Little Girl Lost (18 page)

Maeve had laughed at the time but she did understand what Clodagh had meant. The only thing the farmer owned nearby was the post and wire fencing which surrounded his field, so his violent shouts that ‘them thievin’ little buggers’ should get off his land had seemed somewhat unnecessary. After all, what use would two little girls have for post and wire fencing unless, of course, they really could take it home and gobble it up.

Chuckling to herself at the recollection, though she supposed there was nothing really to laugh about, Maeve dressed the baby in the warm coat – rather too large for her – which she had bought from a stallholder in the Iveagh Market last time Sylvie’s money had arrived. She did not have to glance through the window to know that it was cold outside, for despite the fire, which was always kept burning in the kitchen, icy draughts came through the ancient cracked wood of the window surrounds, and fairly whistled up the stairs. Maeve unhooked her own coat from the back of the door, slipped it on, and buttoned it up. It had once belonged to Caitlin and it was growing threadbare now, so Maeve added a large shawl before picking up the baby and settling her on one hip. She then muffled both of them in the voluminous folds, and set off down the treacherous creaking stairs. Recently, Pat had cut her a little crutch from a trimmed tree branch, which was very useful, but when she had the baby in her arms it was more of a hindrance than a help.

She reached the inner hall and shivered. It had obviously snowed in the night and the wind had blown a small drift in through the sagging front door to pile up against the opposite wall. Horrible, horrible winter, she thought, taking the twins’ homemade handcart down from where it stood against the wall and plonking the baby in it before letting herself out into the street. If she had not had so many messages, she could have kept the baby on her hip, but she would need the handcart, for she had a deal of marketing to do, besides hoping to acquire an orange box. Quickly, she took off the shawl and wrapped it round the baby, shivering as the cold struck her anew. Catherine Mary was like a little hot water bottle held against her hip, but it was more important to keep the baby cosy than to warm herself. How I wish spring would arrive early for once, she thought as she pushed the handcart out on to the cobbles. When the weather grew milder, there would be clumps of snowdrops under the trees in Phoenix Park, and crocuses would poke blue, purple and gold noses up through the leaf mould, but while it was so bitterly cold spring seemed far off indeed.

‘The top o’ the day to you, Maeve me little love!’ Mr and Mrs Cavanagh were returning home after a shopping expedition, and Maeve felt a stab of guilt. When the weather was foul, she usually popped into the Cavanaghs’ after taking the children to school to ask if they had any messages, but this morning she had completely forgotten, so the old couple had had to brave the cold, and the snow, to buy their own small requirements. ‘Oh, Mr Cavanagh, Mrs Cavanagh, I’m so sorry,’ she said repentantly. ‘The truth is it was snowing when I got back to the alley and I was so anxious to get meself and the babe back into the warm that I clean forgot to call on you. And today’s Friday an’ all.’

Friday was fish day and Maeve knew that the Cavanaghs, who liked a piece of fresh cod, would have had difficulty in obtaining it, for the boats in Dun Laoghaire would not go out in severe weather. The Cavanaghs, however, were smiling cheerfully at her. ‘Sure and aren’t you a good little soul?’ Mr Cavanagh said genially. ‘But we had to go out ourselves this mornin’. The lady what used to employ Mrs Cavanagh to mend sheets and such said she’d some white work which needed doing. There were a rent in a fine lace tablecloth which she wanted mending and she planned to lace-edge half a dozen plain napkins to match it. She’ll pay well for the work and she agreed Mrs Cavanagh could do it in her own home provided she could finish it by Sunday morning. So we had to go and fetch it.’ He flourished a large oilskin shopping bag. ‘It’s in here, and if it’s finished in time we’ll be two bob the richer!’

‘That’s grand, so it is,’ Maeve said sincerely, beginning to move away. She did not suggest that she might have collected the tablecloth and napkins from Mrs Cavanagh’s old employer because she knew that no lady would hand over a beautiful lace tablecloth and six snowy napkins to a little ragamuffin from Handkerchief Alley. Still, it did mean it had not been her fault that the Cavanaghs had had to leave their home and face the snowy conditions outside.

Maeve began to hurry, thinking to herself how grand it was to have boots on her feet. When she had lived at home, bare feet were taken for granted, even in weather such as this, but Caitlin sent her children to Our Lady’s school on Baggot Street where every single child wore not only boots, but also a smart uniform. Caitlin had sighed over the expense but she and Pat thought education tremendously important, so every morning the children were dressed in neat blue jerseys, with pinafores for the girls and dark jackets for the boys, and boots of course, always well polished. As soon as they returned from school, clothes and boots were snatched off them and stowed away in the press, ready for next day. And of course, such precious clothing would be handed down to younger brothers and sisters when it no longer fitted the child for whom it had been bought.

Maeve, of course, had never attended Our Lady’s; in fact, she had rarely attended school at all, though Caitlin had taught her to read and write, and doing the messages had speedily helped her to understand the value of money and to be able to add up in her head quicker than most people could do it with pencil and paper. Sometimes she dreamed of being able to send Catherine Mary to Our Lady’s and she tried to save up her pennies so that she might buy a uniform jersey, though she doubted that she could ever run to boots. But this was daydreaming, and she knew it. She would never be able to afford the fees which were charged at Our Lady’s; even the penny a day asked at St Joseph’s had been too much for her poor mother, though the Vincent St Paul’s Society had paid for the schooling of both her older sisters, which just went to prove how poverty-stricken poor widow Connolly was, because everyone knew that the Vincent St Paul’s Society would make you sell every little thing you possessed before they would stump up so much as a penny piece. Caitlin had once told her that the Society’s money could only be handed over after something called means testing, which meant that the Society’s representative came into your home and made sure that you had nothing before they handed out help.

By now, Maeve had reached Mr Farrington’s chemist shop and she popped in to enquire about rat poison, only to be told once again that there was nothing less dangerous available. Then she continued to hurry along Francis Street, nipping into the butcher’s shop for scrag end of mutton to make a stew, and into the grocer’s for tea, sugar and rice. Her last but one call was at Cullen’s dairy, where she bought a couple of pints of milk before turning back towards home, because she intended to make a rice pudding for the evening meal. She had left the greengrocer until last, because she meant to wheedle an orange box from him and that, and the potatoes and stewing vegetables she would buy, were the heaviest items on her list.

She was turning into Handkerchief Alley when she saw two large boys, looking rather furtive, emerging on to the main street. One was carrying something, swinging it casually yet seeming to try, at the same time, to keep it out of sight. Maeve stared, then limped across the space which separated them, her face beginning to flush as hot blood rose to her cheeks. The boy was carrying a cat, swinging it by one leg, and Maeve could see that the creature was not dead for it was trying feebly to free itself from the boy’s grip.

‘Put that cat down!’ Maeve shouted, skidding to a halt in front of the boys.

The lad holding the cat tried to put the creature behind his back. ‘It ain’t nobody else’s cat, it’s just a rotten old stray what steals scraps out of the dustbins and chases the pigeons,’ he said defensively. ‘We’re goin’ to chuck it in the Liffey where it’ll drown, an’ a good thing, too.’

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Maeve said, not mincing words. She was a good deal smaller than both boys but her indignation at such cruelty overrode any fear she might have felt and besides, right was on her side. When she guessed, from the way the boys’ glances slid past her, that they meant to make a break for it, were actually looking forward to seeing the cat’s dying agony as it sank below the waters of Anna Liffey, indignation gave her strength. She lunged forward, punching the cat holder so hard that she knocked all the wind out of him. He bent forward, coughing and wheezing, and even as his grip loosened Maeve caught the cat round its body and swung it into her own arms. It was pathetically thin, more skin and bone than anything else, and trembling violently, but to her astonishment and pleasure, even as she tucked it in the crook of one arm, it actually began to purr.

‘Good puss, good little cat then,’ Maeve said. She gave the boys one last glare, then returned to the handcart. Catherine Mary was asleep, unaware of the drama which had just been played out before her, so Maeve seized the handle and began to walk along the alley just as the snow began to fall once more, the big soft flakes landing indiscriminately upon cart, baby and Maeve herself.

In the hallway, with the outer door pushed shut, Maeve had time to examine her new acquisition. It was quite the filthiest cat she had ever seen, so dirty that she could not even guess at the colour of its coat, but it had huge golden eyes, enormous pink-lined ears, and a tiny pink nose which it had somehow managed to keep clean. Maeve smiled down at it. ‘If I let you go them bleedin’ boys will come back for you sure as my name’s Maeve Connolly,’ she told it. ‘They live in the end house on Lamb Alley, so they won’t have far to walk. What’s more, you’re too little an’ weak to fight your own battles yet awhile, so I think you’d best come home wit’ me. Caitlin’s ever so kind, so I’m sure she won’t turn you away, an’ when you’re a big chap you’ll be a rare help in keepin’ rats an’ mice down. Besides, you won’t be no charge on her because I’ll pay for your food until you’re big enough to hunt for yourself. Now, I’ll take you and baby up to the flat and come back for me messages, because heaven knows how I’d get up the stairs carryin’ everythin’ else as well as the pair of you.’

Presently, with baby, cat and shopping safely stowed in the kitchen and Catherine Mary still slumbering peacefully, though now in the new orange box instead of the old cardboard one, Maeve was able to turn her attention to the cat. She soon discovered that it was crawling with fleas, but that was no surprise. Life in Handkerchief Alley was a constant battle against bed bugs, lice, fleas and other pests, and this was something she could deal with. She filled a basin with warm water and dumped the cat in it. It surfaced, blinking its big golden eyes and mewing pitifully, but it made no attempt to scratch. Maeve was able to lather it thoroughly with carbolic soap and saw, with satisfaction, the fleas floating off. She knew that, though the horrid little creatures were immune to most things, they could not live for more than a few seconds in water, and this was an easy method of getting rid of the pests.

She rinsed the little cat’s fur and as she dried it she saw with pleasure that it was a dark, smoky grey, with four white paws and a white chest. She thought it would grow into a handsome cat. I’ll give it as much food as I can possibly afford, and if I go down by the quays when the fishing boats are coming in I’m sure there’ll be all sorts of scraps – fish heads and that – which other folk won’t want, she planned busily. Emerging from the towel, the cat began to purr again, and Maeve hurried across the kitchen and took a saucer down from the dresser. She poured a little of the milk she had just bought into it, then went to the food cupboard, putting a hand out towards the bread crock. As she moved the lid, something else moved and she saw a medium-sized rat coming towards her. Maeve gave a shriek, she couldn’t help it, and stepped hastily back, allowing the rat to dodge past her and make for the hole she had already noticed in the skirting board. There was a noise from behind her, as menacing as a snake’s hiss, and when she turned round Maeve saw the cat leap from its perch on the kitchen table straight on to the floor. The rat gave a startled squeak and redoubled its speed, but the cat almost caught it, though how such a small creature would have tackled a rat Maeve had no idea. The cat sat down by the hole, then tested its depth with a sensitive paw. Maeve hastily picked it up; she had no desire to lose her new friend, for the rat she had seen earlier that day had been as big as the cat, if not bigger. She carried it over to the table but did not leave it there since it had turned in her hold so that its big golden eyes might remain fixed on the hole into which its enemy had disappeared. Still with it clamped beneath her arm, Maeve got a piece of bread from the crock and crumbled some of it into the milk. Then she stood the cat down by the saucer. ‘Get that lot inside you, little feller,’ she advised. ‘For whatever you may think, you’ve a good deal of growin’ to do before you can come off best against a rat.’

She had half expected to have to fight to keep the cat, but when Caitlin returned from work that evening and found her family gathered round the small grey creature she was delighted, and welcomed it warmly. ‘Sure and just the fact that a cat lives here will put off many a rat from climbin’ the stairs,’ she said. ‘When it’s bigger they know it’ll kill ’em so that makes ’em wary of even the smell of a cat. I wonder why I didn’t t’ink of gettin’ a cat before, for the good Lord knows they’re ten a penny in the Liberties.’

‘You’re a lovely pussy, so you are,’ Grainne crooned, stroking the grey plush of the cat’s back. ‘You’re big enough to catch a nice mousey for your dinner an’ I doesn’t like mouses when they comes on to me piller, though rats is worse, of course.’ She turned to Maeve. ‘What’ll you call him – is he a feller or a girl?’

‘He’s a feller; a little tomcat,’ Maeve said, with confidence. She had taken the cat down to the Cavanaghs to enquire as to its sex, and had been assured by the old man that it was a tomcat. ‘I thought I’d call it Tiddles, unless you’ve got a better idea.’