The Mersey Girls (2 page)
‘I do understand, alanna, and I know you’re a good actress and beautiful, too. But how can you go back to Dublin with a child under each arm? Who’ll take you seriously as an actress when you’re hung about with babies? Leave it a few years, until they’re older . . .’
‘Until I’m older you mean,’ Evie snapped. ‘I’ve got to strike whilst the iron’s hot, Maeve – I’ve got to! And it’ll work, I promise you, because I’ve learned me lesson. This time I’ll steer clear of the fellers and be single-minded and really work at my career, I won’t listen to any man, no matter how sweetly he talks. I’ll make a name for myself and then . . . then you and little Lucy can come and visit me in London, or Paris, or – or New York, and I’ll buy a mansion and we’ll all live happily ever after!’
‘They’re just daydreams, alanna,’ Maeve said gently. ‘Put the money back like a good girl and go and get into your bed. I’ll make us a cup of tea and by the time you’ve drunk it you’ll be sleepy again and tomorrow you’ll realise that there’s a good life for you here – a good man, too. Why, half the young men in the town would give their eye-teeth for a smile from Miss Evie Murphy!’
‘I don’t care about local fellers and that’s no more’n the truth. I’m going, Maeve, and if you try to stop me then I promise you’ll never set eyes on me again, as long as I live,’ Evie said hysterically. ‘I can’t stay here and rot – I won’t! You can stop me tonight, but you can’t stand guard over me for the rest of my life. I’ll get away, and if I do it that way I’ll never come back, I swear it.’
The two girls stood on opposite sides of the table, the teapot between them, the candle casting its flickering shadows over the smooth oval of Evie’s face and the rich glory of her thickly curling wheat-coloured locks. Maeve knew that the same shadows danced over her own plain and bony visage, over tear-filled eyes and lank, dust-coloured hair; but right now it was not Evie’s beauty nor her own ugliness which was in question, it was whose will would prove stronger.
For what seemed like an eternity they stood there, eyes locked, then Maeve sighed and let her glance drop before the icy determination in her little sister’s gaze. If she held out, she knew, she would lose Evie and she could not bear that.
‘All right. If you must go, you must. Take Linnet and come back for Lucy when you’re able,’ Maeve said in a small, colourless voice. ‘Remember, Evie, that we love you. Don’t forget us, whatever happens. We’ll always be here for you.’
The ice in Evie’s glance melted and tears brimmed over and trickled down her cheeks. She ran round to her sister and put her arms round her, giving her a hard hug.
‘Maeve, me darling, as if I could ever forget you. You’re the best thing that happened to me, you’ve been like a mother to me – better than most mothers from what I’ve seen. And I’ll come back to you, I swear it, when I’m rich and famous. And – and I’ll take great care of Linnet . . . I’ll write to you every week. Oh, darling Maeve, you’ll never regret what you’ve done tonight.’
‘Don’t wait till you’re rich and famous,’ Maeve said with a slight smile. ‘I’ll fetch Linnet for you, shall I?’
‘She’s already in the sling you made for me, sleepin’ like a little angel,’ Evie said with a sparkling look towards the big fireside chair. ‘Did you not see her, in the shadows? Oh, Maeve, look at the time – give me a kiss, dear, then I must run. I dare not lose me lift into town.’
The sisters kissed, Evie clinging for a moment, then Maeve went over to the big fireside chair and lifted the sling and its rosy, sleeping occupant, helping Evie to arrange the sling so that the baby lay comfortably against her breast, leaving the young mother’s hands free.
‘Now isn’t that grand?’ Evie murmured. ‘I’ve got a bag with a few things in . . .’
‘The bag’s awful light,’ Maeve said uneasily, picking the shabby little holdall up from the floor. ‘Are you not taking food and drink for your journey?’
‘No need,’ Evie assured her. She took the bag and put a hand on the back door latch. ‘I’ve got me best dress and some stuff for Linnet . . . hark, can you hear that rumbling? It’s me lift coming across the river-bridge. Oh, Maeve, I do love you; hold onto that! And take care of Lucy for me.’
‘I will alanna, but I wish . . .’ Maeve began, but her sister had slipped out of the doorway and was crossing the dark farmyard on quick, light feet. Maeve went and stood on the big, cold flags, watching the younger girl while tears ran down her cheeks, but Evie did not look back. She turned out of the yard and into the lane and Maeve strained her eyes but could see only Evie’s hair, pale as the moon’s glow, and her slim ankles beneath the dark coat. She watched, a hand pressed to her mouth, until a bend in the lane hid Evie from her view. Only then did she turn back into the candlelit kitchen.
Gone! Maeve doused the candle and crossed the dark room, suddenly aware of ice-cold feet and a heavy heart. She had let Evie go – but how could she have stopped her? She could have insisted that Evie take both babies but it would have been wickedly unfair on little Lucy. The smaller of the twins was not a bouncing, rosy-cheeked child like her sister, she was pale and frail. At four months old Linnet had not seemed at all bothered when her mother had weaned her from the breast onto bottled cow’s milk, whereas little Lucy had not taken to the bottle at all. She cried a lot, drank a small quantity from her bottle very slowly and reluctantly and then sicked half of it up again, usually all over whoever was bringing up her wind. Placid, fat Linnet seldom cried, played with her pink toes and chuckled and cooed. But Lucy suffered from colic, bringing her pointed knees hard up into her small stomach whilst she screamed with pain. Maeve had noticed that even the slightest change in her routine brought about an attack, and weaning the smaller twin was a painful process which Evie had left almost entirely to Maeve.
I should thank the good Lord that Evie didn’t suggest taking Lucy, Maeve told herself, wearily climbing the stairs on her ice-cold feet. Evie could never manage the smaller twin – at least with a healthy, happy child like Linnet she has a head start, and I can manage Lucy meself, no problem.
Outside Evie’s bedroom door, she paused. If she left Lucy to slumber on undisturbed the child would not waken until six or so, but then, with Maeve having had such a disturbed night, would she herself wake before Lucy’s howls had aroused the entire household? Their father was not a particularly patient man and had been heartbroken when his favourite daughter had produced twin girls and no husband to go with them. Indeed, Padraig Murphy had been deeply disappointed when the wife of his bosom had presented him with no fewer than five daughters and not one single son, though he had grieved over her death for they had been a fond couple. Nevertheless, he felt that fate had dealt unfairly with him.
‘Fine it is for herself, a-choirin’ wi’ the angels on high,’ he had observed sourly in the hearing of the eleven-year-old Maeve. ‘And here am I, left lit’rally holdin’ the babby.’
But it had been Maeve who had brought Evie up, with very little help from her other sisters, and even less from Padraig, though he had adored his youngest daughter and revelled in her pretty, loving ways. Plain old Maeve, the only Murphy girl that no man ever looked at twice, had also adored – and spoiled – the little sister who looked on her as the only mother she had ever known, and now she adored that little sister’s children. Especially Lucy. There was no getting away from it, Lucy’s pale little face and wistful blue eyes had wound their way firmly into Maeve’s susceptible heart. Perhaps, Maeve thought, tiptoeing into Evie’s bedroom and over to the stout wooden cradle in which young Murphys had slumbered for generations, perhaps I’m the sort of person who needs to be needed even more than I need to be loved. Or perhaps someone who needs you automatically loves you. Whatever the reason, though, I couldn’t have borne it if Evie had taken Lucy.
She leaned over the cot. Lucy was awake, her thumb wedged into her small mouth, her eyes fixed on the ceiling above her head. She was bald but for a quiff of lint-white hair and she had lately developed a rash around her mouth and chin, but to Maeve she was the most beautiful thing on this earth. She smiled at the baby, a smile full of all the stored up, imprisoned love in her heart and the baby smiled back, her eyes lighting up with pleasure, her mouth curving into that most trustful of expressions, a beam of pure, unselfish love.
‘Oh, Lucy, you’re going to be my little girl until your mammy comes home,’ Maeve whispered, picking the child out of the cot and cuddling her against her breast. ‘No man’ll ever want me – why should they, indeed? – but you do don’t you, me darlin’? You’ll want your Maeve for – oh, for years and years and years!’
And the baby sighed and nuzzled against her, seeming to listen when Maeve told her that it was not time for a feed yet, not for a couple of hours at least, but that there was plenty of time for a cuddle.
She climbed carefully into Evie’s little bed with the child still held against her breast, and presently she had the satisfaction of seeing Lucy’s lids droop, of hearing her breathing become slow and regular.
She’s always been dear to me, but she’s dearer than ever now, because she’s as good as me own, Maeve thought, letting her cheek rest gently against the baby’s silky hair. Oh Evie, Evie, I’ll miss you sore every day that I live . . . but I’ll be a good mammy to your little one. You can trust old Maeve to take as much care of her as you would yourself. No, I’ll take more care of her, she added, letting her lips caress the child’s soft crown. She’ll be my little princess for she’s all I’ve got, until you come home and take her from me. And then there’ll be the four of us, in your grand big house, all happy as – as queens!
And on the thought, Maeve Murphy slid into dreams and slept soundly, with Lucy in her arms, until the new day dawned.
There was no waiting room at the small station in the town, so Evie sat on a wooden bench in a sheltered corner and watched the stars pale in the sky and breast-fed a sleepy but compliant Linnet. She had weaned Lucy off the breast but had continued to feed Linnet, though secretly, knowing that if Maeve knew she would put two-and-two together and make four. Because Evie’s plan, to leave the farm and her family far behind her and seek fame and fortune in the big city, had been in her head for two long years. She would have gone before had it not been for Jan.
Jan was the son of a neighbouring farmer, a dark, handsome young man in his early twenties, much sought after by local girls. But he had ignored them all until he came across Evie one bright April day, with her hands tangled in the mane of the new colt their father had bought from Killarney market, being pulled off her feet.
He had rescued her, talked to her – kissed her. Evie, white and gold, sixteen years old, on the threshold of womanhood, had needed little persuading to go with him into the nearby haybarn, where they had fallen on each other like love-starved animals and conceived the twins.
‘I’ll marry you,’ he said when she told him she was going to have a baby, but Evie had shaken her head, feeling the bars of the cage close round her on the words. She had enjoyed making love, feeling his strong arms round her, she regretted that she would have to forgo it, once her child was born. But she wanted more freedom, a life of her own, fame and fortune, and she would not get any of those things once Jan had roped and tied her to his smallholding. Not even the pleasure of making love in a soft bed every night could make up for the loss of her dreams.
The baby finished, burped, was returned to her place in the sling, and very soon afterwards the train came chuffing lazily into the station. I’ve done all right for myself so far, Evie thought as she climbed into the carriage of the small train which would take her right across Ireland to the magic city of Dublin. She had managed to let everyone assume that the Englishman had been her lover, so that Jan had not lost face over the affair. And there was no ill-feeling between herself and Maeve, for if she had succeeded in her attempt to run away without a word to anyone, leaving Lucy behind, Maeve might well have felt some justifiable annoyance. As it was, Evie had got just what she wanted – escape from the farm – and had remained on good terms with her sister.
The train, which had waited for several moments in the station while goods and a few passengers were put aboard, sounded its whistle, but mutedly because of the early hour, and pulled out of the station. Evie settled herself comfortably in her window seat and looked down at her sleeping child. Dear little, good little Linnet, she would be no trouble, Evie was bound to find someone who wanted to look after her during the day while she sought her fortune. And the child was company, in an odd sort of way. I won’t feel lonely whilst I’ve got Linnet, Evie thought contentedly, letting her gaze wander over the rich green of Ireland as the train chugged along. She was sure Linnet would be beautiful and would have a lovely singing voice, so perhaps they could do an act together when the child was a little older. Evie sat back in her seat and dreamed out of the window, and went back in her mind over what had happened at Ivy Farm that morning.
It was very good of Maeve to let me take the housekeeping money out of the pewter teapot, she reminded herself, because it means I shall be able to live quite well for the first month or so. And I’m sure Daddy won’t give Maeve any cash to replace what I’ve taken until the month’s end because he’s tight-fisted and mean. A shame it is that he doesn’t like me any more just because I fell for the twins, but when he sees I’m gone he’ll probably be nicer to the others. He might even be nicer to Maeve, because although she’s not pretty, she works harder than most.
The train chugged on and a plume of smoke swept by the window. There was grit on the surfaces and, although the sun was well up now bathing the countryside in gold, it was chilly in the half-empty carriage. A woman with two children, who had got aboard at Killarney, got out a bag of sandwiches and some apples. The woman offered Evie a ham sandwich and Evie accepted graciously and when it was eaten, leaned her head on the window and snoozed.
The children told each other stores in loud voices but the sound scarcely entered Evie’s dreams, certainly did not wake her. With the baby snug against her breast, Evie slumbered on.
