A Kiss and a Promise (37 page)

The weather continued fine, though windy, and presently, to Michael’s relief, the teacher fell into an uneasy doze and he was able to leave her in order to go below to buy himself a large cheese and pickle sandwich and a pint of Guinness. He carried his meal back on deck and was tucking in when Mabel awoke. She glanced at him, saw the food and once more tottered to the rail, where the most dreadful sounds almost put Michael off his dinner. Almost, but not quite. He was extremely hungry and realised, for the first time in their acquaintance, he was actually the stronger of the two. It was a good feeling and it made him more sympathetic towards the young woman. In fact he took himself and his food out of sight, behind the funnel, in order not to upset her further, and when he returned, she actually gave him a pallid smile before sinking into sleep once more.

Michael stood at the rail and looked forward; he could see on the far horizon the bank of frail cloud which meant that land lay below; in an hour they would be in Dublin Bay, where the surge would be very much less. He returned to Mabel’s side and told her that her troubles would soon be over, but she made no reply and he concluded that she really was asleep at last. Satisfied on this score, he settled down on the deck beside her and was very soon asleep himself.

Ginny’s adventure had started aboard the ferry heading for her father’s country. No one had queried her right to be aboard for, because it was the summer holidays, a great many families, accompanied by their children, were returning to Ireland on this ship and Ginny guessed that each group assumed she was with another such party.

Like most children, she welcomed new experiences and forgot her own troubles in the pleasure of exploring, examining the lifeboats, the great funnels and the large saloons below deck. The sea surge worried her not at all and presently she fell into a game of hide and seek with a rowdy group of children of her own age. Soon she was able to ask them where they lived in Ireland and how long it would take them to reach their homes.

After four or five hours, it occurred to Ginny that one of the boys in the group was looking at her with rather more interest than seemed necessary. A little nettled, she stared back at him curiously, thinking that if he was going to say anything rude about her mass of bright red hair, she could easily reply in kind, for he was a strange-looking lad. He was very brown and his hair was brown too, though there was a sheen of gold over it caused, she imagined, by the strength of the summer sun. He was a thin boy, dressed in ragged kecks, ancient plimsolls and a threadbare grey shirt, which he wore unbuttoned to the waist and tied in a knot. But the really odd thing about him was his eyes, which were large, of so light a brown that they were almost gold, and slanted sharply upwards at the outer corners, giving him a sly look. Ginny noticed that his eyebrows, too, slanted upwards and decided to ask him why he was staring. She would have done so, too, except that he spoke first.

‘Well? Know me again, Ginger?’

The remark was made in a Liverpool accent, yet Ginny was pretty sure the boy was Irish, though she could not have said why. There was just something in his face which reminded her of various Irish people she knew. ‘I don’t want to know you again,’ she said coldly. ‘An’ if you call me Ginger once more, you nasty, slant-eyed tinker’s get, I’ll darken your daylights for you.’

Rather to her surprise, the boy looked at her approvingly; clearly he had not expected a girl to attack so briskly. ‘I say, you’re a fierce ‘un,’ he said admiringly. ‘What’s your name, then, if I ain’t to call you Ginger, that is?’ He grinned at her. ‘Wharrabout Carrots? I’ve heered fellers in school callin’ redheads Carrots; would you darken me bleedin’ daylights for that?’

Ginny giggled; she could not help herself. He had spoken in such a droll way that despite her resolve to stand no nonsense, she had had to laugh. But she said as gravely as she could: ‘Me name’s Ginny and before you says another word, it ain’t short for Ginger. Me real name’s Virginia but all me pals call me Ginny, ’cos the other’s so long. What’s your name, then?’

‘Conan O’Dowd, and in case you’re wonderin’, I’m off to seek me fortune in the land of me forefathers.’ He cocked an intelligent eyebrow at her. ‘Is that what you’re doin’? Only I couldn’t help noticin’ that you’re by yourself, same as me.’

‘How d’you know I’m by meself?’ Ginny said at once, the fear of being handed over to authority rising up in her again. ‘I’m – I’m wi’ me dad, only he’s downstairs in the bar an’ don’t want me hangin’ around.’

The boy grinned. ‘You ain’t with your dad at all,’ he announced baldly. ‘I see you come aboard wi’ a fat old woman, but you left her as soon as your feet touched the deck and haven’t been near nor by her since. Don’t worry, there’s nothin’ wrong with being alone – I am meself.’

There was a moment’s pause whilst Ginny considered what to say and decided the truth was probably best. ‘All right, I
am
on me own,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m crossing to Ireland to find me daddy; his name’s Michael Gallagher and he’s gorra farm down by the sea. He were comin’ over to Liverpool to fetch me back, only – only there were reasons why I couldn’t wait, so I come by meself. Wharrabout you, then? Or are you really seeking your fortune?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Conan admitted, ‘same as I ‘spect yours is. It’s odd though: we’re both searchin’ for our fathers. Mine’s called Eamonn O’Dowd. He came over to Liverpool to do navvying work, met me mam – she were a Liverpool girl – an’ they had me. Only when I were five, me mam died an’ me dad left me with me Aunt Deb, and went back to Ireland. I were happy enough, even after Aunt Deb married Uncle Tom and they had half a dozen kids of their own. But last year, Aunt Deb died an’ Uncle Tom married the woman next door. She don’t like me an’ I don’t like her, so I stole the housekeeping money, bought me a ticket on the ferry, an’ when I gets to Ireland, I’m goin’ to start looking for me dad.’

‘Cor,’ Ginny said reverently. ‘That’s a story and a half, ain’t it? I wonder if it’s true?’

Conan grinned. ‘Well; I mebbe prettied it up a little,’ he admitted. ‘But I am searchin’ for me dad, honest to God I am, only he could be anywhere because Aunt Deb always said he were an Irish tinker an’ they travel all over the country. They work on the little farms, steal a few peats and the odd hen, whittle clothes pegs an’ linen props to sell, picks bunches o’ white heather – that’s for good luck, you know – an’ turn their hand to anything what’ll make ’em a few bob.’ He looked speculatively at Ginny. ‘What say we team up, the two of us? We can search for our dads an’ keep one another company. It’s summer so I reckon we won’t starve, not with the orchards full of apples an’ the rivers full of fish. What d’you say?’

Ginny looked at her companion doubtfully, realising as she did so that she did not trust him an inch. But what was the harm, after all? Poor Conan had no idea where his father might be found but she had a name and address. If he liked to accompany her to her father’s farm outside Dublin, she was sure there could be no harm in it and the Gallaghers might have heard of a band of wandering tinkers. She said as much to Conan who nodded enthusiastically, eyes brightening. ‘You’re right there, Ginny,’ he said. ‘From what me Aunt Deb’s told me, all the tinkers know one another. Once it gets about that young Conan O’Dowd is searching for his dad there’ll be a dozen folk what’ll tell me where he’s to be found. Now, where does your dad live?’

For answer, Ginny pulled the much-crumpled letter out of her pocket and held it out. Her companion took it, looked at it for a moment or two, and then nodded sagely, handing it back to her. ‘Aye, well, that’s clear enough,’ he said, rather gruffly. ‘How long d’you reckon it’ll take us to reach the farm?’

Ginny stared at him thoughtfully. ‘An awful long time if it’s left to you, since you were holdin’ the letter upside down,’ she said accusingly. ‘You can’t read, can you? Why didn’t you say?’

Conan grinned again, looking not in the least discomposed. ‘’Cos I sagged off school whenever I could to help me Aunt Deb,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Readin’s no good to a tinker, anyhow. Tinkers read in different ways. They look at the sky an’ tell you if it’s goin’ to rain or if there’s a storm blowin’ up. They look at the hedgerows an’ can tell whether the farmer’s a sharp one who’ll notice if a few turnips go missin’. An’ they look into people’s faces an’ read their minds, and that’s a lot more useful than book learning.’

Ginny was about to demand that, if he was so clever, he should tell her what she was thinking right now, but fortunately for their future friendship the ship’s bucking movement suddenly ceased and they found themselves gliding into the mouth of the River Liffey.

‘C’mon, we’re goin’ to dock,’ Conan shouted excitedly. ‘Let’s see if we can be first ashore.’

Dublin was a surprise to both children. They had been brought up in a city whose waterfront towered high into the sky, with resplendent buildings seeming almost to touch the clouds, but Dublin was very different. It was smaller, lower, and a good deal more compact so that the children felt none of the awe which they experienced when passing the Liver buildings, the Custom House, the great town hall and, of course, St George’s, up on its plateau. As soon as they were ashore, Ginny bought a large loaf of brown, rustic-looking bread and a chunk of creamy local cheese from a small shop. Then she and Conan squatted on a low stone wall and began to plan their next move. Ginny read her father’s address to Conan and was relieved when he nodded wisely. ‘Aye, I’ve heard me Auntie Deb speak of it often and often,’ he assured her. ‘I dunno, offhand, exactly where it is, but I do know it’s no more’n a couple of miles from the city itself. D’you want to go there at once, queen, or can we take a look round this place first? Only, we’re none too flush for cash, either of us. An’ I reckon we might make ourselves a few bob here, because when we’re in the country it’ll be all turnips and fields of corn and we shan’t get much of a price for
them
.’

Ginny agreed to this, though rather doubtfully. For her own part, she was pretty sure she had sufficient money to last her until she reached Headland Farm, but fair was fair; Conan might have to search for many weeks before running his father to earth and he only had l/6d left out of the housekeeping money he had stolen. Ginny did not approve of his action in taking the money, but guessed that circumstances had forced him to behave the way he had. So she agreed that they should search the city for some means of making a bit of money before abandoning the place and making for her father’s farm.

That first day, they explored their surroundings, trying to find somewhere to spend the night, and came upon a large park with benches set amidst trees and shrubs, and a big pond full of gold, white and red fishes, which Conan told her were carp. ‘They make good eating,’ he said wistfully, gazing at the sinuous shapes in the watery depths. ‘But I dare say folk ’ud notice if we started haulin’ ’em out, so we’ll make do with bread an’ cheese an’ a few apples tonight, I reckon.’

Ginny insisted upon paying for the food, secure in the knowledge that she would soon be with her father, particularly when they found a market in a place called Capel Street. ‘The only snag we’re goin’ to come across is the language,’ Conan remarked after they had purchased more bread and cheese, a bottle of ginger beer and two large oranges. ‘The old shawlies is bad enough, but I scarce understood a word them kids were sayin’. I know there is a language called Irish, but they weren’t speakin’ that, were they? It’s goin’ to make it mortal difficult to find our way to your dad’s place.’

Ginny, rather chastened, admitted that this was so. Coming from Liverpool, the children were both used to a certain amount of Irish brogue, but she supposed that Dubliners spoke slowly and with more care, when in England, than they did on their native soil. ‘It’s all right when you’re buyin’ somethin’, ’cos you can guess, more or less, what they’re sayin’,’ she admitted. ‘But askin’ the way … well, that’s goin’ to be a lot more difficult.’

‘Aye; an’ from what Aunt Deb told me, the tinkers have a language all their own,’ Conan said. ‘Still, I dare say we’ll get by. Shall us eat our supper sittin’ by the fish pond or shall us take it to a nice, cosy bench under the trees, where we won’t be spotted if a scuffer comes by?’

It was growing dusk and Ginny decided it would be more sensible to find shelter for the night. Presently, the pair of them discovered not a bench, but a thicket whose branches were so cunningly entwined overhead that, even if it rained, she doubted that they would get wet. The thicket was floored with dried leaves and the children sat under its canopy, ate their food and drank their ginger beer and then snuggled down for the night, curling up back to back to share their warmth, like a couple of puppies.

‘No one’s goin’ to spot us here,’ Conan mumbled, just before sleep claimed them. ‘Tell you what, queen, I’m rare glad we found each other, ain’t you? Sleepin’ rough’s all very well in the countryside, but if it weren’t for the fact that we’re together, I don’t think I’d care to kip down in a public park, not wi’ scuffers an’ park keepers an’ such on the prowl.’

Ginny was much struck by this piece of good sense and agreed that meeting had been a bit of luck for them both. She had meant to keep a weather eye open for any figures of authority passing their nest, but sleep overtook her within five minutes of settling down and both children slumbered soundly till morning.

When Conan had first suggested making some money before beginning their search, Ginny had felt some reservations. She was not at all sure how they could possibly make money because all the methods by which children at home earned a penny or two would be barred to them. They could not run messages, beg wooden boxes off greengrocers and chop them into kindling, carry heavy baskets for neighbours, or even offer to help swill down the fishmongers’ stalls when trade was finished for the day. Well, perhaps they could do one or two of these things, if they could make it plain to the locals that they wanted some sort of paid work.

However, she accompanied Conan back to the big indoor market they had found the previous day and soon realised that, so far as her companion was concerned, the language spoken and the understanding of adults was immaterial. Conan meant to steal and was so good at it that, at first, Ginny did not realise where he had obtained the large canvas bag, or its contents. When she asked him, Conan was frank enough. ‘I robbed ’em,’ he said cheerfully. ‘No use looking so po-faced about it, queen, ’cos there ain’t no other way, not for us there ain’t. But if you don’t like it, just steer clear o’ me in the next shop. You can watch though,’ he added, with a gleam in his eye which told Ginny that he was not the least ashamed of his actions, was, in fact, quite proud of them. ‘If you do, you’ll learn a thing or two, I’m tellin’ you.’