hannah had speedily disabused her. ‘It’s a perishin’ insult but it ain’t your fault, queen. Our mam gives you rags to wear and never so much as puts your head under the pump.’ She sighed dramatically. ‘I do me best but our mam expects me to look after the littl’uns and I’m tellin you they’re a full-time job.’
The younger twins were six months old and very pretty with big blue eyes and soft sooty curls so it was natural that Mam favoured them as well as the boys. But now, as she was dragged indoors and into the big untidy kitchen, an optimistic thought struck Polly. As her mother seized a torn-off scrap of towelling, dipped it into the basin of none too clean water and began vigorously attacking Polly’s face she asked the question uppermost in her mind. ‘Is I going to school, Mammy?’ she asked hopefully. ‘Have you found me some boots? Though it’s summer, so plimsolls would do fine and they’s cheaper.’
Mrs Smith snorted. ‘What does a kid like you want wi’ school?’ she asked scornfully. ‘And it’s the summer holidays, ain’t it?’ Polly was wondering whether she dared question her further when she saw a look of extreme cunning appear on her mother’s face. ‘Though
in a way you ain’t far out; you’ll go to school all right when it starts up again.’ She began to scrub Polly’s small paws, tutting over her blackened nails, whilst apparently not noticing the state of her own. ‘Now where did I see that bleedin’ hairbrush?’ She was rootling around on the dresser when a wail from upstairs announced that a baby was awake, and once one of them stirred the other would be swift to follow. Mrs Smith cursed, grabbed the brush and handed it to Polly, then left the kitchen. Polly heard the front door crash open, heard her mother shout for Hannah to come at once and began inexpertly to brush her hair. She supposed from her mother’s words that there must be some sort of interview before one could enter school. Perhaps Mrs Smith just doubted that any school would want her daughter. Well, now was her chance to prove her wrong, Polly thought exultantly, wielding the brush. She could not read, despite her best efforts, but she knew her letters and understood the value of money, though little of it came her way. But when one had a short-tempered mam who sent one on messages and expected a rendering of every last penny on one’s return, it became very important to know about money.
The wailing upstairs suddenly doubled and Polly knew that Milly and Maisie were now both awake and needed attention, so she gave one last despairing dab at her hair with the almost bristleless brush, then set off for the stairs. Mam worshipped the twins, and if they were allowed to cry unattended she would blame Polly and add another clack to the many her daughter had already received.
As soon as she entered the bedroom the babies stopped screaming and Milly – she thought it was Milly – gave her a watery grin, revealing the fact that she was the
proud possessor of four teeth, two top and two bottom. This confirmed that she was in fact Milly, since Maisie had only managed to produce two teeth so far.
Polly bustled over to the ancient cot as the babies began to grizzle again, and was struggling to get Milly over the rail when Hannah entered the room. ‘Leave ’em Poll; Mam wants you downstairs. I’ll bring the twins.’
‘Thanks, Hannah. They’s a bit too heavy now for me to carry,’ Polly admitted. ‘I say, where’s Mam taking me, do you know? I guess it’s got something to do wi’ school, ’cos she’s washed me face and hands …’
Hannah heaved both babies out of their cot and headed for the stairs. She pushed Polly ahead of her, saying gruffly: ‘I dunno, chuck. Did she tell you to find a clean frock?’ Polly was saying that so far as she knew there was no such thing as a clean frock in the house when they reached the kitchen. Mrs Smith beamed at the twins and sat herself down in the creaking wicker chair drawn up before the stove, though because of the heat of the day the fire within was unlit. ‘There’s a couple of bottles of milk on the draining board; give ’em here!’ she commanded. ‘I’ve been to Paddy’s market this morning, bought the kid a frock. It’s in the top drawer of the dresser, and there’s plimsolls there too. Make her respectable while I feed me little darlins. Then I mean to take her out – never you mind where – so you’re to stay indoors with the babies until I comes back.’
Hannah fetched the two bottles of milk and watched whilst the twins attached themselves eagerly to the teats. Then she said in a small voice: ‘Where’s you takin’ our Poll, Mam? Only it can’t be school because it’s the summer holidays …’
Despite being burdened by the twins, Mrs Smith began to surge to her feet and Polly, seeing retribution about to fall on her favourite sister – the only member of the family who had ever given her any affection – hastily intervened.
‘It don’t matter, Hannah; I’ll go wherever Mammy takes me,’ she said. And then, as her sister produced from the dresser drawer a blue gingham frock and a pair of ancient black plimsolls, she gave a squeak of delight. ‘Oh, Mammy, is they really for me? Why, they’s just like the frocks the girls what go to St Margaret’s wear.’
This remark seemed to mollify her mother, and indeed when Hannah presented Polly, washed, brushed and dressed in the lovely new clothes, that harsh critic gave a slow smile and a grudging nod. Then, as the babies drained their bottles simultaneously, Mrs Smith handed them both to Hannah. ‘Bring up their wind and put ’em in the old play pen,’ she commanded. ‘There’s spuds and a block of margarine; cook the spuds, mash ’em wi’ a spoonful of the marge and let ’em have it if they cries again. Otherwise we’ll all eat together when I gets back.’