Strawberry Fields (56 page)

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Authors: Katie Flynn

Tags: #Fiction, #Sagas

BOOK: Strawberry Fields
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‘Don’t let me drive you away, dear,’ the Army lass said. Her voice was gentle, persuasive. ‘You’ve a perfect right to stay here as long as you want. But look . . . can you read?’
‘A bit,’ Grace said. She wasn’t going to admit that she could not remember how to read at all, having seldom attended school.
‘Very well, then. I’m going to write my name and address down on a bit of paper,’ the Army lass said. ‘And I’ll give it to you. If you ever need a roof over your head, or any sort of help, you can always come to me. D’you think you can read a name and address?’
‘Dunno,’ Grace said. ‘It’s awright, I’m awright, I don’t need nothin’ . . . I don’t need nobody!’
The Army lass sighed; she sounded discouraged. ‘Well, if you don’t need any help . . . but suppose you met someone who
did
need help? Then you could pass my name and address on, couldn’t you? Not everyone is independent, you see. Not everyone has good parents, either.’
Grace was frightened and wary of anyone who addressed her directly, but she was inherently kind. She had heard the distress in the girl’s voice when she had more or less thrown her offer back in her face and was ashamed of herself. It would not, after all, hurt her to take the piece of paper. She came forward and took the page the girl was offering and tucked it into one of her disgraceful pockets.
‘Thanks, Miss,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep it by me.’
And then, feeling that she had done more than her duty, she turned and made off into the night.
‘What did you do that for, Miss Cordwainer?’ Miss Chadwick asked curiously as they made their way home through the streets, humming now with men leaving the pubs as they closed. ‘I daresay her father
was
in the Great Mersey for all she denied it. And her mother was quite likely laid out insensible, clutching a gin bottle, in some dreadful slum room somewhere. Children of such parents often find it politic to stay away from home for a night or two.’
‘I know,’ Sara said. ‘But if she was ever in need . . .’
‘You’re very right, I’d not thought of it quite like that,’ Miss Chadwick said, nodding. ‘You gave her the Strawberry Field address?’
‘I did. After all, we’ve a great many places still to fill . . .’
Miss Chadwick chuckled. ‘Touting for business, eh, Miss Cordwainer? Well, I think you’ve done a kind and sensible thing, let us hope your little waif turns up on your doorstep – if she’s really in need. And now we’d best hurry back to the Barracks and fetch our bicycles.’
‘I wonder if she really can read?’ Sara said as the two of them reached the Barracks, reclaimed their bicycles, and began to cycle down Walton Road. ‘She said a
bit
, which could mean anything.’
‘I doubt it,’ Miss Chadwick said. ‘But never mind, dear, you’ve done your best.’
Sara sighed and cycled on. She had no idea why she had suddenly wanted to give her name and address to the ragged child outside the pub, but she was glad she had done it. Even if the kid couldn’t read, she would know someone who could. And presently, what with the cold and the moonlight and the distance she had to travel, Sara stopped conjecturing and put her heart and soul into her pedalling.
Grace crawled up to her bakery bedroom and lay down on the newspapers, then pulled the blanket up round her and sniffed, in great contentment, the smell of new bread which came floating out of the bakery’s half-open window.
What an odd sort of day it had been! First she’d found that pretty, nicely dressed little girl a-bawlin’ her eyes out in the middle of the road, shortly after she herself had been chased across the marshalling yard by a bullying beast of a foreman. She’d felt really sorry for the kid, lost and alone in a big city like Liverpool. So she’d offered her help and taken her home.
And this evening the Army lass had tried to do her a good turn. She’d been suspicious, but she should have realised that no one belonging to the Army would have hurt her. Why, didn’t they give her soup and bread from their kitchens, supply her from time to time with a nice bit of blanket, new shoes, stockings, even? She never kept these nice things long, either they were stolen from her by street kids with more brawn or more cunning, or she had to pop ’em at the pawnshop. Well, not the soup or the bread, of course, she downed them as soon as they were offered, but the clothes and shoes . . . nice though they were, eating was nicer.
Mrs Boyce had given her a chunk of cheese and some bread tonight. She had eaten most of it – you couldn’t go off to sleep with bread and cheese about your person or you’d wake up and find yourself being investigated by stray cats or rats. Now, Grace drew out of the pocket of her dirty jacket the last bit of bread and just as she was about to eat it, noticed the piece of paper fluttering to the floor.
Sighing, she bent and picked it up, spread it out, looked at it.
There was writing on it. Well, she supposed it was writing, at any rate. It was all sort of
joined,
though, so even if she could have managed the letters, she doubted that she could ever have read the words.
Not that it mattered. She supposed the Army lass had meant she could get soup, or a pair of new shoes, if she went to her. She thought that was about all the Army could do for you.
She thought about throwing the paper away, then changed her mind and tucked it into her pocket. Might as well keep it, you never knew.
The bread was still uneaten and Grace realised she really wasn’t particularly hungry so she pushed it under her makeshift newspaper pillow, heaved her blanket up over her shoulders and curled up on the newspapers; very soon she slept.
She woke because something was rustling. She opened her eyes and saw a lean grey body only inches from her face – it was a rat, investigating the bread under her pillow. Grace gave a squeak and tried to grab at the rat, meaning to throw it away from her, but unfortunately the rat, cornered by her body, gave a horrid squeal, launched itself at her, and fastened its teeth in her cheek.
It was all over in a minute. Grace grabbed the rat and pulled. The rat, probably already terrified, let go of her cheek and wriggled out of her grip, running in a horrid, slithery sort of way towards the hole in the wall which led, she assumed, into the cellars of the bakery, its long, scaly tail disappearing last.
Grace sat up. Her head was throbbing and she knew, with real dismay, that she would never want to sleep here again. Not if rats were going to attack her. She had always known there were rats on the streets, they shared her scavenging life, but she had never before been attacked by one and was astonished at her own disgust and despair. It was a horrible, horrible thing, and her face really hurt. She put her fingers to her cheek and they came away wet with blood. She could feel the tear marks where the rat had tried to hang on like a little bulldog before finally releasing her.
Presently she got up, shook herself, sorted out her bedding and crawled to the end of her retreat. She picked up her blanket, which she usually left behind for the next night, feeling worse than she had when her father had first made it imperative that she left her home. She glanced back, once, at her cosy nook, then straightened up. Best get to a tap – there were taps on the street in various places – and clean up a bit, get rid of the blood for a start. Folk didn’t like a child with a bloody face, they feared it was a sign of disease and either chucked a stone to keep you off or called the scuffers.
Twenty minutes later, washed, with her hair damp and slicked down, Grace made her way to the marshalling yards. There was a good shed there where she could decide what best to do now that the bakery was lost to her.
She reached the shed and sat down on her blanket and thought. Twice, she got out the piece of paper and perused it thoughtfully. Mrs Boyce could read, she could take it along there . . . or she could go to the Barracks, see if they knew the Army lass. But the trouble was her face hurt and her head was throbbing and she didn’t really feel like doing too much. She really felt like catching up on the sleep she had lost last night. Presently she lay down. She might as well get some rest whilst she could. She slept.
The taxi driver never even saw where she came from. One moment Commercial Road was clear and he was driving at a steady pace along it, the next there was this creature staggering in front of him. A skinny bit of a girl she was, with a raw, suppurating wound in one cheek and nothing but rags on her back.
‘I didn’t touch ’er, officer,’ he told the policeman who appeared almost as magically as the girl had done. Trust a scuffer, the driver thought sourly, to appear when he was least wanted. ‘She sorta stumbled out into the roadway an’ fell over . . . she’s gorra fever on ’er, be the looks.’
‘Hmm. Been hidin’ out in the marshallin’ yard, I daresay,’ the policeman said. ‘Catch a holt of ’er feet, we’ll get ’er out of the roadway for a start.’
She weighed nothing, you had to say that for her, the taxi driver thought, picking up her shoulders and lifting too high, then steadying her. They carried her to the side of the road but when the driver would have laid her on the pavement the policeman shook his head.
‘No, we can’t leave ’er on the roadway, like a sack o’ spuds. Put ’er in the back of your taxi; I’ll thank you to take the pair of us up to the Stanley, get ’er sorted.’
But in the taxi, she came round. The driver saw her eyelids flicker, then lift. She frowned, struggled to sit up, then collapsed back on to the seat.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ she asked weakly. ‘Where am I? Where’s you takin’ me? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong . . . I jest want to go ’ome.’
The scuffer was good with her, you had to say that, even the taxi driver admitted it, and he was fond of neither scuffers nor stray kids.
‘It’s awright, queen,’ the policeman said placidly. ‘You come over queer, like, in the roadway. I was goin’ to tek you along to the ’ospital, but if you’ll tell me where you live I’ll get this feller to run you home.’
The girl hesitated, then plunged a hand into her pocket and produced a sheet of blue paper. She handed it to the scuffer, then stared – almost glared – at him.
‘That’s it, that’s me address,’ she said. ‘Can you take me there?’
‘Miss Sara Cordwainer . . . is that you, queen?’ the policeman said. ‘Strawberry Field Children’s Home, Beaconsfield Road . . . and then there’s a telephone number. Ah, I
see
.’
The taxi driver saw, too. She’d run off from some children’s home and hidden up in the shed on the marshalling yard. Probably in trouble at the place . . . though he’d heard good things about the Strawb as he went about his business. It was run by the Sally Army, and he had time for them. It was a real good place for kids to be from all accounts. But before he could comment aloud the policeman leaned forward and spoke.
‘Did you ’ear that, cabby? The Strawberry Field Children’s Home, on Beaconsfield Road, pronto!’
The taxi driver turned in his seat, stunned.
‘
Beaconsfield Road?
Are you mad, constable? That’s miles out . . . I ain’t made o’ money, you know! Wharrabout me fare? I’ve gorra livin’ to make, you know!’
‘We’ll talk about your fare later,’ the policeman said soothingly. ‘Just do it if you please, cabby. Strawberry Field, as soon as you like!’
Sara was making a frieze for the nursery when the knock came at the door. She and Matron were both in the staff room, working away, because Christmas was coming and they wanted to be ready. Matron was embroidering hankies with great care and dedication and Sara’s frieze was to be a selection of teddy bears, golliwogs and other toys, to be drawn, painted and cut out.
‘Drat, I wonder who that is?’ Matron said, her needle poised for a moment. ‘Are you very busy, Sara, because if so . . .’
The home was not yet fully staffed, which meant that Sara and Matron were doing most of the work. Sara, who had just finished drawing a particularly cuddly bunny rabbit, jumped to her feet.
‘I’ll go. It’ll be that man to see about the chimney in the dining room.’
She hurried to the door, and flung it open. A policeman stood on the doorstep and beside him stood a small girl. Sara frowned. The child looked vaguely familiar; an ex-pupil, perhaps? Or a neighbour? But the child was pulling a face at her, an urgent, entreating sort of face, and the policeman was speaking.
‘Afternoon, Miss. We found this young person collapsed in the street – she says she lives here.’
‘That’s right,’ Sara said, thinking rapidly. Where on
earth
had she seen the child before? ‘Yes, that’s right . . . come inside, dear, and wait there, I want a word with you.’ She turned back to the policeman. ‘She’s not in any sort of trouble, I trust?’
‘None in the world, Miss,’ the policeman said gallantly. ‘A good child . . . though the clothes she’s wearin’ don’t look much like the sorta thing . . .’
‘They aren’t. We haven’t kitted her out yet,’ Sara said. ‘Oh, of course!’
She had remembered the child outside the pub, the name and address scribbled on a sheet of cheap blue writing paper. Well, well, the poor little thing! When faced with authority and a demand for her address she had immediately thought of Sara. A clear case of man’s extremity being God’s opportunity, Sara supposed.

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