The Mersey Girls (16 page)

‘If I do you’ll go to sleep and then where will we be?’ Finn said. But he looped an arm round her shoulders and drew her close. ‘What tale would you like, then? A story of witches and wizards in old Ireland, or leprechauns and the fairy folk? Or shall I tell you about me travels with the Tuam tribe, before I met up with Vorth and his band?’

‘Tell me about your travels,’ Lucy begged sleepily. ‘I’d love to hear where you’ve been and what you’ve done, Finn.’

Finn knew himself to be a fine story-teller and began in time honoured fashion with ‘Once upon a time . . .’ but he had barely got to the bit where he rode his first horse and got thrown into his first gorse bush when he felt an extra heaviness in the head leaning on his shoulder and glanced down at her, tenderness mixing with something wild and sweet which he had never felt before.

She slept, trusting him totally. And she’s right so to do, Finn told himself, for no safer could she ever be than she is this night. Ah, but this girleen will be safe with me for the rest of her life – and special to me, also. One of these days, Lucy Murphy, you’ll be all mine, but until that day dawns, I’ll not touch a hair of your head, and nor shall any man.

He woke her when the stars were beginning to pale in the sky and Lucy, alarmed, sat up in the rustling hay and apologised for falling asleep and promised, in a flurried whisper, that she would see the old ‘un lacked for nothing.

‘If she’s ill, I’ll get Maeve to her, and a doctor,’ she hissed. ‘But only if she’s rare bad, Finn. You – you won’t be away longer than a month, will you? I’ll miss you sore.’

She saw his teeth flash in the dark as he grinned down at her.

‘You scarcely know me, alanna! But I’ll miss you more than ever you could miss me. Now you’d best get back to your bed before day dawns. I’ll help you down the ladder.’

He scrambled down ahead of her, then turned, hands held out. ‘Jump!’

She jumped; he caught her, held her for one breathless moment against his heart before putting her away from him and then, with a suddenness which startled them both, snatching her back and dropping three kisses on her upturned face – one on her brow, one on the tip of her nose, the last on her chin. Featherlight kisses they were, almost casual, almost teasing . . . so why did the touch of his lips burn on her skin for what was left of the night?

‘Off you run now, alanna. I’ll see you again as soon as I can get my business done.’

He took her to the barn doorway and from its shadows they surveyed the house. All was in darkness, the kitchen door gaped open still, the room behind it black.

They crossed the yard like a couple of shadows and Lucy slipped into the kitchen. She glanced around and was at once reassured: no one had stirred, everything was as she left it.

Finn must have been able to tell that the tension had left her, for he gave her hand a quick squeeze and turned away.

‘Goodbye for now, Lucy. Take care, and – and don’t forget me.’

‘I never could,’ Lucy whispered vehemently. ‘Oh, Finn, I never could forget you! I like you better than anyone else I know.’

He was gliding away from her when the dog in the kennel looked up again, his muzzle turning from Lucy to Finn and back as though questioning whether he should not, perhaps, bark a bit at this stranger?

‘Friend, Shep,’ Lucy whispered. ‘Best friend, dearest friend. Don’t you bark, Shep, or I’ll give you a clout, so I will.’ And she stood in the doorway and waved until Finn was out of sight and the pre-dawn dark was still again, save for the wind stirring the leaves on the tall old elms and the scuttle of a mouse behind the corn bins.

Only then did she turn and make her way back, undetected, to her cold little bed.

At first, when the money stopped coming, Linnet thought it was just that her mother hadn’t remembered, or had had a bad few weeks. Then she thought it must be the post, notoriously unreliable for a long distance letter. She was sure, of course, that Evie would not let her down and besides, she had her savings; so for the first few weeks she continued to pay the rent and keep herself from the money she had salted away during the pantomime season when she had taken in two chorus girls as lodgers. Mrs Roberts had not liked it, but Linnet had given her some of her rent and the landlady had taken the money, though not with a very good grace.

‘I’ll ’old you responsible if there’s any trouble from them gairls,’ she had said. ‘And tell ’em no fellers or they’ll be out on their ears before you can blink.’

So Linnet, though worried by Evie’s apparent defection, had at least been able to support herself for the first month, though she had confided to Roddy that her money would not last for ever.

‘If only me mam would write,’ she said miserably. ‘Then at least I’d know what had gone wrong for her.’

‘You’re fifteen years old, our Linnie,’ Roddy reminded her. ‘Most gals are workin’ be the time they’re your age. Perhaps your mam just got fed up wi’ feedin’ a chick which oughter ’ave flown the bleedin’ nest months agone!’

‘She knows I’d work if she wanted me to, only she said to stay on at school until she give the word,’ Linnet reminded her friend. ‘Mammy wouldn’t just forget all about me, even though she’s been doing awful well – she says so, in her letters. No, something’s gone wrong, I can feel it in my heart.’

She clasped her hands to her chest and Roddy jeered at such a theatrical gesture and got a clout round the ear for his cheek.

‘You don’t know nothing, Roddy Sullivan,’ Linnet shouted at him. ‘My mammy says education is terrible important – I don’t want to work in a match factory and come home all yellow-faced like your Auntie Prue, nor do I want to get all filthy and bloody like you get when you help in that butcher’s shop! Mammy will write to me soon, just you see!’

Roddy never got cross with her because he understood that she was upset and worried, but he did scowl. ‘You needn’t come near me when I’ve been workin’ if you’re so high and mighty,’ he muttered. ‘You’re glad enough of a loan of the spondooleys, though.’

It was true that Roddy had lent her money for her various needs when he had the cash to spare and Linnet immediately felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry, that was a horrible thing to say,’ she said remorsefully. ‘Oh, Roddy, if only she’d write!’

But the truth of the matter was that Evie’s letters had speedily degenerated from chatty epistles to a couple of lines, and that in the first six months of her absence, too. So now, after nearly two years, Linnet did not expect much in the way of news or information – but she did expect the money.

When the letter came at last, whilst Mrs Roberts was muttering darkly about the selfishness of theatricals, as she called them, in not paying her rent for two months, Linnet was so relieved that she couldn’t even open it for a minute. She just held it in her hands and breathed deeply and thanked God, as well as little Evie, that she was about to receive proof that she’d not been forgotten, after all. The writing on the envelope did not look much like Evie’s bold and confident hand, but it was her writing, nevertheless. Rosy with relief and anticipation, Linnet opened the letter. And it was just a letter, there was no money, not so much as a penny piece. But the letter would explain, Linnet knew that, so she had best read it immediately.

Dear Linnet
, it said in a spidery hand which Linnet could scarcely recognise as her mother’s.
I have been very ill and unable to earn money, which is why I’m afraid you’ve had to go short. I don’t know when I shall be able to return to the stage, so I want you to go back to Ireland, to your Auntie Maeve, and ask her to take care of you for me until I’m well again. Don’t think too harshly of me, alanna, Mammy
.

Linnet stared down at the blotched page and the thin, wobbly writing. Little Evie must have been very ill indeed to write so for the nicest piece of the letter was missing, the bit where Evie always said,
With much love from your very own Mammy.
And how could Evie expect her daughter to go back to Ireland? Linnet knew her aunt’s name was Maeve Murphy and she knew Evie had gone to school in the town of Cahersiveen, but she did not know the name of the farm, nor whereabouts in Ireland Cahersiveen might be . . . and she had no money now, not so much as a penny piece. She could scarcely buy a tram ticket to the docks, far less her passage to Ireland!

She stood in her mother’s neat living room whilst black despair washed over her. What on earth was she to do? The month was June, which meant that the next pantomime season was six months away and in any event, though the money her lodgers paid her was a help, it could scarcely keep her and pay the rent, too. Right now she had no money at all, no prospect of money from what her mother said, and no idea what to do next. But one thing she did know – she must run round to Roddy at once and tell him what had happened. She thought now, going back over his attitude these past couple of weeks, that he would not be entirely surprised to hear that little Evie was penniless and far from sending the rent, was actually advising her daughter to go back to Ireland. But Roddy was a realist. He would see at once that this was impossible and would suggest an alternative means of keeping body and soul together. Roddy was resourceful and intelligent, he would advise her on her best course of action.

It was a Saturday morning which meant no school, but when Linnet ran down the stairs, Mrs Roberts popped out of her own quarters.

‘When can I ’ave me rent?’ she said belligerently. ‘Or weren’t there no money? It were a skinny sort o’ letter, weren’t it?’

‘The money’s following,’ Linnet said quickly. ‘I’ve got to go out now, Mrs Roberts, I’m fetching the shopping for Roddy’s mam.’

Mrs Roberts started to say something but Linnet just ignored her, flying down the hall and out of the door, turning at once in the direction of Peel Square. She had crammed the letter into the pocket of her jacket and it burned there like a guilty conscience. What on earth was she to do? Even nice Mrs Sullivan had mentioned mildly that times was ‘ard and she didn’t like to grumble but feedin’ one extra every day . . .

Roddy was coming out of the square just as Linnet rounded the corner at a gallop. She must have looked pretty desperate because he stopped short and put a soothing hand on her arm.

‘Wharrever’s the marrer, chuck? Come on, tell your pal.’

‘Mam’s written; she’s not got any money,’ Linnet gabbled, clutching Roddy’s hand. ‘She says to go back to Ireland, but I can’t do that, our Roddy! I dunno where me mam’s sisters live, I only know the name of the town, and I haven’t got any money at all, honest to God. Oh, Roddy, you should see her writing – she must be real bad, real ill.’

‘Show me later,’ Roddy said when Linnet tried to press the crumpled page into his hand. ‘I’ve gorra deliver this lot.’

For the first time Linnet realised that her friend was wearing a long blue-and-white striped apron and carrying what looked like a very heavy basket.

‘Oh, you’re working; I’m sorry,’ she said humbly. ‘Can I help, Roddy? Only I can’t go back to old Ma Roberts, she’ll say things . . . I’ve got to think.’

‘You can walk along o’ me and tek some o’ the parcels into the ’ouses,’ Roddy said. ‘We’re goin’ right along to Tenterden Street for the next delivery though, so you’ll ’ave plenty of time to talk. Tell you what, you’d best read me the letter as we go.’

This seemed like a good idea so as they plodded along – for the basket was heavy – Linnet read the pitifully brief letter aloud and then looked hopefully at Roddy.

‘Well? What d’you think? Will some money come, Roddy?’

Roddy began to shrug, hesitated, then shook his head. ‘It’s no good lyin’ to you, chuck. I reckon your mam’s real ill an’ I don’t see ’ow she can earn if she’s ill. You’ve gorra give up any idea of help from that quarter; you’ve gorra get yourself out o’ this mess.’

‘How?’ Linnet said bluntly. ‘I can’t think straight!’

‘We’ll sell some o’ that posh furniture, for a start off,’ Roddy said, changing his basket to the other arm. ‘You’d gerra pretty penny for that walnut pianny, and there’s the oil paintin’ over the mantel; that oughter make a bit.’

‘I can’t take furniture without Mrs Roberts finding out,’ Linnet pointed out, trying very hard not to let Roddy see that she was crying. The letter for which she had longed had turned out to be the final straw. She felt completely at the end of her tether and incapable, any longer, of being brave. ‘If she finds out there’s no money coming then she’ll kick me out and take everything for herself.’

‘Yeah, I can see that,’ Roddy said thoughtfully. ‘Wharrabout smaller stuff, though? Some of them ornaments is worth a mint, we’ll run ’em down to Uncle’s, see what ’e’ll cough up.’

‘Yes, we could do that,’ Linnet said rather reluctantly. She had visited TJ Cookson, the pawnbroker on Scotland Road, more than once, accompanying Roddy when he took his mam’s hat and his own Sunday suit in on a Monday morning, and thought it an odd way of getting money, particularly as it had to be paid back in time for church so the clothing could be worn once more for Sunday services. ‘Some of the little china things are valuable, Mammy said so. But that won’t pay everything, you know. There’s the rent and what I owe your mam, and soon it’ll be school fees . . .’

Roddy looked at her, then stood his basket down alongside the plate glass window of a flower shop with beautiful carnations, roses and lilies pressing close to the glass and buckets full of blooms on either side of the doorway. ‘John Tart, Florist’, ran the legend over the door, and Linnet sniffed appreciatively as the most wonderful scent came to them from the lavish array of blooms. But Roddy seemed indifferent to their beauty. He took hold of both Linnet’s hands and shook them to emphasise his words.

‘You’ve gorra gerra job,’ he said forcefully. ‘The money your mam sent covered your school fees, your rent an’ your food, but now it’s stopped. So you’ll ’ave to leave school, chuck. I left school long ago, our Linnie, an’ most of me class did the same. You’ve gorra be practical, gel, you’ll ’ave to work.’

‘Yes . . . but what can I
do
?’ Linnet said, her voice rising to a wail. ‘It’s awful hard to get a job unless you’re trained, and the nuns don’t teach ybu how to be a shop girl or a factory hand. And those are the only jobs I know!’