Strawberry Fields (54 page)
‘Well, that’s grand,’ Brogan said reassuringly. ‘Now if I put me waterproof round me shoulders and you come underneath it . . .’
He lifted Polly on to the seat of his bicycle and wheeled it out of the house and across the pavement. Delilah whined hopefully but was left in the house whilst Brogan cycled slowly down the road, standing up on the pedals all the way from Salop Street to the Belvedere Guest House. And once there, he saw Polly indoors and then turned his bicycle round. But not in the direction of Salop Street. As soon as he was sure that Polly was safely out of the way he headed for the marshalling yard.
It was Grace, he told himself exultantly, pedalling as fast as he could now. That poor child is living rough around the yard, and now that I know it I can find her and see that she’s looked after. And Jess, me love, he added, addressing the figure that had haunted his dreams for so long, Jess, me love, you’ll be able to rest in peace at last.
As Polly slid inside the guest house she did grow rather anxious, but luck – or her guardian angel – was with her. No one stirred in the house, no door opened, no inquisitive nose poked out, anxious to discover who was around so early. Polly knew her missing coat would be bound to bring forth adverse comments later, when her parents and brother woke, but she hoped to be able to get round that. Brogan was going to try to bring her back the dry garments when he came to collect them, and that, she thought, would be time enough. Mammy would be in a good old state anyway, trying to get everyone ready for the next stage of their journey. Polly thought it might be quite possible to get into the coat and hat before anyone realised that they had spent a good deal of the night under Brogan’s roof.
So she went upstairs, took off all her clothes except for her shift, and opened the door to the bedroom which had been allocated to her and to her parents. She put her head round it. Mammy and Daddy slumbered still, Daddy was actually snoring.
Polly had a bad moment as she climbed into bed, though; Daddy stopped snoring, gave a huge, deep sigh and leaned up on his elbow.
‘You all right, alanna?’ he said softly. ‘It’s terrible early still.’
‘I just needed to go, Daddy,’ Polly said primly, but with a bumping heart. She thanked her stars she had already laid her clothing on the chair before her father stirred.
‘Well, back to sleep wit’ you,’ her father said, lying down again. ‘We’ve a full day later, Polleen, so sleep while you can.’
Brogan didn’t find anyone in the marshalling yard, but he did not let it depress him. For the first time, he felt sure Grace Carbery was still alive, because Polly’s description of the girl who had brought her home was how he would have described Jess, eight or nine years ago. He knew that Polly believed in her guardian angel, and that Mammy thought the angel was there, guarding her beloved daughter, but Brogan did not think a guardian angel would flee across the rails, shout with pain when struck by a stone, and later come and take care of his little sister, talking all the while in a scouse accent which Polly had reconstructed pretty faithfully. No, Polly had come across Grace Carbery, which meant that sooner or later he, Brogan, would find her as well.
So when he’d searched the yard he returned to Salop Street, glanced at the clock, saw he was not due to get up for a couple of hours, and climbed back into bed And very soon, slept.
Brogan was dreaming. He dreamed that he was chasing Polly across miles and miles of countryside, she flitting over bog and round briar whilst he got stuck in the mud and constantly held up. He knew it was terribly important to catch her, that it might make the difference between life and death, but he didn’t know why, so he ran and ran and his mouth dried out and he got terribly thirsty and terribly hot and he could hear his own panting breath . . .
The dream changed, as dreams will. Now he was pursuing Polly across miles and miles of railway track, stretching into the middle distance. There were no trains coming, yet he knew that there were engines in the vicinity, and not far distant, either. And she was only a little girl, she could not jump from rail to rail as he did, she was scrambling over the rails, then running on the hardcore between them, and he could tell by the way she ran that the hardcore hurt her feet, was slowing her down.
But at least it meant it should be easier for him to catch her up. So he put a spurt on . . . and felt, through the rails, the vibration of an approaching train.
Brogan went faster. With the breath sobbing in his throat he hurled himself across the rails . . . he was only a matter of feet behind Polly now, he would make it, he knew he would! He reached out, caught hold of her . . . and felt the hot breath of the mighty engine on the back of his neck, the screech of steam, the weight of it . . .
And it wasn’t Polly. The girl he was holding wasn’t Polly at all, it was another girl. He was going to die for a girl he didn’t even know! Suddenly she turned in his grasp and it was Grace, he knew her at once. He had to save her, to throw her out of the train’s path and get out himself . . .
Brogan woke. He was lying in his bed with Polly’s dog sprawled across his chest, breathing hot breath into his face and whining plaintively, whilst any movement he tried to make was frustrated by the entangling, sweat-soaked sheets.
‘Delly!’ Brogan said, relieved beyond belief to find that he’d been dreaming. ‘Get on the floor, will you, where dogs belong.’
He sat up, tipping the dog off his chest. What a nightmare! It must have been caused partly by the fact that he’d spent a good deal of the night either dealing with his little sister or searching for Grace, and Delilah’s weight on him and the dog’s hot breath in his face could not have helped. It was early, too, but Brogan didn’t fancy going back to sleep, not if dreams like that lay in wait, so he swung his feet out of bed. He looked out of his bedroom window and the rain had gone, to be replaced by a milk-blue sky and frail, autumn sunshine. I’ll dress and take the bloody dog for a walk, Brogan thought resignedly as Delilah, sensing an ally, began to caper. After all, it’s not a bad morning and a walk will cool me off and calm me down.
Dressed, Brogan strolled down the stairs, out of the front door and along Salop Street. It was very early still, but there were people about. Men bound for an early start, newspaper delivery boys, girls travelling a long way to start work. Delilah, with a piece of rope round his neck, behaved quite well, unless you took exception to having to stop every six paces whilst he cocked a leg against the nearest stationary object.
‘What are you
doing?’
Brogan demanded after half a mile had been traversed in this fashion. ‘Markin’ our trail, like they do in fairy stories? Because if so, I know me way home perfectly well so I do and since I’m not lettin’ you off this rope you’ve no need to worry yourself.’
doing?’
Brogan demanded after half a mile had been traversed in this fashion. ‘Markin’ our trail, like they do in fairy stories? Because if so, I know me way home perfectly well so I do and since I’m not lettin’ you off this rope you’ve no need to worry yourself.’
Delilah cocked a wise and knowing eye, but continued to try to lift his leg every six paces until Brogan got fed up and simply towed the dog along. Then Delilah trotted beside him without complaint, showing a lively interest in his surroundings but no longer bothering to mark.
I wonder if he ought to be off the rope for a bit, though? Brogan thought to himself as they walked. I don’t remember Polly having him on a rope in Dublin. He just wandered along behind her. He looked at Delilah, who looked back with such limpid innocence that Brogan nearly let him off the rope then and there, only commonsense prevailed. It wouldn’t hurt the dog to have a rope round his neck for half an hour, for the Lord’s sake! And if it was grass Delilah was after, sure and wasn’t Stanley Park just a stone’s throw away? I’ll go there and mebbe let him off for a few minutes if there’s no one much about, Brogan decided. He can have a bit of a run and do what he has to do, then we’ll go home for breakfast.
Brogan liked the park, with its bandstand, little shelters, glasshouses and, of course, its boating lake. A dog could have a run there without fear of the traffic . . . he could not bear to consider how he would behave should Delilah be hurt whilst in his charge. Polly would marmalise him, just for a start.
So Brogan and the dog walked to Stanley Park, which was quiet and pleasant in the very early sunshine. And Brogan let go the rope and Delilah behaved in an exemplary fashion, just sniffing round and running on the grass but coming back at once when Brogan called.
Until he saw something across the road, in Anfield Cemetery, and set off like a greyhound to investigate.
Brogan followed, of course. The pair of them tore across Priory Road and into the cemetery. It’s a cat, Brogan thought. Oh, dear God, if Delly catches it an’ hurts it what’ll I do?
But then he remembered Lionel and Samson. It seemed unlikely that Delilah, who lived cheek by jowl with two members of the cat family, should suddenly turn round and chase one. Few canines knew better how sharp are a cat’s claws, or how difficult they are to untangle from one’s soft and unprotected nose.
But still, who knew? It might have been a rabbit, living on all the lovely grass in Stanley Park and in the cemetery. So Brogan ran and shouted and Delilah just ran . . . until their path was barred by a sturdy woman with a bunch of chrysanthemums in one hand.
‘Look out!’ Brogan roared, and grabbed the rope, which fortunately was stronger than it looked. Delilah skidded to a halt and yelped as the rope cut into his brawny neck, but Brogan almost had the woman off her feet, his shoulder catching hers and spinning her round, to crash quite hard on to the gravel path.
‘Are you all right, missus? Be God, I’m awful sorry so I am,’ Brogan gasped, lifting the woman gently to her feet. “Twas the dog, divil take him! He’s a lollopin’ great fiend, so he is . . . are you hurt, now?’
The woman snorted, then smiled at Brogan.
‘It takes more than a thump from a mad dog to kill me dead, young man,’ she said. ‘Tek me flowers for a minute, whiles I see if me leg’s broke.’
‘Broke? Oh, God love you, it can’t be broke . . .’ Brogan began, but the woman waggled her foot a couple of times and then pointed at the ankle.
‘I were jokin’, but be the look of it it’s sprained. See that colour? And though I’m the last one to urge a young feller such as yourself to admire me legs, they don’t usually ’ave one ankle twice the size of t’other.’
Brogan looked and indeed the ankle seemed to be swelling before his very eyes. Even through the woman’s sensible stocking he could see the bruise coming out, purple and black and painful-looking. He swallowed uncomfortably. What a thing to do, and he was supposed to be taking Polly’s coat round to the guest house as soon as he could. But this woman would not be able to get far under her own steam, one glance at the ankle convinced him of that.
‘I can see you’re right, missus. Will ye let me take you round to the Stanley Hospital? For you’ll not be able to put weight on that ankle.’ He cleared his throat selfconsciously. ‘I’ve a bicycle . . . if you’d not mind me wheeling you across the park then I’ll go home and fetch it.’
The woman had tried her weight on the foot and had lost colour as a result. She leaned against the nearest object, which happened to be a gravestone, and tried to smile again, but it was a shaky effort.
‘I’m sorry, I’m feelin’ a bit strange . . . if I could sit down . . .’
Brogan let go Delilah’s rope and assisted the woman to the nearest grave-kerb. She sank down on it and took a deep breath.
‘Well! It’s quite painful, but I’ll be all right here whilst you fetches your bike. I wonder if you could put these flowers on that grave for me? There is a vase, it oughter have plenty of water in after the rain we had last night. It’s the angel and the weepin’ willow tree . . . that one.’
She pointed to the monument. Brogan took the chrysanthemums and went over to the vase. He took out the old, wilted flowers and put the fresh ones into the vase, then turned . . . to find Delilah, sniffing at the angel’s feet in a way which immediately alerted him to the dog’s intentions.
‘Delilah . . . don’t you dare do that now, or I’ll crucify you so I will!’
Delilah, leg poised, thought better of it. He lowered the leg and cast Brogan a long, reproachful look. The woman sitting on the kerb laughed, though it was a rather short, wheezy sort of laugh.
‘Ah, dogs don’t ’ave no respect, chuck,’ she told Brogan. ‘Me paternal grandfather, Elias Boote, was a merchant prince, or thought ’e was, which accounts for the monument. To tell you the truth I bring the flowers to please me mam. Left to meself I’d sooner give the old skinflint a piece of me mind . . . or your dog could do it for me.’
Very relieved, Brogan picked up the rope once more and turned back to his victim. ‘There, now, he kept himself to himself when I shouted, thank the good God,’ he said piously. ‘So we’ve saved your grandfather’s angel from a wettin’, that’s for sure. If you’ll wait here for five minutes, Miss Boote, I’ll fetch me bicycle and we’ll have you in the Stanley Casualty Department in a trice so we will.’
‘And the dog? Will you take ’im or leave ’im wi’ me, Mr . . . I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’
‘Me name’s O’Brady, and I’ll be takin’ the dog,’ Brogan said grimly. ‘I’ll leave him wit’ me landlady just while I get you to the Stanley. She’ll not mind that.’
‘Very good, Mr O’Brady,’ Miss Boote said. She leaned back against the gravestone. ‘A bit of a rest won’t hurt me, so don’t break your neck rushin’ back.’
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