The Silk Thief (10 page)

‘Is she in the bakery?’

He shook his head, his dark curls bouncing.

‘Are you lost?’

Scratching at the ground with a short piece of stick, he nodded.

‘Have you got a name, sweetie?’

‘Davey.’

Poor wee thing, Harrie thought, grateful to have someone to think about other than herself. He could only be about four and his dirty little feet were quite blue with cold.

‘Where do you live, Davey?’

He shrugged, the shoulders of his grubby, patched, too-big jacket rising and collapsing.

‘On the Rocks?’

He nodded.

‘What street, do you know?’

‘I’m hungry.’

Harrie stood and offered him her hand. He scrambled up and went with her into the bakery, where she bought him two eccles cakes, which he scoffed in a minute flat. She hoped to God he wasn’t living on the streets.

Outside she asked, ‘Do you live in a house, Davey? With a ma and a father and brothers and sisters?’

Apparently much happier now he’d eaten, he said, ‘Got a mam and that.’

‘But you can’t remember where you live?’

A woman exiting the bakery said, ‘That’s Davey Doyle. Lives at the poor end of Cumberland. Always running off. His grandma’ll tan his hide.’

Harrie felt very slightly taken advantage of, but never mind. ‘Come on, let’s get you home, shall we?’

Davey held her hand all the way to the Charlotte Place end of Cumberland Street, where he pointed out a small, rubble-stone cottage with a low shingle roof, two windows at the front — with shutters, not glass — and a single chimney.

‘Is that your house?’ Harrie asked.

Before Davey could answer, the door flew open and a stocky woman marched out and grabbed him by the ear.

‘And where the hell have you been?’ she demanded.

Davey squawked and stood on his tiptoes to relieve the pressure.

Harrie winced. ‘I found him down on George Street.’

The woman proceeded to whack Davey’s arse, changing her grip from his ear to his forearm, yanking it up and propelling him around in a circle with the force of her blows. ‘He does this every couple of months, you know. Fair scares the shite out of me, so it does.’

‘Are you, er, Mrs Doyle?’ Harrie asked.

‘I am.’

Harrie watched her as she finished thumping Davey. She was well rounded, somewhere in her late forties, and not unattractive despite the lines life had etched on her face and the grey threads woven through her dark hair.

Letting Davey’s arm drop, and rather confusingly giving him a quick, rough cuddle and a loud kiss on his grubby cheek, she said, ‘Thank you for bringing him back, lass. Don’t matter how much I paddle his arse, he still does it. He’ll be the death of me, so he will. Worries me sick. It’s Biddy, by the way. Biddy Doyle. Davey, say thank you to the nice colleen.’

Rubbing the seat of his pants, Davey mumbled, ‘Thank you.’

Biddy turned towards the cottage door, now crowded with four youngsters aged between about fifteen and ten, all staring curiously out, and ordered, ‘Maureen, take him inside and give him a good wash. Them feet are filthy! And put some tea on, there’s a good lass.’ To Harrie, she said, ‘What’s your name, dear?’

‘Harrie. Harrie Clarke.’

‘Would you be wanting a nice cup of tea? Sure you would. You look cold.’

Startled, Harrie swallowed, then nodded. ‘Yes, please.’ There was an element of kindness about Mrs Doyle that appealed to her, despite the smacking she’d dealt out to Davey. She reminded Harrie of her own mother, before Ada had become so very ill. And she was already going to be in trouble with Nora: arriving home a further half-hour late wasn’t going to make things any worse.

Inside the cottage there was little space; it was a single room partitioned by a curtain, behind which Harrie glimpsed an iron bedstead. A hearth at the other end was cluttered with cooking implements, alongside shelves containing plates, bowls and mugs. An appetising smell wafted from a pot simmering over the fire. A large wooden crucifix hung on the wall and a double mattress made up with a woollen blanket on the oilcloth-covered floor took up one corner. An oblong table with mismatched chairs occupied the centre of the room, scattered with pieces of unfinished sewing. There clearly wasn’t a lot of money coming in, but the house was clean, and the children warmly dressed. Apart from Davey and his bare feet.

‘Have a seat, take the weight off,’ Mrs Doyle said, gesturing at the table. ‘Just move those bits and pieces out of the way.’ She sat down herself, with a barely disguised groan. ‘Sew yourself, do you?’

‘Some. I’m assigned to a family with four children. I look after them and tend to the household chores. I’m a sempstress and a broderer by trade. My mistress is a sempstress, too, so I help her a lot.’ Briefly, Harrie considered mentioning her part-time job drawing flash for Leo, but decided against it.

‘Oh, I’m not that clever with a needle,’ Mrs Doyle said. ‘Thanks, love,’ she added as Maureen set down two cups and saucers and a teapot.

‘I’ll go out and get the water for Davey’s feet,’ the girl said.

‘Good lass. I just do drawers and shifts and the like and sell them into the draper’s,’ Mrs Doyle went on. ‘And kiddie’s clothes. I hawk those on a stall at George Street market on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, though I’m thinking of moving down the Haymarket.’ She gave Harrie a sideways look. ‘And I know you’re thinking I must be a convict, but I’m not. Immigrated here years ago.’

‘I am. I stole some silk from a shop,’ Harrie confessed. ‘And Mr Doyle? What does he do?’

Biddy Doyle let out a laugh. ‘Not much you can do from a coffin. He passed years ago.’

Harrie kept her eyes on her teacup, desperate to prevent her gaze from sliding towards the children.

‘Go on, ask,’ Mrs Doyle prompted, clearly amused. ‘All my children are grown now and gone. Two of the boys are at sea, though one’s home on shore leave as we speak, my youngest. The three eldest were Frank Doyle’s kids. I had them in Ireland but then Frank was transported, so I followed him two years later. When I arrived, I found Frank had married himself a new wife. Good old Frank.’

How awful, Harrie thought. ‘Did you bring your children with you?’

‘Oh, yes. They were all quite little. I had four more by another man, and my youngest had a different father again.’ Mrs Doyle beamed. ‘Eight children, I’ve not lost one and I’ve raised them all on my own, so I have. It seems years ago now.’ She seemed faintly surprised. ‘Well, that’s because it was, I suppose.’

‘So these children …?’

‘Maureen, Rosalyn and Terry are my second eldest daughter’s kids, she’s away to a big house in Liverpool, working as a housegirl, and Cathleen and Davey are my middle daughter’s. She’s in the gaol. Always was a tearaway.’ Mrs Doyle sighed. ‘Not a husband between them. I’ve more or less brought these up as my own. Still, that’s what grandmothers are for, isn’t it?’

Harrie wanted to say that she’d done very well for herself, but it didn’t really look as though she had. Mortifyingly, Biddy Doyle seemed to read her mind.

‘Don’t let the house fool you, dear, draughty shitehole that it is. We’ve quite a stash put away, haven’t we, lovies?’ The children nodded energetically. ‘Soon, I’ll have enough saved to buy at least two houses, so we’ll live in one and let the other, and I’ll be a Rocks landlady. Married yourself, are you? How’s your tea? Still hot?’

‘Yes. I mean, no, I’m not. And yes, it is, thank you.’

‘I’m surprised, a pretty girl like you. That lovely hair, though you could do with a good feed, if you don’t mind me saying. How long’s your lag?’

‘I’ve just over five years to serve.’

‘From seven?’

Harrie nodded. The door opened and shut: Harrie assumed it was Maureen with the water so she didn’t turn, and started when a male voice said, ‘Mam, you didn’t tell me we were having visitors.’

She did turn in her seat, then, to see one of the most beautiful young men she’d ever encountered. He was tall, long-legged and wide in the shoulder, but Harrie barely noticed any of that, she was that entranced by his face and extraordinarily dark eyes rimmed with thick black lashes. Dark stubble dusted his chin and upper lip, and heavy brunet curls fell untidily to his collar. Most men would look like a girl with an effeminate hairstyle like that, she thought, but not this one. Definitely not this one. But he couldn’t be any older than her. Even younger, perhaps. He flashed a smile full of white teeth and she felt it in the pit of her belly.

‘Where have you been?’ Mrs Doyle demanded. ‘And where’s our ham bones? My son, Mick,’ she added to Harrie. ‘Went out yesterday to do the shopping. Being helpful.’

Mick shrugged. ‘Sorry, Mam, I was waylaid, so I was.’

‘Waylaid at the pub.’ Mrs Doyle snorted. ‘Where did you sleep last night?’

Mick was saved from answering by Davey scampering around the table and tugging on his distinctly crumpled trouser leg. ‘What did you bring me?’

Scooping him up, Mick plucked a shilling from his ear. Davey shrieked in amazement. ‘Hang on, I haven’t finished yet,’ Mick said, burrowing a hand into Davey’s jacket pocket and finding a large twist of aniseed balls.

Harrie smiled, charmed. She could see that his mother was, too. And no doubt always had been.

Mick put Davey down and patted his backside. ‘Go on, be a good lad and share them with the others.’

‘Go gentle on that bum,’ Mrs Doyle warned. ‘He’s just had a walloping for running off again. Miss Clarke here was, kind enough to bring him back.’

‘That was nice of you,’ Mick said, treating Harrie to another devastating smile. ‘Thank you.’

Feeling unaccountably flustered, Harrie stood. ‘My pleasure. I should be going. Thank you for the tea, Mrs Doyle. Very nice to have met you, er, Mr Doyle.’

Mick laughed. ‘It’s Mick.’

Harrie nodded and collected her bonnet and basket. As she moved towards the door, Mick stepped in front of her and opened it, revealing a cross-looking Maureen with a bucket of water in each hand. The communal pump must be miles away, Harrie thought. They stood aside to let her in. As Mick followed her out, Harrie heard Mrs Doyle call to him, but he shut the door on her.

He settled a hand on her arm, sending a jolt of heat through the fabric of her jacket all the way up to her shoulder. ‘Come out with me, for a drink. Thursday night at the St Patrick’s Inn. Do you know it?’

She stared at him, shocked at his audacity. ‘I couldn’t!’

He grinned and she got that melty feeling in her belly again.

‘Why not?’

Her face was flaming. ‘I don’t … I just can’t.’

‘Sure you can.’ He touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers and she felt her skin ignite.

She couldn’t. It was out of the question. Wasn’t it?

The St Patrick’s Inn was packed, the din was raucous — shouts, roars of laughter and the thump of tankards on wooden tables — and a pungent blanket of pipe smoke hung five feet above the floor. Clutching her reticule, Harrie hovered just inside the door, sure that any minute now everyone would turn and stare at her. Not accustomed to going into hotels, she’d worried herself sick that she’d be the only female present, but far from it; she could count at least a dozen already.

She had no idea how to conduct herself in this sort of situation. She should have brought Friday — she knew what you were supposed to do in a pub. But Friday would only have told her what she’d already realised; that Mick Doyle wasn’t the right man for her. A wave of panic swept through her and for a moment she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. No matter how much Mick thrilled and fascinated her, this was wrong and she didn’t belong here. But just as she turned to go Mick appeared, looking even more breathtaking than he had at his mother’s house, and took her elbow. All her doubts deserted her.

‘My love, you came! I knew you would.’ He bent and kissed her neck, his lips soft and warm. She suppressed a shudder of delight. ‘Come and have a drink, meet my mates.’

His mates? Harrie felt a sharp stab of disappointment; she’d imagined it would just be the two of them. But she allowed Mick to guide her through the mass of bodies to a table, at which sat possibly the strangest assortment of men she’d ever seen, and that was saying something in Sydney Town.

‘Listen up, you lot,’ Mick said. ‘This is the beautiful and charming Miss Clarke.’ He then proceeded to introduce his friends one by one without giving her time to respond, which she couldn’t do anyway as the noise was so great and she was completely unable to think of what to say beyond ‘hello’.

Rian Farrell, a dashing, rather stern-looking young man with fair hair tied in a cue, was apparently captain of the schooner on which Mick sailed.

‘But that’s not why Mam calls him Captain,’ Mick said. ‘It’s because he went to the Royal School in Armagh and knows the right knife to use.’ Then he gave a hoot of laughter, which alarmed and completely mystified Harrie.

Captain Farrell nodded and bid her a polite ‘Good evening’.

Beside him sat a slightly older man Mick introduced simply as Pierre. Pierre was small and wiry, wore his hair in a plait, had a face like a little monkey except for a thin moustache and tapered Vandyke beard, and sported three gold teeth. He greeted her with, ‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.’

‘Bayou Acadian,’ Mick explained.

Harrie had no idea what that meant, either.

‘And this is Running Hawk, our first mate.’

Running Hawk inclined his head in greeting. He also wore his hair in plaits, a very long, oiled black pair that fell against his chest, and was dressed in trousers and the sort of soft, loose shirt Harrie thought might be more suitable for bed. His skin was olive, but nowhere near as dark as that of the absolute behemoth of a man sitting next to him taking up the space of two ordinary folk. His complexion was as black as midnight, causing his teeth to shine a luminous white when he smiled, stood, bowed slightly and extended an enormous hand. Very cautiously, Harrie shook it.

‘Good evening, Miss Clarke,’ the huge man said in excellent English. ‘I am delighted to meet you.’

‘Gideon’s from Africa,’ Mick said. ‘And this is Te Kanene.’

Te Kanene was Maori, from a tribe called Ngati Kahungunu on the east coast of New Zealand, and not pleased to see her, Harrie suspected, given his disapproving look. He had protruding eyes, a hooked nose, and a beautiful tattoo over his entire face. You’d better watch out, she shocked herself by thinking, Bella’ll be after you. Even though he was very young — they all were, in fact — his bearing and arrogance were that of a man much older. Harrie didn’t like him at all.