A Kiss and a Promise (24 page)

She was desperately sorry for Ginny, who was a bright, intelligent pupil, hard working and well mannered. She had speedily realised, however, that though Ginny was only ten, she had simply missed out on her childhood and was already old beyond her years. And Mabel put most of the blame for this upon Michael Gallagher, the absent father. If he had lived up to his responsibilities, come home whenever he was able to do so to see that his daughter was not being bullied and abused, then she could have forgiven him a great deal, for Michael, it seemed, was a seaman and could not be constantly in Liverpool. But though he sent money home, and though she had been reluctant, at first, to admit it, Ginny had never set eyes on her father, never received so much as a line from him. In fact she only knew he existed because of the monthly money he sent her grandmother; his share in the upkeep of his daughter.

Mabel acknowledged that, since the child had been born out of wedlock, Michael did more than a good many men, and did it willingly, it seemed. But he must have known Granny Bennett quite well, since Ginny had told her the sad yet romantic story, as it had been passed on to her by her Uncle George. How the young couple had been in love but unable to marry because they were both under the age of consent and Granny Bennett had disapproved of the match. How the only way to get married had been first to get Stella pregnant. How this had come about, how Stella had given birth to her daughter, only to die within a matter of weeks of the virulent influenza which had been sweeping the country in the wake of the terrible war. So Michael simply must have known Granny Bennett, and how on earth could a man with any sort of conscience leave a child in her filthy house, at the mercy of a drunken woman’s abuse and violence?

It would be easy, of course, to say that he was not a man with a conscience, had it not been for the money. He sent cash regular as clockwork – Ginny had boasted about it – which meant that he was conscious of his duty, his responsibility. That this did not extend to so much as seeing the child was terrible, unforgivable, Mabel thought. She just wished she could meet Michael Gallagher and tell him what sort of life his daughter was leading, make him do something, other than send money, for Ginny! But since the man had not visited the city once since he had left it after his young woman’s dreadfully sad death, Mabel did not imagine that the pleasure would ever be hers. Sometimes she wondered if he could be traced and taken to task, but she knew so little about him! His name, the fact that he came from somewhere called Kerry and was a seaman; that was about the extent of her knowledge. Armed with that, she could probably spend years searching in Ireland without getting a whiff of her quarry.

Still. Despite the fact that she was only ten years old, and an under-nourished and ill-clad ten at that, Ginny seemed to be managing pretty well with only the minimum of assistance from anyone else. She cooked meals – though these were always stews or some other form of boiled vegetable – kept the house clean enough to satisfy her Uncle George, of whom Miss Derbyshire had heard much, bought the food, presumably bargaining with shopkeepers and stallholders, since she had made it clear that she and her grandmother never had a penny to spare, and still managed to attend school and do her homework. Probably the three-week holiday over the Christmas period would be dealt with by young Ginny as efficiently as she managed the rest of her life. And I shan’t be here to interfere, or help, or anything of that nature, since Sandy and I mean to go home, at least for a week to ten days, over the holiday, Mabel reminded herself.

Having tidied away her things, she went to the staff room and took her coat and hat from their pegs, slipped them on and set off across the frosty playground. She had not been back to her village for many months, and found she was looking forward to seeing parents and brothers and sisters once more, though she knew that a week in their company would be quite long enough.

At the school gate, Sandy waited. They greeted each other and set off, walking briskly, in the direction of Canning Street and their lodgings.

It was Christmas which brought things to a head, Ginny reflected. She was miserably packing her meagre possessions into a couple of stout brown cardboard boxes, for she and Gran were moving out. It was Gran’s drinking, of course, though Ginny could not help reflecting guiltily that, had she not bribed Gran to let her stay late at school two evenings a week, the old woman would not have had the time to herself to do what she had done.

For Gran had taken to shoplifting, and not just in the small local shops, either, where she might have been reported to the family before being handed over to the scuffers, but in bigger, more important establishments. Ginny had known nothing about it until she had returned from getting the messages two weeks after Christmas to find the kitchen crowded. Two policemen, a tall, dark-suited man with gleaming, Brylcreemed hair, a fashionably dressed woman in a tweed suit and matching cap, a police lady, looking hot and embarrassed, George and Lewis, and Gran herself, were all gathered in the room.

Even now, Ginny could not think of that day without shuddering. Gran had had a good, though probably boozy, Christmas, and when things returned to normal she had missed the drink so badly that first she had tried to steal money from other houses in the court, and when this proved too difficult she had turned her attention to the big stores.

She had been caught, naturally, but not until she had stolen a good deal of stuff. Apparently the shop people had not believed their eyes – this fat old woman, wrapped in a multitude of shawls and carrying a huge canvas bag – she had referred to it, later, with some pride as ‘me burgling bag’ – had been shovelling stuff inside it almost openly, and had then made her way out of the shop with surprising speed, so that the first time she had done it she had gone uncaught and unpunished.

She had taken the stuff to the nearest pawnbroker, where she was not known, and had, she told the scuffers boastfully, got a good price for it. But on the next occasion she had taken her booty to a shop nearer home, and the man had been suspicious, though he had paid up willingly enough when she said it were Christmas presents which the lady for whom she cleaned had given her to dispose of, since she herself did not want them. You had to admire Gran, when sober she was a pretty quick thinker.

Then she had been nabbed by a sharp-witted assistant – the lady in the tweed suit – who had seen her come in and had nipped out from behind her counter and established herself right by the door, grabbing Gran and her ill-gotten gains as she tried to shoot out on to the pavement once more.

George had pleaded with them, and Gran had been bound over, whatever that might mean, but it had been made clear that she must no longer live alone, or rather alone save for Ginny. And George had agreed that he and Mary would take her in.

‘But we can’t cope wi’ the kid,’ he had said gruffly. ‘She’s a grand girl, our Ginny, she’s done her best to keep me mam off of the drink, she’s fed her and seen she eats proper meals … she even cooks ’em … but there just ain’t room in our place. The canny house brings in more gelt than I can earn street-cleanin’ for the Council, so there’s no question of letting me niece sleep in what were once our front room, and I’ve four kids of me own … and my Mary’s old mam lives wi’ us …’

So it had been agreed that she – and her dad’s money – would go to Uncle Lewis and Aunt Amy, though Ginny was extremely reluctant. Her aunt and uncle lived out at Seaforth, which would mean she would have a long trek in to school each day when term started, and she would be a long way from her pals, and the places and shops she knew best. But it was that or an orphan asylum, and Ginny had a dread of any such institution. It might have been all right for someone who had not had the freedom of the streets all her life, but Ginny knew she could never stand it. Three meals a day, cooked for you, decent clothes, an ordered life … no thanks, I’d rather Aunt Amy and Uncle Lewis, Ginny had told George when he had suggested it. So here she was, packing her things and preparing to spend the coppers Uncle Lewis had handed over – with some reluctance – on a tram-ride to the other side of the city.

Presently, Ginny picked up a cardboard box and carried it downstairs. She wished that she had been able to use Gran’s ‘burgling bag’ – at least it had handles – but Gran had been the first to leave and had taken everything that was halfway respectable. She had even taken the pots and pans – George had to hire a pony cart to get the stuff away and had grumbled mightily over it – but the only thing Ginny grudged her was the enormous canvas bag. Getting on the tram with two cardboard boxes was not going to be easy.

However, she had reckoned without her pals. As soon as she descended the steps into the court, Danny came hurrying over. He was extremely upset because she was leaving, she knew that, but he seized the larger of the two boxes and set off towards the tram stop in Great George Street. ‘Your pal Annie will be along in half a mo’,’ he said gruffly. ‘We’re both a-goin’ to come with you ’cos you’ll hatta change trams at Lime Street an’ so’s we know where you are. Mam says Seaforth is a fair way off, but it won’t stop us from seein’ you at holidays and weekends. Why, we’ll still visit the skip on Sat’days, won’t we?’

‘I dunno,’ Ginny said gloomily. She knew how crowded Uncle Lewis’s house was; she would be sharing a bedroom with three smaller girls, sharing a bed as well with her cousin, Ivy, who at eight was the eldest child in Uncle Lewis’s family. Ginny just hoped that the girl was a sound sleeper and would not notice if she got up early in order to go to the skip with Danny.

They reached the tram stop just as Annie came panting up. Bless her, she was carrying her mother’s marketing bag and seized Ginny’s box, tipping the contents into the bag and fitting the now empty box on top. ‘It’ll be easier for you to carry,’ she said breathlessly. ‘You can give it to Danny, he’ll bring it back. I’m awful sorry, queen, but I can’t come to Seaforth wi’ you. Mam’s tekkin’ us to Southport to visit Aunt Bertha. But it’s only another week before school starts, so I’ll see you then.’

Ginny told herself that she should be disappointed at Annie’s defection, but in fact she was glad. Her friend’s home was so neat and clean; her parents so sensible and friendly. She knew that Annie would not be shocked, exactly, by the sight of the house on Schubert Street, because she had been told it was a decent terraced place and Aunt Amy was a dedicated housewife. But if Annie came inside, she would see how overcrowded it was, for she knew from her grandmother’s description that the house was bursting at the seams. The Bennetts were not the only occupants; Amy’s sister, Ellen, and her two children, both older than Ginny, had shared it ever since Ellen’s husband had run off with a barmaid, some two years previously.

‘I’m awful sorry, Ginny,’ Annie repeated. She looked anxious.

Ginny smiled brightly at her friend. ‘It’s all right, Annie. To tell you the truth, I’m not looking forward to livin’ wi’ me uncle and aunt so I expect I’ll spend any spare time with me old pals. The thing is, you see, that they’ve got a nice house but – but there’s too many folk livin’ there. I’d – I’d rather come to you than have you come to me.’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them, for she saw a blush rise hotly across Annie’s face, saw her eyes harden. ‘Oh! Well, if you feel like that …’ Annie turned away and set off down the street in the direction of her own home.

Ginny shouted after her, made to follow, but tripped over the box which Danny had stood down on the pavement, and as she scrambled to her feet a No. 3 tram drew up beside them. Danny began to heave himself and the box aboard, saying a trifle breathlessly as he did so: ‘Don’t gerrin a takin’! She’ll understand what you meant and know you didn’t mean what you said. Will you bleedin’ well stop starin’ over your shoulder and gerron the perishin’ tram. I’ve give up a whole mornin’s work to help you shift your stuff, so don’t stand there moonin’.’

Rather reluctantly, Ginny obeyed. The transition from one tram to the other at Lime Street was easily accomplished since a No. 23 drew up seconds after they had been decanted on to the pavement, and soon the children found themselves wending their way from the tram stop to Ginny’s new home. It was a very cold day, but walking as briskly as she could and carrying the heavy marketing bag soon warmed her up, and by the time they reached No. 14 she was warm enough and guessed, from the sweat trickling down his face, that Danny was pretty hot as well. Carrying the heavy box had plainly been extremely hard work and he dumped it down outside her uncle’s door with a sigh of relief, then mopped his brow with an old khaki handkerchief. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘I’d rather carry that for a yard than for a mile! It ain’t the weight so much as the shape o’ the box which is real awkward. Still an’ all, we’re here now. I wouldn’t mind a cup o’ tea; I’m parched after luggin’ that thing right across the city. D’you suppose your aunt’ll give us some dinner?’ He bent to pick the box up again as Ginny pushed the door open and ushered him inside.

‘I expect she will, even if it’s only bread ’n’ marge, but she’s bound to have a cup o’ tea on the go,’ she said hopefully. ‘She said she’d be in.’

The house seemed quiet but when she opened the kitchen door and ushered Danny inside, the noise hit them like a blow in the face. The room seemed to be full of people and Ginny saw that there was a fire in the grate and a teapot steaming in the centre of the kitchen table. Danny dropped his box once more and rubbed his hands together. He looked at the oldest woman in the room, assuming it to be Aunt Amy, and remarked, cheerfully, that it were nice to get into the warm ’cos it were bitterly cold outside.

Actually, he had addressed Ellen Franklin so Ginny hastily jumped in, explaining that Mrs Franklin was her Aunt Amy’s sister and her Aunt Amy was the lady sitting in front of the fire.

The uproar in the kitchen was such that her aunt had not even noticed them enter the room, but at the sound of her name she turned and subjected Danny to a long, cold stare. She was a short, wiry woman with black hair and sallow skin. She had snapping black eyes and a thin, rat trap mouth; Ginny had often wondered why Uncle Lewis had married her for he was very good-looking, in a smarmy sort of way, and was, according to Granny Bennett, a good earner. Perhaps, Ginny thought charitably now, Aunt Amy had been ravishingly beautiful once, but if so, all traces of it had long disappeared.