Little Girl Lost (17 page)

As she made her way towards Ranelagh Street she thought about the money she sent every month to Caitlin for Catherine Mary. She had been paying for the child out of her savings but these were running low; another good reason for getting a job.

Turning into the imposing entrance of the big store, Sylvie congratulated herself on the fact that it was not raining, for to arrive soaked to the skin would not be a good start and she had not thought to bring an umbrella. A commissionaire in a smart uniform was standing just inside the door. As she approached him, he sprang to attention, smiling down at her. ‘Good morning, madam. Can I help you?’

Sylvie gave him her warmest smile. ‘I’ve come for a job interview with a Miss Snape. Could you direct me to her office, please?’ she said. ‘I’m a little early, but . . .’

‘I’ll take you as far as the lift meself,’ the commissionaire said grandly. He led her across the store, which was half empty at this early hour, called the lift for her, and told the bellboy who worked the machinery that the lady wanted the top floor. Then he stepped back and saluted, wishing her good luck.

Two hours later, Sylvie emerged from Miss Snape’s office. She had got the job and was to start the following Monday. Wages, terms and conditions had been explained to her and she had been given a tour of the store and been introduced to various members of staff including, naturally, Miss Beamish, who ran the Hat and Glove department, and her two assistants.

Sylvie had been delighted with everything. It would be wonderful to work here, away from the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke, and from the odour of ill health that hung around Len no matter how hard she and her mother-in-law tried to dispel it. And it would be lovely to receive a proper wage, for though Mrs Dugdale paid all the normal household expenses she rarely handed over any actual money.

She headed for the outer doors of the store with a light heart, feeling she had won back her independence. If she wanted to buy Becky a present, she would be able to do so, and she would send Caitlin a little extra, so that the almost forgotten baby in Dublin would also benefit from her change in circumstances.

‘Congratulations, miss.’ Sylvie looked round sharply and saw the commissionaire beaming at her. ‘You’ve gorrit, haven’t you? I saw Miss Snape giving you the royal tour a while ago and she never does that if a gal hasn’t made the grade.’ He leaned closer, lowering his voice. ‘You’ll be happy here, miss, we’re a decent bunch and we stick together. Why, when I was . . .’ He stopped short; the floor-walker, a tall elegant man with slicked-back grey hair and a tiny toothbrush moustache, was approaching. The commissionaire snapped to attention. ‘Good day, miss,’ he said, turning away.

‘Oh . . . good day,’ Sylvie said, and shot through the swing doors and on to the pavement. The sky was grey but the rain still held off and she felt disinclined to go straight back to the pub where her mother-in-law would immediately find her a dozen jobs to do. For a moment, she stood uncertainly on the pavement, then decided she would go round to Hunter Street; if Brendan was off duty she could tell him her news and she knew he would be satisfyingly pleased, because he was still very much her friend and would rejoice with her over her good fortune. He still visited Len, sitting on a chair by the bedside and talking quietly to the other man, but he made no effort to get Sylvie to himself and she thought, rather sadly, that the admiration which had kindled his eyes when they had first met seemed to have cooled.

As luck would have it, she saw Brendan ahead of her when she approached the next side street. He was in uniform and Sylvie recognised the man to whom he was talking as his sergeant. So this would be one of the ‘quarters’ which Brendan so often referred to. Sylvie now knew that this meant he had to be at certain spots at regular intervals so that he could be checked by the sergeant on his beat, though this did not always happen by any means. However, it would not do to interrupt them, so she waited until the sergeant walked ponderously away. Then she fell into step with Brendan, smiling up at him.

Brendan looked down at her, his slow smile beginning. ‘You look very smart,’ he said. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I was coming round to Hunter Street, hoping you’d be off duty, and I know you won’t want to hang about seeing as you’re walking your beat, but I simply had to tell you my good news. I got the job; that’s why I’m all dressed up.’

Brendan stared at her. ‘What job?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Surely you work at the Ferryman? I don’t think Mrs D. could manage without you.’

‘Oh, I think I must be going mad. I quite forgot I hadn’t seen you for a couple of weeks so you wouldn’t know I was being interviewed at Lewis’s today. I’m a sales assistant on Hats and Gloves, with a real salary. Oh, Brendan, I couldn’t be more thrilled.’

‘That sounds very nice,’ Brendan said slowly. ‘But how will you manage, Sylvie? I don’t think Lewis’s employ part-time staff and I know Len makes a good deal of work . . . and there’s Becky . . .’

‘Mother-in-law will simply have to employ someone else during the day, but I’ll be there evenings,’ Sylvie explained, rather impatiently. She was disappointed in Brendan’s reaction, for he did not seem to share her delight. ‘Don’t you realise, Brendan, that I’m little better than a servant at the Ferryman? I don’t get paid, you know, but Ma-in-law takes it for granted that I’ll work from seven in the morning till midnight, six days a week, and hardly ever have so much as half an hour to myself.’

‘Oh, I didn’t realise,’ Brendan said, rather blankly. ‘But surely taking on a full-time job will mean you have even less time to yourself? I mean, you can’t call working behind a counter exactly relaxing, can you?’

‘It’ll be wonderful after working in the Ferryman. And I shall have a bit more money to send to Caitlin – for the baby you know,’ Sylvie said quickly. ‘I’ve been sending half a crown most months from the money I saved up while I was in Ireland, but it’s beginning to run out and I can’t ask Mrs Dugdale to hand over cash.’

Brendan grinned and gave her hand a discreet squeeze. ‘Sorry. I hadn’t realised what a difficult position you’re in,’ he said, with obvious sincerity. ‘Many congratulations; you’ve done well to get a job with so much unemployment around. Tell you what . . . wait on, when do you start?’

‘Next Monday,’ Sylvie said at once, delighted that her friend was on her side after all. ‘I’ve got to buy clothes for work, but they pay me back after six months if I’ve proved I’m capable of doing well. So I’ve got the rest of the week to prepare myself for my new life.’

‘Right. And my next day off is Thursday. What a pity it’s winter, but even so, we might have a day out to celebrate. Ever been to Southport? We could catch separate trains, if it would make you feel more comfortable, and explore the town, have a meal in a restaurant, and do a bit of shopping. I can’t suggest taking Becky because she’d talk about it to your mother-in-law and it wouldn’t do; you do understand, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course I understand, and I’d love a day out in Southport,’ Sylvie said, beaming up at him. ‘Oh, Brendan, I can’t wait till Thursday!’

Brendan watched Sylvie out of sight. He was excited at the thought of a day out with her, though he told himself that this was simply because he enjoyed her company. He also told himself that he had once had a crush on her, but now he was more sensible and simply regarded her as a friend. He admired the way she helped to look after her sick husband, as well as assisting her mother-in-law in the running of the pub. He also thought she was bringing up Becky beautifully, despite the occasional interference from two doting grandmothers.

A passer-by greeted him cheerfully, making some comment about the weather, and he touched his helmet and murmured a reply. The woman had a plump baby on her hip and Brendan smiled at it, reflecting that Catherine Mary would be about the same age as this one. He knew very little about the baby, save that she had ginger hair. He remembered Sylvie saying that the child was plain, but when he had mentioned it to his Uncle Sean’s wife she had told him, rather scornfully, that all small babies looked alike. ‘Young mams is all the same; they worries about the oddest things,’ she had assured him. ‘You tell your young friend that probably by now the baby’s hair will have darkened, or lightened; changed, anyway.’

But Brendan had felt it was better not to say anything, for Sylvie had given the baby up and that was the end of the matter.

Another woman came towards him with a crowd of small children at her skirts, and they smiled a greeting; Mrs Mabel had no children of her own but looked after other people’s and was popular with the mothers as well as their offspring. The youngest child was redheaded and beamed up at Brendan, showing tiny pearly teeth and a dimple in one cheek. Brendan found himself wishing that he could nip over to Dublin one fine day and take a look at young Catherine Mary. It would not do to admit to Sylvie that he was curious about the baby she had been forced to abandon to Caitlin’s care, but perhaps one day he really would drop in on his cousin when he was heading for home leave and see how the child was getting on.

Brendan continued on his way, deciding he would write to Caitlin when he got home and see how things stood. If she needed money, he could always spare a bob or two . . .

Maeve was in the kitchen finishing the clearing away of the breakfast things. She had taken the children to school earlier, for though Clodagh, Grainne and Colm could be relied upon to go into their classes and remain there all day, the twins were another matter. They hated school and had to be handed over to their teacher, who was then responsible for them until school ended in the afternoon.

In fact, apart from Maeve herself, the only other person in the kitchen was Catherine Mary. The child sat on the hearthrug, playing contentedly with a large wooden spoon with which she was banging an empty cocoa tin, producing a pleasing amount of noise, though she added to it every few minutes with triumphant shouts.

Maeve looked down on the curly head, which had darkened to a pleasing shade of chestnut, with most tender affection. She adored Catherine Mary, thought her the cleverest and most beautiful child in the whole of Dublin, and had been delighted when the little girl had started to say ‘mum-um-m’ when Maeve picked her out of her bed in the mornings.

The bed was just a cardboard box and it was growing too small for her, so Maeve meant to go round to the market stalls in Francis Street to see if she could beg an orange box – a large one – from one of the stallholders. The market women were generous people, understanding the difficulties of rearing large families with wages so low, and Maeve had little doubt that she would get her orange box.

The baby on the floor began to gabble and Maeve looked round quickly, then picked up the nearest object, which happened to be a heavy iron ladle, and hurled it across the room at the large rat which had emerged from a hole in the skirting board. The rat paused for a moment – the ladle had missed it by at least three feet – then turned round and scuttled for the kitchen door, which stood open. Maeve shuddered. She hated rats and Handkerchief Alley was having a plague of them at present. Pat did his best, blocking holes and insisting that food should be kept in tins, but even so, rats were likely to appear when one was off one’s guard, and at night, as she lay on her little straw pallet, Maeve could hear them pattering around in their constant search for food.

Sighing, she went and picked up the ladle, giving the child’s curls a reassuring pat. If only my aim were better, she thought, but perhaps it was as well that she had not hit the creature. The thought of a wounded rat, perhaps turning on the baby, or at the very least having to be despatched by herself, was a horrible one. There were traps, of course, but the rats had grown knowing and were seldom caught by such means. Fergal and Seamus had managed to account for several of the creatures, for they were good shots with a boot or a brick, but by and large the rats were winning. Every day, Maeve imagined, mother rats were giving birth to little pink babies which in due course would become a menace to the dwellers in Handkerchief Alley, spreading disease, defiling food and making the mouse population which had dwelt there before them seem positively benign in retrospect.

On the homemade rag rug, Catherine Mary attacked her cocoa tin once more, and Maeve picked up the coal scuttle and put more fuel on the fire, then went to the dresser and got the housekeeping purse out of the top drawer. She had a list of messages and wondered whether she should ask again at Mr Farrington’s chemist shop just off Francis Street whether he had a rat poison which would not harm small children. Such a thing had not been available the last time she had asked, and with the alley positively swarming with small children it would be extremely dangerous to use anything that they might find and put in their mouths.

‘Wish we had a terrier,’ Seamus had said wistfully, only the previous day, when he and Fergal had returned from a trip into the country, both bearing large swedes beneath their coats. ‘When we were robbin’ the farmer of these here turnips, or whatever they are, one of the fellers telled us to come up to the barn and see some sport. They’d got four terriers, grand little chaps wit’ white bodies and brown ears, and they set ’em to clear out the rats what had been eating the farmer’s grain. The feller give us big sticks and said to hit any rat what tried to get away and to mind out we didn’t hit the dogs by mistake. There must ha’ been a hundred rats in there but the terriers were quick as a flash, honest to God they was, Maeve. It were grab, crunch, toss, and another rat had bit the dust. By the end of a couple of hours, I’m tellin’ you, there weren’t a rat alive on that whole farm. Eh, I wish we could have a borrow of a terrier; that’d soon sort out the buggers in Handkerchief Alley.’

Maeve had agreed, wistfully, that it would be just grand to hire the services of such a dog, but she knew it was impossible. No farmer in his senses would agree to let someone from the Liberties march off with his terrier, suspecting, probably rightly, that he would never see it again. Clodagh had once said, tearfully, after a trip into the countryside to gather berries, that she believed rich farmers thought folk in the Liberties would scrunch up post and wire fencing for their dinners, so violently had they reacted to the presence of her and her little sister making their way along a leafy lane and picking blackberries as they went.