Little Girl Lost (15 page)

After that, it had been easy. She had explained about the letters, telling Maeve that both her father-in-law and her husband were in hospital and that she must return to Liverpool at once. Back at the O’Keefes’, she had told Caitlin that Maeve had agreed to look after the baby and that she meant to leave two whole pounds with Caitlin, though she also intended to give Maeve five bob to cover more immediate expenses. She had smiled winningly at Caitlin as she spoke and had thanked her profusely for agreeing to keep the little one. She had then told her friend that she meant to go along and explain matters to Mrs O’Mara, but even as she walked quickly across the kitchen Caitlin had grabbed her arm and swung her round, shaking Sylvie’s shoulders quite hard as she did so. ‘You’ll do no such t’ing until I’ve had
my
say,’ Caitlin had said, and Sylvie had noticed, with a stab of surprise, that the other girl’s cheeks were pink with annoyance. ‘You’ll not land me and my man wit’ a nameless, godless child! You either have her christened or you take her to Liverpool wit’ you. Choose!’

If it had not been for that remark, Sylvie thought now, feeling the freshening breeze on her face as the ferry left the shelter of the estuary and moved out into the open sea, she would have left at once, but she had stayed to see the baby christened Catherine Mary, as Catherine was the anglicised form of Caitlin’s own name. ‘But you can call her Mary, so’s there’s no confusion,’ she had said kindly. Only then had she been free to depart and she had wasted no time. She had packed all her belongings in her big suitcase and there had been emotional farewells, of course, for she was very fond of Caitlin and liked Pat well enough, though she suspected her liking was not reciprocated. If I had had more time, she told herself now, gazing rather bleakly back across the choppy waves to where the small, grey town of Dun Laoghaire nestled against its green hills, then I could have made him like me, made him see that I’m a good person, that having a baby who’s not your husband’s doesn’t make you all bad; but she had not had time.

Maeve had wept a little and thrust Catherine Mary into her arms for a last cuddle before the boat sailed. Sylvie had accepted the child, but after the briefest of moments had handed her back to Maeve. ‘It’s no use, Maeve; she’s already more your child than mine and that’s how it has to be. I hope to God someone real lovely adopts her but I know you’ll not let her go to anyone bad.’ Then she had kissed Clodagh, and Grainne, and had tried to kiss the twins and Colm, only the twins had given raucous shouts and broken away from the family group on the quay, and though Colm had not managed to escape she had seen him rub her kiss off his cheek as soon as he thought himself unobserved. She had smiled wryly to herself, reflecting that boys were very different from girls, and had then climbed up the gangway to find herself a seat whence she could wave her goodbyes in more comfort.

But now Ireland was little more than a blue-grey hump, in the distance and the dancing green sea and white-tipped waves were all about them, and with some astonishment Sylvie realised that she felt free and young again, as young as she had been before she had married Len Dugdale. She guessed that this was because on the ferry, she was between two lives; she had left behind in Ireland the little daughter whom she dared not love, and was not yet enveloped in the trials and tribulations of the Dugdale family. In Ireland, the O’Keefes – and presumably the Connollys – had known she had been a bad girl. They had never held it against her, had treated her with great kindness and generosity, but she realised now that this had cast a shadow over her life with them. They would look after the baby until she was old enough to be adopted and would see she went to a good family; but now Sylvie herself must concentrate on the troubles which lay ahead, and they were different troubles, not directly the result of her behaviour.

Smiling, Sylvie got to her feet and decided to walk round the deck. It was better than just sitting and waiting, particularly as the choppy sea was beginning to have its effect on those passengers with weak stomachs. Only a few feet from her, several women and a couple of men were leaning over the rail and . . . Sylvie hastily withdrew her gaze from their heaving shoulders and started to walk along the smooth decking.

Sylvie had not known precisely what to expect when she reached the Ferryman, but as soon as she got within sight of the pub she realised that something truly bad had happened. The blinds were drawn and the pub was closed, although it should have been open, and when she let herself into the cool dark bar and put her suitcase down to ease the ache in her arm, her mother-in-law came rushing across the sawdust-covered floor to give Sylvie a hard hug and to press her tear-wet face against her daughter-in-law’s smooth cheek. ‘Oh, Sylvie, I’m that glad you’ve come home, though your mam telled me you would,’ she said brokenly. ‘Mr Dugdale passed away yesterday afternoon . . . the funeral’s arranged for Thursday because we weren’t sure when you’d be back. We’ve had the scuffers in and out ever since it happened. There’s been no peace for anyone, but now you’re back things will be easier, I’m sure.’

Sylvie had returned the hug rather shyly. ‘Oh, Ma, I’m most dreadfully sorry that Pa’s died,’ she said sincerely. ‘But how is Len? You said he was pretty bad . . .’

‘Len took a deal of punishment, but the surgeon who’s sewed him up an’ set his bones an’ that hopes he’ll pull through,’ Mrs Dugdale said. She picked up the suitcase and set off for the back regions of the pub, gesturing for Sylvie to follow her. ‘We can visit him this evening, both of us. They won’t let children in, you know, but if we go while your mam’s here – your mam’s been wonderful, Sylvie, a tower of strength – then she’ll give an eye to Becky.’

Sylvie looked round the kitchen. ‘Where is she? Oh, in kindergarten, I suppose.’

Mrs Dugdale shook her head. ‘She’s been that upset over her grandpa – and her daddy, of course – that I’ve not sent her today,’ she said. She bustled over to the stove and lit the gas under the big, blackened kettle. ‘I’ve no doubt you could do with a cup of tea, you poor dear, so I’ll just make one and then we’ll call your mam down to share it with us. She and Becky are making the beds together.’

Sylvie smiled. ‘I can’t imagine Becky making beds . . .’ she was beginning when the kitchen door flew open and her mother surged into the room, closely followed by Becky. Sylvie gave a little gasp. Becky’s beautiful hair was confined in two short, fat yellow plaits, and her small figure was swathed in an enormous apron. In the six months since Sylvie had seen her last, she had changed a great deal. It seemed to her mother that her round, childish face had been replaced by a much more serious one, and the baby chubbiness which Sylvie had loved had quite gone. This little girl was thinner and a good deal taller, and to Sylvie’s dismay, when the child’s eyes met her own they were hard and cold, with no vestige of the excitement over a returning mother that Sylvie had expected to see. However, Sylvie ran across the kitchen, holding out her arms. ‘Oh, queen, I’ve missed you so dreadfully,’ she said. ‘Have you missed me? I didn’t have time to buy you a nice present before I left Ireland but we’ll go out tomorrow . . .’ The words died in her throat. Becky had cringed away from her and her expression was so antagonistic that Sylvie’s arms dropped to her sides and she simply stared at the small, flinty face. ‘Becky?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Becky, don’t you know me? It’s your mammy, back from Ireland.’

The child walked round the table and tugged at Mrs Dugdale’s skirt. ‘Grandma, is it teatime? Can I have a piece of shortbread as well as a cup of milk, ’cos I’m real hungry?’

Mrs Dugdale looked uneasily at the child. ‘Wharrever is the matter, chuck?’ she asked. ‘You’ve not said hello to your mammy, nor given her a hug. Don’t you pretend you’ve forgot her!’

‘Why not? She forgot me,’ Becky said resentfully. ‘Can I have a piece of shortbread, Gran?’

Her grandmother began to remonstrate once more but Sylvie interrupted her. ‘It doesn’t matter, Ma. Becky an’ me will have to get to know one another again,’ she said, with forced cheerfulness. She crossed the room and gave her mother a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Oh, Mam, it’s wonderful to be back and I truly have missed you.’

The funeral was well attended for the Ferryman was a popular pub and Mr Dugdale had made many friends. Becky, though she had been shy and awkward with her mother at first, had been reconciled when Sylvie took her to Lewis’s to buy her a black crêpe dress, and had also purchased at the same time a beautiful straw hat with poppies round the crown and long scarlet ribbons which tied into a big bow at the back. ‘You won’t be able to wear it until the funeral’s over,’ Sylvie had told her small daughter, ‘but then a crêpe armband will be quite sufficient and you can put away the black dress.’

‘Why can’t I wear my lovely new hat to the funeral?’ Becky had asked plaintively. ‘It’s the prettiest hat I’ve ever seen, but what’s the good of it if I can’t wear it? I want all me pals to see it while it’s still new, an’ everyone’s comin’ to the funeral.’

Sylvie had laughed. Young though she was, Becky was already deeply conscious of her appearance, just as Sylvie had been, and indeed still was. ‘Well, at least you won’t have to go on wearing black for months and months like members of the royal family did after King Edward’s death last year. In fact, they only came out of mourning in time for the coronation last month.’

Grandma Davies had trimmed the plain black straw bonnet, which Becky was to wear at the funeral, with a small bunch of artificial violets. ‘Purple’s allowable,’ she had said, smiling at her granddaughter. ‘Now no more grumblin’, because you loved your Grandpa Dugdale, didn’t you? And wearin’ black shows you’re sad he’s gone, see?’

Becky had appeared to understand and now she stood beside her mother whilst the coffin was lowered into the grave. It was a brilliantly fine day, but as the first handful of earth rattled against the coffin Sylvie remembered that other funeral and how she had caught Brendan’s eye, and how they had left Anfield Cemetery after a hurried conversation. She wondered if he was here today, but the crowd was so dense that it was next to impossible to pick out one man.

She was still searching hopefully, however, when the service finished and the crowd began to make its way back to the road. Someone fell into step with Sylvie; she glanced sideways and saw it was Mrs Barratt, a neighbour of her mother’s. She opened her mouth to thank the woman for coming but Mrs Barratt was ahead of her. ‘How’s your Len?’ she asked, with beady curiosity. ‘I seen him almost a week ago when I were visitin’ me Uncle Fred.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Eh, he looked mortal bad. More stitches and plaster than anything else if you ask me.’

‘He’s still very poorly,’ Sylvie said cautiously; she was shocked anew, every time she visited Len, by the state of him. But they had been trying to keep their worries from Becky, who was not allowed in the ward and so had no idea how ill her father was. ‘I’m afraid he won’t be home for a few weeks yet. The sister told me they’d not let him come home until he’s – he’s more himself.’

‘If you ask me, the only way he’ll come out of there will be in a box,’ Mrs Barratt said bluntly. ‘Mind, they say surgeons can perform miracles these days,’ she added hastily, clearly reading the shock and disgust in Sylvie’s eyes.

Beside them Becky tilted her head up, looking from one face to the other. ‘Why should he come home in a box?’ she asked curiously. ‘Mammy says he’ll come home in a hansom cab.’

‘So he will, love,’ Sylvie said. She had meant to issue an invitation to Mrs Barratt but the woman’s crudely expressed opinion had changed her mind. ‘Come along, Grandma is waiting for us in the nice carriage that brought us here.’ She turned to the older woman. ‘It may interest you to know that my husband is thought by the doctors to be on the road to recovery,’ she said coldly. ‘Thank you for your interest.’

She turned away decisively, ignoring Mrs Barratt’s muttered, ‘I were always one to speak me mind,’ and lifted Becky into the waiting carriage with a real sense of relief. Until this moment, she had not realised how much of her antagonism against Len had disappeared since visiting him in hospital. He was so different now! Because he had been unconscious for so long, she supposed, he had grown thin and pale, and though the stitches which had criss-crossed his face had been removed they had left livid scars. The doctor had assured her that the marks would fade, and she in her turn had assured him that they were unimportant. What mattered was that Len should come to himself once more and begin to lead a normal life, for his mother was finding it difficult to run the pub with no man to help her. Bertie did his best, as did the two barmen, but Sylvie knew that it was not enough. Mrs Dugdale yearned for her son’s help and was growing increasingly anxious over the state of him, and Sylvie, doing the books and the ordering, cooking meals and generally helping out, realised that at least she was no longer worrying about her own problems. Ireland, the O’Keefes, and the baby, no longer seemed important. Her life for the moment was here. As she had promised, she would send money to Dublin every week until the child was adopted, but what a blessing that Caitlin and Maeve, between them, would take care of the child until then . . . though Sylvie sometimes found herself wondering whether any adoption would in fact be arranged, for Catherine Mary, with her gingery hair and fretful wailing, was not a fetching child as Becky had been.

They arrived back at the Ferryman and hurried into the large room where the funeral tea was to be held. Mrs Davies greeted them with relief and very soon Sylvie was so busy pouring ale and porter, making big pots of tea and handing round sandwiches that she had no time to think about Len or to worry over what would happen if Mrs Barratt were right, if he did emerge from hospital only to join his father and grandfather in Anfield Cemetery.

When the wake was over, the food and drink all gone, and Becky in bed, Sylvie made her way to the hospital. Len was in a large ward, but on this particular evening the curtains round his bed were drawn, and when she slipped into the little cubicle these formed it was to find Brendan sitting beside the bed apparently talking to the unconscious Len. Sylvie stopped short, too surprised to speak, but Brendan got to his feet and took both her hands, squeezing them warningly. ‘Evenin’. You must be young Mrs Dugdale,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I don’t suppose you know, but I’m the feller who found your husband and your father-in-law in that alley at the back o’ the docks. I’m a policeman and the Ferryman’s on my beat, so I’ve been popping in just to check all’s well. And I’ve been visiting Mr Dugdale here because the ward sister said the more visitors he got – visitors who talk to him, I mean – the sooner he’d come round. But now you’re here . . .’