A Sixpenny Christmas (16 page)

She looked squarely across at her mother, and realised with astonishment that Ellen was actually smiling. Lana blinked; was it possible that her mother, who understood her so well, actually thought that she would be delighted with the plan? Would be quite prepared, at the beginning of the long summer holidays, to desert her friends and her neighbourhood and go for heaven knew how long into a strange country? But it was impossible for a child of ten to say such things to her mother; she would have to put her objections much more tactfully. ‘But Mum, what’ll me pals say when they hear I won’t be around?’ she asked plaintively. ‘Our gang had all sorts of plans, you know we did. And Mrs Hodges said she’d take me and Phil to New Brighton at least once and probably twice. She said a day on the funfair and a day on the beach would make up for not going away this year, ’cos the Hodgeses usually have a week in Rhyl.’

‘Well, yes, but your pals will understand that your Auntie Molly and Uncle Rhys need help,’ Ellen said reproachfully. ‘Besides, Lana, you’re going to have two or three weeks of actually living on a farm! I’m tellin’ you, queen, most of your pals would give their perishin’ eye teeth for such a chance. We’ve often talked about it; collectin’ eggs, feedin’ the pigs and the cattle, learnin’ to milk a cow and mebbe even ridin’ on one of the horses. If you ask me, queen, you’re a very lucky girl to have the opportunity. And it ain’t as if there’ll be no one to play with at Cefn Farm, because you’ll have Nonny and Chris and their friends too.’ She looked to Rhys for confirmation of what she had said and Lana saw a flush stain his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

‘Well, I wouldn’t want to give you a false impression, Lana,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Cefn Farm is – is a bit remote like. We’re several miles from the village, and though there are other hill farms it would take you a couple of hours to reach some of them.’ He smiled at her in what was clearly meant to be an encouraging way. ‘But as your mum said, you’d have Chris and Nonny, and there’s always plenty to do on the farm.’

‘Yes, work,’ Lana muttered. ‘And I don’t think I’d be very much help because I wouldn’t understand what needed doing.’ She had been speaking to Rhys, but now she turned to her mother. ‘Mum, if you were to ask Mrs Hodges, or Janet Cobbler’s mum, I’m sure they’d have me to stay whilst you were helping Auntie Molly. Couldn’t you just ask . . .’

Ellen sighed. ‘Maybe they would and maybe they wouldn’t, but I’m not going off and leaving you with either Mrs Hodges or Mrs Jones. They’re grand women both of them, but your place is with me and in this instance at any rate my place is with Rhys and Molly.’

Lana was about to start arguing when Chris leaned forward and spoke to her directly. ‘You’ll like Cefn Farm and you’ll have fun there, I promise,’ he said earnestly. ‘We’ll make sure of it, Nonny and me; isn’t that so, Non?’

Nonny nodded eagerly. ‘Course we will, and if you don’t like collecting eggs or feeding pigs or rounding up the sheep with the dogs to do all the work, then you can stay with your mum in the house,’ she said, and Lana saw the quick flicker of contempt before Nonny could banish it. ‘And it’s not only Liverpool people who go to the seaside. When our mum’s better, Dad’s going to take us down to Caernarfon for the day. We might do that
before you leave us, you never know.’ She leaned across the table and fixed Lana with a pleading gaze. ‘The people at the hospital said that if Dad couldn’t find someone to help him cope then we might have to go into a children’s home – just until Mum’s better, of course. You wouldn’t want us to have to go there, would you?’

Lana sighed. She knew she had been behaving badly and felt ashamed, seeing the colour rise in her mother’s cheeks and knowing that Rhys and his children must be thinking her thoroughly selfish and spoilt. And after all, they might not have to be at the farm for very long. Rhys had said it would just be until Molly came out of hospital, and in any case they would have to return to Liverpool when the new term started in September. Seven weeks was a long time, but it was pointless arguing. When her mother tightened her lips it usually meant she had made up her mind; better to give in gracefully rather than incur her wrath.

‘I expect your farm is lovely and I’ll do my best to help in any way I can,’ she said. She hesitated, looking from one face to the other. Chris was black-haired, black-eyed and very tanned. In fact, he looked just like Rhys. Nonny on the other hand had a mass of long light brown hair, blue eyes and fair skin with a sprinkle of freckles; no brother and sister could have been more different, except that right now both were looking at her with identical friendly smiles.

‘Say you’ll come,’ Nonny said pleadingly. ‘Ever since Mum told me how we were both born at the same time I’ve wished we could meet. I’m really sorry we’ve spoiled your plans for the holidays but I’m sure you’ll have just as much fun with me and Chris as you would have had
with your school friends. We’ve got a pond with ducks and geese on it and we mean to follow the mountain stream right down to the lake when we have a free day. Our mum tells us that city children are great walkers, so you won’t mind walking into the village with us to get the messages from time to time. Then we’ll introduce you to our school friends . . . oh, say you’ll come!’

For the first time since the Robertses had arrived, Lana gave them a genuine smile. ‘Of course I’ll come,’ she said. ‘After all, there’ll be other holidays when I’ll be able to play with me school pals.’ She looked at her mother, guessing what her reaction would be, and was rewarded when Ellen jumped up to give her a loving hug.

‘You’re norra bad kid, just a trifle spoilt,’ Ellen said. She turned to Rhys. ‘Look, if you and the kids can make do with a doss-down for one night then I can make arrangements tomorrow morning for my neighbour to take care of my lodger and keep an eye on the house. It’ll save you two long journeys as well as the petrol money; I ain’t never had a car but I’ve heared folk grumblin’ about the price of petrol. There’s a couch in the parlour and an easy chair which you and your lad can manage on, and Rhiannon can top to toe it with Lana.’

Lana grinned at Nonny. ‘Good thing we’re both on the skinny side, and neither of us is very tall,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Have you had supper?’

Nonny was just saying that they had had a sandwich and a drink of tea but it had been a long while ago when her father interrupted. ‘I’ll get fish and chips for everyone,’ he said, standing up. ‘We accept your hospitality with many thanks, Ellen, because if you come back with us
tomorrow it won’t just be a saving of petrol, but a saving of worry as well. We lit out in such a hurry that I only had time to tell Jacob to milk the cows and feed the stock, so the sooner we’re back at Cefn Farm the better I’ll be pleased, because heaven knows what else he’ll find to do while we’re away.’

Chris grinned and spoke directly to Lana. ‘He’ll have milked the pigs and searched for horse eggs, if I know Jacob,’ he said. ‘But never mind, we’ll be back in time to stop him doing anything really silly.’

Sam and the
Buds of May
had parted company after six months, following a dockside brawl for which Sam had been largely responsible. It had left him blinded in one eye, the result of a jab with the sharp end of a broken bottle, and with an even deeper grudge against women than before, since it was a woman who had both started the fight and wielded the bottle. He had joined other ships, of course, but never since he had boarded the
Buds of May
had he returned to Liverpool; it had seemed pointless whilst the court injunction forbade him to approach his wife, and he knew his own nature well enough to realise that Constable Jamieson had been right: avoiding Liverpool – and his wife and daughter – was his best course. But now circumstances had brought him back to Liverpool for the first time in over five years, since his ship, the
Galliano
, had collided with a half-submerged wreck off the Irish coast and had limped into the Livingstone dock to have the damage repaired.

To his own secret astonishment, Sam had found a sort of affection for the city of his birth rising in his breast. God knew he had seen enough other ports in the years
he had been away, but now he realised that none of them compared favourably with his birthplace.

When he had been a docker he had had boon companions who drank with him, yarned with him and occasionally fought with him, and now that he was approaching retirement age he found himself longing for that old way of life. He had even missed hearing Scouse spoken and thought, balefully, that if his wife had been a decent sort of woman he could now be considering settling down. But that bloody woman – what was she called? Oh, yes, he remembered, she was Ellen and the kid was Lana or some such fancy name. Well, if they’d behaved to him as a wife and daughter should, he could have sent Ellen out to work, her being younger than he, whilst he looked forward to a peaceful retirement.

In his mind he could see himself comfortably settled in a cushioned armchair before the parlour fire. He would have a tankard of Guinness on a small table by his side, whilst a good meal – steak, perhaps, and a big pile of chips – would be awaiting his attention upon the kitchen table. Yes, that would be the life! He had worked hard on various ships for wages varying from very poor to moderately good, but had never managed to save a penny. When he had been on the docks there had been a great many perks, which to Sam’s way of thinking was a word that applied to anything he might manage to filch. That was what made a dockie’s life bearable, in Sam’s opinion at least. He had managed to get away with all sorts – fountain pens, wristwatches, the occasional bottle of rum or whisky strapped to his leg with strong rubber bands – but there was little hope of such benefits aboard a coaster laden with timber, or engine parts, or
even coal. One had to be content with one’s wages and Sam soon drank those away, returning to his ship belligerent and usually penniless. But this time, he told himself, he had been luckier. The crew of the
Galliano
had been paid off, so Sam had money in his pocket. And instead of drinking it away in one enormous binge he intended to make it last until he re-joined his ship – or, of course, until something better came along. Accordingly, he had booked into a seamen’s hostel and was now taking a good look at Liverpool to see what changes had taken place during his long absence.

His thoughts continued to wander, however, as he recalled what had made him leave the city and not return. That damned court injunction had happened years ago; surely by now everything would have changed? That miserable bloody scuffer, Constable Jamieson, might still be pounding his beat, since Sam did not reckon the younger man was sergeant material, but he would have better things to think about than Sam O’Mara. If I could just have a word with Ellen, explain I’m a changed man, then she might take me back, tell the authorities that the injunction should no longer apply, and let me start a new life as a retired seaman on a pension, with a nice plump wife to warm my bed and cook my meals and a nice little daughter to run my messages.

If this had been a South American port he would probably have considered selling his nice little daughter to the highest bidder, but Liverpool wasn’t like that. The white slave trade was all very well for other continents but Sam didn’t want to lose the sight of his other eye if he suggested such a thing to a Liverpudlian.

When he heard the familiar accents all around him, he
felt a glow of warmth envelop him. Home! And here he would bleedin’ well stay, if he possibly could. He might get work as a docker, or a job in the slaughterhouse where he had once earned good money for a couple of weeks. He went to Paddy’s market and bought himself a peaked cap, an almost new navy duffel coat and a pair of serge trousers; then he bought a large box of chocolates to soften Ellen up a bit and a bag of mint humbugs for Lana. He changed in his room at the seamen’s hostel, pleased with the appearance of the man who stared back at him from the mirror. With his cap pulled rakishly over his blind eye, and the new clothes giving him an air of affluence, he decided he passed muster. Why should anyone challenge a well-dressed man with money in his pocket setting off to treat his wife to a slap-up dinner? Because he intended to woo Ellen all over again, so that when he told her he was a changed man, and meant to behave as a husband should in future, she would believe him.

Sam sat on the bed, produced a knife, and pared his nails. Then he splashed his face with water. He had not shaved for several weeks and now had a grey and bristly beard, and with one more satisfied glance in the mirror he told himself that his own mother would not have known him had she been alive. For a moment he played with yet another scheme. Suppose he persuaded Ellen that he was a stranger, begged to be allowed to lodge in her house and then, when she had taken him in, told her who he was and claimed his marital rights.

This idea so tickled his sense of humour that he was still grinning when he reached Dryden Street, though he knew in his heart that despite the beard Ellen would recognise him at once. He knocked on the door of number
21 and was startled when a strange woman with several children peering inquisitively around her considerable bulk answered his knock. She looked him up and down, but merely snapped: ‘Yes?’ in a far from encouraging tone.

Sam stared. ‘I’ve – I’ve come to see Mrs O’Mara, with news of her husband,’ he said. ‘Ain’t she in? Who’s you, if I may make so bold?’

‘O’Mara? Never heard of her,’ the woman said briefly. She grinned, showing broken and uneven teeth. ‘Best try number twenty-four; she knows all the gossip.’ Sam began to reply but the woman shut the door so abruptly that he had to jump back or the panel would have flattened his nose.

He stood in Dryden Street, his mind in a whirl. So she had thought to escape him by moving house, but he knew a trick worth two of that! He would go round to her mother’s place: he’d bet money that he’d find Ellen and the kid there. Resolutely, he set off.

It took a deal of willpower, but Sam kept off the drink for three whole days while he combed the area for news of his wife. He had tried hanging about the school and had been chagrined to realise that it was the school holidays; no one but cleaning staff would be in the building until the beginning of September. And it was now only the latter end of July. But in any case the school had been a long shot, since he had to admit to himself that he was unlikely to recognise his daughter after so many years. He had been to Mrs Meakin’s house first, of course, only to be told that she had moved away four or five years previously. His informant, a small
bespectacled man with a rat-trap mouth, had stared at him long and suspiciously before informing him that he believed there had been a notice of Mrs Meakin’s death in the columns of the
Echo
some twelve months ago. Sam, who had hated his mother-in-law, grinned nastily, then had to hastily reassemble his features into a look of grief as he asked where he might find one of Mrs Meakin’s children so that he might express his sorrow for their loss. ‘Dunno,’ the little man said briefly. ‘Good afternoon.’ And he had slammed the door as abruptly as had the new tenant of number 21 Dryden Street.