Polly's Angel (46 page)

‘Stop her, Grace! Peader, for the love of the good God, bring my little girl back to me,' Deirdre shrieked. She cast down the apron she had been wearing and ran past Peader who, following as fast as he could, was still hobbling along the jigger when his wife returned, defeat in the slump of her shoulders, the misery in her face.

‘Oh, Peader, what'll she do?' she asked breathlessly, clutching his upper arms and staring earnestly into his face. ‘She's in a terrible state, so she is – she'll be on a tram and halfway to Lime Street by now – I never dreamed she'd take it so badly.'

‘We should have thought it out more carefully,' Peader said heavily as they returned to the kitchen, where Grace was stacking plates, cups and dishes on the dresser and looking worried half to death. ‘It never occurred to me that she'd stop seeing herself as an O'Brady. I just thought she'd be mortal glad we'd stole her away, and even gladder to find she'd a sister as well as her brothers. As for what she'll do, alanna, God alone knows.'

‘She'll go back to her wrennery and come to terms with it,' Grace said, heaving the big black kettle over the fire and warming the teapot. ‘Give her a few days to get her sense of proportion back and she'll come round. You know our Polly, she doesn't have a nasty bone in her body; she'll see that you meant everything for the best, and get in touch to tell you not to worry. But . . . well, it must be a terrible shock, to be told that you aren't who you've always thought you were.'

‘We've little choice but to wait,' Deirdre said ruefully. ‘I wish there was something . . . If we could go to her . . . but she'd not see us, either of us, for all our love.'

‘Perhaps not. But she'll see me,' Grace said, finishing her task and turning towards the kitchen door. ‘I'm going after her, Auntie Dee; I'll catch the next tram down to Lime Street, then I'll start the journey to Holyhead. And as soon as I've talked to her I'll drop you a line, or telephone your factory, Auntie. We'll get this sorted out, never fear.'

‘Oh, would you? But dear Grace, this is your week's leave, it really isn't fair—'

‘It's my choice,' Grace said firmly. ‘What sort of enjoyment could I have, knowing Polly – my sister – is in trouble and deeply unhappy? I think I can help her; it's the least I can do.'

She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Deirdre walked into Peader's arms and they stood for a moment, hugging, both with tears running down their cheeks.

‘It'll come right, alanna,' Peader said at length, smoothing a big, calloused hand down her face. ‘You see, it'll come right. What we did for our girl we did with the best of intentions and she'll realise it, when she's calmer. And she's right, you know, we should have told her long since that she wasn't an O'Brady by birth but only by love.'

‘You wanted to tell her,' Deirdre sighed. ‘And I wouldn't – I was afraid. Oh, Peader, I pray to God we get our girl back!'

Tad was in the mess, playing cards with a group of friends, when Toby Carruthers, who had gone across to answer the almost constantly ringing phone, turned towards him.

‘Tad! Tad Donoghue, there's a call for you.'

‘Oh?' Tad said, getting up from his chair with a sigh and laying his cards carefully down on the green baize table. He glared menacingly round at his three companions. ‘Don't you go lookin' at me hand nor changin' me cards, because I've a photographic memory, so I have and I'll kill anyone who stops me winnin' this round.' Crossing the room, he thought bitterly that it was just his luck; the first time he'd had a decent hand all week and the bleedin' phone had to ring. However, he grinned at Toby and held out a hand for the receiver. ‘Who is it? Not me mammy?'

‘It's a female,' Toby said, putting a hand over the mouthpiece so that his words would not be heard on the other end of the line. ‘I think she's crying, old feller, so you'd best go gentle. Been getting some nice little WAAF into trouble, have you?'

‘Not that I can remember,' Tad said, but though he smiled he took the receiver rather hastily, almost dropping it as it changed hands. He held it to his ear. ‘Hello? Tad Donoghue speaking.'

There was a pause, and then a dry sob, a gustily indrawn breath, and a voice said: ‘Oh Tad, Tad! Thank the good Lord . . . Oh Tad, it's so awful, I can't be after tellin' you how awful it is . . .'

He would have known that voice anywhere, even coming distorted over the line, and ending in sobs. He said sharply: ‘Polly! What in heaven's name has happened to you? Where are you? I t'ought you'd be back in Holyhead by now . . . Are you back? If so, I'll come right away.'

‘I'm – I'm not back,' Polly said, her voice sounding small and snuffly. She began to cry again. ‘Oh, Tad, I'm in terrible trouble, so I am – can you come?'

‘Where? Where are you, in God's name?' Tad shouted, terribly frightened by the fear in Polly's tone. ‘Get a holt of yourself, Poll, and tell me where I can find you.'

‘I d-don't know exactly,' Polly said, her voice perilously close to a wail. ‘It's lost I am, Tad, and it's dark and it's pouring with rain and I just bolted into the first telephone box I saw, so I did. It's not Chester, it's further on than that . . . Oh Tad, will you come?'

‘Of course I will – but, Polly me darlin', you must pull yourself together now. Have you some more pennies?'

There was a short scuffle and then Polly said in a slightly more composed tone: ‘Yes, I've some more pennies.'

‘Good,' Tad said. ‘Now, alanna, are you in a town or in the countryside?'

‘I – I'm in a sort of village, I think,' Polly said, after a moment during which she must have peered out through the glass windows of the telephone box, breathing heavily. ‘But you know what it's like, Tad, they don't put big signs out no more tellin' you where you're at, in case of an invasion.'

‘Right. Is there a pub near? Is it safe for you to go to the nearest pub and then ring me again? Don't worry, I won't move from the phone.'

‘Ye-es, but – but suppose he's out there somewhere, hidin' round a corner waitin' for me?' Polly quavered, with the fear so strong in her voice that Tad felt his own hair begin to rise on his scalp. ‘Oh, Tad, I feel safe wit' you on the other end of the line . . . Can't you just come? I must be on the way back to the island, because the feller said he was goin' to catch the Irish ferry . . . Please Tad, don't make me leave the box. It's nearly dark out there and the rain is drivin' somethin' awful.'

She was desperately scared of someone . . . What on earth did she mean,
the feller said he was goin' to catch the Irish ferry
? She was supposed to have caught the bus and then the train . . . but suppose she had missed one or the other? Besides, she was on her way back now . . . If she had been coming back towards the island it might be possible to pinpoint her whereabouts if only he asked the right questions. He took a deep, steadying breath.

‘Look, alanna, what time did you leave Liverpool? I take it you've been given a lift by someone? Well, how long d'you reckon you've been on the road?'

‘Hours, I think,' Polly said after a rather long pause. ‘Oh . . . don't go, don't go!'

The telephonist's voice cut across Polly's plea. ‘Your time is up, caller. Do you wish to pay for another three minutes?'

‘Yes. Yes,' Polly gabbled and Tad could hear the money rattling through the coin slot. They were not disconnected though they might easily have been; this was wartime and telephonists did not encourage long calls because there was always someone else waiting for a line. ‘I'll stay right here, but Poll, you must take your courage in both hands and make your way to the nearest pub,' Tad said, putting all the command and sternness he could into his voice. ‘I could spend the whole night and all day tomorrow hunting for you, else. Now, be my brave girl . . . peep out of the box, and see if you can see something which might look like a pub.'

He could imagine Polly, stuck in that little, blue-lit cube in the middle of an unknown town or village, pushing open the door, peering round it . . .

‘There's buildings,' Polly said presently, her voice a little stronger. ‘A shop – well, it's got a shop window, anyway, then what looks like more houses . . . Oh, I can see something with a sign, swinging in the wind. All right, Tad, I'm goin' to put the receiver down and run like hell towards the house wit' the sign. Don't go, will you?'

‘Good girl,' Tad said encouragingly. ‘Watch your footing, though, don't go tripping over the kerb and breaking your leg or something. And ring me back the moment you know where you are – the landlord will lend you his telephone, if you can't pay him I will, when I get there.'

‘Or I could leave the phone off the hook here, run up to the pub and find out where I am, and run back,' Polly said with longing in her voice. But Tad decided that he had better veto this. After all, any half-decent man, seeing Polly's distress, would take care of her until help came.

‘No,' he said authoritatively. ‘Now, Poll, off you go – put the receiver down
now
!'

He heard the receiver click on to its rest and put his own instrument down, then turned and faced the mess. To his astonishment no one was taking the slightest notice of him; men went on playing cards, talking, throwing dice, writing letters. No one, he realised, could have known that he was talking to a desperately frightened girl to whom something awful but so far unexplained had happened. At the card table he had left one of the fellers called out to him, reminding him, reproachfully, that they were in the middle of a game and he had better come quickly and play his hand or he would ruin the session.

‘Oh . . . one of you can play my hand,' Tad said. What cared he for cards or poker or the two bob he had hoped to gain when Polly was in trouble? ‘I'm waiting for an incoming call, I don't know how long I'll be.'

In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether the call would ever come, whether he had put poor little Polly in even more jeopardy by insisting that she should find out where she was, when the telephone rang again. He had it off its rest almost before the ring had properly begun and was speaking into it.

‘Polly? Is that you, alanna? Oh, thank God, I was beginnin' to think . . . but never mind that. Tell me where you are and I'll be with you just as soon as I can.'

‘I'm in a pub, like you said. It's called the Bear's Paw and it's in a place called Frodsham. Oh Tad, I don't t'ink that feller was tellin' the truth when he said he was on his way to catch the ferry . . . Oh Tad, can you come?'

‘Of course,' Tad said, outwardly cool but inwardly in a ferment of doubt. Frodsham? He had never heard of the place, for all he knew she could be somewhere in the wilds of Scotland! Then he remembered that she had only been travelling from Liverpool, surely she could not be that far away? Still in his calm, steadying voice he said: ‘Stay where you are, alanna, and I'll be wit' you as soon as may be. But you'd best ask the landlord if you can stay with him until I arrive . . . It's nigh on eight o'clock now, it could be midnight before I reach you. But don't you worry now, I'm as good as on me way. D'you want me to have a word wit' the landlord now? Explain t'ings a bit?'

But this, Polly assured him, was not necessary. She would stay where she was, quietly in a corner, until he arrived. Closing time was ten o'clock, Tad reminded her, but Polly said, with another muffled sob, that if closing time arrived before he did, then she would be sure to find somewhere near at hand where she might wait. ‘You'll be as quick as you can possibly be, I know it,' Polly assured him, sounding a little braver now, though still obviously shaken. ‘Don't worry about me, Tad – just come and find me. People are awful nice, I'm sure the landlord won't turn me out into the rain – it's pourin' cats and dogs out there, so it is.'

‘That's grand then, alanna,' Tad said, greatly relieved. Polly had clearly got herself in deep trouble, but she had managed to extricate herself and would surely be all right now until he arrived to bring her back to Holyhead. ‘Don't you worry about anything either, alanna. Just stay put until I come.'

A couple of hours later, Tad was driving a car which did not belong to him along a road he did not know, with only the haziest idea of how to reach his destination. But he had an elderly road map spread out on the passenger seat and the words of his pal Micky echoed in his ears: ‘You can't miss Frodsham – lovely little village. Head for Manchester and you'll see this damned great hill looking as though someone's took a bite out of it. The village sort of nestles under the hill, with woods above it. And the Bear's Paw is sandstone buildings on your left as you go through the village. How far? Well, I suppose it 'ud be a three-hour run normally. But in this rain . . . Still, there shouldn't be much else on the road . . . you'll mebbe make it by midnight.'

Micky had not known, of course, that he intended to steal a car and had been imagining that Tad would be on his motorbike. Come to that, Tad had not known he intended to steal a car. Not that he had stolen it, exactly. It was more or less like borrowing it, only the owner did not know. Well, he had not been around to ask. Had he known, Squadron Leader Alan Pierce would surely have told Tad to go ahead, but Squadron Leader Pierce was not around, having gone off on a course, leaving his elderly but reliable Sunbeam Talbot to be serviced and generally fussed over by the mechanic he most trusted – Tad Donoghue. By a great piece of good fortune Tad had worked on the Sunbeam the previous day until it was in as near perfect condition as he could make it. He had even filled it with petrol so that when its owner came back he could drive it straight off. Then Tad had put it carefully away in one of the work sheds and forgotten all about it – until Polly's phone call, that was.