The Girl From Penny Lane (29 page)

‘Sorry, I forgot. But there’s places where we can both go . . . I’ll get us a bed, don’t worry, queen.’

They found a cheap lodging after several unsuccessful efforts. At the first place the bedding was filthy and stank of stale sweat and urine. Kitty, with wrinkled nose, told Johnny it wouldn’t do and the pair of them turned away, followed by screeches from the offended landlord. At the second place they were told they would have to share a bed and tie the dog up outside and though they agreed to do so, when they went into the room every bed was already occupied by at least one person.

‘Tell one of ’em to shove up,’ the landlord hissed. ‘Den slip in beside ’um.’

They were luckier on the third attempt. They were each given a bed-roll of reasonably clean materials – a thin straw mattress, a lumpy pillow and a blanket – and shown into a large room where a number of people already lay sleeping on the floor. Patch, it was agreed, might sleep on the floor by their bed.

‘I didn’t want to share,’ Johnny muttered. ‘Not with some of our wages still left, but us’ll ’ave to mek do tonight. I’m wore out.’

So the two of them put their mattresses one atop the other, wrapped themselves in their blankets and cuddled up like puppies. And very soon Patch sneaked onto the mattress with them, adding her warmth to theirs. Kitty thought she would never manage to sleep but it had been a long, hard walk through some pretty rough weather. They both slept within ten minutes of their heads touching their pillows.

Next day Johnny decreed they should split up.

‘I’ll do the docks, you an’ Patch do the streets at the back o’ the docks,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget – John James O’Hare. Tell anyone what asks there’s a reward, that’ll fetch ’im out if ’e’s around.’

‘I’ll try the boozers an’ the schools,’ Kitty volunteered. ‘An’ the snooker ‘alls an’ the workin’ mens clubs.’

Johnny stared at her.

‘Kit, I knew you was a bright kid, but you’s bloody brilliant!’ he said. ‘You’ll strike gold afore me I’ve no doubt . . . where’ll we meet?’

‘Inside the Shamrock Café on Preesons Row, if they’ll let Patch inside,’ Kitty said promptly. ‘If not, outside.’

When she had lived in the city she had often hung round the Shamrock, wooed by the rich and delicious smells which came from it and also by the friendly way satisfied customers, seeing her wistful face as they came out again, would chuck her a penny or even save her something to eat – a crusty bread roll spread with butter, or a little cake with currants in.

‘Preesons . . . oh, yeah, I know it; just off Derby Square, ain’t it?’

‘That’s it; opposite the Victoria Memorial. What time?’

‘Oh, say six o’clock. We don’t want to go on after dark. If I’m not there on time it could mean I found ’im, though, so ’ang about a bit.’

‘What if you’re hot on his trail though, Johnny? Or what if I am, come to that? Where’ll we meet then?’

‘Back at the lodging ’ouse, I reckon. Here, I’ll gi’ you some cash so’s you can git yourself a meal or a bed. But I reckon we’ll meet at four.’ He raised a hand, turned to go, then turned back. ‘You sure you’ll be all right, Kit? Sure you wouldn’t rather we stuck together?’

Kitty would much rather have stayed with Johnny but she saw his point; Liverpool was a big city and John James O’Hare just one rather insignificant young man. To find him could take weeks, but if they split up and searched separately it could halve their labours.

‘Nah, it’s awright, this way’s surer. An’ I’ve got Patch; she wouldn’t let no one ’arm me. See you at six, then.’

At six o’clock prompt, Kitty was walking up Preesons Row. She had met one O’Hare, though he turned out to be Tom and not John, but meeting him had been a lucky chance which cheered her up considerably and made her think that maybe their search would be crowned with success after all.

‘An’ aren’t I sorry I’m de wrong feller, an’ you wit’ Irish eyes an’ de sweetest smile?’ Tom O’Hare said genially, when Kitty had explained her quest. ‘But haven’t I a brudder, Jamie O’Hare, and a cousin wit’ de very name you mentioned? Cousin John’s a seaman, too, he may be in port now for all I know. I’ll mek some enquiries for yez, sweet’eart . . . tell me where to find you again!’

‘Me and my brother are meeting at the Shamrock Café in Preesons Row at six this evening,’ Kitty said, making a lightning decision. ‘If you’ve any news, we’d be real grateful if you’d join us there then.’

‘Well, unless I get a ship soon me time’s me own,’ Tom O’Hare said, and suddenly his face looked sad for a moment. ‘I’ll be glad to do what I can to ’elp, chuck.’

So despite having called in at a dozen pubs and engaged a great many people in what turned out to be fruitless conversations, Kitty was still feeling rather pleased with herself as she reached the Shamrock. She glanced round but there was no sign of Johnny, so she went inside, Patch as close as a shadow, her soft nose touching Kitty’s calf.

It was as lovely as she had always imagined it to be. With Johnny’s money in her pocket and her nice clean clothes on her back, with her hair neatly bobbed and her body well-nourished, Kitty allowed the waitress to take her to a window table, sure that no one would ever recognise in her the little waif of years ago. She explained to the waitress that Patch was well behaved and would lie quiet, and said she was waiting for a friend. However, as the time began to pass she decided she might as well eat – after all, Johnny might easily have had some luck and be talking to their quarry this very minute. She ordered brown Windsor soup, scrag-end stew and two veg, followed by strawberry blancmange, and she bought a cornish pastie for Patch, who ate very daintily, without crumbs. The meal cost tenpence, and was accompanied by a round of bread and butter and a cup of tea. We should come here every day, Kitty thought enthusiastically, drinking her soup the way Maldwyn had advised, from the side of the spoon and without any slurping, either. We won’t get better value than this anywhere, and all three of us have got to eat!

She knew she was eating quickly and tried to slow down, but even so the meal was finished before Johnny had put in an appearance. There was a clock on the wall saying ten minutes to seven; Johnny wouldn’t expect her to wait any longer, she would have to leave. But they’d meet up at the lodging house, later. Kitty put her face close to the window and peered out. There was someone out there . . . she hadn’t misunderstood Johnny’s directions, had she? He had said meet inside and not out?

She half-rose from her seat, then sank back again. It was a child outside, not an adult, hovering as she, Kitty used to hover, sniffing the lovely smells of hot cooked food, thin as a stick and clad in a raggedy little dress which barely covered her bony bottom.

That might have been me, Kitty thought, awed. Poor kid . . . she looked round her. She had eaten her entire meal, but that could be remedied. She beckoned the waitress over.

‘Excuse me . . . could I have a – a bacon sangwidge to tek out wi’ me? And one of them curranty cakes?’

‘That’s another fourpence,’ the waitress said. ‘Shan’t be a tick, miss.’

She disappeared and came back moments later with a thick, steaming bacon sandwich and a currant cake. She put them into separate brown paper bags and handed them to her customer.

‘There y’are, miss. I ’opes as ’ow you enjoy ’em.’

‘Thanks. Goodnight.’ Kitty struggled into her coat, touched Patch to rouse the dog, and then, with some reluctance, left the warmth and brightness of the small café for the chilly darkness outside.

For a moment she thought the child had gone, then she saw her again. She was coming across the road like a moth to a flame, and as she passed close by, Kitty spoke.

‘’Ere, I couldn’t eat all that lot – like to finish it up for me?’

The child turned towards her and in the glow from the gas lamp overhead, Kitty saw her face.

A thin face which had once been round and rosy, with the blonde hair once tied back with white ribbon straggling unkempt and verminous down to her shoulders.

Recognition was instant and two-fold.

‘My Gawd . . . Bet!’

‘Well, if it ain’t our Kitty! Oh Kit, where’ve you been? You do look grand . . . is that f’me? Oh, I’s so ’ungry . . .’

Betty Drinkwater, for it was undoubtedly Kitty’s little sister, almost snatched the proffered sandwich. She crammed it into her mouth, the grease running down her chin, and swallowed it in huge, wolfish bites. Kitty bent over the better to see the child. Tears rose, unbidden, to her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

‘Betty?’ she whispered. ‘What is it? What’s ’appened? Our Mam allus fed you littl’uns proper, it was on’y me what went so short I could’ve ate road-dirt. Where’s the twins? An’ the others?’

‘Arny were run down by a tram and died in the ’ospickle,’ Betty said thickly, through the sandwich. ‘Bob ran off a long whiles back. Our Da went off about then . . . three year ago, it’ud be. Mam said ’e might of been killed, but someone told Bob ’e’d gorra lass into trouble out Crosby way. And Mam’s real ill, awful ill. I’s scared she’ll die an’ leave me to fend for the kids. I does me best, Kit, but I’s allus hungry, allus cold.’

‘I remember,’ Kitty said feelingly. ‘Oh Betty, whatever can I do? Mam hated me, you know, if she sees me face she’ll probably snuff it anyroad, from shock and ’orror – I suppose she thought I was dead, eh?’

‘Never said,’ Betty mumbled. She was finishing off the sandwich, holding on to it so fiercely that her fingers were almost meeting through the bread. ‘Good riddance, she said, and suffin’ about serpent’s teeth.’

‘There you are, then, she ain’t goin’ to welcome me back, exactly.’

‘No . . . I mean yes, she would!’ Betty exclaimed. She looked up at Kitty, tears trembling on her lashes. ‘Oh Kit . . . please come back, please! I’s on’y ten, I dunno which way to turn, honest to God! I jest know they’ll all die an’ it’ll be my fault an’ I’ll ’a been a bad sister to ’em.’

‘Well, I was supposed to be meeting a friend,’ Kitty said doubtfully. ‘Look, ’ang on a minute, I’ll leave a message wi’ the waitress just in case ’e turns up. But I’ll see ’im later, explain.’

Kitty went back into the Shamrock, asked the waitress to tell Johnny, should he turn up, that she had had to leave but would be at their lodging house before ten that night, and went outside once more.

She took Betty’s hand and perhaps it was that which decided her. She had taken the child’s hand many times in the past and had always liked the feel of the plump little girl’s cushiony palm against hers. But now Betty’s hand was just like a claw, whereas Kitty’s own hand had flesh on it, and muscles in the wrist.

‘You really will come ’ome? You an’ the dawg? Jest for a minute, to see our Mam?’ Betty said tremulously. ‘Oh, Kit, you’re real good; I alius knewed you was the best of us. Amy an’ Bob were ’orrible to you and when you went they was ’orrible to the rest of us. Amy was wuss’n Bob, even.’

‘Shouldn’t speak ill o’ the dead,’ Kitty reminded her sister gently as they made their way across Derby Square and dived down Castle Street. ‘Still, you’ve ’ad a bad time, chuck, I can tell.’

‘It weren’t too bad till our Da went,’ Betty admitted. ‘There was food, when ’is ’lotment come, and Mam went on wi’ ’er sewin’. But fust our Da went an’ then Mam were took bad . . . there won’t be nothin’ for ’em tonight . . .’ the child stopped dead in her tracks, her expression stricken. ‘Oh, Kit, an’ I ate that sangwidge!’

‘I’ll buy a loaf an’ some cheese, when we reach the Scottie,’ Kitty said hastily, seeing that more tears were about to fall. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll feed the kids tonight.’

Far from cheering Betty up, however, this seemed to bring on a fresh attack of misery.

‘You was often ’ungry, Kit, an’ I knew you was, an’ I never give
you
owt ’cos I were afraid of our Mam,’ Betty wailed. ‘Mam said you was such a wicked kid, see, an’ you was older’n me an’ I didn’t know, then, ’ow it ’urt to ’ave an empty belly.’

‘Well, we both know now,’ Kitty said ruefully, feeling that tears were not too far from her own eyes. ‘An’ we’ll do our best to see it don’t ’appen again. Come on, queen, step out or we shan’t get back to the Parry afore the shops close.’

She meant it as a joke since the shops would not close until nigh on midnight, but Betty took her seriously and scuttled along clutching her sister’s hand, scarcely bothering to talk any more.

And presently they reached the Scottie and Kitty pulled Betty into George Lunt’s for a large loaf, and a little further up the road into Costigan’s grocer’s shop for the cheese. But knowing that the money Johnny had given her would have to last, she bargained in Lunt’s for a yesterday’s loaf and told Mr Costigan that she would take cheese-ends if he’d any going cheap.

‘An’ I’ll tek a couple o’ tins o’ conny-onny,’ she added grandly, ’an’ a twist o’ tea.’ She remembered that her mother often drank tea when she had run out of more alcoholic beverages and besides, milk was good for the kids. It seemed strange to acknowledge that her mother would not have milk in the house because she’d become used to a constant supply on the farm. But the milkman only came round Paradise Court in the mornings and Sary had never patronised him; she used the sweet, thickened condensed milk in her tea and in anything else which needed the addition of milk.

Without being asked, the man in Lunt’s had given them a paper carrier bag, so the cheese and milk were piled on top of the loaf and Betty hung onto Kitty with one hand as though she feared to let her go. With her other hand she was busy eating the currant bun the baker had popped in on top of the loaf.

It was strange, turning off Scotland Road into Burlington Street after so long. They passed the fishmonger whose boy had been the start of all Kitty’s adventures – Kitty thanked him from her heart as she went – and then crossed over Titchfield Street, passed a couple of court entrances and there was Paradise Court itself, looking to Kitty’s eyes more like purgatory than paradise at that moment.