Away in a Manger (6 page)

“Uh-huh,” Tig agreed. I sensed that the subject was painful for him.

“So is your name short for Emily?” I asked Emmy.

“No, it's really Megan,” Tig said for her. “Mummy's name is Margaret and Megan is the Welsh way of saying it.”

“Did you live in Wales? Do you speak Welsh?”

Tig shook his head. “Daddy could speak Welsh. He taught us some Welsh songs. But we never lived there. We lived in London.” He glanced up at me as we stood ready to cross the road. “Do you really have to speak to Aunt Hettie? I don't want to make her cross with us.”

“You don't really think your aunt would turn you out, do you?” I asked. I steered my little brood through the traffic and we turned onto Waverly Place, in the direction of the Hudson.

“She said she would the other day. She never thought our mother would be gone so long, you see, and she says she can't afford to feed us.”

“That's why you sweep and sing?”

He nodded, then walked on ahead, clearly uncomfortable at talking to me.

“She says she doesn't want us about the house getting under her feet in the daytime.” Emmy was more ready to tattle on the hated aunt.

“And you have no other relatives you could go to? Doesn't your aunt know where your mother has gone?”

“I don't know,” Tig said bleakly. “Nobody tells us anything.”

And I realized that they were little children. Children accept where they are being taken. If Mummy says, “Good-bye and I'll be back soon,” they trust her. They don't cross-question where she's going or when she will return. But surely she would have told the aunt when she asked her to take care of the children. Surely the aunt would have tried to contact someone when the mother didn't return. While my head was telling me that this was none of my business, my heart was whispering,
You are a detective. You could find out what happened to their mother and why she left them with such an unsuitable aunt in a strange city.
Something about their story certainly didn't make sense. They had precise, upper-class accents but an aunt who sent them out begging. A thought occurred to me. “Tig, it was definitely your mother, your own mother, who brought you from England to America?”

“What do you mean?” He turned back to me, confused.

“I just wondered if…” I shook my head. “Never mind. It doesn't matter.”

We walked on, our footsteps crunching on hardened snow. Then Tig blurted out, “Pardon me and I'm not being rude”—he stood his ground, facing me now—“but you are asking an awful lot of questions and Mummy said it wasn't polite to be too inquisitive.”

“I just want to help you, Tig,” I said. “You are obviously not being very well looked after by your aunt, and I wanted to know if I could do anything to help.”

“You can't,” he said firmly. “You really can't.” Then he turned back to me again. “Actually you can. Don't come and talk to Aunt Hettie. I know it will make her cross and she'll think we've done something bad and she'll punish us. She may even turn us out.”

“But I promised the constable that I'd take you home,” I said. “He only let you go because he thought I was now responsible for you. I'll tell your aunt there was a spot of bother on the street and I brought you away for your own safety. I'll also add that I think you're too young to go out alone on the dangerous streets of New York, and let's see what she has to say to that. I may even add that my husband is an important policeman.”

“I suppose so.” Tig looked decidedly miserable.

We crossed Sixth Avenue in silence and turned onto Christopher Street. I was wrestling mentally with what would be the right thing to do. I was itching to see this aunt and give her a piece of my mind, but a small voice in the back of my mind whispered that my visit might work the wrong way and make her decide to turn the children out onto the street. If she wasn't their legal guardian she'd be under no obligation to give them a home. It was starting to snow harder now, blowing into our faces borne on an icy wind off the river. The children turned up their collars, shoved their hands into their pockets, and trudged miserably toward the waterfront.

We reached West Street and the dockland area of the Hudson piers. Over the roofs of various ramshackle warehouses I caught a glimpse of the funnels of an ocean liner. Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying plaintively. The wind was now bitingly cold and snowflakes swirled. I looked down at little Emmy, shivering in her thin coat, her little cheeks red and raw, and longed to sweep her up and take her home with me right now. Tig trudged beside her stoically, his mouth in a resolute line, clearly worried about what was to happen next.

After two blocks we came to Morton Street.

“That's her house,” Tig said. “Do you really have to come and talk to Aunt Hettie? She'll be awfully angry with us.”

“I did promise the constable that I'd take you home,” I said.

“You did take us all the way home.” He chewed on his lip.

I was in an agony of indecision. I so dearly wanted to give that heartless woman a piece of my mind, but I had to consider the consequences from their point of view. If she really did throw them out, I was in no position to take them in. Besides, they were waiting at their aunt's house for their mother to come back.

“If your aunt knows someone is taking an interest in you, she may start treating you better,” I said.

“She'll throw us out,” Tig said bleakly. “We've nowhere else to go and Mummy wouldn't know where to find us.”

Then the situation was decided for me. Liam had been really good until now, sitting up, strapped into his pram, and watching the world go by. But he had been confined longer than usual and was presumably feeling cold, trapped, and miserable now that wet snow was blowing into his face. He suddenly let out a squeal of frustration and rage.

“Mama. Up,” he screamed. “Up. Up.” And he reached out to me and he threw himself around, kicking off covers and flailing arms and legs.

Clearly I was in no position for a quiet and calm chat with the aunt with a screaming baby in the background. I supposed I could ask Bridie to push him around for a while, but she also looked so miserable that I didn't want to keep them out in the cold and snow longer than I had to. Liam was reaching the stage when he would become inconsolable. His needs had to come first at this moment. I unstrapped him from the buggy and took him into my arms, attempting to wrap his blanket around him to keep out the icy blast.

“Listen, Tig,” I said, turning to the boy. “I'm going to trust you this time and hope that you won't ever let me down. Tell your aunt that there was a disturbance and you had to bring your sister home so that you didn't get involved—all right? And give her the dollar that I just gave you. Tell her an important-looking lady gave it to you and said that she thought you needed a good nourishing meal.” When Tig looked skeptical about this I added, “And the lady said she'd come back and check that you'd been fed properly.”

“All right.” It came out as little more than a whisper.

I had another thought and struggled to open my purse with a wriggling baby in my arms. “And Tig. Can you read?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Mummy taught me to read when I was Emmy's age. But Emmy hasn't learned properly yet.”

“I can read C-A-T,” Emmy said. “And D-O-G.”

“I'd keep teaching her but we don't have any books,” Tig said.

I fished a card from my purse. “Tig, this is my calling card. It has my name and address on it. I live near the Jefferson Market building. That's the building that looks like an old castle. You'll recognize it. If you need me at any time you can come and find me.” I handed it to him. “Don't show it to your aunt. It can be our secret.”

He took it and tucked it into a pocket.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “Come on, Emmy.”

He took her hand.

She looked back at me with that angelic smile. “You're a very kind lady,” she said, then directed her smile at Bridie, who was busy straightening out the blankets in the pram as the wind whipped at them. “And you're a very kind girl too,” she added.

Bridie grinned shyly. “You're welcome,” she said. “I'm sorry about your scarf. I hope your mom comes back soon. My dad and brother have gone far away too, and they don't write. But I have Molly and Mrs. Sullivan to look after me.”

As they started to walk away, toward the ramshackle house, another thought occurred to me. That young lout who had blamed Tig for the purse snatching. Maybe he was a gang member on the lookout for junior pickpockets and Tig would be a likely recruit, easily threatened or bribed into doing the gang's bidding. “And Tig—” I called, and he turned back to me again. “Come to me if you're in any kind of trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“That big boy on the street corner,” I said. “The one who told the constable you'd taken the purse. I didn't like the look of him. If he or one of his friends tries to get you to do something bad, you would come and tell me, wouldn't you?”

“I wouldn't do anything bad,” Tig said. “But I would come and tell you. I promise.”

I put the protesting Liam back into his buggy, much to his dismay, and tried to tuck up his kicking legs. “We're going home,” I said. “Going home for din-dins and a nice warm fire.”

I let Bridie push him ahead and at the street corner I lingered and looked back. I watched the children go up the front steps. Tig rapped on the door. As I watched, the door opened and a woman appeared. She stood there, hands on hips, head thrust to one side. I could see her mouth moving, but we were too far away to hear what she was saying. Whatever it was, it was angry and hurtful. Then she took Tig by the shoulder and almost flung the children inside before slamming the door. And in spite of everything, I resolved to do what I could to find out the truth about those children and their mother.

 

Eight

Back at Patchin Place I went about my household tasks, changing and feeding Liam, getting potatoes and carrots peeled for the evening meal, and counting the minutes until Daniel came home. I couldn't get those children out of my mind. I looked at my own son, fat, healthy, laughing as he played with Bridie. Those children had been loved and cared for once by a gentle mother about whom they spoke lovingly. Why would a loving mother ever leave her children to the care of a woman like that one? Where could she have gone? My gut instinct told me that something was very wrong.

I had just made us some tea and toast when Sid and Gus knocked at the front door. They came bursting in with excited faces. “We've been experimenting with fudge. You can be our guinea pigs,” Sid said, and held up the plate of fudge balls ranging from dark brown to white, some drizzled with chocolate and some wrapped in chocolate sprinkles.

They went ahead of me into the kitchen. “Look what we've got, young 'uns,” Sid said. “Much more fun than plain old toast.”

“Are you sure they are suitable for babies?” I asked. I knew Sid and Gus's way of cooking only too well. The fudge could be half brandy if they had made it.

“Of course,” Gus said. “What could be wrong with cream, butter, chocolate, and cocoa?”

“Except for this one,” Sid said, pointing at the darkest brown ball. “This one did have a little bourbon in it, remember?”

“Only a little,” Gus said with a grin. But she put a pale coffee-colored ball in front of Liam, who took it cautiously and then almost stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.

“Careful.” I stopped him just in time. “Take a tiny bite,” I warned.

He did so and an expression of wonder came over his face. Wonder and pure delight. We laughed. Bridie was offered one, then I took a bourbon fudge for myself, and poured us cups of tea.

“We thought we'd give these to everyone as Christmas gifts this year,” Sid said as I ate mine, almost gasping at the richness and intensity of it. “It saves battling those crowds at the stores, doesn't it? And who could resist?”

“Good idea,” I replied. “I haven't made anything yet. My mother-in-law will be arriving in a couple of days and I thought I'd wait until she gets here. She's a much better cook than me and the children will have fun making things like gingerbread men with her.”

“But you've made your Christmas puddings, surely?” Gus said.

“No. I haven't.”

“But we understood that in Britain it was a tradition to make them on pudding Sunday, last Sunday of November.” Sid turned to Gus for confirmation.

I gave an embarrassed chuckle. “At home they were too much of a luxury for us. We'd have a regular steamed pudding with jam on it or currants in it most years. And there was never brandy in our house—my father being the drinker that he was, my mother made sure that he was kept far from all liquor. So I've never really learned to make puddings. But it can't be too late, can it?”

“The brandy won't have as much time to impregnate the fruit but I'm sure it will be all right,” Sid said. “We could come over and help. We've never really made a good English plum pudding—just read about them in Dickens.”

I reached out to stop Sid from giving Liam a second fudge ball. “He won't want his supper if he eats any more of that,” I said. “But they are delicious.”

“So what were you doing today?” Gus turned to Bridie, who had been sitting silently until now. “You're looking sad, young lady. What's wrong?”

“We went to see my beggar girl and a mean old lady took away the scarf I had knitted her.” Bridie looked as if she might cry.

“Beggar girl?” Sid looked at me. I explained how we had heard the child singing and Bridie had given her some outgrown clothes and knitted her a scarf.

“There are too many people suffering in this city,” Sid said. “It breaks my heart to see them every time we go out. Especially the children. But taking away a scarf. That's just downright cruelty. Do they know who this woman was? A gang member?”