A Kiss and a Promise (39 page)

‘She was definitely alone when she left Liverpool,’ Mabel said, putting her oar in for the first time, ‘but we asked at the ferry terminal and they couldn’t remember a child by herself. Apparently there were a great number of family parties crossing the Irish Sea that day, so I suppose she might have palled up with someone.’

Michael, however, said that he was doubtful of this. ‘I don’t believe she’d confide in a grown-up because if she’d felt inclined to do so she could have gone to you, Mabel,’ he pointed out. ‘I think she’ll make her own way to Kerry, but what really worries me is how she’ll live on the journey. Oh, I know country kids can live off the land for weeks at this time of year, but my Ginny isn’t a country kid an’ she may see nickin’ a few apples or munchin’ on raw potatoes as thievery and prefer to go hungry.’

Mrs Connell laughed at this and shook her head. ‘Kids is kids. I’ve no doubt even English kids box the cox from time to time,’ she assured her guests. ‘Besides, kids see growin’ things as everyone’s right, so I don’t think she’ll starve. But as I said, I’ll put the word around an’ if she’s lyin’ up anywhere in Dublin, don’t you worry yourselves, it’ll come to my ears soon enough.’

With this Michael and Mabel had to be content, but as soon as Mabel felt sufficiently rested, the pair of them set off. At every street stall and corner where a news vendor or a lad offering to polish one’s shoes stood, Michael stopped and gestured to his companion, who promptly went into her soon familiar spiel. ‘Have you by any chance seen a thin little girl of about ten years old, wearing a faded blue cotton dress, with a long braid of red hair? Or her hair might be loose, because it is very curly and difficult to restrain. She has blue eyes and a Liverpool accent. She’s not in any sort of trouble except that she missed her father and went aboard the ferry by herself, and now we’re anxious to find her again.’

One or two people thought they might have seen such a child, but since no one had watched which way she went, this was of very little help. In fact, Mabel was doubtful whether the child they thought they had seen was, in fact, Ginny. As she had already remarked, there seemed to be even more kids on the streets of Dublin than there were in Liverpool and at least half of them had curly red hair. As evening approached, she and Michael returned to their lodgings, very much discouraged. ‘I don’t reckon she’s spent long in the city,’ Michael told his companion. ‘Oh, I’m not sayin’ she would have set off for Killorglin immediately – and anyway, the farm’s a fair way from Killorglin – but I am saying I reckon she’d have more sense than to hang around here. I telled her in all me letters about the fishin’ and the mussel beds. She’ll know she won’t find such things in Dublin.’

‘Well, she’ll know once she’s had a good look round,’ Mabel said. ‘But there’s a lot of – of seaside around here, wouldn’t you say? If she’s searched all of that she might still be in the neighbourhood.’

‘Aye, there’s Booterstown … but every kid in Dublin knows Booterstown, and they’d tell her soon enough that it’s not Killorglin … and then there’s Bray, only that’s a bit further off … Oh, I dunno! I reckon we ought to spend one more day here, and then set off for Kerry.’

Mabel and Michael got their first real lead early on the following day. They had tried a great many different places without any success at all, so when they approached the bus stands on Aston Quay Mabel very nearly told Michael that this would be yet another useless enquiry. However, they approached a young news vendor, squatting cross-legged by the bus stand, and Michael launched into the now familiar questioning. Had the lad noticed a young, red-haired girl, probably in shabby and faded clothing, with a long mass of ginger curls and a Liverpool accent.

The boy looked up at them, then scrambled to his feet, holding out a newspaper. ‘Would you be wantin’ a copy of the
Irish Independent
?’ he asked hopefully. ‘’Tis only a penny to you, sir.’

‘No, I’m not after wantin’ a paper, only some information, but I’ll pay you a silver sixpenny piece if you can help me,’ Michael said. ‘I’m lookin’ for a girl of ten or eleven wit’ long …’

‘I know, I heered you,’ the boy said. He grinned up at Michael. ‘A sixpence, eh? Well now, would she be a girl wit’ a long, red plait, wearin’ a blue cotton dress an’ plimsolls wit’ her toes poking out? And would she have a rare funny sort o’ voice … I heered her say
Gerralook at the timetable, Conan
to the young feller she were with.’

‘That sounds like my Ginny,’ Michael said, after a quick confirming nod from Mabel. But – but we t’ought she was on her own, so we did. Who was this she were with? Was he young? Old?’

The boy considered. ‘He weren’t a lot older than her, I shouldn’t think,’ he said, after a moment. ‘He was wearing plimsolls – better ones’n hers – blue shirt and raggedy trousers. I noticed him ’cos he had an Irish name but he talked just like she did.’ He gave a derisive crow of amusement. ‘No, he weren’t Irish; he were as English as she were.’

‘You’re a noticin’ sort of young chiseller,’ Michael said, producing a silver sixpence from his pocket and handing it to the boy. ‘You didn’t happen to notice where they went next, I suppose, ’cos if you did, I’ve got another sixpence in me pocket which is almost burnin’ a hole, it’s that eager to jump into your palm.’

This time the boy did not even have to consider. ‘I know ‘xactly where they went, ’cos they stood close by me, countin’ their money,’ he said. ‘They wanted to go to Glyn-something-or-other but they couldn’t afford the fare, not to go all the way. So they boarded a bus for Portlaoise – leastways the bus were bound for Limerick but they only had enough money to get to Portlaoise.’

Michael gave a deep, contented sigh, rooted around in his pocket and produced a shilling. He handed it to the boy, thanked him very much for the information and took Mabel’s arm. He led her away from the bus stands and down towards the Liffey, but then it seemed he could contain his exuberance no longer. He flung both arms round her, lifted her off her feet and whirled her round, then set her gently down. ‘I’m sorry for takin’ such a liberty, Mabel,’ he said, but the humble words did not match the excitement in his tone or his broad and triumphant grin. ‘So we’re on the trail at last! We must go straight back to our lodgings, pay what we owe and catch the next bus to Portlaoise.’

Ginny and Conan reached the tinkers’ camp as the sun was setting. It had proved to be a good deal further from the town than their informants had supposed, or perhaps the tinkers had moved on, for naturally they would set up camp close to where the work was. As they neared the spot, Ginny began to feel distinctly apprehensive. The tinkers had a couple of ancient caravans but it seemed that they mostly lived in stained and ragged tents. Ginny had been impressed by the beauty of the countryside and, though she did not say so, thought the tinkers’ camp a blot on the landscape. They had erected their tents in a small valley beneath a stand of pines and a river wound its leisurely way not twenty feet from the encampment. A number of livestock, mostly ponies and donkeys, grazed desultorily nearby, and as the children approached the camp half a dozen skinny, vicious-looking dogs hurtled towards them. None of the animals made a sound, which struck Ginny as very queer, but they surrounded the two children and Ginny could hear muttered growls whenever she or Conan moved.

‘Here boy,’ Conan said uncertainly to the nearest dog. It was a mean-eyed lurcher, grey and gaunt. Ginny thought it had a good deal of wolf in its makeup and was careful not to move, but as though Conan’s words had been some sort of introduction the dogs suddenly ceased to bristle and growl and the largest of them – the lurcher-cross wolf – turned to look back at the encampment, almost as if it were waiting for instructions, and Ginny saw, with some relief, a tall, thin man holding a hefty stick, coming towards them. She thought he looked menacing, but when he reached them his tanned face broke into a broad grin and she realised he was probably no more than twenty or twenty-two and seemed well disposed towards them.

‘Evenin’, kids,’ he said. ‘Is your da’ lookin’ for someone to give a hand wit’ his spuds? Or mebbe he’s wantin’ to buy a nice little mule? We only moved here today, so we ain’t fixed up for work yet.’ He held out a grimy hand. ‘I’m Flann Kavanagh; who’s you?’

‘I’m Conan and this is Ginny,’ the boy said, taking the proffered hand before Ginny had done more than open her mouth to reply. ‘We’ve come to Ireland to find our famblies. My dad’s a tinker so I thought mebbe you’d know where I can find him. His name is Eamonn O’Dowd.’

Flann, who had been staring, curiously, from one to the other, suddenly seemed to remember himself and took Ginny’s small paw in his. ‘You’ll be brother and sister; you’ve both got a look of the O’Dowd family,’ he said genially. ‘An’ aren’t you the lucky ones? For Flann Kavanagh knows your daddy right well, though where he is now, I’m not so sure.’ He grinned widely at them, revealing amazingly white teeth. ‘Mebbe in gaol,’ he ended, giving them a glance so sly that Ginny flinched. He saw the movement and grinned again. ‘Only coddin’ you,’ he added hastily.

‘So you know him? But you can’t tell us where he’s likely to be?’ Conan said uneasily. ‘Won’t he be workin’ the farms, same as you?’

Flann shrugged. ‘Mebbe, mebbe not,’ he said guardedly. ‘But as we’re movin’ across the country, we’ll meet other tribes and one of ’em’s bound to know where your daddy’s liable to be found.’ He glanced curiously at them, his light eyes flickering over them both from head to toe. Ginny felt that every article of clothing she wore had been assessed and probably found wanting. ‘Got any money, have you? You can stay wit’ us but we don’t carry passengers. You’ll have to pay, or work.’

He was looking at Conan as he spoke, but this time it was Ginny who answered. She did not see the point of letting this man believe she was Conan’s sister, since it could scarcely help in her search for her own father. Besides, if these people were moving across the country in the wrong direction, she might find herself worse off than before. ‘I’m not his sister. Me name’s Ginny – Ginny Gallagher, and me daddy’s Michael,’ she said bluntly. ‘He’s gorra farm near somewhere called Killorglin. Is that near here?’

Flann had taken very little notice of Ginny but now he stared at her as though seeing her for the first time. Staring back, Ginny saw that he had a broad forehead and high cheekbones tapering to a jutting and determined chin. His eyes were a very light brown and they had the same tilt to them that Conan’s had. Ginny had never seen a fox but suddenly she thought that there was something foxy about this young man and realised that she neither liked nor trusted him. His smile was friendly but it never reached his eyes. But now he was speaking, and to her for a change. ‘Michael Gallagher. Michael Gallagher,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re not after tryin’ to cod me that he’s a tinker, like meself? ’Cos Gallagher ain’t a tinker’s name.’

Does this man think I’m a fool? Ginny asked herself inside her head. Doesn’t he listen when someone speaks to him? But she did not mean to let her annoyance show; if this man could tell her in which direction Killorglin lay – if it was not far – she would be off at once and have no more need of him. ‘How could me dad be a tinker when I just telled you he has a farm?’ she asked reasonably. ‘Don’t you listen when a girl talks to you, mister? All I’m really askin’ you is if you know Killorglin? It’s in Kerry,’ she added belatedly.

Flann grinned ingratiatingly at her but Ginny continued to stare at him and did not return the smile. She was disliking him more with every moment that passed and was already determined to get away from here just as soon as she was able. But the man was speaking, his tone no longer mocking. ‘Killorglin? I know it well; a grand town, so it is. And the countryside around it, grand country. But it’s a fair way off –several days’ journey, in fact. Us tinkers travel great distances, so we do, and we’re headin’ for Kerry, but we shan’t get there tomorrow, nor yet the next day. Still, if you come wit’ us, you’ll get there in the end. And now, come over to the fire and you shall have a hunk o’ bread and a plate o’ stew and a warm place in a tent. Then tomorrer, we’ll talk about how you’re goin’ to work your way wit’ us.’

For the first time, Ginny looked past Flann and realised that whilst he had been talking to them, most of the other members of the tinker tribe had come forward and were listening curiously to the conversation. They were a wild enough looking band with flashing eyes, gleaming teeth and ragged clothing. Most of the men carried cudgels and the women, though not as shabby as the men, still seemed dirty and unkempt beside the townspeople that the children had met earlier in the day. Ginny clutched Conan’s arm and glanced uneasily behind her, only to realise that they were completely surrounded. All in a moment, she knew that they had got themselves into real trouble. If they ran, the dogs would undoubtedly pull them down before they could get more than a few yards, but if they stayed, they would be completely in the power of the tinkers. The only good thing is that no one’s goin’ to believe I’m a tinker’s brat when they see me red hair an’ white skin, Ginny found herself thinking. But this is mad, what can they want with us, after all? We’re only a couple of kids and even if we work for them, we’ll eat our share. I remember Aunt Mary saying gypsies stole children but I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now. So I reckon it’s best just to pretend to go along with them and get away later when they think we’re staying with them of our own accord.

She had clutched Conan’s arm, and now she felt his hand take hers and give it a reassuring squeeze. The whole group was moving back towards the fire now, taking the children with it, and Conan muttered into her ear: ‘It’s awright, chuck, don’t you fret yourself. They look pretty rough but they won’t harm us ’cos I’m one of ’em, don’t forget!’

‘No, I won’t forget,’ Ginny said rather grimly. She decided that she would not tell Conan she meant to escape. As he had said, he was at least partly a tinker and was probably as sly and untrustworthy as these men and women appeared to be.

And presently, Ginny realised that she was actually enjoying herself. Sitting cross-legged in the firelight, amongst a group of children of similar age to herself, with a tin plate full of the most delicious stew in front of her and a hunk of coarse brown bread in one hand, the romance of it all brought a flush to her cheeks. It was a mild night and the stars twinkled in the dark sky and a large, orange moon shone through the branches of the pine trees. The tinker children smelled a bit high but the perfume of grasses, water and the pine needles upon which they sat masked the unwashed odour of the tribe.