Poor Little Rich Girl (9 page)

Ben’s mam was every bit as good as he had prophesied. The two children entered the kitchen to find Mrs Bailey ironing away at an enormous pile of white linen sheets. Ben explained briefly who his friend was and why she was there and Mrs Bailey immediately abandoned her iron and came across the kitchen to give Lonnie a quick hug
before carrying her off upstairs. ‘It’ll be best if you strip down in my bedroom and have a good wash where there ain’t no likelihood of someone bursting in on you,’ she explained. ‘And while I clean you up I’ll send young Ben round to Shaw Street to explain where you are and what’s happened.’ She shook her head, helping Lonnie out of the pink gingham dress and tutting over the state of it. ‘Good Lor’, this
is
dirty. I’d best take it downstairs and give it a good brush while you wash. There’s a bit of soap by the basin and plenty of cold water – will that do you?’

Lonnie agreed that it would do very well. Fortunately, for she had never washed herself in India, Hester had insisted that she learn how to clean herself up properly, so once Mrs Bailey had left her Lonnie struggled out of her underwear and lathered every inch of herself with the tiny piece of soap. The soap was red and smelt so strongly of disinfectant that it made Lonnie’s eyes water, but it did its work well. Then she rinsed herself off in cold water, shuddering a little, for the warmth of the day was over and a cool breeze blew through the open window.

As she dried herself on the piece of rough towelling beside the china basin, she had leisure to look round the room. She had scarcely noticed the kitchen as she was hustled through it and up the stairs, but now she examined her hostess’s bedroom closely. The room was very clean, the walls whitewashed, the worn linoleum on the floor speckless. There was a very old brass bedstead in the middle of the room, with one thin blanket folded over the faded counterpane, and when she investigated a curtain hanging beside the bed she found that it concealed a rail upon which several clean but well-worn garments hung. Apart
from the washstand, there was nothing else in the room, though there was a broken piece of mirror propped up behind the enamel water jug and one ornament in front of it – a chipped shepherdess, with a headless lamb pressed against her skirts.

Lonnie had just finished drying and dressing herself in her underwear, and was draping the towel across the washstand and wondering how she could go downstairs without her dress, when she heard someone ascending the creaking wooden stairs. She opened the door cautiously and peered around it and Mrs Bailey beamed at her. ‘I come up to tell you to fetch me tartan shawl from behind the curtain, and wrap it round yourself so’s you can be decent,’ she said, a trifle breathlessly. ‘I didn’t wash your dress but I’ve give it a good brush and sponged the worst marks off it. Your socks I had to wash and our Dick – that’s Ben’s big brother – is working on your sandals right now. He’ll get ’em as clean as they was when you set out this morning, so in half an hour or so you’ll be able to go home lookin’ respectable, at least.’ Mrs Bailey stared critically at what she could see of her uninvited guest. ‘When you come down, we’ll clean up your knee and your elbow. I don’t have stickin’ plaster, but there’s plenty of clean rags what’ll do duty as bandages, an’ I always say carbolic soap is as good as doctor’s salve any day.’

She began to descend the stairs again and Lonnie went back into the bedroom and found the tartan shawl which she wrapped round herself, sari fashion, before returning to the kitchen as Mrs Bailey had bade her. When she entered the room, Mrs Bailey was ironing once more – this time the pink gingham dress – and explained that she was drying off the sponged patches, since this would be quicker than
putting the dress on the line. The socks, however, had been thoroughly washed and pegged out and would not, she suspected, be dry for several hours yet.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lonnie said gaily. Suddenly she realised that she felt comfortable and at home in this small and shabby house, far more comfortable than she did in Shaw Street. She supposed, vaguely, that this was because Mrs Bailey was a real mother and not just an aunt or a governess. How lovely, she mused, it would be to live here, with Mrs Bailey to fuss over her and Ben, if he could only bring himself to like her, to go about with. She glanced contentedly around the kitchen. Kitty sat before the fire, gazing at the flames, none the worse for her adventure. Like the bedroom upstairs, there was nothing here that was not immediately useful. The enclosed fire had a mantel above it, but there were no ornaments upon it, only a series of tins which had once contained tea, biscuits or cake. Someone had stuck slips of paper on each, bearing the legends tea, sugar, money for messages, bread and dried beans. The kitchen floor was quarry-tiled but a couple of rag rugs, clearly homemade, added a touch of colour, and the big, scrubbed wooden table, upon which Mrs Bailey was ironing at present, seemed very much the focus of the room.

Lonnie was about to ask Mrs Bailey where everyone was when the door which led to the rest of the house opened and a man, so skeletally thin and white that Lonnie felt he was almost transparent, came into the room, accompanied by a small, fair-haired girl. The man held a pile of brown envelopes in one arm, and put them down on the end of the table, away from Mrs Bailey’s work, saying in a thin, reedy voice: ‘That’s today’s batch finished! I’ll get Ben to pop
these down to Bilverstone’s first thing tomorrow.’ He paused, then gave Lonnie a particularly sweet smile. ‘I see we have a visitor. Would you be the young lady from India?’

Lonnie admitted that she had indeed come from India and Mr Bailey was beginning to ask her what she thought of England when the small girl sidled across the room and stood next to Lonnie, looking up into her face with great curiosity. ‘Who’s you? I’m Phyllis Bailey and on my next birthday I’ll be five,’ she announced proudly.

‘I’m Leonora Hetherington-Smith and on
my
next birthday I’ll be nine,’ Lonnie responded bravely. ‘I bought one of your brother Ben’s kittens, which is how we became acquainted. See her, sitting on the rug in front of your mother’s nice fire?’

Phyllis gave a crow of delight and cast herself down on the hearth. Her interest in Lonnie had paled into insignificance beside her interest in the cat and since Kitty seemed much inclined to play with the bit of string which Phyllis was dangling before her it seemed they would both be happy.

At this point, the back door opened and a young man came in. Since he carried her sandals, clean and polished, in one hand, Lonnie guessed that this must be Dick. ‘I’ve done ’em, our Mam; they’re good as new now,’ the young man said briskly. He looked across at Lonnie, then smiled. ‘You’ll be the young lady from India. I’ve never seen a shawl worn like that before, but it looks grand, so it does. Want to pop your sandals on now? I expect Mam explained that your socks won’t be ready for a while, but no doubt our Ben will deliver ’em tomorrer, before he starts work at the pet shop.’

He put the shoes down on the kitchen floor as
he spoke and Lonnie was struggling into them and trying to thank him at the same time when Mrs Bailey came across to her, sat her down on one of the wooden kitchen chairs, and began vigorously brushing her long, limp hair. ‘D’you plait it or just tie it back?’ she asked as she brushed. ‘My word, there’s leaves in your hair, miss! Whatever have you been a-doing?’

‘I’ve got a little piece of garden,’ Lonnie said eagerly. ‘Mr Mimms gave it to me for my very own. I was digging there when the kitten escaped so I was already a bit dirty. Later, a fat woman who said her name was Auntie Clara tried to steal Kitty and after that some wicked children chased me and I fell. But I’m all right now,’ she finished, smiling at Mrs Bailey.

‘All right you may be, but you’ve had a nasty old time of it,’ Mrs Bailey said. She began to pour water from a blackened tin kettle into the teapot standing ready. ‘I know most rich folk use fresh milk, but all we’ve got is conny-onny – condensed – so that’ll have to do you in your tea.’ She stirred the teapot briskly, then poured the tea into five chipped enamel mugs. ‘Get that down you, miss, and you’ll feel much more the thing.’

Having handed everyone a cup of the strong, sweet tea, Mrs Bailey fetched a loaf from a cupboard, cut several thick slices, spread them thinly with margarine and a scraping of jam, and passed them round. She did not attempt to provide a plate, so Lonnie watched Dick fold his bread over and copied him, then began to eat. It was surprisingly good; the jam was sweet yet tangy and the bread home-baked and very much nicer than the shop bought loaves which Mrs Ainsworth provided in
Shaw Street. Lonnie, who had never before given much thought to where her food came from, said rather shyly: ‘This is very nice jam, Mrs Bailey. What sort is it? I’ve never tasted jam like this before.’

Mrs Bailey smiled, but it was Dick who answered. ‘It’s our mam’s homemade damson,’ he explained. ‘Us lads pick the damsons, come the back end, because the trees grow wild in the woods and the fruit’s there for anyone to gather, same as blackberries, sloes, rose-hips and the like. Mam makes us a picnic and we tek off to the woods wi’ canvas bags to hold the fruit and make a day of it. It’s grand in the woods in the autumn and we’ll be off again in a couple o’ months. Why don’t you come with us, miss? I dare say you’d enjoy it, though we can’t promise you lions or tigers or monkeys, lerralone snakes! In England, you’ll be lucky if you see a hedgehog or a fieldmouse.’

‘I
should
like it, I’m sure I should,’ Lonnie said, standing down her mug of tea. ‘And we didn’t see lions and tigers every day, you know! In fact, I never did see a lion. I’ve seen tigers, though. My father went on a tiger shoot once. The tiger had been killing children when they went to the river to fetch water, so the sahibs got up a party and I went too, though I wasn’t allowed to see the man-eater until he was dead.’

There was a respectful silence, broken by Dick’s whistling beneath his breath. ‘A man-eating tiger!’ he said reverently. ‘What wouldn’t I give to go to India! I don’t suppose I’ll ever get the chance, though. What about monkeys, miss? I’ve heard tell monkeys is everywhere, even in the big cities. I see them in the zoo, but that isn’t the same, somehow.’

‘There are loads of monkeys all over Delhi,’ Lonnie
admitted. ‘When my
ayah
took me to the gardens at Connaught Place, we would see monkeys swinging from the peepul trees. If we took a picnic, they would come really close, hoping to snatch some food. I thought they were charming, but my
ayah –
that’s my nurse – didn’t like monkeys, she said their bite was poisonous. My daddy said that wasn’t true; he said she was a superstitious old woman, but of course it is dangerous to be bitten by any animal, or it is in India at any rate.’

Dick whistled again. ‘You make monkeys sound as common as sparrers,’ he said rather wistfully. ‘Did you have a garden? Were there any monkeys there?’

‘Yes, there were monkeys in our garden and I thought they were really sweet because they have such pretty, sad little faces, but the servants hated them. They said if you left the door or the window open the monkeys would come in to thieve, and they were right, because once I went into the kitchen and there were four monkeys emptying a flour barrel.’ She chuckled reminiscently. ‘You should have seen them! They looked like four little white clowns and the mess in the kitchen was unbelievable. They’re very destructive, so all the women hate them. They’ll steal washing off the line or a cake off the kitchen table, and if they get frightened they’ll rip curtains or mosquito netting in their hurry to escape.’

Everyone laughed and Phyllis, abandoning the kitten, begged for more stories of monkeys.

‘Well, when you go into the jungle,’ Lonnie said, ‘you have to be careful, because the jungle is where the big monkeys live – gibbons and baboons – and they can be as strong as a man and cause a lot of damage. But the little ones would make
lovely pets, I’m sure, if only I’d been allowed to have one.’

‘I’ve seen monkeys dancing to a barrel-organ in the city centre; folk throw pennies and the monkey gathers them up, quick as a wink, and gives them to the organ grinder,’ Dick offered. ‘But I feel bad when I see their sad little faces. They’re always cold, huddled in little red coats and hating what they have to do. I’d let ’em go back to India, if I had my way.’

‘Pity Ted isn’t here, because he’s mortal fond of animals, same as our Ben is,’ Mr Bailey remarked. ‘Tell us about live tigers, little miss, ones that ain’t man-eaters I mean. How can you see a tiger without riskin’ it fancying you for its dinner, eh?’

In fact, Lonnie could not really remember having seen live tigers, though she knew she had done so when her mother was alive. The two of them had accompanied Mr Hetherington-Smith when he and a party of friends went into the jungle and her mother had described how she and her little daughter had taken their seats in a
howdah
, perched on the swaying back of a great elephant. She had told Lonnie how the huge beast had made its silent way along the narrow jungle paths and how they had seen tigers, antelopes and that most feared of Indian game, wild boar, from the safety of their high perch.

She had actually taken a deep breath to describe the tigers she could no longer remember when the back door opened and two people entered the room. One was Ben, grinning broadly and looking a little self-conscious, and the other was Hester.

Hester had not missed Lonnie until almost seven o’clock, when she had gone into the garden to see
how the child was getting on with her digging. She usually gave Lonnie a supper of milk and biscuits at about eight o’clock, an hour before she went to bed, but this simple meal needed no preparation and could be served in a moment. So she went about her work calmly, with no need to hurry. She washed up their tea things and dried them on one of the tea-towels the cook had provided, then stacked the china and cutlery in the cupboard in the kitchen, as she now thought of the spare attic room. Then she went to the window, which had a bird’s eye view of the garden, or a good deal of it, and of the city of Liverpool, spread out like a particularly fine drawing, and of the docks, the Mersey, the sea … and even of the town of New Brighton, on the opposite bank.