Strawberry Fields (51 page)
‘I’m early; but better early than late,’ Clarrie said. ‘Yes, I’d love to see what you’ve all been up to . . . ain’t it a lovely big garden, though? I’ve never seen one so big, it’s more like a blinkin’ park!’
‘But we can’t start until the Lord Mayor arrives,’ Sara hissed, only to be told the brigadier knew that but thought she would enjoy showing someone round who didn’t make her nervous.
‘Don’t worry, the major and I will call the brigadier back the minute the official cars arrive,’ Mr Alderwood said as Sara began to fuss. ‘It’s better that she has something to do other than worry whether everything’s perfect. You go with her, my dear, we’ll hold the fort here.’
The kitchens were wonderful, Clarrie said with all her usual enthusiasm. Large and airy, with beautiful modern cooking stoves, sinks at the right height so that those who worked at them would not be perpetually stooping and views of the garden from the large windows.
‘My mam would love it,’ Clarrie said, clearly setting the Boote seal of approval on the Children’s Home.
The rest of the ground floor lived up to the kitchens, what was more. The dining room was very large, but it seemed cosy because it was designed with family life rather than institutions in mind. Small tables for four, six or eight were scattered around the room, there was a polished wood floor, rugs, pretty lampshades, ornaments on the mantel . . .
‘It’s homely, that’s what it is,’ Clarrie announced. And the living rooms were pleasant, the playrooms well planned with furniture to fit children from two or three to fourteen or so, though they seemed a little bare with neither children nor toys yet in occupation. ‘And them grounds, Brigadier – it’s a paradise for kids.’
‘We’ve not started on the gardens, yet,’ the brigadier said rather evasively. They had disagreed over the gardens. She wanted velvet lawns, flower-beds, trees. There was already an orchard and a very good vegetable garden, though the orchard was full of elderly apple trees and the vegetable plot was just full of weeds. But Sara and Mr Alderwood thought that a beautiful, orderly garden would make the kids feel uncomfortable. They wanted it left as it was except for the front which, they agreed, would have to be made respectable as soon as possible.
‘Well, you’ll want to do some hedge-trimmin’ an’ lawn-cuttin’, no doubt,’ Clarrie agreed. ‘But the rest . . . well, kids all want places they can climb trees an’ swing on gates an’ dig an’ plant for theirselves. So why not leave it wildish, like?’
‘It has been suggested,’ the brigadier admitted. ‘So you think it’s a paradise for kids as it stands, eh, Miss Boote?’
‘I do,’ Clarrie said decidedly. ‘Let the kids ’ave a say, Matron. Let ’em get their hands dirty, diggin’ an’ plantin’. There’s nothin’ kids like more.’
And indeed by the time the official party arrived all the brigadier’s nerves had vanished under Miss Boote’s soothing comments and she was able to show her distinguished visitors round and give them a running commentary on the work which had been done without a blush. She even told the party that the gardens would not be cleared and made beautiful; that was work the children themselves might undertake and plan.
Sara, following the party, winked at Clarrie. She was elated, walking on air. It was clear that these important, influential people approved of what had been done – better, they liked it. When the brigadier said they would be having their first destitute children in at the beginning of the month they offered help, money to be spent on clothing, food, playthings.
And finally the official party cut the length of ribbon which had been tied across the foot of the stairs and declared that the Strawberry Field Children’s Home was open for business.
‘Now all we want is the kids,’ Sara said quietly to Mr Alderwood. ‘This has been grand, but it’s not what we’re here for. We’re here for the kids.’
Brogan was glad when the crossing was over; Polly hadn’t enjoyed it, she’d been too busy staring back at Ireland and longing for Tad, and he had felt ridiculously guilty, as though he’d done wrong to take her to Ireland in the first place if he was then going to turn round and bring her back here again.
But he busied himself getting all their gear ashore and then to the tram stop, for the family were to stay tonight in a cheap hotel just off the Walton Road, and he would go back to his lodging with Mrs Burt, and then, tomorrow, he would go with his family to his daddy’s new post – the level crossing with the cottage and the large garden.
He had thought getting them off the ship was bad enough, but getting them aboard the tram was worse. The conductor of the first tram to arrive refused even to consider having the crated hens aboard, and he didn’t like the cat basket much, either, though he only sniffed when Delilah, ears flattened, eyes staring anxiously, was lugged aboard.
‘I’ll get a taxi to fetch the hens to Salop Street,’ Brogan said. ‘It won’t tek me but a minute.’ He climbed down off the tram-step, wondering what he’d done to deserve all this. Why the hell did they have to
bring
the bloody hens, he was thinking to himself. Hens were hens, Polly could have let Tad keep these; Brogan would have bought her some more when they were settled in, honest to God he would.
bring
the bloody hens, he was thinking to himself. Hens were hens, Polly could have let Tad keep these; Brogan would have bought her some more when they were settled in, honest to God he would.
He lugged the hens, in their crate, over to the taxi rank. The first driver said he didn’t carry freight and suggested, jeeringly, that Brogan should carry them on his head, as doubtless he carried them when trotting over his ancestral bog.
Brogan smiled at him and turned away, but his fist must have been thinking of something different, for instead of following his body it whammed the driver of the first taxi right on the nose, causing him to give a howl of mingled pain and rage. Brogan gave him a surprised glance and turned to the second driver. The second driver, oddly enough, was much more polite. He said that he, too, never carried freight and though he would like to oblige . . .
‘I’d take ’em if I was you, pal,’ Brogan said. ‘Because I’m a big feller, tryin’ to do right by me family, an’ they’re wantin’ these hens so they are.’
The second driver, looking thoughtfully at his pal’s scarlet and swollen nose, decided that he would oblige just this once. Brogan loaded the hens into the cab, called Bevin to come off the tram and travel in the cab with the hens, and gave his young brother some money.
‘The driver’s a grand feller so he is,’ he told Bevin. ‘He’ll help you unload ’em, carry ’em to the door for you, very like. When you arrive give the door a knock. an’ when Mrs Burt comes, explain we’ll not be long. Sure you’ll be all right?’
Bevin said he would be grand, just grand, so Brogan rejoined the rest of his family aboard the tram, whose conductor was beginning to say he wouldn’t wait any longer, not if it was for the King himself.
‘Isn’t this fun, Polly?’ Deirdre said as Brogan sat wearily down by them and the tram jerked into motion. ‘Did ye see the overhead railway when Brogan pointed it out? What about a train chuff-chuffin’ along in the air, then? What about that, eh?’
‘I – I don’t know,’ Polly said. She was staring all round her, and there was something in her attitude which worried Brogan. She didn’t look like a totally confused stranger, she looked more like – like someone who half-recognises a place and doesn’t want to do so. But that was impossible; Polly had been a babe in arms when she left the city, she’d been no more than nine months old!
‘Sure an’ of course you know,’ Deirdre said bracingly. ‘You like it . . . it’s fun, isn’t it? Ivan thinks it’s fun, don’t you, little feller?’
Ivan, bouncing in his seat, said yes, it was fun so it was, but Polly just sat, staring. Delilah gave a little moan and leaned against her legs. He didn’t like the motion of the tram and several times made swallowing, gulping movements of his throat but to Brogan’s immense relief, the dog didn’t actually throw up. Perhaps we’ll get back before anything else happens, he thought hopefully. Ah God, what are those bloody cats doin’ now in the name of all that’s wonderful?
The cat basket was rocking as the inmates apparently hurled themselves at each other, caterwauling loud enough to make the other passengers on the tram turn and stare. Peader grinned and made soothing noises in the direction of the wildly rocking basket but the conductor, who must have known a thing or two about cats, gave the wicker a good kick as he passed it. Shocked, Lionel and Samson stopped attacking each other and silence descended.
‘Even the cats don’t like all this,’ Polly muttered, glaring darkly at the conductor’s oblivious back. ‘Even the cats t’ink we’ve run mad so they do. And poor Delly . . . oh Delilah, don’t be sick, there’s a good feller!’
Delilah swallowed, shivered, and then moved to lean against Peader’s knee. He cast his eyes up at Peader with a pitiful expression; let’s get off, he seemed to be saying, before I chuck me liver and lights on to the deck!
Brogan leaned across the dog. He took hold of Polly’s hand and began to play with her fingers.
‘Round an’ round the garden, like a teddy bear . . .’
Polly had sunk back into her reverie but the childish game brought her mind back to the present. ‘Stop that, you big Brogan, ’tis not a baby I am,’ she said crossly, snatching her hand away. ‘Oh . . . oh . . . where’s
that
?’
that
?’
‘Nowhere in particular,’ Brogan said, following her gaze. ‘Oh, the market, you mean? We’re goin’ along Great Homer Street, there’s always stalls an’ that.’
‘It looks a little bit like Francis Street,’ Polly said wistfully. ‘I wonder what Tad’s doin’ now? He’s missin’ me already. I can tell.’
Brogan sighed. ‘Of course he is, alanna,’ he said gently. ‘But you’re a big girl now, you just said so. You’re here, wit’ Mammy, Daddy, me, your brothers and all your animals . . . so stop lookin’ backwards and look forwards, instead.’
Polly sighed but her hand gentled the dog’s silky head and her eyes fell on the cat basket with affection. Brogan could see he’d made his point.
‘I’ll try, Brog,’ she said resignedly. ‘I really will try.’
Mrs Burt had a grand tea waiting for them and by the time they had left their bags at the Belvedere Guest House they were all in urgent need of tea.
‘Those bloody hens,’ Bevin said, ‘One of ’em, the one wit’ the red tassles on its head, squeezed t’rough the slats of the crate an’ pecked the taxi driver on the back of the neck. He was
wild
so he was. He said words Mammy would have smacked his head for – words Brogan would have biffed him on the nose for!’
wild
so he was. He said words Mammy would have smacked his head for – words Brogan would have biffed him on the nose for!’
‘Words you’ve never heard in all your born puff, I suppose,’ Brogan said sarcastically. ‘And who said you could swear at the hens, anyway?’
‘I didn’t swear at them, it was . . .’
‘You said bloody hens,’ Ivan said placidly. They were washing up for tea in Brogan’s room and now Ivan began to slick his hair down with water. ‘If Mammy was here she’d wash your mouth out so she would.’
‘Oh, I see what you mean. But she’d do better to wash the taxi driver’s mouth out. Honest to God, Brog, the language the feller used . . .’
‘Wash your hands, never mind your mouth,’ Brogan said. ‘The hens is here now, so no point in moaning. Tomorrow we’ll be takin’ them to the country, where hens belong.’
‘In a taxi cab?’ Bevin said suspiciously. ‘Or on a tram? Because I tell you, Brogan, you may be me big brother but I’ll not travel wit’ them hens again . . . not by meself I won’t. They’re Polly’s birds, let her cart them around.’
‘You liked the eggs,’ Ivan said. Brogan regarded his little brother with new respect. You had to hand it to Ivan, he wasn’t yet five but he didn’t miss a trick. ‘You can’t have eggs wit’out hens, Bev.’
‘I’m not sayin’ all hens is bad, I’m not even sayin’ hens isn’t all right in their place, what I’m sayin’ is . . .’
‘Shut up, the pair of ye!’ Brogan roared, suddenly losing his temper. ‘I’ve heard enough of the bloody hens, d’you hear me? The subject’s
closed
.’
closed
.’
He led his brothers down the stairs to the parlour where high tea awaited them, and grinned to himself when he heard Ivan whisper to Bevin: ‘Did ye hear what Brogan said, Bev? He swore just like that taxi driver so he did!’
In the parlour, Peader, Deirdre and Polly waited for them whilst Mrs Burt presided over the pot.
‘Tea for you all? Tea, boys?’ she enquired affably. ‘Help yourself to the loaf now . . . I’ve soused some herrin’, there’s a dish of baked potatoes, and Peader’s goin’ to carve some mutton for anyone who fancies a slice. Now . . . who’s hungry?’
Polly ate her tea in a daze. It was very strange, one minute she hated this place so badly that she could have screamed, the next she felt a weird, tugging sort of affection for it. But she had never been here in her life before, she’d only heard tell of it from Daddy and Brogan, so why on earth did she feel this way?
She liked Mrs Burt, though. Mrs Burt had said Delilah was the handsomest dog she’d ever met and the cats were charming. She had shaken hands with Delilah and given the cats a saucer of milk. And what Mrs Burt called high tea was delicious, one of the nicest meals Polly had ever tasted. But food wasn’t everything, and even the nicest food couldn’t make up for being away from Tad.
‘You’ll make other friends,’ Daddy had said, which just went to prove that grownups did not understand. Of
course
she would make other friends, she had had a
grush
of other friends in Dublin, always had had. But other friends weren’t Tad. There could only be one Tad in her life.
course
she would make other friends, she had had a
grush
of other friends in Dublin, always had had. But other friends weren’t Tad. There could only be one Tad in her life.
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