Strawberry Fields (34 page)
Because Brogan was lonely. He could understand, now, his father’s quiet longing to be back in Dublin, to hold his children on his knee, to share the fireside with his wife. Me daddy’s a grand man, one of the best, he told himself now. To stay away, earnin’ money, when he’s all that love an’ affection waitin’ at home! Where does he find the strength?
But Peader was strong; Brogan had always known it. Peader knew he could go home, take up his life again, maybe even get a job, though that was uncertain. But once he was home the babies would start coming again, one a year, and Deirdre would start looking like all the other tenement wives – worn out, weary, weighed under by kids they could barely support, let alone bring up the way they wanted to.
‘Sure an’ I love your mammy and I’d do anythin’ to stop that happenin’, so I would,’ Peader had said heavily, when they had been discussing going home again. ‘But I’m a good Catholic an’ she’s a good Catholic . . . if you’re together the babies just come. And how many fellers have jobs, in Swift’s Alley? Half a dozen? And what do they earn? Nothing, compared to us, Brog. But bringin’ me family over here, now . . . well, I’d do it like a shot – will do it, once I’ve put enough by to get a nice little home.’
‘How much more do you need, Daddy?’ Brogan asked. He had been contributing, lately, to that nice little home, because he was earning good money and scarcely spending any. Of course he had always sent money home, but even so his savings were mounting.
‘I reckon another two years will see me sendin’ for them,’ Peader said contentedly. ‘Eh, but I can’t wait to see their faces when we’ve got a good little house with a bit of garden, near to the railway but not too near, and we’re all settled down in it, snug as bugs in rugs.’
Brogan worried a bit because he knew his father had never mentioned such a move to Deirdre, and guessed that his mother would take some shifting, so she would. Niall and Martin were in good jobs now, Donal was bidding fair to be the first member of the O’Brady family to go on to further education – they talked about a degree – and even Polly was shining brightly in school and had her own circle of friends.
How would they transplant? And – the big worry – what if someone recognised Polly and wanted to take her away from the O’Bradys? It would break Mammy’s heart, and Daddy’s . . . and mine, for that matter, because I’m desperate proud of Polly so I am, desperate proud.
She was a lovely kid. Pretty, intelligent, lively. If anyone tried to take her away from us I’d kill ’em, Brogan thought with unaccustomed violence. So what’ll happen if Daddy brings the family back to Liverpool?
He remembered the other child, the little girl who had told Sara she was searching for her baby sister. What had happened to her? Brogan knew the family had been thrown out of Snowdrop Street long ago for non-payment of rent. He had heard about it from a fellow railman, how Stan Carbery had blustered and hit the kids, shouted and yelled at everyone, whilst his wife had wept and begged him not to take it out on them for indeed it was no one’s fault.
And from that day to this, there had been no word of them. Had they moved to cheaper housing somewhere, had Stan got a job, become respectable? If I tell Daddy we might lose Polly if he brings them across the water, will he change his mind? Sure and that would be a terrible thing to do, with him so desperate hungry for his Deirdre and their children. Could the Carberys all be dead, wiped out in some epidemic or other? He remembered them as a large family of hungry, impoverished children. Surely such a family would make some sort of mark on the community in which it lived?
Brogan sighed and decided he would ask around. And when they were in Dublin, over Christmas, he and Daddy would sound out the family on how each member felt about crossing the water. Niall wouldn’t come, nor Martin. You didn’t get a job in a bank, or a good position in the offices of Guinness, and then whistle them down the wind for a parental whim. Besides, Niall had a young lady, they were saving up to get married. No, Niall and Martin wouldn’t come over, under any circumstances.
The train was slowing down now, though. Familiar sights began to pass slowly by outside the window; Lime Street station loomed, with the platform crowded with people either meeting this train or waiting for the next.
Brogan stood up and reached for his bag, then, because he always believed in helping those less fortunate – which, in this case, meant every other person in the carriage – he reached the rest of the luggage down.
‘Journey’s end, ladies,’ he said pleasantly to the two dried-up little spinsters who had sat opposite him since Crewe, eating mints – in a very ladylike way though – and discussing, in faint, mouselike tones, what they would do for Christmas. ‘Are you goin’ on from here, or is Liverpool your destination?’
‘We’re continuing on to Crosby, by bus,’ one of the ladies said. ‘If you could see a porter, young man, we would be most grateful . . . our cases are heavy.’
‘Sure, I’ll give someone a shout,’ Brogan said easily. ‘And I’ll put your cases on the platform meself.’ He turned to the rest of the carriage. ‘Anyone else need a hand, now?’
Sara had enjoyed her first term as a teacher mightily, but she had found it tiring, though why she should do so after her months in the laundry she could not understand.
‘Leaving, Cordwainer?’ Miss Bateman had said unbelievingly when she had gone into the offices to give a week’s notice. ‘Are you not satisfied with the wages we pay you? Packing is a simple job which any neat-fingered girl could undertake. You are well-rewarded by any standard.’
‘Money isn’t in question, Miss Bateman,’ Sara said. She was tempted to drop the title, since Miss Bateman had done so from the moment Sara’s job had started, but she thought she might need a reference one day – or a handkerchief laundered, she thought wickedly. Miss Bateman would launder a handkerchief nicely, but writing a letter of reference would probably be beyond her! ‘I’ve obtained other employment.’
Miss Bateman’s mousy eyebrows rose into her hairline.
‘Really? Where, may I ask? Which of our competitors would be foolish enough to take on a girl as high and mighty and discontented as yourself?’
‘Of course you may ask, Miss Bateman,’ Sara said gently. ‘But I’m afraid I shan’t be answering. You phrased your question so rudely, you see.’
Miss Bateman goggled. There was no other word for it. Her tiny eyes seemed to start from their tiny sockets and her mouth formed a large, horrified ‘O’ of sheer disbelief. No one, Sara was sure, had ever answered her back before, let alone accused her of rudeness.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Bateman,’ Sara said, seeing that the older woman was, temporarily at least, bereft of words. ‘I shall leave next Friday.’
She was halfway down the corridor and heading towards the big laundry room when the office door shot open behind her.
‘Miss Cordwainer!’
So my title has been reinstated, seeing as how I’m leaving and joining the world outside the laundry again, Sara thought, amused. But she turned gracefully towards the office doorway, in which Miss Bateman was now framed.
‘Yes, Miss Bateman? Did you call me?’
‘You’ll work until Saturday noon,’ Miss Bateman said crisply. ‘A full week is specified.’
Sara had said nothing. There was no point. She would wait until Friday, check her wage-packet, and then decide what to do. And anyway, working another five hours wouldn’t hurt her.
But now, with Christmas fast approaching and the holidays soon to start, she found that she was exhausted. She had spent the last couple of weeks making Christmas decorations with her class, buying simple ingredients and showing them how to turn peppermint oil, icing sugar and cochineal into pink sugar pigs, cutting newspaper into strips, painting them and gluing them together to make paper chains. She had even taken four members of her class out to Fazackerley on the number twenty-two tram and from thence to Simonwood, where the five of them spent a wonderful day cutting holly and mistletoe from the woods and hedgerows to decorate the classroom.
And Gran was not well at all. Her rheumatism had got worse and worse and now her joints were so painful that she could sometimes scarcely move. So when Clarrie made her suggestion Sara seized on it with delight.
‘I’m goin’ home for Christmas, to me folk in the country,’ she told Sara one evening when they were up at the Barracks, cutting vegetables into cubes for soup. ‘Well, I say country – it’s Formby, in fact, which is more seaside, I suppose. I were wonderin’ . . . would you and Mrs Prescott like to come home wi’ me? Mam and Da would be tickled pink, they’ve heard so much about you both, and provided you don’t expect nothin’ grand, I think you’d enjoy it. Me mam’s a great cook an’ she loves entertainin’. They’re Army, of course,’ she added. There’s a Hall not too far from my parents’ place, so we can go there for the Christmas services and so on.’
‘Oh, Clarrie, it sounds wonderful,’ Sara said eagerly. ‘I’m awfully worried about Gran, you know. Her rheumatism seems to be getting worse so rapidly. Dr Mac says he’ll take her into hospital for a few days, try to get a better idea of why this stiffness has come on so suddenly, but Gran says she won’t go. She says there’s nothing they can do so why don’t they just let her struggle on. And aspirin helps, apparently. And she’s got some awful smelly stuff she says the cab drivers used to use on their horses . . . that helps, too.’
So on Christmas Eve they set out for Formby, not on the tram but on a crowded service bus.
‘It’s better for all this luggage,’ Clarrie said, eyeing the boxes and bundles her guests had brought with them and shoved under the seats and piled in the aisle with some dismay. ‘Wharron earth have you gorrin there, the pair of you?’
‘Christmas cakes, Christmas puddings, a box of fruit, two steak and kidney pies . . .’ Sara began, counting them off on her fingers and only laughing when Clarrie said mockingly: ‘Coldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssalad . . .’
‘No quotin’
The Wind in the Willows,
’cos it were my copy you read, cleverclogs. As for the grub, we wanted to make a contribution,’ Mrs Prescott said. ‘God above knows how long my fingers will flex enough to make pastry and cakes, so I’m usin’ me gift whiles I can.’
The Wind in the Willows,
’cos it were my copy you read, cleverclogs. As for the grub, we wanted to make a contribution,’ Mrs Prescott said. ‘God above knows how long my fingers will flex enough to make pastry and cakes, so I’m usin’ me gift whiles I can.’
‘Oh, keep your fingers active at all costs,’ Sara begged, twinkling at her grandmother. ‘If you stop cooking we’ll go and live somewhere else, won’t we, Clarrie? Because you’re the best cook in the whole world, Gran.’
‘Oh, you’re safe for a bit,’ Mrs Prescott assured her. ‘So far it’s just me knees, me shoulders and me back . . . what’s left is workin’ fine.’
‘Then sit back and enjoy the scenery,’ Sara said. ‘Oh, isn’t it wonderful to be going away for a holiday? Especially into the country and beside the seaside, all at the same time – I feel really adventurous!’
‘Don’t give us none of that – you’ve lived in Switzerland, you know about travel, Miss Boote remarked. ‘I wonder what me mam’s got for us teas?’
‘Gran, are you awake?’
Sara and her grandmother were sharing a bed in the Bootes’ back room, which had been converted into a bedroom because Gran couldn’t manage the extraordinarily steep and narrow stairs. They had eaten a grand tea with potted shrimps and boiled ham, potatoes from Mr Boote’s own allotment and milk from the farm down the road.
‘Lovely to have it fresh, instead o’ tinned,’ Clarrie said. ‘Though it’s easier to use tinned at the Barracks; it don’t go off as fast.’
‘Well, the apple pie’s prime,’ Mr Boote observed. ‘You’re a genius with pastry, Mrs Prescott, and I’m a good one to judge, for until I tasted your apple pie I’d ha’ said Mrs Boote had no equal; now I’m not so sure.’
Great hilarity all round, especially from Mrs Boote, who was very like her daughter to look at, small and plump with kindly eyes.
And the evening had continued in the same vein. They had played cards, betting with matchsticks because, Mrs Boote said, the Army had seen too much of the seamy side of betting to agree with it. Then they had tea and mince pies, and Mrs Prescott assured Mrs Boote that she hadn’t met her match for marvellous, light pastry.
‘I’m not denyin’ I’m good,’ she said solemnly, ‘But you’re better, Mrs Boote, and I never thought I’d say that to a livin’ soul.’
So now, lying in the strange bed, Sara kept her voice low.
‘Gran, are you awake?’
‘Just,’ came the muffled reply from under the sheets. ‘But ’twon’t last, queen, for I’m very tired.’
‘Aren’t they nice, the Bootes?’
‘They’re grand people. She’s been a good friend to us, has Clarrie. I won’t feel so bad, leavin’ you, with them to give an eye.’
‘Leaving me?’ Sara sat up in bed, cold dread flooding over her. ‘What do you mean, Gran?’
‘Well, queen, I’m no chicken. One of these days I’ll leave you – you must have known that!’
‘Oh . . . one of these days, yes, I suppose . . . but the way you said it, it sounded close, somehow,’ Sara said uneasily. ‘Don’t scare me, Gran, by talking like that. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t waiting for me when I come home.’
‘Well, I’ll be around for a while yet, no doubt,’ her grandmother said comfortably. ‘Unless you kill me off by keepin’ me awake all night, that is!’
She laughed and after a second’s hesitation Sara joined in. But the seed had been sown, and Sara knew her grandmother was right. Mrs Prescott was seventy-three and no longer as strong as she had been and she had to warn her granddaughter not to expect her to live for ever.
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