Little Girl Lost (43 page)

Having gone so far, Brendan was determined not to give in. He snatched up the crutch before she could reach it and began to apologise, saying he had done wrong to take it from her so abruptly and offering his arm for the hundred yards or so it would take to convince her that she had no need of it. His apology went unheeded, however. Maeve wrenched the crutch out of his hold, and before he had time to duck or dodge she had swung it in a vicious half-circle, catching him so sharp a blow across the head that for a moment he saw stars, and swayed on his feet, fighting to regain his balance. Maeve was trembling, actually raising the crutch, possibly to deliver another blow. He sprang at her and snatched the crutch back and before she could prevent him he broke it in two across his knee. Then he hurled both pieces, as far as he could throw them, into the nearest thicket. ‘And now you can take me arm, you little wild cat,’ he said breathlessly, ‘and I’ll prove to you that you’ve no more need of that bloody awful little crutch than I have meself.’

He held out an arm but Maeve made no attempt to take it, and to his horror he saw that tears were pouring down her cheeks. ‘You’re a wicked devil, Brendan O’Hara,’ she hissed. ‘Pat made me that crutch when I were twelve. He made it with love and care, to help me when I were doing the messages, and now you’ve gone and bust it. I shall hate you to me dyin’ day, so I shall.’

Brendan, beginning to come out of the red rage which had consumed him, went towards her, half afraid she would shrink from him, for he knew he had behaved badly. But she stood firm, glaring up into his face, and he could read the fury in her eyes, even though tears were still pouring down her pale cheeks. ‘Get away from me,’ she said. Her voice still wobbled, but he could see she was rapidly regaining her self-control. ‘And just you find my little crutch because I shan’t stir a step until you’ve done so. Oh, don’t say you can’t mend it because I know that, but just as soon as we’re back in Dublin someone who knows about such things will put it right for me.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me . . .’ Brendan began. Poor kid, she looked so helpless standing there, with her small heart-shaped face as white as a ghost, and her big dark blue eyes brimming with tears. And she was such a darling; so brave, so loving, that she had been prepared to limp across half Ireland in order to find Kitty, no child of hers, and fetch her back to Handkerchief Alley. He began to speak, to hold out his hands towards her, and the next moment he had snatched her into his arms and was kissing the tears away, loving the feel of her slim, strong body close to his own, filled with a feeling of protective love such as he had never known.

But the embrace only lasted a moment. Maeve tore herself free and gave him a hard push which sent him staggering back a couple of paces. ‘How dare you!’ she shouted. ‘How dare you kiss me when everyone knows you’re in love with horrible Sylvie Dugdale! Oh, I pretended I liked her because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. I didn’t want you to know what I really thought. But I don’t mind you knowing now, because you’re as horrible as she is. She came over to the O’Keefes and took, took, took, and never gave nothing. She said pretty things, bought the kids a few presents when she was in the money, and then swanned off back to Liverpool wit’out giving a thought to the poor little baby she’d left behind. That’s why I won’t let Kitty cross the water, not if you paid me a hundred pounds.’

Brendan stared at her, almost unable to believe his ears. It was incredible that meek little Maeve Connolly could turn into this harridan, but it had happened, and he knew it was largely his own fault. What in God’s name had made him pull her into his arms and kiss her? He knew, of course, that he’d grown fond of her during their journey, but it was not until he had seen her standing there, defenceless and in tears, that he had wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to show her that he cared. Oh, not in the way he cared for Sylvie, but . . .

As they stared at each other across the small space that separated them, he saw the roses begin to bloom in her cheeks. He took a step towards her, beginning to apologise again, trying to take her hands in his, wanting desperately to wipe away the tears, to see her elfin smile tremble once more on her lips, but she was backing away, shaking her head. ‘You shan’t make me love you,’ she whispered, her voice so low that Brendan barely caught the words. ‘I don’t want to love you. You’re going to marry Sylvie Dugdale, so loving you would only break my heart.’ And with that, she turned away from him and disappeared into the trees.

Brendan shouted at her to come back, that he was sorry, that he had behaved like a brute, that they must talk, but she was fleet as a deer and Brendan, crashing through the undergrowth, soon lost her altogether. He returned to the cart track, his mind in a whirl of mixed emotions. The words she had spoken had not seemed to make sense. As though his desire to marry Sylvie was any concern of hers, or had anything to do with the relationship that he and Maeve had begun to build up! He told himself crossly that women – all women – were the very devil. Maeve might be young and inexperienced, but she was still woman enough to thoroughly confuse him.

Regaining the lane, he considered, uneasily, what he should do and decided that the most important thing was to find the two pieces of the crutch. She’ll never forgive me unless I find them, he told himself distractedly, trying to remember where he had been standing when he had hurled them from him. After all, she’s bound to come back to the boreen because she knows the tinkers came this way, and she’s desperate to find Kitty, so she is. So if I find the pieces of crutch and promise to get it mended for her, I’m sure she’ll forgive me. How on earth did we ever get into such a situation, though? We’ve been grand companions through thick and thin, sharing everything, and I go and ruin it all by telling her she doesn’t need the one support she believes she relies on. He headed towards the thicket, then stopped, remembering the last glimpse he had had of her. Why, she had run through the woods ahead of him swift as an arrow, and as straight. He knew his size and bulk had held him back, for she had been able to slip between the saplings and young trees in a way which he could not, but even so, surely this would convince her that she had no need of any help in order to walk or run. Oh, if only it had! He realised he wanted Maeve’s friendship more than he had wanted anything for a long time, could not contemplate her regarding him as an enemy. He must find her, but how best to do it? Should he stay here and hope she would return? But now that he considered this, he realised it might not be a good idea. The boreen wandered along, sometimes through woodland, sometimes down into valleys and up amongst the high hills. She could rejoin it at any point and he be unaware, standing here until moss grew on him, very like, whilst she – and the children – made their way back to Dublin.

So what to do? Crashing through the trees in search of her was useless, for he had penetrated sufficiently into the woodland to realise that in less than a quarter of a mile the trees thinned into open ground. Once there, she could go even more swiftly, and in any direction. No, what he must do was to follow the tinkers’ tracks, because he knew Maeve’s sole aim was to find Kitty and Nick. If he found them first, then she would run straight into his arms, so to speak, but if she found them, especially if they were with the tinkers, she might be extremely glad of his support before the day was over, for tinkers, he knew, did not readily surrender their prey. He took a couple of strides along the track, then hesitated and turned back, shoulders drooping. He must find the pieces of crutch; the wretched thing had meant a lot to her because Pat O’Keefe had made it, and perhaps it was a sort of symbol, he did not know; he only knew that she valued it and that his best hope of retaining her friendship was by returning it to her. Resolutely, he advanced on the thicket.

Maeve had not known she could run so fast; in fact, by the time she was clear of the trees, she was feeling so proud of herself that she began to soften towards Brendan. He had been
right
! She had had neither crutch, nor stick, nor a helping hand, yet she had easily outdistanced her pursuer and was now so far ahead of him that it would take ages for him to catch up. Maeve hugged herself, then realised that the tears were still wet on her cheeks, and wiped them away with the heels of both hands. If only he had not kissed her! Until she had felt his mouth on hers, she had supposed her feelings for him to be largely gratitude and admiration; almost the sort of hero worship which young girls often feel for an older man. But when she had found herself in his arms, felt his lips on hers, love had surged over her like a great wave. She tried to rekindle her anger against him by remembering how he had grabbed her and kissed her without even considering that she might not like it, might resent such an act. He had made no secret of his love for Sylvie, nor of his wish to marry her, so how dared he kiss her and fill her with longings which he had no intention of satisfying?

Then there was the crutch which Pat had made for her with such loving care. He had told her that it would help her to walk straight, and she was sure it had done so at first. If Pat had not gone to the war, he would have realised she had outgrown it, so it was scarcely his fault if it had done her more harm than good, as Brendan had put it.

Loping along steadily in the direction she thought the tinkers had taken, she told herself firmly to forget the whole incident and concentrate on finding Kitty. She glanced down at her feet as she hurried on, and could not prevent either a gasp of astonishment or a small, half-guilty smile. Brendan had been right and she had never noticed before! Long ago, her left foot had turned inwards, but now it was, as he had said, as straight as the right foot. And being no longer burdened with the crutch, she could see that her left foot was as capable of bearing her weight as the other. Maeve stopped for a moment to consider what she should do. Should she retrace her steps, make her way through the trees, and try to find Brendan again so that she could apologise to him? But surely by now he would have moved on. And the track she was following seemed to run level with the boreen, so if she just continued on her way they would probably meet up before nightfall. She acknowledged now that he was a good man and would not leave her alone out here, a prey to all sorts of dangers. Yes, he would search for her, as indeed he would continue to search for Kitty and Nick, knowing that she, too, would be on their trail; yet he would not want her to reach the tinker encampment before he did, for they had heard bad reports of this band as they had travelled.

It would be hard to show Brendan an indifferent face when she knew, now, that she really loved him. It would be easier, she decided, to continue to pretend that he had truly upset and insulted her by throwing away her crutch. She would forgive him for the business of the crutch, of course, but remain cool towards him and then they would be able to continue to travel together without embarrassment. Yes, that was what she must do. And she would go with him across the water – if Kitty consented – and once she saw Brendan and Sylvie together, saw the love they shared, it would be easier to turn away, take Kitty and herself back to Handkerchief Alley, and return to her old life. She had never expected to marry or have children of her own, so she should embrace the life of a single woman, an aunt to Caitlin’s brood and a foster mother to Kitty, and not repine.

Brendan found the pieces of crutch at last and emerged from the thicket with great relief. It had been hard, hot work; he was scratched and bruised and had leaves in his hair, but he told himself sturdily that it should have taught him a lesson. Losing one’s temper never helped anyone. It happened to him rarely, but he had certainly lost control of himself that afternoon and had, consequently, wasted at least an hour. However, he shoved the pieces of broken crutch into his knapsack, picked up the bag which Maeve had left behind in her wild flight, and set off at last along the boreen.

He walked as softly as he could, watching the woodland, for he hoped that presently he would see Maeve’s slender figure making her way back to him through the trees. Soon, however, the woods on his right thinned out and he began to be seriously worried about Maeve, for evening was drawing on and he wanted to find her well before dusk. All her possessions were in the bag he carried, and though there were streams in plenty from which she could drink, he had the round of soda bread and the remains of the cheese, and the blanket which covered her when they stopped for the night. However, it was still light, and now that the woodland had thinned out she would not be able to hide from him, even if she wished to do so.

At this point, the boreen began to run steeply downhill, and at the foot there was a stream and a wooden bridge. On the opposite side of the stream the woods began again, and Brendan sighed with frustration. He could see quite a way from the eminence upon which he stood, but there was no sign of either Maeve, the green and yellow cart, or the tinker band. Yet he knew that tinkers always camped near water and had confidently expected them to take up their position near a decent-sized stream such as this one. Then he thought again and nodded, a trifle grimly, to himself. Someone had built that bridge, presumably so that stock could cross in safety during the winter months when the stream would be swollen to twice or even three times its normal width, and that almost certainly meant that there was a farm nearby. Tinkers might prey upon farmers – well, they did – but they would not linger near such a place; too dangerous. No, they would move deep into the woods before setting up camp. Brendan hitched up his burdens, then took the longer piece of crutch in one hand and began to move forward once more. You never knew what lay ahead, and if he needed a weapon the business end of the crutch might come in handy. Resolutely, he crossed the bridge and plunged into the trees.

A short while later, he saw definite signs that the tinkers had passed this way: wheel tracks, broken twigs, some fragments of dried peat which must have fallen from a net of the stuff when the vehicle carrying it bounced over a rut. Hastily, Brendan left the track itself and began to creep forward with the utmost caution, moving silently from tree to tree, watching the ground ahead so that he did not tread on dry twigs or give himself away by a similar blunder, and presently his care was rewarded. Ahead of him but well to his left, he saw that the last of the light was falling into a clearing, and in that light he saw movement and the brightness of painted carts. Even more cautiously now, Brendan stole forward. Then he saw the oak: a massive tree with a trunk split in two by its great age to form a cavity which could almost be called a cave. He shrugged himself out of his knapsack and pushed both bags into the oak; he would move both more quickly and more quietly without luggage. He had shoved them well back, but now he carefully picked up leaves and twigs off the ground and piled them in front of the knapsacks. He moved a few feet away then glanced back, and having assured himself that his possessions were well hidden he continued to advance through the trees. Presently, he was close enough to smell wood smoke, and after another few yards he could see the camp clearly. There were a great many tents and seven caravans; he had caught up with the runaways at last!