The Runaway (16 page)

‘I suddenly remembered I’d not had a chance to tell Ernie I’d been sacked, nor that I were living wi’ you,’ she explained. ‘He’s in a hostel for fellers out on St Domingo’s Road, an’ I reckon if I goes up there and asks the feller in charge if I can have a word wi’ Ernie Frost he’ll send me pal out and we can have a bit of a jangle.’

‘Who’s Ernie Frost?’ Dana asked rather blankly. ‘Does he work at the Willows? If so, I suppose he’s new since my time.’

Polly snorted and took a sip of tea from the mug she was cradling in both hands. ‘Honest to God, Dana, it ain’t that long since you were working at the Willows!
You can’t have forgot old Ernie. He were pals wi’ Sammy Higgins. Don’t say you can’t remember either of ’em!’

Dana chuckled. ‘How could I ever forget those two? Old Haggerty was always complaining about them, but I believe she had a soft spot for the one with yellow hair. She used to send him off to buy ingredients if she was running short; the rest of us were so envious! We’d have done anything to escape from the heat of the kitchen for half an hour. Didn’t they use to call the one with yellow hair Cheepy Chick?’

Polly nodded, grinning. ‘That’s Ernie.’ She sighed. ‘It weren’t too bad at the Willows even after the Hag left while Ernie were there, but a few weeks ago Mr Lionel brought in some great brawny feller, a relative of his I reckon, and said that now he had Humphrey he could do wi’out Ernie and Sam. Sam gorra good job – well, a job at any rate – workin’ as a street cleaner, but Ernie’s still lookin’. He’s a bit on the skinny side, gets summat called asthma what makes him wheeze like a grampus if he gets overtired, so employers ain’t fallin’ over themselves to give him work. But he’ll get something, ’cos he’s after every job what comes up like a terrier after a rat.’

Dana laughed, drained her mug of tea and lay back against her pillows. ‘Well, good for Ernie,’ she said rather drowsily. ‘And now, since it’s Sunday and you don’t need me, I’ll grab an extra half-hour in bed. See you later!’

Taking the hint, Polly jumped up, heaved her nightdress over her head and had a brief wash. Since it was Sunday and she and Dana had collected her few belongings when they visited her landlady, she went to the bottom two drawers of their clothes chest, which they
had agreed should be hers, selected her one and only Sunday dress and her most respectable undies, and proceeded to dress rapidly, noticing with approval that her friend now lay with her back to her, her red head buried in the pillow.

Polly finished dressing, thrust her feet into her threadbare plimsolls and cleared her throat. ‘All done. I’s respectable, so you can look now,’ she said playfully. ‘Mind if I have some bread an’ marg afore I goes off? I promise as soon as I get my dole – or a job – I’ll hand over some cash for what I’ve ate an’ that.’

‘Don’t worry, idiot,’ Dana said drowsily. ‘They say two can live as cheaply as one so now we’ll see if it’s true. There’s jam on the bottom shelf; help yourself.’

Polly went into the other room and cut bread and smeared jam, poured herself another half cup of tea, ate and drank, then took her much patched jacket down from the hook. She popped her head round the bedroom door. ‘I’m off now,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Oh, by the way, did you know you talk in your sleep? Who’s Con?’

There was a perceptible pause before Dana said: ‘Con? What d’you mean, Polly?’

‘You were talkin’ in your sleep and you said “Con” three or four times,’ Polly said. ‘But dreams bein’ what they are, I dare say it were just nonsense.’

‘That’s it,’ Dana said at once. ‘I didn’t know I talked in my sleep, though. Hope you find Ernie. See you later, queen!’

When Polly had gone Dana swung her legs out of bed and went into the other room and over to the window, watching her friend until she had disappeared under the
arch of the court and into the road. Then she went over to the table, cut herself a generous wedge of the loaf, spread it thinly with margarine and thickly with jam, and slumped into the nearest chair, beginning to devour the food and wondering whether there was enough tea in the pot to refill her mug. Having ascertained that this was indeed so, she poured another mug of tea, then turned her thoughts rather apprehensively to what Polly had said. It seemed that she, Dana, had talked in her sleep, and talked, furthermore, about the home which she had been determined to forget. So far as she knew she had never done such a thing before, certainly not whilst she and Caitlin had shared a room; or, if she had done so, Caitlin had never mentioned it. But then Caitlin slept like the dead and always had to be shaken awake even after the alarm had shrilled out and Dana herself was ready for the day ahead.

She finished her makeshift breakfast and began methodically to wash and dress. Polly had pulled the curtains back before she left and Dana could see it was a sunny day, the sort of day to be out of doors. I’ll go out, walk down to the river, occupy my mind with something other than dreams, she told herself, and twenty minutes later she was locking the door behind her and slipping the key on its string back through the letterbox.

She set out, walking fast, enjoying the exercise, but despite her best efforts her mind refused to obey her command to forget her recent dream. She could not recall ever dreaming of home since her flight; why should it happen now? When she had first woken she had blamed Polly, since her friend had mentioned something about opening and closing doors, and the dream had begun
with the door to the kitchen garden opening to let her through. But that was nonsense, really, just her mind trying to justify ignoring her command to forget. The real reason was the fish and chips, eaten at least an hour later than usual, and the excitement of taking Polly in. When at last they had gone to bed she had been unusually relaxed and the dream, seeing this, had sidled into her subconscious.

Dana reached the Pier Head and watched the activity going on all around. What did dreams mean, after all? It didn’t even matter that she had talked in her sleep, nor that Polly, overhearing, had been curious, because it wouldn’t happen again. She would not allow it. The past was just that, past. Tomorrow she and Polly would go job-hunting, and no doubt return to Temperance Court so worn out that they would sleep like a couple of logs. If they dreamed – if they talked in their sleep – they would be too worn out next day to remember what they had heard.

But it was odd, very odd. Now that she had had time to think, she remembered the incident in the kitchen garden and knew that it had not been just a dream, but a recollection of a time long gone. A happy time. In a way she wished that the dream had not ended so abruptly, for now that she had allowed herself to remember she knew that she and Con had indeed fished the trout stream, though without success. But they had built their fire as dusk crept down and toasted the bread and cheese and spiked the apples Con had robbed on sticks, holding them out to the flames until their rosy skin was split and sweet. Everything had tasted of smoke, but even thinking about it brought the water rushing to
her mouth; it had been a wonderful feast, as good as the trout would have been. She could see Con’s dark face as he concentrated on adding a piece of dry branch to the fire, and leaned forward to rescue an apple which had just plopped from its stick into the glowing embers.

‘Mind yourself, gal, we’re comin’ through!’ A raucous voice brought Dana back to the present with a vengeance. She dodged as two men carrying an enormous sea-chest between them made their way to the floating road, then turned away from the busy scene. She had best get back. She would begin to concoct some sort of meal which she and Polly could share, and this afternoon they would stroll along the Scotty, looking for any vacancies posted in the shop windows for possible employment.

Dana turned away from the fascinating goings-on at the Pier Head and headed for Temperance Court.

Polly set off into the bright morning, singing a song beneath her breath. She had a small, tuneful voice and enjoyed the sound of it, though her command of the words was somewhat shaky. ‘
Any time you’re Lambeth way, any evening, any day, you’ll find us all, doin’ the Lambeth Walk, oy!
’ she carolled. ‘
Every little Lambeth girl, da da da dee da dee da, you’ll find us all, doin’ the Lambeth Walk, oy!
’

This lasted her for several blocks, then she changed to something even more cheerful and even more in tune with her mood, which was one of gaiety and optimism. ‘
Nothing’s impossible I have found, for when my chin is on the ground, I pick myself up, dust myself off, start all over again!
’

She was still singing this, and earning a good few smiles and indulgent glances from passers-by, when she
reached the tall, almost forbidding hostel where thirty or forty boys and young men, most of whom had not yet managed to find employment, were housed. There were half a dozen steps leading to the brown-painted front door and Polly marched up them, changing her tune to ‘Onward Christian soldiers’ in deference to the fact that it was Sunday. Since it would not do to antagonise whoever came in answer to her knock, she stopped singing as soon as she heard the clatter of approaching footsteps and put on her most winning smile. The door was opened by a young man in dirty overalls, with a sharp, knowing face whose cheeks and chin were covered in a rash of acne. He was carrying a mop and bucket, and Polly remembered that the occupants took it in turns to brush and mop floors, clean windows, cook and prepare food for the one meal provided, and do other menial tasks, though each was responsible for his own washing and ironing. She smiled ingratiatingly at the young man, who scowled in reply, saying ‘Yes? Whadda you want?’ in a tone so antagonistic that had she been less anxious to find her pal, Polly might well have mumbled an excuse and fled.

‘Oh! I’m that sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but I’d like to see Mr Ernest Frost, if it’s not too much trouble. And if he’s in, a’course,’ Polly said. ‘He’s stayin’ here … I think he’s in Blue dormitory,’ she added conscientiously.

The young man frowned, then gave Polly a penetrating stare. ‘Chick, d’you mean? Little feller wi’ yaller hair? Gorra squeaky voice, and legs like pipe cleaners?’

Polly began to swell with righteous wrath at this unkind description of her pal, then subsided. No point
getting into a fight with this coarse and unpleasant youth, she told herself, and conjured up the sweet smile which had temporarily deserted her. ‘They do call him Chick, but he’s really Ernest Frost,’ she said. ‘And he’s staying here, in this house, until …’

Behind the sharp-faced one’s shoulders she could see a flight of steep, linoleum-covered stairs and a skinny youth with a yellow quiff descending them. Polly, who had stepped back in the face of the door opener’s rudeness, stepped forward again. ‘It’s awright, it’s him comin’ down the stairs this very minute,’ she said eagerly. She leaned forward. ‘Ernie! It’s me, Polly. Can you come out for a few minutes? I’ve gorra lot to tell you.’

Ernie jumped the last half-dozen steps and cantered across the hallway, shouldering his way unceremoniously past the young man. ‘’Scuse me, Spotty,’ he said. ‘It’s me young lady. I done me jobs for the day so I can go out for an hour or so.’ He shot through the open doorway, grinning from ear to ear at Polly and ignoring the young man, who was saying frostily that his name was Walter and he’d thank Chick to remember it.

Immensely heartened by her friend’s delight at seeing her, Polly said, ‘Thanks, Spotty. See you later.’ She let Ernie take her hand and together they hurried away from the building. As soon as they were well out of earshot, Ernie stopped and turned to Polly, his whole body seeming to resemble a question mark. ‘Well? I come round to the Willows late yesterday, ’cos it were a fine sunny day and I reckoned they’d not shut the doors until every last customer had been fed,’ he said. ‘But I were wrong – or at any rate you’d gone and no one said anything about news. Don’t say the old griffin’s made you up to
waiting on! I’ve said time out o’ mind that pretty little gals like you can get atween the tables quicker and neater than gals what’s all bum and bosom. Has the Griffin – or Mr Lionel for that matter – had a rush o’ blood to the head and took you out o’ the kitchen?’

By now they were strolling along the pavement heading for the Mersey, and when Polly heard a tram trundling up behind them she seized Ernie’s arm and pointed. ‘Look, Ern, a tram, and it’s bound for the park. What say we jump aboard? I’ve gorra be back at – at me new lodgings by noon but that’s a long way off, and I just fancy flowers an’ grass an’ that, so’s we’ve summat nice to look at whiles we talk.’

‘I’m agreeable, though I’m a bit short of the readies,’ Ernie said somewhat doubtfully. ‘But I can run to tram rides for two and a cup o’ tea at one of the cafés.’ He stuck out a hand and the tram screeched to a halt so that the two of them could scramble aboard. Ernie bought two tickets and pushed his companion into a seat, descending heavily on the hard wooden bench himself. ‘No use tryin’ to talk whilst we’re aboard this perishin’ noisy vehicle,’ he shouted in Polly’s ear. ‘Leave it until we reach the park.’

Polly agreed, but when they were strolling down the long sloping path towards the lake and the ducks, she found it difficult to begin. She looked sideways at her old pal and saw that he was eyeing her curiously. ‘What’s up, old gal?’ he asked at last. ‘Never known you so quiet! Cat got your tongue?’

Polly giggled. ‘No-o-o, but it’s not so easy to explain as I thought. I’d better begin at the very beginning, with the Griffin sacking me and refusing to pay me for the
last week, though I were owed. She said I’d been late comin’ in for three days, which were a huge lie, and when the teatime rush eased at around four o’clock she snatched me jacket off the peg and told me I were sacked. I told her and told her that it weren’t me who’d been late but one of t’other girls, namin’ no names, but she wouldn’t listen and out I were slung. So of course I were howlin’ and wonderin’ what the divil I should do, havin’ no money and so on …’

‘If I’d been there I’d have punched her on the snout, head cook or no head cook,’ Ernie said vengefully. ‘Wharra wicked woman! But didn’t none of the other gals take your side? Wharrabout Teresa, the head waitress? Wharrabout Mr Lionel himself, for God’s sake?’ He ground his teeth and balled his hands into fists. ‘I’ll go round there first thing Monday …’