Strawberry Fields (49 page)
She had sounded wistful but Sara, though she would have loved to take her grandmother about a bit, was firm.
‘The Strawb needs me right now,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘Later, when it’s up and running, I’ll be able to relax a bit more, enjoy myself. But right now, Gran, I dare not let up, really. Will you forgive me for being so boring?’
‘No, I shan’t,’ Mrs Prescott said, then chuckled and leaned across the table which divided them, taking Sara’s hands in hers. ‘My dear girl, you’re a tower of strength . . . it’s just that I don’t want to see you growing into an old maid, looking after me for the rest of your life. I want you to get about more, meet people.’
‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ Clarrie said, and later that same week she announced, after supper, that she was going to the cinema whether Sara liked it or not.
‘Come with me, Sara. Mrs Prescott’s right, a bit of an outing would do you good. Besides, it’ll be much more fun if there’s two of us eatin’ peanuts and chuckin’ the shells about in the sixpenny seats! I’d enjoy meself far better if you came along, honest I would. It’s not as if there was anything wrong with the cinema; the Army approves!’
But Sara, though she laughed, still shook her head.
‘Can’t. I’m going along with the brigadier tomorrow to look at little desks. And I’m trying to produce a drawing of the ideal locker for a child’s dormitory. What’s on at the Vic, anyway?’
‘I’m not going to the Vic, I’m going to the Astoria,’ Clarrie told her. ‘They’re showin’ Shirley Temple in
Little Miss Marker.
Do come, queen.’
Little Miss Marker.
Do come, queen.’
‘We-ell, I really ought to finish this drawing,’ Sara said. ‘Only I do love to watch the child stars. It’s the teacher in me coming out, I suppose.’ She laid down her paperwork and smiled at her friend. Oh, all right, you’ve persuaded me. I’ll come.’ She turned to her grandmother. ‘Why don’t you come as well, Gran? You said you wanted more exciting outings.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re not turnin’ into some boring little Goody-two-shoes,’ Gran said unkindly from her seat by the window. ‘But I’ve seen it – so I won’t trouble you this evening. But if you’re comin’ past the fried fish shop when it’s over, I’d like a penn’orth of chips, please! And if you’ll pass over my knitting and turn the wireless on, I’ll have another scarf finished by the time you get back!’
It was a good film, and Sara really enjoyed it. Coming past Platts fried fish shop on their way home, she remembered her grandmother’s request and tugged Clarrie’s arm.
‘Gran wanted a penn’orth of chips, Clarrie. I wouldn’t mind some myself, and a bit of fish. I wonder if they’ve got any haddock? Gran’s fond of that.’
‘I prefer cod,’ Clarrie said. ‘Oh, come on, let’s treat ourselves. Fish an’ chips all round, eh? And if we get indigestion, that’s hard luck. It’s our evenin’ off, queen!’
So, armed with three portions of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, they went back to the flat, letting themselves in through the back door straight into the tiny scullery and calling to Gran that they would be bringing her tea through just as soon as they’d got the food on to the plates.
‘I like ’em best in the newspaper,’ Clarrie said as she unwrapped. ‘But I’ve gorra pretend to be a lady now and then. Good for Mrs P, the kettle’s still hot. I’ll just warm the pot . . . you take the grub through.’
Sara piled the food on a tray and carried it into the living room.
‘Tan tara! A penn’orth of chips, Gran,
and
some fish, because we’ve decided to treat ourselves to a . . . Gran?’
and
some fish, because we’ve decided to treat ourselves to a . . . Gran?’
Mrs Prescott was sitting in her chair by the window, but she had lolled over sideways at what looked like a very uncomfortable angle. She had obviously fallen asleep, for her knitting was on the floor at her feet and the wireless played on unregarded.
‘Gran, we’ve bought fish and chips,’ Sara said softly. She stood the tray down and went over to her grandmother’s side. ‘Well, fancy falling asleep when . . . oh, my God!’
‘What’s up?’ Clarrie said, appearing in the doorway. ‘Don’t you want . . . oh, Sara, is she ill? I’ll get the doctor at once . . . I’ll run down the road to the telephone box . . .’
Sara stroked her grandmother’s wispy grey hair back from her forehead and straightened her in the chair. Then she closed her fingers round her grandmother’s wrist. Finally, she turned to Clarrie.
‘Yes, do get the doctor,’ she said quietly. ‘But I think it’s too late, Clarrie. I think she’s already gone.’
‘It’s great you’re comin’ home wit’ us, Brog,’ Peader said as the ship drew nearer to Ireland’s shore. ‘Your mammy’s very good, but she’s got a lot on her mind. She’ll stay wit’ me, make sure I get down the gangplank an’ so on, if you’ll see to the cases.’
‘I will, Daddy,’ Brogan said equably. ‘Is it excited you are to be seein’ your native land after you’ve been so ill?’
‘I’m more excited at the thought of the kids,’ Peader admitted. ‘They’ve been great, none could be better. I want to tell ’em so meself, Brog.’
‘They have done well, especially Polly,’ Brogan agreed. ‘I don’t suppose the boys did much in the house, knowing them, though I’m sure they carted coal, wood, water, that sort of thing. Poor Polly, she’s only a baby, really.’
‘She’s ten years old and that’s no baby,’ Deirdre said rather sharply. She had been standing a short way away, gazing silently at the approaching coastline, but now she moved nearer them. ‘But sure she’s done well so she has. The father wrote, you know. A bit guarded, he was, but he seemed pleased wit’ our girl.’
‘And how’ll they take the news that we’re all movin’?’ Brogan asked. ‘Will they be pleased, d’you t’ink, Mammy?’
‘Polly will be just thrilled,’ Deirdre said happily. ‘Because she’s mad about animals so she is and the thought of livin’ in the countryside and bein’ able to have as many cats and dogs as she wants . . . that’ll win her over if nothin’ else does.’
‘I
know
they’re comin’ home tomorrow, an’ I
am
glad, sure I am, but I still don’t want to send me hens away,’ Polly said stubbornly. ‘What’s wrong wit’ them, Miren? I’ll keep ’em in the kitchen just for a day or so, if you like.’
know
they’re comin’ home tomorrow, an’ I
am
glad, sure I am, but I still don’t want to send me hens away,’ Polly said stubbornly. ‘What’s wrong wit’ them, Miren? I’ll keep ’em in the kitchen just for a day or so, if you like.’
‘Polly, the bleedin’ poultry must go,’ Martin said severely from his seat by the fire. ‘We’ve let you and them alone now for weeks – well, the eggs was worth a bit o’ muck on the lino – but our mammy will go mad wit’ you so she will. And you don’t want that, do you, so she won’t see them, is that clear? You can’t keep hens in the house, that’s what she’ll say, and you’ll spoil an’ ruin her homecoming so you will.’
‘I won’t, so,’ Polly said defiantly. ‘Mammy’s sensible; she’ll love me hens.’
‘She won’t, because she isn’t going to see them,’ Martin repeated. ‘Don’t you defy me, alanna, or it’s to bed you’ll go straight away, and you’ll not even see your hens when we let you up again.’
Polly’s eyes rounded. Martin was as easy-going as Brogan and a good deal lazier; she’d had no trouble with him until this very moment, and she didn’t like it one bit. Why, if he persisted, it would be he who ran the household and not her! But she did concede, having thought it over, that he had a point. Mammy might not be too thrilled to find her home overrun with hens.
‘All right then,’ she said sulkily after a moment. ‘Say I send ’em away for a bit – where am I to send ’em? I won’t let anyone lay a finger on ’em if they’re thinkin’ of roast fowl, Martin, ’cos they’re me friends so they are.’
‘Give them to someone in a ground-floor room, who’s got a bit of space outside,’ Martin said tactfully. Bevin, not nearly so tactful, said: ‘Give them to old Halligan – no, sell them to him. He’d make good use of ’em.’
Mr Halligan was a butcher. Polly screamed.
‘Don’t you say that name where me hens can hear,’ she shrieked. ‘I’m warnin’ ye, Bevin O’Brady, that I’ll swing for you if you touch a feather of their heads.’
‘No, no, he’s only coddin’ you,’ Martin said, chuckling. ‘What about Tad? There’s plenty of space in Gardiners Lane for hens . . . doesn’t he have a few of his own, come to think? You could let him take care of your hens, alanna, until Mammy and Daddy are settled again.’
‘Tad’s daddy might eat ’em,’ Polly said with quivering lip. ‘He kilt one of Tad’s birds one day when he found her perched on his clean boots so he did. I won’t have me birds kilt by that . . . that . . .’
‘We’ll have to tell Tad’s daddy that they’re ours,’ Bevin said. He was doing his eckers sitting cross-legged on the hearthrug and now he threw down his book and smiled kindly up at his sister. ‘I was coddin’ you, alanna, and I’m sorry. I’ll help you take ’em round to Tad, if you like. We’ll go in an’ see Mr Donoghue an’ tell him they’re our hens . . . we’ll tell him we’re payin’ rent for ’em, then he won’t dare to kill so much as a feather of ’em.’
‘Well, all right,’ Polly said at last, having tried – and failed – to think of a better solution. She didn’t trust Tad’s daddy, but she did trust Tad. He never let her down, no doubt if she explained the seriousness of the situation he would stand by her again.
So they put the hens in pillowcases and carried their squawking burdens down the stairs, across the courtyard, along Swift’s Alley and into Francis Street, where some ribald remarks followed them from interested stallholders, and finally into Gardiners Lane. As luck would have it, Tad was mucking around in one of the ruined houses and called them over.
‘Hello Poll, Bev,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What you got there, eh?’
‘Me hens,’ Polly said heavily. ‘The ones you gave me, Tad. Martin says we can’t have ’em in the rooms when Mammy and Daddy come home tomorrow. Can you keep ’em for us if we pay rent?’
‘How much?’ Tad said with all his usual bluntness. ‘And will the rent include corn?’
‘We’ll give ye a tanner a week,’ Polly said briskly, her interest aroused. A tanner sounded like a lot of money, but feeding the hens, Polly knew, was no sinecure, and Tad might not find it easy to beg scraps the way she did.
‘A tanner! Make it a bob and we’re in business.’
‘Ninepence,’ Polly offered, enjoying the huckstering now. ‘Ninepence and not a penny more, Mr Donoghue.’
Tad laughed. ‘Done!’ he said. ‘And you must help gather the corn, Poll, or it won’t be fair.’
The arrival of Mammy, Daddy and Brogan, long anticipated, was every bit as good as Polly could have wished. Daddy’s face had a long scar across one cheek, all purple and wrinkled still, and another across his forehead, thin and angry-looking. His hair had gone snowy white, but Polly thought it suited him, and he walked with a stick and slowly, at that, and he took his time getting in and out of chairs, and it had taken him a long, long while to mount the stairs, but other than that he was just the same. Her dearest daddy, with his slow speech, his slow smile, and his quick kindnesses.
Polly had done her best, aided by Miren, and thought that all traces of her feathered friends had been removed. To be sure, the first thing Mammy noticed was the crack in the big mirror, the second thing that the ornaments on the mantel were either gone or chipped. Polly, forewarned that she must not mention the hens at first, murmured that she’d been careless, she was sorry, and wished she had told the truth when Brogan took her aside later and asked her for the pawn tickets.
‘For you surely had to take ’em down there,’ he murmured, smiling at her. ‘But you couldn’t tell Mammy.’
‘No, they are broke, truly,’ Polly admitted in hushed tones. She lowered her voice still further. “Twas me hens, only don’t say a word to Mammy. At first they flew, ’cos their wings wasn’t clipped. But Miren said Mammy mustn’t know, you see, so I had to tell a fib.’
‘It’s possible she may guess, alanna,’ Brogan said cautiously. ‘There’s corn in between the floorboards in the kitchen; I noticed it meself so I did. But she won’t worry, because . . .’
He. broke off and Polly, assuming that he thought they were about to be interrupted, returned to the kitchen, where she was making a meal for the family with quite a lot of help from Deirdre despite Polly constantly telling her, in a very motherly way, to ‘go and sit yourself down, Mammy, an’ have a nice crack wit’ your sons!’
Teatime came. They were all round the table, even Martin having returned from his work, when Daddy broke the news. He sat back in his chair, took a sip of tea, cleared his throat and addressed them.
‘You can see I’m well again, but not so spry. In fact the bosses have changed me job, because a safety man needs his full strength, and a deal of agility, too.’ He laughed, but no one else even smiled. The accident was too close for that. ‘Yes, well. So they’ve given me a crossing gate. It’s in beautiful countryside. There’s a cottage with a good garden, and we’ll be able to grow a good deal of our own food, and we can keep hens . . .’ Polly’s ears pricked up,‘. . . pigs, all sorts. So what d’you think?’
‘It sounds grand, Daddy,’ Bevin said, grinning. ‘Wait’ll I tell the fellers!’
‘Polly?’ Peader spoke enquiringly, but he was smiling already.
‘Oh, Daddy . . . hens and pigs! I’ll look after ’em, I know all about hens.’ She turned to her brother. ‘Can I tell ’em now, Brogan?’
‘Go ahead,’ Brogan said. ‘Mammy thought you’d be pleased.’
‘I’ve been keepin’ hens,’ Polly disclosed. ‘Only they made me take ’em round to the ruins, where Tad keeps his. They said you’d not like hens in your parlour, Mammy.’
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