Little Girl Lost (8 page)

Brendan took a deep breath. ‘I think everyone, barring the injured parties, should move on,’ he said. ‘And the rest of us will take a look at the article in question . . .’

It might not have been easy to find one narrow street amongst so many in the Liberties, but Sylvie’s fragile prettiness stood her in good stead. She put her bag down for a moment, and as she did so a warm Irish voice addressed her. Turning, she saw a little old man smiling at her. He was dressed in ragged clothes and carried a pile of newspapers under one arm. ‘Sure and you look like you could do wit’ some help, and amn’t I the feller to give you a hand?’ he said, pushing his greasy cap to the back of his domed and balding head, and grabbing for her bag. ‘Where’s you bound?’ He looked her shrewdly up and down. ‘A pretty critter like you will be headin’ for somewhere real smart, I guess. Would it be Sackville Street where the big stores are, or Merrion Square, where the smart folk live? If so, you’ll be wanting to cross the Liffey; there’s a bridge nearby—’

But here Sylvie broke in. ‘No indeed; I’m looking for Handkerchief Alley. I believe it’s in the Liberties. Do you happen to know it?’

‘To be sure, I know it well. It’s off Francis Street, so it is, and we’ll still have to cross the river,’ the old man said. Rather to Sylvie’s surprise, he seemed disappointed, but he heaved her bag on to his shoulder and set off, advising her to follow him. Sylvie did so, looking curiously about her as they passed along the busy streets. There were plenty of shops but it occurred to her that the city of Dublin was like a small town, lacking the enormous buildings so common in the city of Liverpool. Here, few buildings were more than two storeys high, and despite the fact that it was an icy-cold day the countless children running and playing in the streets were clad in the skimpiest of rags; this was clearly a very poor part of the city, however, and Sylvie decided to defer her judgement until she’d had a chance to look round.

Presently, they crossed the river by what the little man informed her was called the Metal Bridge. It spanned the Liffey in a glorious arc, and halfway across Sylvie paused for a moment to look down into the swirling waters, for the Liffey was clearly a tidal river, as was the Mersey, and it gave her a comfortable feeling of familiarity, for she had begun to feel very much a stranger amongst the jostling crowds. Once on the further bank, she tried to take her portmanteau from her new friend, because he was so very old and did not look particularly strong, but he waved her away, saying gruffly that he’d carried many a heavier burden. If he had been younger and fitter, Sylvie might have been afraid he would bolt with all her possessions, but judging from the way he was wheezing he stood little chance of escaping from her even if he decided to do so. Accordingly, Sylvie merely kept close to him, which she would have had to do in any case, for now the streets were even more crowded than they had been on the other side of the river.

They had walked some way when her companion turned into a street lined with shops and market stalls. ‘This here’s Francis Street,’ he informed her. ‘It’s a grand street, so it is; you can buy anything you’re likely to want here. But we’re nearly there.’ And to be sure, two minutes later, he turned into an alley lined with tall tenement blocks on either side. He came to a breathless halt, wheezing painfully, and standing her portmanteau down upon the filthy cobbles. ‘What’s your friend’s name, alanna? Which floor’s she on?’

Sylvie looked around her. She had been brought up in a Liverpool court and she knew such places were considered slums, but this was a good deal worse than anything she had seen in her city. The tenement buildings looked as though they might collapse at any moment; windows were cracked and broken, with glass missing, the brickwork was crazed with huge crevices, and the smell which lingered most unpleasantly in the chilly air convinced Sylvie that there was little, if any, sanitation. She opened her mouth to comment, to ask if this was really Handkerchief Alley, for she remembered Brendan saying that his cousin and her family lived in comfortable circumstances, but before she could speak there was a great clattering of footsteps from the nearest building, and a woman came out and flung both arms round Sylvie.

‘You’ll be Sylvie Dugdale, what’s coming to stay with us for a while,’ she said exuberantly. ‘And you’re welcome as the flowers in May, so you are. You’ll have guessed that I’m Caitlin O’Keefe . . . but who’s your friend?’ She glanced enquiringly at the odd little man, then beamed. ‘Well, if it ain’t Sammy, what sells the
Herald
down on the quays,’ she announced. ‘Everyone knows Sammy. But how come you two have met up?’

‘The gentleman carried my bag for me, and the truth is I were glad of it, ’cos it’s a deal heavier than I thought,’ Sylvie admitted. She fished a threepenny bit out of her purse and handed it to the old man. ‘Thank you very much indeed,’ she said formally.

Sammy snatched the money eagerly and grinned, revealing a mouthful of broken, blackened teeth, then disappeared with a mumbled word of thanks. Caitlin shook her head sadly at her guest. ‘A penny would have done . . . or a ha’penny, come to that,’ she said. ‘But come up and meet the family. We’ve got the whole of the top floor; we get it cheap ’cos the roof leaks.’ She led the way into a small hall and then began to climb the stairs, which were rickety in the extreme, with holes at intervals. Sylvie realised that her hostess, whilst chattering gaily, was placing her feet only on the soundest of the steps and hastily followed suit; she had no desire to plunge down one of the holes and break a leg before she had even reached the O’Keefes’ dwelling.

On the second landing, Caitlin paused for breath and took the portmanteau firmly out of her visitor’s grasp. ‘I’ll carry it now, seein’ as you’re in the family way,’ she said. ‘Did Brendan tell you – oh, but I was forgettin’, he couldn’t tell you anything about this place because he’s never seen it – that there’s thirty-six stairs up to the top landing, and that’s quite a climb when you ain’t used to it.’

‘I expect I’ll soon grow accustomed,’ Sylvie said, rather breathlessly. ‘Besides, there are a great many steps up to our room in the Ferryman, so I am quite used to climbing stairs. I expect you get wonderful views over the city, don’t you?’

They had reached another landing and Caitlin snorted. ‘Views?’ she said scornfully. ‘Not unless you count rooftops and other tenements, to say nothing of washing lines.’ She grinned at Sylvie and Sylvie had a good look at her. Caitlin had soft, dark curls and big, dark eyes set in a small face. She was very pretty, though her clothing did nothing to enhance her slender figure, but of course she would scarcely be wearing her best things when doing her housework and minding her children. She was clad in a long dark blue skirt, a blouse which might once have been white but was now a dirty grey, a very long and loopy black cardigan with half the buttons missing, and a tattered black shawl. The clothing all seemed a good deal too big for her. Sylvie, in the new coat, navy serge skirt and leg o’ mutton blouse, with its high neck and frilled collar, which Mrs Dugdale had insisted she buy for her ‘interview’, felt horribly overdressed, for she saw Caitlin’s eyes examining her even as she examined the other girl. ‘Sorry about me clothes,’ Caitlin said, as Sylvie opened her mouth to explain why she herself was so smartly dressed. ‘They were my mammy’s; she died last year an’ left me everything, which weren’t much, but the clothes come in useful.’ She dimpled at her new friend. ‘I’m no hand wit’ a needle else I could’ve altered ’em to fit me better.’ She looked, admiringly, at her guest. ‘Ain’t you just the prettiest t’ing, though? I’d love to be fair, so I would, but we’s all dark, from Pat an’ meself to our youngest, Colm, who’s four.’ She heaved the bag up into her arms once more even as Sylvie assured her, truthfully, that she herself was no prettier than Caitlin.

‘Brendan never told me a thing about you, except that you had several children,’ she admitted as they began to toil upwards again. ‘That’s typical of a feller, though – they don’t waste words on describing someone you’re going to meet anyway. Gosh, aren’t these stairs steep?’

‘Aye, they are that, so they are,’ Caitlin agreed, just as they arrived at the very top landing. She pushed open a heavy door to her right, explaining as she did so that the doors on the left led to the children’s bedrooms, and the doors on the right to her own bedroom and the kitchen. As she spoke, they had entered the latter, which, to Sylvie’s bemused eyes, seemed to contain about twenty people. However, it was a pleasant room, with a bright fire burning in the grate, linoleum upon the floor, scattered with bright rag rugs, and a number of wooden chairs grouped round a large central table. The walls were whitewashed and the pots and pans on the shelves gleamed with cleanliness, whilst the large dresser against one wall displayed a quantity of crockery. Everything was beautifully clean and there was a pleasant smell of food cooking, whilst the open doors of a large cupboard revealed strings of onions, a big bag of potatoes and another of carrots, and a number of shelves crowded with smaller bags, bottles and jars, clearly containing foodstuffs. Caitlin turned towards her, once more dumping Sylvie’s bag on the ground. ‘Sit you down, my dear,’ she said hospitably, then turned to the children. ‘Close the doors of the press, won’t you? It makes the room look so untidy.’ A child obediently trotted across to the cupboard, closed the doors carefully, then returned to stand before her mother.

Caitlin smiled her approval. ‘Now come and meet Sylvie, who’s going to live with us for a while,’ she commanded.

The children rushed forward and then, to Sylvie’s amusement, shuffled themselves into size order. They were raggedly dressed, the boys with roughly cut hair and scabbed knees, the girls on the whole tidier and certainly a good deal cleaner. Despite Sylvie’s initial conviction that there were at least twenty children in the room, it turned out that there were only eight, three of whom were not O’Keefes.

But Caitlin was introducing everyone. ‘Maeve’s me childminder and a grand help she is, too. She lives with us, takes care of the kids when I’m at work, gets me messages, washes, irons . . . oh, I don’t know what I’d do wit’out her, an’ that’s gospel truth. Say hello to Sylvie, Maeve; she’s goin’ to be livin’ with us for a while.’

The child, Maeve, smiled shyly at Sylvie. She was a poor, plain little thing and Sylvie had already noticed that she dragged one foot as she walked and held one shoulder higher than the other. She had limp dark hair and a small and skinny body, but Caitlin assured her visitor that Maeve was nearly twelve and a very capable young person. ‘And this is Clodagh, me eldest,’ Caitlin continued. ‘She’s eight. Then come the twins, Fergal and Seamus – they’re six – and then Grainne – she’s five – and me youngest, Colm – he’s four.’ She smiled brightly at Sylvie and pointed to the last two children in the line. ‘Maeve looks after these for their mam while she’s out at work. I expect Brendan told you that I’ve got a job in Switzers, which is a big store on Grafton Street. I’m in the ladies’ gowns department and sometimes I model the clothes and walk up and down so’s the real ladies can see what a ball gown or a smart suit looks like wit’ someone inside it. The money’s a great help even though Pat has a job in a bank on Sackville Street. He’s real clever, is Pat. He were always top of the class when he were in school, so one day he’ll probably be a bank manager.’ She dimpled at Sylvie once more. ‘Same as I’ll be head sales lady in Gowns.’

‘Brendan didn’t mention it,’ Sylvie admitted apologetically. ‘You see, we were only able to meet secretly because the Dugdales kept an eye on me for their son, Len.’ She looked speculatively at Caitlin. Just how much did Caitlin know? If it was as little as she, Sylvie, had been told about the O’Keefes, then she had better grit her teeth and start explaining at once. ‘Look, I think you and I will have to have a quiet talk. I feel really bad that you might think I’ve come to you under false pretences, and—’

‘We’ll take your t’ings along to your room and start unpacking; Maeve will keep the kids occupied until dinnertime,’ Caitlin said briskly, picking up Sylvie’s bag once more and ushering her out through the kitchen door. ‘I’m afraid you can’t have a room all to yourself – you’ll be sharing with Clodagh, Grainne and Maeve – but you’ve a bed to yourself.’ She flung open a door as she spoke and ushered Sylvie into a rather small room with low attic windows and a wooden floor whose planks rose and fell like waves on a stormy sea. There were two galvanised buckets strategically placed beneath the stained ceiling in horrid anticipation of the next downpour, for when Sylvie looked up she could actually see sky through one of the wide cracks which ran across the plaster. In addition to the buckets, there was a big brass bedstead upon which rested a feather mattress, and beside it, crammed between the window and a tea chest which clearly did duty as a dressing table, was a narrow pallet.

‘That’s yours,’ Caitlin said proudly, pointing to the pallet. ‘It used to be Maeve’s but she’s going to head ’n’ tail it wit’ the two girls. I know the pallet’s kind of narrow,’ she added apologetically, when Sylvie did not speak, ‘but when you get a job you can buy yourself something a bit more comfortable. We’ve a grosh of markets in Dublin where everything you can think of can be bought second-hand.’

‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else,’ Sylvie said. ‘And that bed will be fine until I start to get bigger, of course. But – but you said I might gerra job. Who on earth will employ me when I start to show?’

‘They’ll employ you first because of that hair and then because you don’t talk wit’ a brogue so broad that the smart ladies can’t understand you,’ Caitlin said wisely. ‘I have to calm me tongue down in Switzers, I can tell you. I reckon you’ll get a good two or three months’ work behind you before they start to get suspicious, and then there’s other jobs where they don’t care what you look like so long as you sell the goods, or clean the premises, or iron the linen. But come on, alanna, you were wantin’ a quiet talk and now’s the best chance we’ll get, so fire away.’