Strawberry Fields (11 page)
He longed to dream of Jess again so that he could ask her forgiveness, but all he dreamed of was that the baby ran away from him on the ferry, and climbed the rail and fell over the side, and when he dived in after her it was straight into thick yellow fog, in which not even the brown waters of the Liffey could be seen or felt.
Chapter FourWhen Brogan got back to Liverpool it was to find the snow melting in a fierce, almost springlike wind, and the whole city in an uproar over the missing baby.
‘There’s been a piece in the paper,’ Peader hissed to him when they were in bed that night in their lodgings. ‘Mollie’s mammy says as how she’s been stolen away by gypsies . . . but one of the fellers says she’s tryin’ to make capital out of it so she is . . . hopin’ someone will pay her money for her loss. Sure and would you believe a woman could be so wicked?’
‘Jeez, I hope they never find out where the littl’un’s gone; and we’ve decided to call her Polly, by the way, for safety’s sake,’ Brogan whispered. ‘Because if they try to take Polly away me mammy will kill me and anyway, that woman, that Mrs Carbery, she never had no time for the kid, Jess said so. Oh, Daddy, I don’t want to be throwed in gaol – specially not an English gaol.’
‘Devil a bit will they throw you in gaol; for what can they prove, eh?’ his father whispered back. ‘A nine-days’ wonder, so it is, and that’s the end of it. Give it another week at the most and no one will know who you mean if you say “Mollie Carbery”.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Brogan said devoutly. ‘Best say nothing then, eh, Daddy?’
‘Far best,’ his father said shortly. ‘I’m goin’ before a board to see whether they think I could do safety man; there’s a dacent pay rise goes wit’ the position. We don’t want to risk losin’ that, do we?’
So Brogan decided to pretend that he, too, had never heard the name Mollie Carbery. He would think of the child always, now, as Polly O’Brady. And on that comforting thought he slept at last.
Sara thoroughly enjoyed her stay with Mrs Prescott, though she was sorry when the snow began to melt so that Snowdrop Street no longer looked white and enticing but grey and drab and wet, instead.
Despite Mrs Prescott making sandwiches for the wake, neither she nor her young charge attended Jess’s funeral.
‘They’re an unpleasant family, or the parents are,’ Nanny told Sara. ‘Neither her nor him would raise a finger to do anything for the child whiles she was alive, and they’ll do precious little now she’s dead. Nesta – that’s the mother – talked to the
Echo
because she hoped to make capital out of her loss, but whatever money they paid her for her story went on drink.’
Echo
because she hoped to make capital out of her loss, but whatever money they paid her for her story went on drink.’
‘But Nanny, women don’t drink, do they?’ Sara said doubtfully. ‘I know men drink, but I thought women stayed at home.’
‘Well, you were wrong. Nesta Carbery drinks whenever she’s got the means to go down to the Jug and Bottle and buy the stuff,’ Nanny said distastefully. ‘It’ll not be long before they’re turned out, anyway. People like them never pay the rent.’
Sara would have liked to have paid her respects to Jess, particularly as she still felt deeply guilty over having given Jess stolen money. Despite her Nanny’s comforting words she still felt uneasily that the money might have been unlucky in some way. But the days passed, and once or twice she saw members of the family passing by, grey-skinned, apathetic, miserable, and had to echo Mrs Prescott’s words – that perhaps poor Jess was the lucky one.
And the neighbours didn’t like them, didn’t extend to them the same tolerance they extended to others, though they were quick to offer food, clothing, even odds and ends of bedding, to help the family after their loss. She saw that good women, like her nanny and her neighbours, would exchange a word or two with Stan or Nesta Carbery and then quickly move away, as though they did not want to remain in their company. It seemed strange to Sara.
Finally, however, she managed to put her finger on what was wrong. The neighbours felt let down that such a family could exist in their very street, and that they could do nothing about it. A good many people in the street had large families and struggled to keep their kids and themselves fed and clothed, but no one simply gave up on the kids and concentrated solely on themselves. No one but the Carbs, that was. He bragged and bullied, she whined and whinged, but it was easy to see that anything which went into their home would end up on the backs or in the bellies of Nesta and Stan. The kids, from the moment they were born if Mollie was anything to go by, would have to fight their own battles, make their own way in life.
‘Sara, my dear, Jess and Mollie were very unfortunate little girls, but they’ve gone to a better place,’ Mrs Prescott said to her the day after the funeral, when she saw Sara moping around the house. ‘Have you seen Grace Carbery? She’s like a little ghost, wanting something that those wretched parents of hers can’t, or won’t, give. As for Mollie, I don’t, myself, believe she’s dead. I think someone saw her and pitied her and took her away to another, better home. But in any event, you must stop blaming yourself or even thinking about them now. It’s downright morbid and unhealthy, and if you continue to do it, then I’ll have no choice but to send you back to Aigburth Road and your mother and father.’
‘Nanny, you wouldn’t,’ Sara gasped, unable to believe that her nanny could possibly sink so low, but Mrs Prescott nodded firmly.
‘I would, queen. Once you were home you’d stop thinking about them, so if you can’t do it here, you’d best go home.’
‘I’ll stop blaming myself if I possibly can,’ Sara promised unhappily. ‘I know it’s silly, or a part of me does, but there’s another part which says I took money which didn’t belong to me, and I know that’s bad. The Reverend Atwell is awfully strong against theft, I’m sure he’d say at once that money intended for the church must go there, no matter what.’
There was a short silence, and then Mrs Prescott went out of the room – the two of them had been sitting by the fire in her parlour – and rummaged around in the back kitchen, to return presently with something in her hand. She held it out.
‘There you are; a shilling. It’s for your collection next Sunday,’ she said briskly. ‘You are to put it in the plate together with whatever money your parents may give you. So that’s easily settled.’
And oddly enough, it was. A great wave of relief washed over Sara as she took the money and put it into the pocket of her best coat.
‘Oh, Nanny, thank you,’ she breathed, reaching up and kissing Mrs Prescott’s soft cheek. ‘You don’t know how much better I feel!’
And it was true. Knowing that she would presently be paying the money back to the church from which she felt she had taken it removed the burden of guilt from Sara and made her feel very much better.
And the very next day she met the boy.
‘Oh, Sara, me head’s splittin’,’ Mrs Prescott said next day, when she and Sara met over breakfast. ‘I don’t even fancy the porridge, and it’s usually me favourite way to start the day. Can you be a good girl, queen, and amuse yourself today? You’ll have to do some shopping for me – can you go along to the chemist, and ask Mr Hanson for some of his headache cure? It’s better than aspirin, most of us swear by it. And then I need some scrag end to make a stew – I’ll have about a pound in weight – and tell Mr Lowey I’ll have a nice lean piece of pork for the weekend; I’ll call in Saturday. Oh, and can you get me half a dozen eggs, and then you can play out, if you like. Only don’t stray too far, and if you can bear it, come in around noon and see how I feel. If this headache keeps on, though, all I’ll want will be a cuppa and some more aspirin tablets. Now can you manage all that or shall I get Mrs Rushton or Kate to give a hand?’
‘Of course I can manage, Nanny,’ Sara said rather hotly. ‘I love shopping, and I won’t let anyone cheat me. Not that they’ll try, because they know I’m staying with you.’
‘Right. You could call round for young Cammy – you and she get on well, I’ve noticed that.’
‘We do,’ Sara owned. ‘She’s taught me ever so many games, Nanny. Some of them are real good ones. But she’s the best skipper in the world, I should think – she can do all the fancy steps and when we race I keep missing jumps but she turns the rope as smooth and even as – as a wheel. Yes, I’ll give her a call when I go past.’
But when she got round to number five Snowdrop Street, she was in for a disappointment. Cammy had really bad toothache. She came to the door, her face swollen and lopsided, with a hot rag held against the offending cheek, to tell Sara that she was being dragged off to the dental hospital in Pembroke Place.
‘I don’t want to go,’ she confided in a breathy whisper. ‘But me mam’ll ’ave me guts for garters if I don’t gerron on the tram with ’er and go up there. And right now I woun’t care if they pulled me bleeding ’ead off, so long as the pain stopped an’ all.’
‘You would; it would hurt like fun I bet,’ Sara said. ‘I am sorry, though, Cammy. I’d come with you, but Nanny’s not well and I’m going to do her marketing and take care of her. She’s got one of her heads.’
‘You mek it sound as though she keeps spare ’eads in a cupboard,’ Cammy said, then winced and put a hand to her cheek. ‘Oh, gawd, don’t mek me laugh, it’s too bleedin’ painful! See you later, then, queen. Be good.’
It was easy enough to be good when you were doing the shopping, though Sara still found it exciting to go by herself along Stanley Road. She didn’t hurry, either, in fact you could have said that she dawdled. Past the tobacconist with its little tins of pipe tobacco, boxes of rich-looking cigars and packets of cigarettes with a handsome, if elderly, sailor on the packet, and on to the Misses Irving’s confectionery shop. A lovely window this, you could almost smell the sweets, though the toffees, liquorice walking sticks and sherbert dips looked rather dusty and neglected. But through the door you could see the big jars of sweeties, and the smell which came out was enough to set a child’s mouth watering.
King’s grocery shop came next. Quite interesting, with lots of advertisements stuck to the window glass so you could hardly see inside, and sacks of flour, oatmeal, haricot beans and lentils piled up against the wooden counter. Nanny shopped at King’s, so in Sara popped and bought six fine-looking eggs.
After that there was only the chemist, Mr Hanson, on. the corner of Fountains Road, and because she needed to go in she scarcely glanced in his window, though the big jars of coloured water caught the light as she passed them and looked, for a moment, like enormous rubies and emeralds. Inside the shop she explained about Mrs Prescott’s headache and was given a tiny pink bag with some tablets in.
‘Two, three times a day, with a nice hot cup of tea,’ Mr Hanson said. ‘She’ll be right as a trivet by tomorrow morning.’
And once over the road, which she crossed cautiously, conscious that she was unaccompanied by an adult, there was a good walk past the Stanley Hospital – she ran most of it – to cross Easby Road and reach her favourite shop.
It was a pawnshop – Williams was the name above the door – and his window was a delight. Clothes, curtains, shoes, ornaments, bits of furniture, toys. It was a treat just to look, though Nanny would never even pause a moment by the window of the pawn.
‘Why not, Nanny? There’s some very pretty things,’ Sara had said, tugging at Mrs Prescott’s sleeve. ‘Do come and look!’
But Mrs Prescott had been firm. ‘They’re unredeemed stock,’ she said. ‘That means the folk put ’em in pawn and then couldn’t find the five bob or whatever to get ’em out again. It’s a sad window if you ask me.’
But Sara, though she acknowledged that it was sad when people didn’t have the money to buy their things back – she was hazy as to the actual business conducted by pawn-brokers – still enjoyed looking in the window and was able, this morning, to have an uninterrupted stare, though she was jostled somewhat by passersby, for the street was busy with people shopping after the holiday.
Despite the fact that she knew herself to possess many more of the world’s goods than most people, Sara still yearned after one or two things in the window. A pair of china kittens with blue eyes and grey fur, their little heads tilted to one side, for instance. They would look lovely on the schoolroom mantel, or even in her bedroom. And then there were the ice skates. Fancy, a pair of ice skates in Stanley Road! Whoever had put them in pawn must have either nicked ’em or been rich, she and Cammy had decided when they discussed it, because ordinary folk did not own ice skates.
But wouldn’t I love a pair, Sara thought now, nose pressed to the glass like any other wistful but penniless urchin. I bet I could skate ever so well, if only I had some skates to put on. But then it’ll be spring soon, and the ice will all go away, so there’s not much point in wanting
them.
How about a nice tennis racquet? Only I’ve no one to play with. Well then, how about a skipping rope?
them.
How about a nice tennis racquet? Only I’ve no one to play with. Well then, how about a skipping rope?
But gazing into the pawn was not what Mrs Prescott had meant by ‘amuse yourself’, so Sara gave the objects of her desire one last, long look and then trotted past Miss Gourley’s hairdressing establishment and Mrs Lang’s florist shop with scarcely more than a glance. The florist was exhibiting a display of rather weary-looking holly today and the stiff wax heads wearing unattractive and over-curled wigs in Miss Gourley’s window were too like dead people to Sara’s way of thinking. So she hurried along until she reached the butcher’s for which she was bound.
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