The Girl From Penny Lane (21 page)

The young man she had approached in the bank in Liverpool had not been exactly helpful, though.

‘Arthur O’Brien? Oh aye . . . he left.’

‘I know. I wondered if you could tell me where he’d gone.’

‘Hmm . . . was it Chester? I seem to remember some talk about Chester.’

‘I think it was Birkenhead, actually,’ Lilac said patiently. ‘I wondered if you could give me the address of your branch in Birkenhead.’

‘Certainly. It’s on Hamilton Square; you can’t miss it. Big building, on your right as you come up from the ferry.’

She had known all along that she’d have to beard Art in his den, so to speak, but she was disappointed that the young man hadn’t made any comment at all about Art’s house or his circumstances. Still, he was probably jealous.

People were jostling aboard the ferry now, so Lilac joined them. She found a place by the rail easily, the ferry being comparatively empty now that all the Liverpool-bound shoppers had abandoned ship, and settled to enjoy the short voyage. In the old days she would have explored every inch of the vessel, but now an older and wiser Lilac just stood by the rail, enjoying the motion, the buffeting wind, and the prospect of Birkenhead getting nearer and nearer.

They docked. Lilac and the other passengers disembarked and Lilac set off uphill, first along Woodside, then up Hamilton Street and into the Square itself.

She saw the bank at once, just where the young man had said. It was a big building though nowhere near as big as the building in Exchange Flags where Art had worked. She went through the revolving doors, her heart hammering so hard in her breast that she thought people must be able to hear it, and came out into the bank, all mahogany and hushed voices, dim lighting, respectability. So near, so near!

There were several young men behind the big counter. She went over to the nearest – she had seen at a glance that Art was not one of them – and spoke before she lost her courage. ‘Excuse me, might I see Mr O’Brien, please? On a personal matter.’

The young man looked up and smiled dazedly; I knew this hat suited me, Lilac thought absently, and I wasn’t wrong.

‘Mr O’Brien? I don’t think we have anyone of that name here this morning, Miss. If you’ll wait a moment . . .’

He left, with several backward glances. Blue always was my colour, Lilac thought, trying not to sparkle too obviously.

There were small conferences and confabulations going on behind the counter. Young men with their heads together, then an older man . . . Lilac began to feel uneasy. She glanced around her, but this was Deacon’s Bank, all right, she hadn’t made a mistake. Perhaps this was Art’s morning off, perhaps they could give her his address so she could visit him at home.

The young man came back with the older one behind him. The older man smiled at her.

‘Good morning, Miss. I’m afraid Mr O’Brien has left the bank’s employ; he wasn’t here very long, which is why Mr Rumbold was unable to help you.’

‘Left?
Left
? But he was so pleased . . . it was promotion . . . he even rented a house . . .’ Lilac stammered. ‘Is he still living here, do you know? Could you possibly give me his address so that . . .’

The elderly man stepped forward. He looked a little hot and bothered, a little embarrassed. I hope to God he doesn’t think I’m in trouble and trying to find Art to hand him the baby, Lilac thought, horrified. She leaned forward earnestly.

‘Look, I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t realise Mr O’Brien had left. The truth is we were at school together and I’m getting married in the spring. I would like him to attend my wedding, and since I happened to be in Birkenhead this morning – my fiancé is meeting me here, we’re going to buy the ring – I thought I’d just pop in and tell Mr O’Brien to keep the fifteenth of March free. But I could always write, if you’d pass the letter on.’

Two brows miraculously cleared of their troubled frowns; they
did
think I was going to accuse Art of something awful, Lilac thought with a good deal of indignation. But the older man was shaking his head regretfully.

‘I only wish we could help you, Miss, but the fact is, Mr O’Brien didn’t leave to go to another bank or another branch. He decided he wasn’t cut out for a business life and he joined the Merchant Navy. I believe he’s assistant purser on one of the big liners, though I wouldn’t swear to it. I’m afraid it would be difficult, if not impossible, for us to forward a letter in the circumstances. I suppose you don’t know his parents’ address, or . . .’

‘Oh yes, of course, I know the O’Briens well, but since I no longer live in the city myself I’d not thought of contacting them,’ Lilac lied, with a dreadful heaviness descending on her so that it was difficult even to get the words out. ‘I’m so sorry to have troubled you. When we’ve chosen the ring my fiancé and I had better get a cab and go visiting! Thank you for your time.’

She left. Outside, the sun still shone, people still bustled about getting the last of their holiday shopping done. Lilac went and sat down in the Square garden. She felt as though the ground had been cut from under her feet, as though she had fallen heavily, jarring every bone in her body, bruising herself in the process. What should she do now? He didn’t live here any more, hadn’t lived here for months by the sound of it.

She got to her feet after a few moments thought, however, and headed for the quayside once more.

Right! The time for silliness and holding back was past. She was going to Coronation Court and she was going to find out where Art was and what he was doing if it killed her! Blow her pride, blow her best clothes, blow everything. Let his mother gloat, his sisters sneer; she had an apology to make!

Chapter Eight

Kitty heard the cock begin to crow and got out of bed. She no longer saw the bed as the height of luxury, a thing to be regarded with awe. Now it was just her bed, with blankets to be washed once a month and a pillow whose coarse white cotton slip had to be changed weekly.

In the winter, of course, she had snuggled down each night almost unable to believe her luck. But with summer’s arrival she had grown accustomed – accustomed to so many things! A roof over her head, food in her stomach daily, definite jobs to do, tasks to perform.

Johnny was away for a few days though, so right now she should be down in the kitchen, getting on. Maldwyn had explained that he wanted someone to go over to Dublin in Ireland to buy Irish cattle for fattening. Johnny had said he would go when Maldwyn had explained that he could accompany Mr Dewi Jones and his son Eifion and Mr Meirion Davies from further up the valley. Maldwyn would have gone himself, once, but his foot was far from right. He couldn’t put weight on it. Kitty doubted that he ever would, and though he got around on his sticks there were a great many things that he still couldn’t tackle, might never be able to do again.

Maldwyn was unmarried, so the doctor had asked Mrs Bronwen Jones from up the road if she would come in every couple of days to dress the foot. She did it for three weeks, then asked Johnny if he and Kitty intended to stay.

‘For if ’tis so, I might as well show you ’ow to do the dressings, see?’ she said. ‘No point in me coming ’ere every other day when you and the little girl is on the spot, like.’

So until the foot healed, Johnny and Kitty did the dressings between them, and Maldwyn never grumbled, never cried out, even though there were times when Kitty was sure they must have hurt him.

After Christmas Maldwyn told them he didn’t know what he’d have done without them, and said he would pay them a wage for the work they did. They had been sitting round the kitchen table, having finished off a joint of mutton between them, with potatoes from the straw-stacked pile in the back yard and some winter greens, cut with the frost still on them. Johnny looked slowly round the table, then let his gaze stray further, to the fire-bright kitchen, the range with the kettle hissing away on the hob, the doors open so that the warmth of the blaze might offset the cold outside. Snow had fallen for the first time since they arrived, and though it wasn’t much of a fall it had laid, spreading a thin white blanket over the countryside, topping the Berwyns with ice which hid the dead bracken and heather.

‘You’re keepin’ us,’ Johnny pointed out, bringing his attention back to Maldwyn and the offer of a wage once more. ‘We’ve gorra roof over our ’eads. That’ll do us, over winter!’

Maldwyn shook his great, shaggy head. I really must have a go at his hair with the scissors, Kitty thought with some relish. She always offered to cut Johnny’s hair but he did his own, squinting into a polished tin-lid and a window-pane to do the back. But Maldwyn’s thatch would really present a challenge!

‘No, I’ll pay you something . . . a share, like. Save it up. A labourer is worthy of his hire as it says in the Good Book.’

Maldwyn was a chapel-goer and a deeply religious man, but his religion was a private thing. He never tried to persuade either child to do more than help him to the chapel door, and had told the minister in no uncertain terms that both Johnny and Kitty were devout Catholics and not to be swayed from their faith. Kitty, whose idea of religion was hazy and consisted mainly of the threats her mother had voiced . . . if you do so-and-so Father O’Hare will ’alf kill ye . . . was happy to go along with whatever Maldwyn said, but Johnny occasionally looked thoughtful.

He had looked thoughtful over being paid, too.

‘Does that mean we can stay all winter?’ he said finally. ‘We’d work ’ard, eh Kit?’

‘Ever so ’ard,’ Kitty agreed, gazing hopefully from one face to the other. The thought of facing that snow, with no roof, no bed, no bright fire, was as painful to her as the thought of living once again with the Drinkwaters in Paradise Court would have been.

‘Stay till you want to go, like,’ Maldwyn said. ‘No chick nor child of me own do I have . . . stay and welcome.’

They had been glad to agree and now whenever Maldwyn got money for his stock or for the milk from his four placid Friesian cows, Johnny and Kitty got some money too, and Johnny put it in an old tobacco tin and hid it somewhere. Kitty didn’t ask where and Johnny never told her, but she guessed it would be outside. Maldwyn was kind and their friend, but he was not young. You never knew, Johnny said darkly, and continued to save all their wages in his old tobacco tin.

Whilst she thought about the past months, Kitty had been splashing her face with water and wriggling into her clothes. If Johnny had been here she would have washed longer and brushed her hair harder, but since he wasn’t she skimped a bit, salving her conscience with the recollection that since her first task that morning would be to muck out the byre, she would have to wash again anyway after that.

Presently she padded downstairs and put the kettle on. Maldwyn was a hard and honest worker even with his injured foot, but it took him a while to get dressed; as soon as he was able after the accident he had dispensed even with Johnny’s assistance. What he did like, however, was a big mug of tea so that he could take a drink as he struggled into his thick homespun shirts and practical working trousers. Accordingly, every morning Kitty went downstairs, riddled the fire and took out the ashes, filled the kettle and made the tea. She carried the big mugful up to Maldwyn’s room, banged on the door and put the tea down by the bed. Then she went over to the window and drew back the curtains, letting in the sunlight, or a view of the slanting silver rain, or even of snowy pastures. Maldwyn always sat up and greeted her and gave her his shy, awkward smile.

‘Feels like a king I does,’ he invariably remarked. ‘Nice it is to be waited on now and again!’

He did the same this morning, picking the mug up with both hands and tilting it blissfully to his mouth, his eyes smiling at her over the rim.

‘Managing without Johnny, are you?’ he asked presently, as Kitty, having admired a brilliantly sunny August day, made for the doorway once more. ‘Eh, I used to enjoy going to Dublin in the old days.’

‘I’m muckin’ out first, so if you’re down before I come back in, don’t forget I’ll be hungry enough for two,’ Kitty said with a grin. ‘I don’t mind doin’ Johnny’s chores, so long as I get to eat ’is grub!’

Maldwyn laughed.

‘You eat plenty on your own account,’ he said. ‘A couple more rashers will go in the pan though, since you’ve said.’

Kitty, skipping downstairs, smiled to herself. There were men who wouldn’t want to cook the breakfast whilst a bit of a girl mucked out, but Maldwyn wasn’t like that. He’d done everything for himself since his old mother had died ten years back, and was only worried that he might be overtaxing his workers when his lameness made a job impossible. But he managed most things. He could swing a scythe with the best, not that he needed to do so. The local farmers hired harvesters, tractors, anything they might need between them, and then they went from farm to farm come harvest time, helping with the entire crop. As for sheep-dipping, shearing, taking the beasts to market, Maldwyn and Patch between them did wonders. Patch would bring the sheep right to Maldwyn’s knee, who with his great size and strength and his sticks could get even a reluctant ram into the dip, or wedge him under one arm whilst wielding the clippers with the other hand.

But he needed the children. Not just for the things they could do without a second thought which would have taken Maldwyn hours, not for the dressing of his foot, which had finished weeks ago anyway. He needs us now, Kitty thought, because he has grown used to us. His previous solitude had been forced upon him but once he got to know Kitty and Johnny he found he was able to tell them all sorts of things – his private worries were shared, his anxieties, his pleasures, even.

Kitty, who had always been garrulous herself, with the Liverpudlian’s liking for discussing, in intimate detail, everything which happened to her and her friends, could well understand his desire for conversation. To sit down of an evening in front of the range and talk over the quality of the wool he had cut last autumn and the price he expected to get next back-end, to muse over the advisability or otherwise of letting Patch have a litter of pups, to wonder aloud whether a flock of geese would not be a good idea, or possibly whether they should set the broody hen on a clutch of duck eggs, so that they could have ducks on the pond, was good and necessary to both her and Maldwyn.