Down Daisy Street (3 page)
‘Yes, you’re right, since I’m supposed to wear the hat if I’m wearing the blazer and it’s just like a bleedin’ soup plate,’ Kathy said, rather reluctantly removing the blazer and hanging it back on the door once more. ‘And it’s not a jacket, it’s a blazer, you halfwit! Still, I’ll take the apron. I don’t want me new tunic mucked up, I’ll grant you that.’
The girls set off for Jane’s house, which was only four doors away after all, and crossed the filthy back yard. Kathy always took a deep breath and held it before so doing because the lavatory in the corner was used – or misused – by the whole O’Brien family and not emptied as often as it should have been. As a result, she usually arrived at the back door bright pink in the face and breathless. She sometimes wondered what Jane thought of such antics, since her friend continued to talk merrily as they crossed the yard and certainly did not hold her breath. I suppose she’s used to the pong, Kathy thought resignedly, as they entered the kitchen. She let out her trapped breath as unobtrusively as possible, but four-year-old Teresa, giving a shout of welcome and hurling herself at Kathy’s knees, said innocently: ‘Did you have a nice day, Kathy? Did you run all the way back from the school to Daisy Street? Is that why youse face is all pink?’
‘No, she’s red in the face ’cos she don’t like the smell of our lavvy and holds her breath,’ Reggie said scornfully. ‘Don’t you know nuffin’, our T’resa?’
‘I know lots an’ lots,’ Teresa said boastfully. ‘I bin to school now three days.’ She turned saucer-like blue eyes up to Kathy. ‘I can
read
,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I can read me letters. I’m cleverest in the class, me teacher says.’
read
,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I can read me letters. I’m cleverest in the class, me teacher says.’
Kathy laughed and rumpled the little girl’s fair curls. All the O’Brien children were blond, curly haired and blue eyed; even the boys were pretty, though they did their best to dispel the good impression created by their looks by behaving as atrociously as they could.
Jane, crossing the kitchen in the direction of the knee-level sink at which Matilda was already scrubbing away at a quantity of spuds, laughed and tugged one of her small sister’s curls. ‘You can’t read, you silly little dope,’ she said affectionately. ‘Why, you’re not even sure of your colours yet. I heered you tell our mam you wanted to wear the red jersey to school and you’ve not gorra red jersey; you meaned the blue one.’
Reggie, who was six, crouched down and blew a raspberry into his small sister’s face. ‘Dopey, dopey, dopey,’ he jeered. ‘Who doesn’t know blue from red, an’ there ain’t a brain in your head, you can’t even tell the time of day, you might just as well be dead.’
Incensed by this uncalled for criticism, Teresa grabbed a building block from Tommy, the youngest O’Brien, and clouted Reggie with it. Startled, Reggie stepped back, his bare foot landing heavily on Tommy’s hand. Tommy let out a squeal like a pig, then launched himself at Reggie, and fastened his teeth in the older boy’s calf. In two minutes, a full-scale war was being waged on the dirty kitchen floor, in which little Billy Kelling joyfully joined, screaming with excitement, and Jane and Kathy had their work cut out to be heard above the din.
Such fights were not unknown in the O’Brien family and Kathy knew from experience that as soon as someone began to cry the brothers and sisters would sort themselves out, pet the injured party and forget their differences. But on this occasion what stopped the fight was the sound of a heavy thump, upon which the shrieks were cut off abruptly and silence descended.
Kathy took one shocked look at the mêlée and stooped to snatch her little brother up from the floor. As the fight had rolled over him, Billy’s head had come into contact with the edge of the fender. There was an ugly wound on his forehead and blood was streaming down his pale little face, whilst a huge bump was growing before Kathy’s horrified gaze.
Jane, who had joined her sister at the sink, turned to see what the silence was about and gave a scream which rivalled a steam whistle. She did not ask who had inflicted the blow, knowing at once that it had been an accident, but flew across the room with the dishcloth in her hand and began tenderly mopping the little visitor’s bloodstained brow. Kathy, still clutching Billy to her breast, swung round so that Jane was forced to cease her ministrations. ‘Don’t touch him with that filthy cloth,’ she said fiercely, tact forgotten in the anxiety of the moment. ‘Don’t you remember what they told us at Red Cross? You mustn’t touch a wound with anything dirty because of germs. Besides, he’s knocked himself cold; we’ve gorra take him straight round to the Stanley. The nurses there will know what to do.’
Jane’s panic subsided as suddenly as it had arisen. ‘Yes, of course, that’s what we’ve gorra do,’ she said thankfully. ‘Gawd knows it’s happened often enough wi’ our kids. Sister Clemence says my mam might as well tek over a bed permanent like, ’cos us kids have broke so many bones an’ that.’ She turned to Matilda, still stolidly scrubbing potatoes, having started on the task again as soon as she realised that the older girls had things in hand. ‘Tilly, you’d best leave them spuds for the time being an’ keep an eye on the littl’uns while Kathy and me’s gone.’
Tilly turned away from the sink, sighing and drying her hands on the thin roller towel that hung on the pantry door. ‘I’d near on finished anyhow,’ she said resignedly. ‘Only do you have to go the both of you? The kids don’t mind me the way they mind you, Janey, an’ Mam won’t be back for hours yet.’
Kathy was still holding the unconscious Billy but she had no intention of arriving at the hospital without her friend’s support. ‘You’ll just have to cope, Tilly,’ she said firmly. ‘After all, you were managing very nicely before we came in. Besides, it were an accident, you know it were, so it’s not liable to happen again.’ She turned threateningly towards Reggie, who had, she felt, started the fracas. ‘Just you be a good little feller, Reggie O’Brien, or I’ll tell your dad you’ve been a little bugger and he’ll belt you till you can’t sit down.’
This was an empty threat and all the kids knew it, since Mr O’Brien was a fond father. He was apt to return from work with a pocket full of fades for his youngsters, who fell on the bruised and unsaleable fruit with squeals of glee, and since he assumed that his wife disciplined the children and she assumed that he did, the O’Brien young, by and large, went uncorrected. Which is why they hit out at one another and brawl and never worry about consequences, Kathy thought now, as she and Jane headed for the door. Their teachers did not have a high opinion of any of the O’Brien family, tarring them all with the same brush, but Kathy thought that Jane was remarkable and considerably undervalued. She looked after the younger children, frequently cooked meals, did the washing and even cleaned the house, though this was a hated chore and came last on Jane’s list of priorities. In such a busy life, naturally, schoolwork was nothing more than a nuisance and Jane had always leaned rather heavily on Kathy, who was happy to help her friend whenever she could. Fortunately, Jane had an extremely retentive memory, so that a poem recited to her half a dozen times could be memorised as the girls went the rounds of the shops getting their mothers’ messages, and rules of arithmetic could be learned by the same method.
Just now, however, Kathy had more important things on her mind than either housework or lessons. Billy was not a heavy burden, but Kathy was worried by the continued whiteness of his face and by a very odd little purring sound which he kept making. It was not a snore, precisely, and she was pretty sure Billy was not asleep, but she had a vague, uncomfortable feeling that such a sound issuing from a person who had been concussed was not a good sign. She and Jane had joined a first aid class almost a year ago. Their training had come in useful several times, particularly as Mrs O’Brien ‘came over all queer’ at the sight of blood, so any cut, graze or abrasion was now always dealt with by Jane, or by Kathy if she was there. Kathy winced over the bits of rag, never properly clean, with which Jane bandaged a wounded O’Brien child, comparing them unfavourably with proper lint and bandages. The Kellings had a neat biscuit tin, clearly labelled with a large red cross. It contained, amongst other things, an array of bandages, sticking plaster, lint and iodine, and was kept in the middle of the dresser, at eye level, where it was immediately obvious.
Kathy had once mentioned the pile of rags kept in the cupboard under the sink at the O’Briens’ house to her mother, who had given her a very chilly look. ‘Comparisons are odious,’ she had said severely. ‘It is a great deal easier to be neat and clean when you have only two children. When you have eight, you have all you can do to feed them, let alone to provide such things as bandages. You always hope you won’t need them anyhow.’
At the time, Mr Kelling had been home, though he had not seemed to be taking much notice of the conversation, but he had lowered his newspaper and looked at his daughter over the top of it. ‘A bandage is only a piece of rag when all’s said and done,’ he had commented mildly. ‘And I reckon them O’Brien kids are pretty tough; their cuts mend all right, don’t they?’
Kathy, laughing, had had to agree that this was so. ‘In fact, our mam’s only opened our tin twice so long as I can remember,’ she said. ‘Once when I skinned me knees and the palms of me hands, falling off a swing in the playground, and once when you scalded yourself, Dad, taking the kettle off the fire too quick so it splashed over.’ She had grinned wickedly from one parent to the other. ‘So why don’t we just hand our first aid box to the O’Briens and have done with it? Isn’t there a thing in the Bible which says,
Your need is greater than mine
?’
Your need is greater than mine
?’
Mr Kelling had chuckled and disappeared behind his paper once more, but Mrs Kelling tutted disapprovingly. ‘And how long do you think our first aid box would last?’ she asked. ‘Why, Reggie would be wearing the bandages for an Indian headdress and they’d likely spread the iodine on the cotton wool and feed it to that horrible mongrel of theirs. I’ve nothing against the O’Briens, as you well know; they do the best they can and it ain’t as if Mr O’Brien drinks his money away like Mr Templeton does, because every penny he earns goes on feeding and clothing all those kids. But there’s no denying there’s a good deal of make do and mend in that household.’
Thinking back to that talk of the first aid box, Kathy thought bitterly that not the best bandages in the world could help when something really dreadful happened, like Billy’s accident. Why, she had not considered for a moment running home with her little brother in her arms to look through the first aid box. She had known full well that he needed hospital treatment, and now that she had time to think she realised that it was all her fault. She should never have allowed Billy to scramble on the floor amongst the fighting O’Briens; she should have picked him up and kept him away from trouble. The truth was, she thought guiltily, hurrying along the road, that her mind had been too full of her new school and her smart school uniform to worry about her little brother, precious though he was to her.
At this point, the two girls entered the portals of the hospital where, according to Jane, her family spent such a lot of time. The truth of her claim was demonstrated almost at once when a sister came bustling up to them, saying as she approached: ‘Oh, Jane, what’s happened this time? Surely a little chap like that can’t have been fighting with his brothers? Or is it a girl?’
‘It’s Billy Kelling, not one of us O’Briens,’ Jane explained, looking a little self-conscious. ‘He’s Kathy’s baby brother; we were minding him for Mrs Kelling when – when our kids got into a bit of a rumpus on the floor and Billy got knocked over.’
‘He hit his head on the fender and – and I think he’s concussed,’ Kathy said, rather timidly, and was relieved when the sister, who was a thin, bright-eyed woman in her early forties, glanced keenly at Billy and then at Kathy, and said: ‘Sensible girl to bring him along straight away! I think you’re correct, and that whack on the head has concussed him, which means he’s in the right place because he’s going to need hospital treatment, I’m afraid. Where are your parents, Kathy? Because I think someone should fetch them at once; we may need information only they can give.’
All Kathy’s newfound confidence fled. ‘Why – why d’you need me mam and dad?’ she quavered. ‘Our Billy isn’t going to – going to
die
? Is he?’
die
? Is he?’
The two girls were following the sister as she made her way across the hall and into a long corridor which Kathy remembered, from previous visits with Jane when an O’Brien was wounded, led to the children’s ward. Now the sister halted her brisk pace for a moment, to smile soothingly down at them. ‘No, no, you mustn’t get in a state,’ she said reprovingly. ‘But we’ll need forms signed so that we can take an X-ray of Billy’s head and carry out some tests. So you two run along and fetch Mr and Mrs Kelling and before you know it, young Billy will be right as rain, sitting up in bed and demanding roast beef and two veg, and a glass of Guinness for his tea.’
Laughing at the absurd picture this conjured up, Kathy laid Billy on the examination couch, and then she and Jane made their way back through the hospital, considerably reassured by the sister’s jokey comment. ‘You know where me dad works, don’t you, Janey?’ Kathy said presently, as they emerged on to Stanley Road. ‘He’s in the Sidney Sawmills on Melrose Road. He’s in the offices but if you just ask for Jack Kelling, someone will take you to him. Everyone knows Dad,’ she finished.
‘Oh . . . but wouldn’t it be better if I went for your mam?’ Jane said rather anxiously.
Kathy guessed that her friend was not too keen to carry such bad news to a man, who might react violently. Besides, Jane knew the shop where her mother worked very well indeed; also, it was nearer home. Kathy had meant to run all the way to her mother’s shop and then to accompany her back to the Stanley, but she realised it was unfair to send Jane on the longer journey. Her friend still had responsibilities at home, whereas she, Kathy, had gone and landed her little responsibility in hospital. Accordingly, she said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster: ‘Yes, you’re right. It will be much better if you go and stir up me mam and I fetch Dad. I don’t suppose the sister really meant she wanted them both, just one or t’other, but they’ll both want to be with poor little Billy, so I’ll go to the sawmills and tell Dad while you run to Mam’s shop. Besides, Dad goes down to the docks sometimes, when a load of timber is expected, so if I can’t get hold of him I’ll go straight back to the Stanley. Tell Mam, will you?’
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