A Kiss and a Promise (32 page)

Ivy glanced curiously up at Steve. Ginny’s stomach tightened with apprehension – was Ivy about to remark that Steve reminded her of someone? – but Ivy only said in an awe-struck tone: ‘A bob? Just for your dinners? Why, you could have a penn’orth of chips each, and ice creams an’ sweeties an’ all sorts. Is you rich, Steve?’

Steve laughed and rumpled Ivy’s smooth brown hair. ‘No, we ain’t, you little goose. When we’re out for the whole day, we has our tea out an’ all. Wharrabout you three, then? You’ve not said much about yourselves. Where do you live? Near here, I suppose.’

‘No, we’re from Seaforth,’ Ivy told him. ‘We likes Rin Tin Tin best, just like you do, but we walked, ’cos our mam can’t go handin’ out dosh for tram rides as well as toffee money. What’ll you do when the fillum is over, Steve? There’s a good chippie on the Stanley, or you could come back to Seaforth wi’ us. We could play on the beach later, or go to Bowerdale Park.’

Ginny felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle with horror at this suggestion and was very relieved when Steve shook his head. ‘Thanks, chuck, but I reckon Roly an’ me will stroll on an’ tek a look round the area; we doesn’t often get the chance, you see.’

Soon after this, they reached the Broadway Cinema and went in together, but in the press of children surging down the cinema aisles they got separated. Ivy, who had taken a great liking to Steve, loudly bewailed the fact but Ginny, watching Steve’s blond head bobbing down towards the front seats, could only feel glad. She had wanted to know about her uncle’s other family but now she realised, with a sickening jolt, that she had learned a good deal more than she had bargained for. She had always thought that Uncle Lew’s second family lived in Crosby but now she knew that this was not so; his second family lived in Seaforth, for how could it be otherwise? Steve was about twelve and Ivy, the eldest of Uncle Lew’s Seaforth family, only eight.

Two days before the end of term, Ginny decided that she would simply have to skip classes and go back to the Rathbone Street school, otherwise she might not see Miss Derbyshire, since once the holidays started she supposed that the teacher would return to her own home, wherever that might be. Even at her present school, things usually became more relaxed as the summer holidays approached. They had Sports Day and various classes gave concerts, or performed small plays, and since the weather was fine Ginny found it easy to slip away directly after the register had been called. She had confided in Ivy, promising to return before school ended, and knew the younger girl would keep her secret. Indeed, Ivy had said immediately that there was no need for Ginny to hurry back since she was quite capable of getting her sisters home herself and making their tea.

Ivy was a good kid, Ginny reflected, hopping aboard the tram which would take her to Great George Street. She always did her share of the housework and was quite happy to accompany her cousin when doing the messages; very different from the Franklin girls, who spent most of their time plotting to get out of every possible task.

The tram drew up with a screech at Ginny’s stop and she hopped down and set off towards the school, feeling warmth and excitement growing within her. Soon, now, she would be seeing her beloved Miss Derbyshire and explaining all the changes which had taken place in her life. She realised it would not be fair to mention her big problem to the teacher – that of her Uncle Lew’s two families – but fully intended to tell her that she was now in touch with her father and actually meant to stay with him in Ireland during the summer holidays.

Immensely excited, she trotted across the playground and headed for Miss Derbyshire’s classroom.

At the end of the school day, Miss Derbyshire took Ginny back to her own lodgings where she made them a cup of tea and a plate of sandwiches. She had very much enjoyed seeing her old pupil again after so long, and was much struck by the improvement in Ginny’s appearance. The child looked neat, clean and well cared for, and though she was obviously very disappointed with the standard of education at her new school, she had become a member of the local free library and would, Miss Derbyshire thought, educate herself so far as she was able.

The news that she was now writing to her father was excellent and Miss Derbyshire was glad to be able to tell her former pupil that she herself had met Michael Gallagher.

‘He’s a very handsome man,’ she told Ginny. ‘He’s got curly dark hair, very dark blue eyes and nice, even teeth. I was rather angry with him, at the time, for not getting in touch with you sooner, but looking back on it I realise I had no right to criticise him. I promised him that I’d try to find you and let him have your new address but I’m afraid though I did try asking round some of the local schools, I had no luck. I meant to start searching and asking questions in the holidays but since you are already in touch with him, that obviously won’t be necessary.’

‘It was awful kind of you to think of it,’ Ginny said rather thickly, through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to see me dad, Miss Derbyshire, though as I telled you, I’m ever so happy wi’ me Aunt Amy an’ Uncle Lew, an’ me little cousins is grand kids. I miss Rathbone Street School and me pals in Victoria Court, but I’m beginnin’ to see why me aunt and uncle didn’t want me coming back here whenever I got the chance. I’m makin’ pals where I am, you see, and I reckon that’s better’n tryin’ to get back here all the time. But fancy him bein’ dark; I thought he’d be ginger, like me. Though now I come to think of it, me mam and Uncle George and the others have all got black hair, but me Uncle Lewis is yellow as a corn cob, so I s’pose you don’t have to have the same colour hair as one of your parents.’ She looked ruefully across at Miss Derbyshire. ‘It were a bit of a shock to find that Danny and me old pal Annie had got together. They spend most of their time in and out of each other’s houses, Annie was telling me when I spoke to her earlier, and they’ve all sorts of schemes goin’. They telled me it were all right for me to join ’em during the holidays, but I reckon they were just being polite. And anyway, we – we may not be in Seaforth all that long. You see …’

Mabel watched her visitor’s small, animated face, as she told her, in strict confidence, of Lew Bennett’s plans to buy a farm on the Welsh hillside and to move his family there just as soon as they were able to stock it. ‘So you see, if I go back to Ireland wi’ me dad and have to come back to England when the holidays is over, I’ll bring a whole lot o’ farming experience wi’ me.’ She looked shyly across at her companion. ‘Only … only there’s something I know, something I found out, which could mean Uncle Lew won’t never get that farm. I’ve not said a word to Aunt Amy, nor to anyone else o’ course, but – but I think mebbe I’ll tell me dad when he comes for me in August.’

Mabel was only human and longed to ask the child just what she had discovered, but realised that it would be unfair to do so. Probably, Ginny had seen her uncle spending money on drink when he should have been saving up, or something similar. So instead of asking the question which hovered on the tip of her tongue, she said reassuringly: ‘That’s right, Ginny love, you tell your daddy about it. He’s a sensible man and will advise you what’s best to be done.’

Ginny gave her the sweet, three-cornered smile which lit up her small face and made her look almost pretty. ‘I’ll do that, Miss Derbyshire,’ she said joyfully. ‘It’s grand to see you again, miss; if I can get away, I’ll come again and let you know when my daddy’s picking me up.’ She looked a trifle anxious. ‘You
did
like him, didn’t you? You weren’t just sayin’ it to ease me mind?’

‘I’m sure he’s an excellent sort of man,’ Mabel Derbyshire said, rather stiffly. It most certainly would not do to let Ginny see that she had thought Michael Gallagher selfish and overbearing. ‘Now you’d best run along, love, or you won’t be home in time to get a meal ready. And just you come back whenever you are able, because it’s a great pleasure to see my favourite pupil, even though you aren’t, strictly speaking, my pupil any more.’

Michael stood on the headland above the small bay, chewing a piece of grass and watching, with some dismay, as a veil of soft summer rain swept in from the sea. So far, it had been a wet summer and though this was by no means unusual in Kerry, Michael was extremely keen to introduce his daughter to the farm in sunny weather. She was a city child and he imagined would be dismayed to find lanes, meadows and copses ankle-deep in mud.

His father only grew sufficient corn to feed his stock and, though the weather had been wet, the rain had been gentle so the crop was not laid flat. If we get some sun in a week or so, we’ll maybe harvest it towards the end of August or the beginning of September and all the kids love a corn harvest, Michael told himself, turning away from the headland just as the rain began to blow gently into his face.

Declan was a grand lad and was doing Sean’s share of the work, never grumbling at the long hours which every farm worker has to put in when days are long and nights short. Sean was doing his best to give what help he could but his leg needed a good deal of rest and though he would have pushed himself mercilessly had his son not been present, Maeve had told her husband, severely, that this was foolishness: a short-term view which would end up with the leg permanently weakened. Sean saw the point of his wife’s remarks and reluctantly agreed not to try to do too much. ‘For wit’ Michael and Declan keepin’ up wit’ the work so grand, and wit’ you managin’ the stock almost as well as I could meself, I might as well be sensible,’ he had told his wife. ‘It’ought we’d miss young Ryan turrble bad when Padraig had to have him back – young Ryan had a way wit’ sheep, so he did – but I don’t t’ink we’ve lost a lamb, thanks to you and Floss, and only two o’ the ewes were barren, so we’re building up the flock better than I dared hope.’

His wife had laughed, raising her eyebrows comically as she replied. ‘So I’m bracketed wit’ a sheepdog, am I? Still an’ all, things seem to be goin’ all right for us Gallaghers, one way and another. And as soon as he’s able, our boy will fetch Ginny home and we’ll be a proper family.’

Michael skirted the cottage, smiling to himself. He had gone up to the headland to see whether his father had taken the
Orla
out, and sure enough, the boat was not at her moorings in the tiny harbour. Sean was probably checking his lobster and crab pots and Michael’s mouth watered, hopefully, at the thought of a crab or a lobster for his tea. But there was no point in standing here dreaming. He and Declan meant to dip the sheep some time this week and since the other task which awaited them was that of digging peat, and everyone knew that peat could only be dug when the moor had dried out, they had best get on with the sheep dip today.

The rain continued to fall, softly but steadily, for a further three days and then, to Michael’s joy, it ceased; the skies cleared and a brisk wind began to blow. After a couple of days, Michael announced that the peat would be cutting just fine, and he and Declan took the donkey and cart and their slanes and spent the day, in company with many other villagers, cutting the big squares of turf and piling them into the donkey cart.

It was at the end of the second day, with the weather still fine, that Michael decided to write to Ginny, telling her that he would not be able to come and fetch her much before the second or third week in August because they would be frantically busy on the farm lifting the main potato crop, although they would not be cutting the corn until early September since the summer had been so wet. In actual fact, he thought that if the weather continued good, he would get away much earlier than that, but he reasoned that it was better to surprise her by an early arrival than to have the kid being disappointed over his failure to turn up.

Michael finished his letter, sealed it and fished a stamp out of his wallet. He would take the letter into Killorglin in the morning and put it into the post office. He tried to imagine its journey. It would travel by train across Ireland and then it would be carried on the ferry over the Irish Sea. From there it would, he supposed, go into a sorting office and thence would be carried, by the postman, to the town of Seaforth, wherever that might be.

As he made ready for bed that night, he wondered about Seaforth, wondered what sort of place it was. Town? Village? But really, its only interest for him was that his daughter was there. He remembered his last visit to Liverpool and the dragging weariness of his unsuccessful search. He also remembered, with some annoyance, that stuck-up, bossy schoolteacher, who had been so unpleasant to him. Well, at least there would be no occasion for him to visit her this time round. This time, he would go to the very house just as soon as he came ashore, and meet his daughter at long last.

Satisfied, he climbed into bed and was soon asleep.

Ginny managed to visit Miss Derbyshire a couple more times at the end of July and on Thursday, 1 August, they actually had a day out together. Miss Derbyshire had been much shocked to discover that Ginny, despite living within a stone’s throw of Liverpool Cathedral, had never so much as glanced at it and was surprised to learn that although work had started on it in 1904, it was still not finished. She was also amazed that Ginny had never visited the Walker Art Gallery or the Liverpool museum, and said they would have an enjoyable day seeing the sights and educating themselves. Since she also planned that they would have lunch at a Lyon’s Corner House, Ginny was naturally delighted by the scheme but rather to her surprise, as the day approached she began to be nervous about leaving Schubert Street for any length of time. The thought that her father might come and find her not at home was a horrid one, but she realised that Miss Derbyshire was looking forward to the outing and so merely left Ivy on watch, with a promise of tuppence if she detained Michael Gallagher, should he happen to arrive in his daughter’s absence.

‘I don’t suppose he’ll be staying in the Sailor’s Home this time, like he did when he were courting my mam,’ she told Ivy. ‘But he’s bound to be staying in a lodging house somewhere because I telled him when I wrote that your mam’s house was packed just as full as it can hold.’