Poor Little Rich Girl (42 page)

Munching her chips, she remembered that Dick had said there was no bus which would take her all the way to Bwlchgwyn and she might have to change buses in Chester and again at Wrexham. Resigning herself to a tedious journey, she climbed aboard the first bus. She rather enjoyed the ride despite being told, when the conductor asked for her money, that she had insufficient cash to take her all the way to Wrexham. ‘But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t take a chance on turning a blind eye to a littl’un like you, especially since I had an inspector aboard less than an hour ago,’ he told her.

‘Thank you ever so much,’ Lonnie said gratefully. ‘I’m afraid I hadn’t realised I should need quite so much money to reach my friend’s house. But when
I get there, they’ll see that I have my fare back to Birkenhead, I’m sure.’

The conductor looked at her sharply. Plainly, he had not expected a dirty child in a shabby shawl to speak in the clear-cut accents of the upper class, but Lonnie gave him her most appealing smile and he grinned back before continuing to collect the fares.

Presently the bus reached its destination and Lonnie climbed down. She would have liked to look round this bustling market town, but decided she must head straight for Bwlchgwyn. The day was already advanced, the sun sinking towards the west, and she had no desire to sleep under a hedge.

She had to ask directions several times since she was not used to the strong North Wales accent, though she thought it vaguely similar to that of her dear
ayah
back in India. The last person she asked, a fat farmer’s wife carrying a large basket covered with a chequered cloth, looked at her shrewdly, then set her basket down on the pavement and addressed Lonnie in a motherly tone. ‘Where have you come from, cariad?’ she asked. ‘Wasn’t you the little lass that got on the bus at Birkenhead? If so, you’ll be wanting a drink and a bite to eat before you set off for Bwlchgwyn. There’s a good café in Hope Street, opposite the Horse and Jockey pub. It’s called Stevenson’s and they do a grand steak ’n’ kidney puddin’ for tenpence.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t have tenpence,’ Lonnie said regretfully. ‘In fact, I don’t have any money at all just at present, but I’m going to friends, so that’s all right.’

The woman bent down and pulled back the chequered cloth, revealing a great deal of food. Lonnie’s mouth watered as she looked at the tempting
display and when her new friend delved into the basket and produced two large slices of bread and a wedge of cheese, her hand shot out involuntarily, even as she thanked the farmer’s wife. ‘It’s most awfully kind of you,’ she said through a mouthful. ‘I hadn’t realised that it would take all of my money just to get this far, but once I reach my friends I shall be all right.’ She glanced hopefully at the older woman. ‘Is it
very
far to Bwlchgwyn?’

‘It isn’t the distance, but you’re going up into the mountains,’ the farmer’s wife explained. ‘I live on the plain myself, but of course I’ve been through Bwlchgwyn many a time, when we go for a day’s pleasuring to Rhyl or Colwyn Bay on the coast. It don’t seem far when you’re in a charabanc, but on foot I dare say it will take you an hour or two. Still, there’s a village on the way where you can sit yourself down for half an hour or so and get your breath. I wonder who you’re going to visit? In these parts, most of us know each other.’

‘I don’t think you’d know the Baileys,’ Lonnie admitted. ‘You see, Mr Bailey is a patient in the sanatorium on the Llandegla moors, so Mrs Bailey has only rented the cottage until he’s well enough to go home. I’m going to visit him and then stay with the Baileys for a couple of days,’ she added.

The woman fished in her basket and produced a hard green pear which she handed to Lonnie before covering the basket over once more. ‘You gnaw on that,’ she said kindly. ‘I know the sanatorium, we all do in these parts. I hope as your friend’s husband gets well soon.’ She picked up her basket and turned away. ‘Good luck, cariad.’

Before she had gone more than a mile, Lonnie realised that the farmer’s wife had been right. The
distance was bad enough – that woman had said it was seven or eight miles – but it was the gradient which soon began to defeat her. She reached the promised village and sat down for a while on a convenient seat. Then, glancing at the setting sun, for it had been quite a pleasant day, she decided that she must press on.

By the time she reached the village of Bwlchgwyn, the sky had clouded over and heavy drops of drain had begun to fall. Tired out but still filled with icy determination, Lonnie continued on through the village, but when she reached the lane of which Dick had spoken it was full dark and she was so tired and hungry that she sat herself down on the grass verge and indulged in a hearty bout of tears. However, resolution had always been Lonnie’s main characteristic and she very soon wiped her eyes, blew her nose on the shawl and set off once more.

She passed the cottage which she guessed belonged to the Hughes family and noted, wistfully, that the lamps were lit and that a good smell of cooking warmed the night air, but no doubt Mrs Bailey, too, would be preparing a meal – her mouth watered once more at the thought – and she quickened her lagging steps a little so that the final mile along the lane seemed to go a little faster than the previous one.

At last, the cottage loomed, black against the sky. With a sob of relief, Lonnie opened the gate, walked down the garden path and turned left alongside the wall of the house, so that she might approach it from the rear. She remembered Hester telling her that front doors were seldom used in Britain and that friends and family – and even tradesmen – usually went round the back, so naturally she must do likewise.

She turned the corner and stared towards the windows, then stopped short, her heart giving a loud, unnatural thump. She could see at a glance that the curtains were drawn back and that the interior of the cottage was black as night.

For the first time since she had left St Catherine’s, Lonnie’s resolution failed her. She simply did not know what to do. Her entire escape plan had revolved around the finding of Mrs Bailey in the cottage. Her fertile imagination had painted the happy picture of her arrival at the cottage so convincingly that at first she could not believe it was not about to happen. Perhaps they were all in bed, having had a busy day. Perhaps they were visiting the Hughes and had not yet returned. Presently she forced herself to go and peer in through the kitchen window. She expected to see the glow of a fire in the grate or perhaps the table set for breakfast next morning because, although she had no very accurate idea of the time, she knew it must be late.

Cupping both hands around her face, she stared into the darkness of the cottage and her heart faltered. Dick had told her that the family had moved a good deal of their belongings into the cottage since it was let unfurnished and now, her despair deepening with every moment, she was forced to face the truth. All the comfortable clutter which she remembered from the Bailey’s house in Elmore Street was missing. There was no fire in the grate, no rug on the hearth, no dresser filled with the cheap but cheerful china that she remembered. Indeed, there could be no breakfast set since there was no table, nor any chairs. No matter how hard she tried to persuade herself that it was otherwise, the cottage was clearly deserted. No one was living here and she was a very long way
from friends of any description. She had no money and had eaten all the food the farmer’s wife had given her. What was more, she was totally worn out, freezing cold, and her shawl clung damply round her shoulders.

Lonnie sat down on the flagstoned path with a thump. She told herself wildly that she must pull herself together, stop being so silly and decide what to do next. But for several moments she could think of nothing. The rain, which had eased, began to come down again in earnest and this galvanised her into action once more. She jumped to her feet and tried the back door but it failed to give to her endeavours so she surveyed her surroundings carefully. The Baileys had told Lonnie and Hester that every household kept a spare back door key tucked away in some spot which the family knew all about but a burglar was unlikely to discover. One hiding place which Lonnie particularly admired was only possible if there was a letter-box in the door and this door was thick, old-fashioned wood, without so much as a crack. So a key, dangling on a piece of string and popped through the letter-box, was an impossibility. Lonnie looked round for another hiding place. Close against the back door was an iron foot-scraper of quite elaborate design with a revolving brush at the back, so that one might remove not only the chunks of mud but also the dirt which gathers around the toecap of one’s boots. Lonnie went down upon her knees and ran her hand around the foot-scraper, then gave a tiny crow of triumph. Hanging on the wrought ironwork was a large key.

It was the work of a moment to insert the key in the lock and though Lonnie had some difficulty in turning it, for her fingers were icy cold, she managed it at last
and let herself into the kitchen. The room seemed large and bare in the small amount of light which filtered in through the low windows but it was a good deal warmer than the garden had been and Lonnie took off her shawl and spread it right across the old-fashioned range. Then she looked round for something – anything – in which she could wrap herself, for she was still extremely cold. I’ll find something somewhere, she vowed, heading across the kitchen for the little parlour which Dick had told her about, and then, tomorrow morning, I’ll decide what to do next.

Hester’s anxiety for Lonnie had grown overnight. She went round to Elmore Street and told Mrs Bailey that she had not been able to see the child the day before but intended to visit the school that afternoon.

Mrs Bailey nodded understandingly but reminded Hester that Lonnie had never been exactly an angel. Though the nuns were undoubtedly strict, she was sure they would let Hester see her young charge as they had promised. ‘And there’s a job goin’ down at the bakery on Heyworth Street,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Mr Briggs, he’s a very pertickler man, so his staff – the younger ones that is – don’t usually stay long. You have to wear a white cloth over your hair so that not a strand shows, almost like being a nun, and he won’t have no make-up worn, nor no perfume, and the girls wear real ugly white wraparound overalls, flat shoes, and gloves to handle the bakery products. But the pay ain’t bad and if you don’t mind washing your hands four hundred times a day, you’ll probably stick it for a week or two.’

The two women were standing in the kitchen, Mrs Bailey rolling out pastry whilst her guest watched. Upon hearing her hostess’s words, Hester flew across
the room and planted a kiss upon Mrs Bailey’s floury cheek. ‘That sounds wonderful, Mrs Bailey,’ she said enthusiastically. ‘Will it be all right if I go round there straight away?’

‘Aye, you do that,’ Mrs Bailey said. ‘I didn’t mention the hours; them’s the big drawback really. You see, when you’re on bakery shift, you’ll start work at twelve midnight and work till eight the following mornin’, so you’ll be sleeping when other folks is going off to their jobs. But if a baker’s going to serve fresh bread and cakes, and so on, the fellers have to bake through the night.’

‘I see,’ Hester said, rather faintly. ‘Is that why Mr Briggs’s staff don’t stay long?’

Mrs Bailey grinned. ‘Mebbe,’ she admitted. ‘But jobs is hard to come by, queen, and I know you’ve not got fambly behind you, so if I were you I’d gerroff there right away.’

‘I will,’ Hester said, bending to pick up her bag which she had dropped on the kitchen floor, ‘and many thanks, Mrs B; you’re a pal.’

‘Aye, I’m worth me weight in gold,’ Mrs Bailey agreed. ‘When you’ve finished wi’ Mr Briggs, you come round here for your tea, then I dare say our Dick will want a word.’

‘I’d love to,’ Hester said happily. ‘By then I’ll have seen Lonnie and we’ll have a better idea of what to do next. ‘Bye for now.’

Hester remembered, as soon as she saw the shop, that she and Lonnie had been regular customers here when they had lived in Shaw Street. Lonnie had always declared that Briggs’s Bakery made the most delicious doughnuts and the best sugar buns to be found in the area. What was more, Mrs Briggs
was a dab hand at such confections as coconut ice, peppermint creams and stick-jaw toffee, so a good deal of Lonnie’s pocket money had found its way into Mr Briggs’s till.

The interview with the master baker was brief but thorough and at the end of half an hour Hester found herself once more in gainful employment. ‘You’ll start with the day shift, first thing on Monday morning,’ Mr Briggs said, smiling at her. He was short and fat and as pale as his own bread, with the shy and confiding smile of a baby and about as many teeth. Hester had always liked him and felt sure that they would get along famously. She was issued with two vast wraparound aprons, four hair tidies and four sets of boot covers, though Mr Briggs advised her to leave these items in the back room, since he was responsible for the laundering of all the staff garments.

By four o’clock, Hester was on the doorstep of St Catherine’s Convent. She rang the bell, and after a long delay the door was opened by a small and trembling nun who took one look at her and slammed the door in her face. Hester, who had been stepping forward, recoiled, but seconds later the door was opened again by another nun. ‘I’m sorry if Sister Francis was rude, but I’m afraid the convent is in an uproar,’ she explained, ushering Hester inside. ‘One of our pupils … my goodness, are you the young lady who was coming to see Leonora Hetherington-Smith at four this afternoon? I’m to take you straight to the Mother Superior’s office.’

I wonder what she’s done now, Hester was thinking as she was ushered into the office. I do hope she isn’t in trouble of some sort!