A Kiss and a Promise (18 page)

The woman paused by a stall selling carved wooden stools, cane-bottomed chairs and sturdy tables and the child, with an obvious sigh of relief, let the basket down with a thump. Unfortunately, she had chosen uneven ground and the basket tipped, allowing a small melon to roll across the dirt track between the stalls. The child gave a startled squeak and scurried after the fruit, picking it up and dusting it down tenderly, but when she went to replace it in the basket the older woman pounced on her, snatched the melon from her grip and threw it down on the track, then began to hit the girl as hard as she could across the face and shoulders, ignoring the child’s muffled cries and clearly feeling no pity for the thin, half-starved little creature.

There were several mumbled protests from the surrounding stallholders but the only people who moved were Michael and Nobby. They leaped to their feet and charged down upon the woman, shouting ‘Stop that!’ and ‘Leave her alone, you wicked bully’, the last being Michael’s contribution.

The woman straightened up, her face still flushed with rage. Michael had thought her handsome, but now there was so much malignancy in the pale face that all his admiration fled. He picked the child up – she was light as a bird – and held her protectively against his chest, glaring at the woman as he did so. ‘What has she done that was so terrible?’ he demanded hotly. ‘The melon rolled out of the basket because it was too full – and it were you who filled it, not the kid – and she picked it up, quick as quick, and tried to put it back in the basket.’

The woman’s large black eyes blazed with fury. ‘She is a bad girl,’ she said in only slightly accented English. ‘But I may beat her if I wish to do so; it is certainly none of your business.’

‘Just because she’s a child and clearly ill-nourished and unable to defend herself, that does not give anyone the right to lay hands on her,’ Michael said stiffly. ‘If her parents knew …’

The woman laughed harshly. ‘Parents?’ she said jeeringly. ‘I am her parent, or the only parent she has ever known. She is the child of my dead sister and was left in my charge. She is lazy and spiteful – a good-for-nothing. Now put her down before I call the police.’

Michael stood the child on the ground, feeling such helpless rage boil within him that he was tempted to strike the woman but guessed that this would only make things worse for the child. Instead, he said haughtily: ‘What is your name and the name of the child? I shall report this matter to the authorities.’

He had not expected any result from such a threat but, to his delight, the woman looked startled and afraid. ‘I meant no harm … it was just that the melon is one of my favourite fruits … I do assure you, she’s not a good girl, she does many bad things. She steals, she lies …’

‘Your name?’ Michael said remorselessly. He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I meant what I said – I mean to report you to the authorities for …’ But before the woman could answer, the child had seized her opportunity. She slipped off into the crowd, disappearing like a raindrop into a puddle, and the woman grabbed her basket and also set off, though in the opposite direction.

‘Well, I reckon that’s the last we shall see of them,’ Nobby said with some satisfaction. ‘I reckon you scared her so she’ll think twice before she hits a young kid again. As for that story … the one that the child was her niece … I don’t believe a word of it. The kid was one of them poor little urchins what hang about on the outskirts of places like this, offering to carry bags or baskets for a few pence. She’ll think twice before gettin’ involved wi’ a woman like that again. Now, what next?’

Michael stood still for a moment, gnawing his lip and staring in the direction the little girl had taken. Then he shrugged his shoulders; they were not here for days, just hours, and there was nothing more he could do about the child. At least we saved her from one beating, he thought, as Nobby led the way into a new area of the market. It can’t be true, though – that the woman is the girl’s aunt. No one would treat a relative like that! Or would they? Strange and terrible things happened sometimes; it was impossible to say for sure that a woman would not beat a child to whom she was related.

For some time he simply followed Nobby amongst the stalls, a deep frown etched on his forehead. But at last his friend spoke. ‘Whatever’s the matter, Mike? You ain’t still thinkin’ about that kid, are you? We can’t do nothin’, except forget it … dammit, we did what we could, which was more than the locals were prepared to do!’

‘I know,’ Michael said morosely. He took a deep breath and stopped, swinging his friend round to face him. ‘Nobby, you’re a good friend, so you are. Can you keep a secret?’

‘See this wet, see this dry, cut me throat if I dare to lie,’ Nobby said promptly, drawing a wetted finger across his throat in the age-old childish gesture. ‘What’s up, old feller? That bloody woman upset you good an’ proper, didn’t she?’

It was a statement really, but Michael nodded. ‘Yes, she did. You see, I’ve … well, I’ve got a daughter of me own so I have. Of course, she’s only a baby …’ He stopped short, realisation suddenly dawning; whenever he thought of Ginny he saw her as a tiny baby, but years had passed … she must be almost ten, if his calculations were right! ‘No, she were a baby when I saw her last,’ he amended hastily. ‘She’s gettin’ on for ten now. And the way that woman hit the kid … oh, Nobby, I left young Ginny wi’ her gran, but suppose, just suppose, that the old shawly teks a dislike to her, or passes her on to someone else, an orphan asylum, even? Suppose my sprog’s liable to be treated the way – the way that woman treated that young ’un just now? My – my girl died in the flu epidemic when the baby was only weeks old. She lived in the ’Pool; the gran has always seen to the baby … I send money regular, but I’ve never been back, never set eyes on the kid … and now – now I’ve got to
do
something, find out if she’s all right, or I’ll never forgive meself!’

Nobby stared at him. ‘You’ve got a kid?’ he said incredulously. ‘But then so have dozens of fellers … only they don’t keep ’em quiet, see no reason to do so, I suppose. But why are you tellin’ me now? Don’t say that little scene back there …’ he gestured with his chin to the spot they had recently left, ‘has given you the idea that your kid needs you? Because it seems she’s done all right for nearly ten years!’

‘I don’t know how she’s done,’ Michael admitted wretchedly. ‘I – I send the money, but they don’t know what ship I’m on, or how to get in touch wi’ me. And seein’ that woman, the way she acted … well, it’s made me think I’ve behaved badly.’

‘No worse than most fellers who find a girl’s in the family way and don’t want to marry her,’ Nobby replied with unconscious callousness. ‘I guess I wouldn’t want to marry just because …’

Michael let Nobby continue, even if he did have the wrong end of the stick. He did not feel like explaining further. It was easier to let Nobby assume that he’d run rather than wed; and it was certainly true that he had run rather than find himself saddled with a child. He said nothing further on the subject, therefore, apart from telling Nobby that he rather thought, when the ship was in home waters once more, that he would just check, make sure his daughter was all right.

The two young men continued to wander amongst the stalls until they came to a section of the market where livestock was being sold and bartered. There were sheep, a great many goats, skinny, horned cattle, hens, ducks and geese, and even a section for more exotic creatures. They saw brilliantly coloured parrots sitting staring out of the bars with bright, curious eyes, and a mongoose, equally curious, examining the passers-by without a hint of fear. But it was the little birds which caught the young men’s attention. Tiny, finch-like creatures with vivid crimson plumage; others white as snow with big, dark eyes and small sharp beaks, others still, yellow as daffodils, with white crests, and all of them crammed into cages too small so that there was no opportunity to so much as stretch their wings, let alone fly.

When they left the market much later that afternoon, they carried no livestock with them. They had bought one of the cages full of tiny birds but had left the market and released them in the surrounding countryside. ‘I’ve been brought up to believe it’s wrong to cage a bird, an’ I can’t change at my time of life,’ Michael had told his friend. ‘We’ll keep no prisoners, Nobby. But one of these days, I’ll buy my little daughter a kitten because – because her mammy were mortal fond of kittens, so she was.’

Nobby looked at Michael shrewdly as they boarded the craft and saw that he was still upset. ‘I just thank the good Lord the kid got away before you made a proper fool of yourself. You’re soft, Gallagher, that’s the trouble.’ He sighed deeply over his friend’s attitude as they went below.

When he got into his bunk that night, Michael found himself unable to sleep. Pictures of a skinny child being beaten up kept intruding and when he did finally doze in the early hours of the morning, his dreams were no better than his waking thoughts. Guilt, deep and terrible, almost swamped him. He reproached himself continually because he had not made proper arrangements for his child. It was all very well to tell himself that no better guardian could be found for a child lacking a mother than a grandmother; the fact was, he knew Mrs Bennett, knew she disliked and despised him, should have wondered whether, as the child grew older, she would dislike and despise her, too. In his dreams, Mrs Bennett became a monster, swelling with rage whenever the child crossed her path, beating her no matter how hard she endeavoured to stop her, screaming abuse at her if the child skipped out of arm’s reach.

By morning, Michael was pale and hollow-eyed. Nobby remarked on it as the two of them began their first job of the day, which was to release the mooring ropes as the
Mary Louise
took the tide and nosed out of the port. ‘You ain’t still worritin’ over that kid o’ yours, are you, mate?’ he asked, as the bows of the ship met the waves and began to move to their rhythm. ‘That’s called pointless worritin’, ’cos there ain’t a thing you can do about it until we make landfall again in good old Blighty.’

‘Don’t I know it?’ Michael said gloomily. ‘And since we’re only out of the Port o’ London a month, it’ll probably be five months, maybe six, before we’re back again.’

‘And maybe, after five or six months, you’ll have come to your bleedin’ senses and see that there ain’t nothin’ you can do at this late stage,’ Nobby said bluntly. ‘If the gran’s been good to the gal, she won’t want you interferin’. Mind you, you said she were old, didn’t you? Mebbe the gran’s dead an’ the kid’s wi’ some other relative. Did your young lady have brothers and sisters?’

‘Yes, lots,’ Michael said, his brow clearing. ‘She had four brothers in the Navy and three sisters. The oldest sister died a couple o’ days before Stella, in that flu epidemic. The oldest brother, George, were a grand chap, so he was. He wouldn’t let harm come to no child o’ Stella’s.’

‘Well, there you are then,’ Nobby said buoyantly. ‘George’ll look after your little lass so quit worritin’. The six months will pass in a flash, you’ll see, an’ though I guess you’ll want to check up on the kid, I bet you’ll find her happy as Larry. So let’s see you grin.’

‘You’ve made me feel a lot easier in me mind,’ Michael said, beginning to smile.

‘Gerra move on, you fellers!’ A loud voice interrupted. ‘Swab this perishin’ deck before the waves start comin’ inboard and muckin’ it up again. You can check the hatches while you’re doin’ it.’ The bo’sun was a cheerful Liverpudlian with a round face, weathered by sun, wind and rain to a uniform puce. Despite his colouring, he was an easy-going man, but when he did issue orders, he expected them to be carried out at once. Michael and Nobby jumped to obey.

‘Only two more days of blissful freedom, Mabs, and then it’s noses to the grindstone time again. Have you finished preparing for your new class? You’ll have a lot more to do than me, because your kids are older.’

Miss Mabel Derbyshire and her friend and colleague, Sandra Holmes, were in the kitchen of the big old house on Canning Street. Their landlady, Mrs Evans, provided them each morning with a breakfast of porridge, tea and toast and she served a meal each evening, but at lunchtime, during the holidays at least, her lodgers were at liberty to buy their own food which they then might cook in her large and pleasant kitchen. When term time started, the teachers would have a meal on the school premises, but during the holidays the kitchen became a meeting place at noon. Mrs Evans would not take gentleman lodgers and made no secret of the fact that she preferred teachers or nurses to other professions. This was pleasant for the girls, who speedily became friends and formed into groups over mutual interests.

Normally, at this time, Mabs and Sandy – she was always called Sandy – would have shared their meal with Emily Butterworth and Nora Hayes, but today Emily and Nora had gone shopping for equipment which they would need when school started in two days’ time.

‘My kids are also total strangers so far as I’m concerned. Oh, except for one – the one I told you about, Sandy. But I got the impression that she’d not spent much time in school – she lives with her gran who needs a great deal of help – so I don’t suppose she’ll be of much use to me so far as introducing me to school ways is concerned. But I’ve done my best to prepare some fairly simple lessons which should determine how much the children have learned – and remembered – from last year. I did wonder about PE, but the school doesn’t have much playground, does it? Still, I suppose we can do exercises and play games such as Tip, or Rescue – anything to get rid of some of their energy!’

Sandy, who was to take the admission class, laughed. She and Mabel had been at school and then at college together and were both determined to remain together if it were humanly possible. Once they had started to work in Wigan, they had realised that rural poverty was nothing compared to the poverty of an inner city, but the knowledge had not put them off teaching. Indeed, it had fuelled their desire rather than weakening it. The Wigan school had been in a very poor area, and in such an old building that they were in daily dread of its collapsing around their ears. Still, the kids were great and I was very happy there, Mabel thought now, which must be why, when we decided to move on, we applied for Rathbone Street School, though of course we were influenced by the fact that there were two jobs going rather than one. In any case, we would both have applied for jobs in the same area so that, at least, we could have lodged together.