A Kiss and a Promise (35 page)

Ginny laughed. She had not told Danny the whole story, still thinking this would be very unfair, but had merely said she had seen her Uncle Lew with a young woman and had mentioned it without thinking, in Aunt Amy’s presence. It seemed that this explanation was quite sufficient for Danny, who had whistled, told her she’d not got a ha’p’orth of sense and applauded her decision to go to her father in Ireland until things blew over.

‘They will, o’course,’ he had said confidently. ‘Your Uncle Lew were always a one for the gals; me mam used to say he’d got a girl in every port durin’ the war, though Dad couldn’t see what the gals saw in him.’

‘Ye-es, Aunt Mary said something of the sort, too,’ Ginny admitted. ‘But I’m better off out of it, Danny. As for what you should say, you tell ’em I’ve gone to me dad. Don’t say you lended me the money, say I’ve got savin’s from when I lived in Victoria Court and came back to fetch ’em out.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ Danny said contentedly, pushing the rest of the money back into the pockets of his ragged kecks. ‘Now are you sure that money’ll see you through, chuck? Only Annie don’t fancy gettin’ up before dawn to raid the skip on Maddox Street, so I’ve had no one to share the money with, which means I’ve got a fair amount stowed away. I’m willin’ to lend you another quid if you like.’

Ginny, however, already weighed down by the responsibility of what she felt to be a very large sum, shook her head. ‘No thanks, Danny, this’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. ‘Mind you, if they come questioning you in the next couple o’ days, I’d rather you didn’t tell them too soon. I don’t want to be caught this side of the water and hauled off to an orphanage or back to Schubert Street to be beaten up by Uncle Lew.’

Danny looked a little self-conscious. ‘Actually, I’m off on a campin’ trip wi’ my scout troop, later on in the morning,’ he admitted. ‘They’re takin’ us by coach into the countryside and we’ll put up our tents on a farm. It’s grand fun, we make all our own meals, light fires, fetch water from the stream … oh, it’s great, I’m tellin’ you. There’s sing-songs round the camp fire of an evening, and of course we work for our badges. But the thing is, queen, we’ll be gone three days, so no one won’t be able to ask me wharr I know for a while.’

‘That’s a bit of luck,’ Ginny observed. ‘You’re a real pal, Danny; I won’t ever forget what you’ve done for me and you shall have your savings back as soon as I reach Headland Farm.’

Despite Ginny’s fears, she managed the business of buying a ticket on the Irish ferry quite well. She knew she would be half price but rather doubted whether she would be able to purchase a ticket without facing a barrage of questions as to why she was not accompanied by an adult. Therefore, she waited until she saw a motherly-looking woman join the queue and then ran up to her, saying breathlessly: ‘Oh, missus, would you mind buyin’ me a half fare to Dublin, please? Me aunt has gone ahead of me – she sent me back to the chemist to get her some pills, ’cos she’s always sick on the sea – an’ I can see her up there on the boat deck, waving to me to gerra move on.’

The woman turned and looked at the long queue behind her, then tutted indulgently and took the money Ginny was holding out. ‘Awright, you young devil,’ she said cheerfully. ‘At least this way your aunt won’t be worryin’ in case you miss the boat altogether.’

Twenty minutes later Ginny, and everyone else, was aboard the huge ferry. Ginny settled herself comfortably at the prow of the ship, and hung over the rail, at first peering eagerly into the water as it creamed against the bows and then staring ahead for the magical first glimpse of that even more magical island which lay ahead.

It was the beginning of August and the weather continued bright and sunny. Michael and Declan simply threw themselves into the task of getting as much routine work as possible done on the farm, so that Michael could set out for England earlier than he had promised. His mother and father had both tackled the work with equal enthusiasm, for they could not wait to see their granddaughter and were planning all sorts of treats for her arrival.

Michael set off on the cross-country journey bearing presents – a box of new-laid eggs, a couple of chickens plucked and trussed ready for the oven, and a large bag full of ripe Victoria plums. In addition, his mother, who was an expert needlewoman, had made a couple of dainty lawn aprons for Aunt Amy, and after a great deal of thought he had purchased a tobacco pouch filled with his father’s favourite shag for Lew. Michael had never met the older man, but remembered that George had once made a mocking remark about Lew’s addiction to pipe smoking, so hoped this might be a suitable gift. Judging from Ginny’s letters, both Amy and Lew had been good to her, and though he had paid them so that the cost of her upkeep had not fallen upon them, he was still extremely grateful. Granny Bennett had been paid, too, but she had given Ginny neither love nor care so Michael felt no impulse to buy a present for her. He was rather proud that he had managed to get aboard the ferry without breaking so much as one egg and when he eventually arrived at the Liverpool quay he felt even luckier, for the first tram which met his eyes had ‘Seaforth’ on its destination board.

It was mid-afternoon, and Michael settled himself and his parcels on one of the slatted wooden seats near the entrance, deciding that he would ask the conductor to warn him when Seaforth was approaching, so that he might gather up his bundles and packages in good time.

The conductor looked a little dubious at this request, beginning to ask Michael which stop he wanted, then changing his mind. ‘I’ll put you off at the Rimrose Bridge. Anyone will give you directions from there,’ he said cordially. ‘Reckon I ought to charge you a double fare since your parcels is takin’ up a whole seat, but seeing as the bleedin’ lecky is half empty, I’ll let you off this time.’

He grinned and Michael grinned back and thanked him, and presently he announced that the Rimrose Bridge were comin’ up and Michael found himself on a busy stretch of road, with a number of people hurrying in various directions. He stopped an elderly man with a cigarette apparently glued to his lower lip, and a filthy cap pulled so low over his eyes that he had to tilt his chin to see who was addressing him; but he gave Michael concise directions and very soon the young man found himself turning into Schubert Street. As he approached the Bennetts’ house, he suddenly realised that he was nervous. Suppose the child didn’t like him? Suppose she had grown used to living in comparative luxury with her aunt and uncle and did not much want to leave the comforts of city life for the hardships of the country? Worse, suppose he did not like her? On the whole, he thought he rather liked children, but he could not bear whining kids or the loud-mouthed, spoiled sort, who were never happy unless they were causing their parents grief.

Without realising it, his footsteps had slowed. Suppose she was a pink-eyed, pink-nosed, snivelling kid who complained about everything and was never really happy? Suppose she thought him a country bumpkin, and showed contempt? Suppose her letters had been dictated by a wish to keep the money coming in rather than a desire to meet him?

But by now he was standing directly in front of the door, and he raised his hand to rap sharply on the faded wooden panel; how ridiculous he was being! It was pointless to conjecture when, within minutes, he would be meeting his daughter for the first time. And she isn’t just my daughter, he reminded himself as the echoes of his knock faded away, she’s Stella’s daughter as well and I simply don’t believe that a child of Stella’s could be anything but perfect.

Heartened by this thought, he knocked again and then stood back as footsteps came rapidly along what sounded like a linoleum-covered passage towards the front door.

The door shot open and a woman appeared. She was small, skinny and dark but even when she only said, sharply, ‘Yes?’ Michael could feel her concentrated energy and guessed at once that this must be Aunt Amy. Ginny had not described her but had said she never stopped working and never seemed to get tired. Michael looked down into the narrow, intelligent face and thought she was very different from Granny Bennett, whom he remembered as being both lazy and malicious. But even as he opened his mouth to speak, the woman forestalled him.

‘Oh my Gawd!’ she said and a thin, work-worn hand flew to her throat. ‘Oh dear God, you don’t have to tell me … you’re our Ginny’s dad, Michael Gallagher, and you’ve arrived early.’

‘Aye, that’s me, so it is,’ Michael said, ‘and you’ll be Mrs Amy Bennett. I know I’ve come before me time but I were able to get away early because o’ the fine weather, you know.’ He heard a commotion in the passageway behind her and saw a child’s shape as a door within the house was opened. ‘Is that me daughter? Eh, I’m longin’ to see her, so I am.’

He expected that this remark would bring forth some similar reply to the effect that Ginny, too, was longing to see her daddy, but instead Amy Bennett’s eyes darted past him and for a moment she stood irresolute, still blocking the doorway. Then, almost grudgingly it seemed, she stood aside and beckoned him to enter the house. ‘You’d best come along in,’ she said gruffly. ‘It’s – it’s a long story and you ain’t going to be pleased but, honest to God, we’ve done everythin’ we could. In fact, only this mornin’ …’ She was ahead of him now and entered the room with the open door, saying over her shoulder as she did so: ‘I’ll send the kids outside and we’ll talk in the kitchen. Oh, I wish Lew were here!’

It was a long story but Amy told it concisely, making it clear that she no longer blamed Ginny for any of it. ‘For once I got down to doin’ a bit of investigatin’ meself,’ she explained, ‘it were clear that Ginny had discovered the whole story, an’ a pretty nasty one it was so far as I were concerned. Ginny had said the boys were Lew’s sons and she were right. Not only that, but he had married Dolly as soon as they found she were in the family way, which means, o’ course, that when he married me it were – it were bigamy, an’ that means I ain’t married at all.’

‘I see,’ Michael said slowly. ‘So you say Lew threw Ginny out? I’m sorry, Mrs Bennett, but I don’t quite see … surely me daughter came back? Or did she go to George and Mary? I quite believe she wouldn’t want to live with old Mrs Bennett, but she were always fond of her Uncle George and Aunt Mary, or so she said in her letters.’

‘Aye, that were what we thought,’ Amy agreed. She had round, brown eyes as bright as a robin’s and now they met Michael’s own, squarely. ‘The fact is, Mr Gallagher, that she must have believed Lew would really do her harm, and since the old woman is living with George and Mary, I reckon she was scared to go there an’ all. We telled the scuffers and all the neighbours and so on, that there’d bin a family row and she took herself off, but … well, you know what kids are like; in a great big city like Liverpool, one little girl can just disappear. I hope to God no harm’s come to her but Ivy, she’s me eldest, don’t seem to think so. Ginny’s gorra lot of pals, an’ I reckon one of ’em’s got her hid away somewhere. She’s only been gone three days … today’s the fourth day, so I’m expectin’ news of her any time now.’

Michael sat for a moment in deep thought, then scraped his chair back and stood up. He had listened to Amy, but at first had been unable to take in what had happened. At first, too, slow anger had burned within him, making it difficult to think clearly. But now he had thought and had decided what he should do next. ‘Has anyone been round to her old schoolteacher, that Miss Derbyshire?’ he asked huskily. ‘I didn’t take to her meself – well, she didn’t approve of me and said so – but Ginny were rare fond of the woman. And there were kids in Victoria Court that she mentioned once or twice; has someone tried them?’

‘I reckon the scuffers have been round,’ Amy said after a moment’s thought. ‘But no, I don’t reckon the family have tried her old schoolteacher, nor yet her pals from the court. Ivy said our Ginny had gone back to meet up wi’ some girl called Annie, or Nellie, a couple of times, or some such, but the gal had made new friends and Ginny felt kind o’ out of it.’ She brightened. Not only did she have a robin’s round eyes, but she had a sharp little beak of a nose as well, Michael thought, and decided that he liked her and felt very sorry for the way Lew had treated her. ‘If you want, I could send our Ivy round to ask the kids; I reckon they’d tell her a good deal more’n they’d tell you or me.’

‘Aye, you’re right there. Kids will talk to one another quick enough,’ Michael agreed. ‘But I’ll go meself to have a word wi’ Miss Derbyshire, so if Ivy cares to come along o’ me … oh, by the way, I brought some eggs an’ a couple of fowls and that, from the farm.’ He indicated the brown paper bags which he had set down on the table. ‘I hope they’ll be of some use to you.’

Amy smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks very much,’ she said. ‘And Ivy would be glad to help. She’s rare fond of her cousin, is Ivy. Why, after the row, she cried herself to sleep, an’ now she won’t talk to her dad, just turns her head away when he speaks to her.’ She grinned suddenly at Michael and her narrow face looked almost pretty for a moment. Michael had found himself wondering what Lew had seen in her, for he remembered Stella telling him that her brother liked easy, flamboyant women, but now he understood. Amy might not be the type Lew usually went for but she had her own subtle charm and, anyway, he guessed it had been she who had made most of the running during their courtship.

‘I’ll fetch her,’ Amy said. She bustled over to the back door and flung it open, screeching her daughter’s name so loudly that Michael thought the kid would have heard it even if she had been down at the Pier Head. But as it happened, the child must have been hovering just outside the back door, for she came into the kitchen at once, saying eagerly as she did so: ‘Was that Ginny’s da’ at the door, Mam? Wharrever did he say when you … ?’ Oh …’ She saw Michael, clapped a hand over her mouth, then grinned apologetically up at him. ‘Sorry, mister, I thought you’d gone.’

‘Well he hasn’t,’ her mother said briefly, and outlined the proposed expedition to Victoria Court. ‘And then he’ll want to see that there teacher – I can’t remember the woman’s name – what your cousin were so fond of,’ she added. ‘I dunno where she lives but I reckon it won’t be far from the Rathbone Street school. Here, I’ll give you tuppence for the tram.’