Poor Little Rich Girl (32 page)

Mrs Beasdale was at the top of the table, presiding over an enormous shepherd’s pie, whilst four elderly lodgers, already served, helped themselves to vegetables. Their landlady looked up and beamed as the two young men took their places, for she took a pride, she often informed them, in cooking good, nourishing food, and thought it their duty to be on time for meals. ‘You’ve just made it, you two,’ she said, pulling two more plates towards her. ‘This here’s too good a shepherd’s pie for you to miss … there’s cabbage in the white tureen, Mr Bailey, and carrots in the blue one. Help yourselves!’

When the table had been cleared of everything but the big brown teapot, a large jug of milk and seven mugs, Mrs Beasdale smiled at Freddie and Dick. ‘Well, lads?’ she enquired. ‘And what are you up to this weekend? Not working, are you?’

‘No, not this time,’ Freddie said jovially, accepting a large mug of hot, sweet tea. ‘We’s goin’ out after us dinners, and we shan’t be back for tea. We’ll get something out.’

Since tea on a Saturday was usually cold meat, three big white plates piled with bread and butter and an enormous fruit cake, missing the meal was no particular hardship. Certainly none of Mrs Beasdale’s lodgers would have dreamed of forgoing one of her dinners if they could possibly help it, but Saturday tea was a different matter. Dick appreciated all his
landlady’s meals, however, and considered himself very lucky to have found such an excellent billet.

‘That’s all right, then. Will you be home tonight, though, Mr Bailey?’ Mrs Beasdale gave him a roguish smile. ‘I’d not like to lock you out!’

‘He’s gorra key,’ Freddie pointed out, but this did not spoil the joke since Mr Brown, who was retired and had appointed himself as Mrs Beasdale’s champion, pointed out that not even the most talented of keys could unlock the bolts which were shot across the doors, both front and back, once all the lodgers were in for the night. ‘I expect we’ll be back late, Mrs B … there’s a dance on at the Grafton. We thought we might cross the water, see a bit o’ life for once.’

This insult to her home town of Birkenhead brought a groan from the older men and a threatened box over the ears from their landlady, but Dick thought it only fair to say that he might not return to Birkenhead with his friend. ‘Because I’ve a fancy to look up some of me old pals,’ he said glibly. ‘And one of ’em might well ask me to sleep over. Would that be all right, Mrs B?’

Mrs Beasdale prided herself on not interfering with her lodgers’ lives, and anyway she was well used to both Dick and Ted being away at the weekend, so she said that would be fine, and would he like her to pack him some carry-out? Dick said no thanks all the same, if he stayed with a pal the pal’s mam would likely feed him, and then the party broke up. Mrs Beasdale carried the used pudding plates – it had been treacle sponge and custard – through to the kitchen whilst Mr Brown took the empty mugs.

‘Are you really goin’ to stay overnight?’ Freddie asked curiously, as the two of them set out for the ferry. ‘If so, why don’t you come to the Grafton first?
Only I hate goin’ to dances on me tod, honest to God I do.’

‘No-oo, but I thought, if I manage to talk to Mollie fairly early in the afternoon, I’ll try and catch the last bus and make my way to the sanatorium anyway,’ Dick confessed. ‘Our dad likes to see me, as well as Ted, now and then. And I enjoy being in the village, having a bit of a crack wi’ Mam and the kids. So if I’m through in time that’s what I’ll probably do.’

‘And if you ain’t?’ Freddie asked eagerly. ‘Aw, come on, Dickie, be a sport and come along to the Grafton wi’ me! You can have the best lookin’ girl, honest to God you can.’

Dick laughed and agreed that he would do so if searching out Mollie took him past a reasonable time for catching the bus, and the two lads bought their tickets and climbed aboard the ferry. Dick leaned on the rail, watching the wind-tossed water passing beneath him, and glanced up to see the familiar outline of the Liver Birds drawing ever nearer. He wondered what the afternoon would bring. If only he could at least contact Hester, make sure that she was all right! But suppose she really had gone back to India by now? He might never set eyes on her again, and one thing their enforced separation had taught him was that none of the other girls he had taken around had meant anything to him.

But Hester was different. She’s in a class by herself, he dreamed, conjuring up a picture of that small, intelligent face with its wide, dark brown eyes so thickly fringed with black and curling lashes, the soft pink mouth, always trembling into laughter, and the smooth pallor of her perfect skin. If only …
if
only
… he could find her so that they might pick up their friendship where it had left off, get to know one another, perhaps establish an understanding …

‘Come on, Bailey, we’re dockin’, and if you’re goin’ to get to see this woman of yours whiles it’s still light you’d better gerra move on!’

Freddie’s voice in his ear jerked Dick back to the present. He sighed deeply, then turned away from the rail and accompanied the younger boy towards the gangplank. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming as fast as I can,’ he grumbled. ‘Nice to see the ‘Pool without it actually raining, isn’t it?’

Freddie looked up at the sky, still obscured by dark, fast-moving clouds. ‘It won’t be dry for long, so gerra wiggle on,’ he advised. ‘Now remember the plan! If you click early, then you’ll go off to the place wi’ the heathenish name an’ see your folks, but if you have to hang about past bus time, then you’ll meet me in the Grapes, say, on the West Derby Road. We’ll have a jar, then go along to the William Brown Dining Rooms at six o’clock, so’s we can have a bite before the dance.’

‘OK, I shan’t forget,’ Dick said. He grinned at his pal. ‘With a bit of luck, though, I’ll be heading for Bwlchgwyn – and it’s
not
a heathenish name, it’s just Welsh – by six!’

Despite his hopes, Dick spent the evening with Freddie. It was well after six o’clock when he arrived at the rendezvous, for he had done his best to catch the last bus and had only failed by about ten minutes. So it was a rather gloomy young man who came panting up the West Derby Road to meet his friend.

‘Well I’m blessed! Glad I waited a bit over, seein’ as I thought if you’d tried to catch the bus and failed you’d be here about now,’ Freddie said, rather confusedly. ‘What happened then, old feller? Gal didn’t show?’

‘No, she didn’t … and don’t think it was anything to do with seeing me, because it weren’t. The truth is, Freddie, the poor gal’s been sacked! I waited and waited and then I thought “Blow this for a game of soldiers!” and went smack up to the front door and rang the bell. I were lucky, because apparently the old lady sometimes goes out on a Saturday to some friends on the Wirral, and it were one of them days. The butler – his name’s Fletcher, he’s a rare good old gun – came to the door and told me that Mollie was dismissed a week back because the old lady said she was pert, but Mr Fletcher said she were nothing of the sort, being a nice, respectable girl. He thinks the old gal’s trying to get rid of all the servants who were there when she sent Hester and her niece off; now there’s only him and the cook left of the old lot. But he give me Mollie’s new address, so I can write to her there. It seems she got another job out at Crosby without any trouble, and that’s made the old lady mad and all, because it were people she knew at church who told Moll there were a maid wanted in Crosby.’

‘It’s a queer do by the sound of it,’ Freddie said thoughtfully. ‘I know jobs is hard to find and probably maids are ten a penny, but even so, why sack someone who does their job well? It don’t make sense.’

‘No, it doesn’t. Fletcher explained that Lonnie’s father will be back in India soon and is sure the
old man will want to know just what his sister’s been up to in his absence, but … oh, what can he do from so far away, after all? I simply must find Hester!’

‘There’s other girls …’ Freddie was beginning, but was silenced by Dick.

‘Oh, other girls!’ Dick said scornfully. ‘Aye, I’ll grant you that. But there’s only one Hester Elliott, and I’m afraid she’ll forget all about me at this rate. I tell you, Freddie, I’ve got to find her!’

Lonnie sat in the cramped confines of the punishment cupboard, and fumed. It was dark in there, though not completely, for there was a gap between door and floor through which some light came.

Not that the light made any difference, of course. For the less strong-minded, there was fear simply in the fact of being locked in. On the first occasion it had happened to Lonnie, she, too, had been afraid. Claustrophobia had threatened, so she had attacked the door with feet and fists, clamouring to get out, shrieking, threatening. In a way it had worked; a nun had come and unlocked the door, hauled her off to Sister Augustine, who had whacked away with her strap – and with evident relish – and had then locked her up again. But, since she had been returned to the basement cupboard, she was no better off for her tantrum.

That had made Lonnie think. She had remained in the cupboard, on that occasion, for about four hours. She, of course, had no idea of the length of her imprisonment, but the other girls in her dormitory had told her, in awed voices, that she had broken the record for a new girl. So she would have to either conform or grow used to the cupboard, she
decided … and immediately set out to run away once more, though running away the first time had been the cause of her imprisonment.

She had now run away seven times in all, remaining free on the last occasion for a whole beautiful day. She had wandered down to the docks, had thought about stowing away aboard a ferry … had looked wistfully at the great liners, some of them undoubtedly bound for India, Australia, the Spice Islands, and imagined escaping not only from the nuns but from this cold and unfriendly land which she suddenly found she hated.

A policeman had handed her in, though she had made sure that she told him what sort of place the school was before he did so. Unfortunately, her descriptions of the nuns’ behaviour had been just a trifle exaggerated – the scorpion pit had been a tactical error, she soon realised – so whilst the policeman had done so with some reluctance, he had still returned her to her prison. But even as she was cast into durance vile – the Black Hole of Calcutta, the girls called it – she had assured the nuns, in her most honeyed tones, that she would escape again, and soon, and that this time she would not be found and ignominiously returned to their wretched, evil school.

The cupboard was not large and the ceiling was sloping, so that it was impossible to stand up at the back. After a few minutes, Lonnie usually sat down on the floor, curled her arms round her knees and tried to imagine herself somewhere really nice. She often returned to India, in imagination, and saw again the large tropical garden of their bungalow, with the willow trees leaning over the river and her
ayah’s
gentle face as she told her some magical
story in Hindustani, adding and elaborating as she went along.

Today, however, not even the most vivid imaginings could help to take her out of her punishment cell for long. She was cold, miserable and depressed. She had now been at the school for three months and there had been no word from her father. Well, it was not true to say that she’d not heard from him, since every couple of weeks a large envelope arrived at the school, redirected to herself. Inside it there would be pretty picture postcards, letters from her father and notes from her new stepmother. Every time she opened the envelope, Lonnie’s heart filled with hope; surely this time there would be some acknowledgement from her father showing that he understood her carefully coded messages of unhappiness, her equally carefully coded pleas for his help? But there was never any indication that he had even received her letters. Of course, whilst he and his new wife had been cruising round the world, her letters – and everyone else’s – would have been saved for him to read when he returned home, but surely he must be back in India by now? Surely he would notice the difference between letters penned from Shaw Street and those dispatched from the hated school? What was more, Hester too had written regularly, telling Mr Hetherington-Smith how his daughter’s lessons were progressing. Surely he would realise, from the absence of such letters, that something was very wrong?

She guessed, of course, that her father had been told she was now in school, which meant that Hester was no longer in his employ. But did he have any idea how abrupt and unfair Hester’s dismissal had been? The trouble with sending messages in her weekly
letters was that the nuns scrutinised every word, and if they suspected that a note of unhappiness was creeping in would censor the letter and demand that it be rewritten. Lonnie still found writing a very real chore and in fact this, more than anything, had influenced her latest decision.

For the past three weeks, she had refused to write any letters at all, saying that she did not mean to tell her father lies and it seemed that any attempt to tell the truth only brought her trouble. Sister Magdalene had been furious and punishments had rained down on Lonnie’s head but she had remained firm. She would not write letters to her father and nothing anyone could do would persuade her otherwise. Lonnie knew that this really worried the nuns. She imagined that Mother Superior had probably been in touch with her father, telling him not to worry about the absence of correspondence, but she could not imagine what excuse the woman would make. Illness might have her father hurrying to England to see for himself. A claim that she was too busy and happy to write would surely be disbelieved. But the nuns were used to dealing with difficult children and she supposed, gloomily, that she was not the first pupil to simply stop writing to a parent. She just hoped that the first stilted letters, followed by no letters at all, would alert her dear father and bring him to her aid.