Orphan of Angel Street (39 page)

‘No . . .’ Mercy found her own hanky and wiped her eyes. ‘But she looked at me and took my hand.’ She tried to smile. ‘Daft, ain’t it?’

After a moment the doctor put his head round the door. ‘Could someone—’ – he spoke tersely, looking at Paul – ‘go up to the galley and fetch some hot water?’

‘Is she all right?’ Mercy cried.

‘Yes, yes . . .’

There was toing and froing with water. The stooped, elderly woman carried a bundle of bloodstained bedding from the room. Eventually the doctor left.

Soon after, the dark-haired man came out of the room, a smile under his moustache. His face looked more youthful with relief. He beckoned to them. Mercy and Paul looked at each other and stepped inside. The crowd of Poles followed until the room was full.

The young woman was sitting up, hair plastered back on her head. Her eyes were like dark pools in her exhausted face, but there was a gentle smile now on her lips. The baby lay wrapped in her arms.

‘Oh!’ Mercy cried, tears filling her eyes again. So much pain, she thought, for such a miracle!

The woman gently held out the little one for her to see. Mercy looked into a crinkled but perfect face with a tiny shading of barely formed eyebrows. Its eyes were closed as if to cling on to the secrets of life before birth.

‘I wonder if it’s a girl or a boy,’ she said to Paul

As if the woman had understood, she unwrapped the baby for a moment. Mercy saw where the umbilical cord had been cut and bound.

‘A girl! Oh Paul, she’s a real picture!’

She saw his eyes appraising the new child, seriously and with complete attention, and was filled with tenderness for him. Everything was full of wonder tonight.

She felt her hand being grasped and the young mother raised it to her lips, kissing it again and again. Mercy was startled, but then pulled the linked hands back towards her and kissed her new friend in return.

The father presented Paul and another man with a tiny glass, hardly bigger than a large thimble, full of liquid. He handed another to Mercy. They must have brought these glasses with them, among what looked like pitifully few possessions. The man threw his head back and gulped his liquor down. Paul did the same and gagged and spluttered until tears ran down his cheeks. Everyone else laughed heartily, slapping Paul between the shoulder blades. Mercy took a cautious sip. The stuff tasted explosive. Even that small amount was like a fire in her throat! Paul was still recovering, wiping his eyes.

The man held his hand out and Paul took it.

‘Petrowski,’ he said. ‘Tomek Petrowski.’ He pointed at his wife. ‘Yola Petrowski.’

Mercy and Paul told them their names, and then felt the time had come to leave this new family in peace. With a great deal more nodding and smiling they departed.

It was only when they began to climb the stairs that Mercy noticed a long, oval stain on her dress.

‘Oh no – look, blood!’ The mark was nearly the size of a hand. ‘Must have been off the side of the bed.’ She turned to Paul. ‘Honestly – next time I go anywhere with you I’m going to wrap myself in an old sack!’

‘Oh Mercy,’ he laughed. And she heard a wealth of fondness in his voice.

‘Where on earth have you been?’

James Adair was pacing the corridor, his expression livid. ‘I’ve looked all over the place for you!’

He was full of pent-up emotion, a mixture of jealousy, frustration and self-righteous anger. He’d known Mercy was with Paul. She should be here, damn it, looking after his son! But then he noticed her dress.

‘What’s happened? Are you all right?’

Mercy explained. ‘I kept coming up to see Stevie was asleep though – every hour or so. He’s been perfectly all right!’

‘Yes, yes.’ James felt his ire melting away. His besotted imagination had tortured him with images of her and Paul alone together . . . but this had clearly not been the case.

‘Well—’ – he tried to speak lightly – ‘how very exciting. I’d better get back to Margaret. She’s not at all well tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow. Will you be dining with us, or with Paul here? Up to you of course.’ He forced himself to sound jovial, an old fuddy-duddy joking about the fact that she might choose to spend time with him.

Mercy looked at Paul.

‘It’d be my pleasure,’ he said.

‘Paul, I think, Mr Adair.’ He didn’t fail to notice the flush in her cheeks.

‘Right you are then.’

He turned away in an agony of contradictory shame and longing.

Mercy tried to spend a short time with Margaret each day, taking Stevie to see her. She called in mid-morning the next day. Margaret seemed no better. She tried to sit up and play with Stevie who wanted to crawl all over her and roll on the bed. Her face was very pale, and her soft, peach-coloured nightgown only seemed to make her complexion look more sickly. Her hair hung down limply and she was weak and lethargic.

Mercy chatted to her, telling her about the Petrowskis’ baby and she tried to smile.

‘You went down to third class? How brave!’

Mercy refrained from saying she had felt far more at home down there than in first class.

‘I’m sorry,’ Margaret murmured after a short time, her head lolling back on the pillows. ‘You’ll have to take him away. This terrible nausea . . . If only I could be somewhere calm and still.’ She lay down, grimacing as she moved, and closed her eyes.

‘Come on, Stevie.’ Mercy lifted him from the bed and he protested for a moment, wrapping himself round her like a monkey. She noticed his nose was running. Perhaps she’d kept him out in the air too long yesterday?

‘Could you pass me a little more water?’ Margaret barely had enough energy to speak.

Stevie on one arm, Mercy poured a glass of water and passed it to Margaret’s outstretched hand. She took a few sips, then whispered, ‘James should be back soon. Poor chap – I’m really cramping his style. He’d like to be staying up, dancing, out and about. Perhaps you could dance with him tonight, Mercy? I just can’t . . .’ She slumped down again.

‘It’s not your fault, is it?’ Mercy said, trying to cheer her. ‘Nobody asks to be poorly. I s’pect he’s enjoying himself anyway – the ship and that.’

‘But he’s been so grumpy and out of sorts . . . oh dear . . .’ She was slipping into sleep.

Mercy could scarcely wait for Paul to finish his day’s stint down in the bowels of the ship. Now it was the third day of the voyage, the ship and the constant circle round them where dark sea met pale sky were losing their novelty and everyone was beginning to need a little more stimulation.

She whiled away the day with Stevie, passing time with some of the other nannies who visited the nursery. Scarcely any were as young as herself, but there was one not much older who was friendly. Ruby was a thin, bright-eyed young woman from Leeds who’d moved south to work for a London family and the two of them chatted idly.

James Adair called in twice to the nursery and Mercy noticed throughout the day that no other fathers did this. Both times he saw she was busy and left again looking ill at ease.

‘Funny bloke,’ Ruby said the second time. ‘You’d never find ’er dad—’ – she jerked her head at Charlotte, her two-year-old charge – ‘coming down to see if she’s all right. Or still alive for that matter.’

‘Oh, Mr Adair’s very fond of Stevie.’

‘Oh yes – is that all ’e’s fond of?’ Ruby gave a chesty laugh.

‘What’re you on about?’

‘Don’t act all innocent. You know what I mean full well.’ Ruby rushed off to rescue Charlotte who had fallen bang on her face.

Mercy frowned. Did Ruby mean . . . was she saying . . .? Uncomfortable thoughts came to her mind of the look in James Adair’s eyes when he held her on the bicycle those months ago, of occasions when she’d seen the same look in his eyes since . . . But no. What did she know about how men should might look at you? She actually shook her head to dismiss these thoughts. What was she? A servant, that was all. It was just ridiculous.

That night James Adair dined alone again, despite Margaret telling him that she was sure Mercy would come and join him.

Mercy met Paul for dinner and they talked and talked, and laughed together.

After dinner he said, ‘Shall we go and see how the Petrowskis are getting on?’

‘Ooh yes – I want to see that babby again. But first—’

‘You need to look in on Stevie?’

She smiled. Happiness gave her face an extra glow. ‘I ought to. That is what I’m here for! And I’ll get my coat.’

They found the Petrowskis in the third-class sitting room. The place was furnished for very basic comfort, with slatted wooden seats round the walls. The air was full of smoke, tumblers of ale stood on the tables, round which there was a loud buzz of conversation in different languages, games of cards and dice and in one corner there was a sing-song going on, someone playing a fiddle. Mercy stood on the doorway with Paul looking round at the mass of people with their mix of nationalities and felt rather intimidated. It was if she’d just walked into another country altogether.

But Tomek Petrowski noticed them almost immediately and strode across, talking fast, shaking Paul’s hand over and over. He motioned them to come and join his friends. They were a group of Poles, mostly men but a few women also. They all smiled and made welcoming gestures. Work-roughened hands were held out to them. Mercy saw Yola sitting watching her.

She stepped over to sit beside her and everyone made room. Tonight Yola’s face was still tired, but relaxed. She welcomed Mercy happily. The baby was lying asleep in her lap, only her tiny face visible.

‘Hello,’ Mercy smiled. She felt such affection for this woman, strange as it was. ‘You look better.’ And Yola smiled and nodded back.

Mercy leant round to look at the baby and for a time she and Yola communicated in a universal language of smiles and coos and baby conversation. They sat with their heads close together, Mercy as fair as Yola was dark. When Mercy told her how beautiful the baby was, Mercy knew she understood her meaning.

Yola pointed at the sleeping child and said, ‘Peschka.’

‘Peschka? Is that her name – Peschka?’

Yola nodded.

‘It’s very pretty. She’s very pretty.’ Once more lots of nodding and smiling and appreciating. Yola lifted Mercy’s hand and kissed it until Mercy felt quite tearful at receiving so much unbidden affection.

Paul found himself plied with more of the fiery liquor by the men and this time he took miniscule sips. Mercy saw Tomek hand him a slip of paper and a photograph. Paul looked at them and nodded before handing them back. After a time he stood up, looking across at her, asking with raised eyebrows if she was ready to leave. She said goodbye to Yola and joined him.

‘I think I’d better go before they get me too tight to move!’ he said.

They took their leave, smiling until Mercy felt her face might crack.

‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ Paul said. ‘Goodness – I don’t know what that stuff is, but it’s like drinking lava.’

‘What was it they were showing you?’ she asked, pulling her coat round her.

‘Well—’ – He stood back for her to go ahead of him up the stairs –‘it seems they’ve got some relative in New York already – the chap in the picture. A brother or cousin maybe? His is the address Tomek showed me and they’re hoping to join him.’

‘What d’you mean, hoping?’

‘They don’t just let everyone in, you know. They have to have all sorts of checks – health and suchlike. They look robust enough to me though. They’re from a village near Katowice – at least, I think that’s what he meant.’

‘They’re a lively lot, aren’t they?’ Mercy said. She found herself feeling anxious for them. ‘Imagine travelling all that way, starting a new life somewhere you don’t speak a word of the language. I s’pose she hoped they’d reach America before the baby came. I think they’re ever so brave.’

‘Yes.’ They stepped out into the dim light of the promenade deck. ‘Sobering thought, isn’t it?’ He chuckled. ‘Maybe that’s why they’re not keen to stay sober very much of the time!’

They strolled along, passing a few other couples out to take the air. When they’d walked the length of the second-class promenade deck they stopped, as if of one mind and leant on the side to look out. Mercy breathed in the salt air, the wind buffeting her cheeks. Ever since she’d been aboard the ship her cheeks had taken on a healthy glow. They stood close together, hearing dance music drifting to them from inside, soft, then louder, according to the shifting wind.

Mercy looked at Paul beside her, his pale profile, a lock of his hair moving in the wind, dark against his forehead, the long, slightly crooked nose, wide mouth. At the end of this, she thought, I’ll never see him again. And the thought was suddenly unbearable.

‘D’you think you could do it?’ she asked eventually.

Paul turned to look at her. ‘What?’

‘Just up sticks and go, like the Poles. Leave everything – your house, family, country – everything you know.’

Paul thought, staring out over the sea, biting his top lip.

‘Yes. I really think I could. It’s a peculiar thing. Before the War I felt British. English, let’s say. It seemed unthinkable that anywhere but England could be home. It was the centre of my world –
the
world come to that, so far as we were concerned. Now though, I feel I could live almost anywhere. It wouldn’t make that much difference.’

He snorted. ‘We British are so self-important. I suppose instead of feeling English now I just feel human. Like one tiny dot in the human race.’

Mercy listened to him with a strange mixture of emotions. Often when he talked she felt his sadness, the sense that through the War so much had been lost forever. Yet now there also rose in her a pounding sensation of euphoria. That was the other thing he made her feel – he gave her freedom, a heady feeling of excitement! Here, on this ship, she was not trapped by her past, her class, her circumstances. The ship was as class-ridden as anywhere else, but with Paul she could be anyone. She could simply be herself and that was all he required her to be. She moved a little closer to him.

‘How long will it take now?’