The Cuckoo Child (3 page)

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Authors: Katie Flynn

Tags: #Fiction, #Sagas

BOOK: The Cuckoo Child
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Having made up her mind, Dot swerved into Lavender Court and headed for No. 6, then stood for a moment, staring at the house. There was a light on in the kitchen and by squinting across the court she could see movement within, and also catch a glimpse of the clock above the mantel. She was surprised it was not yet eight o’clock, for it felt like midnight. She took two steps towards the door, knowing that Aunt Myrtle would have served the evening meal already, and that she would be lucky to get a bit of bread and a drink of tea, for the boys were always ravenous and someone would have eaten her portion as soon as it was clear that she was going to be late. She could go round to Fizz’s house and see if his mam would give her a cut off a loaf and a spread of jam. Fizz’s mam was skinny and energetic, and a good deal more efficient in the kitchen than Aunt Myrtle. She baked her own bread, sometimes even made her own jam, and never served shop-bought cakes or pies to her family. Yes, she would visit Fizz, even though she had no intention of discussing the night’s adventures with her best pal. She turned decisively away from the brightly lit kitchen window and, as she did so, felt something hard slide round her waist, where the bodice of her dress ended and the skirt began. For a moment, she could not imagine what it could be, and she stuck her hand down her front, her fingers closing at once on the object. Hastily, she let it go again as though it had been red hot. She did not need to produce it to know what it was; it was the bleedin’ necklace the two thieves had been so anxious to get rid of, the necklace which was so identifiable that any police force in the whole of the country would be sure to recognise it – and she, Dot McCann, was in possession of it!
For a moment, she was frozen to the spot; what the devil should she do? She dared not simply abandon it because she could remember, all too clearly, what Mr Rathbone had said. If she went and threw it in the Mersey, someone would see her. If she shoved it into one of their bins the dustmen would find it and the householder would be accused of the robbery. Desperately, Dot crossed the yard, one hand clamped to her waist, feeling the stones of the necklace pressing against her ribs. What to do? What to do? There must be somewhere she could hide it, somewhere truly safe, because it was the only evidence she had of the robbery and she felt, vaguely, that some day she might have to prove that she really did know who had done the deed. Yet she did not want to have the wretched thing on her person or anywhere in her vicinity; it was far too dangerous. Once or twice in the past, she had secreted pennies and ha’pennies in a convenient hole beneath the sofa cushions, but on one memorable occasion Aunt Myrtle had had a rare attack of spring cleaning and had swept up Dot’s tiny savings as they tumbled out on to the floor. Her aunt had not realised that the money belonged to her niece and Dot had not liked to say, so she had ended up being given it to buy potatoes.
She was still pondering the matter when she realised that she did know a place where the necklace could be hidden. She set off in the direction of one of her favourite spots – the ruined church, with its deserted churchyard, just off Brow Side. For a couple of years now, she had liked to play in this churchyard, examining the closely packed gravestones and reading the epitaphs upon them, though she avoided the ruined church itself, which she knew to be as dangerous as people said. In one corner there was a miniature grave, the resting place of a baby who had died when only two days old, and Dot had sometimes sat by this little grave having imaginary conversations with the tiny inmate, who had been christened Rhiannon Williams. So far as she knew, no one visited the graveyard now, for the iron gates had been padlocked shut for years and the wall was difficult to climb unless one knew where to find a foothold. She knew it as well as she knew her aunt’s back yard and now, having first checked that she was unobserved, went over it like a cat.
Most of the graves were very old and overgrown, the weeds and grass knee high in summer though now they did not come halfway up Dot’s calf. Little Rhiannon had died a hundred and fifty years ago so it was about as secluded a spot as was possible to find in the area. Without thinking twice, Dot made her way towards the quiet corner, half hidden by ancient yew trees, and squatted down beside the small grave. Fortunately, it had rained the previous day and though chilly, the ground was not frosty. It was the work of a moment for Dot to carefully remove a clump of grass and to make a decent-sized hole beneath it, directly in line with the capital R of the child’s name. She glanced around her but the churchyard was deserted. Nothing moved. Dot thrust her hand into the bosom of her dress and produced the necklace. She was too far from the street lights to get any illumination from them and the faint starlight drained the stones of colour, yet even so the sheer beauty of the thing made her catch her breath. She held it over the hole she had just made, swinging it slowly and watching with awe as the faceted stones threw back what little light there was. She would have dropped it into the hole – had intended to do so – but it seemed wrong, almost wicked, to treat something so beautiful with so little respect. Instead, she gathered handfuls of the weedy grass, made a sort of nest, placed the necklace reverently in it, covered it with a little more grass and then, with a sigh, filled in the hole, patted it down and replanted the original clump. Only then did she dust her filthy hands on her dress, stand up and view her handiwork, and find it good. The little granite headstone looked as it always had, innocent and untouched. Quickly, Dot bent and traced the child’s name with her forefinger. ‘Take care of my necklace, Rhiannon,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you lately. I – I’ve been kind of busy. But I won’t forget you again. I’ll come back often, because now you and I have a secret. I can’t stop any longer because I’m going to go round to Fizz’s house and see if his mam will give me a bite of supper.’ She stood for a moment longer, looking down at the small grave, and then slipped out of the graveyard as silently as she had come; a shadow among the shadows.
Chapter Two
When Dot awoke next morning, it was to find Aunt Myrtle already up and filling the big iron kettle from one of the buckets which always stood under the sink. The houses in Lavender Court were all back to backs and had no running water, but there was a tap up by the privies and every evening a queue of boys and girls – and the odd adult – waited patiently for their turn to fill a couple of buckets. For a moment, Dot could not imagine why she had slept so late, nor why she was so extremely tired, but then the events of the previous day came back to her in a rush and she sat up, pushed back her blanket and reached for her clothes, remembering that today was a school day, which meant she would wear what Aunt Myrtle called her ‘decent dress’, a navy cardigan which her aunt had darned quite neatly and the black plimsolls which Dot donned at eight o’clock on school days and removed at four in the afternoon. Aunt Myrtle was not mean, exactly, but she had four growing sons and a rather feckless husband so, as she frequently informed her family, she could not afford to let the children go shod except when they went to school, and then only because none of the schools would take pupils who arrived barefoot.
So Dot pulled open the bottom drawer of the sideboard, yanked out her good school clothes and her plimsolls, and dressed hurriedly. Then she grabbed an old broken comb and dragged it through her crop of ginger curls. She knew, of course, that one should wash before dressing, but today there was no time for such niceties. All too soon, her cousins would come pounding down the stairs, eager for their breakfast, and her aunt would not be best pleased if Dot was still not ready.
As she finished with the comb, her aunt turned and sniffed suspiciously. ‘Dorothy McCann, have you trod in something?’ she demanded. ‘There’s a rare ripe old smell in this kitchen; I noticed it as soon as I come down the stairs.’ She advanced a couple of steps towards her niece, then recoiled. ‘Wharra pong! I dunno where you was playin’ yesterday – you were very late home – but you can just get out into the yard an’ swill yourself under the tap. Oh, and fetch me them clothes you was wearin’ yesterday an’ I’ll put gs ’em through the tub.’
‘Thanks, Auntie,’ Dot said gratefully, taking her play clothes across to the sink and dumping them on the draining board, where a most unpleasant aroma emanated from them. Then she bolted up the hall and out into the court, heading for the tap and stripping off her cardigan as she did so. It wasn’t easy to get clean with no soap and no towel, but Dot did the best she could and presently returned, dripping, to the kitchen, where her aunt tutted, removed the thin roller towel from the back of the door, and gave Dot’s hair such a good rub that her niece’s eyes watered. But at least by the time she had struggled into her cardigan and plimsolls and was respectable once more she no longer smelt – at least not of dustbins – and she took her place on the bench between Dick, who was seven, and Alan, at five years old the baby of the family. Presently, Aunt Myrtle dished up the porridge and Sammy, who was fourteen and working in the fruit and vegetable market on Cazneau Street, handed round mugs of weak tea. There was never much talk at breakfast, everyone being in a hurry to get either to school or to work. Aunt Myrtle herself had several cleaning jobs, mostly in the big houses on Rodney Street, and she liked to be in work by half past eight. A good many of her clients were doctors and, though they liked their surgeries and waiting rooms to be clean as a whistle, they preferred that the cleaning women they employed should do their work either before their patients arrived or after they had left.
Whilst the rest of the family ate, Aunt Myrtle was cutting up a loaf and smearing each slice with margarine and fish paste, and presently there were five neat parcels wrapped in greaseproof paper ready on the table. There was a drinking fountain in the school playground so no one went thirsty, and Auntie Myrtle’s hefty sarnies kept the wolf from the door until teatime.
Lionel, who, at thirteen, was the nearest to Dot’s age, grabbed his carry-out and left, and Dot followed suit, taking her skimpy little coat from the hook on the back of the kitchen door and holding out a hand to Alan. ‘C’mon, kiddo,’ she said bracingly. ‘I’ll just walk you up to school, same as usual, but I don’t want to be late meself today, so don’t you go running off or pretending you’ll tag along wi’ Dick, because I know you of old, I does.’
It was true that she knew most of Alan’s tricks, for when he had first started school he had hated it and sagged off whenever he could. Aunt Myrtle, however, had devised a neat scheme to ensure that her youngest at least arrived at school each day. She made Dot responsible for actually handing him over to his teacher, even if it meant that Dot herself was sometimes late. Though Dot had resented this at first, Alan had grown accustomed to school, even seemed to like it, and now there was no problem in getting him to his class since he had a good many friends in his year and, whilst not the brightest of the family, managed to hold his own, and got on well with his teacher, Miss Collins.
So Alan and Dot set off together at a fair pace and presently emerged on to the main road, where the boys’ school and the girls’ stood a short distance apart. Passing a newsagent’s shop, Dot glanced idly at the fly sheet and saw, emblazoned in black on white, “Jewellery snatch in Church Street – owner left for dead.”
Dot was so shocked that, for a moment, she actually stopped short and stared; then common sense reasserted itself and she hurried past. Left for dead sounded bad, but all it really meant was that the thieves had whacked the man and not bothered to stay until he came round. She wondered if this was the robbery committed by Mr Rathbone and his pal. For all she knew, in a big city like Liverpool, they might have a jewel robbery every day of the week. The fly sheet had not given the name of the shop, just the street. Dot did not often venture into the city centre, but when she did she usually walked along Church Street, admiring the wonderful shop windows and the goods displayed therein.
‘Why did you stop in front of that newspaper place, our Dot?’ Alan said plaintively. ‘D’ya have a ha’penny for sweeties? They sell sherbet dips, too.’
‘They may sell ’em, but I’ve no money to buy ’em,’ Dot said, beginning to jogtrot along the pavement and pulling Alan with her. ‘Come
on
, Alan. I were late twice last week, thanks to you, an’ I don’t want to be late again today.’
Alan was an agreeable child when handled right, and very soon Dot had handed him over to Miss Collins and turned to make her way back to her own school, which meant passing the newsagent’s once more. She wished she could have bought a copy of the paper so that she might learn the full story of the jewel robbery, but comforted herself with the thought that by next day there were bound to be copies of the paper in waste bins, or left on trams all over the city. Yes, if she were patient, she would find out just what Mr Rathbone, and friend, had been and gone and done.
Above her head, the clock over the chemist’s shop struck the hour, and Dot broke into a gallop. She had a friend at school, Irene Boycott, whose parents were quite well-to-do and Dot remembered that, occasionally, when she had called at their house to ask if Irene could come out to play, Mr Boycott had been sitting by the fire with a cup of tea and a piece of cake to hand, and the
Echo
spread out before him. As she dived into the school yard, Dot decided that, by hook or by crook, she would go round to the Boycotts’ house when school was finished and see if she could get a read of Mr Boycott’s paper.
Smiling happily at the thought, she entered her classroom and slid into the desk she shared with Irene.
By four o’clock that afternoon, Dot was sitting comfortably in the Boycotts’ kitchen, eating hot Welsh cakes smeared with honey, and listening to a music programme on the Boycotts’ large, walnut-veneered wireless set. Unfortunately, she had not realised that her clever plan was unlikely to work until she had actually entered the Boycotts’ cosy kitchen, and then it would have looked very odd indeed to simply change her mind and leave.

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