A Kiss and a Promise (38 page)

Ginny said, loftily, that she did not wish to learn a thing or two, not if it concerned stealing from shops, but she was curious and hovered in the doorway of the next grocery store Conan entered. Having seen him at work, she had to admit – though only to herself – that he was a very skilful operator. He stood the large canvas bag down at his feet, gaping open, then purchased a screw of tea, taking his time over the transaction. Had she not been watching closely, she would never have spotted the quick dart of his hand towards the pile of goods being purchased by a woman standing beside him, nor have seen how neatly it fell into his shopping bag. He did this two or three times, netting a bag of dried fruit, some extra strong mints and some broken biscuits. Watching him, Ginny doubted whether he actually knew what he had stolen, for he never seemed to take either his eyes or his attention away from the various teas which the shop assistant was showing him, though when the pair of them were outside on the street once more and Ginny pointed out that he might have stolen half a dozen candles and a tin of boot polish, he shook his head chidingly at her.

‘You don’t have no faith, you don’t,’ he said accusingly. ‘I’ve been robbin’ shops since I were knee high to a grasshopper an’ I took a good long look at the sort o’ stuff the old gal were buyin’ afore I touched any of it. Have a biscuit; there’s some of them ones wi’ icing on the top, or you might find a chocolate one if you delve about a bit.’

It would have been nice to refuse, to tell Conan that she would not accept stolen food, but she realised that she was in no position to criticise. As Conan said, the shop was a large and successful one and the woman he had robbed was smartly dressed and buying a great quantity of things. ‘I wouldn’t rob folks as poor as us,’ he said righteously. ‘Tinkers don’t do things like that an’ besides, me Aunt Deb wouldn’t’ve liked it.’ He helped himself to another biscuit and rattled the bag under Ginny’s nose. ‘Go on, have another,’ he urged. ‘And then we’ll start lookin’ for your dad’s farm.’

Two days later, they had thoroughly searched the immediate area of Dublin without any success. They had asked a number of people, mostly kids like themselves, whether they knew of a place called Headland Farm, somewhere in the vicinity of Killorglin, but the most they got were blank looks and a suggestion that they should try somewhere else. Though they raided orchards and stole root crops from the fields, their food was running out and Ginny was becoming more and more convinced that they were searching the wrong area altogether. Conan suggested that they should offer to work on one of the farms for a bit, so that they could earn enough money to catch a bus or train, which would enable them to search further afield, but Ginny’s faith in her new-found friend was fast running out. She knew, now, that he would always be reluctant to admit to ignorance, that when she had asked him if Headland Farm and Killorglin were near Dublin he had not had the foggiest notion, but had simply replied in the affirmative, determined not to admit that he had no more idea than she.

And by the same token, it occurred to her that asking kids was unlikely to get them far. She was a kid herself, and though she knew the area around Victoria Court intimately, and was beginning to know Seaforth too, she would have been hard pressed to say where Wavertree was, or Aigburth or Allerton, though she knew they were all to be found somewhere in the vicinity of the city. But if a questioner had asked the way to St Helens or Manchester, she would not have had the vaguest idea in which direction such places lay.

So when they had managed to get enough money together to take a bus ride, Ginny told Conan, with unusual crispness, that she meant to ask a grown-up in one of the shops to put them on the right road … mebbe even a post office, if there was one, and to take a bus as far as they could on their way. ‘I know you don’t want us to make enquiries in Dublin, partly because of the thievin’ and partly because you’re afraid the scuffers might hand us over to an orphanage or something,’ she told him defiantly, ‘but a village or town will be different.’

Conan demurred, but only half-heartedly. He clearly realised he had been rumbled and did not want to lose Ginny’s friendship, for the fact that there were two of them was becoming increasingly important as the days passed. Fortunately, the weather had remained mild and sunny but Ginny thought, shrewdly, that a couple of rainy, chilly days would make them both begin to think wistfully of the charms of a roof over one’s head, three meals a day and a soft bed at night.

So early on the morning of their third day in Ireland, they climbed aboard a country bus heading for Portlaoise and descended from the vehicle when it reached the town. There was a main street lined with respectable-looking houses and a scattering of small shops, including a linen draper’s, a post office and a general store. There was a pleasant green with two slatted wooden seats upon which sat half a dozen elderly men, smoking their pipes and enjoying the early sunshine, and the usual group of children crouching on the pavement and playing some complicated-looking game which involved sticks, string and a pile of small, shiny pebbles.

‘We’ll ask them kids …’ Conan was beginning, moving towards them, when Ginny seized his arm.

‘No!’ she said vehemently. ‘You stay and watch the kids if you like, but I’m going to try the post office.’ The post office was on the further side of the green, and she was only halfway across when there was a triumphant shout behind her.

‘Hang on a minute, chuck,’ Conan panted, arriving breathlessly at her side. ‘No need to go to the post office; them kids telled me there’s a group o’ tinkers camped out on a bit o’ wasteland not all that far away. They’ve been helpin’ wi’ lifting the potato crop and it ain’t finished yet – the work, I mean – so they’ll be here for a day or two. And tinkers travel the whole country, so if anyone knows where this here Kill place is, it’ll be them.’

‘It’s Killorglin,’ Ginny said. ‘Well, what are we waitin’ for? Oh, Conan, with a bit of luck, I could be wi’ me daddy by nightfall.’

By the time the ferry arrived at the quays, Mabel was so worn out and empty that the only thing she could think of was how soon she would be able to lie down. Michael helped her ashore and then led her, tottering, to the nearest bench, where she collapsed, clutching her hollow stomach and not even thinking to thank her escort for carrying her little suitcase as well as his own grip.

After a moment, Michael sat down beside her. ‘Are you feeling more the thing?’ he asked. ‘Because if so, we’d best be makin’ tracks. The kid ain’t likely to be hangin’ round the quays. Are we goin’ to ask folk in Dublin if they’ve seen her or are we goin’ to make for the nearest railway station and ask there? The trouble is, I can’t read Ginny’s mind and I reckon you can’t either. So what’s best to be done, eh?’

Mabel leaned back against the sun-warmed wooded seat and closed her eyes, but as soon as she did so the ground seemed to surge beneath her feet and her head swam. Hastily, she opened her eyes once more, narrowing them against the sunlight, and regarded her companion with hostility. Had he no sensitivity, the great Irish lump? Here was she, sick unto death, simply longing to lie down in a darkened room and all he could do was ply her with unanswerable questions and suggest courses of action which she was simply not capable of carrying out.

She opened her mouth to say all these things but, rather to her surprise, all that came out was a sound very like a miaow, followed by a small but definite groan. Michael patted her shoulder but she could see he was stifling a smile and, had she been capable, she would have said something cutting, something to wipe the amusement from his face. However, she was clearly not capable so had to content herself with saying, in a husky whisper: ‘I – I don’t think I can help much right now. I feel terribly ill. I’ve got awful pains inside, my throat feels as if someone’s cut it and there’s no strength in my legs. I thought I was dying aboard the ferry and I still think I am.’

Michael laughed. ‘Well, of course you’ve got pains in your inside because you chucked up everything, bar your liver and lights,’ he said, with hateful cheerfulness. ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve some grub inside you though, I can promise you that.’ He put a strong arm round her and heaved her to her feet, ignoring her squawk of protest. ‘Come along now, I’m tellin’ you, no one ever died of seasickness yet, especially on dry land. Tell you what, we’ll book into a lodging house, get ourselves a bit o’ dinner and then begin to ask questions. What d’you think of that?’

‘It’s a bloody awful idea,’ Mabel said resentfully. She had been brought up never to swear but felt that only strong language could convey her feelings to this great dolt. ‘I can’t even face a cup of tea, let alone anything more solid. Oh, dear God, and I can’t even turn round and go home because it would mean getting back on that bloody ship and crossin’ that terrible bloody ocean again.’

Michael was still holding her upright, pressed against his side, and though he did not actually laugh again she felt his amusement and would have liked to push him away, though she dared not do so for fear she would simply collapse on the cobbles at his feet. However, he said, encouragingly: ‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m talkin’ about. There’s a little café not fifty yards away – we’ll go there first, if you like. Then, when you’ve got some of your strength back, we’ll carry out the rest of me programme, awright?’

‘I shan’t eat anything, nor shall I drink so much as a cup of tea,’ Mabel muttered, but she took care to keep her voice below the range of his hearing. She did make an abortive effort to take her case from him, but he shook his head, chidingly, assuring her that it was ‘light as a feather, so it is’, and continued to almost carry her across the cobbled quays and into what she took to be a workmen’s small dining room, since it was crowded with men whom she imagined to be dock workers, whilst the only woman in sight wore a cheerful checked apron and was serving the food across a wide – and very dirty – wooden counter.

‘Can someone find this lady a chair?’ Michael bawled. ‘She’s not feeling too good but I telled her a plateful of Ma Mulligan’s stew and a nice hot cup o’ tay would soon put her right.’

Mabel, gazing with lacklustre eyes at the dockers and other working men, was pleasantly surprised when a table was hastily cleared and she was pushed into a wooden kitchen chair whilst the aproned woman came clucking from behind the counter with a cup in her hand, remarking that the poor young critter looked green as a cabbage, so she did, and would benefit from strong, sweet tea which she must drink up immediately, whilst it was hot.

The kindness and hospitality behind the words was so plain that Mabel actually found herself taking the cup and sipping at the burning liquid. She did not normally take sugar in her tea and thought it had a very strange taste, but it was wonderfully warming and presently she looked across at Michael, sitting opposite her at the small table, and managed a watery smile. He smiled back and lifted his own mug to her as if in salute. ‘Feelin’ better?’ he enquired. ‘Ma Mulligan’s tay is famous, for she always puts a drop of something in it and it settles your stomach like nothin’ else can.’

Mabel put her cup down hastily. What could the woman have put in the tea? Ever since moving to Liverpool, she had heard stories of innocent girls doped by seemingly friendly strangers who had then shipped them off to South America. But surely this would not apply in Ireland? And Ma Mulligan had a round, rosy-red face, devoid of guile. Lowering her voice to a whisper, Mabel asked Michael what had been put into her cup and was only partly reassured when her companion told her that it was nothing more dangerous than a tot of rum. At any other time, Mabel, who had never touched alcohol in her life, would have been appalled by this information, but now she simply concluded that the spirit must be medicinal and continued to sip at her drink.

By the time a large plateful of stew and dumplings had been put before her, she realised that she really was hungry, and, though it went against the grain to admit Michael was right, she soon began to feel a good deal better, though her longing to lie down quietly for an hour or so had not left her. Still, she reminded herself as Michael paid the bill and the two of them left the stuffy little room, she could scarcely expect her companion not to worry over his small daughter, alone in this strange city.

‘I know a neat little lodging house where they’ll give us a clean bed and only charge a couple of bob,’ Michael said presently, as they made their way through the crowds thronging the quays. ‘The place is owned by a Mrs Connell an’ she’s a grand cook, so she is. I dare say we shan’t be in Dublin long, for it’s not a big place and a wee girl, on her own, is bound to be noticed, but while we are here, Mrs Connell will feed us right well.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Mabel murmured. ‘But there do seem to be an awful lot of children about, Mr Ga … I mean, Michael. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but more than half of them seem to be redheaded girls. I thought Ginny would stand out, with that long, thick plait of red hair, but now I’m not so sure.’

Michael laughed. ‘Aye, they say that red hair is typical of the Irish,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve not seen many plaits, have you? Lots of girls, though, and a grosh o’ freckles.’

‘Ginny isn’t freckled …’ Mabel was beginning when Michael steered her gently into a side street and presently she found herself entering a small, clean house, where she was greeted by a grey-haired woman in a blue wrap-around overall, who led her guest to a tiny bedroom, sparsely furnished, with a small truckle bed, sprig muslin curtains at the window and a wash stand.

‘You’ll be on the next floor up, Mr Gallagher, dear,’ Mrs Connell said, preceding them down the stairs. ‘No need to show you your room; you’ve stayed in it often enough. Now what was the problem you mentioned when I was showing this young lady the kitchen where me guests have their dinners?’

Rather to Mabel’s surprise, Michael told their landlady the story of Ginny’s flight from Liverpool and the puzzle of her whereabouts, whilst Mrs Connell listened with bright, intelligent eyes fixed on his face. ‘It’s a frightenin’ thought, so it is, to have a wee lass on the loose in Ireland, not knowin’ a soul an’ innocent as a newborn lamb of the wicked ways of men,’ she said solemnly when Michael had finished his tale. ‘But I’ll put the word around, m’dear, and get the priest to do the same, and afore you know it we’ll have run the child to earth an’ no harm done. You did say she were alone?’