The Girl From Penny Lane (13 page)

Although nothing would have persuaded Kitty to go home, she was in a quandary over what she should do. She was beginning to think she would never find Penny Lane and even if she did, she doubted that she would dare approach the girl, not in her present state. But how to get herself cleaned up and respectable she could not think; she dared not return to the canal, it was too near the Court. Yet despite the fact that she was dirty, nit-ridden and sometimes very lonely, and would soon be indecent, for her shirt was falling apart, she felt surprisingly well, and hunger, her constant companion in the old days, had been routed by the vegetables and odds and ends of food which she nicked each night from the gardens and dustbins of the rich.

So going home was out of the question – she still shuddered at the thought of the violence and abuse which would greet her if she tried – yet Penny Lane had come to seem an insubstantial dream, somewhere to think wistfully about, but not a place which a girl like her would ever actually visit. And time was passing. In a few days – she had lost track of time – the school holidays would be over and the authorities would undoubtedly find her and either put her into the workhouse or force her to return home.

If only I was clean, Kitty yearned. A clean, well-dressed child could do all sorts and no one would ask where they were going or what they were doing, but a filthy little street arab was everyone’s enemy, from the school truant officer to the scuffer on the beat.

And then, when she was beginning to lose heart and to think about going back to Upper Burly and throwing herself on someone’s mercy, she had a stroke of luck. Sack on shoulder, she was trying a new direction, a way she had not gone before. She decided to try going in a straight line instead of wandering randomly, and eventually she struck Lark Lane and, crossing it, Linnet Lane. Lark Lane was busy, with a great many shops and businesses, but Linnet Lane was quite different. The houses on her left as she walked were huge and set so far back from the road that she could only make them out by peering, and even the houses on her right were substantial, with nice big gardens and motor cars standing in their driveways.

Then she reached another intersection, Park Lane, and when she looked to her left now, she could see a public park, an absolutely huge one, and what she thought must be several miles of grass and gravel walks, hundreds of trees and, in the distance, what looked like water . . . a canal? A river? A lake? She knew it could not be the sea, but it was worth investigating. So Kitty set off across the park and was soon in a daze of pleasure over its many attractions.

She found a half moon of cages, each one containing various species of rare and exotic birds. Children’s nannies, in navy coats and heavy shoes, with their small charges in high perambulators or running alongside, sat and gossiped around the gravel sweep, and called to the children not to run on the gravel or they’d fall and skin their knees and then what would Mamma say? Kitty stayed close to the cages and eyed the children with interest but without envy. What a quantity of fussy clothing they wore, considering the warmth of the day! And although they were fat and well fed, with lovely clean pinafores and dresses, how the nannies nagged at them!

‘Master Reginald, don’t tease the pretty parrot!’

‘Miss Dora, you’ll feel the weight of my hand if you spit; little ladies do not spit!’

Kitty, who had just spent an absorbing ten minutes teasing the parrots, and who did not grudge the beakful of skin one of them had endeavoured to gouge out of the back of her hand, smiled with secret sympathy at the would-be parrot teaser, slouching back to his minder with hanging head, but then she began to notice that she was the object of attention from several of the nannies. They were looking at her oddly and she realised that she was very out of place in this beautiful park where the children of the rich came to feed the birds, row on the water and play ball on the soft, green grass. However, just as she was about to turn tail and continue her search, a stop-me-and-buy-one came trundling along one of the walks, and the attention of the nannies was immediately diverted. Almost with one voice, the children demanded ices and the nannies, equally with one voice, reminded their charges that tea would be spoilt – and pretty dresses and trousers ruined – should they be allowed such a treat at this hour.

The stop-me-and-buy-one winked at Kitty, then began to shout his wares. Kitty, like a moth to a flame, drew nearer. The stop-me-and-buy-one leaned over and lifted the lid off his chilled container. The most glorious smell wafted out. The lad – for he was little more – picked up a metal scoop and began to pile the rich yellow ice-cream into a large cone until it looked like the picture of a pyramid in Kitty’s school primer.

‘Want one, Iuv?’ he said enticingly. ‘Only ’alfpenny to you, queen.’

‘I ’aven’t . . .’ Kitty began, but picked up at once on the tiny shake of the head he gave, and the warning glance in his rather watery eyes. ‘Oh, thanks,’ she said instead, holding out a filthy paw gripped into a fist, as though her closed fingers held the money owing.

‘Master George, little gentlemen don’t ever hit ladies. If you do that again . . .’

A nanny had been kicked in the shins for her refusal to part with pennies for an ice-cream, Kitty realised. She grinned, taking the cone from the lad and conveying it slowly and with maximum effect to her mouth. The afternoon was hot, however, and the ice-cream was already beginning to melt so she shot out her tongue and swiped an all-encompassing lick at the sweet, slithery mountain of frozen cream.

‘
She’s
got one and she’s only a guttersnipe,’ whined George. ‘Georgie’s hot, Nan, Georgie wanna nice-cweam!’

‘If you call names you’ll get nothing,’ the nanny in question said quickly. ‘Come along, Master George, time you wasn’t here.’

‘You said guttersnipe,’ Master George said sulkily. ‘You said it was a rum thing when little guttersnipes . . .’

‘That’s enough,’ the nanny said sharply, her spade-shaped face reddening. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to, Master George.’

‘Mamma often lets Philly and me have ices when we’ve been good,’ a tot in a pink cotton dress, with a butterfly bow in her curls, said persuasively to her nanny. ‘Sometimes when it’s hot she comes up to the nursery and gives us pennies so’s we can run down when we hear the man’s tinkle-bell.’

‘Very well, Miss Rose, you may have a cone this once, but only because it’s so very hot. Yes, Master Philip, you may have one too, and since you’re the gentleman you may take the pennies, and go and buy two cones . . .’

It started a rout, of course.

‘Ices, ices,’ rose the babbling cry. ‘
She’s
got one . . . everyone gets an ice but me!’ Nannies fished in pockets, in handbags, down the side of perambulators and presently the stop-me-and-buy-one, with his leather bag full of pennies, prepared to ride on, giving his big black bicycle a shove off, accompanied by another wink at Kitty.

But Kitty, seeing what amounted to the first real friendliness she had known since she left home about to disappear, forsook the aviary, crammed the rest of the best food she had ever tasted into her mouth, and followed.

‘Oy, mister,’ she said, desperately trotting. ‘D’you know where Penny Lane is? I come along Park Lane an’ Linnet Lane . . . is it near, eh?’

‘Oh, aye, everyone knows Penny Lane, chuck; it’s only t’other side of the park,’ the lad said. ‘Know Greenbank, do you?’

‘No, I don’t know anything much round ’ere,’ Kitty admitted, padding along on her hard, bare feet but rather regretting the gravel, nevertheless. ‘I’m from Upper Burly, meself.’

‘Oh aye? I’m from Coltart Road; Colly, we call it. Let’s think . . . Upper Burly . . . eh, queen, you’re a long way from ’ome! So far’s I recall, that’s the far side o’ the Scottie, ain’t it?’

‘That’s right. But I’ve got a friend lives in Penny Lane, I never been there though. Nice, is it?’

‘Yeah, nice ’ouses,’ the lad said. ‘Foller me, I’ll put you on the right road. ’Cep’ I’ll ’ave to stop off at the cricket ground if there’s a game goin’ on.’

So for the rest of that hot afternoon Kitty followed the stop-me-and-buy-one and they chatted of this and that and Kitty admitted she’d run away from home and told the lad why. But she gave him a false name – Kathleen Legatt – and told him her da was on the ferries. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him, exactly. More that she trusted no one. And with Penny Lane no longer a dream but about to become reality she had no desire to feel a hand on her shoulder and hear a constable’s voice saying, ‘Hello-ello-ello!’ in the time-honoured fashion.

The roundabout route taken by the stop-me-and-buy-one meant that day was fading gently into dusk by the time Penny Lane actually came into view. Kitty’s new friend, who had been pedalling slower and slower, came to a halt and pointed at the road opposite.

‘There y’are, chuck! Want the last of me ice-cream?’

Kitty accepted the cone eagerly, then looked doubtfully down the road which the stop-me-and-buy-one had indicated. It was longer than she had imagined, and much smarter, though the houses seemed to be mostly terraced or semi-detached. But now she had arrived she began to wonder how she would ever get up the nerve to knock on one door, let alone dozens and dozens, always assuming she did not strike lucky at once. And if she did, what was she to say?

‘It’s gettin’ late,’ she said pensively. ‘A bit late for callin’, would you say?’ The lad chuckled and began to push his heavy old bicycle away from the kerb. ‘Don’t purrit off, love,’ he advised kindly. ‘Tomorrer’s a long way off an’ you’ve walked your feet down to the ankles I shouldn’t wonder, jes’ to get ’ere. A friend’s a friend, no marrer what time o’night you turns up, so she’ll tek you in. Cheerio, Kat’leen, an’ good luck!’

‘Bye, and thanks,’ Kitty said earnestly. ‘Thanks for everyt’ing. You’re a real pal, you are.’ But he had gone, with one last wave, pedalling tiredly away, his whole body drooping with fatigue.

Kitty stood on the edge of the kerb, contemplating the length of Penny Lane. As she did so a figure came cycling slowly along Greenbank Road, stopping at each lamp post as he reached it. The lamplighter was doing his rounds. If I don’t get up me courage an’ start a-knockin’, the Lord above knows what I’ll do tonight, Kitty reminded herself stoutly. Git a move on then, kid!

Obedient to her own command, Kitty crossed the road and began to walk along the pavement. Immediately it struck her that these neat little suburban houses had no great flights of steps under which she might hide herself for the night, nor could she even begin to think about a return to Rodney Street until she’d had a few hours rest.

So you’ve got no choice, Kitty Drinkwater, she told herself firmly. It’s find the girl from Penny Lane or get took up for a vagrant and chucked into the work’ouse. So start, Kitty, or git back to that park afore the gates is locked an’ barred.

Lilac heard the bad news about the house only a matter of days before Nellie and Stuart left for their new home in London. She had been given a day off because Mr Matteson had hired a car to drive himself and his wife up to their cottage in Scarisbrick to choose curtains and carpets, so she had come round to help Nellie with her packing.

In fact she was full of her own plans as that very morning Polly had confirmed that if the house in Penny Lane was really to be theirs, she had a fourth girl eager to join Lilac, herself and Liza.

‘Marie’s little sister ’ad twins two days ago; Marie’s Mam thinks it’ud be better if Marie moved out, though she’ll still want a bit of money from ’er, especially now,’ Polly had said. ‘But wi’ four of us rent-sharin’ . . . .’

Stuart had told the landlord of Number 39 that he had passed on the property to respectable relatives, who would pay the rent as promptly as he and Nellie had done, but unfortunately, whilst discussing the hand-over, the landlord suddenly realised that his new tenants were four young girls. As soon as he did so, his whole demeanour towards Stuart changed.

‘I’m a God-fearin’ Cat’olic, and dere’s no bawdy ’ouse bein’ run in any of
my
properties,’ he exclaimed angrily. Although Stuart did his very best to reassure the man that the girls were decent, hardworking young women who would not dream of entertaining young men on his premises even during daylight hours, he simply tightened his self-righteous, rat-trap mouth and shook his head.

‘Dey isn’t comin’ ’ere, Mr Gallagher,’ he repeated with parrot-like obstinacy and a complete disregard for every word his tenant had uttered. ‘What would de priest say to me, allowin’ such a carry-on?’

‘I’m that sorry, queen,’ Stuart said, when he let Lilac in and took her through to the kitchen where Nellie was wrapping china in newspaper and placing it in tea-chests. ‘I did my best to explain but there was no hope of his even listening properly once he found you were under fifty. He’s an old fool, but it is his house.’

‘Well, I suppose it was too good to be true; anyway, the house is a long way from my new job,’ Lilac admitted. She was to start work at the bag and sack factory in Bridgewater Street the following Monday, and had consoled herself for having to put up with what would, she believed, turn out to be a boring and repetitive job with the thought that at least she was to have a little house to run and friends to share it with. She was bitterly disappointed over Stuart’s news, but did not intend to let Stuart and Nellie believe they had let her down. ‘Polly and Liza are both keen, though, so perhaps we’ll find somewhere else, even if it’s not as nice.’

‘Try for a good neighbourhood, love,’ Nellie urged. ‘Oh dear, if I’d known . . . but there are decent little rooms to let round here, I suppose you could get one of them.’

‘Look, we’ll be all right,’ Lilac assured her. ‘Don’t worry, our Nell, it’s not good for the baby when you worry, and anyway Mrs Matteson will let me stay on in Rodney Street till the end of the month so there’s no hurry. I’ll let you know as soon as I find somewhere and it will be somewhere respectable, honest to God. I won’t go back to the courts, even if I’m offered.’