Little Girl Lost (42 page)

Kitty bent to pick the cat up, beginning to say that he was tired, but Nick shushed her. ‘There’s something going on up ahead,’ he whispered. ‘You stay here wit’ Tommy while I go and tek a look.’

Kitty obeyed, settling herself as comfortably as she could on a fallen tree trunk, whilst the light ebbed away and she became uneasily conscious of how dark and strange were the woods about them, and how ill-equipped she and Nick were for whatever lay ahead. When Nick rejoined her, she jumped to her feet, eager to question him, but he shushed her, took her arm and led her some way back along the track to where another fallen tree formed a sort of seat. They settled down upon it, Kitty glad of the warmth of the cat, for the evening breeze was chilly. She looked enquiringly at her companion. ‘Well? It can’t have been Granny or you’d have made me go on instead of drawing back.’

‘It were Granny, but not just her, a whole band of perishin’ tinkers,’ Nick said with a groan. ‘If you count the kids, there must’ve been fifty of ’em, and Granny acting like a queen, the miserable old thing. I don’t know how she got in touch with ’em, but I reckon she knew they were close. Perhaps one of them dropped behind, and she made some sort of sign to him to come back once we were out of the way.’

‘That’s why there was nothing caught in the traps,’ Kitty breathed. ‘If the band were just ahead of us, they would have set their own traps in that wood the previous night, and not only taken all the rabbits which passed that way, but left signs as well. D’you remember Granny grumbling that young tinkers don’t have the sense of the old ones? The old ’uns are careful not to handle the undergrowth so as to leave a scent, but the young ’uns don’t think of such things and spoil hunting for others.’

‘Yes, I remember something of the sort,’ Nick admitted. ‘But oh, Kitty, I’ve let you down, so I have. We’re miles from anywhere and the only folk around would cut our throats as soon as look at us, so we can’t get any help from them. We’ll have to sleep rough tonight, and then tomorrow make our way back to the nearest village in the opposite direction and see if we can find work of some sort. It were all my fault, ’cos I’m older’n you, and I never trusted that wicked old woman! I just knew she’d plan to dump us if she found herself amongst tinkers again. But I thought she were too weak to do it on her own, like.’

Kitty patted his arm comfortingly. ‘It weren’t your fault, because I didn’t trust the horrible old woman either, and I knew her bruises and cuts were better because I dressed them each night,’ she said. ‘I should have told you she was getting stronger all the time. But anyway, Maeve always says
What’s done is done
, so we’ll just have to put up with what’s happened. And you know what, it were poor old Tugger’s fault really. We gave him his head, let him go whichever way he chose; we should have guessed that he’d follow the paths and lanes he’d always followed. And we should have realised that whenever we stopped for the night it was in a place that Granny knew quite well, ’cos she could point out streams, fields where crops grew and woods where fuel could be found. And maybe it’s for the best, because we always meant to find ourselves work on farms. I thought it were good luck when we moved into Granny’s caravan, but maybe it were too easy, like. Maybe we’ll be best on our own.’

Nick flung his arm round her and gave her a brotherly hug, then got to his feet and pulled Kitty to hers. ‘You’re a grand kid, so you are,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid we’re going to be pretty hungry by the time we reach easier country. So what’ll we do? We could bed down here, there’s dry leaves aplenty, but we can’t eat dry leaves and what’s more, we’re a bit near the tinkers. If you can manage it, I’d like to put a couple of miles between us and them before we settle down for the night.’

‘Right you are. Off we go, then,’ Kitty said stoutly, falling into step beside him, but secretly feeling frightened and uneasy, as well as extremely hungry, for they had not eaten since breakfast, which seemed a very long time ago. ‘If we were pigs, we could root for acorns, or eat beech mast, but never mind; you once told me how horrid it was to be hungry and I pretended to understand, but I didn’t, not really. Now, I shall!’

Nick gave her another hug and then rubbed his cheek against hers. ‘You’re the best, Kitty,’ he said quietly, ‘and don’t worry, I’ll see you through this if it’s the last thing I do. Why, when we reach . . .’

He stopped speaking and gave a muffled gasp as a tall figure suddenly emerged from the trees and came towards them, menacingly. Nick gave Kitty a violent push. ‘Run, Kit,’ he screamed. ‘I’ll hold him off then follow you. Run for your life!’

Brendan awoke to find sunshine streaming through the tiny window of the kitchen where he and Maeve had spent the night; the previous day they had left the woods behind and had begged shelter for the night in a turf-cutter’s cottage. Their hosts were an elderly couple, scraping a living as best they could from the moorland on which their home was situated. The old man was often paid for his turfs in kind, and though their natural desire to offer hospitality to strangers was strong they were persuaded to accept some money both for the meal they provided and for the beds of dried heather they prepared for their guests.

Brendan thought that the sunshine had wakened him, but then the smell of cooking alerted him to the fact that the old woman was already up and stirring porridge over the fire on the hearth.

Brendan sat up, greeted his hostess and looked about him for Maeve, but she was nowhere in sight. The old woman followed his glance and grinned, revealing a mouth almost devoid of teeth. ‘Sure and doesn’t yourself sleep like the dead?’ she said. ‘The young woman has gone to the stream to wash but you never stirred, not even when me husband kicked you by accident when he went out to feed the hens.’

Brendan laughed. ‘Me niece is an extraordinary person,’ he said, struggling out from his makeshift bed. ‘She’s years younger’n me and not nearly as strong, but she never complains or lags behind. As I told you last night, we’re searching for a couple of young lads who’ve gone off on the spree. Maeve has looked after the younger of the two from birth, and looks on her – him – as her own. But I reckon we’ll find them in the next day or two, because at the last village they reckoned they had passed through not long before.’

The old woman nodded. ‘And the tinkers came by day afore yesterday. Some folks is scared of them but we’re not, ’cos we’re too poor; we’ve got nothin’ to steal, see? Besides, there’s good tinkers and bad, like there’s good folk and bad. But tell me, why do your young woman walk wit’ a crutch? Seems to me she nipped round the kitchen last night spry as a blackbird and her feet look both straight and strong, yet when she first come in it were hop and go one.’

Brendan stared at her. The same thought had been occurring to him for at least a week, and yesterday he had realised that she did indeed manage better without the crutch when under a roof. Watching her, it was easy to see that the crutch was far too short and must have been made for her when she was only a child; in order to lean on it, she had to throw her whole body into an awkward, lopsided position, and this, of course, made her lameness appear very much worse than it really was. He had tentatively suggested that she might try to use a stick instead of the crutch, but she had given him a cold glance, very different from her normal friendly look. ‘A stick wouldn’t support me like the crutch does,’ she had said stiffly, and had changed the subject so quickly that he had not referred to the matter again.

Now, however, he watched Maeve coming across the yard, using her crutch as a matter of course, and, probably because the old woman had remarked upon it, he noticed that Maeve’s left foot was as straight as the right one, and not turned in as Sylvie had assured him it had once been. I believe her foot has cured itself and she’s never noticed because of that damned crutch, he thought wonderingly. I’ll have to say something, because otherwise she’ll go through life believing she’s crippled, might even become crippled, whereas without the crutch I do believe she could walk as straight and upright as any other girl.

At this point in his musing Maeve re-entered the cottage, her face glowing from its recent wash, and her eyes bright. ‘That porridge smells good, so it does, missus,’ she said, beaming at their hostess, ‘and I’ve a good feeling, so I have, that today we’ll catch up wit’ Nick and Kitty.’ Brendan gave her a warning glance, but though she clearly understood his meaning, she continued to smile. ‘As soon as we catch up with them, she’ll be my little girl again. Don’t worry, Brendan. You were asleep when I first woke, but Mrs O’Regan was on her way out for turfs and kindling to make a fire. I went with her and we had a good chat. I told her all about Kitty and why she’d run away, and she wished me luck, so she did, and said she was sorry she couldn’t see me darlin’ child for herself.’ She turned to the old woman, still beaming. ‘Isn’t that so, missus?’

The old woman nodded and smiled, and presently, when Mr O’Regan came in from the hens, the four of them sat down to bowls of porridge, though it was poor, thin stuff compared to some they had been given as they journeyed, for the O’Regans only had two goats and a dozen or so hens besides the potatoes from their patch of garden. Still, it was all they needed, and all they could manage, furthermore.

As soon as they could do so without appearing rude, Maeve and Brendan packed up their belongings and left the cottage. It was a glorious morning, and the sun was warm on their heads. They soon left the moorland and found themselves in woods once more. Only the lightest of breezes stirred the branches of the trees. As they walked, Brendan kept glancing at Maeve, wondering when would be the best time to tackle her about her use of the crutch. Now that Mrs O’Regan had pointed it out, he saw how very bad for his companion the support was. She had to lean heavily to her left to make any use of it at all, and this resulted in her right shoulder’s heaving up and her left shoulder’s drooping down so that she appeared, when walking, to be badly deformed. The trouble was, Brendan could not help remembering how very annoyed she had become on the only occasion that he had mentioned the inadequacies of the crutch. His offer of a stick had been contemptuously rejected, and since she had abruptly changed the topic of conversation he had not liked to revert to it.

Now, however, it was different. Before, he had simply noticed that the crutch was too short for her and not helping; now he could see that it was actually doing her harm. He told himself that she was a nice little kid, brave, sensible and loyal, and he did not see why should she go through life branded as a cripple when she was no such thing. He realised he would have to be extremely tactful, but he had been a policeman for many years, and when he thought of all the domestic quarrels he had had to sort out without offending either party he felt sure he could make Maeve see reason, persuade her to try to manage without an aid which was doing her more harm than good.

Several times Brendan tried to raise the subject, but on each occasion something occurred to prevent him. When they stopped by a stream to drink and to eat bread and cheese, he began to suggest that Maeve might like to try walking a short way without her crutch, but before he had got to the nub of the matter Maeve had noticed that the cart track they were following showed distinct signs that a large number of caravans had passed that way, and after that all she was concerned about was whether her beloved Kitty – and Nick, of course – had joined up with a tinker band. ‘Sure and wouldn’t it be just our bad luck to catch up with ’em as darkness fell,’ she moaned, hastily cramming the remainder of her bread and cheese back into her bag. ‘Oh, Brendan, I’m sorry to rush your dinner, but do you mind if we get on?’

It was now or never. Brendan took a deep breath. ‘Maeve, me love, I’ve been thinking,’ he said, as they began to hurry along. ‘That crutch . . . it’s a deal too small for you. When was it made?’ He gave an indulgent laugh, looking down at the curly head bobbing along level with his shoulder. ‘You’re not very big now, alanna, but I reckon that crutch is at least six inches too short. You’d do better—’

‘Wit’ a stick; I know, you’ve said it before,’ Maeve said. ‘Are you trying to tell me I’m holding you up? Don’t think I’ll be offended, because cripples are used to being blamed when they drag behind. Only I’m doing my best, and you’ve never said . . .’

‘Don’t be so touchy, alanna. You’ve never held me up; indeed, sometimes you’ve insisted we go on walking when I’d have been glad to seek a bed for the night,’ Brendan said hastily. ‘But that crutch is making you walk crooked because it’s too short. In order to use it at all, you have to lean to your left and that jerks your right shoulder up. Do you understand? Honest to God, alanna, it’s doing you more harm than good.’

‘Well I’m the one using it and I couldn’t go more than a few yards without it; I’d either fall flat on me face or keel sideways, because I’m used to its support,’ Maeve said obstinately. ‘And now just stop talking about it, will you? I can’t help me foot being twisted, can I? It’s all very well for you, you’re a big strong feller; you can’t understand that a cripple needs a crutch.’

‘But you needn’t
be
a cripple, not if you’ll just chuck the bloody crutch over the nearest hedge,’ Brendan said, thoroughly exasperated. ‘Why won’t you listen to reason, you silly girl? I’ve a good mind to use that crutch to light our fire if we have to sleep rough tonight. Can’t you see how pig-headed you’re being? All I’m asking is that you walk a few hundred yards without it! Sylvie told me years ago that you’d been injured in a road accident which had twisted your foot. Well, I dare say it were twisted, but it isn’t now. Haven’t you noticed, you stupid girl, that your left foot’s as straight as the right one?’

They had stopped walking and were facing each other across the little boreen they had been following. Both were furious; Brendan knew he was scarlet with rage and he could see Maeve was pale with it. Now, before he had time to consider the action, he snatched the crutch away from her, snatched it so roughly – and so unexpectedly – that she fell. Instantly, remorse seized him. He threw the crutch to the ground and went to help her to her feet, but she eluded him, slithering out of his grasp and going to pick up the crutch once more, literally spitting with fury, like an enraged wild cat.