The Girl From Penny Lane (27 page)

‘Oh Patch, whatever are you doing here?’ Kitty said, hurling the door open and dragging the dog inside. ‘Oh dear, what will the Joneses think?’

‘They’ll guess,’ Johnny said. ‘Wonder if she’d go back if we telled ’er to?’

‘No she wouldn’t,’ Kitty said stoutly, both arms round the dog’s neck. ‘She’s comin’ with us, Johnny. She’ll be no trouble, honest to God!’

‘Well, it might be best,’ Johnny said vaguely. ‘I just ’ope no one saw ’er.’

‘Nor ’eeded that bark,’ Kitty said rather apprehensively. ‘I’ll tek a look outside I think.’

But when she opened the door and peered down the hillside, there was no sign of life from the farm. In fact she spent most of the day spying on the Ap Thomases, and very boring it proved. Not until noon did they put in an appearance, and then it was Mrs Thomas, curl papers in her hair and slippers on her feet, slopping out to the yard and across to the byre.

‘They ’aven’t got the cows in; don’t they know cows ’ave to be milked?’ Kitty said angrily. ‘What’s ’appening to ’em? They won’t ’ave no stock left.’

‘They sold the cattle day after we left; I never said nothin’ because there weren’t nowt we could do,’ Johnny said. ‘Best that way, at least the beasts won’t be sufferin’ from their iggerance.’

‘True. Then why did the ole woman go to the byre?’

‘Daft Penrhos is workin’ for ’em,’ Johnny muttered. ‘They kep’ one cow so Eifion told me.’

‘Oh. But Penrhos really
is
daft; ’ow can ’e work for anyone?’

‘Dunno. Forget it. ‘Sides, they coul’n’t git anyone else to go there. Folk think they’re ’orrible, even them what sez blood’s thicker’n water.’

‘Oh.’ Kitty withdrew from her spyhole for a moment. ‘I wish the sun ’ud go down.’

‘It will. ’Ave a sleep, chuck, or you’ll not want to walk tonight.’

Kitty thought she would never sleep, but she did; boredom drove her to it. And when she awoke it was because Johnny was gently shaking her shoulder.

‘Wake up, queen,’ he said, very low. ‘You’ll ’ave to watch for me. Keep Patch quiet, though.’

Together, the three of them stole down the hillside. The stars were out and a thin curl of silver moon lit the night. The kitchen window was the only one illuminated at the farmhouse and the smoke from the chimney went up straight as a die. Johnny touched Kitty’s arm and indicated it.

‘No wind. Good.’

He led them round the farm and past the old orchard to a piece of pasture where Tilly sometimes grazed. It was pitted and pocked with rabbit holes and as soon as they reached it, Johnny began to peer at them and to count under his breath.

‘One, two, three, four, five . . . turn right. One, two, three . . . turn left. One two three four . . .’

He wove around, finally coming to a halt beside one particular burrow.

‘Right. Don’t watch me, queen, watch the ’ouse.’

Kitty turned her back on him and stared at the lighted window, but before she had grown bored with the view or tempted to peep there was a light touch on her elbow.

‘Gorrit! I’ve took the lot, no point leavin’ none. Come on, let’s ’ead for Wrexham!’

Chapter Ten

Gibraltar isn’t a very big place, and it is said, by Gibraltarians, that if you stand in Casemates Square at the bottom of Main Street, everyone who is anyone will pass by you in the fullness of time. Art, wandering along with his hand solicitously cupping the elbow of a pretty young lady, was about to test the truth of that saying.

‘Hey, Art! Arthur O’Brien, don’t you dare walk by me and never a word!’

Art stopped so suddenly that his companion gave a squeak.

‘Oh, Art, ’ow rough you are, you jerked at my arm! Who calls to you? Ah, a young man – do you know ’eem?’

‘Well, well, well!’ The young man, short and broad with curly hair and dark eyes, seized Art’s hand and pumped it up and down. ‘I never thought to see you here . . . how are you, old feller?’

‘Tippy Huggett! What on earth are you doing in Gib?’

Tippy laughed, still holding Art’s hand as though loth to let him go.

‘Just visitin’, same as you, I daresay. I signed on as a deckhand on a cruise ship – the
Mersey Wanderer
; lovely vessel. She’s lying offshore even as we speak, so I come over to buy me mam some pretty china. It’s said to be cheap here. Art, where in ’eaven’s name ’ave you been these past years? Why, only the other week I was ashore in the Pool and I met young Lilac whatsername . . . she were askin’ after you.’ He seemed suddenly to become aware of Art’s companion and his face crimsoned hotly. ‘On’y a friend, like,’ he said hastily. ‘Jest interested, that’s all.’

The girl smiled at him, her teeth a flash of white in her dark face. Art turned to her and said something in a foreign tongue. The girl nodded, gave Tippy one last curious glance out of a pair of magnificent dark eyes, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

‘Who were that?’ Tippy asked curiously. ‘She was very pretty, mind. A friend o’ yourn?’

‘Local girl; mother’s my landlady,’ Art said almost absent-mindedly. The burning question on his mind had nothing to do with Hortensia. ‘I sail from the port of Gibraltar now, when I’m not working ashore, that is. I haven’t been back to the Pool for, oh, ages. What were you sayin’ about Lilac? I know she’s married, but . . .’

Tippy stared, then frowned.

‘She ain’t! Well, if she is, it’s a well-kept secret. She’s Miss Lilac you know, of The Waterfront Academy of Modern Dance on Mount Pleasant; t’other one’s Miss Charlotte. They’ve got a great little business I’m tellin’ you, great.’

‘But I saw her! Leastways I saw her wi’ a babe in her arms, bouncing it up and down and making it wave to the ships. So I thought . . . naturally I thought . . .’

‘Oh, the baby! That’ud be her niece, Nellie’s lass,’ Tippy said knowledgeably. ‘She dotes on little Elizabeth they say. But your Lilac’s doing well for herself and just about everyone knows her. She’s the receptionist at the Delamere Hotel – you know, the big, smart hotel on Tythebarn – and she has that dancing school.’

‘And she isn’t married? You’re sure, Tippy old pal?’

‘Certain, sure,’ Tippy said stoutly. ‘She reckons you are, though. Says that must be why you haven’t come back. She keeps her eyes open, asks all over. And since a good few of her pupils at the school are seamen she’d probably hear if you did come back.’

‘Dancing! Here’s me thinking her a prim little housewife darning socks and making meat pies, while really she’s working in a posh hotel half the time and teaching dancing the other half.’ Art grinned from ear to ear. ‘Well I’m damned! And definitely not married, you say? Engaged, though? I guess she’s engaged?’

‘Nope. Told me last time I asked that there was safety in numbers and besides, she was waitin’ for someone.’ He grinned at Art. ‘I didn’t ask who that might be, old friend, because I thought I knew. And judging from the look on your face, I weren’t so far wrong.’

‘But we – we had a real bust-up,’ Art protested. ‘Called each other every name we could give tongue to. And after that I tried to find her and couldn’t. Not immediately, of course, while I were still mad, but later when I’d cooled off a bit.’

‘No, well, she left the bag and sack factory, see.
And
the place in Lord Nelson Street. I suppose you looked at one or t’other? And she said she did try to find you, haunted Exchange Flags, went over the Mersey to Hamilton Square and asked the clerks in the bank if they could ’elp . . .’

‘And I’d gone, o’ course,’ Art said with a groan. ‘I tried the factory and Lord Nelson Street, but I felt an almighty fool so I didn’t ask, not for ages. I kept well out of sight and just hoped to walk into her, be accident-on-purpose, if you get my meaning.’

‘Well I’ll let you into a secret; I heard Lilac even went back to the Court; yes, she bearded your family in their den, and your mam never liked her you know, then she tried the shipping register and spent all her spare time at the docks, even asked your old friends what ’ad become of you. Only we didn’t know either, see, so we couldn’t help. But
now . . 
.’

‘Tippy, tell her . . . oh Gawd, if only I could just up and go, but I’ve got a responsible job here, I’m with a small concern, I couldn’t just let them down. Look, will you take her a letter? No, go round and see her, tell her I’m coming home as fast as I can . . . here, don’t you go off, I’ve got a room up Bell Lane, over a confectioner’s shop. Come up there with me, we’ll have a bevvy together and a meal and you can write her address down so I can drop her a line. Tippy, you were always a good pal – you’ve done more for me than you know! She
isn’t
married, she don’t have a kid . . . and she’s waiting for . . . for someone. I can’t believe it, you know, I keep thinking in a moment I’ll wake up and it’ll have been another dream.’

‘Well, it ain’t no dream and neither am I,’ Tippy assured his old friend. ‘Look, I don’t know your Lilac’s address because I’m not in the habit of visiting ladies’ flats . . . well, not other feller’s ladies, anyway . . . but if you send the letter to Miss Larkin, care of the Delamere Hotel on Tythebarn Street, that’ll find her.’

‘Wonderful,’ Art said. ‘I’ll never forget this Tippy, never! For as long as I live you’ll be me bezzie!’

‘I thought I were your bezzie anyway,’ Tippy said. ‘Even when you didn’t write, didn’t get in touch, I still reckoned you were me best pal and kinda hoped I were yours.’

‘I’ve been a fool,’ Art muttered. He turned left off Main Street and drew Tippy up a steep and narrow alleyway between tall, thin buildings with balconies above their heads. About fifty yards or so up the alley he stopped outside a heavy mahogany door. He unlocked the door with a large iron key and it swung inwards, revealing a tiny square lobby and a flight of stairs.

‘Here we are; follow me but go careful, the stairs are steep and pretty dark.’

The two young men climbed the stairs and stopped again on a narrow landing. Art put another key into another lock and flung that door open too.

‘My place,’ he said. ‘It’s small, but it does me well enough.’

Tippy looked around. He saw a pleasant room with a double bed on one side and a screen folded back beside it. A long, narrow window was curtained in a good deal of white lace but since it was open, the curtaining was blowing out more or less straight so that Tippy could see the houses opposite, no more than six or eight feet away. There was a square of carpet on the floor, a kitchen section with a gas ring, a low sink and a wooden draining board, and the rest of the room held books, flowers, pictures and ornaments, a small desk, a dining-table and chairs.

‘Neat, eh?’ Art said with obvious pride. ‘Hortensia is a good homemaker and she’s proud of the way she keeps my room. Always fussing around she is, getting me bits and pieces.’

‘Hortensia?’

‘The girl I was with. Hortensia Valilodad.’

‘Art! So Lilac was right, you are married!’

Art looked offended.

‘I am not! I suppose I could call her my landlady, since her parents own the whole block, but in fact she’s just a friend. She’s taken me under her wing, cooks for me, cleans for me . . .’

‘Sleeps with you?’ Tippy said bluntly.

Art looked self-conscious.

‘I’ve been that lonely, Tip, and unhappy, too, thinking that Lilac had gone and married some feller . . . and it’s not as if we live together or anything like that, it’s just that occasionally . . . and she needs pretty things which I’m happy to give her – I earn good money: if I can bring her a bit of happiness . . .’

‘I guess I don’t want to know,’ Tippy said hollowly. ‘But Art, if you’re going to write to Lilac, go home to the Pool . . .’

‘It won’t happen again,’ Art assured him. ‘I told Hortensia a little bit about Lilac, so when I tell her I’m going home, that Lilac isn’t married after all, she’ll understand. She’s a sweet girl, not like some. All she’ll want will be my happiness, I assure you. Now what do you want to drink? The ale’s quite good and I bought a loaf and some cheese this morning . . .’

After Tippy had gone, Art lay on his bed gazing at the ceiling and thinking about Lilac. What a fool he’d been to jump to conclusions, not to check that she really was married, had a child. And how could he have forgotten that Nellie had been expecting a baby . . . of course she lived in London, but he should have guessed that she would come back to see her beloved adopted sister. And the man who had put a casual arm round Lilac’s waist – now that he thought about it seriously, he realised it had been a brotherly rather than an amorous gesture. It had been Stuart, of course – what a complete and utter duffer he had been! But Tippy had removed his obstinate, self-imposed blindness and now at last he could see!

‘Pig and son of a pig! Take that . . . and that!’

Crash!
went the blue pottery vase on the wall beside Art’s head, scattering water and spikes of Spanish lilies as it flew through the air. Hortensia, her dark eyes flashing magnificently, her bosom heaving, reached blindly for the next object, and a silver fruit bowl, complete with its usual complement of oranges, grapes and bananas, took wing. Art ducked and winced as it met the window-pane squarely and crashed through it, then winced again as a startled roar announced that the fruit bowl had scored a direct hit on an innocent passer-by.

‘Hortensia, listen to me! I never promised . . .’

‘You . . . are . . . a . . . dog!’

The ivory paper knife in the shape of a crocodile was lighter than the fruit bowl. In the interests of not utterly thwarting the thrower, Art did not duck and gasped as the paper knife caught him across the Adam’s apple.

‘Ouch! Hortensia, if only you’ll listen for a moment . . .’

‘Deceiver! You took my innocence . . . in my mother’s house . . . English swine, liar, thrice-cursed!’

She was running out of throwables, Art saw thankfully. Unless she started on the saucepans and the cooking utensils of course.